Bwahaha, so much for making myself write a lil somethin' every week! I has failed at blog. Oh well. No one reads it anyway. Suck it!
I have only 2 more weeks of client work. I don't want to say any more than that because hell might break loose again. Hell has broken enough already. Dead teacher. Inspection (code for "county funds controllers all up in our bidness.) Another dead teacher. Failed apocalypse. Parent punching kid. New last-minute groups. Parent slapping kid. Dead parent. Fight. Beer. Cheese. Laughs.
Got home tonight to find the fridge full of pizza, beer and...green beans? What the hell goes on when I'm not here? CANNED green beans? Oh, the humanity...
The squirrels and birds are enjoying my butterfly garden. I hate wildlife. Shit can't even make flowers, they are eating everything.
Voluntary work on a Saturday (holiday weekend, no less.) Bring it.
This is the most disjointed thing I've ever written. I should stop now.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Feeling a little sorry for myself.
I am tired. Bone-numbingly tired. Things that are not funny are starting to crack me up. Shopping at Wegmans, looking at crackers. "Stoned Wheat Crackers!" Hilarious! I have the humor of a 15 year old boy! Woohoo!
Wondering why allergies have to be a part of life? And why I had to draw the short straw on this one? The human body is not meant to be so reactive to everything. The past 2 weeks I've been so ungodly itchy. My skin, my nose, my throat, my eyes...oh dear lord, the itchy, swollen, red eyes...waking up at all hours of the night. Not having had a solid night's sleep in weeks. Taking so many antihistamines that I am a walking warning about sedative abuse.
FYI: Trying to walk through the house in the dark after Benadryl can and will lead to you walking full speed into a door frame. You'll think you broke your nose, but no such luck. You'll just have a little round bruise for a week that doesn't look like a bruise, it looks like dirt. So now you will be walking around, pale and pasty, looking like you're high, with bright red swollen eyes, sniffing and sneezing, and to top it off, you look dirty.
I've never been so uncomfortable in my life. I feel like I'm not fit to be looked upon, and I have to keep checking myself to make sure I'm making sense. I'm just so damn tired. I hate being such a complaint-bringer but I really do not have anything positive to say to anyone, about anything. I just want to crawl into a hole and die.
But being as how I'm so allergic to stupid grass, I'm not even looking forward to that.
Le sigh.
Wondering why allergies have to be a part of life? And why I had to draw the short straw on this one? The human body is not meant to be so reactive to everything. The past 2 weeks I've been so ungodly itchy. My skin, my nose, my throat, my eyes...oh dear lord, the itchy, swollen, red eyes...waking up at all hours of the night. Not having had a solid night's sleep in weeks. Taking so many antihistamines that I am a walking warning about sedative abuse.
FYI: Trying to walk through the house in the dark after Benadryl can and will lead to you walking full speed into a door frame. You'll think you broke your nose, but no such luck. You'll just have a little round bruise for a week that doesn't look like a bruise, it looks like dirt. So now you will be walking around, pale and pasty, looking like you're high, with bright red swollen eyes, sniffing and sneezing, and to top it off, you look dirty.
I've never been so uncomfortable in my life. I feel like I'm not fit to be looked upon, and I have to keep checking myself to make sure I'm making sense. I'm just so damn tired. I hate being such a complaint-bringer but I really do not have anything positive to say to anyone, about anything. I just want to crawl into a hole and die.
But being as how I'm so allergic to stupid grass, I'm not even looking forward to that.
Le sigh.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
I've been neglecting thee, little blog baby.
I'm so terribly sorry. I deeply apologize to the zero people who read this.
I really, really think that being in 6th grade is a mental disorder. It should be in the DSM. I can't even begin to think of the number of times this year the 6th graders alone have made me question my sanity. I mean, people don't really act that way. I must be hallucinating. That's it.
The idea of a potential hallucination is more comforting than the actual witnessing of a child doing a damn backflip in the middle of my social skills group. Kids don't really do that, right? They don't just stand up when someone is talking, flop on the floor, then when that someone instructs them to get up, they don't flip themselves in the air, right? Right?
They also don't keep their baby teeth in a little plastic treasure chest in their locker for the better part of a year...then get disgruntled when they are instructed to THROW IT OUT, leading them to argue that the tiny treasure chest can be used to store gum while they are eating, right? I should never have to utter the words, "You are NOT going to store your ABC gum in a tooth box."
I shouldn't have to ask kids to keep the farting to a minimum. Nor should I have to explain that the "No Interrupting" rule does not apply to me when a kid is talking out of turn, and I have to ask him to be quiet so I can get through the rest of my lesson. Or ask them to keep their voices down so people walking down the hall past my room don't hear the mosquito-sized kid exclaiming, "SNITCHES GET STITCHES!" And I certainly shouldn't have to then cut off a kid who is trying to tell me about the time he got stitches...as a result of the time he "busted a nut" at Boy Scout camp.
But I do. I do have to do all these things. They're getting stranger every day.
I'm a little concerned.
