hi, internet. (are we still friends?)

Oh hai Internet. It's me, Amy. How have YOU been? I've been...okay. Hey, remember that last time I was here and I went off the handle (in genuinely real, sheer terror I will add in my defense) and said I was done blogging for awhile? And then I came back and deleted the blog post I wrote in response to it? And then I re-posted it because I decided it mattered enough? And then I deleted again because the problem kinda/sorta was resolved? And just now I re-posted it because whatever. It was where I was at at the time, and sometimes I like to review this blog to see where I was at at certain times. 

Yeah about that...I am no longer in sheer terror. What I am right now is hypervigilant, but no longer terrified. Things were straightened out (mostly), and I am moving forward. ONWARD. I have to write; if I'm not writing...SOMETHING...I am not okay. I am just not. I am not. And this blog helps me get a lot of my ick and strangeness out. 

I saw a great idea in my Facebook news feed I'm going to try here, just to give me something to talk about other than ick...at some point this week. Thirty Days of Writing. Don't even have to come up with the topic; they are already outlined for me. I'm going to try it. It may take me 60 or 90 days, depending on my free time issues, but I get to give my opinion 30 times (YAY!) and you get to read it, 30 times (or 300 times, if you want to come back and re-digest my incoherent rambles) (YAY AGAIN!). I bet you guys are very very excited and cannot WAIT for it.

I do love a good challenge. 

Yesterday, I got 2 Needs Developments on an 10 minute evaluation. My small group lesson was fine - I got 2 Proficients for that. But my darlings at centers were off task. And by off task, I don't just mean not really focusing. I mean: literally behaving like monkeys - throwing letter tiles at each other and playing, actually playing. As in not looking like they were hard at work. (Play? PLAY??? Who has time for THAT kinda learning nowadays, silly goose!) 

In their (and my) defense: we'd just finished the 2nd day (out of 5 days) of our 3rd standardized test in a row. So they were a little spunky coming down off the test stress high, and quite frankly I don't blame them. And I am too exhausted, after giving 3 standardized tests in a row, to really care to manage their pinging spunk right now. And plus also there might have been a full moon and NO Scientists I don't care if that's folklore or not. You come do what I do on a full moon day and try to tell me it's not real.

And all this data and negative feedback is making me feel like a really, really, really crappy teacher. Clearly, I have chosen the wrong profession. Ten years ago, I was in the right profession. Ten years later, I suck at it. No, no. I know you're protesting, and you're going to tell me I'm a great teacher...it's just the times. Well, the times are warranting data success, and children working busily at all times, and teachers keeping up with mounds of paperwork and data and deadlines and due dates and meetings and technology and materials and testing...and I suck at all of this. I like to read and write and tell stories. All that other crap? Pfffft.

So I'm going to give my opinion about this Needs Development thing, and I don't care whether I get fired or not for saying it out loud (Mom, clear some space in your basement, please): I don't mind getting Needs Development. When it's for something I need developing in. Because I'll just be honest and tell you that I simply don't understand how to do the Workshop Model of things. I get the overall concept; I don't understand how to manage it or what it looks like. I need someone to actually hold my hand and walk me through this. For one whole school year. Because this is what they want in Public Education nowadays: Workshopping. Everything. I understand how a Writer's Workshop works for adults; I do not understand how to make it work for little kids. I have asked for staff development on it; what I am told is to find an Instructional Coach and have them tell me, or someone from higher up comes in and, in a mere 45 minutes or so, attempts to throw at me an entire semester's worth of information. Meanwhile, I have 100,000 papers to grade or turn in to someone, and about 3,000 other things that are due. And 5 meetings to attend. And a bunch of data to enter somewhere. And my classroom's a mess.

In public education, we are taught to teach like this: I do, we do, you do. This is how most (normal) human beings learn - I do, we do, you do. In other words: I teach, then we practice it together, then I release and you have a go. Hands on practice. Sometimes your results are really bad, and so we go practice again. Other times, you fly. And the more you practice, the better you get. Teaching 101. 

I do not understand why or how people running schools these days don't get this concept and do it with the adults they are in charge of. I am in charge of children. They are in charge of me. And we are ALL learners. Life Classroom. How do they not understand how people, regardless of age, learn?? (Possibly because 90% have never actually taught. But that's just one theory I've got.)

I just want to be able to see what they want me to do in a real classroom setting. But with kids who come from backgrounds my kids come from. This is all I want. Hands on training. Can I get some hands on training? Teaching is a craft, and I need to learn from some masters who are actually in charge of real classrooms and real children, who are doing the craft of teaching every single day. This is all I want. I'm actually terrified to go to another school right now, because professionally I feel undeveloped and I don't know how the heck to develop myself without some support I feel safe asking for. 

But you know, whatever. It's cool. I'll take the Needs Development, and I'll revamp and find something that works for me - I always do. Plus, I'm going to have some help. Today I let my sweet loves know: Y'all got me a couple of Cs on my report card. They were bereft and sorry. And really impressed I prefer to get As and Bs (not all of them really care that much, and I don't blame them one bit...you don't HAVE to be an overachiever to be happy in life. In fact, most overachievers are utterly miserable). And so they promised me: the next time an adult walks in our room with a clipboard or a notebook, they are going to SNAP TO and look very very serious and busy. My little co-conspirators. I do love them so. 

Also, I told them if I get all As and Bs on my next evaluation, I'll bring them cupcakes.

This is what Life is all about, sweet Reader(s). Teamwork. Dodging The Man. Making amends. Being real. Having each other's back. (I've run out of cliches. If I think of more, I'll come back and add them.)

As a slightly related side note, today I got to have a pumpkin spice latte with two sweet, dear friends who get how crazy Life is, and I was reminded that what I REALLY need to do when I'm down and out is put on some Damien Rice music. My one friend observed that whenever I am sad, I seem to listen to Damien Rice. He's my sad jams. (I'm actually not listening to Damien Rice right now, though. I am listening to Ed Sheeran. Ed Sheeran must be my Fuck This Ridiculous Shit jams.)

See you in a couple of days (or so) with the first of 30 inane thoughts. (Possibly from my mom's basement.)

my many colored days (+1 crazy monkey tale).

My emotions are like a stinkin' roller coaster, y'all. Like Dr. Seuss' My Many Colored Days, only more effed up. I swear - one day totally awesome, the next day kinda bummed, then just sort of greyish, then fine and dandy, then easily annoyed, then worried I'm going to end up eating out of trash cans/sleeping on sidewalks, then complete and utter despair, followed by goddamnitsonofabitchareyoufuckingkiddingme??!!!??!!! and then full-on guilt complex, finishing up with a good dose of self-hatred and doubt, circling back to awesome.

What. The. Crap.

You know what else is pissing me off lately? Leadership. Listen: I am no leader. I am not a born leader, I have never had a wish to lead, I am not a control freak (unless it comes to the grey in my hair). Yet I read Colin Powell's book on leadership, and while Colin and I don't see eye to eye on much of anything politically, I do admire his stance on What Makes a Good Leader. (Which is why, I'm 110% certain, he resigned from the Bush Administration...some people simply aren't trainable.) (And I think you know who I'm referring to...not mentioning any names, but his rhymes with Forj Sub-o-you Tush and he had an untrainable sidekick that rhymed with Sick Pain-y.)

