Silence and Solitude

I very rarely have silence and solitude.  I thought I was going to have some of it tonight, because everyone had plans, but (as it turns out) teenagers’ plans are never solid.  The statement, “I’m going to … (insert place here) …” turns into “I’m going to sit on my ass on the couch for the next four hours” about 75% of the time.  Of course, the second part of that statement is never spoken aloud, because they know I would tell them to get the hell out of the house – do something, ANYthing!  Just stop watching TV.  Read a fucking book.

 No, it’s more like a subtle “fuck you, mom, I just want you to shut up, so I’ll say whatever I need to say so you will leave me alone”.  And then when I ask them what their plans are (an hour later, two hours later, three hours later) I’m accused of trying to get in their business.  Prying.

Here’s the truth:  99% of the time, I don’t want to be in their business, but I’d like them to get the hell out of my space for a while so that I can string a few thoughts together and potentially write something of value.  Unfortunately, I never write anything of value, because when I squeeze in 10 minutes to write, I puke out bullshit feeling-words about how I don’t have time to write. 

It’s whatever.  I’ve come to terms with the fact that the space in my own mind doesn’t belong to me.  I will never have solace, and I will never be a proper writer. 

I’ll get over it. 

From the Numb to the Black

In my teens, I practiced the art of alcohol-induced amnesia.  I was not very good at being a human being.  I wanted to be everything which I wasn’t, and I wasn’t anything.  I was a girl who had no sense of identity, thus I tried to fit into everywhere (subsequently fitting in nowhere).   I attached myself to people who were narcissistic and greedy and apathetic; we were probably all the same person, just posing in different bodies.

And then I died …

I would wake up, periodically, in strange places, soaked in my own urine, or in bed with a complete stranger, or in someone’s yard … disheveled.  Only people who have been dead can understand this passing on to a different dimension.  I never intended to be a debauched soul, but such things happen.  Depression is a dish which does not pair well with alcohol, drugs, and self-loathing.  And death does not cure anything.

When life becomes a hurdle you simply cannot clear, you crawl under the hurdle on your hands and knees, most likely in a trail of your own vomit. 

I always thought that once I was dead, the suffering would end.  The endless parade of meaninglessness would pass, and then I could go home.  And while the density of the parade does dwindle, the stragglers keep coming.  For the record, those stragglers are often the worst – they are the leftovers, the souls who cannot move on, so they are left to wander about a zombie-trance, looking for something which they cannot even name.   Peace, perhaps, or maybe just a quiet corner in which to rest.  

Jean Paul Sartre once wrote that “hell is other people,” but the missing component in that phrase is that each of us is an “other”; sometimes hell is the place we create for ourselves.  WE create our own personal hells, in hundreds of little ways.  We see the darkness in the world, then we try to build a defense mechanism against it.   There is no defense against the universe and all its components.  Some people are born with the gift of ignorance, and the rest of us keep running into the literal and metaphorical wall, caught in an eternal maze of confusion and doubt.

I will …

I shall …

I ought to …

I cannot …

New York Times, Concussions, and Bullshit Propaganda

I just read an article in the New York Times (shocking, I know). but this one was an Op-Ed by a total dipshit who questioned the American "obsession" with concussions.

Good god, sir.  You (Steven Rothman) are a pediatric neurologist.  While a small percentage of athletes might overestimate their symptoms, for a fucking neurologist to write into the New York Times and say that a "head bump" and "being a knocked-out boxer" aren't the same thing is the most irresponsible thing I've heard in a very long time.  Why do you think football players who can't fucking see straight and have no idea where they are willingly go back into a football game?  Because of their ignorant coaches who tell them to "man up" and get back in the game).

I teach high school, so I have seen these student athletes try to reintegrate after a blow to the head.  Were they boxers?  No.  Did they get knocked unconscious?  No.  Were they unquestionably, mentally altered?  Yes.

Parents should absolutely not keep their kids out of contact sports, BUT ... they should know the possible outcomes.  I know.  I watched my kid come off the football sideline in a punch-drunken stupor, not even able to climb the stairs back to the locker room at halftime.  I watched the coach do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING after my kid got rammed into the field, head-first.  I watched the rest of the coaching staff literally ignore him at halftime while he was trying to climb the stairs, but kept repeatedly falling to one knee.  The only person who helped him was the athletic trainer, a girl, who half-dragged him up the stairs after it was apparent that he couldn't make it by himself.

And then I saw the other after-effects, the worst of which were the uncontrollable mood swings.  You know, when he tore all the ligaments in his knee, the doctors and coaches were all concerned, and wanting him back on the field the next year.  When he fucked up his head senior year, they just gave up on him.  He didn't matter anymore, because he couldn't pass that baseline test.  He also tanked his grade in all his classes (because he couldn't study or remember anything), failed to get the ONE extra point he needed on the ACT retake (because he couldn't study or remember anything), and had an existential breakdown about the direction of his life.
So, Dr. Rothman, be careful what kind of verbal vomit you spew.  Some people don't know any better, and they might listen to you.  Anyone with an ounce of common sense knows the difference between a knock on the head and brain injury.  And parents ought to be aware that one of the side effects of a bad concussion is that their child's personality might change.  Forever.  It helps to know, because most coaches (especially football coaches) don't know and don't care.  They're more concerned about the win-loss record than anything else.

Parenthood: The Disease

I love my children.  I love my children.  I love my children.
Seriously.  I love my children.

Now, on to the point:  why are they so fucking lazy?!  I totally get the whole "I'm-on-winter-break-so-I-want-to-be-lazy" thing; I've been doing it ever since break started.   BUT ... I still manage to wash my clothes and clean various parts of the house and bring in firewood and, I don't know, brush my goddamn teeth.

I raised one really responsible human being, and then I apparently dropped the ball, because two total sloths followed in her wake.  Example:  even though my son doesn't live here anymore, he only needs to be back in my house for like 24 hours, and I am tripping over his shit and picking up his various food items/drinking glasses.  It's like that little bitch from the movie Signs up in here - half empty water glasses in every possible resting place, most of which are largely invisible until I trip over them and spill whatever was in there all over.

The other little one doesn't do ANYTHING unless someone else is involved.  She does not have a single hobby, except for exploring the various aspects of her face appendage (her phone).  She has also perfected the art of deflection, by which I mean that she will tell me before noon that she has plans at like 3 pm so I will leave her alone until then, and then (shockingly!) her plans will fall through.  When I call her out on that, I get summarily accused of wanting to know where she is all the time.  Um ... you've been on my fucking couch all day; I know where you are, friend.

Let me reiterate that I love my children, and I love spending time with them.  The problem seems to be that they don't want to spend time with me, unless I am buying them food or otherwise doing something which directly benefits them.  And then, of course, they are disappointed when I don't want to listen to their various stories at Zero Dark Thirty when they come home (because, as old people might remember, nothing really happens before 9pm, so they leave when I'm ready to crawl in bed).  I wake up at 7:00, even when I'm on break; I can't exist on the time schedule of a teenager; I'm old as shit.

Suggestions welcome.  Otherwise, I'll just have to wait it out until they grow up and have some respect for an old lady who has no social life, but who also has to do all the grunt bullshit work in the house that no one else cares enough to do.

Christmas Break 2015

Two weeks off.

14 days.

About 350 hours.

Now, the more important statement about what I have done with the first 24-ish of those hours:  nothing.  Amen.

What a great job I have, where I have the same days and hours off as my children.
Do I sometimes want to break my foot off in their asses, because they refuse to do literally anything, all the time?  Yes.  Do I sometimes do exactly the same thing?  Yes.

Thank you, Christians, Jews, and pagans!  I appreciate your devotion to family time (if by "family time" we mean spending a bunch of money on things we can't afford and contributing to the capitalistic rape of American wallets, while systematically ignoring your family by staring into a screen).

I'll take it.

I would like to say that I will go back to school full of energy and newly-found optimism for inspiring apathetic teenagers, but (realistically) I will finally get into a sleep pattern that allows me to sleep past my biologically-programmed clock which wakes me up at 6:30, so that when school starts, I'll just be pissed that my alarm is violating my dreams again.

