Miz S

Hard Eyes.

I only have time for a very quick post this morning because I am really trying hard to use my time wisely, get to work early, and then leave at a reasonable hour. So let's use bullets, shall we?

• The boys in my class this year are sweet and uncomplicated for the most part. There is one who worries me because his family life is not very wonderful (8 kids, scary dad, submissive mom, chaotic life), but he seems to respond to positive attention so that's a good thing.
• The girls are a piece of work, I'm afraid. There is one who is a leader, and not in a good way. She has a reputation as a thief (the notes from the Kindergarten teacher said "check her backpack every day"), and indeed she already tried to make off with a pair of dollar store scissors that I would have been happy to give to her if she had asked.  She's smart, oh my God she's smart, and she has hard eyes. Why does a 6 year old girl already have hard eyes and a wall built up around her?
• Yesterday after work I took the dogs to the Rich People's park near our neighborhood, where a group of Rich People congregate every evening with their well-bred dogs. They talk amongst themselves and ignore friendly commoners. Three of the Rich Dogs would NOT leave my Rosie alone, apparently she smells VERY sexy, and their stupid ass owners would NOT call them off. I stood there, with my dogs on a leash, Rosie trying to crawl up my legs, April wrapping herself around me, while the Rich People chatted on, oblivious. One dog was particularly insistent that Rosie be his bitch. Every now and then a woman looked over where I stood, STRUGGLING TO KEEP MY BALANCE, and called, "Natty Bo! Come here, Natty Bo!"  Well, Natty Fucking Bo would not come here, and while I felt that kicking him would be going too far, I did try very hard to step on his toes. The owner finally, FINALLY, came to get her dog, and never even made eye contact with me or said sorry or anything.
• I was so pissed at myself for not being assertive and saying something like, "Could you leash your fucking dog because clearly it is not under your control?" that I cried. But not where anyone could see me.
• Later Josh and I went for a 3.5 mile walk, wherein I ranted about irresponsible people for at least 1.5 miles. At one point, an SUV came flying down a road, so fast that we turned around to look and had the following conversation:

     Josh: Man, that thing might roll over. That would be horrible.
     Me:   Yeah. Horrible slash fun-to-watch.
     Josh:  Honey, I think you're losing your soft side.

This made me laugh.

Now I must take my hard eyes to work. You guys have a great weekend. And do not fucking piss me off or I will KICK YOUR ASS.

Through Suffering I Shall Be Purified.

As usual, work is kicking my ass BUT GOOD. I don't mind working hard, but I mind that it doesn't matter how hard I work because I am never, ever, ever caught up. And it's not just me. It's every decent teacher that I know. And this is only the very beginning of the year. I don't want to be this tired all the time. I don't want to come home from work and immediately sit down in front of the computer to do more work. I hate being this exhausted and I hate donating so much free labor to my school district. But I love the kids and I love my teacher friends and I have to work.

I'm sorry, because I know I complain about this every year. I must sound like a broken record.

I will tell you this:  I would not want my daughters to go into teaching. At least, not into public school teaching.

*  *  *

I think it has been well-established, as recently as a few days ago, that I am a complete freak in matters pertaining to animals. I still remember feeling sick and shaky at the age of 9 or 10 halfway through reading Black Beauty, and hiding the book in the basement so I would never have to even see the cover again. I rescue spiders, the poor little things, scurrying desperately out of the way of the broom.  I would happily have a pack of dogs and cats if I didn't have to go to work every day. Etc.

Occasionally I am accused of anthropomorphism.  I still smile when I think of how  Jane described me to her readers when she finally decided to link me (after months of shameless ass-kissing on my part.) She said something like this: "...Miz S, whom I applaud for her breathless, scattershot wit but deplore for her tendency to anthropomorphize..."

I agree that it is silly to attribute human feelings to, say, spiders. But I have no doubt that sentient creatures such as dogs share at least some basic emotions with us. Fear, loyalty, affection, anxiety, a sense of humor, boredom, to mention a few of them.

