weird and paranoid sick chick.

I'm home sick today, Internet. Last night was a long night of achy body, headache, fever/chills. Thank god for ibuprofen, thank god for it. About 3 AM I finally felt more human. Quite frankly, I don't know how I got through yesterday afternoon managing a large group of children plus my own later on. 

(Newly single mom confessional side note: I did not manage my own. I bought her a Happy Meal dinner, stuck her in front of Netflix, and went to bed. At 8 PM I woke up and made her run her own bath, brush her own teeth, and put her own self to bed. Independence Boot Camp Training, is what I call this.)

(As a New Age-y, hippie side note I'd like to say: I think, sometimes, when things like this happen, it's the Universe telling us: ooookayyyy...you're done. Time to stop running around so cray cray and go to bed. Get off the Internet, close that email, stop worrying about that data, forget that softball practice, that person will just have to figure him/herself out themselves, etc etc etc...you go to bed. Time to reset.)

Today, I'm slightly better but still off. Tomorrow, I have another day off because of doctor appointments (irony). So this morning, at 6:30 AM, I drove to work, dragged myself inside, and high fived myself for making all those copies at the end of the day yesterday. Pulled everything together for a substitute teacher today and tomorrow, and now the pieces get to fall where they may. 

The substitute teacher for today was already in my room. I look like I feel - sick crap. He recoiled from me in horror, and I'll be honest: it made me want to laugh and laugh. I can only imagine. On the plus side, I got to correct some misconceptions he has about 7 year olds. And now I'm pretty certain he'll take them to the cafeteria for lunch AND pick them up. I'm going to assume he knows he also has to take them to Art today, too, that helpers don't just show up at the door to take everybody everywhere. This is PUBLIC school, yo.

I had a really rough weekend, mentally and emotionally. It's hard to know who to trust sometimes. I am loved, and I am grateful for it, but sometimes it's just hard to know who to trust. And because I don't always trust my gut instincts, I can be easily swayed from one side to another...back and forth, back and forth. I'm telling you about this because what it does to me is make me weird and paranoid. And I don't like feeling weird and paranoid. Because then I get weird and paranoid about feeling weird and paranoid. It's a problem. 

Basically, for my life right now, I have a very simple agenda, a very uncomplicated, six-point Life Road Map:

1. Stop being weird and paranoid.

2. Figure out who's trustworthy, and who's not. 

3. Stop being up and down. One or two times of up and down per year is plenty. Not every week.

4. Give happiness, be happy.

5. Give love, be loved.

6. Achieve ultimate Enlightenment. (Or at least the ability to stay calm and focused amongst all the dysfunctional, needy, crazy people around me.)

That's not too much to ask. I don't think.

You know what's most ironic to me right now? Work. Work is actually going really, really well this year. I am in deep love with my class. I'm just besotted with them, really. If I had more disposable income, I'd take them all on a fabulous learning trip somewhere. And I like my bosses. I think my bosses ask me to do crazy things, but I've become absolutely convinced it's because their bosses ask them to do crazy things, and that's because THEIR bosses ask THEM to do crazy things. Bosses!!! STOP!! Stop it. Stop asking for crazy things.

So I'm still overwhelmed at work, but a routine has been established, and there is a lot of love there, so we're plowing through. 

It's my personal life that's bizarre and out of control right now. Here's what'll happen: something will happen, I'll feel weird and wonder about it. So I'll phone a friend. And that person will tell me Thing A, which kind of freaks me out. So I'll phone another friend. And that person will tell me Thing B, which freaks me out more. And before I know it, now I'm existing entirely inside my own head, overthinking, overanalyzing, trying to mind read and...weird and paranoid. It's exhausting, and makes me want to crawl into a cave and tell the world to go fuck itself.

At some point, the real Dark Night of the Soul will come, I know, and I'll have to make one of the hardest changes to myself I've ever made. It's around the bend, I can just feel it. Hope I'm up for it. (Dear Universe, please don't send it today. I need to sleep most of this afternoon and re-balance my body.)

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.**

better.

The After I Woke Up and Re-Read My last entry post post: 

I am sorry. I am sorry if you are just now clicking onto this website and discovering me via the post that is below. It was late (or early, depending on your perspective). I was in a mood. 

