I’ve tried to keep up with things this spring, but work has managed to get the best of me, so I’ve not been able to do much blogging.
Things are not good at my job, but it’s not just the kids, it’s a couple of the adults that have been making life miserable for a few of us. I’ve been blamed for bringing negativity into the room (everyone else gets my sense of humor, just not the teacher). Even if I simply say I’m looking forward to summer break, she accuses me of being negative.
Another adult in the room is the teacher’s pet, a woman who can get away with not helping out, especially with a couple of the extra high needs kids we have. Believe me, we need all the help we can get, but because she doesn’t want to deal with them, it falls to the only other two who aren’t one-on-ones (me and the new gal). We’re tired.
We’re scarred, bruised, exhausted… and yeah, I guess maybe we ARE a little negative. But we’re not supposed to complain about it. When I said “sometimes it helps to vent” I was told to take my problems to the one causing them and not to anyone else.
Well, I tried that, but the person I took them to called me negative and did nothing about my complaint (or the complaints of the others in the room, because I’m not the only one who notices things).
Last year, I loved my job. This year? Not so much, really.
This year, the noise level in the classroom has reached epic proportions. Many days a week, I go home with my ears ringing and my head throbbing. Even the classrooms across the hall have complained. Across. The. Hall. Brick walls people, brick walls and a hallway separate the classrooms and they can still hear the racket.
We have a screamer who can last two hours before exhausting himself. One of the new paras is also very loud and attempts to counter this noise by being even louder than the screamer. This sets off the student who yells and bangs on furniture, teachers, and occasionally other students, as well as throws computer equipment. This same student will repeatedly hit himself and become terrified and risk having a seizure.
Calming the violent one require restraining him (gently) and whispering in his ear. It can be anything from reciting the alphabet to counting. It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s whispered. Evidently, that distressed someone who accused me of abusing that student. Let me tell you, that is something that has lost me more sleep than anything else. Fortunately, the principal understands and assured me he is not worried about it.
But it bothers me and I worry about it.
Anyway, come late June, school will be out for the summer and I can’t wait. The blog, on the other hand, is going to have to wait. I simply cannot muster the oomph required to come up with a topic or a funny anecdote while my brain is squeezed by such stress.
There have been blog-worthy moments (cat and the paper bag, the Green Expo, kittens in the woodpile, backyard insanity, crazy neighbors…) but getting them from frazzled brain to keyboard has proven to be too much.
Stress wins this round.
I will be back in a few weeks (maybe sooner, if things settle out at work… hahahaha fuck).
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Monday Love Texts
I can’t remember exactly what started it, but somehow I managed to get into the habit of sending Monday Love Texts to my children. It might have been a conversation I had with my youngest right after he broke up with his girlfriend. He said something to the effect of missing “those love texts.”
Yeah, I understand what he meant, and this not the same thing, but I think it’s nice to be reminded that you are loved, even by your mother.
That’s why, every Monday…unless I forget and send it on Tuesday (or Sunday) because I get confused, I send love texts.
The content of the messages rarely changes, but neither does the meaning. While that may seem boring, it makes it easier for me to send it out even when I’m busy. Sometimes just remembering to do it takes more brain power than I can muster at the moment, trying to be creative and original at the same time would probably short circuit my poor brain.
“Monday love text. I love you. Have a great week.”
That’s it. That’s what my children get every Monday morning. Oh, sometimes I’ll change things up and tell them I love them AFTER I wish them a great week.
I thought I was being original until I read how Patrick Swayze’s widow always sent him a love text before she got on a plane. After Patrick died, she has continued to send those texts even though a total stranger now has that phone number. She believes everyone should feel loved.
That’s when I started including others in my Monday Love Texts. But here’s the deal, I do not have a “group” on my cell phone where I can just hit a single number and everyone gets a text. For me, that kind of loses the meaning just a bit.
I like to look at the names in my contacts, picturing each person as I add them. Not everyone gets clicked. Sometimes it’s because I’m still getting used to my new phone and miss the name, and sometimes it’s because I’m not sure if they have unlimited texting or if I’m wreaking havoc on their phone budget. Also, I’m not sure if everyone would like to get a message like that from me. However, even if I don’t send one out, I still get to think kind thoughts of each person in my contacts as I scroll through the list.
Feel the love? Hope so, because I’m sending it, even though it’s not Monday.
Yeah, I understand what he meant, and this not the same thing, but I think it’s nice to be reminded that you are loved, even by your mother.
That’s why, every Monday…unless I forget and send it on Tuesday (or Sunday) because I get confused, I send love texts.
The content of the messages rarely changes, but neither does the meaning. While that may seem boring, it makes it easier for me to send it out even when I’m busy. Sometimes just remembering to do it takes more brain power than I can muster at the moment, trying to be creative and original at the same time would probably short circuit my poor brain.
“Monday love text. I love you. Have a great week.”
That’s it. That’s what my children get every Monday morning. Oh, sometimes I’ll change things up and tell them I love them AFTER I wish them a great week.
