entering the next year

I let loose a huge sigh of relief as I woke up this morning and it wasn’t my birthday. I made it through! Not the least bit in part to my beautiful friends and family, who took my wishes to heart and provided a very calm, low-key, non-big-deal birthday.

He remembered and sent me a text that morning. While a long way from taking me to the mountains for two amazing nights for my 30^th birthday, at least he remembered and cared enough to acknowledge. Ugh.

I am already filling with excitement and anticipation over summer starting on Thursday and getting to write more—which won’t be able to happen until next week, but still!!!

And, you know what. . . that’s all I gonna write. I am really am trying to make a genuine effort to not continue to blabber on with all I always talk about. And, sometimes, that will mean no words at all—at least on the days I’m strong enough to refrain.

keeps on ticking

Thirty-two years. Thirty-two.

humiliation

There have been many times in my life I have wanted to crawl into a hole and die from embarrassment. I don’t think there has been any time more so than today.
I haven’t really blogged about this (this year), as (believe it or not) I get sick of talking about how much I still hurt and how much I ache for Chad, so I’ve really have been stuffing some things when I’ve been blogging. Well, no need. My birthday is Sunday, and as you may remember, for my 30th, Chad and my bff (KE) surprised me with a weekend in Breckenridge at a gorgeous cabin (mini-mansion) with some of my best friends for the weekend. It was one of the best times of my life. Hand’s down the best birthday. As my birthday approaches, what I have lost and what I had simply gets highlighted and accentuated. Like I said, I’ve intentionally stayed away from talking about it, even with other people.
[I got an email from his mom yesterday—telling me happy early birthday and that she loves me. So very sweet, and a knife to the heart. In addition, I keep wondering if he will remember. There’s not a way for him to win on this one—a text or call or a lunch or whatever isn’t enough compared to what I want from him, but ignoring it would be devastating. We’ll see…]
Well, my bff has been planning his boyfriend’s 30th bday party for this summer and they are leaning towards the same (or similar) plan. He and I have talked about it quite a bit. Each time, a feeling of dread coming over me. I’ve hinted several times about going other places then Breck for his bday, but not come out and just said it—not wanting to be such a wimp and not wanting to makes his bf’s birthday (who I adore, btw) all about me.
Anyway, late last night, I got an email on facebook inviting all of us up to the mountains for the birthday, it said they still weren’t sure if they were going to Brek, Winter Park, or where.
I caved, I responded that I for sure wanted to go and then requested to KE that we go to somewhere else besides Breck, and at the very least, not go to the same house as before—that I am really struggling with things how they are and how that would just highlight all I have lost. I said a few more things, none of which are bad to say to your bff, who loves you and understands. I also said I wasn’t trying to be selfish and make the day about me when it is about his bf.
This morning, I kept getting updates as people replied to his email, filling me in on their responses. With a sinking feeling, I logged on to facebook and realized I had sent my response to everyone on the list, not just my bff. There are some other of my best friends on that list, some good friends of Chads, and some people I don’t know. All reading how I am hurting, how I much I miss Chad, and my plea for KE to alter his bf’s bday plans just for me. To top it off, I couldn’t figure out how to delete it.
It may seem silly when I pour so much of myself out on here for the world to read—but I honestly hold back more than it may seem, especially lately. I know I should be more over him than I am, and—even on here—it is hard to admit where I truly am. I can’t even explain what it feels like to know that so many people were reading what I had written when they woke up this morning. Knowing it will be discussed (whether in the frame of how selfish I am, how weak and pathetic I am, or whatever—doesn’t matter). Knowing it may even get back to Chad.
Honestly, I really wanna just crawl back into bed, sob, and hide for a few months. And I for sure don’t want to see my friends for my own birthday this weekend or see them at the bff’s bf’s bday this summer.
I’m so tired of being this person. I’m so tired of constantly hurting and aching for what was. I so tired of making it where everyone knows about it.
So, of course, I blog about it some more. A dog returning to its vomit.

