I haven't written the synopsis for Bitter Moon yet.
I should have--but bedtime has been a terrible war this week, and sleep is the casualty, and by ten or eleven o'clock at night, my eyes are burning and my brain is deep-fried with clams.
I have been able to knit, though, and that experiment with the two socks on one circular continues.
Me likee!!!
Seriously--the daughter of my LYS owner is due any day now...I've been racking my brains for an appropriate knitted gift for someone who, like, owns a yarn store. I was going to do a sweater, and then a hat, and then...and then I ran out of time, and, dudes! She OWNS A YARN STORE! Is there anything I can make for her that she hasn't made for herself?
And then it hit me. The perfect gift for a third child of a woman who works with her mother who owns her own business:
Three baby socks.
It's perfect--it's knit with their product (something very sturdy that can just be thrown in the wash and forgotten!) and although she can (and probably has) knit her own socks, these are workaday models. Nothing precious--just a token of how much we all appreciate Maya and her winning smile and optimism. And because she's a mother, she gets the joke. I mean, we all know that at least one of them is going to dis-a-freakin'-pear sometime immediately after the first wear.
A pair and a spare--royalty has had this idea for years. (Oh wait...that was a heir and a spare...silly me!)
I finished the first on dpns during class today, and cast on the next two on magic loop when I was done. (I'm reading out loud. For some reason knitting keeps me from pacing in front of them like a caged jaguar.) I realized partway through that the 2x2 was unbalanced on one of the socks, but I figured that since I was reading "The Minister's Black Veil" and that's all about karmic imbalance, that they would appreciate the mark of literary meditation on that one little sock.
So tomorrow, I'll write the synopsis after burning the midnight oil, because I can. Tonight, I'm toddling off to bed, after knitting for an hour to old episodes of 'Without a Trace'. (How have I managed to miss that show for 6 years? It's totally awesome. And I'm getting a jones for Anthony LaPaglia in a big way.)
It's funny--I was so stressed out, and so freaked out about everything, but eventually, my center came back to me. I mean--this is a knitting blog, right? The obsession has got to be good for something!
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Yer Honor, I was taking a dump! OR Why I almost dropped dead of total heart-failure today.
Have you ever wondered where the horrible neglectful mother of that naked child peddling his tricycle around the block three times could possibly be?
I don't know where the other bad mothers are, but I was going to the bathroom and then washing dishes on the serene assumption that the psychotic little nudist was LOCKED IN THE BACKYARD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I don't know where the other bad mothers are, but I was going to the bathroom and then washing dishes on the serene assumption that the psychotic little nudist was LOCKED IN THE BACKYARD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Bad blogger...bad!
I've been a bad blogger--and I'm so very sorry.
The problem is, I've been blogging from school, and I wanted to give pictures, but I couldn't because, well, I was blogging from school! But the odds of me blogging from home, giving the chronic unrest of the short people these days is decreasing by the nanosecond, and my thanks are getting more and more remiss, so I'm just going to have to give a pictureless shout-out to my blogging homies who live far from home!
About a week ago I got home from that HORRIBLE day (or one of those horrible days...last week was a blur of awfulness, mostly) and there were PRESENTS. Not just amazon.com deliveries (although there was one of those too...) but PRESENTS.
Roxie and Gemma, who love me and are loved ferociously in return, visited Mr. Postman and gave me PRESENTS.
Roxie sent me cat-butts and chicken droppings--no, don't look at me like that--the cat butts were stickers (and hence my longing for a camera, dammit!) but they were hilarious, and so was the egg-laying chicken keychain, w/gumballs for eggs. (By the way, the live Chicken in my house tends to snatch these things and run away laughing--but since it keeps her from perpetual glomming, that's still a good thing!)It was cute and thoughtful, and one of those things that kept my skull from imploding and I'm terribly grateful.
