Miz S

Like She Was Skin Surrounding Thunder.

Josh and his boyfriend, Earl.

You know that I disapprove of bloggers repeating cute conversations between themselves and their spouses, as if anyone else ACTUALLY CARES. And yet...here I go.

I just returned home from an evening out with two of my very best friends, MaryLynn and Kate. (Long background story there that I am too tired to go into right now. Trust me when I tell you that these are friends to go through life with.)

Anyway, I came home very tired (but happy!) and with a bam-bam-bam headache, to find Josh on the couch watching Independence Day. It was right at the part where Will Smith marries his stripper girlfriend in the little chapel just in case he gets killed fighting the aliens.

And I said, "Oh! This part always makes me cry!"

And Josh said, "Oh! This part always bores the shit out of me," and grabbed the remote so he could fast-forward right through it.

This struck me as really funny.

Guess you had to be there, huh?

And THAT'S why bloggers shouldn't include those little exchanges in their posts.

I am going to bed now, but I wanted to get a little something up here on the main page because I'm not entirely comfortable with having a big ol' photo of myself there.  (Low self esteem brought about by improper toilet training, I suppose. My life is a rich tapestry.)

Topics that may or may not be discussed in the near future:

• The smart things my therapist said to me yesterday. She is almost as sharp as Jane.
• Going off Cymbalta: Big Mistake or Bad Idea?
• Antoni, small brother of Alexander. The two of them are among my top 10 favorite students of all time. Antoni and I have a standing date every Thursday at lunchtime, and I want to tell you all about him.
• This new song I discovered by accident that I am completely obsessed with and that I listened to 14 times today. (She Tried To Hold Me - The Waterboys)
• Some other shit that I can't think of right now.
• You know, you guys could give me some topics so I don't have to work so hard. Are there any burning questions that you have? Or things you want to know about? Hmmm?

Rosie Loves Me.

When I left work on Friday it was raining in sheets, which I am not complaining about because we need water here. Until this week, it hadn't rained in 30 days or something crazy like that. 

I drove out to the nursing home to see Amanda, because, as you know, I am saintly.  There is no good news there--except that she has learned to talk with a speaking valve attached to her tracheotomy tube, which makes it much easier to converse with her.

She seems to be resigned to the fact that she will turn 50 in a nursing home, wearing diapers, being handled roughly by ill-tempered island women.  Her own little personal hell. Her mom has tried to decorate up the room a little bit, so Amanda's personal hell now includes a little jack-o-lantern, a pair of Halloween socks taped to the door, a ceramic dolphin that rocks back and forth on some kind of balanced arrangement of metallic parts, a large photograph of an egret taken by Amanda's aunt in Florida, and some cards attached to the wall with first-aid bandaging tape. It's kind of random.

Oh, and pictures of me, my dogs, and my kids that I brought to her room several visits ago. Which, I have to tell you, I wasn't sure if I should bring or not.  It felt a little bit like,  "Look, Amanda! Look at my beautiful daughters and my happy life! Here, I'll just put these up on the wall so you can stare at them. Hey! How's your son adjusting to that group home? And, by the way, is your son's dad out of prison yet?  Okay, gotta go now!"

Anyways. I left the pictures there despite my misgivings because, if nothing else, the various caregivers who come in and out of the room can ask her about them, and she can tell them what a great life her friend Miz S has.

So, let's see, that was Friday.

Saturday was all cleaning up and laundry and a new dishwasher being delivered. The old one began pouring water out the bottom and straight through the floor to the basement below. That kind of sucked. Josh installed the dishwasher himself because he refused to pay $150 to have a professional do it. He looked it up on About dot com and it seemed really easy, so he did it, by golly.

So far, there have been no repercussions.

Sunday has been crazy busy and has involved lots and lots of family. Aunts, uncles, in-laws, parents, nieces and nephews. Lunch at my parents' house, dinner at Josh's parents' house. A birthday cake with little candles that looked like baseballs for my father-in-law, who was practically a huge baseball star back in the day. April and Rosie spent the entire day with us, riding around in the car, doing errands, and visiting. They are both exhausted tonight, as are we.

