The kitchen table

My new kitchen table. I got it today, after much grappling with logistics and confusion. It replaces the other, brown table I had since I was married; but, since the husband is gone, so is the table.

There was some confusion as to why the table should be delivered on a certain day. I can't figure that out, but I won't dwell in minute details that no longer matter.

I wanted to take a photo of the table, completely clear and clutter free. It may be the only time this happens. I don't plan to ever eat on the table, though I did tonight because the clutter free surface was very appealing. Instead the kitchen table serves as my two cats' feeding area. I leave their food bowls on the table to avoid the nasty, tiny ants that invade my home looking for free handouts. My thought on this is: why make it easy for them.

Also on the table, where I sit typing this currently which is kinda cool because I'm tired of sitting in the chair in the living room - that is part of the old life, gotta get a new one. The oak and press board table is holding my four favorite things in the world (aside from the kitties) which are also what I'm addicted to, funny how that works.

My computer is the most awesome thing. It connects me to the bigger world, and keeps me up to date on the news (which I miss). It's also how I communicate with friends. Not to mention the writing which is beginning to settle back into place - where it friggin' belongs.

The coffee is important because I tend to live off caffeine at times, and it just tastes nice - kinda bitter and sweet.

My ipod. I live for what it offers me: music. My sanctuary and salvation; my feelings and blood. I know lots of people will never get this, but I know one will and that's all that matters.

The phone. Who ever guessed I would be addicted to texting. It doesn't matter to who (well it does, but whatever). Communicating in quick written bursts designed to convey a whole conversation in a few keystrokes and thoughts. Quite frankly, it could be the most coolest thing ever conceived. It's instant and written. Snail mail is an art, but one that is long lost. Why would I post a letter, when I could text my thoughts in a few quick letters?

Cartoons I miss

Cartoons that I so love and now miss terribly because we have the brilliant genius of Ed, Edd, & Eddy oh and how can I forget CatDog. yeah.

* thundercats - go lionel. didn't we all just want to be one when that really cheesy music played.
*he-man - he was friggin hot. all those ripply muscles and a prince, no less.
* voltron - because who didn't want to fly a big mechanical cat that made an ever bigger cat looking thing.
* G.I. Joe - Duke was my hero. 'nuff said.
* transformers - the movie was cool, but it all started on Sat. mornings.
* sailor moon - yup, I watched it.
* smurfs - I have discovered that the word smurf actually means fuck and can be used as such.
* Gummi Bears - bouncing here and there and everywhere . . . they are the gummi bears.

Crazy Daze

Moving someone is not as fun as it was when I was younger. Moving always meant a new adventure; this move signaled an end to 17 years worth of events, happenings, adventures, and friendship.
It was sunny and 65 today; perfect golf weather, but instead my spouse moved out, officially now. Normally when someone I know moves it rains – which ensures a successful move – the sun threw me today. I haven’t figured out what that means yet. Maybe nothing.
So now I sit in my living room with my cat crawling all over me and dragging around my dog-faced slippers and he isn’t snoring in his chair. But I’m sure he’s snoring in his new chair in his new place, which is kinda comforting. And he has cockroaches, which is comforting in an odd way. I’m laughing when I say this – glad it’s not me.
Instead, I have the killer toothache and I’m such a pansy about going to the dentist I’ll be in suffering stupendous pain before I even pick up the phone to make an appointment. Hello, Mr. Root Canal. Just how I want to spend my winter break – toothache hell.
Back to what I was saying: my life is moving on not in the original direction, but it’s still a direction. I’m going with the waves now – big ol’ life shattering, smashing, crashing, drowning waves.

School: Fail

The few, sparse days right before a somewhat lengthy break are full of absolute pain and hate. Mostly on the part of the teachers. The students lose all moral compass and do what they can to be as obnoxious and pathetic as possible. And most of this is just purely internal, inherent childhood ridiculous behavior.

In my experience, 45 adults and 850 students are not a healthy mix when both sides want desperately to be away from each other. While the adults have the advantage of, you know, thought and rational reasoning; the 850 students have the advantage of strength of numbers and the general mob mentality of wanting to sneak and pull anything on the teachers. Even given a few seconds of nonadult supervison, the kids will suddenly slip into psychotic break mode and turn into unrecognizable versions of their former selves.

Case in point, a few examples of the strangeness of the past few days.

* The boys' bathroom pee issues have intensified to the point that finger pointing has now started and the paranoia of dribblig a little on the side means something new altogether.

* The game of "how-many-kids-can-fit-under-the-teachers-desk" is played every time the teacher happens to turn his/her back to the desk.

* Games of sac tag have dramatically increased and random boys can be found curled in the fetal position at various points through the day.

*Absenteeism is so rampent that when you call out Ferris Beuller's name, you really can hear crickets.

* Homework? What's that? I never heard of that.

* The phrase "Please sit down and be quiet" is now replaced with "Get yo' butt in the seat and clamp it.."