I thought I was being original until I read how Patrick Swayze’s widow always sent him a love text before she got on a plane. After Patrick died, she has continued to send those texts even though a total stranger now has that phone number. She believes everyone should feel loved.
That’s when I started including others in my Monday Love Texts. But here’s the deal, I do not have a “group” on my cell phone where I can just hit a single number and everyone gets a text. For me, that kind of loses the meaning just a bit.
I like to look at the names in my contacts, picturing each person as I add them. Not everyone gets clicked. Sometimes it’s because I’m still getting used to my new phone and miss the name, and sometimes it’s because I’m not sure if they have unlimited texting or if I’m wreaking havoc on their phone budget. Also, I’m not sure if everyone would like to get a message like that from me. However, even if I don’t send one out, I still get to think kind thoughts of each person in my contacts as I scroll through the list.
Feel the love? Hope so, because I’m sending it, even though it’s not Monday.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Don’t Try This At Home
I have, or rather I HAD a small but pleasing collection of vintage lighters. I began collecting them when I was young, after my grandfather passed away and I found several old pieces in a box my dad brought home. I cleaned them up, fiddled around with them and got several of them to work. Many of them were novelty lighters, oddly shaped or with clever lighting devices.
My attraction to them didn’t exactly dim over the years, but I’m pretty picky about stuff like that, and the ones that DO catch my eye are rather expensive so they don’t get to come home with me. I have no idea where my collection is at the moment, but I have a feeling my father absconded with them when he and my mother moved to southern Oregon over a decade ago. Prior to that, they were buried somewhere in the pile known as “Karen’s stuff” which got swept up in the big move and I’ve not seen any of it since. Including my Bob Griese Green Bay Packers rookie card.
…sigh…
…or my Mary Poppins lunch box, my Barbie dolls (including my favorite, Midge). I weep…
Anyway, Tam had given me an old lighter of hers and I finally got around to putting in a new flint and filling it with lighter fuel. Now, I will admit, it’s been a while since I’ve dinked around with stuff like this, so I suppose I have some kind of excuse for what happened next, but not really.
Tam had also procured a new lighter for herself and we were spending a little quality time filling and prepping our lighters. Now, she has a valid reason for owning a lighter: she smokes. I do not smoke. I have no reason to own a lighter, much less fill it with fluid and arm it with a flint, but I did.
There was a spill, and I may not have gotten the fill lid on quite right, or maybe it was just because I overfilled it…
All those details don’t really matter when you’re sitting there watching the lighter work beautifully for the first time in years…or when you close the lighter and realize there are still flames, only the flames are on your hand…
…and you drop the lighter onto the floor… the hardwood floor… next to the plastic bag you brought home from the store, and because you’re sitting in an awkward position, you can’t quite get your foot to the right angle in order to snuff the flames, and standing up will mean dangling your pantleg over the flames dancing across your hardwood floor…
…so you say, in your calmest voice, “Uh, we have a fire here,” and your girlfriend jumps up just as you’re able to get to your feet and you both begin stomping out the fire, but unfortunately you’ve gotten some lighter fluid on your shoe and it’s kind of hard to put out the flames because you keep relighting them with your burning shoe…
…and your girlfriend has discovered that the flames on the plastic bag she is attempting to snuff with HER shoe have caused the bag to melt and is now STUCK to her shoe and things just aren’t going well…
…then the two of you get the giggles and your girlfriend has to pee and since the fire is finally out, she wanders away and that’s when you discover the discoloration on your fingernails and the lack of hair on your hand…
Oh, it only gets better, because later, I tried it again and it worked just fine, so I went out to show Tam. I pressed the trigger and it sparked perfectly, only that’s the exact moment I realized the damn thing was leaking and now my OTHER hand was on fire…
My attraction to them didn’t exactly dim over the years, but I’m pretty picky about stuff like that, and the ones that DO catch my eye are rather expensive so they don’t get to come home with me. I have no idea where my collection is at the moment, but I have a feeling my father absconded with them when he and my mother moved to southern Oregon over a decade ago. Prior to that, they were buried somewhere in the pile known as “Karen’s stuff” which got swept up in the big move and I’ve not seen any of it since. Including my Bob Griese Green Bay Packers rookie card.
…sigh…
…or my Mary Poppins lunch box, my Barbie dolls (including my favorite, Midge). I weep…
Anyway, Tam had given me an old lighter of hers and I finally got around to putting in a new flint and filling it with lighter fuel. Now, I will admit, it’s been a while since I’ve dinked around with stuff like this, so I suppose I have some kind of excuse for what happened next, but not really.
Tam had also procured a new lighter for herself and we were spending a little quality time filling and prepping our lighters. Now, she has a valid reason for owning a lighter: she smokes. I do not smoke. I have no reason to own a lighter, much less fill it with fluid and arm it with a flint, but I did.
