would you like to hear about a timeshare opportunity?

Today is one of those days when my old bookSnore job (complete with back strain and panic attacks) looks pretty good. Or my two-day stint as a shave ice stand-tender.

Let's see, have I been adequately demoralized today?

First, this douchebag writes a letter to the editor about how the state of Hawaii is punishing its students by hiring teachers without teaching degrees, who ruin lives and crush young spirits with every bumbling misstep in the classroom. Public disapproval of the endeavor to which I've devoted the past seven months of my life? Check.

Then, my students act like holy terrors all day. My request to have my room cleaned (it never has been)--which was met with a vow from the principal that yes, the seven-month accrual of spit, gum, cockroach droppings and dry-erase dust would be remedied ASAP (we're big on acronyms in the DOE)--went ignored for the third straight week. The three referrals I sent to the vice principal last week (referrals supposedly being the strongest action a teacher can take to discipline a kid) have never been acted upon, so the Mean Girls to whom I've been promising a come-uppance get off without a scratch for calling me a f-ing bitch and drawing a cartoon of another student as a crack whore on the board, among other things. Least supportive work environment ever? Check.

For the next three weeks, most of my students are taking the Hawaii State Assessment, the battery of tests that will determine whether our school "meets standards" or whether, according to No Child Left Behind, it is a failing school and must be restructured. I don't know exactly what this would mean for the school, only that the results will be directly traceable back to me, and my competence judged accordingly. Oh, and since the kids found out it has no effect on their grades or graduation, they don't give a fig. In fact, I suspect many of them will choose to get stoned for the occasion, just to make it more interesting. Outrage with no avenue for action? Check-arooni.

Just before I leave school, I have a long chat with my favorite colleague, who tells me that the lines (slates of classes for next year) are up, and not only are there none open for me, the woman who came back this quarter to fill in for an English teacher with cancer will most likely get any spot that opens up. Wind sucked from my already flagging sails? Che-eck!

Then, finally at home, trying to unwind with my giant Hershey's Kiss (a student Valentine I've been saving), I open up a Title Nine catalog (fitness clothes for lesbi--I mean, women) and happen upon this caption, which would make a middle school yearbook editor cringe:

[over a photo of a black woman doing jazz hands]
"Shawn takes hip hop dance classes. Watch out folks, don't try this at home!"

I spend my weekends writing funny and topical vocabulary quizzes, study guides and friendly essay-margin-comments that no one ever reads; I will probably be waitressing in 3 months; and this hack gets paid to write the lamest captions ever, and probably gets all kinds of free sports crap to boot? This is irony. I guess I'll file it away to put on a worksheet someday.

Oh, wait. I won't be writing worksheets, because I WON'T HAVE A JOB.
I don't want to sound like I'm begging for sympathy. Eh, what the hell. GIVE ME SYMPATHY!

Or maybe this will be the kick in the pants I've long needed to start Jillding's Buildings.

it's just you

Maybe it's just me being a dud, but isn't it kind of a bad idea to drive while eating an ice cream cone?

a photo essay

Here's where I went when I cut school last Friday.

First, you climb down this:




Then, you get to this:




Pretty cool, huh? It's a green sand beach on the southernmost tip of the island (and the US, for that matter), where the sand is made up of lava rock and fine particles of a semi-precious green stone.

Too bad I was grumpy because the wind was like this:


Jon and Melissa (the lovely lady seen walking above), if you are reading this, I'm sorry I was such a sourpuss. Ben, sorry I wouldn't let you jump off the 40-foot cliff; something spooked me. Perhaps it was the conversation we'd had a few minutes before about how there is nothing between this spot and Antarctica, or how Melissa's guidebook said if you jumped off, the current would take you directly there.

To any future visitors, I now offer my endorsement to jumping off the cliff at the South Point fish ladders.

the longest post

Perhaps I have taken this retro thing too far.

Scene I just found myself in:

Splayed out on the sofa, feet up on the toy chest/coffee table, hair up in a disheveled bun, eating Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream from the carton as I watched THS: Paula Abdul; after six hours of housework.