Obviously, there are things going on in my offline world that are making me discombobulated and giving me the feeling of an intense need to check out. I am trying as hard as I can not to check out. Really, I just needed some sleep. Once I got some sleep (I do believe my body literally grabbed me and said, "That's it. Let's go." and put us to bed), I felt much better.

I am still very, very, very, very angry at sororities though. (Viva l'anger at exclusive clubs!) And sometimes the people who write literary articles in Poets & Writers do make me roll my eyes, I'm sorry fellow literary types but they do. This is Life, not a snotty cocktail party for Ego. And people who snub people because they can't do anything for them, or they only want to be surrounded by people who they deem to be VIP "somebodies." And those with poor bedside manners. And anyone who ostracizes other people. The only people we should be ostracizing right now are people who are members of ISIS or the North Korean government. Maybe some Utah desert religious crazies. And Rush Limbaugh. And Donald Trump. But that's it! Everybody else is just living, learning via mistakes along the way.

I have a happier, funner, 100% less angry entry for next time, I promise. Like, tomorrow. Maybe later tonight. 

Although, wait. I have to go call customer service about my laptop right now, so I may have to post the happier crap tomorrow, not later tonight--give myself another night of sleeping on it so I don't write a rambling entry of anger directed at customer service people (of which I was one, once upon a time, and so I should know better...but honestly, some call center people could seriously drive Ghandi to violence. Right?).

At any rate, here. Please enjoy this lovely, uplifting song by my sweet friend Patresa. It's called Amelia, and (I think) it's about channeling good energy, mirroring role models who teach us who and how we want to be, striving for more. Be safe if you're out celebrating 2014's demise tonight. I don't want to have to write an angry blog entry about drunk drivers.

stalker ghosts.

Fear got to me. I took down my ten confessions blog because I looked at my statcounter after work today and saw someone from the school district had been reading it. Aagh! No no no. (Heads need roofs and all that.)

But then I got mad. Because damn it, this is how I feel and I'm entitled to my opinions. What's going on in education today is not okay. It's NOT okay. And nobody seems to be listening to the foot soldiers in the trenches. So I did a slight bit of editing and then re-published it. (Here, I am singing Let it Go! Let it Go! Don't hold back anymore-ore-ore!) (Thank god for Disney songs, you know?)

Hey! Do you want to hear two stories? I have two stories. One is about stalkers and one is about ghosts, which are kind of like stalkers only friendlier:

Story 1: Stalkers are Gigantic Jackasses.
I have a statcounter on this page. The reason I have a statcounter is because about 11 years ago, I started blogging. I started blogging for many reasons, but the most important thing is that I started blogging. Eleven years ago, blogs were still sort of newish. I'd tell people I had a blog, and they'd go: "A what?? Is that like a big log? A blog? Or are you saying bog? Or dog?"

Nowadays, practically everyone has a blog. Moms have blogs, dads have blogs, kids have blogs, grandmas have blogs, dogs have blogs, gerbils have blogs. But 11 years ago, blogs were kind of like the wild frontier (sort of) of the Internet, and I was headed west. The problem was that I was very naive about blogs, the internet, and human beings in general.

Want to know a secret about me? Mostly, I remain naive about human beings (it never ever fails to shock me when someone I thought was super duper nice and awesome turns out to be malicious--I'd love to think I can suss out someone's character right away, but the sad truth is that I like people; I believe in the inherent goodness of humanity, and if we could all just sit around on long summer evenings singing Kumbayah, I'd be pretty dang happy). I give people 10, 12, 500 chances--well beyond their expiration dates--when they eff up. Because I want to live in a world where people take care of each other, and don't judge, and we're gentle with one another's hearts. (Kumbayah my lord....kumbayah....)

Which is why, 11 years ago, it never occurred to me that someone nefarious might be reading my blog. I'd accrued a following of a whopping 10 people or so--they commented on my stuff, I commented on theirs, etc and so forth. So when I wrote, I wrote to those people: my fans, my tribe, my very astute and totally good taste audience. And I practically drew them a map: here's where I get my hair done, here's my favorite supermarket, here's where I work, here's where I LIVE... come visit me, anytime! Bring duct tape and a hacksaw.

