December 22nd of this particular year
I am comfortable and dressed like a slob, a la Spring/Summer 2003, jeans that are too big, the back half of the cuff folded up to not be stepped on, the front half not folded up, too-big dark blue t-shirt gleaned from some ex-boyfriend or another, striped button-down that was once classy enough for the actual legit girlfriend of my then-crush to be wearing the exact same shirt when I ran into her, hers from the store that originally sold it, mine from Goodwill, but that strange moment was at least six years ago, my shirt is a little worse off now, and hers is probably by now at Goodwill. I'm sitting at the same cafe where I sat the day M. moved out of my house in July, waiting for the voicemail that said he was gone so I wouldn't have to put up with being called a cheating cunt face-to-face even one more time.
Hmm. Spellcheck in this browser thinks 'cunt' is not a word. It definitely is.
I'm coming off a three-day depression-bender. Been down with a stomach flu, which reminded me of the one I had around Christmas 2007. I had no coffee yesterday, complicating the flu with a caffeine headache last night. The flu is mostly gone. My stomach is sore and exhausted, but I'm hungry, and I'm eating my first actual meal since Tuesday. Tuesday's meal didn't stay with me long.
I love my city and I love my neighborhood, but I'm nonetheless formulating a fantasy back-up plan. It goes like this. Get certified to teach in West Virginia. Move to Charleston and be a substitute teacher in Kanawha County schools. I think I would like being a sub. The transience, the lack of any expectation to be prepared, the opportunity to exceed everyone's wildest dreams with my surprise-preparation and enthusiasm. In this fantasy back-up plan, I live in this duplex: http://charlestonwv.craigslist.org/apa/2708805525.html -- In the mornings and on weekends and on days when there is no substitute teaching, I sit and look at that view of the river. You can rent a whole lotta lovely for not much money there, and the substitute teacher pay is more than adequate. In this plan, I would have to shed some cats. I would leave the most recent two on their daddy's doorstep. Maybe I could make it home with four. Nobody else wants Sylvie with her skin disease, and Ramona is her sibling and so quiet and smart I can't imagine anyone else would properly understand her. I would let Ellen have them, if she's still on this Earth, or my mom if she wanted two cats.
In reality today, I am looking for a job in Philadelphia. It's going to be canvassing or office-ing or cubicle-ing.
Oh shit, LiveJournal, did I mention? I'm all done teaching at my middle school in West Philly. I'm not going to teach for the rest of this year. Next year, we'll see where I am. Maybe I'll apply in another district, because this one won't hire me again after the short notice I ended up giving. But this year and the summer, I'm going to do something where I punch a clock and don't worry when I go home. It's medical, it's physical, it's metaphysical, it's mental, it's emotional, it's personal. It's a long story that started on September 13th and ends tomorrow. Tomorrow I go to work there for the last time, and pick up all the middle-grade novels I brought in at the beginning of the year, which nobody ever read, except for the one I "loaned" (gave) to a 7th-grade boy who eagerly asked to borrow it when he saw the cover image of a silhouette of a goth-looking boy wearing a hooded ensemble. "That's kind of how I would be every day, except for this uniform." And later, "I started that book you loaned me, Ms. Dooley. It's kinda deep. It might take me a while." "It's good? Take your time with it, hon." There are 15 kids I will really miss. A bunch more I never properly got to know, probably for the reason that I knew if I did, then I'd miss them too. I'll miss my girl who conscientiously tells you, "Oh, now I get it," as soon as she does, because someone in a previous year taught her that sentence to communicate with teachers. I'll miss my girl who thinks it's totally unfair that nothing ever happens to the Annoying Orange (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZN5PoW7_kdA&feature=fvsr), but only to the other fruits, even though it is the orange who is so annoying. ("I'm like, hey other fruits, if you're having a conversation with the Annoying Orange.... like.... It's not gon' go well!") I'll miss my boy who thinks about every math problem for about fifteen minutes but always gets it right. (Looking at a picture of a scale that doesn't make logical sense given the other picture of a balanced scale and considering the new objects on it and their given weights, finally, finally: "Oohhhhhhh, no that could NOT be truuuuuee.") He reminds me of the trees from Lord of the Rings that only say things that are worth taking a long time to say. Only in my room did he ever have enough time to get anything right. I'll remind him tomorrow that he gets it right when he has enough time, and never to be discouraged. I'll write it down (again, though I wrote it in the IEP). I'll remind his mom, and the other teachers.