Here's what I think good leaders should do: 

1. Trust in your people. 

2. Trust in the process.

3a. Be a good listener.

3b. Don't have an ego.

4a. Don't micromanage.
4b. Treat your employees like the grown ups they are.

5. Encourage fun.

The end. It's as simple as that. Are you going to have lazy dickheads in your employ? Of course you are. Everybody has bad hires, every profession has dead weights. But the vast, VAST majority of your people are going to be doing their very very best for you. And you know how you know they want to do their very very best? They come through for you. Because they know you trust them. When they know you have their back. When they know you believe in them. Right now, I do what's required of me via my contract. The end. They've exhausted me, and I don't sense they trust me; and when I sense you don't trust me? Guess what? I don't trust you. Vicious. Circle.

I see it in my students. I get MUCH more work out of them when I just let them do it the way they want to. The work doesn't turn out necessarily the way I'd envisioned it, but my students actually have some pretty good ideas sometimes. I instituted a Caboose job because one of them noticed kids were fighting over who was going to get to close the door/turn off the lights when we left. Line Caboose job started, in-house fighting problem solved. Onward, little soldiers.

I don't understand this new way of thinking, this new way of seeing people as things to be micromanaged, pieces of data to be honed and pounded upon, molded and manipulated. I don't like how it feels, and it's making me angry and stressed out. The only thing I can think of for why it's happening is there appears to be a Noxious Culture of Pervasive Fear everywhere these days, and people think if they just make more rules and dictate more things, everything will be okay. If we just give teachers a script and tell them exactly what to say, how to say it, when to say it, and we make everything and everyone THE SAME (except then turn around and tell them to differentiate to meet everyone at their various different levels...except make sure it's THE SAME), then the data will be achieved. The children will magically overcome their home lives and genetic issues etc and so forth, and Nirvana will ensue. If we just combine 10 jobs into 1 then people will be more productive and we'll save money and make money and Nirvana will ensue.

Meanwhile, teachers and Corporate America friends I know are popping Xanax to get through a year. That doesn't sound like any kind of Nirvana I want to live in. And here I am dreading Mondays and hitting up monster.com now and then to see what else is out there for a 43 year old woman overly skilled in teaching verbs and nouns and adjectives. Preferably something that doesn't involved data, dickheads, or drudgery. Three Damned D's.

The irony being, of course, that usually the very thing you're trying to control and contain ends up controlling and containing YOU. You try to fix it, and you break it more in the process (here, I should put up a picture of the holes I drilled in my bedroom wall when the wall wouldn't cooperate with the curtain rod. I "fixed" it...i.e., put a band-aid on it. And now the whole frickin' thing is collapsing...meanwhile, I get to stare at all the big, gaping holes I gouged in a wall, every time going: jesus god, THAT'S gonna cost me when I move out). 

I'm not advocating mass anarchy; we need rules to keep the sociopaths in check. What I'm saying is: loosen up, trust your people, and watch some magic happen. Will there be dickwads who take advantage? Yes, of course. But those dickwads will eventually move on or you figure out who they are and make their lives a living hell until they're encouraged to move on. Everybody else? Ice Cream Mondays! Nap Time Tuesdays! Wear What You Want Wednesdays! so on and so forth. I have tons of these. I think Congress needs to start a Ministry of Fun Day Events Planning. I won't even need a staff. Just a comfy work chair and peace and quiet. And let people do what they're best at: their jobs. You do your job, I'll do mine, and let's call all this weirdness off. 

Just some thoughts I'm having on this exhausting but insomniac night.

But I want to end on a happy note, or at the very least an amusing story. Sort of as a reward to you for getting through all the crap I spewed above. There are happy things going on in the world, and so I'm going to end on a happy note plus one fun story:

Once, a long while ago, I was at a South African friend's apartment (sadly we were in Buckhead/Atlanta, NOT South Africa). She was from Johannesburg, and while she was dressing, I watched a news story about the baboons of Johannesburg. Apparently, they're all thugs. People have built up Johannesburg so much over the years, it's encroached upon Baboon Territory, and so they've all come down from the hills to walk the streets and mug the humans. Baboons are bullies. Bullies and gangsters and thugs. They'll walk right up to you, in broad daylight, and snatch your purse. Or open your car door and start rifling through your things, not even caring. Cops schmops! Go ahead and make a baboon's day. Very Planet of the Apes.

So I'm watching the baboon news story, laughing my ridiculous butt off, and I call to her, "Hey! This is hysterical! Baboons are robbing people in your hometown!" And she comes out of the bathroom, very very somber, and goes, "Oh no no, Amy. No. It's not funny. It's a very serious problem. I was once mugged by a baboon. He stole my sunglasses, some gum, and a very expensive pen from my purse. I was just thankful they're usually not interested in money. They can be very frightening. One time, my cousin had one open up her car door and go through all of the things in her glove compartment. Every time she moved, he growled at her. She was terrified. And they can't even arrest them. They bite."

Whenever I need a pick-me-up, sometimes I just close my eyes and try to envision what this looks like. I'm sure it is very frightening as you're experiencing it. I'm sure. And yet, honestly. HOW many people can go around and God's truth tell people: Once upon a time, I was mugged by a baboon. I mean, seriously. 

And in Japan? Maquaque monkeys use coins to buy snacks. I don't know where they get the coins from, but if they're mugging people in Tokyo to pay for the snacks, that is just going to make my whole damn year I'm not even kidding.

Go HERE for more Happy Facts.

wine whine.

We had an ice cream social at work today. I did not attend. Not feeling like ice cream. Not feeling like socializing. Because I've come to a firm conclusion: (a) I love these kids, (b) it is not in my make up to not give any job I do 110%...when I realize I can't give a job 110%, I back out (why I left writing for threeifbyspace.net), (c) but I don't have to give any effed up work PLACE (or system) one extra single bit of my time or soul. The. End.

Once, I took this professional development seminar about dialogue journaling. My daughter and I do this now - I'll write a note to her, she writes back to me, I respond to her response, she responds to mine, etc and so forth forever and infinity. You learn a lot about people this way, by exchanging written notes. Writing is kind of freeing like that. I think because...well, the other person can't interrupt. You get to say your WHOLE piece, all the stuff in your brain, and THEN they can respond. I don't know about you, but when I'm talking to someone, one of two things happen: they interrupt me to tell me their thought(s) while I'm still in the middle of giving mine, or (2) I get nervous I'm not making sense and I completely trail off and stop. 

Oh, wait! Before I get into my major wine whine, can I tell you a really powerful story about what writing can do? Two years ago, my hardest little gangsta girl completely exposed her raw and tender soul to another classmate via dialogue journaling. I read a whole exchange that went like this (fyi: I fixed the crazy 2nd grade spelling and grammar so you could decipher it):

Gangsta Girl: I don't believe in Santa Claus.

2nd Grade Girl: I believe in Santa Claus. Why don't you believe in Santa Claus?

GG: He ain't never leave me no presents.

2nd Grade Girl: Well, I will give you presents.

GG: Why?

2nd Grade Girl: Because I like you.

GG: I like you too.

2nd Grade Girl: I'm glad we're friends.

GG: You're my very best friend in the whole school, 2nd Grade Girl and I was just kidding I believe in Santa Claus too.