And sure enough, somebody did. Somebody showed up on my (internet) doorstep with his duct tape and a hacksaw. He was going by a mysteriously stupid (I won't repeat here in case he finds me again) internet name...oh, I'll just call him Jackass; that's fairly close to what he called himself anyway. And Jackass's big problem was that (a) he was a Christian fundamentalist and (b) I'd dared to use the gender pronoun "she" when making reference to God in a slew of my blog postings. (Because it's a well documented and scientifically proven fact that God has a penis, of course.)

He also didn't like the fact I wrote about hanging out with my friends. Teachers should go home, put on their appropriate, ankle-length Victorian flannel nightgowns, and sit by the fire with their knitting, an open Bible, and a little cuppa tea. Not go out to restaurants and be silly with girlfriends.

So he threatened to get me fired. I asked him not to do that, but also let him know I didn't think he could. So Jackass stepped up the crazy, set up a very scary blog filled with violent Biblical passages (the Bible: a disturbing piece of literature), and, in a psychotically detailed manner, outlined exactly what he'd like to do to me (slitting a lamb's throat over my unclothed body and then doing dastardly, unwanted things to me in lamb's blood were just part of it all). Because that's EXACTLY what Jesus would do, SO rape-y, that Jesus. I'm sure Jesus' mom Mary would be so proud as well.

I know when to wave the white flag; I'm not dense. So I deleted that blog, blocked his email, and stayed the hell off the internet for a good year, year and a half.

I still get mad when I think about it though. Stalkers make me so mad because seriously. Who are you? Who are you to threaten someone? Who are you to try to have that kind of control over another human being? Stalkers are perfect, stupid examples of how humanity is entirely more than capable of screwing itself off a perfectly good planet.

At any rate, now I have a statcounter. It logs IP addresses, just in case Jackass or his inbred cousins come back; next time I'll go to the police, I suppose. I don't know what the police could do for me, but I don't think stalking is okay.

But the statcounter also freaked me out today, because I do still need a day job even if I completely disagree with how they're doing public education right now. Until I publish my book and Hollywood options it, it gets greenlit, and 200 Hollywood A-listers all appear in the film and Oscar nominations come flooding in, I have bills to pay. (You know that's the only way to strike it rich with a writing career, yes? Yes, you do now. Ask the Twilight series chick--she's still reeling from the heady unreality of it all.)

Story #2: Ghosts Hate Reality TV.

Story number two is for my friend Patresa. Patresa and I met via the blog that Jackass found. Patresa is an amazingly talented human being and a freakishly lovely rock star of a woman (AND she's got great hair!) who I admire and love tremendously. She's a storyteller, too, both in words and music, of the best variety. You can visit her HERE on the internet. She's brilliant. But more importantly, she believes in ghosts and likes ghost stories, and I happen to have one (she demanded, on facebook, that I tell her the story...and so here it is, all for YOU, P-licious!):

It was a dark and stormy night, and Savannah's ghosts were restless. We'd come, a group of eight of us, married and exhausted, to find respite from life's demands...

No! Wait, I'm sorry. That's so 19th century over the top. I'll just cut to the chase: some friends & I went to Savannah for a girls' getaway weekend, about 4 years ago and I got to interact with a ghost.

We stayed in a 100+ year old renovated church. It was lovely. The only problem was, about 3:30 AM, someone would walk down the stairs...and never walk back up.

So here's the thing about this travel girl group: in that group, there are skeptics and believers about ghosts, but we all agree: ghost hunts are fun! And we picked to visit Savannah one summer because, quite frankly, you can't get more haunted in America than Savannah, GA.

On one of our last nights there, I was exhausted. I went to bed early while everyone else stayed up scaring the crapping bejeesus out of each other. I'd gallantly volunteered to sleep on a pullout bed in the sunroom, right underneath a creepy painting with THIS oogy guy staring down at me all night:

That horn to the right probably belongs to Lucifer.

So you'll  understand if I was a bit nervous before falling asleep. In addition, I'm a notorious insomniac, so that didn't help.

But that night, for some odd reason, I was just utterly exhausted, and I didn't care. I flipped Man in the Yellow Hat the bird, and went right to sleep...until 1:45 AM, that is, when I was woken by a loud crash. I laid there, startled...and then it happened AGAIN (do do do!). Well, that was it, readers. I tried to go to back to sleep, but Yellow Hat Man was staring at me with his Beelzebub eyes, and when I heard that! That second crash! Oh. Em. Gee!!! That!  THAT was something! Oh my god, did everyone else NOT hear those sounds?? Why are they still asleep?!? For the love of holy, those are the kinds of sounds that send everybody on Ghost Hunters, Ghost Hunters International, Paranormal Activity, and the Exorcist all running right into the poltergeist portal area of the house!!!

