Shake, Rattle, and Roll

It sucks getting old.  Apparently, after age 40, its harder to get off the floor.  It’s a sad day, when, in order to get OFF of the floor, I need to stretch and do exercises first… then rely on the help of (laughing) family members who have informed me that I am indeed old.  After growling at them and giving them the stink eye, they walk away snickering to themselves. Phooey!

(Ok, I don’t exercise… other than running around school 4 days a week… which, in conjunction with stress insomnia… is killing me.  I now know what an undead person feels AND looks like.  Yey for realism!)

I want to thank Toyota for FINALLY agreeing to fix the problem that has plagued them for weeks… gas pedals that stick.  I no longer drive a Toyota, but I’d have to agree that a stuck gas pedal has to be the worst experience ever… I’ve seen the movies, I know how it’ll end. 

Well, we’re bracing for a MAMMOTH storm to hit us (Global Warming, by the way, has turned my little state into the Tundra this winter, so, thanks Al Gore for accurately assessing that the entire world will melt and puddle at our feet) this afternoon into tomorrow evening.

I guess that means NO CLASS again tomorrow.  This time I’ve gotten smarter… I announced to them YESTERDAY that in the event of cancellation, I am posting something for them at the class’ website that is mandatory participation or a zero (0) will be issued for the day.

Not that zeroes scare them, mind you.  I just gave about 15 zeroes out to students who did not turn their quizzes in.  That’s out of 80 students.  Now, I’m no mathematician by ANY stretch of the imagination, but that is a hefty number of lazy-asses…

I’ve been MIA again, the longest stretch of not writing in the nine years I’ve had my blog up and running, and it makes me sad.  To be honest, between minimalizing my decor, as per the request of our new realtor, will make the rooms POP with excitement…  (Truth be told, she she starts grabbing and moving things, it just reminds me to NEVER EVER EVER let my kids dust.  I was mortified when she grabbed things out of the bookcase for that “bare and barren” look… exposing a line of dust from a [certain-unnamed-son] who was on dusting duty.  (Guess who was recently transferred to toilet-scrubber?)

And… school… with about 100+ needy students… and all the drama that goes into it.

And… my laptop, which recently entered the “blue screen of death” marathon… that cost me $200 and still isn’t fixed (though, my school IT guy assures me that by resetting my computer and stripping everything OFF, and reinstalling XP and all the other programs, that it’ll be fine)… leaves me to either type on my mini-netbook (with a keyboard for chipmunks) or my son’s UBER slow desktop (which I’m on now whilst he’s at school).

Or my ISP who keeps sending emails from 2007, 2008 and 1492 to my phone/email.  Yey for technological progress!! (Will someone tell them that it’s now, currently, and without debate 2010??)

I also find myself writing “whilst” a lot.  Ohhh… I sound so collegiate… like from a big, fancy type school.  Yeah, no.  Sadly, after tutoring for a semester (big mistake fyi), I’ve learned the many versatile uses for “whilst”… and experiment with them often.

It keeps people on their toes at least…

With the Olympics beginning in a few days, I can’t help but chuckle at the blatant obliviousness of the Olympic Committee for choosing a warm-water location like Vancouver for their WINTER OLYMPICS.  A college friend of mine is from Vancouver… he says that its always mild because THEY’RE ON THE WATER.  A high school girlfriend of mine moved to the northern most reaches of Washington, close to Vancouver… she says the same thing.

Geographically and climatically, that seems crazy.  No snow at their latitude?  Ok, coastal, I see… however, the coastal regions on the EAST COAST get hammered with snow and ice.  What makes Washington State so special?

Oh, that’s where Lewis and Clark landed? So? The northern most state on the Pacific Coast?  So?  I think the Olympic gods need to give it to them once… a big, fat shot of snow.  At least they wouldn’t have to truck it in and hopes that it’ll not melt.

Silly rabbits, trix are for kids.

In the meantime, I will continue griping about the inequalities of celebrities to commoners.  Yesterday, whilst (see there it is again) talking about Enlightened thinkers and governmental reforms, I brought up the celebrity vs. stars comparison.

What is a star?  Many said Brangelina.  Relunctantly, mostly because of the moniker, I agreed.

What is a celebrity?  They snickered.  I, apparently, have been watching TOO MUCH TELEVISION… and although it hasn’t seemed that way, I had a revelation when I started on this banter… about celebrities are people who are willing to do stupid things in order to be noticed… for their 15-minutes of fame.  They haven’t worked towards their popularity, but rather, abuse the system that put them there.

Then, I said, “My name is Prof. Herstory and I am a television-a-holic…”

Three people snickered.  Thirty-two stared mindlessly at me.  One glared.

I saw the glare and returned the favor.  (Eff ewe … oh glary one.)

So, I have to go finish grading quizzes.

At home… open book… had a week to do these… quizzes.

Interesting how people cannot answer the questions asked of them.

Some things we’re not meant to know…

I received a CD in the mail last week and a note from my uncle that he found these in his basement and scanned them for me and my parents (they received their own copy).  I hadn’t looked at them all week, at least not until today.

There must have been 50 photographs in there… of my grandmother, my great-aunts and great-uncles, my father’s cousins, and my grandfather who died when my dad and uncle were young boys.  Just seeing my grandfather hugging his boys and playing with them, their smiles… just made me sad… and I started to cry.

If my grandfather hadn’t died when my dad was a small kid, would all of our lives have been different?  My father’s cousins who are old enough to remember my grandfather have told me how fantastic he was… how loving and kind and funny… how he’d give you the shirt off his back whether you needed it or not… and when I do see them (which is rare), I ask them… What was he like?  Did he make my grandmother happy?  Were they in love?  Did he love my dad?  My uncle?  Would he love me?  I don’t care how many times they have to tell me… I need to hear what he was like.

And, I also know that the answers will always make me sad… and it causes me to have this void in my life… for not having truly known my grandfathers and regret not knowing how they’d impact my life.

As I go through the pictures, I see the boys at a young age, so happy with their father.  Then, I find the one… that caused me to pause.  My father, his brother, and a cousin were in Central Park.  The look on my father’s face was one of anger.  Like my youngest son when he’s in “the mood.”  Just pure anger.  I stared at that picture for what felt like hours.  And, I felt this moment of clarity into the scope of my life… like a warm beam of light shining into the darkness…

 I think my grandfather had just died before that picture.

After I was able to continue viewing the rest of the pictures… I thought about what my father’s life was like after his father had died…

He grew up in that same one-bedroom apartment with his brother and mother.  My grandmother worked full-time to just survive.  I remember that apartment as I spent a lot of time there as a young child.  She doted on my uncle, who was a studious kid who went to college while my dad spent his teens and early twenties getting into trouble.  My father, she told me, was a trouble-maker who cut school, got in trouble w/ the police, and was an all-around pain in the ass.  

My father often complains that his mother never let him see his father (he apparently died in the hospital)… and was not permitted to go to the funeral.  He gets angry and upset when he talks about it.  I know what he means.  When my brother died, I regret not being given a quiet moment to ask him to forgive me… and to let him know that I did love him.  A lot.

My father and I are a lot more alike then he may realize.  We both have big regrets we can’t solve, get rid of, or release.  We are both angry.  We both feel unloved and unappreciated.  And, we both butt heads with one another… when I feel like he’s pushing my buttons and he is trying to make me see his side of things. 

Had my grandfather lived, would my father and I still feel so broken?  I don’t know.  I can’t think about it or I get lost in the “what-ifs”…

I just know that for as much as I try to not let history repeat itself, my kids sometimes act like they hate me… because I’m tough, I don’t always say “yes”, because will I yell instead of throw things or hit them, because I give them curfews or ground them from their video games and/or computers.  Whatever the case might be, I hope that one day they can say that they should be glad to NOT feel broken and fractured… to not resent or hold hatred deep inside… to not have a void.  At least, I hope they don’t feel broken and fractured… it would just destroy me to think that I continued this cycle in my family of having kids and not loving them enough.  That’s why I ALWAYS hug them and tell them that I love them.  Always.  (They probably resent having me do that… but one day, I want them to look back and know that I truly loved them.)

Anyway… enough of that.  (It’s like a deep schism of bleh poopies.)

We did restarted the Great Kitchen Chair Hunt today (something that’s been going on for years)… because I finally got paid after 1-1/2 months of being off from school… and settled on some folding chairs from Target that don’t LOOK like folding chairs.  And, after we got home, my husband put the crappy chairs out on the street. 

(I, actually, wanted to set them adrift on the river, torch them, and watch as their spirits floated peacefully to Valhalla, but my husband, sensing that I was in a weird nostalgic mood, instead opted to put them out to the street as an experiment in “let’s see how long it takes for our crap to turn into someone else’s treasure.”)

Then, something crap-taculously miraculous occurred: within 17 minutes, one of those uber-crapola chairs went missing.  I know, I’m totally shocked as well.  (Seriously, they were fantastically-craptastic.)

