FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION -- IT'S A CHOICE

FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION; IT'S A CHOICE.

Our entire school is working with the concept of precepts, or slogans about really important things.  To get the kids thinking, I put up a bunch of precepts on my front board.  The last one I write is the precept:  Failure is not an option; it's a choice.

I give my students every opportunity to pass my class, to learn, to apply themselves.  My students tell me that I am more than fair with their grades, even slightly generous.  Yet I still have several cherubs who are not passing for this final term and even failing for the entire year.   So I announce to my classes, "Failure is not an option, it's a choice.  If you are failing my class it is because you actively choose to do so.  You have to work very hard at failing my class since it's more work to lie about not doing the work than it is to actually do it, especially since most of it is done in class with partners.  You choose to be lazy, you choose to ignore the work, and you choose to fail."

One of my failing cherubs turns and gives me the death stare when I say this, and this sassy little dynamo dares to give me the Fuck you, bitch, you suck more than my mother does look.

Reflexively I exit teacher mode and slam right into mom mode.  "Don't you make that face at me!  That face is not going to change your grades.  It's YOUR choice for you, not my choice for you."  Then I continue on with the lesson about precepts.

Ooops.

But, then again, sometimes these kids need a mom to set them straight, or, at the very least, to be honest with them.  When I vacillate between teacher and mom mode, it's not because I don't love these kids.  I do it precisely because I DO love these kids.

Well ... I like them.  A little bit.  Sometimes.  Occasionally.  On rare occasions.  About as much as they do me... most of the time.
Every so often, like today, students will say to me, "You're my favorite teacher," to which I answer, "What's WRONG with you?!"  I don't want to be their favorite teacher; I want to be the teacher who makes their brains hurt.

You see, this precept thing works both ways.  Failure for me is not an option, either.  To be a sucky teacher, I'd have to make that choice, a choice I truly hope I do not make even by accident. 

When it comes to education, even when it comes to life:  Failure is not an option; it's a choice.  I can steer them, I can turn them, I can even kick them proverbially in their behinds, but I cannot go home with them, live in their skins, occupy their brains.  I can be an example.

I'll let you know if the kiddos bring me any really good precepts.  After all, I'm never done learning; it's all about choosing to keep an open mind.

"SEND"

I'm tired.

Every night it's a crapshoot.  Most nights I sleep a little, get up, walk the floors, and sleep a little more.  Occasionally I actually sleep for five to six hours at a stretch before randomly waking up.  Rarely I will have those sleepless nights where I cannot get comfortable or make my mind shut off. 

Then there are those nights of instant shut-eye.  These are the nights that sleep hits me so fast, I cannot even remember going to bed.  Kind of like what happened last night.

I texted a friend to blow off steam about work, but she texted back that she was at the movies.  Don't worry about it, I sent back.

I went about my business and eventually decided to turn in at a reasonably early hour, around 10:30 p.m.  I had just gotten comfy when my friend texted me back.  She was out of the movies -- did I need a phone call chat?

I started to text her back, had the message all ready to go, and could've sworn I hit send.  I assumed I would hear the chirping sound of an incoming text in reply.  The next thing I know, it's after 1:00 a.m., and my phone and glasses are both next to me on the bed.  Apparently I dozed off ... rather rapidly.

I put the cell phone and my glasses on the bedside table and went back to sleep.  When I awoke in the morning to start my day, I remembered the evening phone texts and checked my own cell phone, horrified to discover that I never hit send.  The text to my friend was still sitting quietly, waiting for me to actually send it somewhere.

My friend must've thought I'd passed out on the furniture somewhere.  One second we're chatting, the next, I'm off to LaLa Land.  And here I thought she'd found something better to do than chat with me; No, she was waiting .... and waiting ... and waiting ... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

TGIF, folks.  TGIF.

GLOBAL WARMING ... MY ASS

Global warming, my ass.  It hasn't risen above 47 degrees all goddamned day.  It's the end of May, people, the end of flipping May, and it's parka weather here in eastern New England.  Good thing it stopped raining or else by midnight it would be snowing.

Oh, please.  You science types are going to try and explain to me how global warming affects temperatures and creates extremes.  First of all, I've seen snow here in May and temperatures in the 90's in early April, so zip it.  Secondly, our globe has been warming since the Ice Age.  Otherwise, we'd still be in the Ice Age.  Capisce?  

Mother Nature is just being an absolute bitch this year.  Snow snow snow followed by cold cold cold followed by worm poop worm poop worm poop followed by more cold more cold more cold.  Don't even get me started on these idiot weather forecasters again.  Monday's forecast = 80's, sunny, beach day. Reality = windy, chilly, overcast with showers.  How the hell can you even get it that wrong?

This afternoon I have to run an errand with my youngest, who has not left the house all day long.  He asks me, "Shorts or long pants?"  Dude, it's 45 degrees out, raining, and we have to walk a few blocks.  Do what you think best, but I'm wearing an Eskimo snowsuit.