But!  I love this temporary freedom, and I will appreciate it,, even if that means all I accomplish is finally vacuuming the floor (which hasn't been cleaned since summer).

Happy Druid Solstice!!

Karma, or Just a Bitch?

I woke up this morning to a household full of people trying to get ready for an early showing of Star Wars.

The youngest couldn't find her pants, so I went to help, grabbed a sweatshirt out of her closet, and knocked a lava lamp off her dresser.  Obviously, it shattered all over the floor, but my main concern was, "what the fuck is in these things?!"  It was the most disgusting, chemical smell ever, and I almost immediately had a contact high/migraine from the disgusting pseudo-hippie fumes emanating from the floor.

So I picked up the pieces (more contact high there, but through the pores of my skin ...), then mixed a bucket of cleaning fluid and water to mop with.  No sooner had I moved the bucket out of the sink, then the handle broke off, splashing Lysol cleaning fluid ALL OVER ME.  What the fuck?!

So I clean that up and mopped the chemical soup off my daughter's floor.

Of course, I was properly pissed by then, so I angrily dusted my bedroom.  Obviously angry dusting is counterproductive, because I accidentally knocked a full can of diet Dr Pepper off the shelf, which sprayed all over me and everything else in the vicinity.  (Yes, I should I have seen the fucking can, but I didn't, okay?)

So ... I made a mimosa and am writing down this shitty start to my day in order to start fresh again.

Perhaps (optimistically) karma will come around later today.  I think I've gotten all the rough moments out of the way for this particular day.  Providing I didn't poison myself with lava juice, life shall be better for now.

Peace.

Finals Week

As it turns out, no one really wants to be at school during finals week.

If we're being honest, students don't want to be at school during ANY week, but finals weeks is even more bleak than the rest.

I was in the library yesterday hanging out during my plan period, and I watched a teacher muttering to herself, and then all of a sudden she picked up a stack of papers and threw them into the book stacks.

It's not just the students who suffer here.

Most of my students are conscientious people who want good grades.  An even higher percentage of them are students who want to the smallest amount of work possible but they'd still like to receive a high grade.  And there is always a small percentage of students who ride the D/F all semester, and then want to turn in all of their assignments (some from like five months ago) on the day before the semester ends, because if they don't pass, they have to retake the class.

Even though I used to be one of those students, I still want to slap them across the face.

I offer EVERY possible opportunity for them to pass - starting with just showing up to class and staying awake, in some cases - and they still don't understand why they don't get a passing grade for simply breathing air within school hours.  You have to turn in assignments, else I cannot give you a grade!!

I can't care on behalf of other people - believe me, I've tried.  High school has become just like every other shitty institution in America:  some people care too much, and some care not at all.  And EVERYONE bitches about having to show up to simply do their job every day.

Here's a thought:  maybe American schools are becoming obsolete.  Maybe school ought to be a PRIVILEGE and not a RIGHT.  Maybe we ought to challenge young people in America to show up and THINK and not just phone it in every day.  (Shocking, I know.)

No matter how many cliched mottos a school generates, putting posters on the wall that say how great of a school you might be does NOT change the climate and culture of student engagement.  (Also, having a school twitter account doesn't do much when the school sends out a tweet about how teams can only practice on the fields if the "wether" is good.  If the school administrator in charge of the twitter account can't spell ... we're fucked anyway.)

So, yeah.  I've got to grade like 100 quizzes and dive into all the late work that got turned in today.  I'll do what I can.

At least I have the Glass Castle to look forward to in my retirement years ...  (unless it turns into a trash dump).

Laziness, and Whatnot

So... I was just informed that I haven't posted on my blog for four months.  I would go back to check the veracity of that claim, but I'm too lazy to navigate away from this page and find out if it's true.

Here's the deal:  I have given up, existentially.  If existentialism is the ideology that everyone should make choices and then accept the consequences of his or her choices, then ... I suck.  I  made a bunch of choices, but me "accepting the consequences" of those choices has become bingeing on netflix and drinking mimosas at noon.

I simply don't care about anything any more, EXCEPT the fate of my children.  And as it turns out, my children don't want a lot to do with me anymore.  Probably because I'm boring, and I'm bingeing on netflix.

My whole mantra of "I want what I want when I want it!" has become "I just don't want to care about anything anymore".  Pretty healthy, huh?

I am forever asking myself, "what do I want?"  And the answer, unfortunately, has become "I don't have any idea."  I just want to be left alone, and yet, I want to be with like-minded people.  As it turns out, it's very difficult to find like-minded people, when all the people I hang out with are 20 years younger than me.  (A job hazard, I suppose.)

I've gained about 20 pounds in the last six months, because I don't give a shit about anything, and I don't have the desire to get on the $1000 elliptical I bought a couple months ago (it doesn't help that I broke my foot two days after I bought the stupid thing.).  I care about everything (too much), and I also care about nothing (as a coping mechanism).

What's a girl to do?

A person who is 20 years younger than me (and probably 20 years wiser than me) just told me that I need to get my shit together and write.  So I'm going to make a valiant effort to do just that.  I'm going to try to pull myself out of this social black hole that I've created for myself and make an effort to write every day, work out every day, and get my lazy ass out of the house to interact with other adults.  (that sounds so cliche that I want to punch myself for even writing it...)

It may work, or not.  But I'm tired of feeling like an asshole, so ... here we go.

Back to School

Here we go.

This is year number 17 for me as a teacher.   17!!  Jesus H.

Every time I go back to school, and I hear the hum of the building (before any of the students have even come to school), I get a little panicky and nauseous.  It's not that I don't want to teach; it's more like the Nausea of life going in circles again.  I have to start (again) with a different 200 students whose names I don't know, whose life stories are a mystery, and who (frankly) don't give a shit about 75% of what I say on any given day.

No wonder most teachers quit within the first five years of teaching - it's utterly, absolutely, unequivocally, mentally exhausting.

But I must be a glutton for punishment, because I keep going back.  I keep thinking that even if I only reach a small percent of these people, I am doing what I am supposed to do as a member of this strange human race.

I have one more child to escort through this melodrama which is called "high school", and then I will fade into the ocean mist. (Or maybe into the river with the stones and all that Virginia Woolf kind of thing...)

I will be positive.  I will listen without prejudice.  I will be prepared (usually).  I will use my leverage to help people in need.  I will make people think, even when they fight it.  I will provide a comfortable cot for those in distress.  I will feed the hungry (they steal my food anyway, so whatever).  I will brew coffee for those who can't keep their eyes open (myself included).  I will do what my school asks of me (when it doesn't annoy me too terribly much).  I will teach and counsel and learn from people half my age.

I got this.

Hives

So ... let's talk about hives.

I don't want to talk about them, and I'd prefer that they didn't exist; BUT I have them.  In fact, I've had them for about two months now.  I've been on steroids to combat them (the steroids work only while I'm on them, after which point, the hives come back).  I've been prescribed super-dose antihistamines to combat the itching (put a pin in that - we'll come back to that).  I was prescribed hyper-steroid cream to rub on the itchy bits (it doesn't work).  And my lovely daughter made me a skin panacea of coconut oil and other things to condition my skin (which made my skin obnoxiously soft, but which also attracts every mosquito in the tri-state area).

Nothing seems to work.  When the steroid treatment is over, the hives come back.

So let's talk about what causes hives ...

I believe the initial problem was fucking pesticides.  Human-made chemicals to kill bugs, which also (unfortunately) have terrible side effects.

Again, BUT ...

Here are other things which either cause hives (or exacerbate them):

• Stress (well, shit.  Obviously, I have that one covered.)
• Anxiety (see above)
• Heat (the temperature here has been at or above 100 degrees for like a month)
• Changes in temperature (are you fucking kidding me?!  If I go outside, and then I go inside where the air conditioning is on, there is like a 30 degree change in temperature!!)
• Gardening (Yep, one of my only favorite hobbies - it turns out that I am probably allergic to everything, including insect bites of every kind.)
• Pollen (Fuck me.  I live in Nebraska!!)
• Hot baths (I can't NOT take hot baths.  It's sometimes the only thing that holds me together after a long day.)
• Menopause (google told me this, and I will fucking kill someone if that's the cause.)
• Food (Seriously?!)