We are completing the life-cycle for the hoarders and garbage pickers.  See? Everyone on the food chain serves a purpose…

Do a little dance… make a lil noise

I apparently rub people the wrong way when I’m in an  opinionated mood.  My response is usually, “I’m entitled to my opinion.”  And, in my opinion, I’m tired of people telling what I should and should not believe in.

I started teaching my World I course last week and whilst we are in the midst (or rather, I’m in the midst of trying to facilitate discussion, but sensing they’d rather zone out and watch me pace and talk while they try to hide the fact that they’re texting in class)… I say, “I think the U.S. needs to focus internally because giving millions away to countries who have no intent of paying us back only deepens our debt.  Why can’t we let someone else play mommie every so often?”

You’d THINK that I personally stabbed this one kid in the leg w/ a dirty knitting needle or something.

“The poor in the US are nothing like the poor in Haiti.”

“Have you been to an Indian reservation?”

“We need to give Haiti MORE… do you know how much they struggle?”

“But, Haiti’s always struggled.”

“That’s because we haven’t helped them enough.”

“Yes we have.  Did you know that the US has sent millions in aid each year and their poor are still subsisting and existing on dirt?”

“That’s why we need to help them more.”

“What about the destitute in the US? Are they less worthy of our help because they live here and aren’t living in squaller, or currently, in disastrous conditions?”

(Oh the sounds of silence…)

These kids are willing to harness their left-wing liberal rantings and throw barbs at me, but have no understanding of the history, background, or prior issues that many of these countries have.

I’ll save THAT for another day… because I need to play catch-up…

Remember the student from last semester who cornered me in the hall to badger me about his paper grade?  This is the same kid who, fifteen minutes after taking a test, emailed me to ask me what his grade was.

Guess who popped into my class as I’m talking to my department supervisor?  You guessed it… the annoying PITA who is not (thankfully) in any of my current courses (thankfully)… and he HAD to make it a point, in front of my ENTIRE class, to say, “Your final was the HARDEST I’ve ever taken and it wasn’t fair.”

“Life’s not fair, goodbye.”

“But…”

“Good bye.”

My department chair looked at him and smirked as he walked out.

SERIOUSLY?  After an ENTIRE semester of having to deal with this pain… and his equally annoying sibling… he has to purposedly walk into my class, which doesn’t INVOLVE him, to bitch and moan about my final? 

Hello… did anyone ever welcome him to college?  No?  Well, why the hell not? (Oh wait… I did… a half dozen times… if not more.)

Ughhh… its so frustrating.  Bad enough, I have TWO pitas in one class… one uses an outside voice to blurt out what should really stay inside her mind.  The other is either strangely mental or an avid drug user (or, third option… has tourettes).

Or the kid who glares at me during another class, as if I killed his hamster with a hammer.

Or, the three girls who are GETTING on my last nerve with their makeup updates and hair flipping.

(((Someone remind me why I never prepare myself for the high maintenance, outdoor voice using, whacky nut job students??))

Even better… #1 son and his gf hit a new level this week… by my son’s use of his OUTDOOR voice while skyping with his gf that my husband and I accidentally stumbled upon, and his inability (or refusal) to give us the whole truth, the bottom nearly fell out of my world this week when we (sort’ve) discovered that he may (or may not) be having sex (or some other “intimate” stuff) with his gf.

When I say BOTTOM FALLING OUT… I had flashbacks of being his age and getting sucked into the big lie, otherwise known as my relationship with his father, and I started to panic.

Not to mention… they’ve both been acting so shifty lately… and are avoiding the truth… which sets my radar off the charts.

However, within the past few days… things have calmed a bit.

This doesn’t mean my eyes are shut, guarded, or blinded… it means I’m going to not bulldoze through right now.

Ok… so my oldest and youngest sons are bookends and this means that the oldest son is priming me for another bout of “I think I have either an ulcer or an anureism” moment (in another 12 years).  By then, I may just be on mind-altering meds, wrapped in a straight jacket, and pointed to the far corner of a padded room.

That is, IF I’m lucky…

So, to say that I’ve been doing nothing lately is a bold-face lie… I’ve been trying to keep both my heart and bring from exploding from insane stress, emotional distress, and ridiculous bullshit that had me in fits of tears.

But, I feel better today.

Our house is back on the market with a new realtor… who is, and she hates when I say it, a bulldog of sorts.

Being off the market for 6 weeks did nothing more than cause the price of our house to DRASTICALLY drop thanks to the failure of the stimulus package… the shitstorm the banks created… manipulated (at least what my husband believes) by realtors bent on selling houses, even if they have to force the prices into the dirt.

In other words, we’ve dropped the price of our house (since last April) over $70,000.

If I am able to sell my house at the current asking price, we’ll have pennies to move with.

I’m doubtful my house will sell this time.  And, with “three times’ a charm,” if we don’t see this time, we’re stuck til #2 graduates h.s. in 2 years… and hopefully during that time, I don’t end up LOSING my house… as my property tax has jumped over $500 for this year… and am in the 5-digits’ range.

Which put me into a fit of tears…

And, when I was able to compose myself and drag myself out to pick up my son… I unleashed INCREDIBLE HELL on two PTO moms who jammed a paper in my hand, trying to shame me into voting for the new school referendum… which would essentially raise our taxes AGAIN…

I recall raising my voice, trading barbs with the one, and somehow blurting out, “I’m not paying another red cent on my taxes… so bark up another tree.”

The older I get, the lower my tolerance for bullshit gets.  My bad.

Anyway, I need to chill… destress… and spend the next 40 minutes melting my brain as I watch television.

So, there’s my update… all crammed into one entry.  Enjoy!

Fueling up on potato salad and turkey sammies

Comment for today:  NBC sucks duck butt for bending to Leno (who is NOT funny) and leaving Conan O’Brien in a lurch.

HELLO?  If NBC is trying to drag its network into the bowels of death, it is going in the right direction!

——-

This will be really quick because I have to fetch #3 son from school and somehow finish 4 quizzes before going out w/ my husband and our friends.

(Shit, the thought went right out of my brain… I hate when that happens!!)

(Waiting…)

(Waiting…)

(Oh.. er… damn damn damn!)

(Hmm…)

(Wait!)

(OOH! OOH!! I got it back!)

So, either last night or the night before, whilst watching the news about the earthquake that hit Haiti this week, I had this URGE to volunteer with the Red Cross.  I don’t know why.  I can’t handle the smell of death.  I’m not good with seething, puss-filled infections.  I tear up when I see kids suffering.  I flinch when people hurt themselves.  And, I always have to pee (which means, if there’s no bathroom with a SEAT and toilet paper, I panic).  Well, this puts me in a situation now doesn’t it?  Not to mention the response received when I happened to blurt this out whilst sitting on the floor writing quizzes… “I think I want to volunteer with the Red Cross.”

Eyeballs were ALL on me.  My one son mumbled something that sounded like “You wont find a clean bathroom there”.  I shot him a sideways glare.  I can learn to squat and pee, can’t I? (Though… I’m not a guy, so my accuracy for peeing in a straight line is hampered by my  inability to PEE STANDING UP… and, I have also gone on and on about how women blindly HOVER while peeing in public bathrooms. And, who am I kidding?)

What?  Aren’t I entitled to a moment of humanity?  Can’t I occasionally shed a tear?  Should I always have ice running through my veins?  I can’t always be a cranky skeptic, right?

No, silly.

However, my semester starts on Wednesday and if I go, even though I would feel as though I’m helping someone, I’d probably get FIRED from my peasant position.  (Dilemma)

Why?  Well, this past week, I have emailed, called, and visited the school in order to get my course account (for online access) set up and low-and-behold… the guy who is hired FULL TIME to do this shit is nowhere to be found… and after running around the building sniffing for him (apparently, if I smell coffee, it’ll be him)… but, was not successful.  I left personal messages with three secretaries and four administrators. 

FINALLY, I get an email yesterday afternoon… “You’re classes are online.”

I really need to LOOK before I respond with a thank you.

Ugh…

I log in and see that instead of the three classes I’m scheduled to teach, this FULL TIME PROGRAM GUY put three classes that ARE NOT MINE in my account… which will, inevitably, screw up the first week for more than just MY classes.

*sighs*

*deep breathes*

I think my school is trying to kill me.  If that’s not their ultimate goal, my inability to put up with bullshit will inevitably get me fired.  Two hours ago, I fired off an email to the assistant dean complaining about this situation.  I’m fuckingtiredofthisonlineprogramguy… andhisinabilitytoDOHISGODDAMNJOBeffectively… andiftheschoollikesto-wastemoneyonpeople…whodonothingbutwalkarounddrinkingcoffee… Icanrecommendotherpeopletodothejob…HOWEVER… myschoolisveryineptinmanythings… andsomehowlikestomaketheparttimersfeellikeshitaboutit…. Ijustwannabetechnologicallyapt… andsavesometreesandinkintheprocess… butifyouwantmetowastesupplies… I’llwastesupplies… justdonttellmethatIamanunderlinganddontmatter… ifthatsthecase,thenyoucanteachmy98students… ungratefulbastages!

Hm.