We wrapped the evening up with The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, which if you haven't seen it, put it on your damn Netflix queue. You will thank me, I promise.

I miss my daughters.

Oh...shit...is tomorrow MONDAY? You know how much I hate Monday.

No. Sorry, I'm Not Going To Do That. Stop.

My day was strangely satisfying. "Strangely" because there was plenty to complain about. "Satisfying" because I felt happy despite the impossible nature of the tasks at hand.

I spent some quality time with my friend E at work. By this I mean that I went into her room when her students were at P.E. and my students were at Music,  and I wouldn't leave, but she didn't really try all that hard to kick me out so I say she got what she deserved.  And she complained to me about the lazy team member who didn't cut the poetry booklets in half, and the lazy team member turned out to be me so that was funny, watching her squirm and try to backtrack.

I LOVE HER.

In a totally healthy and platonic way.

At dismissal, we were all outside with our students, handing them off to parents and babysitters, when a police car came zipping into the school parking lot. The police officer got out and ran, zigzagging a little to avoid the children underfoot, and disappeared over the crest of a gentle hill that hugs our school's front yard. I don't know what happened after that, but it was all very exciting.

Later I told E that I got a picture of the cop running and that maybe I would put it on my blog. E immediately started mocking me, "Oh, look, I'm Miz S! I work in a dangerous neighborhood! I don't know how much more I can take! Thank God there is a Starbucks around the corner!"

You can see why I love her so much, because that's comedy right there.

Let's talk about something else now. Actually, we're still going to talk about ME, but in a different context.

Jane emailed me the other day to tell me to stop being such a pussy and learn to be assertive, dammit!

I was going to email her back and tell her to mind her own damned business, but I was afraid she would fly from Kansas to Maryland and find me and hurt me. Ha! Lame joke! And yet I amuse myself.

Now, it's definitely true that I have a problem with not understanding when to be assertive and not really knowing how to go about it. I don't speak up when I should, and then I simmer with resentment. I wonder if this is learned behavior or somehow innate?  My mother is the kind of person who is so assertive that she crosses the line over into personality disorder territory. Not so much anymore, but back in the day she was out of control.  I equate "speaking up for myself"  with conflict, and CONFLICT IS BAD, I TELLS YA!

Occasionally, I am assertive in the proper context with good results, and I can testify that it is a fine feeling, my friends. So, since I am all about the self-improvement, and because I want to please my bossy friend Jane, I am going to work on being more assertive.

I must run now, because I have made myself all kinds of late by sitting around and ruminating about my lack of assertiveness.

Leave me comments, all you damned lurkers. Is that "assertive" or just "needy?"  (Seriously? The question mark goes inside the quotation marks there?)

My Mother-In-Law Reads My Blog.

If only I could have followed up my flurry of weekend posts with something clever on Monday or Tuesday. This would have increased my readership into a vast army of fans who would then have catapulted me into Internet stardom.

Seriously, I never got that many comments before. Not even when Evangeline was hospitalized with THE DIABETES. Hmmph. And so what if fully one-fourth of those comments were jokes about my ass? And then another several comments were Wende trying to figure out where comments 26 through 35 were hiding? (Behind the minuscule red arrow at the bottom of the page THAT'S STUPID, TYPEPAD.)

They still count as comments. I am gratified.

As far as poor Aunt Crazy goes, my family is going to have to bite the bullet and have her declared incompetent and throw her ass into a nursing home. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

In other news, I am ashamed to say that I may have offended my mother-in-law, whom I adore. She is a big fan of the email forwards. I hate email forwards with an irrational passion. Oh, God. The constant recycling of stupid crap. THEY ARE NEVER, EVER FUNNY OR TRUE. (Although, if there are some cute pictures of dogs I don't mind them so much.) My mother-in-law sent me a forward that she thought I would appreciate because it was a long joke about how modern kids are so stupid and teachers have dumbed everything down to the stupid kids and our schools have been taken over by immigrants. At least, that was my take on it.

