A Memo to the Complaint Department

Ok. Now I'm tired of all this work. Seriously. I had my University Facilitator suggest that I practice my lesson plans on my kids, and I had to tell her, "You know, I'm pretty sure that involves us being in the same place. That probably won't work."

Enterprise™ is going to have to pry its rental car out of my cold, dead hands.

I forgot to bring milk to work today, and am having to use that powdered shit crap (Seriously, that's what it is- dogshit that has turned white, which has been powdered) in my coffee. Meh.

I didn't take a shower this morning, have a bobby pin in my bangs, and wore my sweater to work inside out. Lovely.

I've got this one hair that grows from my chin, and I hate it when I notice it when I'm not around tweezers. My grandmother and my mother have the same hair, on the same side. That, and being born on Valentine's Day (after my mom went into labor on Friday the thirteenth) with two teeth, makes me a witch, some would say. Or, maybe they said bitch. Either way, I need some tweezers.

People should space having children about fifteen years apart, so they will know what they're getting themselves into.

No one maintains our Netflix, and so we now have "The Sex in the City" movie (which sounds like it could be a cool porno- but, alas) and the first season of "The Powerpuff Girls" to watch. Woot. Not.

I had a dream in which my kids and I were being chased in cars, kinda from a distance, as was Mr. Bee, though we were separated, and then I showed up in this kind of rural place where there was a place to hide underground. It was such a good place to hide that I, who even knew about it, didn't notice it, but was glad to find Mr. Bee there when my kids and I were ushered into it. There were many people down there at first, but, eventually, everyone left but me and I was down there all alone when the dream ended.

I made my first seating chart, which I will implement for the new six weeks, on Monday. I'm not really complaining about doing this one, but rather the massive responsibility it is. How teenagers treat each other scars them for life, I know.

I can't think of this one.

My bedroom is a disgusting mess. I'm not complaining about that part. I'm complaining about the fact that I want to clean it and can't if I'm never home. I know Martha Stewart is behind this. I just know it.

Well, goodbye interwebstubenet. Have a Saturday.


I'm Too Tired to Post

Seriously. I just can't do it right now... literally and figuratively.

I'm already tired of ironing clothes and my eyes are crossing.

I know this will be a shock to the three visitors I've had all day.

Do I regret the privatization? No.


Anatomically Incorrect

Dear Barbie Dreamhouse Diary-

I love you. You're so pink and fluffy. Your so soft and gooey. You're so oooey goooey chewy and chocolatey. Thank you for the increase in the Zoloft (that I haven't yet started- lest you wonder in your Barbie pea-brain); I think that any minute my bangs and my scrunchie will make me beautiful.

Give me a girl in a skirt and kneehighs STAT. Cardigans are a plus. Hairy legs are a must.

Do I look at guys because I like a good, or even better, awesome fucking, or is it because I am jealous of them, and want to be one, kinda am? While I could pine away for my phantom facial hair, there was that day the genius said I had a mustache and I had seen it in the night as well, and I kinda freaked. Mustaches are forever are they not?

Unlike mullets, they're irrevokable.

I can shave my legs, but I don't again.

If I had a beard, would I wear it long?

If I had a penis of my very own, I could hold it right now. I could slick it up and spank it, and maybe I wouldn't have the mama belly that makes the impracticality of the yogic magicality prohibitive. Would anyone suck it?

I feel for men, because there is nothing sadder than a cock not being sucked, except for my phantom phallus, my lady bits and nether regionalities not being sucked.

So Dr. Jung, can I haz your blessing?

Here it is, out in the open, now anyone can steal my astrological identity. GO, be conflicted with that T-square. I wish you luck in having your Mercury square Saturn over there in the 12th house and square Jupiter over there in the 6th house. You will be driven to compulsively communicate your innermost feelings. In fact, your health and sustenance will rely on it.

I know I just lost each and every atheist admirer right there.

Fuck that dogma.

Dogma style?


I have about 300 seconds until I have to remove my toosh from this lousen chair at the coffeeshop I love. I hear children crying. I see a girl learning to walk. I hear folkish music, smell coffee, and can look in any direction and see unisex art and restrooms, and velvet chandeliers with little tassels.