But even I thought I was being ridiculous last night. I came home and fed and walked the dogs, which is my usual routine. What I wanted to do next was sneak out of the house with just Rosie, leaving April home alone. (Josh was out playing softball.) I wanted to go for a long-ish walk, uphill and down, to try and de-stress after a long day in the trenches of first grade. April is getting older (she's 12) and can't really do the long walks anymore. But I just couldn't leave her home alone. I had hoped that she would just go lie down and veg out somewhere and I could slip out with Rosie, unnoticed. But...she kept WATCHING me. REPROACHFULLY. As if she could read my intentions with her doggie ESP.  I would saunter nonchalantly towards the door, pretending that I was just going to take out some recyclables, and she would suddenly get up and stare at me. "What?" I said. "I'm just taking out the trash!"

Etc.

I never did get out for my walk.

*  *  *

The Farmer and the Cowman Should Be Friends.

Well, now. Shall we move on? Babelbabe was quite gracious about the whole thing and is clearly more mature than I am. I would say that she did, in fact, take it like a man when all was said and done.

I cannot promise that I will never rant like that again because I am easily overwrought when it comes to animals. There is a family history of this behavior.

For those of you keeping track, yesterday my little ones arrived in the classroom. I always forget how much like kindergarteners they still are at the beginning of first grade. Oh my God. I needed a stiff drink by 3:00. What I got instead was a series of frantic email and phone calls from Evangeline who was at home trying to pack up to go back to college. She is world's worst packer/organizer, I'm afraid. By late afternoon she was having a weepy nervous breakdown, so I abandoned my classroom and rushed home to help. She neeeeeeeeeded me. Those of you with elderly children like mine will appreciate the joy with which I realized she wanted some Mom-ing. I made soothing noises, went to the drugstore to pick up prescriptions and shampoo and toothpaste, supervised the jamming of clothes into suitcases with no discernible rhyme or reason, and made a nutritious, tasty dinner for her.

Josh is driving her to the airport even as I type this post. Me, I must fly to work on wings of trepidation to see what awaits me.

Adios, amigos.

Helplessly Doomed To Repeat My Offense.

Once, many years ago, I started a fight with a neighbor about the way she treated her dog. This neighbor was a friendly acquaintance, although I became disenchanted with her because her grinning, chubby golden retriever, Flicka, was covered with running scabs and sores that Neighbor Lady was much too busy to do anything about. But what pushed me over the edge was the fact that she went out of town with her family for ten days and left poor Flicka tied to the front porch. She hired a person to come by once a day to feed and water the dog. I went up there every day to pat Flicka and untangle the rope from the bushes where she sat panting, unable to reach her water bowl.

There was nothing illegal about what she did. (I checked with Animal Control, natch.) It was just uncaring and cold.

I left a very upset note for the owner, chiding her for being irresponsible. She responded angrily and told me to mind my own fucking business. For someone as conflict-avoidant as I am, this was all extremely upsetting. I hated that she was mad at me. But as frightened and sad as I was that someone was mad at me, someone didn't like me, I knew that I was doomed to helplessly repeat my offense if the situation presented itself again.

I hated her. I hated her for getting a dog because she thought that her kids "should" have one, and then being too self-absorbed to take care of it.

There are lots of ways of being mean to an animal. They do not all involve torture and torment or egregious neglect. What makes me sad is that a dog is a creature that is completely without guile or resentment. It will accept whatever treatment you give it, and still be thrilled when you throw it a bone or chuck it under its chin. It will still defend its home from the mailman, or get hysterical when the children play on the trampoline because it thinks they are in danger. It loves its pack no matter what the circumstances. I can state with certainty that Michael Vick's dogs loved their evil caretakers and would defend them to the death.

The situation I referred to yesterday was not at all like the one with my neighbor. There is no outright cruelty going on (although she pretends that I said so). There is simply a lack of understanding of a dog's needs, and a woman who is already stressed out by her many responsibilities resenting the creature in the house that is not an actual child, but has needs very much like a child's.

I don’t think it’s terrible that she wants to get rid of the dog. Clearly she can't handle a dog.  What I object to is the idiotic mindset of a person who is already stretched saying, “I think I’ll get a dog!” and then being pissed at the dog for acting like a dog. It's a dog, not a whim.

