girlfiend

Friday night I found myself wearing nothing but diamonds. Yes, that’s right. Diamonds. In front of a roaring fire, on a quiet evening at home, Boyfiend proposed. Throwing my arms around his neck, I was so busy kissing him I forgot to say yes. When I let him up for air he asked again. This time I replied, “Yes! Yes, of course. Yes. Yes Yes.” Then I repeated ‘yes’ a few more times just in case he missed it.

The ring is dazzling. I can’t stop staring at it and examining it from every possible angle. Like right now, I just got lost in the sparkle and can no longer string a sentence together. I am overjoyed and can’t stop giggling.

Every day on my drive home I pass a giant Vote or Die billboard. I hate Vote or Die. The billboard has Paris Hilton, Mary J. Blige and Ellen DeGeneres ordering me to vote or be executed. I’mglad that Paris Hilton has something to say about politics. I’ve always valued her opinion, especially when she’s naked.

Every day this week I’ve gotten at least 3 prerecorded phone calls telling me who to vote for. Ed Rendell, the man who had a hoagie named after him, has called my house 3 times in the past 2 weeks. In addition to the recordings, real people call me and ask me who I’m voting for. I’ve had to begin screening my calls. Strangers knock on my door either asking who I’m voting for or telling me who to vote for. The candidate flyers piled on my kitchen table have convinced me of the importance of recycling.

I am not political by nature. I believe I’ve mentioned that I vote mainly on the basis of women’s reproductive rights. On Tuesday I plan to vote for Kerry even though he’s a giant douche. It’s really not much better than voting for Bush, the turd sandwich. If you haven’t seen Wednesday’s South Park, I highly recommend it. They feel the same way I do, but they’re much, much funnier.

Amanda asked:
How long have you been teaching, and do you ever want to throw your students against the wall and watch them bleed?

This is my 6th year, and sadly, yes. Well, maybe not bleed, but I wouldn’t mind knocking them around a bit. Because I teach students with reading difficulties they seem to come with more problems than the average kid. Sometimes they have behavior issues, sometimes they’re just socially inept.

Today, the student I hated most was Jen, a 6th grader who seems to be suffering from depression. She is really, really needy. Every time I turned around this morning I found her approximately one inch away from me. The poor girl has no concept of personal space and a severe case of halitosis.

My second most hated student of the day was India. India is the nasty girl I mentioned in reference to the uniform question. She has the worst eye-rolling, teeth-sucking, rude commenting attitude I’ve seen in an eleven year-old. Today, she saw this picture of Britney Spears and told me I looked just like her. If I could I’d muzzle the little bitch.

Mikey, the little racist, also happens to be a liar, thief and manipulator. Sadly, I’ve witnessed all three in the short month he’s been in my class. He also has a serious personal space issue. I find myself saying, “Back off. You must be three steps away from the teacher at all times,” at least 3 times a class period.

The worst kids of all are the kids in other people’s classes. I hate when I have to sub, especially in sixth grade classes. And the kids in my afterschool reading program. Their parents obviously signed them up with absolutely no regard for my sanity. I’d duct tape their mouths shut if it wouldn’t result in a lawsuit. Sixth graders who struggle in school should NEVER be put into academic programs after school without their consent.

Lest I sound like a complete monster, most of the time I like the kids. I actually hugged a kid today, when she turned in her homework for the first time in 3 weeks. I still miss kids I taught in 1999. I think about the students in my SpEd reading class when I taught in the high school almost every day. I really loved those kids. I email a few students I taught last year. Even some of the kids I teach now have grown on me. I especially like them when I get to send them home at the end of the day.

I love the ‘next blog’ function at the top of blogspot sites. It has provided me with hours of amusement, especially when Boyfiend watches sports on TV, thus preventing my TiVo from recording Jack and Bobby. Here are some choice quotes I’ve pulled from the ‘next blogs’ I’ve browsed in the last 15 minutes.

I found this passage especially inspiring:

Wow… Jesus

.

This fascinating description really made me want to read more of this girl’s blog:

About Me:
i am a girl, who lives in a house, and has a family.