There is an AA meeting next door and it makes me feel safe that it's there, even though it's a lame one.

I shall hang on for dear life,
lest the weight of all those six packs
make me sink or swim.
I'm kinda lazy, would rather float
on a raft,
Hear me beefcake?
I'll lick that frosting.

Time's up.


Yield Thee to Mine Nostalgia

I have been in the sappiest damn state for the past day. My pity party went alright last night. Mr. Bee and I watched The English Patient. Not a sadder movie is there around. It was oh so apropos. I did not want to have fun and be romantic. I wanted to be morose and feel sorry for myself. It's selfish, I know.

I cried and my heart ached. Am I realizing I have feelings for someone I wasn't realizing were there? I feel trapped, that's for sure. I'm kinda depressed, I know.

My mind is just dull enough that I do not feel articulate, but still am driven to express this. I can't help but think that I am merely prolonging the pain to stay with Mr. Bee right now. And then, we held each other and slept and I felt safe that way.

I'm being overly dramatic, I know. I'm not really liking myself right now for it either.


I watched some Coming Out Stories™ on Netflix™(™) and then they made me cry. When the woman's hand shook when she was going to tell her mom, my hand shook, and then she got the exact reactions from her sister and mom that I would imagine I would get from my mom. "Good. I've always known that about you." and "If I could do it over, I'd do the same thing." I can seriously see my mom saying both of those things, but what's the point?

I tell Mr. Bee that I would hate living with me if I were him. It's true. I don't like who I am in this context and I feel lonely. This is not some cry for help. This is me. This is who I am not in public. Does my blog's being closed really matter that much? I have years and years of journals and is that what I am going to turn this into, rather than a bastion of feminine hygiene humor, the Lifetime Channel™ blog? Puke.

I've let the hair grow back on my legs.

My room is a fucking mess.

I'm feeling compulsive, biting at my cuticles.

I just ate the chicken in the sauce of my frozen eggplant parmesan today, since Mr. Bee bought it and I didn't notice it had meat in it until I was about to warm it up and had no other lunch here at work, where I cannot leave. Who gives a shit?

I'm feeling so nostalgic, I watched this video.

And, I realized I didn't recall that Deidre Hall was Electro-Woman. I loved that show when I was younger. No wonder I always thought she was hot. Oh, and 'cause she's hot. And, then I felt like watching Columbo. Netflix, take me away.

I didn't want something chocolate from the fucking vending machines humming beside me. I bought Fig Newtons™ instead. If I had white polyester bellbottoms with flowers all over them right now, I would wear them indeed... with a sweatshirt.

I could sleep and masturbate and sit around with my dear friend for days. When do I get that? I haven't had a weekend off in three years. How is any of this fair to Mr. Bee?

Why does he tolerate this crap? Does he love me? Probably. But, we do have an arrangement of convenience where I am so busy that he can be off in his pot smoking lala land and be left alone about it. I feel lonely, but I am too busy to notice it very often. I can't act like this around my kids. Is that what makes this different than when my blog was not private. My daughters can't read it.

They won't know that I regret a lot. Not having them. Not that, but so much of the rest. After I had the genius, I was dating women. Why didn't I go further with that? I didn't want to come out all the way. And there is the small fact that Snaggletooth saved my life.


It was in my pregnancy that my midwife discovered I had a goiter. I was a hyperthyroid loon, getting thinner and thinner, more and more anxious, and downright manic and unfocused. I worked my ass off though, physically. Getting the Genius drunk through my breastmilk on my thirtieth birthday was the last straw of my drinking. And, it was immediately after Snaggletooth's birth a few years later, not because I had to have a needle poked into the tumor in my neck to see if those hard bits were cancerous, did I quit smoking pot and cigarettes after 15 years. No. It was just getting a cold, while I was nursing a tiny Snaggletooth, that I sat and listened just enough to hear that soft knowing....

If my mind told me that I could have "one cigarette, one day's worth of pot right now- just one, I could quit later." That was a lie.

I stopped believing the bullshit.

That happened this week.