So, yeah.  I'm fucked, I guess.  Doomed to have hives for the rest of my life, because I eat food, go outside, and have a life which isn't ideal.

Now the "pin" from the antihistamines.  

I ate the first dose (prescribed) and they didn't really work.  So when I went back the second time, my doctor gave me a double dose of the same thing.  I never read the Drug Indications on the paper the pharmacist gives me, because I'm paranoid that I will get those side effects.  As it turns out, I should have read them.  

My youngest child came in my room two nights in a row, because I was choking.  (As per the "indicators" one of the allergic reactions is swelling of the sinus cavity and throat, which can lead to death.)  Also, I had two of the scariest dreams of my life - I was dying in both of them - and I was a total mood-swinging bitch.  (Indication of the medicine include changes in thought or mood  - totally fucking weird, as a "side effect".)

So ... the drug I was taking so that I wouldn't scratch my skin off in the middle of the night was actually trying to kill me.  It almost DID kill me, and had I not read that stupid piece of paper from the pharmacy, which I (accidentally) didn't throw away, I wouldn't have known to stop taking it.

And now?  I still have the hives.  I can't get a tan, because being in the sun (sweating) makes them worse.  I look like a fucking leper, but I guess that's okay, since I have no sex life and no one really cares what I look like anyway.   

Wouldn't it be nice to have summer be a time of rest, sun, relaxation, and calm?

Not this year.

Some People Take Up Too Much Oxygen

                                                             

I just read an opinion article in the New York Times (I know, I need to stop reading the NYT) about exercise.  The article pulled me in with the title:  “Exercise for the Immediate Satisfaction”.  Since I already agree, and I know that I should work out every day, I started reading the article.

Here’s how it started:  “I was going to skip my daily swim the other morning.  I had already walked three miles with a friend and taken my dog to the park for his exercise.  I was really tired, my back was sore, I had a column to write and lots to do around the house…”

More words ensued, but what a bunch of bullshit.  Who the fuck has that much free time?  And who wouldn’t think that walking three miles, walking the dog, and working at your house all day isn’t enough exercise? 

Some days, I’m too depressed to even get off my ass and walk on the treadmill for 20 minutes, so I understand that exercise is essential, but this guy is a piece of work.  Is the whole purpose of the article to inspire people, or to just make everyone who doesn’t plan purposeful movements for the entirety of their waking lives feel like shit?

So, yeah.  Thanks, columnist man.  Now I actually don’t want to work out, because I just feel doomed to be pudgy and weak. 

I need a life coach or something.  Preferably someone who likes to be lazy and drink cocktails. 

Flo & Things

Why can't I listen to the music I want to listen to in my own house?

When I want to listen to Florence & The Machine or The Smiths or (insert "sad" band here), I get shit from the two a-motional people in my house.  They don't like emotions, and (in fact) they are upset by my blasting Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" in my room.  (Notice that I said MY room, so I should be able to do whatever the fuck I want.)

Music is therapy.

Music is cathartic.

Music is memory.

Music is love (and hate and apathy and dissent and confusion and every other emotion which exists).

Let me breathe in the chords, and just leave me alone. If I like music that makes other people sad, isn't that their problem?  I listen to everyone else's music, so why shouldn't I be granted the license to listen to whatever the fuck I want?!  I am fucking old, so I should get to listen to whatever I want, whenever I want.

As Bill Withers said, "it's a lovely day", and I should be able to spend every day however I want - listening to whatever I want, whenever I want - regardless of what all these a-motionless whiners in my house want.

Music is the center.

Having Children Raised by Wolves

The "wolves" in the title are the various social media outlets preying on people.  All this omnipresent mental garbage in the world today doesn't just affect young people, but I my concern is not with the socially retarded adults of the world - just with my own family unit.

If I have to walk into a room one more time and see a bunch of young people NOT talking to each other because they have their phones jammed in their faces, I'm going to fucking freak out.

I love my children.  FULL STOP.   (Getting telegraphic up in here ...)

But ... (there's always a "but" isn't there?) ... they treat each other like shit.  They are generally acceptable in social situations (because of proper training, I assume), but they are mean, vindictive, dismissive and belittling to each other.  Perhaps this behavior is some sort of byproduct of Social Media Disease?  Like, instead of having genital flare-ups, they have verbal vomit that spews when they are forced to interact?

I am a  peacekeeper by nature.  I don't like dissention, especially when it occurs at the dinner table (living room, kitchen, hallway, car ...), and I can't bear to think that they actually (like, for REAL) don't like each other.

I assume it's a phase.  I assume they will grow up to like each other.  I assume they will hug it out later on in life and have cocktails.  But it would be REALLY great if they could get that shit over with right now and let me enjoy them, together, rather than mediating every single interaction (I wouldn't call any of their interactions "conversations")  in which they engage.

Can't a girl just get some fucking peace?!

Reading is Fundamental(ly Horrible, Apparently)

My child has to read a book this summer for Honors English.  It's about bunnies, which kind of sucks, but she has to read it regardless of the content - it's an assignment.

All she does is FUCKING COMPLAIN about it every day.

I am reading it with her, because I've never read it before, and I thought we could have some solidarity, but every time I ask her to read a bit of the book, she rolls her eyes at me and bitches about having to read a book.

She told me the other day that I don't mind reading, because I get paid to read.  Yeah right.  There are probably thousands of English teachers out there who don't read the books they assign, or they read those books once and then teach them absent-mindedly for the next 10 years.

I do NOT get paid to read.  And I am at a loss as to how a person could think that reading is a punishment.. I get that not all books are ground-breaking, mind-expanding, change-your-life sort of books, but for god's sake ... read anyway.

Indian Food & High School

                                                                                                       

                I just took my kids out to eat at The Jaipur in Rockbrook Village.  We had outstanding food and above average conversation (considering it was me and two teenagers who barely talk to each other on the daily).  When we left, there was a band setting up to play; weirdly enough, it was a band I’ve seen before, most notably when I was like a junior in high school.  I think it was the homecoming dance or something, but this band played in the parking lot of my high school 20-some years ago.  Reggae, ska, 70s funk – you know the kind of band I’m talking about – the kind where everyone dances the whole time.

                Here’s what was different:  I am now roughly 145 years old.  The people trekking in chairs to watch the band tonight were mostly very old and gray (and they probably go see every band that plays there on Friday nights, because they have nothing better to do every weekend), and this time I couldn’t stay to watch and dance.  I totally would have stayed, except I had these two teenagers with me.  And even THEN, I would have asked my kids to stay for a while and listen, except I had already made a promise to drive all the way back to the distant suburbs so that the youngest could go see a movie.  Oh, and I didn’t just have to pick up her friend, I had to drive to an even further ‘burb in order to drop them off, get out of the car, and sign them in to see an R-rated movie.

                Here’s the thing:  I don’t mind driving my kids around and doing the parental duties, but I find it infuriating that whenever I find something that might pique my interest, my needs are secondary to everyone else’s.  Tonight, there was really no question of staying or not staying, because I’d already offered to drive the kids to a movie on the other side of another town. 

                Why?  Because I have no social life, so it’s not crazy for my kids to think that I should just buy them expensive Indian food (because, after all, that’s what I wanted for dinner…) and then to take them back to the house so they can do whatever makes THEM happy.

                Tonight, I saw the guy who was the lead singer back in my high school days, and I walked up and talked to him for like 15 minutes, while the kids hung back, but what I REALLY wanted to do was just kick off my shoes and dance for a couple of hours with some familiar music and a guy who remembered my high school homecoming, even if I don’t really know him. 