It’s writing like this that reminds me of why I teach:

i think im gunna go up north tmorrow to seacaucus to my brothers house….visit him n the sis in law… hey maybe she’ll go into labor while im there;-) ha.. prob not but its a thought?thatd defff be a site to see.. i never really saw a pregnant lady have a baby b4…lol so God if ur listening?? do it up….i gotta see this!!!!….

It still surprises me that at least one out of every ten blogs I read is dedicated to Christ. I never would have dreamed that Christian teenagers in Alabama would have internet access.

tonight’s practice was kinda neat cause we got prayer partners, and i could really use one right now. funny how God works, huh? oh and popsicle sticks suck. today was just not my day as you can tell. if you really wanna, you can call my cell while i’m gone but most likely it either won’t work or i’m not going to answer it.

It appears that no one is teaching high school students what an ellipse looks like or what it is used for.

the chicken goes…….”MOOOO!”
dancing in the rain. Naked sliding through the mud………………………seems to be my life.
Well, enough of the cryptic profound…….whats up?

Oh man. If it’s not high school students, it’s people who want to fuck high school students.

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Anonymous asked:

Random question since your a teacher:

What do you think of school uniforns? when i was in elementry school we had them and it was fine with me and everyone i knew. i want to a different grade school and we didn’t use them, it wan’t much different for me.

from what i understand benifits are: its cheaper for parents to go with the uniforms. It also hides “class envey” since no one can tell by your clothes how wealthy or poor you are.

on the cons… they say it stifles creativity. i personally don’t buy that though.

so whatcha think?

When I taught high school my students had a dress code that was so strict it may as well have been a uniform. All students had to wear a shirt with the school emblem, khaki pants that must fit, and shoes with a closed toe and heel. If anything was too baggy, ripped or dirty the kid would be sent home. I found it incredible that they constantly whined about having to wear the same thing as everyone else, yet when we had “dress up days” students dressed exactly the same anyway. All of the girls wore Timberland boots, skin tight jeans, and off the shoulder tops, accessorizing with enormous gold hoop earrings with their names inside. The boys all wore baggy jeans worn so low that the crotch of the pants was at their knees, white t-shirts that reached just below the knee, and Timberland boots.

Now that I’m teaching younger kids it’s quite different. There’s no uniform so students can dress how they please- as long as their parents buy them what they want. But these kids, even at 10 and 11 years old are cruel to each other. One kid is made fun of for wearing the same pants more than once in a week. My nastiest student is constantly taunting her friends about their clothes. She says stuff like, “Ew, why you wearin’ that?” or “Oh no, you can’t wear the JLo jeans. They don’t look right on you.” She’s always complaining that her friends are biting her style when they wear something that’s the same brand as what she’s wearing. Some girls come to class wearing their coats to avoid her remarks when they realize they’re both wearing Roca Wear shirts on the same day. I have to take the mean girl aside a few times a week for a lesson on using kind words, and avoiding put-downs. I really just want to tell her to stop being such a bitch.

As a student I hated wearing uniforms. Plaid kilts, blazers and kneesocks were not for me. I remember my fury when I was given 2 demerits for wearing pink socks instead of navy blue socks. When I switched to public school I felt so free wearing a motorcycle jacket and Doc Martens. I dyed my hair blue and pierced my nose just to assert my individuality. But now, I don’t buy that it “stifles creativity.” As an adult, I’d kill for uniforms. I’d love to be able to roll out of bed in the morning without having to figure out what I’m going to wear. I’d be much more creative with the extra sleep.

And when the kids have to wear uniforms, it saves me the effort of having to teach them social skills when I should be teaching them to read.

Just a few days late on the Friday Five.

1. What did you want to be when you grew up and why?

For years I wanted nothing more than to be a dog walker. Odd, as I now cohabitate with three cats.

2. Who was your favorite person to do things with (excluding your parents)?

My best friend Jonathan. We met on the playground in kindergarten. I was climbing the ladder to the treehouse when something rubbed against my leg and purred. That something was a small boy who quickly became my pet cat, Meow Meow.