I really, really think that being in 6th grade is a mental disorder. It should be in the DSM. I can't even begin to think of the number of times this year the 6th graders alone have made me question my sanity. I mean, people don't really act that way. I must be hallucinating. That's it.
The idea of a potential hallucination is more comforting than the actual witnessing of a child doing a damn backflip in the middle of my social skills group. Kids don't really do that, right? They don't just stand up when someone is talking, flop on the floor, then when that someone instructs them to get up, they don't flip themselves in the air, right? Right?
They also don't keep their baby teeth in a little plastic treasure chest in their locker for the better part of a year...then get disgruntled when they are instructed to THROW IT OUT, leading them to argue that the tiny treasure chest can be used to store gum while they are eating, right? I should never have to utter the words, "You are NOT going to store your ABC gum in a tooth box."
I shouldn't have to ask kids to keep the farting to a minimum. Nor should I have to explain that the "No Interrupting" rule does not apply to me when a kid is talking out of turn, and I have to ask him to be quiet so I can get through the rest of my lesson. Or ask them to keep their voices down so people walking down the hall past my room don't hear the mosquito-sized kid exclaiming, "SNITCHES GET STITCHES!" And I certainly shouldn't have to then cut off a kid who is trying to tell me about the time he got stitches...as a result of the time he "busted a nut" at Boy Scout camp.
But I do. I do have to do all these things. They're getting stranger every day.
I'm a little concerned.
Friday, April 22, 2011
There is something wrong with the way my mind works.
Why? you ask. What's that? You didn't ask? Don't care. I'mma tell you anyway.
I was sitting in class the other night, while some classmates were presenting a presentation. My mind was wandering. That makes me sound like a bad student, but I'm not. I had this sudden flash of, "What would happen to me if I had some kind of accident and my left hand got chopped off?" (I'm extremely left-handed. As in, my right hand holds the scissors, but that's as productive as it gets. Some days I wonder if it's even qualified to shift my car out of "park." Maybe I should move to England. No, then it's primary resposibility would be flipping the bird at offending drivers. It might screw that up. Then I would look really dumb.) Anyway. I thought it might be a good idea to learn to write with my right hand, just in case I lose the left. It wasn't working. My right hand has the motor skills of a 3 year old. No exaggeration. If I wasn't sitting in the middle of class, I might have investigated the handwriting potential of my feet. I might do that later.
So I told my bestie about this thought that I had, and sent a picture of my efforts at being a right-handed woman. Her response? "You'be been spending too much time with 6th graders."
It has come to this. She's completely right. That is something I would have texted her after a group. "This one kid was writing with his opposite hand because his good hand might get lopped off someday!"
I'm cutting myself some slack. I had some medical dog drama. I've told the story too many times already and I don't want to re-live the event again. Just let it be said that at some point in his 11 or so years on this earth, the little guy ate a sewing needle, with a length of thread attached. The doctor performed a miracle and he is home and very upset that I need to give him meds 5 times a day. It was an intensely emotional week, full of fear, despair that I would lose my guy, astonishment, relief, happiness when we were reunited, aggravation when he decided to be allergic to a medication, near hallucinations due to sleep deprivation, and worry. He is on the road to recovery and I watch him like a hawk, because if he ate a damn needle, who knows what other freak things he's been snacking on.
I'm owning that fact that I sometimes think like a 12 year old. I deserve it. It sucks to be an adult all the time. This week is proof.
I was sitting in class the other night, while some classmates were presenting a presentation. My mind was wandering. That makes me sound like a bad student, but I'm not. I had this sudden flash of, "What would happen to me if I had some kind of accident and my left hand got chopped off?" (I'm extremely left-handed. As in, my right hand holds the scissors, but that's as productive as it gets. Some days I wonder if it's even qualified to shift my car out of "park." Maybe I should move to England. No, then it's primary resposibility would be flipping the bird at offending drivers. It might screw that up. Then I would look really dumb.) Anyway. I thought it might be a good idea to learn to write with my right hand, just in case I lose the left. It wasn't working. My right hand has the motor skills of a 3 year old. No exaggeration. If I wasn't sitting in the middle of class, I might have investigated the handwriting potential of my feet. I might do that later.
So I told my bestie about this thought that I had, and sent a picture of my efforts at being a right-handed woman. Her response? "You'be been spending too much time with 6th graders."
It has come to this. She's completely right. That is something I would have texted her after a group. "This one kid was writing with his opposite hand because his good hand might get lopped off someday!"
I'm cutting myself some slack. I had some medical dog drama. I've told the story too many times already and I don't want to re-live the event again. Just let it be said that at some point in his 11 or so years on this earth, the little guy ate a sewing needle, with a length of thread attached. The doctor performed a miracle and he is home and very upset that I need to give him meds 5 times a day. It was an intensely emotional week, full of fear, despair that I would lose my guy, astonishment, relief, happiness when we were reunited, aggravation when he decided to be allergic to a medication, near hallucinations due to sleep deprivation, and worry. He is on the road to recovery and I watch him like a hawk, because if he ate a damn needle, who knows what other freak things he's been snacking on.