See? Writing heals. I'm pretty sure if someone would just dialogue journal with Putin and those crazy ayatollahs in Iran and Donald Trump and all the right wing political hacks on the whole entire planet plus all the fundamentalist religious crazies, the world simply wouldn't be as scary. Writing is power.

Oh, wait! Can I tell you one more story about how writing causes connection? The lady I was sitting next to in the dialogue journaling class, the person I had to dialogue journal with, shared via writing that her dad had just died. So I wrote back that my dad had died XX number of years ago; that I knew it's a hard thing to go through, saying good-bye to a mom or a dad no matter how old you are. 

And for about 10 minutes we just sat and wrote, telling our stories. I learned her dad had had Alzheimer's, and that she nursed him at home til the very end when she had to cry "Uncle!" and just take him to hospice. I learned she still felt tremendous guilt over the items her stressed out, frantic brain threw into the suitcase as she packed him up for hospice. And I learned that when she got to him there and was unpacking all of these crazy things, she sat down on the floor of his room and just cried. Because she realized: Oh. Oh. Why did I even bring any of this. He's not going to come home. 

On the break, I talked to her about it. She sat and sobbed; it was that fresh. And I sat and sobbed with her; it was that sad. I just patted her back, and expressed empathy. Losing people who were sources of strength and wisdom to horribly debilitating things is quite possibly one of the hardest roads to walk as a human being. Simply because you have no power to fix it, and it's not your fight to fight. 

At any rate, at some point between the sobbing and the consoling, I let her know my husband and I were really struggling (this was just the beginning of the beginning of the end, when we were at the start line and realizing: this ain't workin', somethin' done got broke). She told me she had also divorced several years ago, and asked if I thought my job had anything to do with it.

Funnily enough, about a week prior to this class, C and I did have a (slightly heated in which I was incredibly over-defensive because I was so stressed out, even then) discussion about the stresses of my job, and how I bring them home. Teaching is a hard job to leave behind you. You can't necessarily just shut the door and pretend there's not a mountain of paperwork you need to see to still, or that parent-teacher conference prep time looms, or that that one ass crazy parent is continuing to make your life hellacious, or that one kid is just...I mean, jesus god. What the freaking hell is WRONG with that one kid?? And I know y'all already know how I feel about those jacked up data worshipers. 

She told me there's research out there that says teachers have about a 12-15% divorce rate, which is fairly high-ish. Not the highest, but high-ish. It's the paperwork demands, the stresses of the job, the longer-than-expected work hours, and the fact that teachers - particularly elementary level teachers, in which there's a ginormous percentage of women, because little kids I guess - spend a large portion of their year, their time, and their lives devoted to other people's children while their own only get what's left of them at the end of the day. And these days, that's not a whole hella lot, I gotta say. Didn't make me feel better, but it sort of explained a tiny fraction of why I was where I was. I will say to you right now that teaching/public education is responsible for...what's smaller than 1/4? 1/3? .05/100% ? something like that...of why my marriage ended. (FYI: I don't care if that last fraction freaked you out. I am not opposed to combining Mathematical concepts, just as I remain unopposed to combining races and religions, cultures and curious juxtapositions of punctuation; I feel it adds spice to an otherwise dull existence.)

Okay. That's the end of my Writing-Is-Powerful-Connecting stories. Back to real life:

So I've been very stressed out and angry about work, I don't know if you can tell or not. I've gotten one source of stress off my plate (sad, not-working marriage) kinda sorta, but now I've got this...this...gloppy gloop of 5 week old refried beans sitting cold, smack dab in the middle of the plate still. Fermenting. Mocking me. I've been spending quite a bit of time sorting through my life, trying to figure out what exactly landed me where I'm at, and that dialogue journaling seminar memory just went and raced itself through my brain the other day, and made me remember: oh right! Public education causes 12-15% of all divorces amongst teachers! Stupid teaching. 

Then today we had an ice cream social and I'd had a long day so I didn't feel like ice cream, or giving the stupid Sunshine Team $25, or being very social. I don't feel real sunshine-y there these days, so if someone in my family gets sick or whatever they can just take their flowers and shove them where the sun don't shine. Sunshine = pfffft. 

And also I've been examining and weighing my options. If someone at my school started a dialogue journal for the staff, it wouldn't be pretty. I mean, my dialogue part would take up fucking PAGES. Get a drink, get comfy. Like, I'd finally write that damn novel. But it would be in a composition notebook with a lot of swears and "And another thing!" and "And you don't even GET it!" and "Do you even KNOW what's going on???" and "Are you people for REAL?!?!?!" 

Pages of that. Like Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, only less concise but with better character development.

I think, at this point, where I'm at is: (1) try a different school [good], (2) try a different school district [better], (3) try a different career [best]. The problem with #3 is: what career? First off, which major Fortune 500 or 250 company or even tiny Mom-and-Pop quick mart needs a woman with a Bachelor's of Science in Elementary Education (minor in Spanish, with a concentration in Junior High Social Studies, GPA 3.5...brought that low because of the unfortunate decision to take Astronomy as a Science elective because I thought it was going to be like Pisces vs Scorpio vs Aquarius and stuff but no, turned out it was basically ASTROPHYSICS wtf) and a Master's in Early Childhood Education (GPA: 4.0, and several high fives from the professors who judged my capstone research paper and presentation). I know how to teach vocabulary skills, reading comprehension, language arts concepts, and I can fake my way through little kid math fairly well until we get to confusing word problems, and then some of my higher people are teaching me. I don't know. Would Corporate Trainer work? I bet most Corporate Trainers just fake it til they make it. Which I will have you know right now: I excel at. 

Second, Corporate America feels and sounds just as soul sucking. Doesn't it? I mean, helloooo: Donald Trump. 

Third, I have a kid, bills, and debt; so I can't just sell all my shit and start backpacking it around the world, living in hostels. And I don't suppose living in hostels WITH my kid around the world would be healthy for her.

But I can tell I'm at a crossroads because I simply can't stay somewhere that's draining me like this. Plus the situation is making me terrified of my bosses and I don't want to be terrified of my bosses; my bosses are pretty nice people, I like them all immensely. But I'm terrified of them coming into my classroom now to rate me (no, seriously, Internet: I am utterly terrified of my bosses coming into my classroom; I'm terrified I'll be having a bad day, or I won't have something they want to see filled in on my lesson plans, or 3 kids won't be engaged that day, or something on their checklist won't be present and I'll get marked down...I don't mind getting Needs Improvement, even though I kinda feel it's insulting to do to a veteran teacher with 20 years' experience...but I worry they're looking for ways to unload veteran teachers for younger, cheaper labor). 

I'm working at my very, very hardest, I'm giving them my very, very best...and yet I feel like I keep getting told unless it looks precisely like how this person does it (and, uh, can you wear cute cardigans like she does, too? We really actually love the Stepford Wife model), or maybe you can do it exactly like this research says to, and by the way: unless it produces these kinds of results...you suck no matter how hard you work. I'm starting to feel like, that even if I followed a script, they'd still have beef with me...and I'D BE READING THEIR WORDS.

sigh. I'm sorry, Internet. Really, I just came here to whine. It's kinda late, I'm drinking wine, and I'm whining. I hope you weren't busy or anything. 