A couple of months ago at his wedding, Jon’s aunt told me a story I hadn’t heard. That day on the playground Jon asked for my phone number. When he arrived home he had only six digits. Undeterred, he tried every combination until he found me. Jon was more fun than anyone I knew.

3. Did you love school or did you hate it? Why? Did that change as you got older?

I loved it. I was good at it. I excelled. Then I hit fourth grade. I still excelled academically, but my outsider status as a Jewish girl at a Christian school really set in when my grade made the move from the lower school to the upper school. All of a sudden I was harassed for being fat, Jewish and female. It got even worse when my “fat” transformed into hips and boobs when I was in fifth grade. Not only did I have to endure the torture of the boys chanting, “Thump, thump, thump” as though I was an elephant trudging through the halls, I had to live with the bra snapping and whispers. I guess since I had to wear a bra I was a slut too. By the time I hit sixth grade I learned that not only had I aborted a child, I was the tuna fish girl. It was all downhill from there.

4. Was your family close? What were your favorite family traditions?

If you consider three people spending their evenings in three separate rooms of the same house, then yes, we were very close. I believe that self-medicating with half a xanax before family functions is the closest we got to tradition.

5. Did you think that being an adult would be cool?

Who knows. I was way, way, way too old for my age. When I was 9 I was fired from a babysitting job when the family learned I was not 13. I don’t know that I wanted to be an adult. I think I just wanted independence.

On any given day in the year you’ll usually find me reading at least one book, sometimes two or three. Now there’s one week left in the month and I’ve only read a chapter or two each of Eragon, Fortress of Solitude, and Inkheart. It’s maddening. Every year around this time I suddenly lose my attention span entirely. I can’t even finish a magazine unless I’m on the StairMaster at the gym- and that’s only to distract me from the fact that I’m exercising.

Anonymous asked:

So my question is, why keep Boyfriend around? I mean he hasn’t proposed, he’s cheated, he’s broken your heart, he told that woman things about you that lead her to believe that you were crazy and he was unhappy. Why forgive him? Sounds like you deserve better.

This question is a tough one. It’s much easier for me to be glib and sarcastic than it is for me to be sincere. But here goes.

Let’s start with this very important fact. Unless you know something I don’t, Boyfiend never cheated on me. His only betrayal in that sense was saying things to the other woman that caused her to think I’m a total wackjob. He has since apologized. He led her to believe he was unhappy because at the time he was unhappy with me. He must have been- I was unhappy with him. When we broke up we were in a really bad place. I wanted things he couldn’t give just as he wanted things I couldn’t give. We stopped communicating entirely. We lived in the same house and rarely spoke. But just because we were unhappy doesn’t mean that we didn’t love one another and want to be with each other. It didn’t mean that we couldn’t fix what was broken. Since our reconciliation we have fixed things. We talk more. We like each other again. We know how to fight more profitably. Our relationship is far from perfect, but so are we. We’re both deeply flawed.

I am not an easy woman to get along with. I have a superiority complex and I like to argue about everything. My moods change from fun-loving to bitchy with little provocation or warning. I am very easily annoyed. I can and will find fault with everything. I am never, ever wrong. I have three cats and I talk about them. Often. I fall into funks that last forever. Sometimes when I’m depressed I can’t do anything but watch television for weeks on end. I’m sullen and withdrawn sometimes. I make fun of people. I can be really, really mean. Usually for no reason. I’m sure Boyfiend could add plenty to this short list of why I’m difficult.

Many things about Boyfiend make me crazy. He has many interests that I don’t share. He gets completely absorbed in projects for weeks on end to the point where he’s unable to talk about anything else and gets annoyed when I tell him I haven’t seen him in days. His male refrigerator blindness drives me up the wall. Picking his dirty stinking socks up off the floor, or worse, moving them off of the kitchen table, makes me want to smack him silly. He doesn’t like a bunch of my friends and rolls his eyes when I talk about them. He yells at the television when he watches sports. He leaves his stuff everywhere. But really, in the grand scheme of things, these petty annoyances, these minor flaws mean nothing.