There was a spill, and I may not have gotten the fill lid on quite right, or maybe it was just because I overfilled it…
All those details don’t really matter when you’re sitting there watching the lighter work beautifully for the first time in years…or when you close the lighter and realize there are still flames, only the flames are on your hand…
…and you drop the lighter onto the floor… the hardwood floor… next to the plastic bag you brought home from the store, and because you’re sitting in an awkward position, you can’t quite get your foot to the right angle in order to snuff the flames, and standing up will mean dangling your pantleg over the flames dancing across your hardwood floor…
…so you say, in your calmest voice, “Uh, we have a fire here,” and your girlfriend jumps up just as you’re able to get to your feet and you both begin stomping out the fire, but unfortunately you’ve gotten some lighter fluid on your shoe and it’s kind of hard to put out the flames because you keep relighting them with your burning shoe…
…and your girlfriend has discovered that the flames on the plastic bag she is attempting to snuff with HER shoe have caused the bag to melt and is now STUCK to her shoe and things just aren’t going well…
…then the two of you get the giggles and your girlfriend has to pee and since the fire is finally out, she wanders away and that’s when you discover the discoloration on your fingernails and the lack of hair on your hand…
Oh, it only gets better, because later, I tried it again and it worked just fine, so I went out to show Tam. I pressed the trigger and it sparked perfectly, only that’s the exact moment I realized the damn thing was leaking and now my OTHER hand was on fire…
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Ancient of Dogs
It’s the “knowing when” part of life that can cause us so much… misery.
Like knowing when to stop hanging around for a phone call and go out and live life. Or knowing when to come in out of the rain, dry off, and have something warm to drink.
Or knowing when it’s time to put a beloved pet to rest.
Knowing when you’re not “playing god” but rather being a responsible pet owner…
After 17 years, she’d had enough, but I wasn’t sure. I mean, I knew she was going to die, that’s pretty much a given, but I kept hoping she’d go in her sleep. Crazy dog just kept on waking up. But I knew we’d reached the end of the line when she refused food. Then she had even more trouble standing. But the final straw was when she would bark at odd hours wanting someone to come pet her and reassure her she wasn’t alone.
While that’s all well and good during the day, when she demanded comfort at 2:30 in the morning and would keep me awake for an hour or so, it started to cause problems, like sleep deprivation. I tend to get weepy and spin in circles when I’m sleep deprived. That’s not a pretty sight.
Our regular vet was out of town for the week, and usually he just closes the office and we are directed to another local vet for emergencies. This time, however, he had someone there, and I’m so glad he did.
She was beautiful, and not just physically, but spiritually as well. She understood the importance of reassuring Tam and I that our dog was in a happy place now, with an unlimited supply of tennis balls (her absolute favorite, next to dirty underwear and socks).
As we left the office and climbed into the car, I turned to Tam and said, “Am I imagining things, or was she really hot?”
“You are not imagining things, Babe, she was hot.”
There was a long silence.
“Are you ok,” I asked.
“I’m sad. How are you?”
“I’m sad, but relieved. The doctor even said it was the right thing to do. Plus, she didn’t make me feel guilty for the way my poor dog looked.”
It’s true. The Ancient of Dogs looked awful; skeletal, with goopy eyes and crusted fur around her ears. She smelled horrible, too. Bathing her was always difficult when she was able to sit up in the tub, but after she got so weak, it was impossible. Plus she couldn’t get warm afterward, the water would get in her ears and she would get an infection.
I knew I’d made the right decision. My hairdresser, Sasquatch, said it best: “Pets don’t have the luxury of throwing themselves off a bridge or sticking their head in the oven when it’s time to go. They rely on us to release them.”
Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t miss the old beast. Actually, I miss the young beast, the active dog that greeted everyone at the door with a pair of dirty underwear or socks. The dog who could leave bruises with her tail as she whacked it against unsuspecting shins. That crazy hound who loved apple cores and peanut butter.
Tam had gone out on an errand and I was in the office trying to write, when I heard that unmistakable sound of paper rustling in the other room, a sign the Ancient One needed to go outside. I got up and hurried toward the living room, then stopped. Her bed was empty and the noise was coming from the bathroom. It was my older son unwrapping toilet paper. After I got settled in and back to work, I could hear a dog in the back yard and my first thought was, “Damn, I need to go find where she’s wandered…oh, wait… no I don’t, that’s the neighbor’s dog.” It was a very strange sensation.
Later that evening, The Ex came by to take our older son to dinner and he asked me how my weekend was going. My sleep deprived answer was more than a little crude and I regretted it immediately: “Oh, I killed the dog today. How’s your weekend shaping up?” I knew he was shocked and hurt, so I did my best to let him know that I was using dark humor to keep myself together. Then I apologized for being an asshole. I hope he can forgive me.
That night was the first full night’s sleep I’d had in my own bed in two years. Not once did I have to get up to comfort a dog, or take her out into the freezing night while she staggered around looking for the perfect place to pee or poop. Even if I was away from home, I would wake up and wonder if my son could hear her and tend to her needs. That’s a lot of lost sleep, my friends.
The next day, we cleaned up the living room, picking up the soiled newspapers and cardboard, taking down the barriers that helped confine my poor old dog to the safer parts of the house (where things would not fall on her when bumped). We swept up fur, and took apart her bed. Now the living room looks a bit bigger and smells much better.