I’d continue, however, I’m afraid I’d make people blind with my rant.

So, with that… I’m going to log off, get my youngest from school, and return to the bat cave so I can write these goddamn quizzes.

Sue me for wanting to save trees…

Sure, don’t take our handouts…

In light of the devastating 7.0 magnitude earthquake that struck outside of Port-au-Prince, Haiti, I have been thinking about why Haiti refuses to accept handouts until something devastating occurs.

Extreme poverty, as what exists in locations such as Haiti, do result in an influx of illegal immigration to the United States, especially to Florida and other Gulf Coast regions.  It is not for the lack of trying to help the Haitians, but the inability of its government to utilize the assistance… food, clothing, aid workers, etc.

A couple of years ago, I recall reading an article about how the poor people in Haiti are eating dirt to survive because the price of food rose so drastically in addition to the slew of hurricanes that have plowed across their island.

How goddamn poor do you have to be in order to eat dirt?  Pretty goddamn poor, actually.

So, I know that various international aid agencies have been sending foodstuffs and other important items to Haiti as they do to every other dark corner of the earth.  However, if there is aid being sent… who is it going to and why are the poor STILL eating dirt?  I thought that aid was primarily for those who actually NEED it, not for fat suits with deep pockets or to be left to rot in warehouses or used to manipulate people.

This is why I never send anything to anyone.  When I was a kid, and my school would pass out the UNICEF boxes at Halloween for us to collect change with, my father adamently refused to allow us to shake the boxes at people’s doors.  Why?  “UNICEF could give a rat’s ass about the poor in our own country… we need to take care of our own first.”

And, his opinion has stuck with me for years… if Haiti, for instance, is receiving aid for years for their poor and destitute, and missionaries are there to build schools, what is its government actually DOING?

So, in light of the 7.0 mag earthquake that hit them yesterday, I’m wondering if Haiti will accept all of the aid that will be sent, and send some of it to the poor in the small dirt-hut villages outside of Port-au-Prince.  My guess is no.  My guess is that they will use the money to rebuild the Haitian “White House” and other important buildings, help the middle and upper classes to reassemble, but allow little to trickle down to the dirt-eating poor.

The United States has dirt-eating poor people, too.  In the mountain regions of Tennessee, Alabama, as well as the destitute areas in the lower South, midwest, and southwest.  People who are SO poor that they can’t get public assistance because they have fallen off the government radar.  People who live in little shacks without running water or toilets.  People who will take any job they can in order to have money to buy something for their children to eat.

Why, if we are an industrialized and moderately wealthy nation, are our poor just as destitute?  Why are there children without medical care?  Parents without jobs?  People without a high school education?

When my grandmother was a child, during the 1920s and 1930s, her mother died, leaving her in the care of her father.  My great-grandfather remarried an (awful) woman who took everything my great-grandmother had and kept it for herself.  Then, she sent my grandmother away to live with her older brothers and sisters and their families.  My grandmother used to tell me about how she dropped out of middle school to take care of her nieces and nephews and to be a cook and maid to her siblings.  When she started to date my grandfather, one of her brothers (born in Italy and of the “Old Ways”) was disgusted with the fact that she was holding hands with my grandfather, and proceeded to beat her senseless.  My grandfather, also born in Italy and of the “Old Ways”, took her from her brother’s home and married her.  He told my great-uncle to never lay a hand on her again.

My grandparents were not wealthy people.  My grandfather, for instance, was a teamster in NYC for a while.  He worked in the garment district, and designed things for his bosses, of which they paid him little for the designs and took all the credit.  My grandmother, raising three children, one of whom had severe downs syndrome (her oldest daughter), took odd jobs… she baked cookies at a bakery, assembled lead pencils, and whatever else she could do to help her family.  They were upper-poor.  They lived in an Italian neighborhood in NYC and stayed there until my grandfather died.  Then, my grandmother did the rounds with my aunt’s family and our’s.  When I was 12, she moved into a senior citizens’ complex and stayed there until she had to be put in a nursing home as she suffered from severe demensia.

Is my story any different from anyone else? No.  My grandparents took NO handouts.  They worked hard for what meager living they did have.  And, they loved each other.

I can’t say that I’d be where I am today (typing on my laptop in the batcave), if it weren’t for both sets of grandparents.

Back to Haiti…

I hope, that at some point, they have a leader whose primary concern is for the poor and destitute of his country.  And, perhaps it took an earthquake to wake up the world to the plight of the poor in 3rd world countries.  Who knows. 

What I do know is that until aid is received properly and doled out to those who desperately need it, instead of being sold at high prices on the open market, left to rot because of political red tape, or the like… the dirt eating poor will continue to live a less-than-meager existence and will die of disease, starvation, and malnutrition while the rest of us are microwaving frozen pizza and throwing away the crusts.

Sound of madness

Over the past semester, my good friend S has become a mere acquaintance.  Since she’s been married and has had her baby (within the past year and a half), she and I just don’t see each other very often.  It probably doesn’t help when she says things like, “Oh, we’ll hang out SOME time” or “I just wanted to call you because of all my friends, I know that YOU’RE home” as well as “I’m going out to lunch with my friends, I just wanted to call you really quick.”

Sorry?  I don’t have time in my life for people who either make it extremely hard to be their friends or have no  interest in maintaining a 12-year relationship with me.  So, that’s all I’m going to say about her.

However, my “friend” from h.s. who pissed me off a few weeks ago has nary said more than a “but I love you, you’re my friend” comment to me in the past few weeks.  Love doesn’t mean being a ginormous dickhead to those people lucky enough to be your friends.  Groveling is optional, but don’t expect me to forget that you have been a ginormous, insensitive, and callous dickhead to me. 

My OTHER h.s. friend and I are going out for lunch today.  She told me that for Xmas, she really REALLY wanted John Lennon’s Imagine CD, but her husband gave her the DVD for the movie (there’s a movie? no kidding).

Well, its (sort’ve) her lucky day… because I have the CD… and after driving 20 minutes to the nearest mall (crap-mall) because the nearest BIG mall is an hour away… to the record store (do they still call them that? crap, I think I’m getting OLD)… and looked under pop/rock for John Lennon.  What do I find?  The DVD for Imagine and a bunch of compilation CDs that weren’t what I was looking for.  So, I go to the counter and ask the pimply-faced worker for help.

“Hi, do you guys have John Lennon’s Imagine CD somewhere else in the story?  All I see is the DVD.”

He stared at me for about 30 seconds.  What?  Do I have a booger on my face?  No?  Start tapping away at that keyboard sonny-boy.  I’m not in the mood for games.  Do you know how COLD it is outside? No? It’s 21.  That means I’ve driven 20 minutes only to sprint across the parking lot in 21-degree frigidness… so just appease me and tell me that there’s an Imagine CD somewhere in your store.

“No, we don’t have that anywhere in our store or in our inventory.”

“Seriously?”

“Bye.”

Wow.  Someone failed customer service classes.

So, after going to W’mart and not finding it, I bought blank CDs and plastic cases.  Screw this, I said (aloud, in W’mart, which caused people to stare at me, and I didn’t seem to care, because W’mart is a goddamn circus act anyway), and I took my blanks and cases and darted across the parking lot to my car.

Vroom… 20 minutes later, I have this FANTASTIC IDEA that I can burn the CD for her and color-photocopy the cover inside the case and make it look real.  If nothing else, I get an A for effor.

Two HOURS later… we’re still trying in vain to burn this goddamn CD. 

(Dear Dead John Lennon… You suck.)

My oldest son (who returned from his gf’s house to help me with this colossol pain in the ass project) spent 2 hours trying in vain to get this thing to burn on his laptop… but it would jam by song 12.  Is the computer a conservative?  A war-mongering hippie hater?  My guess is yes.

My middle son, exhausted and smelly, just returned from ski club.  He wouldn’t helped us (he’s our own personal Geek Squad), however, he had homework to do before crashing in bed.

So, after my older son wasted 3 brand new blank CDs… I called it quits (it was now 11:30pm).

I figured that after I drove #3 son to school, I could go home and persuade (gently) MY laptop to cooperate, which is what I’m delicately waiting to happen (we’re in “burning” mode now).

I can’t exhale until this goddamncatastropheisover. 

Last night, whilst #1 son was making time at his gf’s house (apparently her mom doesn’t cook very well… hence, I am again the “cool” mom because *I* can cook)… I converted left over tomato soup, salsa, and turkey cutlets into Turkey Tortilla soup.  And, frankly it was fantastic.    (I’m somewhat famous in our house for taking leftovers and making a new dish… want the recipe?  I just threw shit together and POOF… it was edible and my husband licked the pot clean afterwards… which saved on hot water and dish soap.)

I came to the conclusion that the reasons I am having a hard time with this girlfriend thing  is that I don’t want to lose my son to her and there’s something about her I don’t know if I can trust… but can’t put my finger on exactly what.