I Hate People. And Lack Of Sleep Frees Me Up To Say What I Am Really Thinking.

You do not have to love animals to be my friend. But if you are mean to animals, or treat them with scorn, I will not be able to abide you.

Hey! I have an idea! If you have a bunch of little kids, and you feel stressed out a lot, and you are pregnant, and you're not really a dog person to begin with? DON'T GET A FUCKING DOG.  Because soon you will complain about how the dog is so "needy" and the dog is always wanting affection and, and, FOOD for crying out loud, and the dog craps on the floor after being inside for 10 hours. Oh, and it's ill-trained because no one takes the time to train it. It just gets yelled at for doing shit that dogs do. And you will pretend to feel bad about hating and neglecting the creature that you VOLUNTARILY TOOK ON,  and you will ask for absolution from your blog readers, and some of them will make the sign of the cross and bless you because they are sycophants.

For God's sake, be kind enough to find a good home for that poor dog.

Dig Me! I'm Spontaneous!

I am in my usual beginning-of-the-school-year mode. Moods of wild elation: LOOK HOW AWESOME I AM! I MADE CLEVER, COLORFUL LABELS FOR MY PLASTIC CONTAINERS OF OFFICE SUPPLIES--followed by abject despair: OH DEAR GOD THIS WILL NEVER WORK KILL ME NOW!

Anyone who has read this journal over time will recognize that these mood swings are totally normal for me, especially in late August, and one need only say, "There, there, dear" and pat my hand.

We began the school year yesterday with a 3 hour staff meeting. (I'd like to get you on my staff! Ha! Funny!) It's agonizing to sit through one of these meetings when there is so much to be done upstairs in one's classroom.

When we were finally released, I went up to my room and was instantly overwhelmed by the amount of crap to do. I found that the best strategy was to work for an hour, then visit my friends in other classrooms to see if they were ahead of me, then work for another hour, and go visit my friends again to gauge their progress, etc. I am always convinced that everyone else is more clever, more organized, and more efficient than I am, and I find that I am right at least 50% of the time. Which puts me in the average range. Average is good!

Which reminds me: have I mentioned lately how much I ADORE the people that I work with?  My teammates are so smart and funny and cuddly that I could bask in their presence forever if I didn't have so much SHIT to do.

And bask I did. See, what happened was this: we got kicked out of the school building at 5:00 because of the building service workers' schedule. (Total insanity. We are accustomed to being able to stay late, especially in the week before school starts. We were all pissed.)

Anyway, 4 of the 6 first grade teachers ended up in the parking lot at the same time, and someone said, "Hey, why don't we go get something to eat and hang out for a bit?"

And I found myself saying (here's the good part), "I live so close! Why don't you all come over to my house and I'll make spaghetti with homemade clam sauce! And I have wine!"

This was amazing for many, many reasons, not the least of which was that I knew that I had all essential ingredients on hand, and I knew that the house was not too horribly messy.

I called the girls and told them to do a quick sweep of the downstairs and relegate any mess to a nice dark closet.

Praise me for my spontaneous streak. This was, after all, a Monday night.

They came. I cooked.

We ate dinner on the screen porch while a gentle rain fell. We drank wine. We had ice cream for dessert.

They liked my dogs.

Krystle revealed some details about her romantic life. Alicia was as sweet and shy as ever. Ellen refused to make out with me despite my fabulous smelling hair.

I'm telling you, I love these women. I would walk through fire for them.

I can't think of a clever way to end this. I'm awfully tired, y'know.

How are YOU?

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho.

One or two of you seem to have confused me with Joan of Arc, and while I appreciate the vote of confidence I must point out that there is a world of difference between my sheltered life and the lives of people who put themselves at risk for a greater good, even if it means severe deprivation or torture or death. I suppose it's true that we never know what we are truly capable of until put to the test. But let me just report that last night when I was preparing dinner, a little lemon juice got into a cut on my hand and my screams of anguish reverberated throughout my little yellow house.