Just yesterday the temperatures were in the 80's … mere miles west of here.  Temperature changes were so severe between the heat and the sudden rain squalls that parts of Vermont and Western Massachusetts experienced flash floods.  Just to the east, though, where I am?  Bull-tickey.  Cold, miserable bull tickey.

It has been a shitty year so far.  My team at school is being broken up, I keep getting yelled at for shit I didn't do and for stuff I did do that I am totally supposed to do, the university I paid tens of thousands of dollars to is holding my thesis hostage (what for, I've no frigging idea), and several other stupid-ass things, and Mother Nature has the nerve to put us into a near-freeze day after day? 

No one likes a control freak, especially one who controls our comfort levels and vacation plans.  I'm starting to think it is not I but rather Mother Nature who is experiencing menopause. 

Snap out of it, Mother Nature!  Seriously.  Snap the fuck out of it.

SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Long weekends suck when they end.  Truly.  I have had a rough couple of months finishing up school and with changes going on at work, and I hit the wall big time over Memorial Day weekend. 

I try to do some stuff over the weekend, but the weather totally blows.  Then there is the whole battle with the crapping inch worms.  Friday night I sleep pretty well.  Saturday night and Sunday night -- I sleep better than I have in a long time.  I sleep nine hours each night for two straight nights.

Then comes Monday night.  Monday night, the eve before returning to work after the extended holiday weekend. 

Monday.  Night. 

You bastard.

I am certainly tired enough, dozing off while reading a book and half-watching the hockey game.  I finally get into bed around 10:30, figuring this will be late enough to pull another decent (but not nine-hour) sleep.  It starts out well enough -- I don't flop around too much.  I have the window open, the fan on, and layers of bedding to kick off or pull on as my body sees fit.

Then 1:30 a.m. arrives, and I awaken, but not for long.  Then 3:00 (The Witching Hour) arrives.  I trek to the bathroom then back up to bed, fully expecting to doze off again.  So I wait.  And I wait some more.  Then I toss, turn, and try to get comfortable.  For some reason, my mind is going a mile a minute about random shit that doesn't matter now, won't matter tomorrow, never will matter.  I will not even remember hours later what is occupying my brain at this hour.

It takes me until about 4:15 to fall back asleep.  At 5:17 a.m., the alarm goes off.  I semi-watch the weather report, flick the channels as if I might actually watch something at 5:30 in the morning, which, surprisingly, happens more often than I care to admit.  By the time I roll downstairs to start my day, it is 5:45.

Everything seems to be going well, too.  I'm not rested like I was over the weekend, but I've probably slept enough.  Right?  Five-plus hours isn't bad.  It's my usual, anyway, and I've done worse.  I once slept nineteen hours over seven days and lived to tell the convoluted tale.  Decades ago I worked third shift and often went days without real sleep.  I raised three babies through childhood diseases to young-adulthood.  Who amongst us has not pulled an all-nighter or two or three or more under similar conditions?

Then I make the near-fatal mistake.  I peer at myself in the mirror. 

Being kind to myself, I'll admit that I look like I've gone a few rounds with a prize fighter.  (Being kind, of course.)  My eyes are puffy, the skin under my lower lids sags bluish-red, and I have hollow marks on my cheeks.  I resemble a cross between a street brawl reject and someone having a severe allergic reaction.

Maybe I'm allergic to my job.  Maybe I'm allergic to my life. 

An hour, a shower, and lots of make-up later, I am able to leave the house and get to work, but most of the day is spent worrying that my eyeballs might fall out of their sockets and roll under my desk where I cannot reach them.  Not shocking, though, is the fact that all of my colleagues look the same as I do and share similar tales.

"I couldn't sleep last night…"  A common theme in the hallways.

As the students arrive, they, too, complain about being restless and not sleeping Monday night.

Maybe the Cosmos are off-kilter.  Maybe it's the lousy un-pre-summer weather we are experiencing.  Maybe it's general malaise.  Maybe we all really are allergic to school.

I'll try it again tonight.  I'll attempt to sleep and see how it goes.  It may be another night of interruptions and restless thoughts.  Perhaps there's another wall to hit in my near future.  Either way, just like today, I have to hit the ground running and pretend I'm functioning, but if you happen to be near my classroom, bring me some new toothpicks.  The ones I have propping my eyes open right now could use replacing, and I'm too tired to get up and change them myself.

WORM POOP -- PART 2

So … I cleaned all of the worm poop off my car yesterday -- took me two hours -- then I get up this morning to discover … more worm poop.  I clean it off as best as I can, go back inside to watch the NCAA mens lacrosse finals, then come back out around 3:30 to discover more worm poop.  Seriously.  Farmers should just dump a bunch of frigging inch worms all over their crops.  There's enough shit in those little suckers to fertilize a multi-acre farm.

I scrub and scratch and finally I get out my ice scraper and start scraping the shit off my car.  I'm sure I'm scratching the shit out of the paint as well as off of it, but I don't care anymore.  This is getting fucking ridiculous.  And frustrating.  This is incredibly fucking frustrating.