I'm going to get off here now and get on Craigslist. See if there are any job openings for Town Crier that pay at least $55,000 a year + decent bennies. (oooh! You know what would be really fun?! That job where those guys stand on the corner dressed as a Chic-Fil-A cow or the Android Smartphone droid. I wonder how much THAT pays, and if there are free sandwiches and/or phones involved.)

storytelling vs data: ultimate showdown.

Hi, Internet. How was your week? Mine was crap. (But you're getting used to hearing this, yes?) 

We had some depressing meetings this week. Okay, just one. One really depressing meeting. Can I be very honest with you? If I tell you what's going on, will you promise not to send this blog to anyone who can fire me for writing this out loud? Or maybe stick me with the scary-as-shit 5th graders next year? 

What we're doing in public education is very, very misguided. Well-intentioned. But misguided.

Listen: I want everybody to read. I want a society that's 100% literate, so we can all have safe drivers and not unknowingly sign things that say we robbed a bank or whatever. I mean, I LOVE to read. Reading, for me as a child, was a means of escape. Reading is AWESOME.

And I get it: we all want to cream the shit out of China, show the world who's REALLY top dog. In case our nuclear arsenal isn't enough. 

But listen: reading should be FUN. Learning to read is a process, and you learn to do it by DOING it. The more you do it, the better you get at it. But it should not be for instructional purposes only. Books should be MAGIC. Stories are what makes us understand the world and each other. Stories stretch us, open us up. I read an article the other night about how children who don't read enough fiction become adults who aren't able to empathize with other humans very well. Which is why I am so very alarmed right now as a teacher, a writer, a reader, and a mother about what's going on in public schools right now (thanks, Common Core). This obsession with non-fiction, practical text is going to be the undoing of Humanity, mark my words. Right after Social Media disables us, Non-Fiction text will come in and finish the job.

I'm not saying NO SCIENCE. Science matters; I LOVE Science. I really believe Science is going to help save human beings from ourselves, or at the very least from cancer or heart disease. But magic and mystery matter, too. Data does not a life make. When you die, I assure you: you will not care what you scored on a test in 10th grade, or what reading level you were at in 2nd grade. When you die, you will think of your stories, of who you loved most, of who you fought with, of times you were awed by the world's beauty, of times you were horrified by its terror. When my dad died, I didn't give a flying rat's ass about what his manufacturing plant's production numbers were, and neither did he. I sat next to his still body, thinking about the last time I'd hugged him and all the circumstances surrounding that, and why there hadn't been more hugs, and how there never would be forever after. 

And we're losing sight of that, in our race to show China whose dick, I mean brain, is biggest.

So really, when I write these angst-y about work blogs, what I'm actually worried about is where we're going as human beings. I'm depressed over what's happening in my school. But I'm also very very concerned, Reader(s). Human beings are not just data; we are complex organisms of intricately intertwined experiences. All human beings, no matter how young or old, have strengths. We all have weaknesses. Some people are very Math-y. Some people are more Word-y. Some people are Art-y. Some people are more wrestle-y. Some are good at driving trucks. Or at being silent ninjas. Or assembling furniture from boxes. Everybody (EVERYBODY) has a talent. And sometimes talents aren't discovered until later on in life. And sometimes you have talent in 2-3 areas.

What I'm also saying is: not every talent requires college. And not everybody is a scholar. Not everybody's going to college, or is even meant to. I think everyone should have the OPPORTUNITY to go to college...if they want to. But I'm also saying it's wrong of us to lay the blame at the feet of teachers if a person and/or their family doesn't value education enough to want to go higher; that's a societal ill, not an educational one. And there should be absolutely no shame in deciding it's not for you; that cleaning out gunk in sewers is more your thing. We've got sewers; we all use them. None of us want to wade through layers of steaming feces in the streets; somebody's got to clean up the shit.

I disagree with people who tell me I'm being arrogant and elitist when I say that. And I disagree because, theoretically, I too want EVERYBODY to be a nuclear physicist and solve global warming and fix the Middle East and discover the cure for cancer. I want that. Don't you? But I also like to stay grounded in reality, and I like to recognize the quiet strengths that come out of people. I have a little boy this year who likes to make sounds. He's driving me nuts. Oh my god, Internet, absolutely effing nuts. But he also cracks me up. Because I see the future comedian that is blooming in him, if public education doesn't test and squish it out of him. I see his Happy, and how good he's going to be. If data divers don't make him feel like just another number. If test obsessives don't destroy his love for storytelling.

This is what I do every day - I go into my classroom and I read and I laugh and I tell stories and I sing and I talk with children. I let them know they aren't just another number. Today we had a soft lockdown...and that made some of the children think a bad man was in our building. And some of the children remembered their parents talking about Sandy Hook, what happened there. And so we had to stop a Language Arts lesson and sit and talk: first, soft lockdowns are no big deal; we just stay inside until they say we can go outside again...and second, what would happen if it was a hard lockdown, meaning a bad person came into OUR school? And I let them know: I love you SO much, I would do every single thing I could think of to keep you safe. The bad person would have to come through ME to get to you. You are THAT important to me. I've only known you for four weeks, and I already love you THAT much. 

And my little comedian man? You know what he thought about? My daughter, Miss M. He asked, "But wouldn't your daughter be sad if you got dead?" And then we had to have a talk about THAT. About how, yes, she would be and it would be very very hard for her, just like it would be for me, if something terrible happened to her. And then we talked about how sometimes terrible things do happen, and nobody really understands why, but we can still be okay because we all have invisible strength inside of us that helps us keep going. We just have to know it's there, even if we can't see it.

So. One more day of not teaching Complete Sentences really well so they can pass that part of the tests. Will that matter to them? I don't know. It's more important to me that they don't just know they're loved, they FEEL it. And sometimes, knowing and feeling you're loved is so much more important than increasing your data and passing some tests. And telling our stories, which is really just sharing our fears and our loves. That's so so SO much more important than data and tests. And knowing we're all in this together. So much more important. 

There are people out there, I want you to know, who will read that last paragraph and say something very cerebral like: "But that's not going to get them a well-paying job in the private sector or increase our chances of staying a world superpower." And I hope those people all choke on a piece of overpriced filet mignon and go to hell. And I hope, when they're in hell, they have to take test after test after test and no matter how hard they try, no matter how hard they work, no matter how much their fingers bleed and their brains burst open over and over and over again, they never ever pass them. And nobody cares. Because their pain doesn't matter; just their data.

Which is why the meeting I was at earlier this week really upset me so much. Because I was told if I don't move every child in my class an entire year's level in Reading (and then some), based on some arbitrary chart I don't even know where they got it from, it won't be because they're living in a hotel and there's no organization at home; it won't be because they're not getting adequate nutrition; it won't be because they're watching their mom get hit every night or coming home to an empty house and taking care of themselves and their younger siblings or that mommy just doesn't care about school and so neither do they. It won't be because of any of that. It'll be because they had the misfortune of getting a teacher who had instructional issues and didn't work hard enough to fix those. In 180 days (which is really more like 150 days, due to testing). It'll be my fault. I'm magic. I'm supposed to be magic. 

This is the source of my distress and angst (when not being distressed and agonized over my personal life of course...wait for it! Wait for it. That portion's on its way in few more paragraphs). I'm working harder than I ever have. I don't know that there are words in any human language to describe the tired I am. I'm tired down to the inner depths of my soul. I am desperate for someone to come massage these tired knots out of my soul. 

