I can vote to veto
hate and fear-mongering politicos,
a refusal to aid and abet upper-echelon manifestos.
You can vote to veto
whatever tickles your own toes,
a fair bet to ensure your own democratic say-so.
But please don’t vote to veto
empathy,
it’s absence begets and kowtows to a discordant symphony.
Next October, I swear I’m going to read nothing but horror, thriller, and zombie novels. I read quite the random mix, but I managed to squeeze in a few spooky-ish books for Halloween month.
Let the monthly mini book reviews commence.
(I swear, next month, I’ll write book reviews immediately after I finish reading books.****said with my fingers crossed behind my back****)
As always, any discussion is welcome, and I’m always looking for recommendations.
All cover art taken from Goodreads.com.
Thank goodness for daily prompts when you need them.
languid flame flickering
its haunted hollow
turning a pinprick pyre into respite
resisting the open wound onyx night
languid, turning
lantern
I am only posting because I’ve committed to writing a post weekly. Be prepared to be less than underwhelmed.
(Disclaimer–These are not true to form haiku and run together to form one mildly incoherent poem.)
I’ve taught class all week
with an annoying fever
and ear infection.
Why teach while I’m sick?
Because if I don’t show the
kids are lunatics.
I try to save days
for scheduled doc visits
and personal leave.
I save my sick days
because I’m a mother and
my kid gets ill, too.
Teaching while febrile,
delirious, and loopy
makes students nervous.
I love an excuse
to force students to question
my stability . . .
(and ‘cause messing with
them while I’m sick makes me feel
a tad bit better.)
I’m tired of societal teacher shaming and teacher shaming within the teaching profession. Are you? These unrealistic expectations Need. To. Go.
you’re a bad teacher
if you can’t hold your bladder for six hours plus
you’re a bad teacher
if a student and his parents see you at a restaurant with a glass of wine in front of you
you’re a bad teacher
if every single lesson isn’t differentiated and appealing to every single type of learner
you’re a bad teacher
if it takes you a week to return 95 five paragraph essays with quality feedback
you’re a bad teacher
if you question state standards and
if you don’t question state standards
you’re a bad teacher
if you don’t teach to the test
and if you do teach to the test
you’re a bad teacher
if all of your students aren’t mastery by the end of the year
you’re a bad teacher
if you don’t grade at home
if you turn your email off after school hours
if you aren’t available to students and parents 24/7
if you aren’t losing sleep
you’re a bad teacher
if you take two days off in a row because you have contagious strep throat
if you take a day off to accompany your kindergartner on her pumpkin patch field trip
you’re a bad teacher
if you put your children, your spouse, yourself before the job
you’re a bad teacher
if you don’t spend your own money to fund
pencils, paper, and markers for your students who can’t afford them
donuts, pizza, or ice cream for the victors of a classroom competition
stickers, candy, and prizes for motivation
you’re a bad teacher
if you think you deserve a raise
because, how dare you, it’s a calling, it’s not about the money
if you think you deserve a raise, did you forget about your summers off
you’re a bad teacher
even though you have a bachelor’s degree in your area of expertise and a master’s to seal the deal
you’re just a teacher
you’re a bad teacher
if you take a day off to protest at the capital for educational reform
you should be in the classroom instead, teaching those kids
you’re a bad teacher
let me, my suit, my tie, my MBA make legislative decisions for you
you’re just a teacher
you’re a bad teacher
if you’re human
if you have a life outside your career
if you don’t ooze platitudes and exalt your profession to the masses
if you’re not a martyr
You’re a bad teacher.
You’re just a teacher.
You’re a bad teacher.
I’m a bad teacher .
At the end of July and in early August, I have a tendency to slack off in the reading department because the beginning of the school makes me a crazy person. I’m going to count these last 6 weeks as a victory though because I read fourteen books, and some of them were gargantuan. I read both The Outsider, which is over 550 pages, and Beach Music (about 630 pages). And I also read the A Court of Thorns and Roses YAL series, and y’all, those are rather tome-y as well. The last one in the series is a page shy of 700 pages. I just don’t understand why any YAL book needs to be that long, especially if it’s one in a series.