Speaking of torture, I have to report back to work today. This week is all meetings and classroom preparation. As always, I am filled with an odd mixture of joy and trepidation. I can't wait to see all my friends, and I look forward to a regular schedule. I have a fancy new lunch box that is so complicated and has so many cunning little compartments that it comes with instructions. I will be packing me some kick-ass lunches. BUT. There's the exhaustion factor of the first 6 weeks of school that is really not so fun.

Last night I got into bed nice and early so as to be bright-eyed this morning. I watched a little TV--the What Not To Wear marathon--and mentally revised my choice of outfit for the first day back at work. I read something soothing and not too scholarly so as not to be kept awake by exciting thoughts. Then I kissed the doggies goodnight (Josh is out of town) and drifted off to the land of Nod--

--only to be awakened at precisely 1:11am by goddamned April who was having a fit because of a thunderstorm. She cannot be calmed during a storm. I got up and gave her a Xanax, which we haven't done before but our vet said it would be worth a try. I watched some more TV, figuring that there was no point in trying to sleep until the Xanax kicked in and knocked her neurotic ass out.  At 2am she was still pacing and whining and barking, so I gave up. I prevailed upon Evangeline to take her down to the basement and lock her up where I would no longer be able to hear her in her misery. 

After that, I slept like a baby except for odd dreams about on-line friends and foes.

I must go shower now. What I lack in bright-eyedness I will make up for with fabulous smelling hair.

Woefully Ignorant, But Eager To Share.

Sometimes I am amazed by the gaps in my knowledge base. I would say that I know a medium amount about World War II in Europe, but apparently I don't know shit about World War II in the Pacific, except for the bombing of Pearl Harbor. I am thinking about this because Josh and I watched a really good movie the other night called The Great Raid, which is based on the true story of an amazing rescue of  500 American POWs from a Japanese prison camp in the Philippines in 1942.

After watching The Great Raid I have spent a lot of time thinking about courage, and whether I have any. I mean, I am brave enough to learn how to ride a scooter, but would I be brave enough to join the Resistance and smuggle medicine to prisoners of war and help shelter the ragged insurgent army, knowing that at any minute my entire family could be tortured and executed? How is it possible to be that brave?

In one of those odd coincidences that people are so fond of, our doorbell rang just as we were settling down to watch the movie. And there was Mr. Brown, peering nearsightedly in the window. Mr. Brown is a retired Air Force officer in his eighties and also our cranky but beloved next-door neighbor. He was there to pick up his mail and tell us that on this date in history, the Japanese surrendered to the United States, and "...boy, did we go crazy. It was just like Times Square."  He is not one of those people who constantly wants to be reliving his glory days, but he will tell me stuff about WWII sometimes because I ask him about it, and I think that's why he mentioned the date to me.

(Have I ever told you that I really like old men? Even the cantankerous ones can be sweet and cheerful in a way that old ladies aren't, so much.)

Anyway, Mr Brown chatted with us for a few minutes about the surrender of the Japanese, and then made his way back down to his car, a little stiffly, but still with that determinedly erect military posture, still with the hat placed just so on his head, and drove back to the hospice where his wife of 50 years is dying of cancer and Alzheimer's.

It made me cry a little bit, to tell you the truth. I mean, I know he's had a good run and all, but goddamn being old and watching your life partner die looks like some mighty bleak times.

So, he left, and we watched the movie and doubted our own courage.

You can see why I haven't posted anything lately. I've been ever so busy with deep thoughts.

I Don't Know Butchie Instead.

                         

                                 Why? Why must I close my eyes for every photograph?

Please, one of you smart people out there, explain the last episode of John From Cincinnati to me. Please? I am a literal-minded person, and I never understand allegories or symbolism. Only seldom do I catch on to clever allusions.

It's something to do with God, right? Spell it out for me, baby. Don't make me read one of those discussion boards.

I hope that today might be the last day that I have cause to mention anything medical. Even a hypochondriac like me has her limits. This morning marked the end of the 48 hours that I was ordered to REALLY rest and keep my feet up, after a bout of bleeding on Saturday morning. Don't worry, the bleeding stopped.  But I am continuing to take it easy because it suddenly occurred to me that I start back to work in 6 short days, and it will be beyond inconvenient if I am not well.