The Lip Model is bi-polar. She wants to stay at her dad's all the time. Her dad whines that he can't make sure she takes her meds regularly. She attempted suicide in 2007. She's been raped. She's been so drunk I've called EMS. She's been on jimson weed and we thought she'd been dosed with who knows what when no one could say what was wrong. She's stayed out all night countless times. I've seen in convulsing in the ER and in a coma for a day. 89% of these things have happened while she was staying with her dad.

I got a call that she was skipping school. She wasn't taking her meds. She's staying at my house... for a long time, I've said

Not being able to make sure she sleeps and eats and takes her medicine regularly and gets to school rather than staying home in bed, well that's not good enough anymore. Fucker.

He can't read this anymore.

It feels like everyone around me needs me to take care of them and who is going to take care of me?

I know Mr. Bee would like to, and is there for me from time to time. But, he's not in many many ways.

I guess I may not want him to be. That will make it so much easier for me to leave him.

I don't want to live with someone smoking pot daily. I understand it, but I can't live like that for my own sobriety's sake.


Who wants his wife to think she's a lesbian? That sucks.

If Mr. Bee thought he were gay (and, he's explored those avenues, and it wouldn't be the most far-fetched thing ever), I would feel very uncomfortable about being in love with him. He would not be available for me in ways I would want.

This has gotten extraordinarily masturbatory. I would just be better off going off into a dark room and actually masturbating rather than doing all this. At least I would walk out and feel at peace. This is where I need to conjure up that scene from Floundering, the one I can never find online, damnit, where the guy takes the girl he likes hostage and he's all hostile and neurotic, and she doesn't mind. She even offers him a blow job. He awkwardly accepts it and then things are not so deperate.

Here's the full circle.

I like my teaching partner from the last few semesters. She actually reads this sometimes. Crap. I'm passive aggressive. She's married. She's happy about that. Eventually, this is what happens when I stay in a relationship I do not want to be in forever. I am not available. That's probably why the near impossible scenario is appealing. But, my feelings have been getting stronger and then one day, maybe, they'll be reciprocated by someone I feel that way about.

All this really isn't that big of a deal.

But, I want Snaggletooth to feel secure when his dad and I snuggle him in bed that he is safe and neither his dad nor I are going anywhere.

I feel like a louse that either I am too afraid to accept that when it is being offered to me, or that I am too immature to offer it to someone, or that even worse, and more likely, I am too flawed and scared to be in either scenario.

You know, I could go on and on.

This is journaling for me. A different kind of writing. I'm not sure if it's entertaining to read, really at all. I rather doubt it, but don't give the biggest rat's ass about that.

I just need to access my emotions.

Oh, yea. On that happy note, Dr. Z gave me this picture of myself. I really appreciate it, dear Dr.

I was thinking earlier that maybe I should change my name to Freida Bee, MD.

I think it's big hair. It must have special powers.

I think Dr. Z. did a great job, cause if we were to look at the back of this Super Biva, we would see a sweet badunkadunk, no doubt.

(Oh, and P.S.- I'm gonna bitch slap the next person that refers to Jessica Simpson as fat. Just try me.)


Which Way is Up?

I just like this picture. A. Lot. It made me laugh and now I'm not in as morose a state as I was when I set out to write this. Sorry. You were just about to get the weepy version of the week from fucking hell, but instead you get the bitchy one.

Firstly, I have been sleep deprived like crazy. A low-grade 5 - 6 hours a night deprivation for going on two weeks now. Not fun.

Monday- Surprise! You're my first observation of the semester! You spent 80% of the time talking about talking about perimeter (which is just add up the fucking sides, duh) and 10% talking about area (uh, I thought we were supposed to multiply by one half and then the average of base one + base two, and then base times height times length. Shit.) I actually heard the words, "Wait, now I'm confused." and "There are just a bunch of numbers all over the place." I thanked the children who were honest and brave enough to say it, and gave up on that goddamned Elmo thing. I am a chalkboard person. I love a chalkboard. I cannot be fooled into thinking that projecting what I am writing onto a wall is incorporating technology into a classroom. I am all over getting a graphing calculator in every child's hands, installing the navnet software onto every one and having a little on the wall graphing calculator expedition. I want to have a class blog. I am going to save my teaching documents electronically. I am going to figure out what I need to do to display internets sites on the wall, despite my mentor's wincing at the idea. Projecting my small-ass writing onto the wall is not technology. Mechanical pencils with erasers are technology. Doing math in a marker, so students can see it. Not. So, I learned that this week. Use the chalk board. Plus, I get kids up there.