Perhaps, it was her leafing through our shit the other day… you know “just looking”.  Or, going through my cabinets for no apparent reason.  I’ve met this girl 3 times and have spent (excluding unsupervised time in the batcave) maybe 5 hours with her and I know little.  I have staved off the urge to interrogate her… at the request of my son… who pouty-faced, teary-eyed begged me to NOT do that to her.

But… but… that’s what I’m GOOD at.  I ask a lot of questions… I stare at the person until they break, cry, or make an excuse to leave.  That is, IF they’re hiding something, which I think this girl is.

Not to mention, she feels it necessary to grope my son whenever she’s with him.

Ok, I just turned into my mother again.  *cries & whimpers*

(By the way, it burned BEAUTIFULLY and I just put it in its case.)

(See?)

Can you tell which is which?  I’m good, right?  *chuckles*

Anyway, I was talking to my mother yesterday, nearly in tears.  I can’t handle being the bad cop, the mom, the babysitter, the teacher, the wife, the friend… I’m tired, man.  really freaking tired.  I wear too many hats at one time and I just can’t juggle it anymore.

She said, and I quote, “Well, now you know what its like to HAVE a teenager.”

“What do you mean by that?”  Here I go getting all sensitive and defensive.  What I don’t need are jaded recollections of MY teenage years.  I endured years of bullying by my dad, so yes, I was extremely sensitive.  He scared the shit out of me as a kid and as I grew older, I grew to resent him.  So, I mouthed off… is that the best you can do?  I didn’t do drugs.  I didn’t go to parties.  I wasn’t having wild-crazy sex with guys (or girls, for that matter). 

“Well, YOU were a handful…”

“Excuse the shit out of me,” Yes, I interrupted my mother, “The police NEVER showed up on your doorstep looking for ME, I didn’t stay out late, I didn’t go to parties, I wasn’t wasted, I wasn’t stoned, I didn’t do jack diddly and you are saying that *I* was a handful?  You are KIDDING me, right?”

“Well, from MY perspective…”

I cut her off again.  She has a selective memory.  My brother was the good kid, that’s right.  (Even though he was a frequent flier with the local and state PD… never put in jail… just yelled at for stupid shit and being in the wrong place at the wrong time sort’ve things… he was rebelling for the both of us because HE had little responsibility and I had it ALL.)

“Stop.  You’re telling me that I was the stress factor?  Bullshit.”

“Ok, your brother was a handful…”

“He was a HANDFUL for ME.  You worked all day.  Dad worked all day.  I had to keep that kid out of trouble and it was not an easy job.”  That’s the longest job I had ever had… 19 and a half years.

“Well, you did help us out.”

“HELP?  I cleaned, I cooked, I had to keep him out of trouble… you’re kidding me.”

(If I don’t develop high blood pressure because of my kids, then it’ll definitely be defending my youth from my absent-minded parents.)

I hear my dad yelling in the background, “She was a pain in the ass.”

“I might’ve been a pain in the ass, but at least you KNEW where I was and what I was doing… NOTHING!”

While my friends were out having fun, I was banished to the house.  I went to the mall… with my girlfriends.  However, no parties.  Though, I did sneak in a couple of parties during h.s., but I didn’t really drink anything because when I got home, my mother would sniff me.  Then, she’d lecture me on being with boys in the backseat of cars, getting wasted, and being a slut.  This continued until I was engaged.  A week before our wedding, we’re painting our apartment, and my mother calls to tell me to not have sex before the wedding.  See what I had to deal with?

AND NOW I AM MY MOTHER…

I’m finding myself saying crazy shit to him like, “Remember, having children is a big responsibility.”

*bangs head on desk*

I’m going crazy… I know it.  It’s definitely on both sides of my family.  I’ve tried to escape the hereditary insanity, HOWEVER… I think what pushed me over the edge was the girlfriend.  His “first” official girlfriend that we know about.

Maybe it would’ve been better had I not known about her.

*exhales slowly*

So, I’m going to go to lunch with my girlfriend from h.s. who is the ONLY person I know who has kids the same ages as all THREE of my kids: 18, 15, and 6 (her’s is 5).  We have been going to each other a lot lately for advice and sympathy.

At first, her oldest daughter brought home a 25 year old recovering alcoholic as her boyfriend… and she won the award for the biggest ball of stress.

However, after my son brought home this girl, whose ex “tried to kill her” after his mother kicked him out and he moved in with her and her parents, I apparently have won the award.

Woo… lucky me.  It’s like celebrating a sexually-transmitted disease.  Woohoo! I have crabs!

Anyway… today my unemployed sleeping beauty is slowly eating away at his savings and is taking his gf skiing… by themselves… which means I will be a GIGANTIC ball of stress until he’s home.

Does this ever change?  Is it because I was a single mom that I’m terrified he will do the same (he does then things, btw)?  Or, is it because I don’t want to lose him? Or, that I don’t trust this girl.

I want to like her.  I really do.  But, she is one goddamn lazy kid… laying on the couch… leaning on my son… suffering from the inability to sit up… that annoys me probably moreso than her snooping (ok, that pisses me off, too… and, after demonstrating, it pisses off my husband).

So, if I have a heart attack… stroke… or seizure… I want you all to go, enmasse, to this girl’s house, and slap the smile off her face.

Ok, I have to go wrap the CD…

Have a good one!

The BIG writing on the wall

Where is there written in the laws of the cosmos that I cannot do spot checks on my son and his new girlfriend whilst they’re hiding in my family room watching a movie under a blanket when I’m working in the bat cave.

I just went upstairs to check on them and he jumped up (quickly) and I laid hell into him for not doing the dishes HOURS ago (when they PROMISED me they’d clean up after lunch).  He did this pouty-ignore-mom face.  Finally, after I asked for the umpteenth time what was wrong NOW, he said, “Don’t yell at me in front of her again.”  My response, “You should’ve done the dishes in the FIRST place.”

I don’t give a rat’s ass who is in my house… if they make a mess and I’m in a yelling mood, I’m going to yell.  When my 18-almost19 year old GETS his OWN place, he can dictate what happens there.  I yell because I am tired of repeating myself.  Once, twice, thrice, and more.  If you DON’T want me to yell at you (in front of your girlfriend who, coincidentally is UNDER a blanket with my son), then DON’T piss me off.  Capiche?

My girlfriend called me a “cock blocker” while I was bitching about finding out about the girlfriend (this was the weekend after Xmas)… she said, “Because dads feel the need to slap boys on the back and tell them to ‘go for it,’ moms have to be the cockblockers.”

Not that I’m not good at being a cb… I just find it annoying that after speaking to him THREE times about this, and that we do not like them LAYING on each other, he still refuses to speak to her about it.  Therefore, his last warning was today… now I will go upstairs and if I see them laying on each other, I will pause the movie and talk to BOTH of them about how they should be sitting after dating a couple of weeks. 

I thought that by putting the image of his grandparents going at it, that it would’ve (mostly, if not temporarily) stopped him from being “sexual,” however… I need to pull out the BIG guns… I’m going to bring a friend’s husband over… and let him harass the shit out of the two of them until they no longer can look at each other without going in convulsions.

Yup, that’s the plan. 

So, with less than 2 weeks to go before my semester begins officially, I have written the syllabi, typed out the terms’ list, and organized BOTH notebooks.  The next step is to tackle the rest of my list: quizzes, do-now questions, first-day activities, and adjusting the notes.

I’m tired… and I haven’t even started denting the pile of work to do yet.  That’s the problem w/ the spring semester, there’s just not enough time to get ready.

Needless to say, I’m also two days off… Sunday, I woke up abruptly to everything spinning wildly out of control… and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to throw up, fall down, or throw up.  THIS feeling was the reason I can’t handle crazy amusement park rides.  The sheer twist and turn of the Tilt-a-Whirl puts my stomach in my ears, where it’ll remain for the rest of the week.

Shutting my eyes only made matters worse… and when I awoke so “violently”, I swung my arm over to grab the bed and hit the cat on his head… which in turn caused him to claw my husband’s chest.  “OH MY GAWD, MAKE IT STOP!”  I yelled, freaking out the cat, the husband, and the deaf-but-barks-constantly-dog who was in a deep doggie sleep a few feet away.  I tried sitting up, but I felt like I was in a blender… I somehow managed to make it to the bathroom where…

I didn’t throw up.

But, I thought about it.

And, with my husband’s help, I managed to fumble down the stairs and position myself in our big comfy chair… however, it was 8am (I had been working on school stuff until about 1am) and everytime I tried to put my head to the left or right, the room wildly spun again.

I waited until 9am to call the doctor’s service (stupid, I know), because the smell of turkey bacon cooking on the stove put me into a fit of dryheaves.

So, who returns my call?  The Ukrainian Amazon doctor (she’s about 5′11″ and weights as much as a styrofoam cup).  If I understood what she was saying (as her Ukrainian accent was more than I my poor brain could handle), I probably wouldn’t have had to piss her off by saying, “I have NO idea what in the hell you’re saying… just help me… I can’t stop this crazy ride!”

(It probably went more like, “I’m gonna die, help me.”)

“Yew, yew haft ‘vertigew’.”

“No shit,” I said, holding my hand over my mouth.