                I’m whining, I suppose.  I shouldn’t want anything.  When a person has kids, they should succumb to the Christ-like attitude that individuality and independence of movement doesn’t mean anything after one has children, but the whole post-dinner situation made me sort of angry.  I have entirely forgotten how to be selfish, but my kids have it down to an art.  I guess I’m just jealous of their freedom.  If they don’t want to do something (for the most part) they don’t do it.  If I don’t want to do something, I do it anyway, because I have (somehow) convinced myself that’s what good parents do. 

                I need someone to help me be the parent I should be AND the parent my kids want to be like.  I am failing in this capacity, I think.  Selfishness can definitely be a virtue, and I need to practice it.

The Ocean

Do you remember the coast?  The primordial sound of waves hitting the sand and the deafening silence of the ocean?  Even if you haven't been to the ocean (god help you), there is a primal urge in humankind to seek out the ocean and its heartbeat.  I haven't been there in two years, and I can feel the tug happening every, single day.

I just got a call from a student I haven't heard from in 12 years.  12 YEARS!!  He just called me out of the blue and shot the shit for a half hour.  He wanted me to meet him in California to hang out with some mutual friends from back in the day.  My gut says YES and my brain says "that's the week you start school again".  Stupid.  I can't wait for the time in my life when I can do whatever I want, whenever I want.  Is that ever a time in people's lives??

I want to go to the Oregon Coast right now.  I want to pack up my Venza and hit the road with a trunk-full of shit and just GO.  I want to get the fuck out of here, but (if I go) I will pack all that debt on my credit card, because I'm poor as shit.  Maybe I should just live as though I'm going to die in a car accident tomorrow.  That way, I can do what I want and not worry about all the bullshit repercussions involved in actually doing something I want.

I may have to call in some favors with the extended family, but I think they like me enough to let me in for a day or two; and then I can just sleep on the beach for a few days.  I won't mind the sand crabs (or whatever) up my ass.  I just NEED to get the fuck out of Dodge for a while.  this place is bleak and oppressive, and I want to breathe different air and see different faces.  I want to ignore everyone and not talk to a single human being for a few days.  (I sound like Holden Caulfield with his pathetic quest for the west and being a hermit...)

Please.

White People Problems

I was just reading about the White Supremicist movement in America, and frankly, I don't get these people.  They want to say that black (brown, yellow, "other") people are causing all the problems in America, a premise which is fundamentally flawed.  Any time a group of people starts blaming OTHER people for their problems, all they're really saying is that they're sick of looking at themselves in the mirror.  It's much easier to external a problem than to simply accept things as they are.  No way in hell are all the problems in America attributable to non-white people.  This whole "patriotism" card is wearing really thin, because PATRIOTISM requires incorporation of a variety of people, all inhabiting a country to which we all contribute.  Period.

The fucking idiot the other day who murdered a bunch of people in a historically black church is the problem, not the black people in the church.  As I have said before, if you have that much hate in your heart, turn the gun on yourself FIRST and avoid imposing your own racism and stupidity on other people.

I don't know, maybe I'm an anomaly, but I think we should dislike people based on their personalities and not the color of their skin.  Some people are shitty, and that's just that way life goes, but maybe we ought to wait until we know people to past judgment on them.  And then maybe, just MAYBE, we ought not MURDER them just because we don't like them.  There are like 300+ million people in America - find some other people to hang out with...  Don't be a dick.

Reading What You Write

I just spent like an hour reading over snippets of things I have written in the past year or so - hole-punching sheets of paper and putting them in a binder, where they will undoubtedly just sit and gather dust.

There is probably some sense to be made of all the words I have puked out on my blog(s) in the past, but I can't find it.  Sometimes I make beautiful sense, but more often I am just writing words about things.

I'd like to be a writer, yet I don't want to write.  The process is painful and wrenching and thankless (for me, at least).  I wonder what it's like to have people read what you write and take it as their own.  I wonder what it's like to have a coherent story to tell, and then to invite other people into that story so they can incorporate it personally and change it, as necessary.

Words are so vastly important, and yet so empty, sometimes.  So many words, and so little action.  So many discussions and debates and arguments and even just asides which are said and then disappear into the abyss.

Will they all come back someday?  Will all my words and meanings and linguistic implications matter to anyone, ever?  Has every word I've ever said just been lost, floating out into the void, impacting exactly no one, including myself?

There is no prophet if no one cares to listen.  There is no conversation if only one person is speaking.  There is no dialogue in a party of one, just sounds converging on each other and then breaking apart on the beach of life.

Hollering into the void is just a noisy echo, eventually.

Apathy

I'm not writing/posting like I should, because I have too many thoughts in my head and not enough patience to write them down.  Or, maybe I have NO real thoughts in my head, which is why I can't sit down to write anything.  Either way, I'm slacking.

So here are some random thoughts which have been brewing in my head recently:

• I currently have hives covering my whole body.  What caused them?  Probably spraying pesticides at my house.  What exacerbated them?  Probably stress and anxiety.  (Google it - it's a thing...)
• I watched Wild the other day (Reese Witherspoon, etc) and I should go hike the Pacific Coast Trail, even though I would most likely drop dead somewhere along the trail.
• I also watched Interstellar, and the future looks pretty fucking bleak, so I'm not holding out for something better anytime soon.  
• Just read the paper on any given day and watch that axiom happening.
• My husband is literally killing me with his passive-aggressiveness (and his face, in general), so when I die, someone acknowledge that it was a murder of sorts via dangerously high blood pressure, anxiety, depression, and/or actual poison (who knows?).
• I need to read more.
• I need to make some friends, because I hear they help a person from becoming wildly insane and deeply depressed.  (I'm going to actually leave my house periodically to be social in order for this one to happen, which is unlikely.)
• Social functions (even when I really like the people involved) cause me stress.  Why?  Small talk, I think.  If all my favorite topics (religion, politics, social issues) are off the table because of "political correctness", I literally have nothing to talk about.  
• The Fourth of July is yet another in the line of consumer-driven holidays which piss me off, because I am expected to spend money for my children to (literally) light on fire.
• I am very sad that more people than ever take photographs of events in their lives, but no one prints them out anymore.  I really love having physical photos of people I love and events which were fun - preferably hanging on my walls.  
• Sidenote:  social media is going to be the downfall of this upcoming generation, if they're not careful.  Vine, specifically, is a 6-second ride through hell.  
• I  have recently learned NEVER to buy bottled water, because they end up EVERYwhere in my house,, and no one thinks to recycle.  
• Watership Down might be the WORST summer reading choice for incoming freshmen English students that I've ever experienced.  Why are we trying to make young people hate reading?!
• Summer + Road Work = Road Rage.
• Summer + Tiki torches & wine = Peacefulness.
• Oh, and rain storms are the best of nature.  Next time, I might go outside and take a shower in one - shampoo and all.

Douchebaggery

I had a great night with my extended family tonight, and then my husband showed up.  I didn't talk to him, but he wanted a ride home, so we all came home together. 
As soon as I got home, my daughter pointed out that her dad wasn't happy about something.  I didn't even know what it was.  Apparently I said something which made him mad, so she got upset, so we talked about it.
Talking turned into arguing, which was my daughter and I arguing about her dad's feelings about ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!  He was mad about nothing, so I ended up arguing with my child about ... him.  About nothing. 
He is toxic.  
He said I don't even know her. 
He said that about a child with whom he spends about an hour a week, but I'm the one who doesn't know her.
It's not that I don't know her, it's that she is just like him.  Feeling words are "bad", so expressing them is " bad". 
I fucking hate him with every fiber of my being.

#18

Today is my 18th anniversary.  The internet tells me that the appropriate gift for 18 years of marriage is porcelain.  I assume that means something toilet-ish.

18 years, man.  And we were together for a few years before that.  Ridiculous.  I want a refund for at least half of those years.  Maybe just the last third.  I don't see why something that doesn't work is so hard to shed.

But in the spirit of trying to put my best foot forward, I will try to share some of our best moments, without ruining them with my snarky commentary, even though what's in my head already seems like a movie montage rather than my actual life...