There are only about sixty things I could go on and on about re: the teaching thing, but I need a break for 10 minutes before I get to grading papers, working on my teaching portfolio, and working on lesson plans for the week. For. Free. Seriously.

Monday night, I went to a substitute orientation. Earlier I discovered that I was too honest about the getting arrested in high school thing and now I have to get proof that I was arrested, but it's not on my record and so it was expunged, but there is no record of that. Uh.

Tuesday night I rear-ended someone, after being gone all day long, 10 minutes shy of being home. Go ahead, snicker. My daughters did when I called my insurance company and said I rear-ended someone. Good lord, they are like me. No one was hurt. The person I hit was nice enough. The cops took fucking two hours (no lie) to show up. I drove home with a dripping radiator. I got no ticket because we already had things ironed out when the police arrived, and I think they felt bad. Maybe my van's being smashed and dirty made them feel sorry for me, too. For the first time in my life, I had adequate insurance when this sort of thing happened and they are providing me with a rental car, at least. A schnazzy new red one. It'll only cost $2.00 a day, oh, and the $500 deductible.

Getting it only took half of my day's energy Wednesday. I had two good teaching days and two pretty bad ones this week. I was observed a total of three times. More importantly, the kids are having a 6 weeks test Wed. and I don't know that they are ready.

We found out a couple weeks ago that the pain in the ass lawyer that Mr. Bee hired for some pain in the ass alcohol-related legal issues completely ripped him off, and he's had a warrant, the guy hadn't turned shit in and now he's gotten someone by referral who is good, but of course that is not free.

Did I mention that when Mr. Bee and I went in to file our taxes, we found out that we were annoyed at receiving only six-hundred at the time of our stimulous check payment for good reason. The IRS reports having sent up $1200. No. Really. No. Now, I am supposed to prove that, and there was no way I was going to sign a tax document that said otherwise and so now there will inevitably be a delay on our sweet (not) $100 tax return.

Hey, hey. Today is my birthday. I'm not 40. I'm 39. I have a lot more I could bitch about, but I forgot to take my thyroid medicine today and am about to fall into a hypothyroidic coma. The good thing is that my work performance is really not being affected.

Don't worry your pretty little heads off about my sexuality, as I know you all are. I am still a lesbian. I almost had an orgasm with Mr. Bee thinking about my (male) therapist because he's paid to listen to me, and with him I'm gay. Good lord, I'm ascrewed and sexually frustrated, I admit. I saw the sweetest lady ass ever yesterday and can't shake it from my head and now I'm tired, annoyed with Mr. Bee and poo pooing the movie/ dinner plans for we had for Valentine's Day and my birthday. I have work to do. I'm bloaty, crampy and horny, my dear sweet Aunt Flo.

I am loving the private blog thing. Besides the not posting part, you know, I feel a little safer here, though there are a few more folks I need to hunt down and all. I had a dream last night that my mom found out about my blog after Bob Dylan praised it on the radio. I need to write. Clearly. I am, I suppose, but I still feel extremely disappointed right now.

Dont' I deserve better than all this after working my ass off?

There they are. My tears.


I'm Slow, But Here to Stay

Lest all the intrigue make you think that anything other than my being slow is afoot, I am posting in lieu of writing lesson plans for the week. (See how I kinda, sorta blamed it on you? You're welcome.)

After The Lip Model blurted out, "I've read your gross blog!" (I have no idea why) in her school counselor's office, I set my blog to private, but had no time until today to send out invites. I am not pissed at any of you. Quite the contrary, but this has been a long time coming and for at least this next 30 seconds is gonna be how I roll.