And then? She sent it to me again. By mistake. Which prompted me to reply, tersely, that I had already received it the first time and it STILL ISN'T FUNNY.  She replied, frostily,  that she didn't realize she had sent it already. Josh asked me why I insist on tormenting his mother. I don't know the answer to that question, but I really hope I am still allowed to go to the beach with them next summer.

You are probably wondering why I don't just automatically delete the forwards without even opening them. Usually I do. But sometimes I am lonely and my heart leaps in gladness that someone emailed me and I think that maybe, just maybe, there is a real message to me at the top of the forward.

Work is beckoning to me, so I must run. But not without wishing a happy birthday to Vicki, whom I also adore.

Blame The Victim.

I am sitting in the Starbucks that I have come to think of as my Starbucks. Y'all just can't imagine the big deal that this is. Starbucks has only recently arrived in Niagara Falls (one of the most godforsaken little towns in which I have had the misfortune to spend time--lots of time--over the years). All of those visits involved very weak coffee from obscure convenience stores and shabby diners, which always made me feel martyred.

I think that we can thank the Great Seneca Indian Nation for this big step forward in the realm of Niagara Falls coffee options. You see, they got permission to build a fancy-ass casino in downtown Niagara Falls. Across the street from the casino is a very nice hotel (another first for the town that God hast forsaken) and the Starbucks is in the hotel lobby.   

Last night I spent a leisurely evening in here, sipping lattes, composing a post, and reading a volume of Kipling poetry. It was delightful. Then, I wondered whether I would be able to sleep, so I moved a few hundred feet from the Starbucks to the bar. (Life being, you know, a constant quest to balance moderate amounts of caffeine with moderate amounts of alcohol.)

I'm a grown-up woman. I can go into a bar, order a beer, and sit there quietly reading blogs without being bothered, right?

Wrong.

"So. Where are you from?"

"Dude. I'm sitting here sipping a beer and reading blogs. Do I look like I am trying to meet someone?"

Of course, that's not what I said, because I am ridiculously polite 98% of the time.

I answered in the conventional manner, and politely inquired as to his city of origin. (Buffalo.)

I then went back to reading blogs.

"So. What do you do for a living?"

"I teach first grade."  And, inwardly cursing my apparent inability to be curt, "What do you do?" 

"I'm a firefighter. Hey, you look like a teacher."

(Dude. That was low.)

I turned back to my computer screen and tried to look preoccupied.

"So. Um. Do you like computers?"

Sigh.

"Yes."

"So. Are you a Christian?"

WHAT THE FUCK?

"That's a really odd question to ask someone, don't you think?" (Finally with a hint of backbone in my tone.)

"Well, I just thought, because, you know, you're a teacher, and you work with little kids and you must have a lot of love for them."

"OH. I SEE. Well, it's true that my Jewish, Muslim, and atheist colleagues are depraved individuals who regularly debauch their young charges, so I can see where you would assume that I am Christian."

Sadly, that's not what I said. I said something neutral like, "I work with lots of different people, and they all seem very dedicated and loving with children, no matter whether they are Christian or not, and that's only one of the reasons why it seems like an odd question to me."

This didn't squelch him at all. He went on to tell me about his divorce, his two sons (ages 17 and 11) and his invention, a new kind of garbage bag dispenser. I am not lying about this.

He even put his hand on my arm once or twice.

Let me just mention that this guy was, actually, extremely good-looking and appeared to be in his mid-thirties. I was at first a little baffled as to why he struck up a conversation with me and PLEASE, I am not fishing for compliments here. I am a 49-year-old woman who looks tired at the end of her long day.

But when I realized that he was a little odd I understood completely. Yup. I still got it. "It" being the ability to attract odd, lonely, voluble weirdos in all sorts of places. This was ALWAYS the kind of guy who wanted to talk to me when I was young and slim and had kick-ass long blond hair. And look. These guys STILL want to talk to me. And I STILL can't seem to be blunt with them.

Jerks.

Josh thinks that this is because I have, somehow, a sympathetic and interested air about me. Apparently I'm wearing a miniskirt and a low-cut blouse, metaphorically speaking.