Here’s what I read:
A Court of Thorns and Roses (Book One)–Sarah J. Maas–In this novel, a mortal girl named Feyre gets kidnapped to the land of faeries. It’s Beauty and the Beast, all-of-the-popular-teen-yadayadayada fantasy, and borderline pornographic. This is pretty damn trampy for YAL, but hell, it was compulsively addictive to read.
A Court of Mist and Fury (Book Two)–Sarah J. Maas–Book two’s plot is so much better than the first one, and it’s even more fanta-nasty than the original. Seriously, this is not for a middle grade reader. I would even be uncomfortable recommending it to high school students.
Born a Crime–Trevor Noah–If you want to read an autobiography, read this one. I wasn’t a huge fan of the way it was written, but his story is unreal.
Mrs. Fletcher–Tom Perrotta
Circe–Madeline Miller–I’m going to be honest. I could care less about Greek and Roman mythology, and I have a tendency to despise retellings of classic stories. Both are just not my cup of tea, but Circe was worth it.
A Court of Wings and Ruin (Book Three)–Sarah J. Maas–Book three is long, war filled, and boring. Half way through, I couldn’t wait for the book to end. It was a let down in relation to the other two. Maas is going to release at least three more in this series, but I won’t read them.
Future Home of the Living God–Louise Erdrich–Read The Handmaid’s Tale or Never Let Me Go instead. This is essentially a copycat of both and contains major plot holes. Erdrich’s sentences are super intricate and pretty though.
Every Note Played–Lisa Genova
When Life Gives You Lululemons–Lauren Weisberger–Did you read The Devil Wears Prada but not the sequel? Even though this is a Prada book, you don’t have to read the second one to enjoy this one. I kind of hate to admit that I had tons of fun reading this book. It’s a perfect guilty pleasure beach read.
The City of Lost Fortunes–Bryan Camp
The Cruel Prince (Book One)–Holly Black–Oh, guess what? Here’s another YAL fantasy read that features a mortal girl living in a faerie world. (Please feel free sing the last ten words in the previous sentence to the tune of “Don’t Stop Believin'” because I did when I wrote it.) Truly, it’s a decent read for YAL, but gahhhhhhhhhh, I get tired of the same storyline over and over again.
The Outsider–Stephen King–Generic. Bland. He tried to achieve that spooky horror effect that he’s known for, and I adore him for, but this fell pretty flat.
Children of Blood and Bone–Tomi Adeyemi–Will YA readers like this book? Yes. And don’t get me wrong, I admire the fantasy world Adeyemi created and her anti-racism allegorical narrative, but I didn’t like her choice in point of view narration. Three of the four main characters alternate telling the story in the first person perspective, and all three narrators sound like the same character to me. I kept forgetting which person was narrating while I was reading. Also, I habitually questioned why the fourth main character wasn’t a narrator as well. This makes me think he’s going to die in the next book, which I won’t be reading.
Beach Music–Pat Conroy–Damn you Pat Conroy and your ramshackle, unconventional syntactical brilliance.
The Chalk Man–C.J. Tudor
Any discussion is welcome, and I’m always looking for recommendations.
I wrote this a few years ago while my English I Honors students were writing their own original short stories. It’s not anything fancy, nor particularly brilliant, but it does highlight how much of my life revolves around spilling coffee and how hard it is to make it out the door with my sanity in the morning.
When my Community Coffee splashes all over my newly purchased Virgo leopard print tunic instead of into my open still half asleep mouth, I know my morning if not my entire teaching day is doomed.
I can’t shake the ominous feeling as the brown coffee stain creeps across my shirt and burns my skin simultaneously. Absentmindedly, I grab a paper towel from a roll on the kitchen counter to clean up the warm, splattered liquid and wipe up my hopes and dreams plotted for the day. As I head to my walk-in to change my ruined shirt, I run through the list of all the tasks I still have to complete before my big observation during first block:
Post the bell ringer to BlackBoard.