Also, the story doesn't end tomorrow. I'm doing a number of things to continue the story and try to resolve it. Including therapy, a new job, fantasy back-up plans, several varieties of yoga and potentially various healing arts.
OMG, this little boy outside the cafe has the cutest sock-monkey hat on. He might be a little too old for it, except he's kind of a hipster-baby and I think even at 8 years old, he's kind of wearing it ironically. (Yes, I laughed when I wrote that. Don't worry, I haven't gone completely 'round the bend.) It's warm enough that there are three women eating at one of the sidewalk tables. One of them has an adorable haircut. The forecast high is 60 degrees today, and it's nearly there now. Sunshine is splashing over everything. I wish I were an impressionist painter. This is the kind of day I would live for. This kind of day would be my bread and butter as an impressionist painter.
The laundry in my basement doesn't work. I'm going to put some stuff in at the laundromat and then finish my Christmas shopping, then switch the stuff to the drier and go to the post office, though I don't know if there is literally enough time to get it to West Virginia by Christmas Eve. Two days, at this time of year? I'll ask the Post Office people. It is their job to scowl at me and know the answer and to eventually spill it, with a huff and a sigh and a ho-ho-ho. (Yes, that also made me laugh when I wrote it.) What, you think Santa Claus would be in a good mood? Oh hell no. That bastard would be a grumpy, crusty, curmudgeonly old thing. With all he would have to get done? You must know that.
I wish it was an Amtrak and Charleston Hotels kind of Christmas. I would love to curl up by the Christmas tree at Country Inn & Suites by the highways and the river. My family has the goofiest traditions. Goofier than yours, though you might beg to differ.
The three women at the sidewalk table just raised their aluminum water bottles in a toast, I will presume to the winter and the lengthening of days.
Hmm. Spellcheck in this browser thinks 'cunt' is not a word. It definitely is.
I'm coming off a three-day depression-bender. Been down with a stomach flu, which reminded me of the one I had around Christmas 2007. I had no coffee yesterday, complicating the flu with a caffeine headache last night. The flu is mostly gone. My stomach is sore and exhausted, but I'm hungry, and I'm eating my first actual meal since Tuesday. Tuesday's meal didn't stay with me long.
I love my city and I love my neighborhood, but I'm nonetheless formulating a fantasy back-up plan. It goes like this. Get certified to teach in West Virginia. Move to Charleston and be a substitute teacher in Kanawha County schools. I think I would like being a sub. The transience, the lack of any expectation to be prepared, the opportunity to exceed everyone's wildest dreams with my surprise-preparation and enthusiasm. In this fantasy back-up plan, I live in this duplex: http://charlestonwv.craigslist.org/apa/2708805525.html -- In the mornings and on weekends and on days when there is no substitute teaching, I sit and look at that view of the river. You can rent a whole lotta lovely for not much money there, and the substitute teacher pay is more than adequate. In this plan, I would have to shed some cats. I would leave the most recent two on their daddy's doorstep. Maybe I could make it home with four. Nobody else wants Sylvie with her skin disease, and Ramona is her sibling and so quiet and smart I can't imagine anyone else would properly understand her. I would let Ellen have them, if she's still on this Earth, or my mom if she wanted two cats.
In reality today, I am looking for a job in Philadelphia. It's going to be canvassing or office-ing or cubicle-ing.