We met when I was 21, and he was only 20.  I didn't realize he was younger than me until we went on one of our first dates to a bar, and he didn't order anything.  He couldn't.  It was cute, sitting downtown at a pub, with a guy too young to drink.  We met at a restaurant where we both worked.  I was a hostess, and he was a line cook.  He was athletic and tall and had thick, beautiful hair.  Even though I already had a very young child and a fiancee (who I didn't particularly care for), I wanted him.

Our "first date" was supposed to be a Grateful Dead show in Las Vegas.  In the spirit of honesty, I went to the show with my then-fiancee, but we were very much in the death of whatever vapid relationship we had back then.  I knew the ex-fiancee wasn't the one all along.  But my other love interest (my current husband) lost my hotel information, so I didn't see him in Las Vegas, though I was looking for him the whole time.

Skip forward, and I broke up with the baby-daddy, and fell madly in lust with the new guy.  We had ridiculously good sex for a long time.  We hung out at his shitty house with his shitty roommates, but he got robbed by his "friends" one too many times, so one day he told me he was moving into a new apartment, and asked me if he should get a one-bedroom or two.  This was his socially inept way of asking me to  move in with him.  We did, and we lived in a very cute little apartment in a seedy part of town, where we heard gun-fire every weekend.  The place had French doors and an enclosed patio, and every time it rained, we would pull the couch out onto the balcony and make love surrounded by lightning, thunder, and rain.

This was the honeymoon period, but we weren't married quite yet..

I can't really remember if we were kicked out of that apartment (the landlord didn't like the pot smoke and our total inability to fix anything) or if we moved because of the increasing gun fire, but we moved into a "better" neighborhood, which turned out to be an apartment ghetto (too many apartment buildings in the same place, so crime ensues).

I fell in love with a different boy, but because he was just a boy and couldn't take care of me the way my boyfriend could, so I stayed.  I wanted a bit of stability for my daughter.  And then, well, my boyfriend started getting sent off to open restaurants in other cities, and somewhere along the way (I believe it was Hastings - what a shit hole) that he found crystal meth.  I suspected there was a problem, but I didn't know what it was until a long time later.

You know what?  I can't finish this story happily, because it's all downhill from there.  There were moments of happiness; we had two more children, for example; but those were my decisions too.  I asked him if he wanted more children, and his exact words were, "I don't care."  So I stopped taking birth control and made some siblings for my daughter.  Our whole relationship has been a series of reactive decisions, made by me.

We bought a house in a place I would NEVER had chosen, because his friend was selling it, and she was dying of cancer, and he felt bad for her.  I married him, because my father made me feel like a shameful slut for having two children and no marriage license.  I never got a proper marriage proposal - the ring was shoved in my face in a school parking lot, after a fight about said marriage. Fast forward a few years and another child, and our house went into foreclosure because my husband wasn't paying the mortgage, choosing instead to pay for his crystal meth addiction.  I didn't know until we were days away from eviction.  I saw the signs, but I was gaslighted - told I was the crazy one for even suggesting that there was a problem.

He lied, and I compromised over and over and over.

Which brings me to 18 years later, when I can't stand to look at his face, and his snoring (from the other room, since we have slept separately for the past five years) makes me want to cut his throat out, and his insistence on pretending nothing is wrong (when EVERYTHING is wrong) makes me physically ill.

So ... sorry about the misleading beginning of this story.  I thought I could be in love again for a minute, and I was mistaken.  While I miss the touch of someone who loves me, I cannot bear the look of someone who disgusts me.  I'd rather me celibate for another four years than to let him touch me, because I am repulsed by him.  How's that for romantic?

I know he's a good guy - anyone who meets him would say the same thing.  But it IS possible to be a good guy and a terrible husband. The best I can say is that I hope he finds someone who loves him for him as he is now, since I can't love him for all the things he isn't.

Happy Anniversary.  Fake it until you make it, I guess.

Gardening Isn't for Pussies

Yesterday, I tackled a huge bush in my front yard.  The fucking thing is pissing me off, because it looks dead, and it's my favorite thing in my yard.  So I went at it with clippers.  I now have a bunch of torn blood vessels in my eye where a branch stuck me (eyes wide open into a tree isn't a good idea, in case you were wondering), a hole in the web of my fingers where a different branch impaled me, about 100 mosquito bites, and a bush which looks far worse today than it did yesterday.

Today I trimmed things and pulled weeds.  Once again, the mosquitoes feasted on me, a limb from a rose bush got stuck in my arm (blood everywhere), and I was sweating like a race horse (which attracts mosquitoes, by the way).  While pulling weeds, I ran into my concrete bird bath, which one of my stupid children knocked over and broke last year (though no one will admit it), which took a chunk out of my knee.

Gardening is NOT sexy.  Bleeding and sweating all over the place doesn't really make a girl look pretty.  I'm sure the blisters from using the clippers yesterday doesn't really add to the hot-factor either.

I focus my attention on the garden, because I have nothing else to do, and I have no friends.  I'm not trying to achieve some sort of pity-factor here; I'm just stating facts.  I have no husband to speak of (on paper only), so I do what I have to do to occupy my time and make my surroundings more aesthetically pleasing.

So I am off again to tackle another corner of the yard.  I am currently rubbing thyme on my arms, because the internet told me it repels mosquitoes.  While I doubt the veracity of that claim, I'm up for suggestions.

Hopefully, I don't poke an eye out ...

The Social Animal

I am not, by nature, a very social person.  I think I spent all of that energy in the first 25 years of my life.  And then life events wrecked me, because all of that pretending caught up to me, and I realized that I never really liked people all that much.  I tried to, I faked it, but I was always trying to be someone who wasn't really me.

So now, when I think about going out - being social - I feel a little sick.  The social anxiety kicks in.  Not because I am afraid of other people or anything like that, but moreso that I can't stand the pretense that everyone plasters on their faces in public.

Very few people (including myself) are true to themselves in social situations.  Everyone is either trying to fit in or trying to get laid or trying to ingratiate themselves to other people in some capacity.  I am so fucking tired of all that posturing.

I don't have the energy to shape-shift in order to put other people at ease.  For some of us, being "NORMAL" is the most difficult social task.  It would be nice if everyone simply accepted people for who they are rather than trying to fit other people into what suits THEIR needs.  As individuals, we ought to appreciate the social outcasts, because we will end up in their memoirs.

The Game

Most games have pretty clear rules:  (baseball) you can steal home if the catcher drops the ball; (football) getting tackled in the end zone gives the other team two points; (Scrabble) making up words doesn't count as a triple word score, not matter how creative that pseudo-word might be..

Marriage is not one of those games.

There are no rules.  The two people who are involved in the marriage contract make up the rules as they go along.  The problem with such flexibility is that once a precedent is set, reversing that ruling is nearly impossible.

You let your spouse, I don't know, let's say, smoke meth, and you've set a precedent.  If you don't divorce that person or force them into rehab, they have broken the rules and gotten away with it.  If you catch your spouse cheating, and you don't divorce them and/or force them into couple's counseling, they've gotten away with it.

So when trust is betrayed over and over and over, those are the new rules.  The new rules are that there are no rules.

I fucked up my marriage contract up so beautifully that the only rules which remain are the ones which apply to ME.  I will raise the kids.  I will be the responsible one.  I will organize all activities regarding all familial activities.  I will ensure the family has life insurance and health insurance and dental insurance, and I will be the one who pays all bills associated with those check-ups and procedures.

I will be the one who stays home, while the other one stays out until 4:30 in the morning doing god-knows-what.

While my kids might look at me and see a sad sack with no social life, they will at least see someone who is there for them when they need something.

It's probably true that selfish people live longer, because I have given up everything (including my social life and personality, apparently) in order to provide order for my children.  I know my children don't want me to be miserable, but they certainly don't want the opposite, which is having no stasis in their lives.

Someone has to be the grown up, and (unfortunately) (in my house) the rule has become that I am the only grown up.  I am the one who doesn't take my kids to drunken company parties where the work-sluts show their tits to everyone.

When a 40-some-year-old person needs to be reminded to dust (in passive-aggressive finger-writing on their furniture), there's a problem.  Being a slob is only really tolerable when a person is a teenager or a college student.  And even then, having a coat of grime on your bedroom furniture is pretty fucking disgusting. I moved into my own bedroom about six years ago to avoid having to deal with another person's revolting habits.  But ... that person still takes up space in my house, so ...