So I got up, went into the living room (turning on every single light in the downstairs area), and sat on the sofa. With the TV on. My friend S had a coughing fit about 10 minutes later, came out of her bedroom for some water, and saw me sitting--very very bug-eyed, please know--on the sofa. Desperately trying to distract myself with an episode of Bridezillas (it's all that's on, at 2 in the morning...Bridezillas, infomercials, and Fox "News." Bridezilla reality brides seemed to be the most honest choice of all three of those).

"What are you doing??" she asked.
"Did you not hear that?" I whispered in a "I see ghosts!" kind of voice.
"Hear what?"
"That...that...CRASH. That was SOMETHING."

(S is one of our skeptics, so this highly amused her, and she went into a coughing fit again.) Recovered, she said, "Oh my god, no. No, Amy! That wasn't a ghost. We were making fun of M, R, and H before we all went to bed, and so C got her shampoo bottle and dropped it from the laundry shoot upstairs after she thought they were about to fall asleep."

The second crash was C making sure M,R, and H heard the first crash. So, no ghost. Just a trickster Skeptic. Frickin' skeptics.

So S got her water, trotted off back to bed, but I was done. Insomnia had set in, and there'd be little sleep for me that night. I watched Bridezillas, an incredibly stupid show about women competing to lose 10+ pounds before their wedding, and Say Yes to the Dress. And I did ponder in my heart on doing a research project about why women are so obsessed with marriage and getting a man, and my feminist heart wept quite a lot that night, wee into the early hours of a gray, Savannah morning. Susan B. Anthony would be outraged if she knew. Those women are exactly what the 19th amendment didn't want to see happen.

Then, about 3:00 AM....stuff....started to happen. That's all I can say to describe it: just, STUFF. Started to happen. Weird pops, lots of creaks, strange rustlings. Thank god for electric lights! Thank god for them. I turned up the television louder. Ghosts hate that you know. I'm pretty sure loud TVs make them run away.

About quarter to four AM, I suddenly heard an old lady's voice say (in the doorway of the kitchen) in a sort of irritated, what-the-hell-is-going-on-here?? kind of way:  "Hello? Hello?!?" And then that was it. All the noises stopped, and nobody ever materialized. And I finally fell asleep, funnily enough. (I had a nightmare about an evil bridesmaid in a yellow hat.)

I've told this story to several skeptics. The reaction I get is typically (a) maybe you thought you were awake, but you'd actually fallen asleep and dreamt the whole thing, (b) are you SURE it wasn't something off the tv?, or (c) have you been checked out for schizophrenia?

Listen you people: I was awake, it wasn't the tv (Bridezillas are simply not as polite as my old lady), and I haven't been checked out for schizophrenia, but I'm pretty sure my brother inherited that, not me. In addition, the voice wasn't in my head, it was outside of my head. As if someone (an invisible someone) was standing in the doorway speaking to me. Clear as a bell. Sure as death. As reliable as a politician turning up for a an all-expenses paid golf resort trip with a group of lobbyists in the Caribbean.

We named her Edna. And we spoke friendly words to her for the rest of our stay that weekend: "Hey, Edna! How'd you sleep?" "Want a glass of wine, Edna?" "Edna, did you just take my last tampon? Bad form, lady! Not cool!"

 The End.

(Oh wait! Also: this one time, when I was living in Yuma, Arizona, a friend won front row tickets to see The Who at The Staples Center in LA and I went with her. We spent the night at a really cheap motel right outside Anaheim, and in the middle of the night, I woke up to see a man in a trench coat hunched over something. He was sitting at the foot of my bed, and for some reason, I just KNEW he had a gun between  his legs and was about to pull the trigger. I certainly didn't want to see THAT, so I yanked the covers up over my head and begged God not to let the ghost in a trench coat get up to lean over me or anything or, Jesus Christ!, touch me with a dead finger! And I went back to sleep. I have no idea how I went back to sleep, but somehow I did. Actually, I think I may have just fainted from terror and woken up when sunlight hit my eyelids.)