You guys have all been very kind-hearted with your comments and emails. Thank you. And check this out: Angie signed me up for a free month of Netflix in a desperate attempt to make me sit still. I swear, if Angie were not so busy milking goats and coddling hens, I believe she would have driven up here, spoken sternly to me in person, whipped the entire household into shape, and spoon fed me with wholesome homemade goat-milk yogurt. I intend to have all future medical procedures done in Virginia, and recuperate at Angie's house.

And guess what came in the mail today? A care package from Wende, complete with a tiara, a lavender sachet, and 2 incredible bars of dark chocolate. Dark chocolate is good for me, right?

You guys are very sweet, and I truly love you.

If you are looking for me tomorrow, I will be sitting on my couch, wearing my tiara and watching movies while stuffing my face with chocolate.

And after tomorrow, let's never talk about my vagina again.

The Sibling Summit.

Yesterday, Evangeline and I drove under fretful, cloudy skies to meet my sisters and my brother at The Farm. We always call it "The Farm", even though it is not really a farm at all. I think I have explained this before, maybe? My parents bought a farmhouse and 45 or so acres in southwestern Pennsylvania when my sisters and I were in our teens and my brother naught but a small, freckled lad. They wanted us to be exposed to a more wholesome, down-to-earth environment than that of the la-de-da suburb that we were living in (where they chose to buy a house, I'm just saying). We spent weekends and summers there. It didn't stop me from smoking pot, but at least I was smoking pot with down-to-earth farm boys.

My brother Tom and his family live there whenever they are not living at the boarding school where he is a Latin teacher. They have goats and chickens and stuff. Perhaps you know about this already.

The farm always makes me a little bit sad for reasons that I can't explain easily. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world to me, and a place where I can be very happy and peaceful at times. It represents simplicity and security and independence and unrealized dreams. Let's leave it at that for right now.

So Evangeline and I drove up there to attend the sibling/cousin summit. Siblings for me, cousins for Evangeline. Sasha is in Boston visiting friends, so it was just the two of us (and Rosie). We were in my mini-van, which is not new enough to have one of those modern "cd players". I keep Evangeline's old set of 8 cassette tapes with the unabridged Lolita on it, and I listen to it a lot. It was fun to drive up with E., because we listened together and talked about parts that we liked, and little things that we never noticed until the 2nd or 3rd or 8th time we had read the book. (I'm the slacker who has only read it twice.) I would mention a particular bit of dialogue or a vignette that I was especially fond of, and Evangeline would say, "Oh, that's probably on Tape 7. Here, I'll find it" and presto, she would find it.

We reached our destination just as Humbert Humbert killed Quilty.

I spent most of my time up there sitting on my ass watching other people cook. There was lots of fun chatter. There was not a full complement of cousins, but you never would have known from the amount of noise that they made.

The sibling/cousin summit did not include a real agenda. Mostly we all just talked all over each other. It was rather novel, though, because the 4 of us are rarely in one place at the same time, and never without my parents there as well. We all agreed that my mother's memory loss issues are getting much worse, and that my father is even more of a saint than we ever realized.

Sarah-of-the-Adirondacks and I walked into the woods to a place where sunlight filters through the trees in an especially subtle way, just a short way because I was tired, just enough to sit on a log and smell the woods and talk about, oh you know. Kids. Classrooms. (Sarah is a teacher, too.) My vagina. The usual stuff.

I was, honestly, too tired to drive back, having only had 4 hours of sleep the night before. Nonetheless, I did. I think I was anxiety-ridden about the idea of being stuck up there with no TV or internet and the possibility of another night of insomnia.  I did not let Evangeline drive, because she had also only had 4 hours of sleep (insomnia apparently being de rigueur around here), and I figured that I had more experience driving under difficult conditions.

We arrived home in one piece, just in time for me to fire off cranky emails to people and then collapse in bed. The good thing about only getting 4 hours of sleep the night before is that I slept like a baby for 10 hours straight.

This morning, everyone's dire warnings came true and I was bleeding like the proverbial stuck pig. I called the doctor and was instructed to, ah, rest. Put my feet up. Lie down, even. 

I have been as good as gold all day, but I am feeling very blue. I hate resting. It makes my head hurt.