Boyfiend loves me and accepts me. He makes me feel good. When nothing in my life seems worthwhile he makes it better. He can make me laugh when I don’t want to. He kisses me on the forehead and makes me coffee in the morning. He fixes things without being asked to. He brings me flowers when I least expect it. He tells me I’m beautiful at least twice a day, even when I’m hungover and bloated. Sometimes he looks at me with such love and adoration I blush. We went to Fairmount park yesterday. We threw a football around in a field. He told me I had a good arm. Then we hiked through the woods together. The leaves were dazzling reds, oranges and yellows. Sunlight filtered through the trees and glistened on the creek as yellow leaves drifted through the breeze around us. I looked at Boyfiend and thought: I love him with every cell in my body.

You say it sounds like I deserve better. Perhaps I do. I can’t say. He’s downstairs making me breakfast right now. Maybe he deserves better. Maybe we deserve different. Maybe we just deserve each other. I don’t know. I do know that I love him. I know that I want to spend my life with him. Despite our differences and our arguments we’re very good friends. We like to spend time together. No, he hasn’t proposed. But I really want him to. As impatient as I am, and as doubtful as I sometimes feel, I know that it’s just a matter of time.

Vickie asked:

What is the origin of your URL? What is a dhd, and why do you hate it?

ADHD stands for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. As an educator I hate it for a variety of reasons. First and foremost, both children and parents use ADHD as an excuse for inappropriate behavior. Parents often make unreasonable demands based on their child’s ADHD. If a kid is bored in class and acts out its ADHD. If he tells his teacher to “fuck off,” it’s because he hasn’t taken his meds. This email was written about a kid who has ADHD.

Sorry. I’m full of shit. My URL was an immature reaction to another woman’s blog. She called me crazy, so I changed my URL to reflect my indignation. I’ve written about it here and more recently here.

I’d go into more detail, but frankly, it’s embarrassing.

Of course the one question I get is about the one thing I don’t want to write about. But here goes.

A Little Background

My mother has a generous streak, but her generous streak is often overpowered by her ability to hold a grudge. I live in a tiny, tiny house. When I moved in, my mother had recently moved from an apartment that had 2 bedrooms, 2 baths, as well as an eat in kitchen, living room, dining room, family room, and laundry room. Her new place is a one bedroom with a combination living room, dining room and kitchen. Rather than sell everything that didn’t fit into the new place, she gave me a bunch of furniture.

The Sofa

Big, brown, and scratchy, the sofa took up half of the living room. After a few years I remarked that I’d like to buy a new, smaller couch. My mom’s best friend, Di, owns a furniture store that caters to interior designers. In a fit of generosity my mother bought a couch that Di was trying to get rid of and gave it to me, taking my larger couch for herself.

The Chairs

Yellow, with red flowers, they don’t match my house or my taste but the two chairs are really, really comfortable. They swivel and I love swivel chairs. Unfortunately, the two matching chairs don’t fit in the same room. When Boyfiend moved into his new house, I lent him one of the chairs so I could be comfortable when I visited. Now you can walk around my dining room table without bumping into things

The First Fight

Over the summer my mother rented a house at the shore. I spent Independence Day weekend there with Boyfiend, our friends JJ and T, my mom and her sister. T and JJ are bourbon drinkers. It’s rare to go to their house when they don’t have a handle of Jim Beam. For the holiday weekend they arrived with a half full bottle of Jim. That Saturday night my friends and I drank a bottle of wine. Between the 4 of us, we also drank about 5 beers. After watching the fireworks, we returned to the house to open another bottle of wine. My mother snapped at 39 year-old T, “When is enough enough?” Embarrassed, he came outside and said, “Your mom just yelled at me.” Rather than yell at her for yelling at my friend I ignored it.

The next afternoon, on my way to the bathroom, my mother stopped me. She said, “I need the chair back immediately.” Stupidly, I asked why. “When you have a ring on your finger, maybe, just maybe, will I allow you to give away my furniture to Boyfiend. Until then, get it back.”