I decide to head over to Ace Hardware to get a hose, since my landlord's hoses are defective, and since I don't want to have to ask them every time I want to use  the water.  I also buy a spray nozzle.  Surprisingly the store does not have Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, or anything like them, so I go in search of a clerk.

ME:  Do you have any products that will take worm poop off cars?

TEEN CLERK:  Hmmmm…. Maybe.  (This provides me with the first ray of hope I've had since the Great and Disastrous Worm Invasion started.)  Here, try this.

He hands me a Turtle Wax product designed for tar, sap, and bird shit, especially dried on bird shit.  Just in case, I have another thought, and I walk over to the paint department where I pick up one more item as the announcement lets me know that Ace is closing, even though the website claimed they'd be open for another two hours.

I take this Turtle Wax spray home and give it a try.  I spray it all over the car then wait a minute or two.  According to the directions, I am supposed to be able to wipe this shit off (the product and the worm poop) with a little buffing.  That is, if I survive the stench of the spray. 

Here's what I have to say about this:  LIES.  DAMN LIES.

The worm poop is still there, some sap is still there, and I'm just pissed off now and a little high from the fumes.  Maybe I used it wrong; maybe I didn't wait long enough; maybe I used the wrong kind of cloth.  I don't know, and I don't care.  I hate Turtle Wax now, I hate Ace Hardware, I hate that clerk, I hate inch worms, and I hate the neighbors for having the damn trees in the first place.

After getting as much of the worm poop off as I can handle for the third time today and fourth time in two days, I take out the secret weapon I bought in the paint department -- a huge sheet of 2mm-thick plastic.  I cover my still damp car, shut the plastic into the doors, and use six bricks to secure the rest of it.  I figure if wet + the plastic = mold, it's still better than worm poop.

After getting it all secured, I come into the house and get onto the Internet.  I decide to Google "How remove worm poop from car" and discover that this really is a problem.  The solutions are simple:

1.  Park somewhere else.  (Easy except that there is no other parking available.)

2.  Sue the neighbors to have the tree taken down.  (My landlords would have to do that.)

3.  Use a car cover.

4.  One of the solutions that pops up on the search is my own blog from yesterday… like that's going to help me or anyone else.

Look, my townhouse is in a great location, and I pay a decent rent.  My neighbors who share the house are quiet.  Renters know what a rarity it is to have quiet neighbors, and my landlords take decent care of me for the important things.  I really don't want to move because of inch worm shit.  That's insane.  Yet letting my car become encrusted in worm poop is equally insane.  It's like a joke of some kind.

Tomorrow morning, if the bricks hold, I'll leave a few minutes early, put the bricks on the ledge next to my space, shake the worm poop off the plastic, fold it up, and shove it into the back of my car for safe-keeping.  For now, anyway, until those suckers die off, I guess I'm in Anti-Worm Mode with the cars.

PS -- Son found a car wash in a town far away that scrubbed the worm poop right off his car.  There has to be a solution somewhere, and I'm happy to pay.  But if I have to see a bucket full of watery worm poop again this season, I might just cut those fucking trees down myself.

TALES OF WORM POOP

My car is covered in worm poop.  This happens every spring, but this spring the worm poop is bad.  It's everywhere.  It sticks like barnacles on things like my recycle bin, the front stoop, the concrete patio, and it has encrusted my car like dried papier mache. 

Car washes do not help -- worm poop laughs at things like spray jets and scrubbers.  I have been pretending that it's not so bad, but today I cannot see out of the windshield because worm poop is baked onto it, and my once-white car is brown and green.

Time to deal with the worm poop.

I drive my poopy car to a nearby department store to gather some supplies.  I am tempted not to even lock my car.  Who in their right mind would break into a shit-smeared vehicle?  For that matter, who in their right mind would be seen driving it?  (The answer, of course, is that I am not in my right mind.)  I need big sponges, a scrub brush, and a shitload (to keep with the poop theme) of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers.

For anyone unfamiliar with Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, they are the lazy person's answer to multi-purpose cleaning.  Just about the only thing they cannot do is cure cancer.  Actually, they may well cause it since I've no idea what kinds of chemicals are in the little buggahs, but here's what I do know -- the damn things work.

I debate going through the car wash to remove residual crap before I get to the real … crap.  I decide I'm too cheap after buying the cleaning supplies (and seventeen shirts and a white lace push-up bra, but that's obviously a story for another day) to pay for a car wash, so I head home and search for my water hose that I am quite certain resides in my basement. 

It doesn't.

I ask the landlord's family if I can borrow their hose, instead.  When I go to grab it, I discover a huge hole (more like a complete severing) in the line.  The oldest son smirks and admits that he ran over it with the weed whacker.  The dad lends me the hose he uses for work, which also has a hole in it, but I have enough duct tape to patch it.  After hooking the hose up to the spigot on my side of the main house, I turn the handle expecting it to work.

It doesn't.