Edit my lesson plans because who can spell correctly the first time—not me.
Try to anticipate how SpringBoard Online is going to sabotage the timing of my lesson plans.
Finish my PowerPoint I spent way too much time on.
Make it out the door without another catastrophe . . .
Lamenting the loss of my planned outfit, I pull on a crisp, clean orange and blue polo over my long blonde curls and trade out my red, studded slingbacks for a comfy pair of Chuck Taylors. A glance in the mirror shows reveals I managed to ruin my hairstyle via impromptu costume change. A black handled teasing comb. Some Tressemme. Bam. My hair looks runway worthy.
Time to get to my laptop and finalize my plans.
“Mama!!!!!! I’M AWAKE! I WANT TO ‘NUGGLE”
Oh dear lord, she’s awake. Early.
I hustle to my toddler’s room and see her reaching for her Minnie Mouse pillow, her stuffed tiger, and her fuzzy pink blanket. She gives me a sleepy smile and reaches up with her chubby arms for me to scoop her up. I bundle her into my arms along with her required bed accessories to deposit her at her morning spot on the leather sofa where she’ll kick back and watch YouTube on my phone until it’s time for her to get ready for preschool.
While in transit instead of snuggling her little head into the spot in my neck between my head and my shoulder like she normally does, she looks me in the eye and proclaims at the top of her vocal range, “I WANT A BROWNIE.”
How can such a Little Thing be louder than an entire cheerleading squad during a football game?
“That’s a treat. You can’t eat brownies for breakfast. How about a pancake or a waffle instead? “ I try to persuade. Using the wrong tone could incite a meltdown. I’d rather swim the Pontchartrain during a lightning storm than deal with my hysterically sobbing child who goes boneless during a tantrum. It’s like wrestling a cooked noodle.
“I WANT A PAN . . . “ She chokes after the first syllable, her scrunched up hollering face dissolving into sheer panic. Uh-oh. This was bad. “ACHOO.” Catastrophe achieved.
Yellow globby snot—everywhere. In my hair. On my face. In her hair. On her face. All over her nightgown. All over my second shirt of the morning. It’s now headed for the laundry room instead of headed to the classroom. Do I go ahead and put on a new shirt? Not a chance in H-E-double hockey sticks. My laundry is already spilling out of the hamper because I was too wrapped up in Stephen King’s latest new novel yesterday to even remember that there was a dark tower of dirty clothes to wash. I’ll change my shirt before I walk out the door. It’s just snot—at least it’s not poop.
Little Thing chooses that moment to quip, “I lub you mommy! You happy?”
I reach for a tissue from the box counter and attempt to clean her up, “Of course Snotty Gross Baby. I’m just a bit frazzled this morning.”
I put her on top of her pillow, strip her naked, tuck her pink blanket around her, grab her already poured orange juice and my phone off the kitchen counter to hand her, and kiss her soft hair.
My Macbook Air waits for me on the kitchen table. I’ve got about ten minutes to knock this out before I’ve got to get out the door. I open my silver computer. I press the start button. Nothing happens.
I stare at the black screen. It stares back at me.
I press the button in the upper right hand of the keypad again. I count to ten. Blackness laughs at me.
I pick it up and bang it on the counter. Hey. It works on the students’ Ipads at school when their Ipads go black. Couldn’t hurt to try it on my laptop.
This is no good. I start breathing heavily and bang the laptop against the table in rhythm with my hyperventilation.
My husband struts in, notices I’m attempting murder on my school purchased technology, and stops in his tracks, alarm stark on his newly shaven face.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“I. Can’t. Believe. This. Is. Happening! My stupid computer went kaput, and I’m getting observed today. All of my files for my lesson are on there! And I need to put the finishing touches on them too,” I manage through my tears.
“Honey, just breathe. Let me see what I can do.” He gently nudges me out of my chair and starts working his I.T. doctoring skills on my deceased computer. Lucky for me I’m married to a techy. “Ummmmm, you do know that you’re covered in snot right?”
Crap, I totally forgot. I head for the bathroom and grab a washcloth to get the snot out of my hair and off my face.
