The Original Random Misanthrope

If anyone lives up to the title of “random misanthrope,” it’s my dad. I got a letter in the mail from him a couple of days ago. It contained a personal check for $300 and a piece of paper (dated May 5) upon which was written the most…well, I suppose the right word is random, nonsensical unrelated ideas. These are not the thoughts of a rational mind. The most lucid thing he wrote was the last line, “Please do not cash the check until after the 1st of June.”

No worries there. There’s no way I can “cash” anything. The only way to deal with checks sent from the United States is to send them right back and have them deposited in my Wells Fargo bank account. A few years ago I did some freelance writing work for a website and was paid $50 per article. I was paid by check and the checks were sent to my address in Sweden, where I would endorse them and send them to my mom in California, where she’d deposit them in my bank account. Then I could withdraw the funds here using my Wells Fargo ATM card. I considered just having them sent directly to my mom’s house, but then I wouldn’t be able to endorse them.

At least he remembered to use the correct address this time. I never got last year’s annual check and letter because he sent it to my old address and then it disappeared. It was never returned or forwarded. I tried to explain this to him when I saw him in February but I wasn’t sure if he understood. He did after all. It just took him almost four months to do anything about it.

One thing you have to understand about my dad is that he moves very slowly. Snails seem like cheetahs in comparison.

WOTD: hair

Continuing with our hair theme, and with thanks to CC Champagne for the idea…

Hair is very important to us humans. So too is the lack of hair. It’s so important we even named a Tribal Love-Rock musical after it. I haven’t actually seen it, but I probably should because I love musicals, being a total dork in that respect. The themes explored in the the musical Hair include the hippy counter-culture movement and sexual revolution of the late 1960s. This was when love (and STDs) was free and growing out one’s hair was considered a rebellious act, especially if you were a man…

Typical hippies at a typical hippy music festival

In the 1970s and 80s, growing out your hair if you were a man meant that you were into certain types of hard rock music. You might have even been a member of a Hair Metal (sometimes called Glam Metal) band, so called because it was required that each member of the band have a long and big and heavily hair-sprayed style…

The "biggest" hair metal band of them all: Nitro.

Big hair was popular in general in the 80s for men and women alike. I can still recall the smell of Aqua Net hairspray in the girl’s locker room, and how we would tease out our hair and spray it until it was almost bullet proof. We were totally insane. Little white beads of Aqua Net would drip off our over-sprayed hair and onto the floor. Oh the memories come flooding back…

Janet Gardner of the all girl hair metal band Vixen.

Nowadays, when it comes to hair for both men and women less is generally considered more. Body hair of any kind has become a big no-no for women and most of us shave or pluck every bit of it off. The only hair we want is the hair on our heads and a couple of carefully plucked or waxed eyebrows. Additionally, an increasing number of men are now engaging in “manscaping” which is the colloquial term for the removal of superfluous body hair on a man, including back, chest, and genital hair.

As for my feelings on this, well… I like my man have some hair on him. It makes him more manly, and it provides valuable traction.

Until next time…

Weight a Minute

She’s fit and full of energy,
Weighs 20 kilos less than me,
And yet she says she’s fat.
I’m not sure how to take that.

If she is fat then that must mean,
I’m obese and morbidly obscene.

And she likes to casually mention,
When she has your full attention,
How she went the whole day without food.
“All I’ve had is half a grapefruit.”

She’s showing off her deprivation.
So proud of her starvation.

I’m just fine and normal where I’m at,
But in thin-obsessed LA, I’m fat.
It’s hard to see them both obsessing,
Counting calories and guessing.

And though they don’t directly attack,
They do talk a lot behind my back.

And I know this to be true.
They just don’t know what to do.
Don’t understand and can’t relate,
To someone not trying to lose weight.

How could anyone possibly,
Be so fat, and yet so happy?

STAGES

Curse these stages I’m going through,
Wonder if it’s the same for you,
Sometimes I find I question why,
Then I try to deny it’s true,

Then anger comes and I lash out,
My pain and hurt I write about,
I know in time it will subside,
Then I’ll hide and just want to pout,

I’ll muse, and my thoughts rearrange,
Looking for something I could change,
Trying to rework the equation,
Of a situation that feels strange,

I’ll work things through and with new eyes,
In time will come to realise,
That our chance has both come and passed,
It didn’t last – we’ve said goodbyes.

Aw shucks…

I was just awarded the Celebrate Poet of Summer in 2011 Award for my poem “A Warning” that I submitted to the Promising Poets’ Poetry Cafe website. About 100 other poets also won the same award, but having my work read and awarded by a group of other extraordinarily gifted poets is a very good feeling, indeed. I’d even say it’s an awesome feeling.

Yay, me!

Turn and face the strain…

I just got some rather unsettling news at work which might affect me a great deal. The utterly capable and lovely woman whom I admire and respect and consider to be the best boss I’ve ever had, just announced that she’s resigning. This will be her last year as Head Mistress/principal of the school. She’s taken a job at an advertising and media company, which is apparently her field of expertise and what she studied in school. I’m not sure how she ended up becoming a school administrator but she’s been doing that job excellently for the last six years.