“Sarey?”

“Nevermind.  Meds, I need meds.”

For the next two minutes (which could’ve been a hundred hours… because when you can’t understand someone, it doesn’t matter how long they speak, it’s all mumbo-jumbo), she told me what meds to take… spelling them out, in her heavy Ukrainian accent, so I don’t buy something to cure hair loss or purple poops.

And, I begged my husband to drive to the pharmacy to get it… begging him to ask the pharmacist to see if these would be SMALL pills, or liquid… because I’m a pill baby and hate taking pills.

He returned shortly after (which, again, felt like two lifetimes and a cat’s last two lives) with CHEWABLE motion sickness pills.  It wasn’t nearly as bad as chewing Tylenol, so it was GREAT…

And, within a few minutes, things calmed… except the nausea.  That was quelled with saltine crackers and some ginger ale.

But, I still couldn’t tilt my head or lay down all day.  So, here I am feeling like death and ALL I WANT TO DO is sleep, but I can’t.  It was as though I was being tortured by the Sealey sheep.

Ok, that night I laid down… not taking a pill b/c I had been feeling better… and EVERY TIME I SHUT MY EYES… things abruptly spun.

By 1am I took a pill… and within a few minutes I was sound asleep.  The next morning, I felt hung over and moderately stoned.  Damn, those motion sickness pills are kickass!

So, Sunday the new gf was supposed to come over for dinner… and when I told my son that it wasn’t going to happen, he got MAD AT ME.  Uh, fuck you if you can’t have an ounce of compassion for your mother who is spinning wildly out of control without a stop button.  Geezus rice and beans.  Nice kid, eh?

Monday, he nagged me to have her over for dinner.  Nope.  Still not feeling up to the nausea I get from watching them secretly grope one another. 

Tuesday… today… she’s been here ALL GODDAMN DAY… and supposedly will be tomorrow.  Why?  Her parents work and will not let her be in the house with him without an adult.  So, I’m the lucky bastard who gets to babysit two hormonal teenagers.

Thank YOU, to whomever thinks that is funny.  May a horse kick you in a dark nether regions of your bottom.

So… now I’m ready to go upstairs, relieving my two other sons (they were told to NOT leave the two of them alone, no matter what it takes)… because my middle son is THOROUGHLY aggravated that he has to sit there and stare at them, to make sure that I will NOT become a grandmother before I’m of the grandmotherly age.

I’m 41.  I do not want to be a grandmother until I have white hair and spend most of my days rocking in a rocking chair on a front porch I do not have.  Therefore, although I want to feel young, having this idea in my head that if I let down my guard, he’s gonna get her knocked up, is affecting my sleeping, my balance, AND my consciousness.

I am NOT prepared for the rigors of dating… not at all.

Does whatever a spider can

I woke up this morning to see it snowing.  It figures, the ONLY New Years in YEARS in which we’ve been invited anywhere.  We usually make a bunch of appetizers and rent a movie w/ the kids… and watch the ball drop at midnight.

Last year we hosted the “all night video gaming”… inadvertently, and told the boys at 2AM that either the games go off or I’m throwing the breaker switch.

The year before, kids slept over…

The year before that… probably the same thing.

A friend of sorts invited us to her house tonight (with our kids) for fun, laughs, and stuff.

I’m excited.. truly.  However, when I woke up to see over an inch of snow and it coming down SUPER hard, I began to wonder if the fates don’t like us having fun…

hmm…

Ok, story time…

This semester, I was GRACED with the presence of two brothers, three priests-in-the-making, two non-traditional students, seven friends of my older son, and a kid in the military who only showed up when he remembered to come to class.

Compared to last spring, this was a dream…. I had about 95 students (by the end of the semester, I think I was down to 86-ish)… of that number, 15 liked in-class discussion & debate… which got lively at times.  Like, after we read an article titled, “Sons of Liberty: Patriots or Terrorists?”

THAT article, if they all read it (which not all did), discussed what terrorism is, what terrorists are, and addressed the possibility that the Sons of Liberty (a rebellious group of Patriots who would irk the British… with events like the Boston Tea Party, in response to the British oppression and taxation of the colonists… and their antics led to the first shots of the war at Concord & Lexington, MA.) 

Apparently, these kids have a warped understanding of what a terrorist is.  I asked, “Describe a terrorist.”

It was silent… and I watched and waited.  Then, after a pregnant pause, someone raised his hand (did I mention that in two classes, I had only 5 females out of 65 students?)… and he said, “I think terrorism is anything that makes people feel threatened.”

“Good,” I said, looking around for more comments, “Anyone else?”

Hmm… the hamster was on vacation for most of them… and it took a WHILE for these kids to get what I was asking.  (The question SEEMS easy, however, there’s a lot to it, right?)

“Someone who kills?”

“Ok, good, however, do all terrorists kill people?”

Ok, so you get the message… and eventually, we make our way to the American Revolution. 

“So, were Sam Adams and the others guilty of being terrorists in terms of 1770s?  What about 2009?”

Now we’re getting somewhere…

And, that’s when one of the brothers (both of whom sit in the front and usually giggle and act spastic for most of the class)… lifts his head from his nap, and asks, “What are we talking about?”

Strike one for stupid.

Another day, they both came in late, carrying ice cream (apparently the student government was giving it away en masse)… prancing to their seats… making ”mm mm” sounds as they ate… and it caused me to stop class and ask them to either take it OUTSIDE or throw it out.

“Did you want some?  I can go get you some…” the one brother was always trying to either get OUT of class or make time with one of the three female in that room.

“No.”

“I can get you sprinkles.”

“One more time and you’ll have to leave.”

They were late daily, and I keep careful records… even jotting down the time the students come in late.  I’m no fool… trust me.

“I wanna study guide,” one of the brothers interrupted one of the last classes before finals while I was teaching.

“Excuse me?”  I tried teaching over him, but I could see the rest of the students getting annoyed by their antics.

“I wanna study guide.”

This is where I lost it… a little.

I swung around so I could face them, and I started with my angry eyebrows and sharp-pointed finger.  Each and every time I see this done on television, it has an impact.  So, I tried it.

“I have had ENOUGH of you two.  If you insist on interrupting this class again, you will be asked to leave and I will fail you for the semester.”

HA!

“But… but…”

“SHUT IT NOW.”

It wasn’t just the relentless nagging for a study guide… it was talking over me about everything. 

Fifteen minutes after the first test, I get an email from one of the brothers, “Can I have my test grade now?”

Twenty minutes, an hour, an hour and thirty, and about six more times that day, I received the same, exact email, “I wanna have my test grade.”

My last response was, “IF you continue to badger me, I will give you your test grade in May of 2025.”

That shit finally stopped… only to be replaced with, “I wanna have my paper grade,” “I don’t LIKE my paper grade,” and “I wanna study guide.”

First of all… people…. this is COLLEGE.  I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s community college OR a four-year institution.  You do NOT demand of me… nor do I give study guides willingly (usually my dept chair or the regular full-time teacher will casually say, “So, you did give out study guides, right?”).  Study guides?  Are you kidding me?  By NOW they should be able to study without me telling them what to study.

Don’t get me wrong…. I do tell them what to NOT study.  I also resent having to be forced to give study guides to students who never use them anyway.  It’s a waste of time for me and death to trees… needlessly

I sort’ve compromised… much to the chagrin of the students I’ve had since last fall.  One called me out in class, “Prof Herstory… are you KIDDING ME??”

“What now?”

“You NEVER gave us study guides nor did you cut us any breaks.  You’re getting soft!”

“No,” I responded after letting out a HUGE sigh, “I’m getting tired.”

And, that is the true definition of teaching, any age: how long it takes until they wear you down.

Anyway… I have decided that this week would be dedicated to playing video games, watching television, and trying to read.

NO SCHOOL STUFF…

By the way, last night I watched, “Boy in the Striped Pajamas.”

Have any of you seen this yet?  It’s incredible!  Triple tissue box rated!

If you get the chance, watch it… but don’t blame me if it upsets you (it is a Holocaust movie, ya know).

Ok, so have a HAPPY NEW YEAR… and I hope that 2010 ends the first decade of the 21st century properly (yes, the decade doesn’t end until 2011… and the media needs a lesson in what comprises a century).

See you NEXT year (haha… that never gets old)!

Create a temple in MY image

My mother is a born again Christian.  When she decided to leave the Catholic Church and drag us to a born-again one, I was in my teens.  The other kids my age were forced upon me, and my mother wanted me to NOT have any other friends… because they are holy and Godly and do no wrong.

Wrong.

My personal experience of being a teenager in a born-again church went like this: I was humiliated by an extremely conservative pastor, publicly, because I wore earrings, makeup and pants to church.  This singled-me out from the core of the youth group and drew too much attention to me.  I was ignored by the “popular” girls… and their younger sisters clung to me.  I wanted to hang out with my friends from school, but my mother used to drag us to every available service… Wed, Fri, Saturday and Sunday.  I think she did this so that I wouldn’t have a chance to err… and go down the path of a sinning whore.