Earlier this week, I feel like I was kind of told: that's not hard enough. That's not tired enough. But then I'm also told: No, we're trying to help you work smarter, not harder. Then I'm told: you're not working hard enough. Then I'm told: you're not working smart enough. Then I'm told: not hard enough. 

Which one do you want, Public Education? I'm flatlining over here, make a decision. 

Anyway. Today was bad. Yesterday was bad too. I had to take M to softball practice. 7:00-8:30, on a school night, twice a week. Exhausted. Defeated. Annoyed. I was in a dark, foul mood. So when one girl on M's team started tossing her face mask in my general direction and it almost hit me while I was grading papers, I was barely civil. Sorry to that girl and her mom. And when the coach called M "Michelle" again for the upteenth time, I was barely civil when I corrected him - learn their names, goddamn it. They matter. And if I interacted with you yesterday or earlier today, I'm really sorry. When I get into one of these moods, I'm rather...black. Ish. Funky. No fun to hang out with.

Maybe this is why, last night, I stopped by my old house and let myself in with the key. C was out of town on a business trip. I just wanted to be somewhere familiar, where I had some happier memories. Where nobody was stomping around above me, no yippy dog was barking down the hall, and nobody was having sex next to me and concluding it all with some type of bad late 80s pop hit (I have next door neighbors who get amorous late at night, and the man - a deep baritone, who actually has a keen sense for musical tone - likes to finish up with ditties like Ice Ice Baby. Fortunately, Miss M has either been at her dad's or blissfully asleep; at some point, I suppose we'll end up having THAT talk...5 years early, thanks so much kinky next door neighbors). Basically, I just wanted to be surrounded by familiar sounds and smells and...familiar stuff. Without late night Cinemax softcore film noir in the background. 

C is painting the downstairs. A hideous (sorry if you read this, C, but it is true) a hideous white-ish grey. All of our beautiful, spicy colors of earthy green, cinnamon, harvest yellow...going white-ish grey. I just sat on my old red sofa and sobbed at what he's about to do, for a very long time. And I sobbed because that was the sofa I used to take naps with M on, laying on my chest. And because my old cat Tasha died in that chair there. And I am homesick. 

Not for C, who I love a lot, but do not want to be married to anymore. I am not homesick for our relationship; we simply don't work in that capacity. I'm homesick for peace and safety, I think. Just peace and safety. And the Known. And warm colors and quiet. I feel like I'm constantly surrounded, at work, by clinical colors and loudness. Do this! Yesterday! We're pretty sure you potentially suck and are hurting children! Get the data up! Increase their growth! Now! Now! Now! 

I am not just stressed and exhausted at this point. I am actually going slightly numb, at work. I feel trapped and helpless and powerless. And I don't like this. I love the children they gave me this year, and if you walked into my classroom on any given day, you would see us reading and talking and laughing and enjoying each other. It would LOOK fabulous. But if you walked in my classroom at the end of the day, on any given day, you would see me sad and quiet, hurriedly prepping for tomorrow, stressed out about something I haven't done or something that's due or paperwork...or I'd be vegging out and checking my phone, simply unable to cope with the stress anymore...or I'd be in tears. Just sitting. In tears. Powerless.

Tomorrow I'm going to a sweet friend's house for burgers, beer, and swimming. We've been talking a long time about writing a TV show based on what teaching in an elementary-level, poor, urban school is like. I'm not good at writing scripts, but she has family members who work in the TV/Film industry who are going to help us. Because we've got STORIES, seasons of stories. Stories you just can't make up, but are really real. Most are ridiculously funny. Some are sad. Some are infuriating. Some are heartbreaking. Just like Life. But mostly, we just want people to know how hard it is. I talk to people all the time who voice this. They say, "You have the hardest job!" or "I couldn't do what you do!" But do they really, really KNOW? We want them to feel it. Because we want to stop what's happening to our children, to our schools. This is very, very wrong. 

.........or you know. On the other hand, I could just be a drama queen. Totally addicted to attention. I'll let you decide.

Tonight, after dinner, Miss M and I were driving home and she was so so MAD at me for not buying dessert. She sat in the back crying, saying mournfully morose things like, "Nobody wants me as a child. Nobody will ever ever love me. I guess I'll just be by myself forever and EVER. Because that's my FATE." (Sound familiar? Go back through this blog...apples do not fall far from trees.) 

And so I kept saying, "That's not true. You're my favorite child in the whole world. I will ALWAYS want you." (I would protect you with my life, my darling. I would take a bullet for you, my little wannabe-mermaid.) 

To which she screeched, "THAT'S NOT TRUE!!! What?! You think just telling me you LOVE me makes no dessert BETTER?!?! Well, YOU'RE WRONG!!! YOU HATE ME!!! You OBVIOUSLY hate me!!! What?! You think telling me I'm your favorite child makes what you did OKAY?!!? What?!?! You think you're the SMARTEST??!! What?! Do they give out DEGREES in PARENTING now?!?! What?! You think you have a PhD in MOM?!?!"

And that made me laugh my ridiculous shitty mom ass off. Which made her even angrier. And so she sobbed in the back while I literally peed my pants with laughter. Seriously. I had to change when we got home. But not before I got her a McDonald's ice cream cone, as a consolation prize and a thank you.

Because when I was finally able to collect myself, I realized: I haven't laughed, really laughed, in about 48 hours. And maybe THAT has really been my problem; I am so much more pleasant to hang out with when something makes me laugh so hard I pee my pants and my ridiculous mom ass comes off. (I wonder if there's some data to back me up on that?)

extrovert world exhaustion.

Courtesy: Skinned Knees

Welp, this has been a crap week. So much stress. So so soooo much stress. I'm 3 weeks into the school year, but it feels like I've been working for 95 weeks straight, no break, uphill, in a sticky and scorching jungle heat, no water in sight. I'm so tired, my tired's tired is tired. That's three generations of tired, all wrapped up into one human being. 

Why is there so much stress these days in teaching at poor, urban schools? Why? They keep telling us they want to lessen our workload, and help us work smarter not harder. But then they make us go to exactly 3 more meetings a week, taking away precious planning time or gold after school prep time. I mean listen: I want to help my people meet their goals, I want to help my bosses' vision become reality. But I cannot do this if I'm burned out. And I'm burning out. I'm on a slow roll to black right now.

And that is all I will say about it. Because I still need a paycheck. 

Wait, no. A few more things: last time, I wrote about being a free spirit. (Which, by the way, got like 1,600 hits. WTF, Blogger? I'm sorry, that's simply not correct. There are not that many people out there in the world, on a Windows platform, that interested in my free bird tendencies. Weird.) (As I was writing this, a friend called and told me I was most likely under attack - someone or something was trying to lock my computer or lock up Blogger or something. I hate people and things that attack other people and things. Get. Over. Yourselves.) 

Anyway. So at the beginning of the year, they made us do this pop psychology What's Your Color? thing. Which was one thing, because I'm all about those cute little Buzzfeed quizzes that, like, tell you what type of cookie you are (ginger cookie) or which 90s pop idol you are (Spice Girls) (naturally). But then we had to break out into groups and share about our colors. And this is where my annoyance with other humans always starts.