* More inter-school emails are swirling discussing how important it is to partcipate in the Secret Santa project, and please don't forget your secret santa.

* It is the longest week ever known to man or woman

O' Xmas Tree, O'Xmas Tree - NOT

I’ve been very humbuggy, or scroogette-y as I have been called. Too bad.
But, after the accusations, I decided to accept a Christmas tree. I broke down and was ready to welcome the holiday spirit with open arms. My soon to be ex-spouse picked out the tree for me, brought it back to our house and set it up.
This was done without the usual fanfare that has always accompanied the arrival of the yearly tree. The cat (the one in my arms) didn’t go running for cover and cower on the spare bedroom bed in the mounds of clothes that I need to put away, only to pee out of fear causing the necessity of rewashing all of the clothes. It was nice not to worry about that.
Instead, Huey catted-up this year. He boldly walked to the lush, green tree, standing tall and proud on its tree stand in the middle of the room. This tree was going to get the royal treatment as far as display was concerned. I was unaware of Huey’s newfound bravado, but soon to be was enjoying it.
Then came a girlish shriek from the living room.
“Get in here, quick,” was the following call. I dropped the dishes in the sink with a splash and rushed to the tree – but alas – not fast enough.
Huey had mounted a side attack and had blindsided the courageous tree. He was standing on the tree stand (a tv stand) and had two branches in his mouth. With a vicious headshake, Huey had the tree on the floor, with green paper mache pine needles strewn everywhere. And as fast as I could move to make a lunging grab at him, he was down the hall with the tree, dragging it into the darkest, scariest recesses of the house. I wasn’t going to follow.
Instead, I got the shopvac and cleaned up the leftover remnants of the $1 Dollar Store 12-inch tall fake tree.
That’ll teach me to go back on my word. Next time I say I’m boycotting something, I’m sticking with it. I guess I’ll find the tree when I move.

Things I like:
After having a crap few days I need to remind myself of the reasons I don’t want to take the eternal dirt nap. Not in any specific order.

* The perfect sentence.
* The perfect book that shatters my thoughts and can take me to a different world.
* The way beer tickles your tongue when you take that first sip.
* Listening to a piece of music that triggers your soul and reminds you of something long forgotten.
* Seeing a friend pop up on IM.
* Getting a random text message from someone wishing you a good day or whatever.
*A sun-drenched spring day.
* A warm, but rainy spring day.
* Seeing the moon bounce soft light off ocean waves, creating a path to another world – even if it is just in your own mind.
* The way people can be nice to each other around the holidays (not really this year, but maybe in the future)
* Getting a hug from someone who loves you and he squeezes just a bit too hard in exultation so that the air in your lungs is expelled.
* Standing next to a guy who is wearing the most bestest smelling cologne in the world.
* Laughing at a joke or situation so hard you double over and tears flow freely from your eyes.
* Playing with my cats.
* The perfect spin.
* Making someone else smile.
* Ginger ale spicy enough to make your eyes water.
* Irony for the sake of irony.
* Dems in the White House.
* Holding a conversation without being made to feel like everything you say is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Invisible

It's nice being invisible. People tend to forget about you being around. You just become an afterthought, a whisper of a memory that floats in some blank space in a person's mind. Your thought of when that person or people have nothing else better to do, and then it's like "Oh, hey, yeah, what about what's her face?"
Then when the whisper turns a little louder people can again see the barest outline of your form - but never the whole thing. They don't want to see all that. They only want you for whatever random purpose filled their head at that moment. As soon as the task is fulfilled, you again sink into the neither regions of their existance. A silent shadow in the corner of the room. Not even lurking because you don't even get that high of a ranking in their lives - or they find something better to occupy their time and lives.
Slipping through time, unseen, ghosting through life can be a warm and fuzzy if you don't like the people you've chosen to be invisible around. It's easier to not exist at times, to skirt around the edges of everyone else, hearing and seeing every fucking thing they do, and they have no idea you were even there. They have no idea the number of proverbial knives you can suffer that have been driven deep into your core, because they can't even take the time to see you, or figure you out.
What's the point of offering a key to the puzzle that is you? It's no fun when someone can push all your buttons, without even taking the time to find them, or even decide if they like those buttons. So, you just sink into the background.
And one day, you just stop existing all together because etherial floating through time and space without hope and feelings is the preferred way to live.

Fun in the Restroom II

The fun in the boys' restroom intensified today. I find it truly fascinating that dealing with urinary issues in the opposite sexes' restroom actually takes up part of my professional day. How absolutely surreal and inane is this?

So, walking by the boys' restroom around 11 a.m., I noticed (hard not to) the most foul smelling ordor sifting out from under the closed door. The light was off, so I took that as a sign no one was in the restroom. The whole hallway reeked of stale urine - freakin' boys. I walked back to my room and had one of the boys in my class spray the restroom down. The smell in the hallway soon changed from a repulsive urine drenched malfeasence to one of a Lysol and urine drenched, gut-wrenching, hurl-inducing putrid odor. Lovely.