Gemma sent me kangaroo pasta, a whale cookie cutter (both of which Chicken and I jumped up and down and crowed about) and (what else, since this is a knitting blog sort of?) YARN. Yarn from AUSTRALIA!!! (You all know what a back-country provincial I am--Yarn from Australia, Yarn from Oregon, Yarn from Bufeebegee--it's all my favorite thing from SOMEPLACE I DON'T LIVE!!!!!) Anyway, it's this wonderful color (Bloody Mary--isn't that excellent?) and the texture is UBERYUMMEEE!!! (There--I"ve just made another word...let's see if we can enter this into the lexicon of imaginary words, next to prickweenie, crapweasel, and fibergasm!) Seriously--if it hadn't been for these two women and their sweet little flirtation with Mr. Postman, I might not have made it through the week--you're both awesome, babelicious and amazing, and all that that implies.
So thank you ladies, thank you Mr. Postman, and thank you, 6th period, for shutting up long enough for me to blog (but not long enough for me to actually run through the conclusion of our analogy drill).
*sigh* And speaking of analogies? One of our words today was 'apostate'--it means someone who no longer follows a belief or philosophy. I think I have become an apostate of public education. I no longer have any faith in it, and unless I'm teaching literature and literature only, I feel as though so much of what I do is empty and without meaning. I remember when I was in school for my credential, and the consensus was, that if we ever got to that place in our careers where we were completely burnt out, we should quit and do something else. There is only one thing I want to do besides this...but I don't know if publishing companies grant rapture to apostates. Oh well...even apostates can eventually suffer through purgatory and make it to heaven, right? (Besides--I foresee next year will be better--it's gotta be--I'm moving to part time...canyagimme hallelujia? Amen!)
The problem is, I've been blogging from school, and I wanted to give pictures, but I couldn't because, well, I was blogging from school! But the odds of me blogging from home, giving the chronic unrest of the short people these days is decreasing by the nanosecond, and my thanks are getting more and more remiss, so I'm just going to have to give a pictureless shout-out to my blogging homies who live far from home!
About a week ago I got home from that HORRIBLE day (or one of those horrible days...last week was a blur of awfulness, mostly) and there were PRESENTS. Not just amazon.com deliveries (although there was one of those too...) but PRESENTS.
Roxie and Gemma, who love me and are loved ferociously in return, visited Mr. Postman and gave me PRESENTS.
Roxie sent me cat-butts and chicken droppings--no, don't look at me like that--the cat butts were stickers (and hence my longing for a camera, dammit!) but they were hilarious, and so was the egg-laying chicken keychain, w/gumballs for eggs. (By the way, the live Chicken in my house tends to snatch these things and run away laughing--but since it keeps her from perpetual glomming, that's still a good thing!)It was cute and thoughtful, and one of those things that kept my skull from imploding and I'm terribly grateful.
Gemma sent me kangaroo pasta, a whale cookie cutter (both of which Chicken and I jumped up and down and crowed about) and (what else, since this is a knitting blog sort of?) YARN. Yarn from AUSTRALIA!!! (You all know what a back-country provincial I am--Yarn from Australia, Yarn from Oregon, Yarn from Bufeebegee--it's all my favorite thing from SOMEPLACE I DON'T LIVE!!!!!) Anyway, it's this wonderful color (Bloody Mary--isn't that excellent?) and the texture is UBERYUMMEEE!!! (There--I"ve just made another word...let's see if we can enter this into the lexicon of imaginary words, next to prickweenie, crapweasel, and fibergasm!) Seriously--if it hadn't been for these two women and their sweet little flirtation with Mr. Postman, I might not have made it through the week--you're both awesome, babelicious and amazing, and all that that implies.
So thank you ladies, thank you Mr. Postman, and thank you, 6th period, for shutting up long enough for me to blog (but not long enough for me to actually run through the conclusion of our analogy drill).
