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.