I drag the big-ass industrial hose to the front and other side of the main house to the water spigot that I know works because the neighborhood kiddos filled water guns from it the other day and chased me out of my car and to my front door when I came home from work.  The hose no longer reaches my car now that I've relocated to this other spigot, so I have to move the car down the driveway and into the sun.  Now, this is probably where I should park it to avoid the trees where the worms reside that are pooping on my car in the first place, but I'm lazy, and the extra twenty-foot walk seems like more trouble than it's worth.  Besides, I have to fit multiple cars in my driveway.

I go through five Mr. Clean Magic Erasers and spend two straight hours scrubbing the pollen and worm poop off of my car, and this is after rinsing it off with my finger securely over the hose nozzle to create an old-fashioned power washer.  I scrub scrub scrub then I scrape scrape scrape with my fingernails any lingering mini-dingleberries, then I brush brush brush what I can, then I scrub scrub scrub with the Mr. Clean Magic Erasers again.

When I'm done, the standing greenish water areas of my car have baked back on again because I had to move my car into the sun, so I power rinse the car again and bring out the mild dish soap, warm water, and big sponge I bought.  I wash the car as quickly as I can so that the suds don't bake on, then rinse the whole car off three times.  I expect the car to still look … well … shitty.

It doesn't.

It almost looks clean and it actually appears to be white again.  I should take a picture of it all done because after I rinse it off, I back it into its regular spot again and fully expect it to be coated in worm shit in the morning.

I feel so great after getting the car all done that I break out the large broom that I use to sweep the driveway and patio.  I am going to sweep up all the pollen and worm poop from the concrete and stone stoop and put out some chairs.  I said, I'm going to sweep up this … hey … what the hell.  The concrete is all permanently stained from the adhesive worm shit that has now ruined my entire outside area.  I expect the crap to just sweep away and go off into oblivion like nature should when confronted with urban reality.

It doesn't.

Oh well.  I've already spent two hours scrubbing excrement off of my car.  I've no intention of becoming Caterpillar Cinderella, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing up the worm poop on my hands and knees like some washer-woman.  I'll just step on the shit all summer now that it's seared onto the pavement like miniscule barnacle turds.  Really makes my home sound so inviting doesn't it?

It doesn't.

But, at least my car is clean … for now.

TODAY'S BLOG BROUGHT TO YOU BY ... NO ONE

Look, I have to be honest.

I don't know what to write about for today's blog entry.
I could write about the 45-minute first inning at the Sea Dogs vs. Fisher Cats baseball game.
I could write about stealing french fries off the plate of the person sitting next to me.
I could write about the different events that have happened on this date in history.
I could add to this list some of the bizarre holidays celebrated today.
I could mention that I would like Sunday to be much better than Saturday, weather-wise.

But what I really want to say is that today is the middle day of a long weekend, so today is really like yesterday only better.

Long weekends totally rock.

I CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW ... OOOPS, NO I CAN'T

The weather is always a surprise for me when it comes to workdays.

Today, for example, I think it is supposed to be sunny and in the 70's.  I trudge through my day believing that the world is having more fun in the sun than I ever will.

Fail.

At 2:30 when I attempt to leave the building, it is raining, Because I work inside the plywood tomb, I assume (as I always do) that it must be sunny and beautiful outside (and I must be missing out).  Today, though, it's chilly, rainy, and downright raw. Worse than the sucky weather comes the knowledge that this is the beginning of a long-weekend.

Thanks, Mother Nature, you bitch.  I finally get a chance to go outside, and you have to shit all over it.

I hear Monday is supposed to be nice again.  Well, I fooled you, Mother Nature.  I don't even have to work on Monday.  In your face!

The funny part is that when I finally get windows in my classroom again (or, I should say, when I finally move into a crappy old school for a year that actually does have windows) I bet I'm going to miss this daily game of Weather Peek-a-Boo .... Eh.  Probably not.

Here's to the weekend.  Let it rain, for all I care -- I get to be away from plywood walls for a few hours.  That's really all that matters, anyway. 

HAVE SOME PRIDE

I'd like to think I've lived half my life.  You know, assuming I'm going to make it to 100, right?  Okay, mathematically I'm more at the 75% mark, which makes the following observation even more disturbing.  By now I figured I pretty much have seen everything.  Everything.  Yet I am wrong, oh ... so .... wrong.

Today I see a woman cover her head with a white plastic grocery bag so she can go inside the grocery store and shop without getting her hair wet in the rain.

This just seems wrong to me. 

It seems wrong to me that she is covering her head with a plastic grocery bag.  Its seems even more wrong that the grocery bag belongs to the store into which she is going.  This means one of three things:

1.  She keeps grocery store bags in her car for just such an occasion;

2.  She ran into the store during a rain storm, grabbed the bag, returned to her car, and is now going shopping;

3.  She sent someone else in for the bag to cover her head.

None of these options is acceptable as I'm not sure a plastic grocery bag will ever be acceptable head-wear.  Does this make me old? 

Or does it mean that in 75% of living my life, I've acquired a tiny sense of decorum?