Oh shit, LiveJournal, did I mention? I'm all done teaching at my middle school in West Philly. I'm not going to teach for the rest of this year. Next year, we'll see where I am. Maybe I'll apply in another district, because this one won't hire me again after the short notice I ended up giving. But this year and the summer, I'm going to do something where I punch a clock and don't worry when I go home. It's medical, it's physical, it's metaphysical, it's mental, it's emotional, it's personal. It's a long story that started on September 13th and ends tomorrow. Tomorrow I go to work there for the last time, and pick up all the middle-grade novels I brought in at the beginning of the year, which nobody ever read, except for the one I "loaned" (gave) to a 7th-grade boy who eagerly asked to borrow it when he saw the cover image of a silhouette of a goth-looking boy wearing a hooded ensemble. "That's kind of how I would be every day, except for this uniform." And later, "I started that book you loaned me, Ms. Dooley. It's kinda deep. It might take me a while." "It's good? Take your time with it, hon." There are 15 kids I will really miss. A bunch more I never properly got to know, probably for the reason that I knew if I did, then I'd miss them too. I'll miss my girl who conscientiously tells you, "Oh, now I get it," as soon as she does, because someone in a previous year taught her that sentence to communicate with teachers. I'll miss my girl who thinks it's totally unfair that nothing ever happens to the Annoying Orange (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZN5PoW7_kdA&feature=fvsr), but only to the other fruits, even though it is the orange who is so annoying. ("I'm like, hey other fruits, if you're having a conversation with the Annoying Orange.... like.... It's not gon' go well!") I'll miss my boy who thinks about every math problem for about fifteen minutes but always gets it right. (Looking at a picture of a scale that doesn't make logical sense given the other picture of a balanced scale and considering the new objects on it and their given weights, finally, finally: "Oohhhhhhh, no that could NOT be truuuuuee.") He reminds me of the trees from Lord of the Rings that only say things that are worth taking a long time to say. Only in my room did he ever have enough time to get anything right. I'll remind him tomorrow that he gets it right when he has enough time, and never to be discouraged. I'll write it down (again, though I wrote it in the IEP). I'll remind his mom, and the other teachers.
Also, the story doesn't end tomorrow. I'm doing a number of things to continue the story and try to resolve it. Including therapy, a new job, fantasy back-up plans, several varieties of yoga and potentially various healing arts.
OMG, this little boy outside the cafe has the cutest sock-monkey hat on. He might be a little too old for it, except he's kind of a hipster-baby and I think even at 8 years old, he's kind of wearing it ironically. (Yes, I laughed when I wrote that. Don't worry, I haven't gone completely 'round the bend.) It's warm enough that there are three women eating at one of the sidewalk tables. One of them has an adorable haircut. The forecast high is 60 degrees today, and it's nearly there now. Sunshine is splashing over everything. I wish I were an impressionist painter. This is the kind of day I would live for. This kind of day would be my bread and butter as an impressionist painter.
The laundry in my basement doesn't work. I'm going to put some stuff in at the laundromat and then finish my Christmas shopping, then switch the stuff to the drier and go to the post office, though I don't know if there is literally enough time to get it to West Virginia by Christmas Eve. Two days, at this time of year? I'll ask the Post Office people. It is their job to scowl at me and know the answer and to eventually spill it, with a huff and a sigh and a ho-ho-ho. (Yes, that also made me laugh when I wrote it.) What, you think Santa Claus would be in a good mood? Oh hell no. That bastard would be a grumpy, crusty, curmudgeonly old thing. With all he would have to get done? You must know that.
I wish it was an Amtrak and Charleston Hotels kind of Christmas. I would love to curl up by the Christmas tree at Country Inn & Suites by the highways and the river. My family has the goofiest traditions. Goofier than yours, though you might beg to differ.
The three women at the sidewalk table just raised their aluminum water bottles in a toast, I will presume to the winter and the lengthening of days.