However, what I learned about the youth group was quite interesting, and even today, my mother denies it… saying that I’m exaggerating.

The girls my age and older were taking turns screwing each of the boys, regardless of age… well, from 14 on up.  They’d hit all the bases in one night and pass him off to one of the other girls.  I stumbled upon this quite innocently… which made me despise youth group even more.  What pushed me over the edge was the one youth leader who singled me and another girl out and accused us of screwing boys in the backseat of cars… which I hadn’t done… and glorified the girls who were… saying I had to be more holy like them.

If being holy meant that I’d have to suck random boys’ thingies, then I was not going to be a part of it.  I was angry, no wonder my mother kept accusing me of being a whore (I have some letters to prove it)… because I rather have hung around the guys AS their peer (uh, my hanging out with any church kids was limited, and when I allowed myself to hang out with them more, I found myself getting into trouble… trouble I never had been in before, nor wanted to be in again), then to subject myself to emotional distress being around the girls, who were catty, mean, and collectively hurtful.  The guys, although being “serviced” by the other girls, were more fun and were less inclined to make me feel like shit.

When that youth leader said that, I got up, and walked out.  When my mother saw me come upstairs (it was a Friday), she told me to go downstairs.  I refused.  I wanted to go home.  I did not come there to be insulted and lied about.  I wanted to go home, and no one was going to stop me.  Well, except my mother, who drove.

The pastor noticed that a few of us were upset (it was a Bible study or whatever) and stopped to ask what happened.  I started to cry.  A lot.  And, I went outside and waited for my mother to take me home.

She must’ve gone downstairs… to speak with the man who embarassed and humiliated me (by lying)… because shortly thereafter, he came outside to speak to me.  I told him he knew NOTHING… and I refuse to go back to his youth group, ever again.

Little did he know, his daughter was one of the whores… but, in his eyes, she was pristine and holy.

I haven’t been in a church for over 10 years, with exception to weddings, funerals, and having that year in the Catholic school (technically, when we had service, it was in the gym… thereby, this doesn’t count as being “in church”).

I was a good kid… I didn’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or have ANY sex (until I was in my early 20s and started going out with Asshole).  I was goofy, funny, and loved hanging out with my high school friends because they never shamed me into behaving a cerrtain way.  To this day, I’m friends with people from high school.  I haven’t spoken to church people in um… 15 years.  (Except when I run into them at random times… which is very infrequent).

So, now that my son is dating… my mother feels its necessary to recharge her campaign for us to go back to church, as we NEED Jesus to save us or we shall surely burn in hell.  Now, I’m used to that conversation and I just tell her to stop and be done with it, however, she’s now starting on my children…

I knew things were going downhill with her when my 6 year old asked me what “hell” was. 

“Stop telling #3 son he’s going to burn in hell, you’re being ridiculous.”

“You are RESPONSIBLE for their souls, Herstory!!”

“What I am responsible for, is raising them properly, with a sense of right and wrong, NOW their souls.”

(Personally, I don’t know if I technically “believe” in the “you need Jesus” thing… The more I study and teach early world histories, the more skeptical I am…. specifically aiming towards the early churches and the early church leaders in Rome… who were accredited with starting this whole thing.  I’m not sure if there’s a heaven or hell, or even a purgatory.  I think that these things were created by leaders to control the actions of their people… and are being used TODAY to try to control me and my children.  If God loves us, then he loves us.  IF he wants to smite us into little volcanic dust piles, then that’s his decision.  However, I do have issue with God “allowing” people to die and kill.  THAT’S a theological discussion for another time… perhaps not at all…Not to mention, once my dad started going to church, the hypocracy really pushed me to the edge.  My dad, ever the hypocrit, would be a GLORIOUSLY holy person in church, only to thrust his fist in our faces, puff out his chest, and stomp around the house as the Alpha male, stomping on our hearts in the process.  However, church people only saw the “church guy” part… and would tell me that I should be so PROUD to have such a righteous dad.  Oh, sure, proud.  That’s it.  And, my mother and father rose in the ranks of church leadership, dragging us along as their poster children.  I couldn’t stand the circus show… so when we moved 40 minutes away from my parents, we had the freedom to say, “Uh, sorry, we’re leaving here”… which I’m glad I did… however, I think my mother’s guilt… which is relatively new for my husband… is growing effective.  This is the woman who will text my husband when I’m angry with him, telling him to “make his house right”… which is another reason I do not tell my mother everything anymore.  If Christianity is representative of my parents, then I don’t want any of it.)

Needless to say, she sent me a couple the other day that incurred my wrath (because, I can only take so much):

“Your son will become a sex addict unless he dates a Christian girl.  You need to take them to church so they can get away from the temptations of this world.”

My blood starts to boil…

“And, if you don’t take those children to church and “get right” with God, you all will perish.”

My response was mostly out of exasperation, anger and frustration:

“Uh, the girls in church were whores… and I will NOT force my children to attend a church that condemns their individuality and forces conformity.”

“Not all churches are like that… you need to find a holy one… My pastor says…”

I stopped reading.

“I will not be attending ANY church ANY time soon, so stop nagging me and leave my kids out of it.  Got me?”

Yes, I said, “Got me” to my mother.  However, if I am not brutal with her, she will continue to pick and pick.  And, instead of being my mother and their grandmother, loving us for who we are… she is a missionary with a goal: to convert us back to Christianity and drag us back to the cross… crying, gnashing of teeth, or whatever Biblical reference you prefer.

I will not get sucked into the “idea” of someone dictating my life by using guilt, shame, and biblical references.  Sorry. 

I think heaven and hell were created by mankind to explain what happens after one dies… to comfort the surviving loved ones.   And, with so many religions thinking that they are THE religion, tells me that there is no ONE particular religion.  Therefore, I have chosen to be a (mostly) good person, with relatively few vices, and teach my kids right from wrong.

My husband, last night, told me that he was thinking about going back to church.  I told him that I would not step foot in another church unless I was at a funeral, wedding, or other specific “event” that only requires me to be there for that moment.  I have been hurt, humiliated, and made bitter by my experiences with people and churches from the age of 14 until age 30.  I’m done.  Done.  And, I do not want our kids to be shamed into being someone they’re not by people who are keeping tallies of the “souls” they save.  I’m not totally convinced that church is what my boys and I need.  The older ones, who spent 2 weeks with my parents over the summer, do not ever want to do that again… as their grandparents dragged them to church on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, AND Sunday.  They hated it.  The older ones told me that their grandparents told EVERYONE that they do not GO to church because their parents refuse to… so, they were pitted by the church people, they laid hands on them, prayed for their souls, called out demons, and other things they felt they needed to do in order to save their souls.  I think they even threw buckets of donkey pee, and danced in circles around them while chanting, “Save them, save them”.  (Tho, I can’t be totally certain.)

And, just because I don’t drag my kids to church, doesn’t mean that they will be scumbags. I was an innocent who was scarred by church youth… they taught me to drink, smoke, and made me a witness to debauchery… and with each and every pastor we’ve ever had, I learned more and more how much I wanted to be free from them and their grip.  When I finally broke free, I felt FREE.  I no longer felt upset or forced to be upset or whatever.  I just felt… free. 

Yes, I realize that not ALL churches are that way… however, in the several churches we had attended since getting married, the story was always the same.  The youth group was always overtly sexual, filled with drugs, alcohol and lying.  My kids behave, I’ve never had cops at my door, nor have they ever gotten a detention or suspension.  I count myself lucky.  Yep, lucky.

I’m not going to give up that freedom for Biblical subjugation… not anymore.

So, therefore, the moral to this story is that although my mother may be going to heaven, I know the truth… and the truth has set ME free.

Finally, a time to breathe

Ok, so I have never, in the eight years I’ve been writing this, have I ever gone this long without writing.  I’m used to writing at least  3 times a week.  Now, I’m lucky if I can post once a month.  But, now that Xmas is over, and all of my cooking has been completed, I can chill with my kids.

Well, that is, after I shower, get dressed, and drive all over kingdom come to return gifts.

Aghh…

Last week, on the last possible day of school, a PARENT emails me wanting to know why her son failed my class.

Um… this is college, and legally I can’t share that with her unless she signs the waiver… which, she supposedly did… but if I can’t view it… it doesn’t exist.  And, I’m not allowing anyone, regardless of who they are, to fax me, call me, or show up at my house…

Therefore, I referred the parent to the Dean’s office.  I don’t get paid nearly enough to put up with guilt trips from faceless adults.

……

News on the horizon… #1 son has a girlfriend (his first).  Now, how he told us he had a girlfriend was a bit… weird.

First, he went sleighriding with his “friends” and when I dropped the boys off (#2 and #3 sons), he was there alone w/ a girl.  Hmm.  Ok, he has friends who are girls… but I’ve never seen him ALONE w/ them for several hours on a hill without any people before.

Later that day, I see them making out in the parking lot at the pizza place down the road from our house… and I nearly crashed into the car in front of me… when I took my eyes off the road and stared at them… only gaining composure before careening into the little Honda in front of me.