First off, I am an introvert. And the one thing you can do to introverts that will really annoy and stress them out is to make them participate in cutesy, everybody-group-hug-and-share-your-thoughts! kinds of activities. It's the worst part of my work environment. Every time I go to some training, I know there's going to be a moment or ten where the instructor goes: "Okay, guys. Partner up and deconstruct this paragraph. In 10 minutes, we'll meet back and share out what you and your partner think about it." And I just want to hurl. Because (a) I don't WANT to share out what's in my brain. I don't WANT to tell you where my brain is at on the information you just presented to me. My brain needs to sit quietly with the information on a sheet of paper or notes I've taken in front of me and think about them. Quietly. BY MYSELF. I don't CARE what a partner thinks. Leave. Me. Alone. and (b) I don't have proof, but I'm pretty certain these types of activities are the results of some bullshit research done in the early 2000s that claim making everyone talk over how their brains are working is going to make them smarter. When in reality, it just means less work for the instructor. I bet I can find some research findings from the late 1990s that say instructors who don't actually, you know, instruct are pretty lazy and need to find a different career path.

Also they make us do this to kids. By the way. And if they don't see us doing it when they come to observe us, if they can't check it off on their check list ("Uses innovative student engagement strategies" or whatever), we get rated downward. I just want to scream at them: BUT I DON'T LEARN WELL THIS WAY!! YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY THINK ALL THESE LITTLE PEOPLE FROM ALL THESE DIFFERENT BACKGROUNDS ENJOY THIS!!!! Stop trying to turn everybody into extroverts, Extroverts. Just because you are doesn't mean we all want to be. Some kids are shy and quiet and don't want to share with a partner or do a whole bunch of small group work activities every single moment of their day. And they shouldn't have to. 

Second. So I turned out to be a combination of Blue (touchy/feely/compassionate) and Red (free spirit/don't tell me what to do, dammit/loves adventure)...which I believe officially makes me confused and utterly conflicted. Meaning: I want to cocoon and be safe...NO! LET'S GO ZIPLINING!!!!! no, no...let's eat popcorn and snuggle under a blanket together and cry over Schindler's List again...OOOOH WAIT NO!! LET'S DRINK BEER AND DANCE IN THE RAIN WHILE TRIBAL DRUMS BEAT IN THE BACKGROUND!!!! 

That kind of thing. I am a Pisces, of course. Which is a symbol of two fish connected at the tails, trying to swim in opposite directions. So I suppose this sort of makes sense. Also, if you take blue and mix it with red, you get purple. And purple is the color of magic and wisdom. I just need to point THAT out to you, too.

At any rate.

Third. I think this is why, for people like me, dangling things in front of us like: oooh, here's how you can get an Exemplary rating on your annual evaluation...don't you want to be Exemplary? Or oooh, if you have zero absences at work this year, you can wear jeans every Monday and Wednesday! Or oooh, if you get two Exemplary ratings in a row AND your class raises its collective reading levels by 1200 points, we'll give you $1000 more a year! Simply don't work on Red/Blue people like me. 

Because who cares about Exemplary? I'm at the point I don't even care about Needs Improvement. Last year, I got a Needs Improvement on one of my brief evals, and I was sobbing in my principal's office about it. 

This year, I'm all: meh. Everybody needs to improve. This feels like me getting a C on a really hard Advanced Algebra II test. Nothing short of a small miracle, and so fair enough.

And 0 absences at work for some jeans passes or a Starbucks gift card or whatever? Psh. I'll take 200 mental health days instead, thanks. Those are worth way more than any gift card or cheap gold sticker bait. I mean for real. Please don't insult my intelligence; I have a master's degree. 

And $1000 more per year, for some extra data that ultimately may or may not save the planet but probably won't save it, since a small group of 1% of people are currently running it all into the ground and destroying the very fabric of an upwardly mobile society and therefore bringing about a total mutiny of French Revolution proportions? And probably are the SAME people behind all the research that says we all need to share out what's in our brains (so they can mind control us). Yeah, no. You're not going to convince me to sell my soul out to THAT, Satan's minions. Nice try. Up your ante. And stop insulting my intelligence; I taught myself how to semi-properly use semi-colons.

I think this is why I'm tired, really. I'm an introvert having to work in an environment that values extroversion. This is why I go home drained every day. I thoroughly enjoy hanging out and talking to my students. They really make my heart happy, with their cute little life observations and their tremendously naive and sweet viewpoints on how the world works. But then I have to sit in two meetings where I'm supposed to share out how my brain is thinking and my group's extroverts all decide the best way to get some jeans passes and an Exemplary on our meeting performance will be to perform a synchronized swimming routine with sporadically inserted bits of choreography from Flashdance, set to Van Halen's Hot For Teacher. 

I just want to sit and read the material, process it, and then take a nap while listening to soft Vivaldi in the background. (Or, you know, listen to Van Halen's Hot for Teacher, but only in MY brain. And not talk to anybody about it because no, Mr./Ms. Extrovert, I actually do NOT care how your brain is thinking. Go think out loud over there, in that far off corner, where I can't hear you because I'm not kidding: I DON'T CARE.)

the good, the bad, the ugly.

Internet, I've had a WEEK. My exhaustion is exhausted. 

First, The Good:

O. M. G. I got the class from Cutesville. I mean, seriously. The other day, one of my little boys who looks like a little, aged man walked by our door holder every time, bowing formally while saying, "I thank you, sir. And good DAY to you, SIR!" And every time he did it, I wanted to hug him to me because he kept making my whole freaking day. 

Then, one day, one of my little girls who can't read to save her life spent about 10 minutes weaving a lovely story about a pet chicken in Mexico she once had. Her grandma wanted to kill it and eat it for dinner, and she threw herself onto her grandma, begging for mercy, thus saving the chicken's life. But the best part was at the end of her chicken story. Because she stopped to make sure she didn't have anything else to add and then announced, "And that's the end of my chicken story." And flounced off. No, really. FLOUNCED.

And my storyteller heart just about exploded with joy. 

I have a little girl who looks JUST like the girl who plays Riley on Girl Meets World. With the same personality to go with it. Every morning, she floats into my room, basically going: "I love my teacher, I love my friends, I love my school, I love my school work, I love my breakfast, I love my LIFE!"

These kids. Oh my god. THESE KIDS. I've taught for 20 years, and I think this is, like, the pinnacle of my teaching career in terms of dream classes. And their handwriting doesn't suck! Some can't read, some can't write, but they can art like nobody's business. I can totally work with this. Totally.

Now, The Bad:

I am not a leader. 

But you knew this.

I have people, GROWN people, I am working with who need me in ways my own 6 year old doesn't need me. Which, listen. I'm a giving person. I know it's overwhelming. I know it's exhausting. We're all tired here. So let me see what I can do to help you. But also understand: I have my own workload, too. We're all under pressure. So every little bit you can do - get on our school's shared files, go to the district website, go ask those other veteran teachers down the hall...anything, please. And THEN come to me. 

This morning I walked in at 7:35 AM, 5 minutes before the bell, and had to deal with two grown ass people's needs. And then another came in looking for Social Studies ideas. And then another came in looking for little readers to print. To which I just want to scream: I KNOW AS FUCKING MUCH AS YOU DO!!!! I NEVER ASKED TO BE IN CHARGE!!!!!! 