This is compounded by the fact that both of our assistant principals will soon be unavailable. One of them recently adopted a little girl and left for a year’s leave of absence a few months ago. The wife of the other one is having a baby in August, so he too will be taking some paternity leave. And we’re all left wondering who’s going to run the ship.

Once the initial shock wore off I began to realize that one of the people chosen to fill the gap will most likely be me. They’ve been grooming me for administrative work for the last three months. About a month before Maria left for her maternity leave I started working in the front office one day a week. It has since increased to three days a week and basically whenever I’m needed. It’s typical office work: answering the phone, taking messages, sending emails, helping students with administrative needs, signing for packages, etc. I’ve done this kind work before and I enjoy it, plus I’m very organized and have a great phone voice.

I don’t think they’d ask me to step in and become the Head Mistress/Principal (rektor in Swedish), but I have a feeling they’ll ask me to become an assistant principal. I’m good at organizing and running projects, but the possibility of becoming a school administrator has never occurred to me. I’ve always been a teacher and I’ve always for the most part hated school administrators and I’m not sure if I really want to become one.

This promotion would mean an increase in hours and responsibility, as well as a substantial raise. Would it be worth it, though? I really love being a teacher. Just a teacher. Both of our assistant principals are also teachers, though, so I know I’d still have lessons. This would also mean I would have to get really good at Swedish really fast.

Anyway, no one’s mentioned anything about who is taking over for whom yet, but there’s supposed to be a meeting about it tomorrow afternoon. I’ll sure be sorry to see my boss go. I think she just got sick of working under the dreaded Big Boss. Of course this means that if they try to kick me upstairs then I’ll be working under him, although I won’t see him everyday since he lives and works in Stockholm.

Maybe I shouldn’t be counting my chickens before they hatch, but during my recent employee evaluation the Big Boss said they wanted to give me a full time contract and increase my responsibility even more next year.

So that’s that.

…sick mommy vs sick daddy

Alternatively, sick woman vs sick man.

Yes. Go ahead and roll your eyes for this is yet another post about the superiority and strength of the weaker sex – the woman. You know, those of us who behave irrationally because our hormones make us act like a rabid dog. The woman. The crier.

Here is a picture of my daily existence:

For those of you not overly familiar with all things spine related, this is a basic x-ray of my spine. Or what is left of my spine. Each day is a joyous exercise in spasms, sciatica and mind-crushing pain. I’m truly fortunate that I am currently able to postpone the inevitable ALIF surgery. While I may feel older than dirt, I’m a little too young for such drastic measures.

On a good day, I have back pain. On a not-so-good day, I have the back pain and whatever ailment is ravaging my body. Be it a cold, dengue fever, malaria, sinusitis, ears that won’t work or a really angry menstrual cycle, I’m left to manage it. Sometimes, I get to do all of this while my husband is travelling, leaving me to care for the Milkfaced toddler by my bad self. Quite the conundrum when your orthopaedic surgeon strongly advises against lifting anything heavier than five pounds.

This is really hard work when you’re suffering from the above *and* you are stuck dragging around that cross and having a crown of thorns poking your scalp. Alas, I am woman. I will do. Then I will spend your money out of spite and frustration.

Men, on the other hand, take an entirely different approach to illness. THE WORLD GRINDS TO A FUCKING HALT. A hangnail may require an amputation. A runny nose and a fever requires hospitalization in a plastic bubble with an IV. A stomach bug – oh just get the fuck out of the way. The man is vomiting, for fuck’s sake. Food is coming out of the wrong orifice!!! This is a horrible fate and means death must be near (let’s completely overlook the first trimester of pregnancy when all the mommy does is spew).

Dock falls ill two or three times a year. Most of the time it’s a nasty cold or a headache (hey – I never said I was easy to live with). Unfortunately for all of Raleigh, this time he has the pukes. Milky and I have both had the pukes this week so it’s a safe assumption that he caught whatever bug we had been hosting and that he hasn’t been poisoned by some decaying morsel that he would sooner eat than throw out.

A sick Dock is a marginally useless Dock. I have seen this throughout the years but nothing quite like seeing a pancake in the sink. I presume that my husband was far too weak to make the three steps to the garbage bin and press down on the lever that opens the lid. Profuse vomiting can render the strongest man to the feeblest 90 year old woman.

This post isn’t meant as an indictment. Dock is genuinely ill and I do feel (somewhat) horribly for him. My intent is to paint a picture of the male patient and how poorly they handle being sick. The Earth needs to freeze in its orbit until male feels better. It’s just the way it’s supposed to be.

Back at the ranch, the woman with the deteriorating spine will somehow manage to get the laundry done, shower and unclog the kitchen sink (I don’t believe that is pancake related). Then she will manage to wrestle herself onto the sofa, cross, crown of thorns and all and ponder the injustices of the world.