When I walk back into the kitchen after my sink bath, my husband laughs, “Your laptop just needed to charge. All you needed to do was plug it in.”
He continues to laugh.
I contemplate grabbing my glass of ice water off the counter and dumping it over his head.
Instead I just start to laugh along with him.
“I think maybe I’m just a little stressed out and sleep deprived,” I tell him after my final laugh fades away.
“No kidding. I’ll get Little Thing ready for school today. Finish up what you need to, and good luck today.”
“Thanks.”
I kiss him and sit down to finish up my work.
I hear Little Thing growl at her daddy when he goes to pick her up to get her ready for school. Then she starts meowing and hissing at him when he tries to wrangle her into her school clothes. Thank god he’s taking care of getting her ready this morning. I don’t think I have enough mental stamina left to deal with a toddler who thinks she’s a cat.
With our little kitty cat on his hip, my husband leans in quickly to kiss me goodbye, and Little Thing meows goodbye to me and licks my face.
They’re gone. And I’m done with my work. I can breathe again.
I pack up my backpack, pour myself some coffee, grab my lunch of leftovers out of the fridge, and head to the door.
I jam out to the Dixie Chicks on my way to work singing the lyrics “Cold Day in July” at the top of my lungs.
All right. I think to myself. I can handle this teaching day. How many catastrophes have I already handled this morning? This observation will be easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I park my white, in severe need of a trip to car wash, sedan in the parking lot at school with five minutes to spare before I’ve got to clock in.
I open the car door and step down. My Converse make a squishing sound. I lift up my shoe. I glance around the parking lot. It’s covered in goose poop. I’ve stepped down into poop. Great. Now I’m going to smell like poop all day.
At least it’s not toddler poop?
That reminds me. I look down. I never changed my snot covered shirt.
Toddler snot and goose poop.
The miasma of my morning.
Not the perfume I was hoping for, but at least now I know that my observation can’t go badly as I smell.
Mrs. Ram: [After much reflection, Mrs. Ram realizes she’s called a student Alyssa instead of Allie the entire class period. Allie never once corrected Mrs. Ram. Mrs. Ram pulls Allie aside after class ends.]
Hey Allie,
Mrs. Ram apologizes profoundly
for messing up your first name so soundly.
Please realize my dear,
at the beginning of the year,
just how many names teachers have to memorize.
Allie, I see you rolling your eyes!
There’s one of me and 94 of you.
Isn’t it obvious why I’m becoming unglued?
Allie, again, stop rolling your eyes!
Give me a second to rectify!
In your class alone,
wait for your mind to be blown,
there’s a Brandon, Brady, and Brayden!
And three more that rhyme: Jayden, Caden, and Aiden!
To make matters worse, in second block I’ve got two Breannas,
but one says it “onna” and the other “anna”–How’s that for bananas?
Throughout the day there’s a Bree, Breelyn, and a Brea,
then come the Sophs: Sophocles, Sophie, and Sophia.
Enough with the eyes Allie! I’m almost done;
I just need one more minute hun.
You’ve also got to consider–I’m getting old.
I’ve taught an entire family of Goldes.
Six years ago, I had Ezra, now I have Ari who’s the last.
How can it be my fault if I confuse current students’ names with their siblings’ names from the past?
Not to mention the three sets of identical twins that I teach . . .
Getting their names right on the first try is as impossible as removing stains without bleach!
Allie, before you interrupt, I’ve got one last point to make.
What’s with the abundance of Kens this year, for goodness sake?
McKennas, Kenneths, Kendalls, Kendras, Kennys, Kennedies, and McKenzies?????
Quickly matching names to new faces addles my mind into a frenzy!
[Allie finally manages to get a word in edgewise–drops the mic.]
Mrs. Ram: [Embarrassment in her tone, but not completely surprised . . . ]
Dear lord! You’re not Allie or Alyssa but your name’s Hadley?
Hadley, my sincere apologies; tomorrow, fingers crossed, I won’t screw up your name as badly.