The Game should have rules by which people abide.  Life shouldn't be a free-for-all in which people do what they they do simply because they can get away with it.  And those of us who let those other parasitic people get away with it should stop.  I haven't hit the Full Stop yet, but I think the most appropriate metaphor is ripping off the Band-Aid.  Just pull that fucking thing off and let it hurt for a second, and then enjoy the air on your bare skin.

I can't wait to feel the fresh air.

Death in the Mediterranean

People from shitty, war-torn countries are migrating en masse to Europe.  Lots of them.  They are looking for a better life, I assume, so they get on overcrowded ships and simply sail off from the shores of Africa, hoping things will get better.

Things are not getting better. 

Humanitarian groups have estimated that last year about 90 people died between January and April of last year, and about 900 have died in the same period this year.  That last number is going to increase in the next few days, simply because yet another smuggler boat sank this Sunday, and they have yet to recover all the bodies.

This is a tragedy, no doubt.  

While the death of people trying to escape is horrible, these people knew the risk they were taking, when they decided to flee their home countries in order to illegally trespass into another country.  The strangest thing (to me, at least) is how EUROPE is being attacked for not helping these people.  After all, Europe is in its own financial and social crisis right now.  But (unfortunately), the bottom line seems to be that EUROPE should claim responsibility for the lives of people who do not live in Europe, were not invited to Europe, and are illegally attempting to gain a foothold in Europe.

Where is the international attack of Libya?  Or Tunisia?  After all, these are the two most common launching points for the run to Europe.  

Yes, countries should do their best to help people trying to escape dangerous situations, but the real tragedy is that people aren't trying to improve their own homelands; instead they create mass chaos and strife in the countries to which they flee.  

To be even MORE politically incorrect, I state the following:  If you come from a country with Sharia Law, and you LIKE Sharia Law, then stay there.  It is incomprehensible that people would descend on a democratic country, and then complain that the laws don't suit their lifestyles.  If you don't like the law, go elsewhere.  If you don't like the law, change it.  If you LIKE the law, don't go somewhere else and try to impose it on other people.  

Oh, and if you're being herded onto a ship and told to crawl underneath the deck, stacked body-to-body with other people, it's probably not going to turn out well.  Don't expect an ice cream social when you arrive on the shores of a country which has clearly stated that immigrants must come LEGALLY; expect to be deported, immediately.  

Yes, I probably sound like a giant asshole, and for that, I'm sorry.  I just think that taking risks has NEVER been a guaranteed win.  That's why it's called a RISK.  

Amy Poehler, Part II

Yes, I'm still reading Amy Poehler's book.  I can't blow through a book in two days like I used to - I find myself setting the book down and wandering off in the middle of it, because I should be doing something more productive (and then, subsequently, NOT doing anything productive).

But I just read a phrase in her book which reflects my tendencies exactly:  TRAGEDY PORN.

Amy and I have this fetish in common, apparently, but until she named it for me, I didn't know what I was engaged in.  "Tragedy porn" is filling oneself up with every horrible detail about the latest horrible event and telling everyone about it.  (To be fair, I don't talk to that many people, so I mostly just go over the details (incessantly) in my mind.  On any given day, the New York Times puts me in a mentally catatonic state.  I am absolutely horrified by the depravities of human beings, yet I can't stop reading the newspaper.  (Yes, I'm old - I still read newspapers.)

As a side note, I sort of feel the same way about PORN porn.  I have seen porn clips in the past, and while there is an (extremely tiny) part of my brain that understands why some people watch it, the vast majority of my brain is totally mortified.  Questions which cross my mind when seeing porn including the following:  Why?!  More specifically, how did these people find other like-minded people who wanted to record themselves having sex?  Is porn really all about either narcissism and/or low self-worth?  Does anyone REALLY like getting fucked in the ass?!  What would these girls' mothers do if they saw their children getting fucked on film, for creepy internet trollers to see?

(As I have said before, I think too much.  I get it.)

But back to this tragedy porn, why do I keep reading the paper if all it does is make me sad for humanity?  Why do I feel compelled to talk to other people about the heinous murders and rapes and general stupidity happening around the world, when (in all probability) no one even cares?  Do people think I'm slightly off-balance when I get wound up about referees getting murdered after soccer matches?

There is no answer to any of these questions, and I will most definitely keep reading the New York Times, and I will also keep trying to talk to other people (this blog entry is a notable example) about my unease about the state of world affairs.

Sorry, people.  I care, even though I try very, VERY hard not to.

Amy Poehler

"Your brain is not your friend when you need to apologize.  Your brain and your ego and your intellect all remind you of "facts" (Amy Poehler).

Yes, I am sometimes guilty of not paying attention and being self-absorbed and insensitive, but who isn't?  I should more on top of what I am saying, but shouldn't other people take responsibility for what they "think" they hear, versus what is actually said?!

And even though my brain is shouting some things loud and clear, my heart quietly tells a different story.  "Shame is difficult.  It's a weapon and a signal.  It can paralyze or motivate" (Poehler).

Take, for example, DIVORCE.  (I have to capitalize it, because it's apparently the worst thing ever, unless you're actually in need of one.)  Again. to steal from Amy Poehler, "you aren't allowed to feel special, but no one understands the specific ways you are in pain.  Imagine spreading everything you care about on a blanket and then tossing the whole thing up in the air.  The process of divorce is about loading up that blanket, throwing it up, watching it all spin, and worrying what stuff will break when it lands."

What I worry about breaking is my children.

I can't talk to the very people who divorce will hurt most, because they don't like "feeling" words.  They get all weird and either tell me to stop talking about it or they go into a different room.

I can't possibly be alone in this conundrum.  I want to consult the major players in my life, but they all want to just shove their fingers in their ears and hum a tune.  (Not the Divorce Tune, as it turns out.)

Painful experiences make us see things differently, but I would very much like to see my painful experiences in the PAST TENSE.  But when everyone is actively fighting against change, being the "bad guy" is very difficult.  I just wish they could see the positive net balance on such a change; happiness spreads, and if your parent is in near-constant misery, the feeling spreads (and ultimately infects everyone).

I'm sure anyone who listens to me is sick to death of hearing me complain, but all I'm doing is trying to talk myself into making a decision which everyone will hate initially.  Being the only person in the family who can make decisions is fucking exhausting, let me tell you.  I thought that one of the benefits of marriage was supposed to be teamwork.  I don't want to be Stalin, but when no one ever does anything, someone has to step up and make the rough decisions (which, unfortunately, affect everyone).  

I will be the Pol Pot in the DIVORCE situation, if what that means is that I am the intellectual who us trying to start from Year Zero.  I'd like a reboot.

Jordan Speith

Jordan Speith just won the Masters.  He is 21 years old.  He shot an 18-under round at Augusta.  He dropped out of college in Texas to pursue his golf career.  So, he just earned $1.8 million for a round of golf.  But even if he didn't win, the top 50 players split $50 million.

This is another reason why college is overrated.

Gardening

Just a moment to celebrate the wonder of gardening.

The beauty of nature meets the beauty of everyone leaving me alone, because they don't want to be asked to help with manual labor.

Bring me spring all year long, please.

The CHANGE

Sigh.

Just a few months ago (it feels like a few weeks ago), I had a "child".  Now I seem to have a "disaffected youth".  She transformed overnight from an I-don't-like-boys-and-drama-is-stupid kind of girl to a I-am-too-busy-and-cool-to-even-have-a-conversation-with-you kind of girl.

(And metaphoric crying ensues...)

I guess I just don't remember my first two kids changing overnight.  It seemed more gradual.  It makes me wonder what thought went through her head which said, "that lady isn't cool any more.  Don't hang out with her."

I know, I get it - kids grow out of their parents.  But I'm not ready for her to go to the dark side yet.  And neither is she.  That, in fact, is what scares the living shit out of me:  the fact that she is NOT ready to be an "adult", and she desperately needs guidance, but she'd rather look at vine videos for hours on end than have a conversation about literally anything, all the time.