I gave up and went back to class.

Around 130 p.m. one of the boys came to me and said there was an actual puddle of pee near the entrance to the restroom. I, finding this hard to believe, had to go see for myself. Apparently, one industrious youth couldn't make it to the bowl and releived himself all over the floor, creating a small, yellow puddle, by the door. I just stared in disbelief at what I was actually looking at. I couldn't stop the thought that my two cats, both goofy as all get out, were better potty trained than the group of young men who are poised to be the next doctors, teachers, lawyers, and politicians of our society.

Stifling a gag (the instintive gag reaction finally overtook the disbelief reaction), I went to get another teacher on my team. Stupidity of this magnitude has to be shared. Her reaction was similar to mine - however, she actually did gag. We called the poor janitor who had to come clean up the the sticky, smelly, soggy, sickening mess.

I can't wait to see what wonderful little surprises will be yielded in the boys' restroom. It's a new present every day!

Fun in the Restroom

The boys’ bathroom at school is a total disaster. Some of the boys have trouble hitting the mark. This is mostly a sixth-grade phenomenon. The problem was exacerbated today when one of the seventh-grade boys returned from his trip to the restroom and proceeded to wipe his feet on the carpeted floor of the classroom. When I questioned his motivation for wiping his feet all over my floor – he informed me that the boys’ bathroom floor was sticky and he wanted to wipe his feet off.
It was pointed out to him that the sticky was created by the puddle of pee that had conglomerated around the base of the toilet. A chorus of ewwws resonated through the room and quickly touched off a wildfire discussion of pee etiquette for boys.
Some of the suggestions of the seventh-grade boys for better peeing technique:
- Toss in some Fruit Loops and have the sixth-graders “sink the ship.”
- Paint a big red X on the bottom of the toilet.
- Get a bigger toilet.
- Hold a seminar on how to properly aim for the bowl.
- Make them outside behind a tree.
The seventh-grade girls decided to try to name the disaster that is the boys’ bathroom. Some of their suggestions:
- Code Yellow
- Half life of Pee
- Weapon of Mass Destruction
- Gas chamber
- The pond

Thank God for Strong Fingernails

In the middle of the tempest comes a break. The first wall of water and wind breached and battled and leaving behind weary empty shells. Shells of what used to leave in the somewhat peace and tranquility of the pre-storm era. A used-to life. A time of repetition and certainty. A time of knowing what comes next; nothing on the horizon but the familiar.

The storm appears. You can see it coming; it's on the radar. Weathermen warn to take cover to duck to flee north from the monster coming to destroy your life. An easy Cat. 5. Naw, you think. It won't get me. It'll divert and head the other way like it always does. But, not this time. The ligthening strikes close, raising the hair on your arms and the small delicate strands on the back of your neck. And yet, you still don't take cover. You run to the front porch and marvel at the sheer magnitude of pure, unadulterated destruction barreling your way. Still, you think a juking and diving will save you.

Then the winds arrive like hounds loosed from their cages chasing the fresh scent of young fox. It howls and roars around you. The foundations of your house shake and rattle. Nails, formerly thought to be solidly entrenched in the wood, tear loose with the screaming buckling of metal. Sensing a weakness, the temptress wind seeps in through the openings and, at first, slowly, eats away at the interior of the house. Testing, pulling. pushing at the weak spots. Satisfied it has found a weakness the wind lashes with fury - focusing its gale force hate on the weak spots - until, finally the roof pries loose, followed by the walls. Off into the maelstrom they go - you no longer have the strong protection you once thought existed.

Now, shaking in fear, you look for some safe haven - none is found it is too late to hide from the baleful monster screeching in your face. You brace against what you have left - maybe a random interior wall, or the bathtub, or a stubborn bit of kitchen plumbing. You grasp with raw hands, those being ineffective, your grip slips to your fingertips, then finally to your fingernails. You feel the storm pulling your nails from the nailbeds in a horribly bloody attempt to dislodge you completely. And yet, you hold fast. By the last shred of ability you hold steady and maintain. Just maintain.

Slowly, the gusts of hate and putrid ignorance slow, and fade. Your feet gradually touch the floor and you no longer need to grasp at bits of wood and scraps of memories to keep you grounded. The sun shines. It is the eye. The calm. The time for regrouping. The gift of time to plot how to survive the south wall - the worst part of the storm; Hells own portal on earth.

You turn your face to the sun drinking in the momentary respite; realizing there is now no way to escape the coming fury. The time to run has long passed. Looking around, you gather your courage and stronger base from which to make your stand. This time, you know what to expect from the racing storm. You know you must survive by using more than your fingernails - they will not remain intact in the face of the coming fury.

And survive you will - there is no other option. Because, as you know, on the other side of the wall of hell is the sweetest air, the breath of hope, the knowledge of change and of again living in the sun. Of being able to rebuild what has been torn down and now lies in shambles at your feet. This time rebuilding stronger and with a better knowledge of how to avoid the next storm; how to survive with change.