Hmmmmmm. Let me think about this for a while.  Quick!  Someone hand me a plastic grocery bag so I can gather my thoughts!  But make sure it's a white bag from Market Baskets and not a gray-ish one from Hannaford's. 

For goodness sake, I have SOME pride.

THE ELUSIVE WRISTLET

For a short while, I thought maybe I might have contributed to the Boston Bruins' pathetic showing in the playoff series against the lukewarm, lackluster Montreal Canadiens.  You see, a school teammate of mine made me a black and gold wristlet to wear during the games.  I wore it to a game against the Canadiens

during the regular season, and I wanted to wear it during the playoffs, but it disappeared.

I looked everywhere for that damn thing.  EVERYWHERE.  I tore my house apart four times, tore my car apart twice, searched my desk at school, looked inside every single drawer (clothing, desk, kitchen) in my house, checked every closet, and foraged under furniture.  All for naught.

Tonight I decide to finally get to the bag of Christmas gifts that I haven't had a chance to finish sorting through.  Once I started my thesis in January, I came home every afternoon and almost always worked straight through from mid-afternoon until midnight.  There was no time for things like books, gift cards, and Damnit Dolls.  Now that my thesis is somewhere "out there" in the world of the state university, I am slowly recovering enough to start looking at my house again.  (If only I'd had the good sense to hire a maid for five months!)

I start rummaging through the bag, which I have tousled through several times while searching for the elusive Bruins wristlet, and discover the wristlet in the bag, hiding amongst legitimate gifts like it belonged there.  You don't belong in there, I say out loud, as if the wristlet will now punish itself for eluding me on purpose.  It looks back at me and says nothing.

I could blame myself for the collapse of the Boston Bruins during the playoffs.  I could claim that they lost because I could not find the wristlet.  But, truth be told, the Christmas goody bag sat next to the television.  That means the bracelet itself was closer to the telly than I was.

Nope.  No significant epiphanies here.  No rituals to rework, no songs to be sung, and no wrislets to worry about here.

You want to know why the Bruins lost in the first round of the playoffs?

Because they sucked.  That's it; no one can say anything, no excuses can be made, no fingers pointed, and no one person to shoulder the details.  The Bruins sucked; they picked a horrible time to hit a slump.

It's all right.  I would like to see a Rangers-Blackhawks final ... which means it'll be Montreal and LA.  Go, Blackhawks!  Go, Rangers!  Go wristlet!!!

CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM

I'm driving southbound on route 495.  It's a Tuesday evening at 8:50 p.m.  The traffic is light.  The weather is clear.  All is right with the world. 

Until the construction.

For some reason the idiots in charge of the highway department think it's a grand idea to do construction on 2 of the 3 lanes of the highway at dinner time. 

People start slamming on brakes.  Trucks slide sideways and threaten to jackknife.

Ah, yes.  Some asshole's idea of routine maintenance.

On what planet does it make sense to shut down the only road that connects interstate 95 and 93?  Whose brilliant retirement plan idea is this?

Look, just have the workers do this overnight.  Nobody but random truckers and people with really suck-ass jobs will be using the road after 11 p.m.  The workers miss dinner with their families already working second shift.  Do this later -- not in the evening when many people are on the roads, stuck in a long line of traffic ... because you decide to have one effing lane open on the highway.

This is why I prefer driving the back roads.  I will not make the same mistake the next time I'm trying to get home from Amesbury on a Tuesday evening.  I should KNOW that some idiotic construction is taking place.  I mean, really.  Why would anyone think it makes more sense to travel the highway to get from point A to point B?

Suckers, that's who.  Suckers just like me.

THE DEPARTMENT OF DAMN YOU DON'T BOTHER US WE'RE PRETENDING TO BE BUSY

Wow.  Just wow.  I have no other words.  Okay, FIASCO.  There.  One more word.

The university where I just finished the requirements for a second Master's degree is run like a really bad episode of Keystone Kops.  No one seems to know what they're doing, yet they all run around looking professional while running into walls and falling over onto train tracks. 

First I had to deal with the Department of Damn You Don't Bother Us We're pretending to Be Busy.  I finally managed to get my thesis delivered by hand to the We'll Gladly Take Your Money for a Chance to Ignore You Repeatedly, only to have my thesis sucked into the vortex of the office of We Don't Give a Shit About You Because You're Meaningless to Us.  Since delivering the thesis, which already got lost on its way to Oz, I have heard nothing.  No-Thing.  Not a stinking word though they have my name, email address, second email address, phone number, etc.

This fiasco of a nightmare led the Division of You Disgust Me With Your Grovelling Ways You Dirty Plebian to tell me I could not walk at my own graduation last Thursday without further grovelling and multiple genuflections (and the promise to cut out my own heart on stage with a used up fountain pen while accepting my diploma).  So I didn't show up at graduation.  It's not that I couldn't spare my heart; I didn't have any empty fountain pens... yes, I have fountain pens.  And ink cartridges.