But it was after the cleaning, while I was in the kitchen cutting up an apple, that she paid me a visit: an image of her and her “sister” fit and happy, with the sensation of something brushing past my leg.
She forgives me for waiting until I could let her go. I’m sure she’ll visit on occasion, between chasing tennis balls and lolling in the sunshine and sweet grass with her buddies.
Like knowing when to stop hanging around for a phone call and go out and live life. Or knowing when to come in out of the rain, dry off, and have something warm to drink.
Or knowing when it’s time to put a beloved pet to rest.
Knowing when you’re not “playing god” but rather being a responsible pet owner…
After 17 years, she’d had enough, but I wasn’t sure. I mean, I knew she was going to die, that’s pretty much a given, but I kept hoping she’d go in her sleep. Crazy dog just kept on waking up. But I knew we’d reached the end of the line when she refused food. Then she had even more trouble standing. But the final straw was when she would bark at odd hours wanting someone to come pet her and reassure her she wasn’t alone.
While that’s all well and good during the day, when she demanded comfort at 2:30 in the morning and would keep me awake for an hour or so, it started to cause problems, like sleep deprivation. I tend to get weepy and spin in circles when I’m sleep deprived. That’s not a pretty sight.
Our regular vet was out of town for the week, and usually he just closes the office and we are directed to another local vet for emergencies. This time, however, he had someone there, and I’m so glad he did.
She was beautiful, and not just physically, but spiritually as well. She understood the importance of reassuring Tam and I that our dog was in a happy place now, with an unlimited supply of tennis balls (her absolute favorite, next to dirty underwear and socks).
As we left the office and climbed into the car, I turned to Tam and said, “Am I imagining things, or was she really hot?”
“You are not imagining things, Babe, she was hot.”
There was a long silence.
“Are you ok,” I asked.
“I’m sad. How are you?”
“I’m sad, but relieved. The doctor even said it was the right thing to do. Plus, she didn’t make me feel guilty for the way my poor dog looked.”
It’s true. The Ancient of Dogs looked awful; skeletal, with goopy eyes and crusted fur around her ears. She smelled horrible, too. Bathing her was always difficult when she was able to sit up in the tub, but after she got so weak, it was impossible. Plus she couldn’t get warm afterward, the water would get in her ears and she would get an infection.
I knew I’d made the right decision. My hairdresser, Sasquatch, said it best: “Pets don’t have the luxury of throwing themselves off a bridge or sticking their head in the oven when it’s time to go. They rely on us to release them.”
Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t miss the old beast. Actually, I miss the young beast, the active dog that greeted everyone at the door with a pair of dirty underwear or socks. The dog who could leave bruises with her tail as she whacked it against unsuspecting shins. That crazy hound who loved apple cores and peanut butter.
Tam had gone out on an errand and I was in the office trying to write, when I heard that unmistakable sound of paper rustling in the other room, a sign the Ancient One needed to go outside. I got up and hurried toward the living room, then stopped. Her bed was empty and the noise was coming from the bathroom. It was my older son unwrapping toilet paper. After I got settled in and back to work, I could hear a dog in the back yard and my first thought was, “Damn, I need to go find where she’s wandered…oh, wait… no I don’t, that’s the neighbor’s dog.” It was a very strange sensation.
Later that evening, The Ex came by to take our older son to dinner and he asked me how my weekend was going. My sleep deprived answer was more than a little crude and I regretted it immediately: “Oh, I killed the dog today. How’s your weekend shaping up?” I knew he was shocked and hurt, so I did my best to let him know that I was using dark humor to keep myself together. Then I apologized for being an asshole. I hope he can forgive me.
That night was the first full night’s sleep I’d had in my own bed in two years. Not once did I have to get up to comfort a dog, or take her out into the freezing night while she staggered around looking for the perfect place to pee or poop. Even if I was away from home, I would wake up and wonder if my son could hear her and tend to her needs. That’s a lot of lost sleep, my friends.
The next day, we cleaned up the living room, picking up the soiled newspapers and cardboard, taking down the barriers that helped confine my poor old dog to the safer parts of the house (where things would not fall on her when bumped). We swept up fur, and took apart her bed. Now the living room looks a bit bigger and smells much better.
But it was after the cleaning, while I was in the kitchen cutting up an apple, that she paid me a visit: an image of her and her “sister” fit and happy, with the sensation of something brushing past my leg.
She forgives me for waiting until I could let her go. I’m sure she’ll visit on occasion, between chasing tennis balls and lolling in the sunshine and sweet grass with her buddies.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
You’re Kidding, Right?
Guess what! I’m gay. Ok, if this does not surprise you, congratulations, you’ve been paying attention. Give yourself a pat on the back. Or a cookie, whichever floats your boat. I’m getting to the point where I’m pretty open about my sexuality. Open, but not necessarily lewd; I’m only lewd when the situation calls for it.
I’m also pretty open about this fact to my immediate co-workers as well. Mind you, I did not exactly wander into the room my first day and say, “Hello, bitches, I’m a lesbian. Deal with it.” Instead, I kept myself pretty deep in the closet for as long as I could. But by the end of that first year, most of them had me figured out.