But I'm a people pleaser, and so I just swallow and smile and go: Don't know. Can't help you. Nope, don't have enough to share. Nope, can't give you that, I'm using it. Sure, yeah. When I get some time. Okay, good luck with that. Oh, absolutely. Do whatever you think is best. You're the professional. (and the fucking adult.)

And last, The Ugly:

We do this thing every year in my class, at some point, when emotions run high and people are forgetting that we're a family at school. I make each kid a heart. I ask them what their hearts look like right now - white/pink/red/purple/perfect. I make them write the names of all the people they love most on it, as well as our class' names. Then I make them take the heart and crumple it up as much as they can, and I make them stomp on it. They have a lot of fun doing this. Then I tell them to bring their hearts to the floor and tell them to open them up. What do the hearts look like now? Crumpled/ripped/destroyed. So I tell them to see if they can smooth out the hearts as much as they can, or if they can just maybe get some glue or tape and fix the ripped up parts. Do as much as they can to make their heart look like it did before we crumpled them up. At the end of 5 minutes, I bring them back and ask them if their hearts look better. Some say yes, some say no. Then I ask them if any of them were able to get their hearts to look as clean and perfect as before we crumpled them up. And they all say no. When hearts get hurt, you can smooth them out and tape or glue them back together, but they will never be the way they once were.

I think this is a good lesson for all of us, no matter your age. 

Because I've had some really mean things said to me over the last week. But I've also said some pretty mean things to some people over the last week. I'll admit: I'm pretty goddamned angry. I don't know about what or why,actually. I say it's men, but really it's I don't know. I just feel really, really angry. I do know the following are all the things that will 100% make me come out like Belle Star, guns ablazing, if/when I realize they're happening:

*Feeling defined
*Feeling manipulated

*Feeling confined

*Feeling used

*Being told I owe someone anything

*Assumptions and presumptions about who and what I am, from people who aren't me and don't live in my brain

*Excessive demands from other grown ups 

*Douchebags in general

And then I start building walls. And after my wall is nice and high, all bricked up nicely, I go away. Bye. 

That's all very coded, I know, and I bet you're wondering if I'm drinking (maybe, maybe not, but maybe). But I'm angry, and I'm wary. But mostly, you know what I figured out since moving to my own place on June 15, 2015? I don't need anyone else but me, myself, and I.  And if that makes me some kind of Olive Kitteridge, then I shall wear that label with pride for the next 50 years and you'll have to pry it out of my cold, shriveled hands from my coffin. 

But I have a stinking cute group of kids to hang out with all day, and they're making my 5:20 AM alarm going off a hell of a lot more bearable. Otherwise, I'd be considering panhandling for a living right about now. It's that dire. (And NO I don't care if you think I sound overly dramatic! I AM overly dramatic, and that's how it's going to be until I can balance out this stupid shit.)

fairy sex doesn't pay bills.

I'll be honest: I'm not okay. I'm back at work now. I did start the week strong and fresh. Thursday was great - I met some of the cutest babies you'll ever meet. I can't wait to hang out with some of those kids all day! Oh my god. Freaking cute. I'm serious. I don't want to jinx it or anything, but of the 23 kids on my class list, the eleven I met Thursday were all ridiculously cute, and their families seemed sweet, too. I really feel like someone was trying to be nice to me. 

But Friday was nuts. Everything fell apart on Friday. Stupid, stupid Friday. Here's the thing about people who don't work classrooms or haven't worked classrooms in a really long time: they don't know. They don't know how stressful it is to finish a classroom set up AND do lesson plans AND get all materials ready for Monday. Because Monday morning, they're coming. And it's so much better to walk in the door ready to go, with everything you need ready to go. Otherwise, it's just one day of effed up crazy, let me tell you. And that's on top of all the things that will already be effed up crazy.

Then again, I don't know. Maybe it's just me. I watched one girl just casually cut out things in her classroom all day Friday. Her classroom has been set up, ready to go, oh, about mid-June. Some teachers come in and work on their rooms all summer. For free. Off contract. Then, come Pre-Planning week, they just sit all calm and casual in the 10 million meetings, not even worried. I'm not even kidding you guys: they actually come to school dressed up like it's a regular work day. I show up in jeans or work out clothes; they stroll in wearing cute sundresses, business pumps, and teacher cardigans. Hair in place, make up fresh. All day long. 

Those people are of the devil. And also I really think they're hiding something horrific in their garage freezers or something. I bet you. I bet you. 

Me? Hell no. I work my ass off Monday-Friday, August-May. Which means June through July you can find me laying by the pool or in the pool, and there will be a cool adult beverage at my side and if that bothers you and you want to mouth off to me about lazy teachers and overpaid teachers and crap? You can just take a flying leap into a large sea of horse excrement. 

You don't know me. You don't know anything about me, or what I do.

I'm a tad on edge; I don't know if you can tell or not. I had a stress headache on Friday the size of Mt. Everest, and there was nausea to accompany it. I have Miss M back with me, and I'm not doing the Momming stuff very well. I wish I was the kind of mom who baked healthy granola bar snacks and read books every single night and did M's physical therapy exercises (Miss M needs to correct her walking gait) every single night exactly like the sheet says to. I wish I was the kind of mom who made sure she always leaves the house looking magnificent: hair in place, fashionably appropriate clothes, well-mannered and quiet. 

But I am not. My child watches UNCLE GRANDPA on Netflix, grazes on cereal and juice boxes all day, reads books now and then usually without me, and just half-asses it through her physical therapy exercises...kind of like how I half-ass it through my treadmill workouts. Her hair isn't always in place, she wears mismatched and bizarre outfits (the other day, she tried to leave the apartment in Daisy Duke shorts, a Frozen shirt, and a faux fox fur winter vest. With plaid boat shoes). 

I just don't care. I mean, honestly. Does she HAVE to wear underwear? I don't always wear underwear. And socks. Who the hell really needs those. Or shoes, for that matter. It's summer and our cave people ancestors never wore them. And who cares if the shirt doesn't match the shoes. Or her hair is a bit frizzy. And there are actually some really sweet messages behind the bizarreness of UNCLE GRANDPA. Also, I let her watch old episodes of THE BERNIE MAC show. And they use the word "ass" and say things like "Aw, HELL no!" She knows not to say those words in public. We talk about things like that. 

Oh and by the way, she's starting 1st grade reading on a 3rd grade level. So sue me. (Yet I still feel completely incompetent.)

Anyway. Where was I? Oh, right. Me. So I'm in a weird place right now. My stress levels are absolutely through the roof. I am not ready for Monday. I am not ready to deal with what is coming. I loved the peace and quiet of working in my classroom, setting it up. But now it's going to be loud and busy, and I don't really love loud and busy. And there's a lot on my plate at work this year; I am a grade level leader, and people are coming to me with questions. And right now, I can't deal with questions. My answer, when these people come to me with their questions, their so many effing questions, is: "My brain is dead. I really don't know. Maybe go ask so-and-so." I'm the type of leader who totally foists issues off onto other people. A total duty shirker. And I don't care. My brain is about to explode from stress. 