*sigh* And speaking of analogies? One of our words today was 'apostate'--it means someone who no longer follows a belief or philosophy. I think I have become an apostate of public education. I no longer have any faith in it, and unless I'm teaching literature and literature only, I feel as though so much of what I do is empty and without meaning. I remember when I was in school for my credential, and the consensus was, that if we ever got to that place in our careers where we were completely burnt out, we should quit and do something else. There is only one thing I want to do besides this...but I don't know if publishing companies grant rapture to apostates. Oh well...even apostates can eventually suffer through purgatory and make it to heaven, right? (Besides--I foresee next year will be better--it's gotta be--I'm moving to part time...canyagimme hallelujia? Amen!)
Sunday, March 9, 2008
The Frog Pond
The forces that drove me to knit in the car in front of the pet store today were many.
I managed to write three of the four synopsis, but it took a lot of yelling, pouting, screaming and weeping on my part. The children were getting used to ducking and the spouse...well, let's just say that the spouse took this last week off for softball, basketball, WOW and working late a lot. The spouse and I had a big twanging roue and then I had to deal with the big twanging guilt and all in all? I was a lot more surprised than I should have been to see that my toe was not working well at all. Sometime in the last week, my stitches had become misaligned, and the top of the toe had more stitches left than the bottom. I looked at it stupidly, listening to the soft ocean of traffic through the open windows and the Psychedelic Furs singing Pretty in Pink.
My knitting was never this out of whack. Ever.
I barely twitched an eyeball as I frogged the entire toe and realigned everything until it was pretty and even and ready to be worked on. Here it was, a gorgeous March day, and I had left my oldest daughter playing with the short people in the schoolyard across the street--when all I wanted to do was be with them. But I had spent my whole morning trying desperately to finish an assignment that, as far as I know, is going into the ether, never to return or reap any reward at all.
Perhaps my knitting was not all that was out of whack.
I finished my errands and returned home with cat food, lunch, and (holiest of holies) milk, and after unpacking I sat down with Ladybug and hugged the incorrigible Cave Troll after his nap and went outside to knit and watch them play. This time, the toe worked up much better. In fact everything went better, right up until the moment I dropped the wool and as I reached for it, skewered my hand on a dpn. While I was in the house putting a bandage on it, Chicken pushed Ladybug off the swing, and as I ran outside to see what was wrong, I tripped over all of the Cave Troll's clothes that he had taken off for no reason.
Perhaps my life and my knitting were, occasionally subject to forces beyond our control that put them out of whack.
But, forces or no forces, it was a lovely, blossom scented, sunshine touched, afternoon. I got to hold my children on my lap, and I ended up with two, slightly fraternal, socks.
Maybe I'm just whack, and all else follows as a result.
I managed to write three of the four synopsis, but it took a lot of yelling, pouting, screaming and weeping on my part. The children were getting used to ducking and the spouse...well, let's just say that the spouse took this last week off for softball, basketball, WOW and working late a lot. The spouse and I had a big twanging roue and then I had to deal with the big twanging guilt and all in all? I was a lot more surprised than I should have been to see that my toe was not working well at all. Sometime in the last week, my stitches had become misaligned, and the top of the toe had more stitches left than the bottom. I looked at it stupidly, listening to the soft ocean of traffic through the open windows and the Psychedelic Furs singing Pretty in Pink.
My knitting was never this out of whack. Ever.
I barely twitched an eyeball as I frogged the entire toe and realigned everything until it was pretty and even and ready to be worked on. Here it was, a gorgeous March day, and I had left my oldest daughter playing with the short people in the schoolyard across the street--when all I wanted to do was be with them. But I had spent my whole morning trying desperately to finish an assignment that, as far as I know, is going into the ether, never to return or reap any reward at all.
Perhaps my knitting was not all that was out of whack.
I finished my errands and returned home with cat food, lunch, and (holiest of holies) milk, and after unpacking I sat down with Ladybug and hugged the incorrigible Cave Troll after his nap and went outside to knit and watch them play. This time, the toe worked up much better. In fact everything went better, right up until the moment I dropped the wool and as I reached for it, skewered my hand on a dpn. While I was in the house putting a bandage on it, Chicken pushed Ladybug off the swing, and as I ran outside to see what was wrong, I tripped over all of the Cave Troll's clothes that he had taken off for no reason.