Ghosts. They walk amongst us, sometimes down stairs like these:

But stalkers are scarier.

hormones and words.

I have started....a story. I think it's just a short story, and I really have no idea what it's about or where it's going. I put what I've written so far (rough rough ROUGH draft with zero editing, please be kind) in my ::snippets:: section. I just felt like writing a story about an older lady named Emmaline who no longer cares what people think of her. I bet this is because lately I feel the need to find my inner Emmaline, bring her out, and parade her around shamelessly and with abandon.

I am hormonal, have been since about Tuesday, and each day has been progressively worse. Some activities have lightened it: swimming at my sister in law's neighborhood pool with my little girl (I felt practically whole-bodied again!), going out for dinner with former work team members/people who are precious pieces of my heart. I think it's important to note here that every activity that has lightened my hormonal festering has involved me getting out of the house. (With one exception: I took Melissa to the library on Tuesday, where we were shushed 3 times and I almost broke my other foot trying to carry the bag of books we'd put on hold...I feel this may have begun the hormonal rage.)

The problem with leaving the house is this: I have to be on my good foot, which means my broken foot swells to elephantine proportions, and this is not good, according to my orthopedist and "sports doc" on ehealthboards.com. Which gets me worrying. And then I get pessimistic and annoyed and begin having thoughts that go something like: Really. I'm going to be walking on July 3? I don't think so orthopedist. What the heck do YOU know? Sports doc and all the other experts on the fractured metatarsal board at ehealthboards.com seem to think otherwise. (Please ignore me when I get like this: I'm just wallowing.)

I am tired of the Paula Deen controversy. It's been chewed up and spit out at this point, much like her, and I'm not sure what else good, non-prejudiced people not harboring resentments in their hearts are supposed to say or feel about it now. I liked it a few weeks ago when we all linked arms and stood strong against prejudice and racism and started buying Cheerios like the dickens. Even the people who are now all angry and mad about how Paula's getting treated were in agreement--leave that interracial family alone, they aren't bothering you! In America, we can kind of shine like that; we're good people when we see people getting beat down for no real reason other than them trying to live a life.

Which is why I think so many are rushing to Paula's defense. I just wish they were doing it in ways that didn't sound like excuses for what she said. If Paula Deen jumps off a bridge, how many will jump with her? Quite a few, if the internet is to be believed.

Please know: I do feel for Paula; I hate to see people get fired for speech, especially in a country that promotes free speech and all. But dammit, I abhor what she said (and, quite frankly, think her brother Bubba needs intensive talk therapy, possibly medication) and it should be addressed. So yes. Got a little hormonal/cabin fever/stir crazy, started reading commentary under news articles posted in my facebook news feed (tip: NEVER a smart idea when suffering from hormones and cabin fever), and then started seeing people I know and love talking about it, qualifying and excusing what she said. So I spoke up, in sort of hormonal way. One, because I have made a pact with myself to ALWAYS speak up when I see or hear prejudice, and two, because I was pretty frickin' hormonal and had had enough.

Needless to say, it did not go well.

Anywho. I have not written any freelance blog articles. I've been over at blogmutt looking for some, but what these people requesting articles written for them actually seem to need makes me want to get a bunch of push pins and stick them repeatedly in my brain. I would rather write about angry Southern older ladies, painted up for Dia de los Muertos, taking naked pictures of themselves flipping the bird at nosy, busybody townsfolk. This will not earn me a single penny (sorry friend Becky, if you're reading--I think I promised you a fancy Subway lunch with my first article's earnings). Writing short stories that lack direction is much funner (I know that's not a word; I just like it better than "more fun").

I feel like I need to end this article in a sort of pithy, witty, really wrapped up kind of way. But my kid is demanding access to abcmouse.com, and so I'm going to abruptly end this without a single ounce of closure for you.