I cleared up any remaining misconceptions this year, but again, only with my immediate coworkers, not to any other staff members, students or their parents. I’m sure several staff members outside the SLC groups have either heard things or simply guessed correctly, but nothing has been said. Whatever, I don’t really care what people think or say.
Except for when someone who KNOWS I’m gay goes and says something really, REALLY stupid like, “oh, that’s so gay.”
O…rly?
On Tuesday, one of my dear co-workers mentioned a business a few blocks from the school, where the baristas are clad in a little bit of fabric and a lot of imagination. The rest of them chimed in and while I let them have their rants, I mentally countered most of them. However, I kept my opinions to myself; I wasn’t sure where the issue was going to go, so I held my tongue. I didn’t feel like putting myself in a situation where I’d have to shoot my way out.
I even managed to keep silent while one misinformed gal blustered on about how elementary school students “have to walk past one of those places just to go to and from school every day.”
She’s wrong. That particular business is on a very busy road. Having been a member of the district’s Safe Walking Committee, I happen to know that the road where the business is located, despite having sidewalks, is NOT considered a safe walking zone and none of those kids should be anywhere near that road. Or that business. Besides, you can’t see much when you walk by; you have to get up to the damn window to see anything. I know this for a fact. I also know that particular stand has some of the worst coffee in the city, but I digress.
They all moaned and tore their hair at how “those poor girls” were ogled by men and that was “the only reason anyone stopped by those places.”
Um, those “poor girls” get an average of 300 dollars in tips every day. They enjoy their jobs, it’s part time so they can go to school and still afford to pay their bills They’re not on state assistance, and they contribute to the economy. It’s not a forever job, and they’re not forced to work there. I had a nice long chat with one bikini-clad barista during a slow time at the coffee stand. Very informative, and entertaining.
Anyway, my coworkers spent the next 15 minutes ranting about the evils of these coffee stands, tossing a few facts in with their emotions and jumping to conclusions. Someone even said, “We need to get a petition going to get rid of them.”
Now, I’m all for getting rid of bad coffee, but I’m fine with whatever the baristas choose to wear.
Then came the coup de grace, or more like the gaff o’ the day…I honestly wonder if she’s truly an idiot or just too young and thoughtless to STFU when she should. But she said, (and this is a direct quote) “Only men and lesbians go to those places.” It got kind of quiet after that. The discussion stumbled to a halt and awkward glances were cast my way. I said nothing, I just smiled sweetly.
Yes, I’ve been to “those places” and I’ve had a good look and gone away feeling pretty damn good. They’re polite, sexy, and they’ll even flirt with a fat, old lesbian who doesn’t tip all that well. Who wouldn’t feel good after that? It’s all in fun. It’s only a little more intimate and much less intrusive than striking up a conversation with someone sunbathing in a park. Sunbathers are generally not very communicative because you might be blocking their rays.
I also happen to know of several straight women who patronize the bikini coffee shops. As one of them puts it, “the baristas are nice, the coffee is good, and the owner is awesome.”
I believe in the right of women to work in whatever profession they choose, providing it is legal in the state where they live. They should be able to work as bikini baristas without being judged as misguided or pathetic, or worse.
This is, after all, America. You know, the “land of the free, home of the brave,” “justice for all,” and “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” place. You don’t have to agree with everyone, you don’t even have to like everyone, but we all need to share this lovely country, this beautiful world. A healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance would go a long way to making things a lot better.
For everyone.
I’m also pretty open about this fact to my immediate co-workers as well. Mind you, I did not exactly wander into the room my first day and say, “Hello, bitches, I’m a lesbian. Deal with it.” Instead, I kept myself pretty deep in the closet for as long as I could. But by the end of that first year, most of them had me figured out.
I cleared up any remaining misconceptions this year, but again, only with my immediate coworkers, not to any other staff members, students or their parents. I’m sure several staff members outside the SLC groups have either heard things or simply guessed correctly, but nothing has been said. Whatever, I don’t really care what people think or say.
Except for when someone who KNOWS I’m gay goes and says something really, REALLY stupid like, “oh, that’s so gay.”
O…rly?
On Tuesday, one of my dear co-workers mentioned a business a few blocks from the school, where the baristas are clad in a little bit of fabric and a lot of imagination. The rest of them chimed in and while I let them have their rants, I mentally countered most of them. However, I kept my opinions to myself; I wasn’t sure where the issue was going to go, so I held my tongue. I didn’t feel like putting myself in a situation where I’d have to shoot my way out.
I even managed to keep silent while one misinformed gal blustered on about how elementary school students “have to walk past one of those places just to go to and from school every day.”
She’s wrong. That particular business is on a very busy road. Having been a member of the district’s Safe Walking Committee, I happen to know that the road where the business is located, despite having sidewalks, is NOT considered a safe walking zone and none of those kids should be anywhere near that road. Or that business. Besides, you can’t see much when you walk by; you have to get up to the damn window to see anything. I know this for a fact. I also know that particular stand has some of the worst coffee in the city, but I digress.
They all moaned and tore their hair at how “those poor girls” were ogled by men and that was “the only reason anyone stopped by those places.”