…parenting ruins everything

I did make an unrealistic promise to myself when I started writing again. I promised my bad self that I wouldn’t make this a mommy blog. I find myself unable to keep that promise so I can only say that I will limit the mommy jabber as best as possible.

Early this morning, my FecesBook feed was filled with comments about a little girl named Skylar who lives in my old stomping grounds. Within less than a day, the little girl went from playing outside to being abducted and murdered. As a rule, I would find this incredibly upsetting. Being a parent only magnifies the horror and pain.

One of the more peculiar aspects of parenting that I have found is how dramatically your frame of reference is altered and how much more profoundly you feel things. It’s as if the little baby takes all of your ambivalence with him/her when he/she leaves the womb. You’re left with nothing but a bundle of raw nerves and feelings.

I have always been an extreme worrier – so much so that I end up physically ill. It has been said that I’m Worst Case Scenario girl. I will envision the absolute worst outcome of any situation and plan backwards to prevent it from happening. It’s a great talent and wonderful ability, if you’re my employer. It’s tedious and exhausting if you have to live with me.

My propensity for constant worrying has been changed since Milkface was born. There are certain things that I can flippantly dismiss with the wave of a hand – things which I would agonize over before Milky. Then there are new issues which are so considerably troubling that I become paralyzed with fear.

I could very well say the same about sadness. That which would reduce me to tears in my previous life seems mostly irrelevant. Show me a child that has been mistreated, a parent who is grieving or the impact of illness on a family and I’m a blubbering, non-functioning mess. Outside of the terrible two-tantrum, watching my own child cry is something I cannot bear. I consider myself very fortunate that our experiences, thus far, have been easily solved by a snuggle, hug and a kiss. Let’s hope it stays that way.

On the opposite end of the emotional spectrum, parenting has brought me joy unlike anything I have ever experienced. There is no better sound in the world than the genuine belly laugh of a pleased toddler. No psychotropic medication can elevate your spirits quite like the smile of a child. Nothing makes you feel as if your troubles have melted away quite like a hug and drooly kiss.

For someone who has spent the past eleven or so years carefully analyzing every emotion, every response – the dramatic shift in outlook is mindboggling. I had long thought that I was hypersensitive. I had long tried to manage that. Now that I’m a parent, I realize it’s all go-with-the-flow. If you’re blessed with a child, the intensity of feelings defies description. You shift from pessimist to optimist at the drop of a hat. You fear things you previously thought impossible. You fall in love a million times a day.

I need a technological miracle…

I’m slightly inundated.

Apparently, I’m supposed to be in three places at once this afternoon so I’d appreciate any advice or instructions on how to open a rift in the space-time continuum. I need to arrange this for the hour of 16:00 GMT+1 when I’m supposed to be teaching a lesson, offering extra help and tutoring for ninth graders and attending a staff meeting.

I also have a stack of national exams that keeps increasing in size. Right now I have about a hundred exams to grade, but by the end of this week it will have increased to 300. The deadline for getting all these exams graded is the 22nd, but I also have a full time teaching schedule to maintain. Therefore, additionally I’ll need further instructions on how to stop time for at least a week in order to get this done on time.

If you cannot offer me any assistance in breaking the laws of physics then some booze will be greatly appreciated.

‘kthanksbai

…one day

I digress.

I had an entire post scribbled about Mother’s Day. When writing about things that hit really close to home for yours truly, I like to have someone edit it to make sure the rambling nonsense is kept to a minimum. Naturally, that didn’t happen. For my mere post was tabled in lieu of guitar forums and Facebook.

I woke up to a nice shower of kisses from my darling Milkfaced boy. We had some quality time in the big bed where I answered a lot of “What’s that?” questions and sneaked in a random snuggle here and there. So far, pretty good.

Then comes chaos.

When you’re married to the least organized man in the universe, things can wear on your nerves pretty quickly. When you’re married to someone who travels for a living, all patience is tested by having to run a household by yourself. I don’t care for Mother’s Day, as a rule, but I certainly welcome one day out of the year where I can let down my guard, not have to think about what to plan for meals, not have to think about a day’s activities and not have to think about the laundry list of shit that never seems to get done.

Alas, my sans souci day lasted all of 2.5 hours. One iPod disappeared and the entire world had to come to a screeching halt. My ever constant coaching, my unending pleas for organization unanswered – I sneaked out to the deck while the house was being upended in pursuit of whatever has gone missing at this particular moment in time.

At the risk of sounding entirely frustrated and ungrateful, can a girl not catch a break? Particularly a working mom who has to go it alone more than she cares. Like many, I feel like I’m juggling way too many balls than I’m qualified to juggle. It wears one down very rapidly and doesn’t do much for the overall carriage and demeanor. Maybe if there was just one day a year that someone could recharge without interruptions, life would be a little more manageable.

As solutions normally lie at my feet, next year I vow to have everything organized and within arm’s reach. I will draw up a list of nifty ideas well in advance. Then I’m going to round up a few of my other mommy friends and run away for the weekend. Kids welcome. Husbands, not so much.