...Except to say: please don't make excuses for the n-word, or get angry about black people getting to use it. Sometimes, people just get to do things you can't, and there's nothing you can do about that. And please don't get worked up about people calling you cracker or honky and nothing bad happening to them. Because first of all, cracker and honky both have the hard "c" sound in them, and I once read an article somewhere about writing comedy that said words with the hard "c" sound always get laughs. And second, because the words cracker and honky, if put in a boxing ring in a world championship fight against the n-word and all its ugly and hateful history, would be TKO in half a second flat. And if you don't believe me about that, gather some of your friends, black and white, to stand on a street corner and scream these words at each other. Every single one of you will look absolutely ridiculous, but I'd bet half a million dollars I don't have the people getting the n-word screamed at them will be the winners (nobody wants to repeat that kind of history, unless they wear hooded sheets to cross burning rallies).

every summer has a story: mine is titled "Blessing in Disguise"

I have written, but not decently. Mostly, my writing practice takes place in the form of sporadic, long-winded Facebook status updates. Because when Life poops down poopy poop on me, this is what happens: (1) I crawl into a cave of self-pity grief and moping. The End. (There is no (2)...when I started making this list, I thought there would be a (2), but then I realized, nope. There is no (2). Just self-pity grief and moping.)

Since I last posted about genre-finding, I've experienced a series of unfortunate events, as Lemony Snicket would posit (there will be a more comprehensive list for this part):

1- After 12 years of classroom trailer teaching, I asked for--and was granted, thank you thank you thank you--a move into the building. But this also meant I had to pack up an entire classroom of stuff in a mere 5 hours (for those who think a mere 5 hours is plenty of time to pack up one little ol' classroom, let me laugh wildly here and suggest knowingly, "One does not simply....pack up...an entire elementary classroom in a mere 5 hours." Show me someone who thinks this is an easy human possibility, and I will show you someone who works closely with or for Michelle Rhee and her Corporate Education Reformer Friends, and/or someone who has spent minimal (MINIMAL) time doing actual classroom teaching as a legitimate job. One does not simply...pack up...an entire elementary classroom in mere hours and certainly not if they're doing it on their own, all by themselves.

Or, in my case, when they do, they end up breaking something. See below:

2-In my packing furor, I lost track of time (and also, you know, maybe ignored the softly suggested "get out!!" announcement over the PA system at 6:45 pm) and got locked out of the school but into Classroom Trailer Land...thus, I could not get out of the back part of school due to the locked outside gates and also could not get through the school to ultimate freedom due to the locked building doors.

3-I'd heard urban legends of certain teachers successfully climbing one area of the back lot chain link gate and decided if THOSE gals could do it, I could do it. I mean, who cares that I hadn't been to a gym in over 9 months and am pushing 42 with very little upper body strength?? SHE climbed that gate?? Oh snap, this is easy peasy. I immediately summoned my inner movie stunt woman/Spiderman super hero (who lacks a certain sense of danger and common sense, all at once) and climbed. And I made it! I made it over! Friends, I was over that gate, on the other side, minutes from getting into my car all triumphant and strong. I was thisclose to being An Official Urban Legend(tm).

4-Here's the problem (every good plot has one): (a) I was wearing flip flops and (b) I lost my grip just as I was about to make it off the fence. I landed, rolled my left ankle, and landed smack on top of the left top side of my left foot. My fifth metatarsal decided it wasn't up for full weight bearing on top of it that day and cracked (wimp). Yesterday, I found out via an update x-ray my 4th metatarsal decided to crack a little as well. Had I just cracked my fourth metatarsal, this would have been a minor inconvenience. It was that 5th one that has caused all the problems (wimp). Because, heh, who knew? If you're going to break a foot bone, you'll probably break the 5th one, and the 5th one is the one you have to stay off of if you fracture it in just the right (wimpy) spot. Which I did.

And thus the grief process began: 6-8 weeks of my summer gone...okay, not totally gone, but extremely reduced and limited. No big trips, no pool time, a cancellation of my plans to start Being a Runner again, all summarized by a rather large break down/freak about on being physically able/ready to get my new classroom ready before my teaching contract officially requires my presence and begins again.

And can I just interject here with a big dose of reality: Isn't that sad? My first thoughts were not: Woo! Lots of time to rest! Just what I needed after this crazy year! No, no. My first thoughts were: What if I can't get back to work in time??? (Though, in my defense, please note: I need to be at least back to 80-90% by mid-July, because ha! Teachers don't simply...get their classrooms ready for a new school year the week they're required to come back. That week in elementary school is unofficially known as Meetings Week, which is kind of like Shark Week only bloodier.)

Still, I think it's clear: SOMEbody needs an intervention....please keep reading, because I did get one.