Um, those “poor girls” get an average of 300 dollars in tips every day. They enjoy their jobs, it’s part time so they can go to school and still afford to pay their bills They’re not on state assistance, and they contribute to the economy. It’s not a forever job, and they’re not forced to work there. I had a nice long chat with one bikini-clad barista during a slow time at the coffee stand. Very informative, and entertaining.
Anyway, my coworkers spent the next 15 minutes ranting about the evils of these coffee stands, tossing a few facts in with their emotions and jumping to conclusions. Someone even said, “We need to get a petition going to get rid of them.”
Now, I’m all for getting rid of bad coffee, but I’m fine with whatever the baristas choose to wear.
Then came the coup de grace, or more like the gaff o’ the day…I honestly wonder if she’s truly an idiot or just too young and thoughtless to STFU when she should. But she said, (and this is a direct quote) “Only men and lesbians go to those places.” It got kind of quiet after that. The discussion stumbled to a halt and awkward glances were cast my way. I said nothing, I just smiled sweetly.
Yes, I’ve been to “those places” and I’ve had a good look and gone away feeling pretty damn good. They’re polite, sexy, and they’ll even flirt with a fat, old lesbian who doesn’t tip all that well. Who wouldn’t feel good after that? It’s all in fun. It’s only a little more intimate and much less intrusive than striking up a conversation with someone sunbathing in a park. Sunbathers are generally not very communicative because you might be blocking their rays.
I also happen to know of several straight women who patronize the bikini coffee shops. As one of them puts it, “the baristas are nice, the coffee is good, and the owner is awesome.”
I believe in the right of women to work in whatever profession they choose, providing it is legal in the state where they live. They should be able to work as bikini baristas without being judged as misguided or pathetic, or worse.
This is, after all, America. You know, the “land of the free, home of the brave,” “justice for all,” and “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” place. You don’t have to agree with everyone, you don’t even have to like everyone, but we all need to share this lovely country, this beautiful world. A healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance would go a long way to making things a lot better.
For everyone.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Must Be Batshit Crazy
It was my birthday on Monday. Tam was a sweetheart and gave me an entire weekend to do whatever I pleased. My ex used to do that, because for him, birthdays were a big-assed deal. He’d take the day off from work (when I was a stay-at-home mom), and we’d go do STUFF in the BIG CITY. Usually involved him driving while I snapped photographs from the moving vehicle because STOPPING? WHY WOULD WE WANT TO STOP JUST FOR A PHOTOGRAPH?
Actually, he would be fine with stopping, but not always where I needed to be stopped, then I’d have to jump out, run two miles, dodging traffic, just to get back to the spot where I wanted to snap the shutter. I got pretty good at car photos.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah…
Tam, however, never really had a big deal made of her birthdays, which always makes me a little sad. Unfortunately, she was born during a particularly cold time of year, so tooling around and doing stuff isn’t all that comfortable. I do my best, but it also comes right around the time my flood insurance is due, and, well, that’s a lump sum of pain right before the major holidays.
This year, since my birthday was on Monday, I got to pick the activities for the weekend. I had already made arrangements with Sagacious Woman to have lunch with her on Sunday, so on Saturday, Tam and I headed toward the mountains in order to allow me to reconnect with my Spirit.
(As an aside, many years ago, I went on my very first Shamanic Journey in order to find my Spirit Guides. After it was all done, everyone had the opportunity to share what they found. As we went around the circle, I became more and more embarrassed because I didn’t see any animals. All I saw was the mountain. I decided to keep that to myself, but mentioned it to the Shaman after the class was over. She smiled and told me that having a Mountain for a Guide was definitely an ok thing.)
Back to Saturday. The weather was perfect and the closer we got to the mountain, the more snow we saw. I didn’t worry, as my little red Forrester could tackle any kind of road conditions. She made it up and back like a champ and I felt renewed and invigorated. The mountains were amazing and their songs were pure balm to my weary heart and soul.
Then Sunday came. We lunched with Sagacious Woman, then on a whim, I decided I wanted to look at cars.
I love my Forrester. She was my very first new car. She was awesome, faithful, and pampered. Filthy, but pampered. She was also a manual transmission, which was fine, but I’m the only one in the family who could drive it, so…not a problem when I was living with my ex, but Tam does not drive a stick and her vehicle of choice is a mid-size pick-up truck. We can’t go anywhere as a family, unless I did the driving.
Then I began to have hip and knee trouble. It became excruciating to move my leg to operate the clutch, and a pinched nerve in my groin (yeah, that’s an ugly pain right there) made it even more difficult.
I began doing research on vehicle types, reliability, resale, everything. There we were, on my whim, looking at cars. I cannot really afford this, but my parents (who also have hip and knee issues) understood and stepped in to help me out.
I bought a car for my birthday. Way more car than I expected, but it boiled down to this: I needed a car that I could drive without pain. We also needed a vehicle that both of us could drive. Also, this is going to be my last new car for a very long time. I wanted something that would hold value for a while and not need replacing in five years. I also wanted to do this while my Subaru still had some worth. Considering, it was new in 2004 and had under 50K miles on it helped as well.