I fumed to Josh on the phone that I am such a jerk for not being able to be curt with this guy, for being worried that I would hurt his feelings if I just got up and moved. Josh said that he thinks that is really hard to do in real life--be intentionally rude to someone who is annoying you but doesn't really mean to annoy you, just doesn't get any of the social cues. He thinks it is hard to be rude to pathetic people and that most of us have that nicey-nice problem.

I'm curious. What would you have done under similar circumstances?  Don't tell me what I should have done, because I can figure that out for myself. Tell me if you think you would voice your annoyance bluntly. Be honest.

Oh, my Aunt Crazy stint is up, by the way. I spent most of today with her, and I fly back home early Sunday morning. There have been no more "incidents."
 

Oh This Is Good.

Oh sweet Jesus. Where to begin? Fine. I'll just do a list. That way I don't have to worry about awkward transitions.

1. Work-related angst. I know it must seem as if I am really just...wow, really unstable when I am see-sawing between despondency and elation about my job. BUT. Teachers usually get what I am talking about. Teachers generally just nod and say, "Yeah."  Politicians are idiots and administrators are tools, and teachers are pushed to do stupid things that are not good for children. It makes me bitter.  And yet teaching is still incredibly rewarding at times. I will admit that part of my despondency springs from my issues with perfectionism, and my horror of maybe not being good enough. No need to reassure me that I am wonderful. I have an appointment with my therapist next week.

2. Drugs. Did I give you guys the impression that I just willy-nilly decided to stop taking the medication that is all that stands between me and a descent into total madness? Honestly, it's just not that dramatic. I have been taking an SNRI for the past 4 years because I am just a teensy-weensy bit on the anxious side. I am perfectly willing to take it forever, but I decided that it was time to take a break from it and see if things are the same or different. My doctor agreed with me, and my dosage was titered down carefully. I only took my last pill a few nights ago. Let's wait a few weeks before we make any decisions about whether or not I should go back on it AS IF I WOULD TAKE ADVICE FROM YOU GUYS HMMPH.

3. My morning. Today was my travel day to Niagara Falls to see Aunt Crazy. So, I slept in SUPER LATE (5:45am), then got up to enjoy a leisurely breakfast with my friends who live inside my laptop. Woah! The internet is down! It sucks to be me! So, fine. I'll just turn on the TV and catch up on the news. Shit! The cable is out! Alright, well, all is not lost. I'll listen to NPR. FUCKING-A, THEY ARE HAVING A FUND DRIVE! WHEN WILL THIS NIGHTMARE END??

4. My evening. Remember how I said that Aunt Crazy had a potty chair in the living room? Next to the couch that she stays on 24 hours a day? Well, haha, funny story. Turns out she can't stand up to move to the potty chair anymore, so she wears diapers. Well, not diapers, exactly. More like big-girl-pull-ups (or "dignity pants" as my brother Tom calls them). But wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. Before the evening, there was the afternoon. I navigated the highway and the parking lots and the shuttle and the airport with a minimum of cussing. I arrived in Buffalo. I rented a car and drove to Aunt Crazy's house. She was confused when I arrived and thought it was 5:30am. She asked for Marcy (the housekeeping lady who comes to her house 3 times a day to feed her and wash her and, apparently, change her undies). She shifted uncomfortably on the couch. She allowed as how she needed her pants changed.

"I'll help you, Aunt Crazy," I said cheerfully.

Well, what the fuck was I supposed to say?

She then proceeded to strip off her shirt. Which didn't really get us any closer to solving the problem of her dirty pants but did give me to understand that anything goes in this crazy town. In the end, she got her old, crazy self BUCK NAKED and I, ah, I helped her with the task at hand.

Yeah. We're not talking about a wet diaper here.

Afterwards, I searched the dresser drawers for clean pj bottoms. I kept bringing what I thought were suitable pants out to show her, and she would say, "No! Those are too big!"  Which, wtf? She craps her pants but she won't wear clean pants that are a little long?