And I miss my friends. A lot of my friends are gone, having fled education or been moved elsewhere not by choice. And now my work is lonely. There is no more laughter. No one else to vent to. No one who's got my back so I can have theirs. I'm a lone soldier now, a mercenary. My troop's been ambushed, and I am all that is left. And the government - as governments are wont to do during acts of war - did this to me. On purpose. I am wandering the foreign landscape, trying to find my way home, lost in the desert. Wounded, and bleeding.

Okay, that's done. Let's move on! 

The other thing I'm dealing with right now is a need to prioritize. I am accomplishing very little, because I refuse to prioritize. No self-discipline. No willpower. Just...hedonism. All. Damn. Day. But I'm going to have to, in order to survive. I haven't written much of anything beyond navel gazing, self-serving tweets lately. That is not writing. That is...I don't know what that is, but I sense it's slightly pathetic. And I'm a person who needs to write, or I am not okay. I suspect this is about 56% of the reason I am really, really off lately. 

So I started a story about a woman who travels between worlds every three years (I think I wrote about this before), and I am now determined to finish it. There are fairies involved, and I think I may throw in a sex scene. Can you do that in short stories? I don't care, I'm going to. 

The thing about my inner mind workings (as well as some of my outer mind workings) is that, now that school's back in session, I'm having a slightly hard time reconciling teaching sweet little babies and being a moral upright pillar of example in the community, versus being what I feel myself being drawn to nowadays. Which, apparently, is fairy sex. 

But fairy sex isn't all that lucrative, money-wise, and I've got bills to pay. And I really love where I'm living...I'd hate to have to go live in a hovel or, god forbid, my mom's basement. (Don't get offended, Mom! You know you don't want me living down there either.) 

It's a real issue for me right now. I bet if I could prioritize AND compartmentalize better it would be less of an issue. Does anyone know how to compartmentalize? A friend told me the other day that it involves just knowing how to really, really focus. Which makes me want to laugh my ridiculous head off. Focus. Me. Really. That's hilarious.

Okay. I'm done here. Thanks for letting me vent my spleen to you. If you don't hear back from me in about two weeks, check my mom's basement.

10 billion swear words.

I had a frustrating day, reader(s). Do you want to read about it? Are you busy? If you are, don't read this...it'll just stress you out and overwhelm you. Come back when you're drunk and/or Zen to be amused.

1-What is up with grown up women calling their boyfriends/husbands/crushes "Daddy?" When did this start? WHY did this start? It's really freaking the crap out of me. I can't decide which is worse: a 30- or 40-something woman calling her romantic partner "Daddy"... or a teenager or 20-something with a crush on an older man telling him how hot he is, letting him know she'd like to date and sleep with him, and then using the word "Dad" or "Daddy." 

No. Ladies, NO! This is all kinds of messed up. And totally, totally gross. It's like mass pedophilia, in which the victims are convinced they like it, and I won't have it. I won't have it! We've been downtrodden long enough, fellow females. Once you're 18, I guess it's cute to always love your daddy...but to want to have sex with someone who reminds you of him? Mon Dieu, NO. (Also: clearly I need a Twitter break. I'm noticing this trend because of Twitter. This is how many women speak to many men there, and it's giving me the mads AND the sads...this is 2015, not 1915. Lands, Humanity. Pull. It. Together.)

2-Speaking of Humanity Updating itself, let's talk about the frustrations of moving into an apartment that LOOKS up-to-date, but finding out (the long and hard way, on an afternoon with temperatures of 100+ degrees Fahrenheit) the technology in the apartment is NOT up-to-date. No AT&T U-verse available, not even DSL available, and the position of the apartment porch will not pick up any satellites in the area. AND THERE ARE ONLY TEN BILLION SATELLITES IN THE AREA. 

Seriously, the Direct TV guy showed me his gadget--10 billion pinpoints representing 10 billion satellites, up in outer space, directly over where I live...none of which are aimed in MY direction. 

These two experiences told me two things: one, we are not only polluting our planet--friends, we're polluting all the OTHER planets and the space around them. And two, we can put a man on the moon, create computers that fit in our pockets, and pollute the ENTIRE Solar System with our technology, yet we can't update ourselves underneath all that. ...I suspect this has something to do with over-testing in public schools, but I'm too busy to further research it.

And if I thought you had the time and the patience for it, I'd recreate here all the swear words I've uttered today. This would take up 10 pages. I even said the C-word. Yes! That one. The word for ladies' privates that starts with the letter "C," that always makes people gasp and then giggle nervously. Especially if they're American, because we're very repressed.

At any rate. It's fixed now. I have had to go with a cable/internet company I positively hate, but my apartment complex clearly has some kind of "understanding" with, since they even have a direct phone line to a particular service rep. Who was very nice, but kept talking to me like I was either 10 years old or 90, I couldn't decide which. At one point, I just stopped him and said, "Bob (not his real name), I'm sorry. I'm having a really frustrating afternoon. I know what a wireless router is, I know where to find them, and I have people who can help me hook it up if I can't follow the directions that come with it. I'm good with the Silver Package for cable, and sure, I'll take the landline if it'll save me a penny and earn you some salesperson points. How fast can we get a service technician here to get me online so I'm not running through my mobile data and my kid can watch JESSIE and DOG WITH A BLOG again? I promise I've done this before, I just need technology that actually works." **

O. M. G., Internet! My nerves are officially frayed. At some point, I just know Humanity will pull itself together and stop infantilizing one another, clean up our need to pollute everything, AND come up with a cable/internet/landline/mobile phone system that not only can be bundled with one company to save hundreds of dollars each month but can also be set up with one, single, easy button push. Kind of like one-click ordering on amazon.com and then your package arrives at your doorstep 10 minutes later. 

...although, now that I think of it? Maybe the reason I dropped so many f-bombs today and took both God and Jesus' names in vain sometimes at the same time and followed by several f-bombs AND the C-word, is precisely because of companies like amazon.com. They're making things way too easy for us, and now we're all just a bunch of rats pressing the pellet button again and again, then going into complete psychotic meltdowns when a pellet stops appearing instantly. Completely dependent and codependent, just the way Corporate America prefers us.

We are our own worst enemies.

I did figure out my new toilet, but not before I called the apartment office ladies to add that to my "And This Doesn't Work Properly Either What The Hell Is Wrong With This Friggin' Apartment Complex I Thought I Was Renting Somewhere Awesome??" list I'm in the process of compiling for them. Tomorrow, I'll call them and let them know they can take that one off my list, but save a spot because I'm sure I'll call back with something else--I'm in the midst of a separation/divorce, and I'm on edge. ON EDGE. To calm down, I just need Netflix and my toilet to flush. I don't think it's too much to ask.

They do have a really nice pool, though. Miss M and I will hang out there tomorrow and I'll pretend to be completely together and totally sane. (I hope I didn't interrupt something important you were doing--unless it was enjoying one of Humanity's 10 billion outer space satellites in some manner, and then good. GOOD! Now you know how I feel. Enjoy the rest of your night/day.)

**Bob was a real sweetheart, and possibly about 90 years old himself. He was actually very helpful and I was kind and patient with him, I promise. I was also very kind and sweet to the apartment office ladies. It's not Bob's or their fault that this complex is 10,000 years behind technologically. To rectify THAT, I'm placing a curse, a 10,000 year curse, on the management company that owns the place.**