So I emailed the Dean of Dismissiveness, inquiring as to when/if I would ever be receiving the paperwork conferring upon me my Master of Arts degree that the scholars of my undergraduate institution warned me against getting at this other institution due to possible ineptitude.  (Kick me.  Go ahead.  Kick me now.)  The Dean of Dismissiveness informed me that she had already contacted the Department of Damn You Don't Bother Us We're pretending to Be Busy, and how dare I darken her computer monitor with such horrible requests as when I might possibly get the paperwork that I need to get a raise at work (ie: my dgeree).

This Dean further demanded that I meet with her face-to-face to discuss the ridiculous issues that possibly led me to believe, after investing several thousands of dollars of my own cash and credit and loans into their school, that they owed me any goddamned thing other than a swift and dismissive boot to my self-esteem.

Look.  I'm not a hardass.  I did the frigging work.  I paid for the courses.  I drove to that stinking school over and over and over and put up with constant semester after semester threatening of cancelling the only courses offered in my major.  All I want is the goddamned degree.  I already got the grades.  Just tell me when the frig someone is planning on mailing my f*$#ing degree, already.

So help me and them and all of us, if I have to deal with one more professional idiot at that university, the top of my head is going to blow off and snakes are going to escape and eat up the entire faculty and maybe even the campus bookstore people because they're not too helpful, either.

So there.

And yes, people sitting in the same boat I am, YOU'RE WELCOME.  Now, row, damnit, and let's get the hell away from the Titanic before she finishes sinking.

SLEEPING LATE -- PART 2

Sunday I knew I could sleep late.  I knew it as sure as I knew the Rangers were going to beat the tar out of the Montreal Canadiens in game 1.  Could sleep late.  Could, being the operative word.

You have to understand that after a bone-chilling winter and a nearly non-existent spring, the weather has suddenly changed.  Leaves are on the trees, bulb-flowers are blooming, and the whole world smells like lilacs.  Which means, of course, that the birds are out.

During the spring, if I try to go to bed anytime near 3:00 in the morning, which often happens on weekends when I'm up late writing or anytime I have a paper due, the birds keep me awake.  They start chirpping and singing and screeching around 3:15 a.m. and continue until about 7:30 a.m.  After that the noise falls off considerably as the little bastards have tired themselves out.  But between 3:15 and 7:30 a.m., if I'm not wearing earplugs, I'm being serenaded into insanity.

Sunday I go to bed somewhere around 1:00 a.m. (late Saturday night, for those who cannot read clocks), fully and totally expecting to walk the floors a few times but sleep until about 9:00.  This plan works perfectly except for one thing:  I have the windows open.

I'm not really sure how I can be so stupid to leave the windows open.  Maybe it's because the weather combined with my propensity for violent and constant menopausal hot flashes deems open windows to be a necessity.  I turn the fan on low to provide extra breezes and also to give me that illusion of white noise.  I don't even hear the trains going by anymore, so I figure that unless a whopper of a thunderstorm rolls through, I'm good to sleep for a while.

But one eye pops open at 4:20 a.m.  Do I have to pee?  Am I too cold?  Too hot?  Is the fan not working?  Did College Boy fall out of bed?  Do I need a mini chocolate cupcake that's hiding in the fridge?

None of the above.

 
It's the birds.  The freaking, shrieking birds.

I close one of the windows.  I turn the fan up as high as it will go to make it as loud as it will get.  I put a pillow over my head.  I get up and close the other window and put another pillow over my head.  All I can hear is that damn extremely loud, extremely vocal, extremely persistent bird.  I decide to stay in bed until 5:00 a.m., and if I'm still awake then, I'll get up.  I doze off right before 5:00 and wake up at 6:00 to the sound cutting through the glass like feather-billed diamonds.  Pillow over my head, covers pulled up (hot flashes be damned), I manage to doze until about 7:15.  At this point I decide that I might as well get the hell up.  

The bad news is that these birds and their little babies are so loud and so obnoxious that sleep will elude me for many mornings to come.  The good news is that it seems to calm down quite a bit within a few weeks as other animals, equally annoyed by the little chickies, start picking the birdies off like snipers.

Oh well.  Staying up late on a Sunday night.  It's almost midnight.  I'll let you know how well I sleep in the morning... as long as the birds don't start their crap within the next fifteen to twenty minutes.  I'm up around 5:00, anyway.  Who knows?  Maybe I'll stick my head out the window and wake THEIR asses up for a change.

Now THAT would be FUN.

IT'S SUNDAY! -- SLEEPING LATE, PART I

Sunday is here!  (Yay!)  I do not need the alarm clock.  (Double yay!) 

Saturday was spent watching sports and working.  Today I hope to make the day's name proud.  SUNday. Suuuuunday.  Sun. Day.

Only a few more weeks until school is over, and every day is Sunday for a few more weeks after that.

Don't be jealous.

You want to know why teachers need a break over the summer?  Because we're all certifiably nuts, we'd have mental meltdowns, and there would be no one left to teach the children.

So, for the sake of children everywhere, YAY!  It's Sunday!  My brain has another 24 hour reprieve. Bring on the sleep!  Sleeping late!  Yay.