She has LITERALLY told me that she doesn't want to have conversations where feelings are involved.  She will preemptively warn me if she going to show me a video that might me me "have feelings".

What.  The.  Fuck.

Yesterday, The New York Times told me that social media and screens don't really affect the long-term outcome of an individual, but the last two days, I have come home from work and watched my 13-year-old watch youtube videos for two hours, while she's laying on a piece of furniture.  That cannot be right.  Staring at a 6" screen CANNOT  be good for anyone's brain, regardless of his or her age.

I suppose an intervention will have to ensue, even though every fiber of my personality subscribes to the ideology that people should become who they are on their own.

Wish me luck...

Youth and Old Age

I'm pretty sure that the 16-year-old version of me would dislike the 40-year-old version of me.  And I'm positive that the 40-year-old me would despise the 16-year-old version of me.  Why?  Because I was an asshole.  But I am still kind of an asshole, just of a different variety.

Back in the day, I put up with everyone's shit.  My friends were all assholes, and I was an asshole, so we had somewhat of a symbiosis.  I had no self-worth back then, so I just went along with all the pseudo-drama and tried to ignore the rest.

I'd like to say that I'm totally different as an adult, but that would be a half-truth.  I still put up with other peoples' bullshit, but I don't pretend it doesn't repulse me anymore.  I may be less able to shed soul-sucking parasites from my life as an adult, but I am far more likely to let those people know exactly how I feel about them.

I'm not sure if this is progress or not.  Probably not.  It's probably just a manifestation of middle-age onset pre-dementia or something.  I don't want to be an asshole, but sometimes I float out of my body in the middle of a sentence or an action, look at myself, and think, "really?  who the fuck are you?  When did you become this bitter, cranky old hag?"

I don't look in the mirror any more and think I look pretty, but then I didn't do that when I was 16 either.  There was a minute or two in my 20s where I had a little something going on, but I think it had less to do with physical attractiveness and more to do with inner happiness sort of bubbling out.  When the flow of happiness subsides, all that's left is stunned vacuity.

That vacuum sucks just as much, regardless of how old a person happens to be.  Youth and old age aren't so different after all.

Bunnies, Eggs, and Nonsense

                                                                                 

Happy Easter!  Jesus rising from the dead and whatnot.  Very important religious holiday for the Christians.  Churchy things happening – praying and singing and all that business. 

Here’s my dilemma with this particular holiday:  how the bloody hell did the bunnies and colored eggs and chocolate treats get mixed into the rising of the central prophet of an entire religion?!  To be honest, the bunnies, at least, make a bit of sense.  I think we all know that the Christians mixed up their dates in order to get the druids and pagans on board a couple thousand years ago, so the celebration of the vernal equinox (thus the procreation and abundance of bunnies) sort of fits into that messing together of traditions.

But Easter baskets?  And gifts?  And jelly beans?  And dying eggs?  That’s all a bunch of capitalistic American nonsense which seems intended to get more people to celebrate a holiday which has no business being advertised at Target, if you know what I mean. 

How can a religious person possibly believe that Christ rose from the dead on Easter, God’s only son being physically escorted to heaven by his father, and then subsequently celebrate such a consecrated event with brunch and chocolate figures of bunnies?  It seems to send the wrong sort of message to the younger ones, if you ask me.  (Which no one did, of course)

If the only way to get little kids excited about God ascending back into heaven is to stuff them full of sugar and ply them with gifts, then the religious ideology behind the whole event seems lost.  Why not just have two celebrations: one for the beginning of spring, and one for Jesus? 

I’ll never know.  I just watched a documentary about some people in Mexico who celebrate Easter by strapping homemade, paper mache animals loaded with explosives on their heads and running through the local streets.  That makes about as much sense as hiding plastic, colored eggs in the bushes for little kids to find.  Probably a bit less blood in the Americanized version of events, but pointless just the same.  

Suckers

If you just read my blog to use the information against me in some capacity, or to judge me for not making the life choices which YOU made, get the fuck off.

I hear pinterest is interesting for people whose minds are already numb.  Go there.

10 Reasons NOT to Own a House

                                                                                    

I suppose since my last entry was a Top 10 list, this one should be too …

Top 10 Reasons NOT to Own a Home…

1.        Disintegration:  This category actually applies to ALL reasons not to own a home, but I’m putting it here because today I was trying to rebuild my deck, piece-by-piece.  I can’t afford a new deck, so I am buying pieces of wood and replacing the most rotten parts of the deck.  Jesus H.  20+ years of rain and weather will really fuck up wood, let me tell you.  The only good part of the “restoration” process today was my neighbor’s reaction to my profuse and extended swearing in the back yard.

2.       Water:  I’m talking about pipes and whatnot here.  I don’t have a usable dishwasher, because the pipes are … I don’t know, fucked up?  All I know is that when I use it (the last time was like five years ago), the gross water backs up into the dishwasher, making all the dishes worse than they were before.  Plus, when I put food down my GARBAGE DISPOSAL (the name should say it all here), my basement backs up with kitchen-food water.  What the hell?!  I DO NOT want to think about where my water comes from or where it goes.  I simply want it to work.

3.       Electricity:  Another thing I DO NOT want to think about the logistics of.  But when plugging 21^st Century technology into 20^th Century jerry-rigged outlets, shit goes bad.  Like electrical-fire bad.  Again, I have better things to do than wonder if the house is going to burn down just because someone’s iphone charger is plugged in.

4.       Trees:  I love them, don’t get me wrong, but those motherfuckers are messy, and no one ever helps me clean up the 18 tons of shit that drops from them in spring and fall.

5.       Snow:  Again, love it.  Until I have to shovel mounds of it off my driveway, all the time vaguely wondering if I will have one of those snow-shoveling-induced heart attacks I read about every winter.

6.       Dust:  Old houses settle – ALL THE TIME.  So there is dust coming from every place all the time.  It mocks me.  (Just kidding, it doesn’t mock me; I’m not psychotic.)  But seriously, it’s like one of the biblical plagues.

7.       Windows & Doors:  Aren’t they lovely?  You can gaze out them and enter and exit through them.  Oh yeah, and when your house is a million years old, the wind just blows right through them.  Honestly, there is a stiff wind coming through my kitchen door on any given day.

8.       Other people:  If you are lucky enough to own a home on your own, I am very jealous.  Since a person’s home is essentially a reflection of them, the other people who mess it up all the time kind of suck.  I don’t want people coming in and seeing dirty socks on the couch and stray cheese slices on the ottoman, so I have to clean all that shit up. 

9.       Carpets:  Don’t even get me started on how gross a carpet is after 10+ years. 

10.   And finally, ghosts.  (I’m just kidding, I think we ran them all out with loud noises and stray cheese smells…)

10 Things I Learned in College

                                                                                                                 

1.        Being accepted to a university in no way indicates readiness for adulthood, nor does it reflect a person’s intelligence or capacity for learning.  As a matter of fact, some of the dumbest, most ridiculous people I’ve ever met attended university. 

2.       The one class every university OUGHT to offer is not on the schedule of courses:  Substances 101.  In this course, students would learn what to do with a wasted roommate/friend (whether to just roll them on their side so they don’t aspirate on their own vomit, or whether a trip to the ER is necessary), how to decide if the drugs someone just handed you are “safe”, what to do when those “safe” drugs make you start hallucinating or losing consciousness, and why you should never be friends with a person who huffs things.

3.       Every night of drinking is a potential date rape night. 

4.       Once you fall below the qualifications for cum laude, a GPA is just a number, and will have very little bearing on anything, ever.

5.       If you manage to graduate college, people who did NOT get a college degree, will always downplay the importance of college – often referring to it as “unnecessary” to real life.  These people are just jealous.  (Or, they might be right, depending on how much money they make.)

6.       Once you obtain a college degree and put it to use, you will learn more in the first year POST-college than you did in the 4-5 years you spent getting a Bachelor’s Degree.