“Um, okay. Where do you want me to bring it?”

“To your house.”

“Why my house if you want it?”

“Fine. I’ll have the upholsterer pick it up.”

“Fine. Tell me when he’s coming.”

Of course this was not the entire conversation. Many nasty things were said. But she never called to tell me when the upholsterer was coming, so the chair still sits in Boyfiend’s living room.

Complicated Trades at the Dinner Table

My mother recently purchased and settled on a house at the shore. Her sofa (one of two) is too big to fit in her new place. I offered to trade my newer, smaller sofa and the two swivel chairs for her older much larger sectional sofa. This plan was in effect for about a week until she decided that her sectional would look better in my dad’s house.

Halfway through Sunday’s dinner she mentions that her upholsterer will be coming to pick up the chairs from my house. This was not the plan. If she takes the chairs then I’m left with a two-seater sofa and no chairs for guests. I entertain regularly. I need the chair for guests. I mention this and apparently, she really, really needs that chair, even though I’ve had it for more than 5 years. She offers me one of my dad’s chairs instead. My dad is not pleased with this scenario. Now he has to get rid of his couch, take my mother’s, give her two of his chairs, and give me a chair.

At this point in the conversation I’m confused and frustrated. I ask when the upholsterer is coming. She says Wednesday or Thursday. I ask which day. She says Wednesday or Thursday. I explain that as she knows, only one of the chairs currently resides in my home. If the upholsterer is coming to get them I need to know if he is coming Wednesday or Thursday so I can arrange for both chairs to be there. She tells me he’ll be at my house Wednesday or Thursday. Again, I ask which day, only this time I’ve raised my voice. I explain again, slowly, loudly and rudely that I need to know if he is coming WEDNESDAY or THURSDAY.

The Big Fight

She still doesn’t answer so I leave the table to call Boyfiend and tell him that I’ll need the chair back either Wednesday or Thursday. While we’re chatting I hear my mother take my father into the other room. She starts bitching about me. Loudly. I can hear every word she’s saying, and she’s not being nice. She tells my dad that she bought me a couch three years ago and now because I’m a spoiled bitch I’m asking her to buy me another one. The she launches into a rant about Boyfiend has the chair and who the hell am I to give away her furniture. “When she has a ring on her finger, maybe, just maybe, I’ll allow Boyfiend to use a chair, but until he puts a ring on her finger he doesn’t get shit.”

Infuriated, I hang up with Boyfiend and yell, “I can hear every word you’re saying.” She comes out and says, “Good. I want you to hear what I just told your father.”

“I already heard what you told my father. You are misdirecting your anger. You don’t need the chairs immediately, you just don’t want Boyfiend to have them because you’re mad at me. I’m leaving now. What day is the upholsterer coming?”

“You need to hear it again. You are a spoiled bitch. Who gives you the right to ask me to buy you a new couch when I just spent $4000 on one 3 years ago? What gives you the right to give away my furniture. You don’t even have a ring on your finger and you’re giving my furniture to Boyfiend? I need the chairs immediately.”

Meanwhile, my father’s trying to calm everyone to no avail. I’m about to haul off and slug her, and she’s so mad she’s spitting. After the fifth mention of the lack of a ring on my finger and my refusal to give up the chairs I screamed over her continued rant, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I grabbed my coat, kissed my dad, and stormed through the door, slamming it shut.

My dad opened the door and called to me, “Wait for me, I’ll drive you home,” as my mother continued to spew bile and hatred.

Epilogue

Last night, Wednesday, my mom called. This was the first time we’ve spoken since Sunday. I assumed she was calling me to tell me the upholsterer would pick up the chair today. The whole fight started over when the guy was picking up the stupid chairs. The bitch hasn’t even called the guy yet. After all that, after telling me how she needed the chairs, like yesterday, she hasn’t even made the fucking arrangements for the guy to get them.

And for the record, I am well aware of my mother’s insanity. I never ask her for anything. Ever.