Perhaps my life and my knitting were, occasionally subject to forces beyond our control that put them out of whack.
But, forces or no forces, it was a lovely, blossom scented, sunshine touched, afternoon. I got to hold my children on my lap, and I ended up with two, slightly fraternal, socks.
Maybe I'm just whack, and all else follows as a result.
Your attention please:
For everyone who has looked at a size 1 dpn and thought that the airlines were nuts, it's damned impossible to use that dull thing to penetrate flesh?
Until 2 minutes ago, I was one of you.
I was wrong.
*whimper* OUCH! *whimper*
Until 2 minutes ago, I was one of you.
I was wrong.
*whimper* OUCH! *whimper*
Friday, March 7, 2008
I'm bad...
So very bad.
I was gonna kill someone and then fall asleep and forget about it. I hated my job, the students, the book, and crap, I was even hating Almighty Freakin' Emerson. And then it happened.
We had two fouled up schedules in a row, and the smallest gear on my sposta snapped, and now we're watching movies.
IT'S MARVELOUS.
You know, when you go to English teacher's school, you have these lovely bucolic, utopian dreams about simply giving the students the texts and then having them come back to talk about books and you think "WOW. I want that job. I've been reading all my life and I LOVE to talk about books--how is it that people aren't lining up for that job?"
And then you meet your fellow inmates and the lightbulb 'bout blinds you. "Aha. THIS is why people would rather scrub toilets with their toothbrushes than have this job. I understand now."
And sometimes, you do something by fuck-lucky accident that reminds you why you have a scrubbie for the toilet and a toothbrush all your own.
For me, every year, it's a movie for no good reason but that we're all exhausted, hate life, school, and each other to the extent that we may just have to kill something or drop-kick a poodle to make it better.
Instead, we save the poodle and put some mileage on the dvd/vcr.
And the kids are watching. I mean, that doesn't sound like a big deal, but I HATE putting in random movies that the kids won't watch. But putting in a good movie (Frequency, Taps, Sense & Sensibility) that gets their attention and invests them? I mean, that's the essence of why we teach English 'til 12th grade. STORIES people--we want them to understand the heartbeat of STORIES. It's why we drag them kicking and screaming from the fillings in their molars through Pride & Prejudice and The Crucible--we want them to understand that ART IS A SUPPORT SYSTEM FOR LIFE!!! That the things we do and see in fiction resonate in our hearts like tuning forks, until we either comprehend them in our bones or fly apart in our own self-destructive ignorance. And sometimes, when the kids forget this is school, it actually happens.
So I'm bad. Spank me. It's gotta feel better than the last week!
In synopsis news? I've got two more to go. And...that's all I want to say about that.
I'm also almost done with the Cave Troll's socks (yee-ha--have I mentioned I LOATHE this colorway? I guess even colorsluts have things they won't do for anything but love...) I'm also almost done with some wristlets for a Senior...*sigh* Senior gifts are gonna kill me this year. But I got a visit from a kid I had two years ago who just got his pharmacy degree...I was so proud of him I almost cried.
I bet HE remembers the movies I used to show:-)
I was gonna kill someone and then fall asleep and forget about it. I hated my job, the students, the book, and crap, I was even hating Almighty Freakin' Emerson. And then it happened.
We had two fouled up schedules in a row, and the smallest gear on my sposta snapped, and now we're watching movies.
IT'S MARVELOUS.
You know, when you go to English teacher's school, you have these lovely bucolic, utopian dreams about simply giving the students the texts and then having them come back to talk about books and you think "WOW. I want that job. I've been reading all my life and I LOVE to talk about books--how is it that people aren't lining up for that job?"
And then you meet your fellow inmates and the lightbulb 'bout blinds you. "Aha. THIS is why people would rather scrub toilets with their toothbrushes than have this job. I understand now."
And sometimes, you do something by fuck-lucky accident that reminds you why you have a scrubbie for the toilet and a toothbrush all your own.