7.       Living with strangers in a dorm room is among the most invasive things a person could ever do.  That stranger will leave their shit lying around, or steal your shit, or leave dishes covered in baked-on shit in the kitchen for weeks on end, or leave literal shit in the toilet that you have to flush before you can use it.

8.       Fully 75% of the classes I paid for in college taught me nothing and were in no way necessary in regards to my chosen profession.

9.       College graduations are slightly more annoying than waiting in line at the DMV for four hours.

10.   Mortgaging your future is part of the College Dream, but if your major is humanities, get ready for a string of long, disappointing jobs making coffee.  Maybe just get a library card and save your time and money.

Papillion - meh

                                                                                                                       

Dear City of Papillion:

I realize that you were voted Best City or whatever a few years ago, but as a resident of your fine city, I would like to point out some ways in which you kind of suck.

1.        I love eating out.  Here’s the problem:  If I want to eat out, and I don’t want to eat shitty fast food or solidly mediocre chain-food, I have to drive to Omaha.  The restaurants in Papillion suck, a lot.  The tax base in Papio is very high, and the people who live here have money to spend.  If they are discerning with that money, they will most certainly drive away from Papillion, because we have no upscale restaurants.  I’m not saying that good restaurants can’t be chains (Bonefish, PF Changs) but the chain restaurants here are total garbage (Texas Roadhouse, Old Chicago, Red Robin).  GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT!!  If people in the city have money, why not let them spend it in the city where they live rather than taking all of that revenue into a neighboring city?  (Stupid.)

2.       Shopping in Papillion is also a joke.  The city opened a massive outdoor mall, and the anchor store is … Hy Vee?!  Don’t get me wrong, I shop at Hy Vee all the time, but that doesn’t mean it should anchor an entire mall.  We seem to have all kinds of room for Walmarts and Targets and Michael’s and other BS, but we can’t secure a high-end store??  Whoever runs the Department of Get Good Stores for the City of Papillion sucks at his or her job.

3.       The police.  Please find some real crime and stop parking your asses at intersections and hiding in clumps of trees.  Isn’t there a meth lab somewhere that you’d like to bust?

4.       Oh, and the industrial construction?  Stop it.  We already look like a western Nebraska  pit stop, and the more one-story, ugly, brown strip malls our city builds, the more we look like a place no one would ever want to live, because it’s depressing (and then we want to drive to a better neighborhood in Omaha…).

Besides all that, carry on.  I’m just saying that we can do a lot better.  Make me want to stay here rather than wanting to go somewhere where interesting, cultural things actually happen.

21st Century Problems

                                                                                                           

Here is my dilemma:  I have become so entrenched in my own self-imposed solitude that I am finding it very difficult to climb out.  I am lonely, but I want to be left alone.  Totally counter-intuitive, right?  I wander around my house like a ghost, or I wander around my yard looking for things to “fix”, but I never really DO anything. 

Example:  My deck is falling apart.  It upsets me every time I go outside, but I can’t afford to replace it.  So this morning, I made a mimosa, went outside, and measured the planks that are broken and need replaced.  I wrote down the different sizes, then went to Home Depot.  When I got to the store, I just wandered up and down the lumber aisles, wishing I had a man (or a friend) who would help me.  I got overwhelmed, left the store without buying anything, came home, and had another mimosa.

I accomplish nothing, most days, most of the time. 

I know part of my problem today is that I have strep throat, so I’m in pain and I’m tired, but I seem to feel like that every day.  Textbook depression, I suppose. 

But how do I break out of it?  I know what I SHOULD do (reach out to people, exercise, eat better), but I can’t seem to do any of those things.  Just thinking about them makes me tired and sad. 

It’s currently 4:00 – the middle of the day – it’s beautiful outside, and I have no idea what to do with myself.  I can’t nap, because all I do is lay there and think about what I COULD or SHOULD be doing instead, but when I get up, I don’t really do anything. 

I don’t get it.  I’m smart; I know how the psychology works, but I can’t make the simple solutions work on myself. 

Spring Break is coming up, and I already know I won’t do anything.  I can’t afford to leave, and I’m too old to do what I always used to do and just throw the cost of a trip on my credit card.  And even if I DID leave, the thing that makes me unhappy (me) will still be there.  And the other things that make me unhappy will still be here when I get back.

So, yeah.  I’m going to go outside and pretend to do something, just like I’m pretending to do something on this computer right now, and then I’ll drink myself to sleep later. 

A really stellar life plan, I know. 

A Bit of Levity

Things are often bleak here in the suburbs, but that doesn't mean happiness doesn't intrude. 

It's beautiful outside.
The sun is shining.
The squirrels are talking to me right now. 
I just saw an enormous, beautiful owl.
I have a mimosa in my hand.
A crocus is popping up in my garden.

Moments count.

Wading In

You’re killing me, little by little, every day, all the time, chipping away at who I am and who I want to be, eroding the foundation of my personality, my character, and my humanity. 

Every day, all the time, I sink.  I look at you, or I think about you living in my house, or I anticipate your presence in any capacity, and I drown.  The rocks are in my pockets, and I am wading out into the river every single time I think about you. 

Why, for the love of god, will you not go gently into the good night?  I have tried anger and patience and every other emotion I can manufacture, but you will not simply leave me to be in peace.   We are not a tie anymore; please, please, please go away from me.

You have systematically made me tired and sad and suicidal, and I have lost the ability to care about anything.  I don’t even care about myself anymore.  I drink too much,  I smoke too much, and I don’t exercise, because ALL of my mental energy goes toward just sustaining the ability to get through any given day, rather than trying to be the best person I can be. 

You have sapped every emotion I can possible entertain, and I sit here, today, apathetic towards everything, because I can’t get rid of the cancer that is you. 

It blooms and grows and consumes me.  I hate you, and my hatred fuels the cancer of my soul, which undoubtedly will fuel the ACTUAL cancer which will take over my weakened immune system and ravage and then kill me, because I I can’t fight it off anymore. 

You win.

Best Actress in a Supporting Role

I have mastered the art of supporting other people.  I am so good at it, in fact, that I am not the main character in my own life anymore.

When I wake up every day, I force myself out of bed to go spend eight hours in a place where everyone’s needs come before my own.  High school students are fairly high maintenance – hormones and existential crises and all – but I signed on for that job, and I love giving them whatever knowledge and insight and personal assistance I might be able to offer.  But a student told me just yesterday that high school is simply a place where teenagers go so that their parents don’t have to deal with them, and that most students don’t give a shit about what any of their teachers are saying.  I countered with the fact that I still sometimes talk to my former students, so people must be listening, at least sometimes.  I added that if even one or two of my students get something valuable, my time was well spent.  He said, and I quote, “Don’t hold your breath.  No one cares about this shit.”

He’s probably right.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep supporting my students whenever and however I can.  Otherwise, what’s the point of being a teacher?

I wish this essay about supporting roles was just about my job. 

When I come home, I am again relegated to an ancillary role.  Because I don’t have a love life (or even a social life for that matter) I am the maid, cook, chauffeur, advisor, and organizer.  People in Main Roles do what they want.  Other people revolve around them, instead of the inverse.  Nobody revolves around me.  If my kids need food, I cook.  If they need prodded to fill out college applications, I prod.  If they need help with homework, I try to remember basic algebra or the plot basics of a novel I haven’t read in 10 years.  I support people who are Main Characters. 

I won’t even write about my “husband”, because all of my support in that role has been for naught.  In that role, I am an extra, perhaps with the screen credit of “Field Medic”, because my only role there is triage on a dying plot element.

Back in the day, my head shot (and accompanying resume experience) would have been fairly impressive.  Now?  Not so much.  And the most distressing part is that I might not even be the Best Supporting Actress in this particular role of life.  I can’t seem to figure out how to play this role that I’ve cast myself in.  I have forgotten what the point is.   

When people fall into the Typecast Category, is there any way out?  Why does it take such extraordinary measures to break free of the way other people see us?  How do people even find a way to break out of such a crushing weight of predictability? 

Maybe I’ve fallen into the foreign language category, but I’m still delusionally thinking people understand me.