I'm owning that fact that I sometimes think like a 12 year old. I deserve it. It sucks to be an adult all the time. This week is proof.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
"Plaid is a really boring color."
???
"You know...the color plaid? Its a boring color. I like red."
Oh, these 12 year old boy groups. I can only hope that they are learning as much from me as I am from them. Definately need to move to Canada before these little people are old enough to run this country.
What else have I learned? Grad school is no fun. Professors who feel like it is their life mission to assign tremendous amounts of "busy work" for no reason are no fun. I wonder how you get to the point in your career when you plan to kill your students for your own personal amusement. I dreamed about this class last night. I dreamed that he unfairly accused me of producing mediocre work, and I flipped shit on him. I also dreamed that he accused me of being an alcoholic. What a joke...as if I had time to drink! I woke up stressed.
And here I am, complaining, instead of writing a paper. Think that might be contributing to the stress? I have reached the point where I don't even look forward to a day off from work, because I know it will be filled with school work. Time off? What is that???
If you know, please fill me in!
"You know...the color plaid? Its a boring color. I like red."
Oh, these 12 year old boy groups. I can only hope that they are learning as much from me as I am from them. Definately need to move to Canada before these little people are old enough to run this country.
What else have I learned? Grad school is no fun. Professors who feel like it is their life mission to assign tremendous amounts of "busy work" for no reason are no fun. I wonder how you get to the point in your career when you plan to kill your students for your own personal amusement. I dreamed about this class last night. I dreamed that he unfairly accused me of producing mediocre work, and I flipped shit on him. I also dreamed that he accused me of being an alcoholic. What a joke...as if I had time to drink! I woke up stressed.
And here I am, complaining, instead of writing a paper. Think that might be contributing to the stress? I have reached the point where I don't even look forward to a day off from work, because I know it will be filled with school work. Time off? What is that???
If you know, please fill me in!
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Taste of Summer
Yesterday, I had one of those delicious moments where it semed like summer really was just around the corner. Finally. Its been a crazy long winter here on the East Coast. It's been winter since 2005. Nary a ray of sunshine or day over 40 degrees in years.
But yesterday...ah, yesterday...
Finished a full day of being stuck inside, in a room without windows, with the knowledge that it was 8-stinkin-5 degrees out! 85! Holy crap! FYI. Middle schoolers start to smell at around 75 degrees.
Walked outside, no jacket. Kid client waiting outside the school for his ride, waves at me, looks so happy to be free. I miss how that feels. I get reminded every summer when I'm done for the school year, but its just a taste of how that felt at 12 years old.
Hop in my car, its so hot, but I don't even care! Turn the ignition and Jack Johnson starts blaring out of my speakers. Windows down, and I'm rolling to get an iced coffee before night class.
In 3 months, I'll be bitching about all of this. The hotness of the car. The fact that the second it turns warm, the local radio stations become unable to play anything BUT Jack Johnson and Bob Marley. Bugs flying in my open windows. Ice in the coffee melts before I get where I'm going.
But for now, I'll take it.
Or, rather...I took it. Today, a mere 24 hours later, it is cold as balls and rainy. And I've been bitching about that all day.
But yesterday...ah, yesterday...
Finished a full day of being stuck inside, in a room without windows, with the knowledge that it was 8-stinkin-5 degrees out! 85! Holy crap! FYI. Middle schoolers start to smell at around 75 degrees.
Walked outside, no jacket. Kid client waiting outside the school for his ride, waves at me, looks so happy to be free. I miss how that feels. I get reminded every summer when I'm done for the school year, but its just a taste of how that felt at 12 years old.
Hop in my car, its so hot, but I don't even care! Turn the ignition and Jack Johnson starts blaring out of my speakers. Windows down, and I'm rolling to get an iced coffee before night class.
In 3 months, I'll be bitching about all of this. The hotness of the car. The fact that the second it turns warm, the local radio stations become unable to play anything BUT Jack Johnson and Bob Marley. Bugs flying in my open windows. Ice in the coffee melts before I get where I'm going.
But for now, I'll take it.
Or, rather...I took it. Today, a mere 24 hours later, it is cold as balls and rainy. And I've been bitching about that all day.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Things I did when I could have been ______________________.
Word Bank:
Sleeping
Cleaning
Eating
Watching TV
Cleaning something else
Doing laundry
These used to be perfectly nice candles from Bath and Body Works. But I just can't leave things alone, so I made them vaguely disturbing.
I did not come up with this idea on my own, it was stolen, like all good research is stolen. I will cite my references, like all good research, so I can say "I made this but not on my own. But you can't sue me because I made a citation."
http://www.epbot.com/2011/02/candle-sticks.html
Her's look less deadly.
Sleeping
Cleaning
Eating
Watching TV
Cleaning something else
Doing laundry
I did not come up with this idea on my own, it was stolen, like all good research is stolen. I will cite my references, like all good research, so I can say "I made this but not on my own. But you can't sue me because I made a citation."
http://www.epbot.com/2011/02/candle-sticks.html
Her's look less deadly.
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