The other selling point was that I firmly believe in doing my best to reduce my fossil fuel consumption. I am now the proud owner of a bright red Prius.
Bright. Red.
Toyota calls it “Barcelona Red.” I call it “OMG! THAT IS ONE RED CAR! AND IT’S MINE!!!” red. She hasn’t told me her name yet, but that’s ok. Belle (my Forrester) waited almost two weeks before she spilled hers to me. “Majel” comes to mind when the Prius starts yammering on about the cell phone (yes, the Prius talks to me because it comes with built in blue tooth technology and insists I speak clearly in order to make a call). Um, just in case there are no Trekkies reading this, Majel is Majel Barrett, a.k.a., Mrs. Gene Roddenberry. Star Trek. Computer voice for the Enterprise. Don’t make me say any more…please. (and yes, I wrote “Trekkie” instead of “Trekker” because I’m old enough to be a Trekkie instead of a Trekker, so there, a-hen).
There you have it. My batshit crazy weekend where I made a huge decision (on my own), stepped out on a scary limb (almost by myself) and now I’m going to be a big girl and make my car payments.
Forever and ever (or the next five years, whichever comes first).
Actually, he would be fine with stopping, but not always where I needed to be stopped, then I’d have to jump out, run two miles, dodging traffic, just to get back to the spot where I wanted to snap the shutter. I got pretty good at car photos.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah…
Tam, however, never really had a big deal made of her birthdays, which always makes me a little sad. Unfortunately, she was born during a particularly cold time of year, so tooling around and doing stuff isn’t all that comfortable. I do my best, but it also comes right around the time my flood insurance is due, and, well, that’s a lump sum of pain right before the major holidays.
This year, since my birthday was on Monday, I got to pick the activities for the weekend. I had already made arrangements with Sagacious Woman to have lunch with her on Sunday, so on Saturday, Tam and I headed toward the mountains in order to allow me to reconnect with my Spirit.
(As an aside, many years ago, I went on my very first Shamanic Journey in order to find my Spirit Guides. After it was all done, everyone had the opportunity to share what they found. As we went around the circle, I became more and more embarrassed because I didn’t see any animals. All I saw was the mountain. I decided to keep that to myself, but mentioned it to the Shaman after the class was over. She smiled and told me that having a Mountain for a Guide was definitely an ok thing.)
Back to Saturday. The weather was perfect and the closer we got to the mountain, the more snow we saw. I didn’t worry, as my little red Forrester could tackle any kind of road conditions. She made it up and back like a champ and I felt renewed and invigorated. The mountains were amazing and their songs were pure balm to my weary heart and soul.
Then Sunday came. We lunched with Sagacious Woman, then on a whim, I decided I wanted to look at cars.
I love my Forrester. She was my very first new car. She was awesome, faithful, and pampered. Filthy, but pampered. She was also a manual transmission, which was fine, but I’m the only one in the family who could drive it, so…not a problem when I was living with my ex, but Tam does not drive a stick and her vehicle of choice is a mid-size pick-up truck. We can’t go anywhere as a family, unless I did the driving.
Then I began to have hip and knee trouble. It became excruciating to move my leg to operate the clutch, and a pinched nerve in my groin (yeah, that’s an ugly pain right there) made it even more difficult.
I began doing research on vehicle types, reliability, resale, everything. There we were, on my whim, looking at cars. I cannot really afford this, but my parents (who also have hip and knee issues) understood and stepped in to help me out.
I bought a car for my birthday. Way more car than I expected, but it boiled down to this: I needed a car that I could drive without pain. We also needed a vehicle that both of us could drive. Also, this is going to be my last new car for a very long time. I wanted something that would hold value for a while and not need replacing in five years. I also wanted to do this while my Subaru still had some worth. Considering, it was new in 2004 and had under 50K miles on it helped as well.
The other selling point was that I firmly believe in doing my best to reduce my fossil fuel consumption. I am now the proud owner of a bright red Prius.
Bright. Red.
Toyota calls it “Barcelona Red.” I call it “OMG! THAT IS ONE RED CAR! AND IT’S MINE!!!” red. She hasn’t told me her name yet, but that’s ok. Belle (my Forrester) waited almost two weeks before she spilled hers to me. “Majel” comes to mind when the Prius starts yammering on about the cell phone (yes, the Prius talks to me because it comes with built in blue tooth technology and insists I speak clearly in order to make a call). Um, just in case there are no Trekkies reading this, Majel is Majel Barrett, a.k.a., Mrs. Gene Roddenberry. Star Trek. Computer voice for the Enterprise. Don’t make me say any more…please. (and yes, I wrote “Trekkie” instead of “Trekker” because I’m old enough to be a Trekkie instead of a Trekker, so there, a-hen).
There you have it. My batshit crazy weekend where I made a huge decision (on my own), stepped out on a scary limb (almost by myself) and now I’m going to be a big girl and make my car payments.
Forever and ever (or the next five years, whichever comes first).