I finally wrestled her into a pair of clean jammies. Then? She had me search the kitchen for liquor. When no liquor could be found, she sent me out to the store to buy her some sherry. So I did what any sane person would do. I drove to my hotel, checked in, took a shower with the hottest water available, found a Starbucks, and logged onto the Internet. Tomorrow, if she remembers, I will just tell her that I got lost.

You Gotta Play To Win.

Thanks for putting up with my job complaints yet again. I'm fine, really. I think that if I get to work early today and clean off my desk and plan my reading groups and figure out how to fit some science in and meet with the Reading Recovery teacher to express my concern about Erick's schedule and reorganize the writing binders and prepare for the afternoon math lesson because I will be in a meeting during lunch, then I think I will feel better. As long as I can get all that done before 8:40am.

Oh fuck it, this job is impossible and I need to just accept it and stop complaining or MOVE ON.

I have to wonder how much of this is related to the fact that I just recently stopped taking Cymbalta. I have taken either Effexor or Cymbalta for the past 4 years to deal with an anxiety disorder and mild depression. I decided to stop because I AM SO CALM AND SERENE THAT I CLEARLY HAVE NO NEED FOR MEDICATION. (Sorry. I can't give up the all-caps device to express irony in my writing. IT'S JUST NOT POSSIBLE.)

Although, I have expressed plenty of work-related angst during that same time period so maybe there is no connection.

This is boring, right?

FINE. I'LL GO GET READY FOR WORK NOW, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS. Maybe something exciting will happen at work today, like a Code Red Situation with a crazy parent where I save the day by kicking someone's ass which would TOTALLY make me love my job again. (Ha! My fantasy life is rich.) We did have some pot-smoking adults hanging out by our schoolyard fence the other day so the kids had to stay on the blacktop for recess and our principal called the police. That was a little bit fun.

I'm wearing jeans and sneakers today AND THE PRINCIPAL CAN KISS MY MEDIUM-SIZED WHITE ASS.

What Color Is My Parachute, Goddammit?

We went down to Sasha's college on Saturday for Parents' Weekend. It was--oh God--an achingly beautiful day. And Sasha and her roommates were just lovely.

The only fly in the ointment was the photographic evidence, collected by Josh THANKS HONEY, that I look angry, jowly, and thick-waisted.

Do you know that Sasha will graduate from college in 8 months? I realized this just the other day and it brought me up short. What does one DO with a college graduate? I mean, besides nag her about finding a job with excellent health insurance. I suppose I will look back nostalgically on her high school years. Remember when she used to sneak beers behind our back? Remember the time she got pulled over for tailgating the unmarked police car? She was so cute!

I am excited about upcoming plans to visit Evangeline at her small pretentious college in the Midwest. We are flying out in November, and Sasha is coming with us. Evangeline is the assistant director of a musical (Into The Woods, some of you probably know it), and we are going out to see both performances. It will be a family bonding experience! Woo!

Oh, and guess what ELSE? I'm flying to Niagara Falls this weekend to visit Aunt Crazy! OH BOY! THIS IS SO GREAT! Ain't nothing like spending time in a small dark house with a potty chair in the living room.

I have tons of other stuff to tell you, but, meh. The whole work angst thing. Yes, it's back, bigger and better than ever. I still love my students, I still love the people I work with. I just believe that my time in the classroom is up, which is not a good realization in OCTOBER. You know, if I were in just a teeny little car accident where I sustained a moderate injury that required traction... Do not yell at me for wishing horrible things upon myself. Ignore the dramatic statements. Pat my hand and remind me that I am a mercurial creature, even if you are muttering to yourself that I should quit complaining, dammit, and DO SOMETHING TO CHANGE THINGS.

The problem is, I don't know what to do.  Maybe one of you could call my principal and say you're my mom and that I have a dentist appointment for the next 8 months? Oh don't worry, I am prone to dramatic statements but seldom to dramatic actions. I will continue to plod along and do the best I can.

We Be Of One Blood, Ye And I.

It's FUH-RIDAY! THANK THE LORD!

Never have I needed the weekend more desperately. Actually, that's how I feel every damn Friday. This working shit gets old so fast.