For me, every year, it's a movie for no good reason but that we're all exhausted, hate life, school, and each other to the extent that we may just have to kill something or drop-kick a poodle to make it better.
Instead, we save the poodle and put some mileage on the dvd/vcr.
And the kids are watching. I mean, that doesn't sound like a big deal, but I HATE putting in random movies that the kids won't watch. But putting in a good movie (Frequency, Taps, Sense & Sensibility) that gets their attention and invests them? I mean, that's the essence of why we teach English 'til 12th grade. STORIES people--we want them to understand the heartbeat of STORIES. It's why we drag them kicking and screaming from the fillings in their molars through Pride & Prejudice and The Crucible--we want them to understand that ART IS A SUPPORT SYSTEM FOR LIFE!!! That the things we do and see in fiction resonate in our hearts like tuning forks, until we either comprehend them in our bones or fly apart in our own self-destructive ignorance. And sometimes, when the kids forget this is school, it actually happens.
So I'm bad. Spank me. It's gotta feel better than the last week!
In synopsis news? I've got two more to go. And...that's all I want to say about that.
I'm also almost done with the Cave Troll's socks (yee-ha--have I mentioned I LOATHE this colorway? I guess even colorsluts have things they won't do for anything but love...) I'm also almost done with some wristlets for a Senior...*sigh* Senior gifts are gonna kill me this year. But I got a visit from a kid I had two years ago who just got his pharmacy degree...I was so proud of him I almost cried.
I bet HE remembers the movies I used to show:-)
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Stressing...
Okay, so I have to summarize all four of the books in four pages a summary--and I'm stressing.
Seriously stressing.
I have become the worst version of myself, sleep deprivation, snarling at the family, spacing out at work, et. al., and even though I would probably need these synopses would be needed if I wanted to get published anywhere, I'm starting to remember all the will power it took to get me through school.
Goddess, I'm surprised I made it.
In other news? A couple of welcome revelations today.
The first relates to the Cave Troll becoming possessed with the soul of the devil and doing everything but spinning his head around, barfing green soup and crab-walking on the ceiling. Seriously, my sweet little boy of last week has completely disappeared, and has kept his father and I up until all hours of the night being a complete boyshit and I was banging my head on the wall, seriously thinking about tanking the writing thing altogether in order to spend some time with what was quickly morphing from a Cave Troll to a ginormous boil on a cave troll's ass. (Last night, we were going to bed, when we discovered all of his bedding in the hallway, and he and his sister shivering on their bed. Why he did this, I have no idea.) And then, as my students were chatting (not about their work--what's new?) one of them asked me, "Mz. Lane, c'mon, you can tell us--do you spank your children?"
I laughed. "Yeah, I was spanked, I spank my kids--I remember (and this memory came to me as I spoke) that when my oldest daughter was about three, we could tell if she'd had a really bad weekend because she would spank her doll when she was playing."
And then it all came flooding back to me. Chicken was a HORRIBLE child. I loved her then. I worshipped her then. But she had potential to be a tremendous pain in the ass, and she is VERY good at realizing her potential.
And she survive. I survived. And she doesn't appear to be scarred in any sense of the word from all the times mama screamed at her and gave her a smack on the bottom.
We might live through the Cave Troll years after all.
The other revelation came when I was speaking to one of my favorite administrators.
We're planning a fairly involved assembly tomorrow--something that's gonna have us marching our students in (get this!) single file from our rooms to the gym, and then sitting where we're assigned. Thinking about my 6th period, I called Perry over and started listing eight names from my 6th period that I knew he would recognize.
"Oh..." he said, "The club!"
"Yeah," I replied, "And they meet every day in my 6th period. Maybe a little back-up tomorrow?"
"Definitely."
And brother, did I feel validated to know that these kids were really the complete nightmares I had always thought they were.
Then he said, "Hey--do you recognize this? 'Margaret are you grieving?'"
"For goldengrove unleaving." I supplied. "Gerard Manley Hopkins."
SCORE for the English geek.