reality

Outside of loneliness, my least favorite emotion is powerlessness. I realize that, more than anything, avoiding that sensation is what motivates much of my actions. In many ways, I think loneliness is a result, or symptom, of powerlessness. I know my resistance to many rules and authorities is in response to the powerless sensation.
Yesterday was such a day. I had an IEP meeting with the family of the girl that I blogged about before—the one where they sent her away and changed their phone number. Well, they’ve done it again, only not changed their number—sent her away to her other members of her abusive/neglectful family without warning or preamble. Never mind that that this will make over three solid weeks of school you are letting her miss—making her miss. One of the parts that gets me the most is seeing grandma sit there and play the victim and talk about the strength and moral standing of her ‘parenting skills’ and how the girl doesn’t respond. I had gone off on grandma during conferences a few weeks ago, but I did so calmly and intentionally. Last night, I wasn’t so clam or intentional. I scoffed her claims openly and threw back her assertions—my voice trembling in anger and my face flushed with heat. At one point, the social worker tried to break in and say that she wasn’t so sure we needed to go there. I continued.
All night I felt sick. I would forget why I was feeling so guilty, so stressed, so weighted down. Then, I’d remember. Long, long, long ago, I learned to leave things at work and not take them home. And on the rare occasions I couldn’t shake it, I’d go home to Chad and was able to focus on our lives, on things I delusionally thought I had control over or a say in. Last night, there was no escaping it, and my empty home and arms only amplified everything. We, all of us, think we have control over our destiny, but we are dependent on those around us—their choices affect every molecule of us. Their declarations of love and promises of forever fly away in search of the next fun adventure. The arms that are to protect us become the ones that leave us shivering in the cold. The strength that is supposed to be poured into a little girl is denied and in weakness and selfishness, they create and foster and broken and abused child who is becoming a hardened and an angry danger to others around her.
So I sit. So I pace. So I scream. So I rage. So I pray. So I fight. I hold onto a love that has deemed me unworthy. I fight for a child who has no one else in her corner (truly, no one else). I cling to a belief that things can be better, can be right. All in impotence. All in delusion. All in an attempt to control and change my little world. Even attempt to ‘give it to Him.’
Whatever.
Pinocchio may have become a real boy, but all it really meant was that his strings became transparent to him alone.

endless two days

I wanted to blog about a billion times this weekend. Needed to. I didn’t, partly because I was so crazy busy, partly because I would have just blogged about the same damn thing. There were several tears this weekend—I miss him as much as the day he left. Instead of writing, during the few free moments I had, I read. Read two books—it has been so long since I have taken the time to read. It was wonderful. Books (most of the time) are able to shut off my brain nearly as much as work does. Also really got me excited for summer to try to write again. Can’t wait. Even if I never get rich and famous from writing, I pray I can make enough so that I can teach and write, instead of teach and massage. In addition, the weekend was gorgeous. I spend hours (literally) outside, working in the yard, walking the dogs, walking with my nose in a book. Overall, actually, it was a strange weekend—so many highs (with three different friends at different times, my bff twice!, and with lots of food, and two different movies) and so many lows. Not sure how my psyche was able to fit it all in—including massages from 9-2:30 on Saturday. And to think in college I thought I’d work forty hour weeks and have ample cash! Wha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
To top it all off, my birthday is this weekend. Which I know doesn’t help my ever twisting emotional rollercoaster. As we all know, I hate my birthdays. Although this one can’t be as horrible as last year—nor as perfect as my 30th. I have a very, very low –key weekend planed, which actually should be pretty nice—if I can only turn off my brain long enough to not slip into recall mode. Having my gorgeous nephew around should help with that (thank you, nephew’s mom, for letting us have him for my birthday!).
One surreal highlight of the weekend: KE and I went to a gay bar, which I hate, but this one I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be at. It was a lot of fun, very bright and loungy feeling. The best part? At one point, the main song from Glee came on. The entire bar stopped. Stopped dead. Everyone. Everyone began to sing together. It was awesome. When it ended, everything went back to normal. I love movie moments.

green

You know you’re not back to being mentally stable—if I ever was—when you cry at a Shrek movie.

Spoiler alert—don’t read ahead.

Shrek wishes to be back to where he was before he met Fiona, and then realized what he had and how perfect his life really was.

Why didn’t that happen?

Surely I’m as good as a fuckin green orge.

and earl grey shuddered

Just when I think I couldn’t be any gayer—I learn that I’m a little straighter than I thought I was.
I kissed a girl last night.