I grab for my phone, call my husband who, at this point, is HOME… and ask him if the kid went out for pizza with the girl. 

Now, as much as I like to think that adult men have commonsense, I’m constantly being surprised.  Because, essentially, most of them do not.

“Uh, I don’t know.”

“So, our oldest son brings home a girl and you don’t know where they are going?”

“Why?”

“I just saw them making out in the parking lot…”

“Uh…”

Men! Phooey.

So, after several hours of asking… my son finally was honest with us (well, MOSTLY honest)… and last night, nearly a week after meeting her for 30 seconds, she came over for dinner.

She seems nice… and #1 son was pacing and staring at me and, I’m guessing, waited for me to drop a bombshell on her… or slap her with multiple questions.  I told them both that she will get grilled the 2nd time she’s here.  (I didn’t want to scare her off completely, because he’d never forgive me.)

So, we’ll see about this… (we did have the “you HAVE to slow down… day 1 of official dating shouldn’t result in makeout sessions… and have I mentioned, I don’t WANT to be a grandmother any time soon… ok?” conversation.)

———

My friends from h.s. and I went out on Sunday because a few of them were visiting for the weekend from out of state.  We were texting another friend, harassing him to come out and hang out w/ the group… and he, again, used the excuse that he was having sex with his girlfriend (which we think is a lie, and is getting old and rather pervy)…

So, I’m annoyed that he’s being a dickhead to the group of us… so, Sunday night, one of the girls had this idea to take a pic of all of us holding up our middle fingers and have angry faces… and they nagged me to post it, which I did, in a private thread, which then resulted in this “friend” using it as his profile picture.

I made him take it off b/c MY kids can see it… and it was put in a private thread for only the 6 of us… however, I can’t delete it (as I’ve tried several times to do so)…

Ugh… so I’m not talking to him until he decides to be a decent person, which may be a long stretch of hoping.

Anyway, I need to shower and get dressed so that I can brave the freaking bone-aching cold so I can return three gifts…

Anyway… I do hope to post again soon… perhaps later, so that I can get off my chest all of the craziness that’s going on…

Until then, toodles noodles.

Glitter Hell

I’m writing out my Xmas cards… and when I ran out, I went to the pharmacy nearby and bought a box of NON-GLITTER cards.

Then, my husband found a box of cards left over from last year.  When I opened them to fill them out today, a satanic poof of glitter jumped out of the box (I forgot they were glittery… and truth be told, he bought them for me last year when he went out to the store… and by now, he should know that I hate glitter)… and I am currently glistening… all over my jeans… my sweater… in my hair… between my fingers… on my REINDEER holiday socks.

I could kill someone…

When I taught high school, I had ONE rule when it came to posters and other projects: use glitter and I will fail you.

I wasn’t kidding, either.

One kid tested my fortitude and brought in a HUGE piece of poster board just swimming (er… drowning) in every color glitter imaginable.  I told her I wasn’t accepting it and made her take it home.

She didn’t take me serious… neither did her parents, who were quite upset that I wouldn’t TAKE HER POSTER HOME TO GRADE with the rest of her class.

My response was:  I explicitly told her and her classmates that glitter was not permitted.

They asked me why.

I said, “Because I’ll be finding this stuff all over my house for the next 20 years and I hate glitter.”

The dad agreed with me… mom was mad.  Besides, this was an honors h.s. history course, not elementary school.  And, not to mention, she didn’t do anything other than DOUSE a large piece of posterboard in glitter.  There was NOTHING other than large clumps of glue-stuck shiny evilness… so essentially, there would be no grade anyway.

Lesson learned?  Being a smartass doesn’t pay when you’re using glitter.

Today is the first day of finals at my school.  I can’t explain why, but I have this nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.  It’s as though I’m taking the finals… or something.  I don’t usually get nervous… so I’m wondering if this is a warning sign.

Time will tell… I have to leave in 90-minutes… and probably will find out shortly thereafter if this butterfly feeling is true or just end-of-the-semester nerves.  (Still don’t get it… I’m never nervous to END it… more happy and ridiculously excited.)

Needless to say… I have baked myself silly.  I made three different kinds of (completely homemade) cookies on Sunday (totally to about 12 dozen or so)… and then yesterday I made banana  nut bread and muffins and rocky road fudge.  I think I’m done.  I properly froze a good portion so they’ll be good for Xmas (since I’m hosting… by default).

I have given away about 3 dozen… and plan on dolling some out over the next week. 

And, to be honest, I can’t HANDLE the smell of anymore cookies, cakes, or chocolate.  *Gak*

Anyway, I have to go get (unnervous) ready for finals.  Have a good one!

I want my own peace prize

I am currently working on grades, but every so often, I need a brain break.  So, I decided to come here and rant a little about this and that.

Here I am, totally engrossed in grading (actually fixing the screw up I had on my Excel attendance sheet), when my crackberry buzzes so hard it nearly gives me a heart attack.  (My iPod is firmly attached to my head or I will not be able to concentrate.) 

I guess just “wishing” for peace is now a requirement to be considered.  I can’t for the life of me understand the reasoning of the committee who decides which person is [omg my brain is shot, I can't even think of the word I want to us... *cries* shit... shit... uh, capable, no that's not it... able, nah, we know if Gore got it, you don't NEED to be capable OR able... uh, dammit... oh wait! I got it!] qualified enough to be the recipient.

Had I know that all I needed to do was talk about peace that would entail sending 30,000+ soldiers into Afghanistan to fight for another 18 months, then I could’ve won the Nobel Peace prize.

So, since that idea was taken… I have a list of other ideas that I’ve had, which should, of course, get the attention of the nominating committee… so that, perhaps, they can consider me for NEXT YEAR.

Ah hem… here we go:

• Giving teachers free (and good) massages during their down time (between classes), away from the general populace, far from the gropy hands of whining students, and out of reach of any electronic devices INCLUDING, but not limited to: cell phones, PDAs, email, or telephones with voice mail.
• Allowing families who have lost a child in a brutal manner, committed by an adult (related or stranger) to have a full fifteen minutes of “alone time” with them.  I know, it seems brutal and archaic, however, it will bring closure… and hence, peace will prevail.
• Letting people with less than 20 items actually stay on the “under 20″ line, and putting MORE cashiers out to alleviate the stress of being in line, and therefore, control a possibly volatile situation and keeping it from occurring.
• Putting warning signs outside of W’Mart, notifying the general public that they may witness the most bizarre behavior and interesting people… but to not feed them, speak to them, or throw things at them or a “scene” will occur… thereby eliminating peace.
• Lowering credit card interest rates BEFORE February in a quick and speedy assault on the money-grubbing credit card companies who have NO sympathy for unemployed people who are struggling to survive.  (However, an addendum to this would be… if said unemployed, struggling people buy a BIG SCREEN FLAT SCREEN and a new boat… then I say raise the interest rate to 30% and slap them on the hand with a dried tuna.  Twice, even.)
• Removing all vestiges of bullshit-celebrity-crap from television, the media, and our lives in general.  We do not want to hear about Tiger Woods’ multiple paramours, nor the suffering his wife is going through.  We want to hear about uplifting and happy things, not things to add to our misery.  And, talk shows should not be allowed to have as guests any whore, homewrecking tramp with facial piercings and a skin-tight spandex (way too 80s and not retro enough for 2009) slut dress and big hair.  Save it for the “Trash Network,” which will be set up to show Jerry Springer, Maury, and the other shows who need to focus on said topics.  And, there needs to be a password lock, thank you.)
• For people to say at least two (2) nice things to strangers each day, and mean it.
• For both men AND women to open the door for strangers and actually HOLD it until they are either through it, or able to grab it.  Don’t be a door dangler. 

I have a bigger list, but I’m afraid if I post it, other people like Newt Gingrich or Rush Limbaugh will take my ideas and get nominated for their OWN peace prize.  That would be so totally unfair.  Don’t you think?

Anyway, back to the number crunching… One more class meets (Monday), then my finals are next week.  Then, I can focus on what I’m gonna cook for Christmas (as I’m stupid enough to volunteer for the family to come HERE… to eat and crumb all over my nice furniture… and spill coffee on my carpet like last year).

Ok, toodles for now…

One Last Hurrah!

I can’t BEGIN to tell you how utterly glad I am that this semester is coming to an end.

Just as I was leaving school today, after an exhausting day (where I taught the ENTIRE Civil War and WW2 in one day)… I am cornered in the hallway by one of my least favorite students, who is holding a pizza box, and giving me shit about this paper grade (it was a B).

I told him this, “You and your brother come trapsing into class like a freaking circus train every day.  You nag me, you harass me, and you treat me with such blatant disrespect that you are LUCKY that I didn’t give you a zero.  The grade stands, and I will not revisit this with you again!”

First of all, who in the hell gives these people permission to speak to me like this?  Don’t say society, because I, personally, did not ever give anyone permission to give me shit about anything… I don’t give a rat’s ass what color you are (if you even ATTEMPT the race card I will freak out), gender, age, or socioeconomic status.  I treat ALL of my students the same… and relentlessly nagging me will not ever (EVER!) cause me to change a grade.