And now, back to the synopsis salt mines.
Seriously stressing.
I have become the worst version of myself, sleep deprivation, snarling at the family, spacing out at work, et. al., and even though I would probably need these synopses would be needed if I wanted to get published anywhere, I'm starting to remember all the will power it took to get me through school.
Goddess, I'm surprised I made it.
In other news? A couple of welcome revelations today.
The first relates to the Cave Troll becoming possessed with the soul of the devil and doing everything but spinning his head around, barfing green soup and crab-walking on the ceiling. Seriously, my sweet little boy of last week has completely disappeared, and has kept his father and I up until all hours of the night being a complete boyshit and I was banging my head on the wall, seriously thinking about tanking the writing thing altogether in order to spend some time with what was quickly morphing from a Cave Troll to a ginormous boil on a cave troll's ass. (Last night, we were going to bed, when we discovered all of his bedding in the hallway, and he and his sister shivering on their bed. Why he did this, I have no idea.) And then, as my students were chatting (not about their work--what's new?) one of them asked me, "Mz. Lane, c'mon, you can tell us--do you spank your children?"
I laughed. "Yeah, I was spanked, I spank my kids--I remember (and this memory came to me as I spoke) that when my oldest daughter was about three, we could tell if she'd had a really bad weekend because she would spank her doll when she was playing."
And then it all came flooding back to me. Chicken was a HORRIBLE child. I loved her then. I worshipped her then. But she had potential to be a tremendous pain in the ass, and she is VERY good at realizing her potential.
And she survive. I survived. And she doesn't appear to be scarred in any sense of the word from all the times mama screamed at her and gave her a smack on the bottom.
We might live through the Cave Troll years after all.
The other revelation came when I was speaking to one of my favorite administrators.
We're planning a fairly involved assembly tomorrow--something that's gonna have us marching our students in (get this!) single file from our rooms to the gym, and then sitting where we're assigned. Thinking about my 6th period, I called Perry over and started listing eight names from my 6th period that I knew he would recognize.
"Oh..." he said, "The club!"
"Yeah," I replied, "And they meet every day in my 6th period. Maybe a little back-up tomorrow?"
"Definitely."
And brother, did I feel validated to know that these kids were really the complete nightmares I had always thought they were.
Then he said, "Hey--do you recognize this? 'Margaret are you grieving?'"
"For goldengrove unleaving." I supplied. "Gerard Manley Hopkins."
SCORE for the English geek.
And now, back to the synopsis salt mines.
Monday, March 3, 2008
A paradox in a song.
I knew today was going to suck.
My weekend was...exasperating. I never got that work done. I flat out didn't. So here it is, in my e-mail box, perhaps the opportunity that I've been waiting on for the last four years and...
And I can't answer the door because I'm getting a bottle for a kid every two minutes, or keeping the short people from beating the hell out of each other when they should be in bed or answering Big T's inane questions at weird times or sweetly disentangling myself from beloved Chicken because she tends to glom or... or... or... or ANYTHING that revolves around kids who won't let me alone for 2 1/2 minutes to allow a lousy stinking thought to rattle around my head like a lone gum ball in a cracked gum-ball machine when, apparently, Mate has some sort of OFF repellent for anything resembling a distraction as his animated troll kicks ass.
So walking into my students was going to suck. I knew it. I had, in no way, shape, or form, achieved the psychic healing that I needed to face them, and I hated them all as they walked up the ramp.
I hated them all as I taught my 2nd period. Even the nice ones.
I hated them all as I blew by my 3rd period to get to the bathroom, and I hated them all plus the guy in the stall I was waiting for as I waited to use it.
And then my colleague came out of the john, and I asked him if he ever hated the world, and he responded, "No. I just don't let them get to me."
I said, "Well, maybe that's the flipside of being a 'blue'." (This is school code for emotion-driven, thanks to one of the cheeziest in-services I've ever been herded into with a cattle-prod.)
He rolled his eyes--he disapproves of 'blue-ness' and I laughed. And then this song hit me.