Sadly, I realized this morning that the weekend has become totally over-scheduled and SOMETHING HAS GOT TO GO.  I need my down time.  Tomorrow we are driving down to Sasha's college because it is Parents' Weekend and we want to take her and some of her buddies out for lunch. Saturday night I am going to a rooftop party with a bunch of crazy 20- and 30-somethings (former and current co-workers) where there will be lots of booze AND some cute lesbians. And on Sunday, Josh and I are supposed to go visit his cousin, with whom we feel awkward, and his cousin's wife, whom we adore, and their 2 little kids. 

The obvious thing to jettison is the visit with the cousin, but I really want to see the wife, so, I guess I'll just do it and then complain later about the fact that the weekend was too biiiiiiiiiz-eeeee.

The weather changed here yesterday, and it finally feels like autumn. I felt frisky and oddly unsettled when I drove to school in the morning, and really really really wanted to go the wrong way on 495 and head for freedom and the mountains. It was with a sigh of resignation that I chose the correct exit and went to work. Stupid highly ingrained streak of responsibility.

We had a field trip yesterday which, oh God, I hate/love field trips. They are strangely exhausting for everyone, but it's fun to see the kids in a different setting. We went to a children's theater to see a really fabulous production of The Jungle Book. It was free for our school because, you know, we are POVERTY STRICKEN and UNDER-PRIVILEGED, you UNCARING BASTARDS. I sat next to little Erick, a kid that I never, ever get to spend any time with because he leaves the classroom for ESOL, Reading Recovery, and speech therapy, and I fell head over heels in love with him. He asked me questions, quietly, in his funny little speech-delayed way, during the entire show. They were good questions, too, and he was so fucking cute and sweet that it was all I could do not to put him on my lap and squeeze him and bury my face between his shoulder blades.

After work I put in an appearance at a bridal-shower thing-y for a co-worker, then went home and rode my bike in the gathering gloom.

All in all, a good day, now that I reflect upon it.

Again With The Old People Theme.

One time I was driving my kids home from school when I heard Sasha, way in the back of the mini-van, say a quiet little "aw" with a genuinely sympathetic tone in her voice.

"What?" I said eagerly. "What?"

I was excited because she was 13 or 14 at the time and had entered a dark and uncommunicative period, punctuated by rude behavior and angry outbursts. Hearing this quiet and sympathetic murmur from the back seat made my heart leap in gladness. She has a heart! Her teenage phase is over! Wow, that was quick!

I turned out to be wrong about the teenage phase being over. But she was aw-ing because we had just passed an old man who was fumbling with a hammer and nails, putting up a Lost Cat notice on the telephone pole. An old man looking for a lost pet. It really was sort of pathetic and sad.

I was reminded of this yesterday when I came home from work and listened to a message from my mother that the sick cat had been put to sleep at the vet's that morning. Old people putting their cat to sleep. An old lady whispering to her cat, who still purrs, while the vet administers the injection. How fucking sad is that?

My parents are bereft. He was an unsatisfactory pet in many ways, as my sister Julie pointed out to me, but they adored him. His memory will live on because whenever we walk in the house we will smell the faint odor of cat piss. He expressed himself by spraying liberally, mostly on my father's side of the bed, but also on the couch in the living room.

It's not as if he ruined their house or anything, because a parade of previous pets had also all left their various scents and stains. My mother really goes for bad animals that no one else will have.

My father and my nephew dug a grave in the backyard. It was not an easy task because the drought has baked that Maryland clay into one gigantic brick. They were not able to dig very deep, so they put rocks on top of the grave to discourage any marauding animals. Let's all hope that there is not a macabre postscript to this story.

I picked up some Thai food and went over to visit them. (I am the Good Daughter! IN YOUR FACE, SIBLINGS!) We reminisced about the many, many other pets that are also buried in the backyard.

I was glad that I went over.

Off to work now. I had to use my mean teacher voice yesterday because DAMN this is a chatty bunch of kids who WILL not shut up. Oh, and little Estafania stole some shit yesterday and was cheerfully unrepentant, although she did seem sorry that she got caught.

More news as it develops.