A modern person would have achieved what I just did (clean the whole house from top to bottom) in less than two hours, using a Swiffer Wet Jet, Clorox Easy Wand, and maybe a vacuum cleaner and calling it a day. But not me! I am '50s housewife extraordinaire! I use baking soda, vinegar, essential oils, and I scrub the floors and baseboards on my hands and knees! I would pat myself on the back, but my wrists are in excrutiating pain and my back muscles are getting stiffer by the moment. Whoopsie.

The owners of our house are coming tomorrow (and there's a chance they'll stop by tonight) to look for an important document in the spare bedroom where we've been throwing all the crap that gets in our way. Considering how incensed and violated I felt when a sestet of twenty-somethings moved into my Grandma and Grandpa Risinger's beloved Loveland home, and I learned that they had turned the Game of Life family room into an extra bedroom, drilled a shower head into the butterfly-wallpapered Blue Bathroom, and put a sports flag over the front door, I was inspired to make up for the past seven months of neglect of this equally meaningful house.

Of course, it's not as if we have torn out the screen from the porch on which my golden childhood innocence was sanctified over Poudre Valley ice cream sundaes and fried chicken, or killed the raspberry bushes that were Grandpa's pride and joy. Oh wait, we have also let the yard go to pot. Well, not real pot, unless Ben's sudden interest in restoring the fountain is a cover for....

Eek. I'd better go.

***

Apologies. That was exactly the sort of cringe-worthy "stylistic flourish" I would have added to a letter or diary entry in 7th grade, thinking myself the cleverest writer of all time. And, like the "Guess who's back? Bartlet's back" incident, I cannot resist leaving it there.

The point of the ice cream, Paula-watching scene was to say: I am reconsidering my professed desire to be a housewife. It both beckons and repulses me.

Off I go to disinfect the kitchen!!!!! [another 7th grade throwback]

a new series

Ben's Outrageous Request of the Day

[Background: Ben got a free massage yesterday from a guy (don't worry, he's a massage therapist) whose dog he found on Mauna Kea on Christmas Eve.]

B: Give me a massage.

MM: Ha ha. No way.

B: Massage me!

MM: What, do you need one everyday now?

B: Yes. Massage me! Every day! You should massage me everyday and feed me beer, like the Japanese cows.

do not go gentle

My goal for today is to plan out the next two weeks in complete detail, so that I don't have to do a lick of work for the next 10 days, when Ben's childhood friend (trust me, they're still "childhood friends," no offense, Jon) and his gal-pal come to visit. I want to show them a whirlwind good time, and that does NOT include having them sit around uncomfortably watching my tear my hair out each night as I wrestle with my insecure-teacher demons. So I must plan. And what better way to fill two weeks than with a scary assignment like "Create a poetry portfolio that will make up 20 percent of your final grade?"

Is anyone reading? If so, I need suggestions for writing exercises that will lead high schoolers into writing poetry. Respond! Respond, respond, against the dying of the light.

a morbid new low

As Ben and I were cleaning the house for our next visitors (yay!), I found my little notepad of "things to tell people the next time I talk to them" and "inconsequential crap I could turn into a posting for my blog." I quickly scurried to the computer to try my hand at spinning this little gem into gold:

My new favorite song is called "Sanvean," a lush, haunting, religious-sounding wailer by Lisa Gerrard (formerly of Dead Can Dance) that I heard at the end of a particularly poignant West Wing. Of course I immediately looked it up on WestWingDorks.com, and bought the CD at Borders with the gift card my lone kiss-ass student gave me for Christmas. Since then, I've been drenching myself in its mournful, heart-stirring sounds....like ten times a day. It's a Tom Hanks with the aria in Philadelphia type moment. It's great, and is making me a better, more spiritual person, I'm sure.

ANYway. I'd been doing this in secret from Ben, 'cause I knew he'd make fun of me for a) liking such girly, Enya-ish music and b) buying a CD because one song was on a West Wing that made me cry. But one night I just had to listen to it while he was in the house. Feeling candid, I confided that this was a song I'd like to hear on my deathbed, if given the option. You know, like if I come down with consumption like Beth from Little Women and everyone gathers around to send me off into the white light.

I know, I should be committed for even thinking these things. But I can't help it! It's another itch I just have to scratch.

Here's why I love Ben. Instead of being deeply disturbed, or laughing in my face, he said:

"If I'm dying, I hope you play something really torturous, like 'Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time' by Paul McCartney, so I'll be grateful to die."

Then we sang it and danced around like fools. How did I get so lucky?