It's on the Gray's Anatomy soundtrack--it is, in fact, called 'I hate everyone.' It is not a mean-assed metal song--in fact, it has this really perky beat with this really sweet-voiced singer and the irony between that perky beat and that misanthropic message makes you laugh just to hear it.
I played the song during lunch and for the next two periods, there it was, running around in my head...All the people in the street...
I hate you all.
And the people that I see.
I hate you all.
And the people that I don't.
I hate you all.
And all of the sudden, I'm laughing, secretly, to myself, because the kids saw me, dancing around, humming to myself, talking over, around, under, and through their relentless narcissism, and they thought I was in a good mood.
And, abruptly, so I was.
I told one of my best students in 6th period (where, I determined, 1/4 of the class has a gpa of less than 1.0--they're Juniors. This means their odds of graduating are roughly the odds of me, winning the American Junior Miss pageant, should I decide to enter) about the song, and she thought it was funny. Then, as I waited for the class to basically calm down, we both caught me humming it out loud.
She burst out laughing--of all people, she is the most victimized by the horrendous manners of my 6th period class, since they do deprive her of the education she's working her ass off to get.
And then my transformation was complete.
And isn't that the coolest paradox? By embracing my right to be a grumpy bitch, abruptly I didn't hate anyone at all:-)
My weekend was...exasperating. I never got that work done. I flat out didn't. So here it is, in my e-mail box, perhaps the opportunity that I've been waiting on for the last four years and...
And I can't answer the door because I'm getting a bottle for a kid every two minutes, or keeping the short people from beating the hell out of each other when they should be in bed or answering Big T's inane questions at weird times or sweetly disentangling myself from beloved Chicken because she tends to glom or... or... or... or ANYTHING that revolves around kids who won't let me alone for 2 1/2 minutes to allow a lousy stinking thought to rattle around my head like a lone gum ball in a cracked gum-ball machine when, apparently, Mate has some sort of OFF repellent for anything resembling a distraction as his animated troll kicks ass.
So walking into my students was going to suck. I knew it. I had, in no way, shape, or form, achieved the psychic healing that I needed to face them, and I hated them all as they walked up the ramp.
I hated them all as I taught my 2nd period. Even the nice ones.
I hated them all as I blew by my 3rd period to get to the bathroom, and I hated them all plus the guy in the stall I was waiting for as I waited to use it.
And then my colleague came out of the john, and I asked him if he ever hated the world, and he responded, "No. I just don't let them get to me."
I said, "Well, maybe that's the flipside of being a 'blue'." (This is school code for emotion-driven, thanks to one of the cheeziest in-services I've ever been herded into with a cattle-prod.)
He rolled his eyes--he disapproves of 'blue-ness' and I laughed. And then this song hit me.
It's on the Gray's Anatomy soundtrack--it is, in fact, called 'I hate everyone.' It is not a mean-assed metal song--in fact, it has this really perky beat with this really sweet-voiced singer and the irony between that perky beat and that misanthropic message makes you laugh just to hear it.
I played the song during lunch and for the next two periods, there it was, running around in my head...All the people in the street...
I hate you all.
And the people that I see.
I hate you all.
And the people that I don't.
I hate you all.
And all of the sudden, I'm laughing, secretly, to myself, because the kids saw me, dancing around, humming to myself, talking over, around, under, and through their relentless narcissism, and they thought I was in a good mood.
And, abruptly, so I was.
I told one of my best students in 6th period (where, I determined, 1/4 of the class has a gpa of less than 1.0--they're Juniors. This means their odds of graduating are roughly the odds of me, winning the American Junior Miss pageant, should I decide to enter) about the song, and she thought it was funny. Then, as I waited for the class to basically calm down, we both caught me humming it out loud.
She burst out laughing--of all people, she is the most victimized by the horrendous manners of my 6th period class, since they do deprive her of the education she's working her ass off to get.
And then my transformation was complete.