Fortunately, while I do not possess tremendous good sense when it comes to assessing my own physical abilities and limitations in regards to tackling 6 foot chain link gates, I do possess a fair amount of good sense when it comes to who to surround myself with in regards to people and friends. Carol, one of my dearest friends, intervened and reminded me that these things, while upsetting and frustrating, are often the Universe's way of sending us a Big Message that we were probably ignoring over and over when It was attempting to communicate to us in the form of little subtle message. My Big Message appears to be: Slow Down, Rest, and Go Pin a Butt Load of Crap on Pinterest. Also, Read and Write.

So I have given myself 2 weeks of Slow Down and Rest. For the next 4 weeks, I will focus on Read and Write. And this will be a blessing in disguise kind of summer. I will have lots of time to focus on helping my little girl do some reading and writing (which I did NOT have time for this past August-May), and I will have lots of time to focus on doing some reading and writing for myself (which I did NOT have time for this past August-May). And maybe, along the way, I will train myself to notice when I'm going too fast. I am certain I will train myself to listen to messages on the school intercom that are telling me to leave (except, can I gently suggest that the "Time to Leave Now" soft, subtle alert would be more effective if done in an ominously threatening and very loud evil, deep and gravelly ghost-like voice that goes something like: GET OUUUUUUTTTT NOOOOOOWWWW!!!! DANGER IS IMMINENT!!!! ? I think something like that would have lit a fire under my butt 2 weeks ago...or not, because I'm notoriously obtuse when existing in my own little world).

In addition to all of that, I feel this may help jump-start my freelance writing career. I have been accepted as a writer at Blog Mutt, but have done zero writing due to time constraints (of which I have few to none, now) and initial shock at how long broken bones actually take to heal. I fully intend to hop over to Blog Mutt and see how many websites need an expert on broken fifth metatarsal bones--I feel that, due to the extensive Google research I have done over the last 2 weeks, I have enough information to start a new career as a fifth metatarsal bone knowledge doctor. I couldn't do surgery on your fifth metatarsal, but I can give you more information than you actually asked for or originally even wanted (it's a trait I inherited quite honestly from my father). I hear Blog Mutt pays $8 per article, and I figure if I can find enough bone-centric articles to concentrate on over the next 4 weeks, I can accrue at least enough money for a new pair of orthotic shoes just in time for School Year 2013-14.

And I had good news at the orthopedist's office yesterday after my update x-ray. Bones, which take a notoriously long time to heal (4 weeks for soft callous formation + 2 weeks for hard callous), can be tricky...every bone heals differently, and every person has DNA factors that contribute to bone healing time. I appear to have been fortunate with bone healing DNA (thanks, mom! thanks, dad! thanks, other ancestors who also contributed!), and my bones are already showing signs of being on the mend. And so I have relaxed a bit, and have decided to stop shaking my fists at the Universe, my poor gauge of physical fitness/decision-making under crisis, and my wimpy left foot bones for being such girlie men. I will take the next 4 weeks I've been ordered to stay off my left foot and read, write, and write some more.

I will also look at the positive side of things (another message I think the Universe was using both hand to yank on my face to look at, just like my only child daughter does when she needs me to focus): I can still drive, I will have a slightly bionic right foot/calf/thigh in another 4 weeks, amazing upper body strength (ironic, since that's exactly what I needed 2 weeks ago when I was on top of the gate), and my brain still works (most days, but never on Mondays and not while climbing gates).

And, when not out and about with my 90 year old woman walker (complete with tennis ball feet for easier sliding mobility), my mom and stepfather brought me a cool, ergonomic office chair to wheel myself around the house with (until you can't balance on both feet, you never think about needing feet to use your hands...it's an interdependent relationship most people with full feet use just don't consider--I've been out in public since the accident, and I am painfully observant of this. In fact, I spend a lot of time watching able-bodied adults rush about and I just want to grab them and go, "Do you know?! Do you even KNOW?! You have no idea how easily your whole world can change just by one foot! Say THANK YOU!). And, of course, I have, once again, become aware of how stupendously helpful and giving other human beings around me and in my life are when the going gets tough.

Grace and Thanksgiving, much like feet and hands, just seem to work best together. And that's probably on purpose, via some type of Universal Law of Physics.

I remain convinced my left foot is a wimp, though I'm being much kinder to it now during our heart to heart conversations about wellness and healing. I'm sure the Universe broke it to teach it some sort of lesson as well.