It’s three days before the new school year starts, and I have E. coli. For real. The bad E. coli–where antibiotics are necessary.
Want to know what floors me? I was oblivious to the severity of the matter until Wednesday evening when my doctor’s office called and informed me.
You’re probably thinking to yourself, Mrs. Ram Jam, how in the French toast were you unaware when you experienced the classic symptoms: nausea, abdominal pain, fatigue, diarrhea, and malaise? Are you also one of those women who didn’t know she was pregnant until she sneezed and a baby came out?
To answer the latter question–no. But to answer the former–these symptoms are a mere fraction of my normal. I just thought my IBS was flaring with the fire of a thousand suns.
I’m going to be honest; 85 percent of the time, I’m in a shit ton of pain. It could be fibromyalgia, IBS, Raynaud’s, or Meniere’s Disease induced. I’m not looking for sympathy or to complain. It’s my truth, and as always, invisible illness remains invisible if its sufferers remain silent.
Because I’m in pain most days, it’s pretty damn tricky to determine if new or increased intensity pain is due to chronic illness or if it has a different cause.
Overwhelming fatigue? Is that my fibro flaring because of a midsummer cold front storming across Louisiana or a vitamin B12 deficiency, anemia, or strep throat? OR DO I HAVE THE PLAGUE???
Radiating tender point hip pain? Is that fibro induced too or a vitamin D deficiency and a case of weak hips that needs three months of physical therapy? OR ARE MY BUTT CHEEKS GOING TO FALL OFF WHILE I SLUMBER???
Bowel habit shifts and abdominal pain? Is my IBS pitching a hissy fit because it’s impossible to control while traveling or could it be small intestine bacterial overgrowth or E. coli? OR DO I NEED AN EMERGENCY COLOSTOMY???
Most of the time my pain is due to chronic disease, but occasionally it’s something else. For example within the past six years, I’ve dealt with all of the diseases, physical therapy, and deficiencies listed above (excusing the all capped crazy thoughts of course). I initially chalked all these maladies up to my chronic illnesses.
I’m lucky this bout of E. coli coincided with a regularly scheduled trip to the gastroenterologist; otherwise, it could have gotten awful before I convinced myself I needed a doctor.
So how do I tell the difference?
I can’t. When the pain gets different, unbearable, or alarming for too long, I schedule an appointment, describe my symptoms to my doctor, and try to convince myself I haven’t contracted botulism in the interim.
And that’s part of what’s terrifying for invisible illness sufferers. We live in a habitual game show entitled: Is That My Invisible Illness, Am I Dying, or Is It Something Less Drastic Than Death but Still Needs To Be Treated?
Unfortunately, I didn’t win a new car this episode, just E. coli. Which might be the worst thanks-for-playing parting gift ever. Who’s producing this game show anyway? You’re the suckiest. I hope the network drops you midseason and you get E. coli too.
(P.S. How the hell did I get E. coli? *shudders violently* Okay, universe, you can keep that secret for eternity.)
I miss gallivanting with the girls–
gal events where gals can vent and
gales of giggles and gushing gossip act as a galvanizing antidepressant.
Hey gals, it’s me!
Are you free?
Want to ride horses, galloping on trails this weekend?
Or glamp while guzzling gallons of wine in a tent, friends?
Or fly to Universal, spend galleons on butterbeer, and discuss J.K. Rowling’s literary merit?
We could meet on the seventh or the eleventh and gaze at the galaxy looking for a constellation that looks like a ferret.
But one gal has gallstones and needs emergency surgery,
while another claims frugality and makes me feel like I’m committing prodigal perjury.
My gal in New Orleans has children galore
(For a matter of fact, she just birthed one more.),
and another traveled to NYC to attend the MET Gala.
Unfortunately, the gal down the road is in India saving Bengal tigers and fishing for cavalla.
Don’t worry about it gals!
We’ll get together soon for a boost of pal morale!
If you need me, I’ll be having a conjugal relationship with my couch, researching the benefits of legalizing marijuana, and slathering my feet in antifungal cream,
and trying to convince myself I’m a fun gal who’s just living the dream.