And isn't that the coolest paradox? By embracing my right to be a grumpy bitch, abruptly I didn't hate anyone at all:-)
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Sneaky evil with ultimate cool...
Okay, first of all, I should be writing a cover letter...I have a (sort of? maybe?) agent who has a (kind of? maybe?) line on a publisher who (may? perhaps?) would like to publish my already self-published books.
Perhaps, you can see why posting on my blog is sort of a sneaky-evil relief from that sort of weirdness... unfortunately, besides a day of napping, all I've got is fiber content.
The napping was actually vital, not only to my mental health but to the mental health of all my nearest and dearest. It appears that one cannot subsist on four-five hours a night for more than two weeks without suddenly morphing into a RAGING FUCKING BITCH whose foul temper threatens to decapitate all within scratching distance. My children were ducking yesterday evening, and the spouse actually cooked and cleaned--and ducked.
I think a nice lie in tomorrow might keep us all breathing here for a while yet, but I've got to make sure I don't get that way again. I was not pleasant to be around in the same way an acid-oozing poison toad is not pleasant to eat.
But now to the fiber content...
I stopped by Babetta's today--which I shouldn't have even dreamt of doing, since I was just at Stitches last week, but I needed a b-day present for a friend, and, so there I was.
There was a book on two socks on one magic loop. Can you see where this is going?
I thought you could. Two skeins of exquisitely died Louet Sales silk/merino and a 32 inch set of addi turbos later, (btw? it's too short--I really should have kept hunting for the 36"ers) I was home with my gift and a new obsession. I cast on while watching Beowulf (it's still awesome, even on the small screen, and still as queasy for those of you who like your blood off-screen) and towards the middle of the movie, Chicken was suddenly right in front of me, peering at the amazingly iridescent yarn (colourway peacock, dyed by Cherry Tree Hill) on the needle loop.
"What?" I asked, hoping I didn't just miss that flash of Ray Winstone's amazing animated ass as she stood.
"I'm just admiring your ultimate knitting cool..." she breathed, and Ray Winstone's ass ceased to be important.
"That's cool?" I asked, making sure.
"Oh yeah..." Bless my little Chicken...she's 13...I don't think I'm going to hear that from her again in a long time.
Perhaps, you can see why posting on my blog is sort of a sneaky-evil relief from that sort of weirdness... unfortunately, besides a day of napping, all I've got is fiber content.
The napping was actually vital, not only to my mental health but to the mental health of all my nearest and dearest. It appears that one cannot subsist on four-five hours a night for more than two weeks without suddenly morphing into a RAGING FUCKING BITCH whose foul temper threatens to decapitate all within scratching distance. My children were ducking yesterday evening, and the spouse actually cooked and cleaned--and ducked.
I think a nice lie in tomorrow might keep us all breathing here for a while yet, but I've got to make sure I don't get that way again. I was not pleasant to be around in the same way an acid-oozing poison toad is not pleasant to eat.
But now to the fiber content...
I stopped by Babetta's today--which I shouldn't have even dreamt of doing, since I was just at Stitches last week, but I needed a b-day present for a friend, and, so there I was.
There was a book on two socks on one magic loop. Can you see where this is going?
I thought you could. Two skeins of exquisitely died Louet Sales silk/merino and a 32 inch set of addi turbos later, (btw? it's too short--I really should have kept hunting for the 36"ers) I was home with my gift and a new obsession. I cast on while watching Beowulf (it's still awesome, even on the small screen, and still as queasy for those of you who like your blood off-screen) and towards the middle of the movie, Chicken was suddenly right in front of me, peering at the amazingly iridescent yarn (colourway peacock, dyed by Cherry Tree Hill) on the needle loop.
"What?" I asked, hoping I didn't just miss that flash of Ray Winstone's amazing animated ass as she stood.
"I'm just admiring your ultimate knitting cool..." she breathed, and Ray Winstone's ass ceased to be important.
"That's cool?" I asked, making sure.
"Oh yeah..." Bless my little Chicken...she's 13...I don't think I'm going to hear that from her again in a long time.
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