Sorry, just had to take a break and run to the bathroom to throw up. Back now.
Thankfully, there was no kissing of girls last night—not that straight. Thank God!
However, I did go to a tea house. Did you know there are such things as tea houses? If you did—you’re even gayer than me! One of the teachers is retiring this year and it was her retirement party. She is an amazing, amazing, gorgeous, classy woman. One of those women you only read about and wish you could meet. She wanted to have a tea for her retirement. (Being the unassuming, accommodating woman she is, she just thought we’d have the tea in the library of the school—instead we went to a tea house. She was so excited and thrilled.)
As I have no idea what tea houses normally look like, I have no idea if this one was par for the course or if it was unique. Either way, its gotta find its way into a novel at some point.
Nearly every single woman went bonkers over how adorable this place was. How cute every knickknack was. How it was so charming and delicate.
I think there was an alternate dimension thing going on. It was one of the tackiest things I had ever seen. It was like ten thousand neurotic grandmothers who have a hoarding addiction had an orgy in a room about a third the size of my classroom (which isn’t large). There is truly not a way to exaggerate what I saw. I honestly don’t think I have words to capture it. Every square inch was taken up with the most cliché and sickly sweet stuff [crap] you can imagine. It wasn’t even nice tacky old woman stuff. The only thing I didn’t see were those crocheted toilet paper covers with the top half of a Barbie sticking out. Actually, that might have been an improvement.
The one redeeming aspect to my sanity is that I could tell my principal (I’ve talked about her stunning taste level before—she’s a gay man’s muse) was having a similar reaction to myself. She definitely thought she was too good to be there. And she’s right. So was I. So was everyone. What is crazy strange is that the woman who was retiring is equally as stunning and classy as my principal. I have never seen this teacher where she didn’t look like she just returned from strolling on Fifth Avenue. It seems that many women must have a missing gene when it comes to cuteness.
Altogether, it was a pretty great adventure. A surreal experience of a culture I didn’t even know existed. My favorite part was, of course, myself. Surrounded in all things horrifically and sterilely grandmother, amidst countless china teapots (hideous ones), doilies spewn [new word—write it down] everywhere (EVEN PAPER ONES!!!!), and countless pictures of the Red Hat Society, sat an overly tattooed, musclely red-head, with a Mohawk. To top it off, most men that would be wiling to go to tea house, everyone would assume to be a flaming fag—which all my lovely teachers know to be true. However, I guess because of my appearance, the women at the tea house had no idea, and kept apologizing for the feminine experience I was having (which is an insult to the feminine experience). I guess I looked a tad out of place. DUH. They probably assumed I was counting the minutes until I could go watch sports, bang a chick [again with the hurling], or join my Mohawked tattooed gang shooting heroine. Little did they know that their tiny little teahouse had just got a fabulous makeover in my mind, and that their little demon dimension of yarn and cheap china was now fierce and refined.

confessions of a feminine Rosie O’Donnell

Last night, while my family and I were trying to find blank tapes so that we could tape the upcoming episode of The Bachelorette, we stumbled upon a couple old tapes of when my brother was a baby and I was ten or eleven.
It’s amazing the things you forget. I had seen some videos of me in high school, but it had been so long—and I had already changed so much by high school.
It was my brother who summed things up: ‘I don’t remember you having an accent like that.’ and ‘Seriously, how did everyone not know?’
Before my brother starting talking as a baby—and never ceasing since—I was the one who did ceaseless talking. About everything and everything. I was OBNOXIOUS! When he started talking, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. According to my folks, I almost changed overnight. From endless chatter to a near-mute.
I swear I sounded like an obnoxious southern-belle. My Missouri accent thick and femininity radiating off of me—both in voice and in actions. It was actually rather disturbing. I’ve talked about it before—desperately wanting to be a girl when I was a kid; until I was twelve or so that I made up my mind I was glad I was a boy. I remember watching tv and movies specifically to learn how men walked and talked. I hadn’t realized what a drastic education it must have been. I also didn’t realize what a good teacher I really am. You might see and hear many feminine tones and actions in me now, but compared to the little boy I was, I’m Rhett Butler.
My freshman year in college in Colorado, I remember people teasing me for my hick accent. Since that time, I thought it was mainly the words I said/say wrong—worsh, etc. No, it wasn’t. Good lord. I don’t even remember other people back home sounded like I did.
I have to echo my brother. Not even including the hundreds of My Little Ponies, Barbies (etc.) I had, how didn’t every single person below the Confederate line not know I was a biggest little fat fairy in Dixie? Denial must also be a trait I picked up from my fellow Missourians.
It made me think twice about my desire to produce offspring. If that little boy was running around my house I think I’d shake the shit outta him. Of course, I’m sure the high-pitched screaming and flailing of dramatic arms would be enough deterrent to ensure survival.