EMAIL FROM AFAR ... OR NOT

I may be a bit unconventional, and some people may classify me as slightly crazy, but really, I think one of my co-workers takes the cake.  No, really.  Truly.  Without question.  I didn't believe it until it happened to me.

I have a co-worker who is in the same room as I am, right there with me, mere feet away, and rather than ask me a question, she emails me.

She emails me..

She is sitting less than three feet from my computer and less than six feet from me, and rather than verbally interact with me, she sends me a goddamned email.

For real?  Honestly?  That's messed up.

My teammates warned me about it.  They said, "She'll send you an email rather than actually speak to you," and I said, "No way, that's freaking stupid..." and then she comes to my class and ... there it is... an email .. sent to me at 2:12 when our class ends at 2:21.

Really?  For real?  Are you even kidding me right now?

Let me get this straight: I am standing less than a whole human's length away from you, I am breathing the same air as you, we are interacting in the same room together ... and yet ... you email me?  Not text, not instant message, but email? 

What -- did you want to see how fast it could pop up on my desktop screen, the desktop that your laptop is practically touching while you type?  Okay, I have worked for and with a lot of messed up people, but this has to be some kind of trophy-worthy weirdness.

If you have something to say to me or ask me, please do so like a normal person. Just freakin TALK to me.  I'm here.  I'm in the room with you.  I could slap some sense into you if I'd only known you'd needed it. 

But email me from a few feet away? Someone tell me this isn't the next generation of stupidity.  I might have to give up now.

YOU SMELL!

Students say the darnedest things.

Last year a student looked up at me while I was passing back papers, stopped what he was doing, and said very loudly, too loudly, "I never noticed that before!"

Um … noticed what?  Your paper?  Your grade?  The ceiling?

"You have really long eye lashes!"

I looked around.  He was talking about … me.  Creepy.

Last week a student was talking to me face to face and all of a sudden she stopped mid-sentence and remarked, "Wow, your eyes are really BLUE." 

Um, yes.  Yes, they are.

I responded, "Thank goodness, because last week with my cold, they were red."

Today is even stranger.  One of my students gets out of her seat and starts sniffing around the room.  "Nope, I can only smell it over HERE!"

Horrified, I figure they are referring to the young men in the class who have just come from gym and smell a little rank.  I keep saying, "I don't smell anything…. I really don't smell anything…"

Then she instructs me to stand in front of the fan.  "It's YOU!" she announces to the entire class.

Oh, my god, me?  I smell?!  I took a shower and washed my hair.  How can I smell?

The girl and her table of cohorts take turns coming up to me and trying to sniff me.  Swear to god, they are like bizarre dogs or something.  Then , if this is even possible, it gets WORSE.  The girls start naming different fragrances I might be wearing:

"Is it Coach?  Is it Macy's?  Is it… (and, over the course of the next few minutes, I hear the name of two dozen high to middle to low-end fragrances on the market or the stores in which they are sold)."

Now, I usually wear the same fake, imitation body spray, day in and day out.  However, today I switched it up.  I feel like if I don't tell them, they're just going to keep going with this.  I am incredibly embarrassed that I, a middle-aged-plus teacher. have students sniffing me in the first place and even more so that it's because the girls recognize the scent but cannot place it. 

Finally, I lean over to one of the girls and whisper, "Victoria Secret."  

Her eyes grow wide, and a huge smile breaks across her face.  "I knew it!" she yells out.  "I called it!  I know perfumes."

The other girls join in with, "We knew you smelled different today!"

Say … what?  Oh … my …. great … goodness.  They know my smell?  Holy crap, did I even shower this morning?  I usually shower at night.  What do I normally smell like?  Do they mean because I changed perfume today?  Do they mean because I actually smell clean for once?  What are they trying to tell me?

Apparently I have long lashes and blue eyes and I smell, all of which I never thought unusual until twelve-year-olds became fascinated by these things.  I think I need a perfume sampler.  I'm going to wear different fragrances every day just to play with them.  It's my "Old Lady" collection, according to my own kids.  Imitation Giorgio one day, Victoria Secret another day.  Maybe I'll invest in some Coco Chanel just to totally blow their minds and senses.

Thanks, students. You really do say the darnedest things.

IT'S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE

Argh.  I don't feel like writing anything after watching that pathetic Bruins team lose to the Montreal, the team of arrogant prima donas. So, if you don't mind, I'm going to mosey off and start praying that the New York Rangers can do what we failed to do -- Stop the Canadiens.

I wish I could say that it was a helluva season, but I saw the B's play Montreal at the Garden during the pre-playoff season.  It's like they develop some kind of shit-for-brains mentality. 

I could sit here all night and comment on the lackluster performance, but I won't.  I mean, REALLY gentlemen, you get paid to play a game.  Show the f&*% up.  It's not rocket science. 

Go, Rangers!

DEAD FLY

Late last night as I was shutting the lights off and getting ready for bed, a very large and angry housefly made the fatal mistake of flying around my house.  To be honest, it was near-fatal for me, as well.