I'm pretty sure TLM called my blog gross in one of her manic states to distract from the fact that the reason we were in the counselor's office is because she was skipping school when she was staying at her dad's and she got busted and we're making her stay at my house for the rest of the school year (oh, the cruelty). But, there are a few things on here I would rather she not read, including my newfound ability to rant on and on about her and Mr. Bee, my two favorite scapegoats.

I guess the good news is that if I was holding back on some level, god forbid, the reins are off. The bad news is that I do not have email addresses to invite everyone that usually comes here and I very likely met you because my blog was open. Anyway, this is the way it's gonna be for a while, because I said so.

I have been too busy to post and blowing off my blog was kind of a relief when I had so much to do this past week. My mentor teacher called me slow at lesson planning and she is right. I like to think about it a lot, and I am picky. I suppose I will get the hang of it, but I am swamped with what is on my plate already and I am supposed to take on another class starting next week. Oh, and it is an accelerated class and has an entirely different prep.

I am having a lot of fun being in a classroom, getting to know a class. I went way way too slow the first day. I was totally enjoying hearing kids say, they didn't know this or that which it was assumed they knew, but the faster kids were bored and restless. Arrrghh. The next day, I sped things up and went more into my comfort zone and did more than talk.
I help up a tennis ball can similar to the one pictured above and asked them if they thought the height of the can or the circumference of the lid is greater.
What do you think?
Because they knew I was up to something, the majority of the class voted that they thought they were the same and then they had the fun task of measuring the diameter and circumference of a bajillion old lids I got out from under my bed (you'd better not have just believed that), trying to find some consistent relationship between the two.
Excitement at it's finest. I know.
I forgot to deliver the punchline at first and had moved onto something else the next day when I remembered and told the kids, "Oh, I forgot about the mystery of the tennis ball can. Do you want to know which is longer?" There was a veritable uproar. "So, what do you think now?" This time more thought it would be the same than that the height was greater, but still only two kids said the lid's perimeter was greater.
But, no.
The circumference of the lid is significantly (kinda) greater than the height.
Do what?
Look at it.
The height of the can is 3 x the diameter, but the circumference of the lid is π x the diameter and π is a little more than 3 (which is the level of complicatedness they, as 6th graders, are expected to comprehend at this point, the ratio being the more important concept). Now, go out and win yourself some bar bets!
I should have paused more and let them squirm a bit to figure it out rather than be shown. I am realizing that being a teacher is kinda like being a stand up comedienne or on some sort of non-vaginal monologue. I have to most work on my timing.
Of course, the most entertaining part of the whole lesson to them was the fact that more than once I asked them about width of the balls. If you can get your teacher to say "balls" they you have succeeded as a student, I understand, but contrary to what you know about me, I had not planned that whatsoever. I had to act like I was offended at their implications, but I was laughing inside, of course.
I think I'm going to like this teaching thing. The kids are smart and really cool and even if I am slow, a lame blogger, and a gross mom, I'll show up until they tell me not to, which reminds me.... Does anyone know how to locate the record of the dismissal of being arrested for public intoxication when one was 17 in a different state? The school district doesn't want me as a sub for now, until I can locate that record.
Why buy the cow, when the milk is for free. I am expecting that you will be the envy of the blogosphere. I can only invite 100 readers, and already 13 have RSVP'd. With only 33 more invites available with 15 more folks I need email addresses for, but want to invite, that leaves, oh, let me get my calculator, only 18 more openings. Crap. The good news is that I do accept bribes, though.
But, enough for now. I must be off to plan the demise of my students as I grade papers for the first time.
Coming soon: The exciting tales of having to iron my clothing for the first time in my entire adult life.


Pick Me Up And Go

I can feel your angst
Like a sponge,
Plush, absorbant.
Dried and withered
I fall apart
At the very taste
Of your acerbic tongue.

Mop and glow.
Piss and go
Anywhere up, but here.
Dare it be contempt.
Don't say it.

And, again.

I want more.
To admit it,
Then my asking,
"Where's some body?"
Pierced, swollen, aroused.

And, again.

I just can't.
Let it be.
Let it be
Not mine,
A hole of molten
Gurble glub.
Plishfuck far

A way.