I wouldn’t even change a grade when the principal at one school I’ve taught at told me that I cannot, under ANY circumstances, fail the mayor’s grandson.  I did anyway.  Not because he was a ginormous dick (which he was), or a rude little sonuvabitch (which he was), but because he did NOTHING except sleep in class.  I gave him an unusually low score because I think you should get what you earn… and he earned something like a 13 or a 25 for the semester.  But, the principal wanted me to give him a C.

I didn’t change his grade, but the administration did.

Now, with that in mind, WHY on earthy would I succumb to the pressure of some annoying pita student who isn’t satisfied (nor did he deserve any higher) on his paper?  I know he didn’t write it… he had someone else do it.  He writes like an illiterate circus animal.  This paper was okayish.  Plus, he couldn’t tell me what was in his paper.  In all actuality, I should’ve FAILED his sorry ass.  But, I scored him according to my rubric (which he received TWICE during the semester).

Yesterday, when he and his brother came into class, they came in late, with ice cream, their iPods blaring some shitty woman-hating-rap music, and did this whole prancing to their desks.  Are we in middle school?  I have been losing my patience with the two of them, and I said, “Enough with your drama.  Take your seat or get out.”

The entire class stared at them.  (They don’t like these guys either… its evident from the position of some of the guys who wanted to pounce on them… which I wouldn’t allow, but probably wouldn’t discourage either.)

I got, “But..but…” and I said, “Shut up or get out.”

Now, they were more than 10 minutes late… missed my entire schpeel about the final exam, then expected me to repeat it to them.  “No, you were late and now you’re not going to disrupt my class any further.  Ask someone after class and maybe they’ll tell you.”

Yes, I am being a bitch.  But, it hasn’t been without provocation.

So, my finals are written.  All papers have been graded and returned.  I’m able to breathe for the next few days before I have to grade exams (which will be predominantly scantron).

If I don’t have to deal w/ the shit from these two brothers again, it’ll make my week complete.

I have to go get my little one from school… I’ll be back at some point to continue this rant…

Back to the grind…

What have I learned during these past three semesters teaching college that not all college students are created equally.

The majority are lazy, driveless, whiners who spent more time complaining about their grades than doing something ABOUT their grades.  And, when given an assignment 2 weeks in advance, spend 2 weeks whining about it, then spending an hour writing it… usually an hour before its due.  This then leaves me with this feeling of dread soon to be followed by disappointment, frustration, and ensuing bitterness.

And, throughout this semester… while fielding whining complainers, I’ve been thinking about a career change (still).    This is what I’ve decided…

I’m going to open a bar.  And, I will call it, “The Gae Pirate Bar”… we’ll have theme nights, and the entire staff will dress like pirates and speak in piratesque. 

Therefore, I will have NO papers to grade, no whining grade whores, no lazy bastards to try to motivate… but I would rather deal with deck swabbing and keelhalling…

Much more fun, to be certain.

I would say, “Arggggggggggggh!” and wear an eye patch, and hobble around.

Oh, and it wouldn’t be a GAY (homosexual) bar… although, I think the gay community would definitely make my days more fun.  (And, I can pick up some decorating tips to boot!)

…..

So, how is my semester going?  I’m stressed out.  I eat Pepcids like candy.  I have a headache about 50% of the time, usually brought on by the whining bitches who take my classes. 

I’ve officially given my notice at the tutoring office.  Their lack of efficiency, professionalism, and organization is blinding… and frustrating.  Double booking students, changing procedures without telling the night staff… not to mention, having to play referee between the two supervisors has just about pushed me over the edge.  So, I told one supervisor (who is around my age) that I was giving my two weeks’ notice.  She nearly cried.  I stood my ground, telling her that I’m very tired and need more time to grade my students’ papers and tests (God knows that its taking forever to do so as their grammar and spelling are so poor that I can’t even focus on the content)… but most of all, I’d rather spend that time OUT of school and with my family.

Now, granted, I only tutor 4 hrs a week, but… during those 4 hrs, I’m play receptionist, scheduler, babysitter, referee, advice giver.. and that’s not even including being a tutor. 

Not long ago, I had an “issue” with a tutor in the office (who was also a teacher at the school) who was bad-mouthing me to those students she tutored who were my students.  I was (furious) angry… and demanded that this faceless creature introduce herself and apologize to me.  If someone calls me difficult and a waste of academic time because I’m too hard and a bitch to a student who LIKES me… and that student TELLS me… I get angry.  I’ve worked hard to maintain my reputation as a tough teacher who cares to have this snitty little bitch mar my reputation with her bitching.

Not to mention, I have NO IDEA who she is…

And, apparently, after telling the tutoring supervisors that I wanted an apology, I get a phone call from the DEAN… asking me what had happened.

After a month, I doubt I’ll be getting an apology any time soon.  However, my plan on flying UNDER the radar for as long as I’m at this school were shot to hell when the tutoring supervisors decided to “share” my complaint w/ the higher ups.  (Damn them.)

What can you do…

*sighs*

I may be flying with my youngest to Arizona to see my parents during my spring break (which, unfortunately, is different from his spring break, but I don’t want to fly alone … because its boring… and as he’s the youngest, he has had the least amount of contact with his grandparents than the older boys)… that is, IF I can get the money together…

This has also been a difficult semester as at least 3 people I knew have died.  Earlier in the semester, we lost a close family member.  A month ago, my friend lost her mother after a short bout with brain cancer.  And, another person I knew passed away.

I’ve bitched (endlessly) about the inappropriate use of the word “pandemic” (which reminds me of the time when I bitched about oral sex not being considered “sex” by a former president, which then demonstrated to young kids that having oral sex is not sex, and therefore OKAY to do… leaving us reeling when the head coach and I (her assistant) of a 5th and 6th grade girls softball team told us that girls in their grades were having “blow job” parties because it wasn’t sex.

Um.

Wow.

Right?

I have also gained 10 lbs of pure stress and aggravation.  If I gain ANY MORE WEIGHT I WILL LOSE MY MIND… and need an entirely NEW warddrobe…which I can’t afford…

I also cannot read, listen to, or discuss any more child murders.  There IS no jusification for selling your child as a sex slave, or killing him/her because he/she gets on your nerves.  Some people, as I have verbalized lately in class, should NEVER be permitted to procreate.  We should seek out those fools and sterilize them immediately.  This way, hopefully, we may be able to create less of a need by unstable, ill-equipped, and crazy parents from having kids, then screwing with them emotionally, physically, or sexually.

And, I also seem to think (and am now seen as crazy because of it) that the family of the child victim of a violent crime should get… hmm… 10-15 minutes of alone time with the perpertrator.  Therefore, familial justice (or social justice) can occur… which, essentially would take care of court costs, lawyer fees, and years of appeals and delays.  Justice would be served… duly, and appropriately… falling within the Constitution’s “fair-and-speedy-trial” specification.

Let me be the person in charge of justice, please?  Crazy drivers… tailgaters… wife beaters… child neglecters… rapists… Give me the ENTIRE lot of them… and I will dole out the necessary justice… either deeming what it shall be or assigning it to a person who is qualified to perform the punishment.

Then, perhaps, I can alleviate some of this frustration I’ve been harboring inside of me… and I can save my Pepcids for when I am having chili or tomato sauce… and can sleep without having dreams about instructing students on the most effective way to squirt hand sanitizer or writing notes on the board.  I can check my email without  being afraid of what may be in there… and go to work without worrying about whether or not I will be fired next.

Did I mention that a few staff members were fired in one week recently?  That’s enough to unnerve me… especially when the individual who runs our school has made it plain and clear that if a student complains about any of us, that our job will be immediately terminated.

(Not without due process, you fat bastard… you want to fire me, you best be prepared to prove it was warranted!!)

Anyway, I need to take a Pepcid (too much food) and goto bed…

I hope you had a happy Thanksgiving…

Oh, before I forget… I am thankful for my family… for my job (even if there is no security)… my friends… and most especially my readers who I have unduly neglected and promise to not be so distance from again).

Night all!

 

International Stuff Yo Face Day

I’ve been sick… but not with Swine Flu… fortunately for me.

However, the exhaustion of running back and forth to school is exhausting.

But… if I did anything well this semester, I’m hoping tomorrow will be the one day that I’ve impacted my students.

Knowing that my World History class is struggling (mostly due to laziness)… I created the “World Cultures International Food Day”… and students were given the opportunity to make a food that is traditional to their family or culture.

So far, out of 32 students, 28 are participating.  Um… hindsight is 20-20 because had I thought about it, I would’ve capped deserts at a couple… but, that’s ok. 

We’ll be discussing the impact of the Great Depression on Europe while we gorge on food.  (If there’s irony in it, I’ve just hit the nail on the head.)

 

Anyway… the semester ends in 3-1/2 weeks… and THEN I will be able to breathe and post.  I have STORIES for you people… enough to make your head spin.

If I don’t get a chance… have a happy Thanksgiving…