I saw the big bastard buzzing around as I headed to brush my teeth.  I lost sight of it as it zoomed into the den, and I figured I'd see it on my way back through.  I readied the fly swatter at a handy position, then I flossed, brushed, and fluoride-swished like someone whose aging teeth might actually be salvageable. 

I grabbed the swatter as I passed through the kitchen again, and I paced around searching.  I admit that I may have whistled a few times and called out, "Here, little fly, come and get it," but the damn thing ignored me. 

I went up to bed, half-hoping that the fly wouldn't careen up my nose during the night and half-hoping that maybe it would just to make a good blog story.  I fell immediately into REM sleep, as is my strange biological habit, and awakened about twenty minutes later from a bizarre nightmare, making my first floor-walk of the night.  I moseyed back down to the kitchen, I don't really know why -- maybe for water or maybe just because -- where I stood momentarily in the dark trying to decide if I were truly awake or not. 

Suddenly a giant BUZZ wracked my left ear.  The damn fly dive-bombed me in the dark.  I jumped sideways, picked up the swatter that I had conveniently left handy (just in case), and began flinging the plastic-wire-rubberized mallet around the air like a madwoman. 

I attacked; the fly retreated and charged anew.  Suddenly I was slapping at my calves, my thighs, my waist, my head with the implement of fly destruction.  I wasn't swatting the fly; I was swatting the crap out of myself, all the while jumping around and making karate noise:  "Eeeee-YAH!  WAAAAH!  Chaaaaahwooooooo!  HEEEYAHAHHHH!"  I thought I was the Ninja warrior, but it was the fly that was the Ninja warrior, and I was the crazy-ass victim who hadn't the slightest clue what the hell I had gotten myself into.

I spotted the black demon out of the corner of my right eye and began flailing wildly with the swatter, hoping to whack the horrible insect right from mid-air.  Swoosh, woooooosh, swoooooooosh…  Each wild arc of my arm completely missing its mark.

But then … there it was, hanging in space near me, close enough for me to get a glancing blow, and down it went, stunned but not yet mortally wounded.  I pounced.  Whackwhackwhackwhackwhack!  The injured fly rose up like the Phoenix and started to fly errantly away.  Whackwhackwhackwhackwhack!

 The table!  Damnit, the fly was on the table!

I didn't care.  I went in for the kill shot, anyway.  Guts spewed, little legs squirmed, until finally the sonofabitch was dead.  A Clorox wipe and some paper towels later, the evidence was gone.  Nothing remained but the fly swatter and the distant memory of my insect-induced wild Watusi kitchen dance. 

I slept fairly soundly for the rest of the night.  I'm not sure if I owe that to solving the fly problem, the exercise of chasing it down, or the thrill of the kill.  Thank goodness it went the way it did, though.  The number of times I swatted myself during the altercation, I'm amazed I didn't fall over and crack my skull wide open on the counter.  Otherwise that fly would be celebrating over me, and I doubt it would be so kind as to wipe up with a Clorox sheet when all was said and done.

I'll leave you all with a little philosophical bull-tickey:

The Fly

by William Blake

Little fly

Thy summer's play

My thoughtless hand

Has brushed away.

Am not I

A fly like thee?

Or art not thou

A man like me?

For I dance

And drink and sing,

'Til some blind hand

Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life

And strength and breath,

And the want

Of thought is death,

Then am I

A happy fly,

If I live,

Or if I die?

LIMERICK DAY (YES, I KNOW IT WAS YESTERDAY)

(Yesterday was Limerick Day.  Since I missed Limerick Day, I'm going to honor it here today ... since I didn't really miss it because I am writing these limericks yesterday, which really is/was Limerick Day.)

As I sit here and stare at the night,
I wish I had something to write.
It's not of my choosing -
The Bruins are losing,
This game is a terrible sight.

(Wrote that one at the end of the pathetic second period.  Yes, I said "pathetic."  Sue me.)

I wish that my nose wasn't sneezing
Having this cold isn't pleasing
I hate being sick
These germs I can't kick
One second I'm hot then I'm freezing

(Okay, that one could just mean I'm allergic to menopause.  But, really, I am sickly.)

I wish I could recall a caper
But my memory's starting to taper
Trouble I find
'Til I'm out of my mind
And then I commit tales to paper.

(Yes, I even write while I'm driving.  Watch out!  It's less dangerous than texting, though, because I don't need to see any keys to write notes to myself.)

A teammate and I took a chance
At a pub where we caught a good glance
Of a man with a tear
Near his own derrirer
So my teammate helped staple his pants.

(That really happened.  Or maybe it didn't.  Depends on if we can get arrested for it or not.)

Last but not least I should say
That my friends truly do make my day.
I laugh and I cry,
Pee my pants, want to sigh,
I love you all much anyway.

(Okay, that's it for bad limericks ... since it's tomorrow already and Limerick Day was yesterday, even though it's now at least for a couple of more hours.  Happy tomorrow, today and Happy today tomorrow.