Friday, March 11, 2011
My Week
This week has not been wardrobe friendly to me. We’ll start with something that can happen to anyone, and that is the ol’ shoes-n-shit thing. Everyone has done it, wandered through a pile of dog shit and tracked it everywhere. I, however, inherited a lovely trait from my father: if we were on a golf course and there was one turd somewhere off the beaten path, we would not only find it, we would trod upon it and track it to the far corners of the earth.
It’s a gift, what can I say?
My problem is that the shoes I wear have a special non-skid sole, which means there are LOTS of places to pack in LOTS of shit, so, um, you get the picture.
Then there was the purse incident. For the record, I hate purses. I had one that I loved, it was designed perfectly, I could find anything in it, and it never once disgorged itself at the grocery store. It is, however, leather, which means it’s a heavy motherfucker and that gets tiring after a while. Especially considering I hate to go anywhere without paper, pen, inhaler, wallet, checkbook, keys and cell phone. All that adds weight, folks and my shoulders do not need that kind of pain.
So I gave up my favorite purse, and I’ve spent several years looking for the perfect replacement. I found a suitable one made of canvas, and with the exception of the grim pea-soup green color and uncanny ability to attract all kinds of dirt, it has served me well.
Have I mentioned my job lately, and what I do for a living? I’m a para educator in a special needs classroom. We are fully self-contained, and with rare exceptions, our students do not mingle with the general classes. Some of our students have physical issues as well as mental ones, and for one student, that means he vomits. A lot.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
We were rushing to the bus when he started making “that noise” and we turned back to the nearest garbage can. Unfortunately, he managed to un-eat his lunch onto AND into my purse. Guess who gets to find out if her purse is washable! Yay, me.
Not only am I a para educator, I am also known as the potty princess. Several of our students need to be accompanied to the bathroom. Some can actually sit on the toilet, but still require diapers, while others are toilet trained but unable to get to and from the bathroom without getting lost or distracted.
I was toileting a student when she became…difficult. She began hitting and pinching me as I was attempting to remove her soiled clothing. Once she was divested of her diapers and pants, I was letting her sit on the pot while I logged information in to the record book. I turned around and the little darling grabbed the front of my shirt and refused to let go. It took me a while, but I managed to extract myself from her grasp and move away while she finished her business.
That was when I realized she was on her cycle and she’d been “investigating” herself when my back was turned. When she grabbed me… oh, yeah… I was glad my shirt is washable AND a dark color. I, however, had turned a shade similar to my now-abandoned purse. Not only that, but I still had to re-dress the darling and she was having nothing to do with it.
Fortunately, my supervisor is very understanding and allowed me to dash home for a quick change. In fact she kind of insisted, as she vacillated between gagging and recoiling.
I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am that the week is over.
I also cannot begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to Spring Break in three weeks.
It’s a gift, what can I say?
My problem is that the shoes I wear have a special non-skid sole, which means there are LOTS of places to pack in LOTS of shit, so, um, you get the picture.
Then there was the purse incident. For the record, I hate purses. I had one that I loved, it was designed perfectly, I could find anything in it, and it never once disgorged itself at the grocery store. It is, however, leather, which means it’s a heavy motherfucker and that gets tiring after a while. Especially considering I hate to go anywhere without paper, pen, inhaler, wallet, checkbook, keys and cell phone. All that adds weight, folks and my shoulders do not need that kind of pain.
So I gave up my favorite purse, and I’ve spent several years looking for the perfect replacement. I found a suitable one made of canvas, and with the exception of the grim pea-soup green color and uncanny ability to attract all kinds of dirt, it has served me well.
Have I mentioned my job lately, and what I do for a living? I’m a para educator in a special needs classroom. We are fully self-contained, and with rare exceptions, our students do not mingle with the general classes. Some of our students have physical issues as well as mental ones, and for one student, that means he vomits. A lot.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
We were rushing to the bus when he started making “that noise” and we turned back to the nearest garbage can. Unfortunately, he managed to un-eat his lunch onto AND into my purse. Guess who gets to find out if her purse is washable! Yay, me.
Not only am I a para educator, I am also known as the potty princess. Several of our students need to be accompanied to the bathroom. Some can actually sit on the toilet, but still require diapers, while others are toilet trained but unable to get to and from the bathroom without getting lost or distracted.
I was toileting a student when she became…difficult. She began hitting and pinching me as I was attempting to remove her soiled clothing. Once she was divested of her diapers and pants, I was letting her sit on the pot while I logged information in to the record book. I turned around and the little darling grabbed the front of my shirt and refused to let go. It took me a while, but I managed to extract myself from her grasp and move away while she finished her business.
That was when I realized she was on her cycle and she’d been “investigating” herself when my back was turned. When she grabbed me… oh, yeah… I was glad my shirt is washable AND a dark color. I, however, had turned a shade similar to my now-abandoned purse. Not only that, but I still had to re-dress the darling and she was having nothing to do with it.
Fortunately, my supervisor is very understanding and allowed me to dash home for a quick change. In fact she kind of insisted, as she vacillated between gagging and recoiling.
I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am that the week is over.
I also cannot begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to Spring Break in three weeks.
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