digital life

Fully aware that what I am about to write confirms the old-manness of my soul, and I can deal with that. There has been much talk from some of my more avid reading colleagues about these contraptions, and I have started to see them pop up everywhere when I am out an about, and I must confess—they make me uncomfortable. I am, of course, speaking of the anti-christ of literacy. The Kindle and Nook—those ‘iPod’ for books thingies. Where you have this little screen and you can upload novels digitally.
Chad was always wonderful to me, always. Spoiled me rotten. A few months before he left, Christmas was drawing close. We were having a conversation about something I was reading and he started talking about the Kindle, which had just come out and was around three hundred dollars. Being the overly opinionated person I am, I went off about how much I hated them and couldn’t fathom why someone would want one. He gave me a sheepish grin and muttered something about being glad he hadn’t bought me one for Christmas yet and that he’d need to rethink things. The year previously had been a pair of designer boots—so gorgeous, I rarely wear them and they are snug in a box, each in their own protective cloth bag. I treasure those boots. While I was very touched by his thought behind the Kindle (it should have been a safe bet, with my love of books and love of iTunes), I was glad we’d talked before he spent the small fortune.
Granted, I also felt this way about digital cameras and digital music. They weren’t real. They took the joy out of touching the things you own—like owning a concept instead of reality. Now, however, I almost have an idolatry problem with those two products. They quite literally have changed my existence.
I don’t think that will happen with electronic books, or movies for that matter, within myself—especially the books. There is something to be said for the feel of the pages as work your way through a novel, the comfort that comes from the written word, the smell of a new book (or an old musty one). I typically refuse to borrow books or check them out from the library. They are like old friends on my shelves. Ones that I frequently look over, lovingly touching the spines—recalling loved ones within the pages, or corresponding drama within the book and where I was in my own life when it occurred.
And, while I will be very happy to know that people are uploading my novels to their Kindles and Nooks one day, I will be even happier to know someone lovingly traces the cover art of my novels as they remember the characters they loved and hated within.

dunce

In true form, I pulled a Brandon today. All day I’ve been dreading/needing a two hour massage this afternoon. Needing because of the money. Dreading because I’m rather depressed, very lonely, and kinda raw—the last thing I wanna do is being a dark room for two hours with music playing and my mind going all over the place—or to where we all know it would go.

Anyway, I rushed my workout, walked the dogs quickly, didn’t plan things with people tonight, picked up the house, and got the massage equipment ready. After awhile, I was getting more and more irritated that my client was late. He normally isn’t late, but the later he was, the later it would be when I was finished. Finally, I realized the problem. Today is the 17^th. The massage is scheduled for the 27^th. Sigh.

As always, I’d like to blog about what I always blog about. However, there is nothing new or deep to say. So just cut and paste and there ya go.

Monday, Monday

I am glad that it is Monday! Glad to be back at work, where I don’t have to question anything, it’s all fairly black and white. However, I am also equally glad that there are only three weeks left!
I ended up getting the call that I thought wouldn’t come late, late, late Saturday night. Which I was glad about, but also confused over.
Anyway, glad it’s Monday!

I knew better than to chicken count

I’m waiting for a call that I know won’t come. One that shouldn’t come because it would just prolong the drama and hurting. One that would only make things worse. However, I still would like the phone to ring. I know I’m stupid.

This weekend turned out to be painful as expected. Well, not as expected, but painful nonetheless.

To top it all, I can’t seem to just let one hurt be the hurt it actually is. I have to let it bleed over in the old hurt, letting it saturate and revitalize it once again.

Bring on the work on Monday already!

whiplash

In true Brandon fashion, everything has once again flipped on its side.
I was sleeping with Dunkyn on the couch. He woke me up when he was having a nightmare. Both of the boys do that a lot. Hopefully that is no reflection of my parenting skills. After waking him up and getting him calmed down, I noticed my phone was flashing. The boy had called. He had just finished listened to some sermons on iTunes (no, I’m not kidding), and said he felt he/we’d been making a mountain out of a molehill. He asked if I’d be ok to spend the weekend with him and see how it goes.
Yes.
Nothing has changed as far as me being clear on all the triggers and in’s and out’s of my psyche and who he is and isn’t. However, I’m thrilled he’ll be here with me. Who knows what that means or where it will or won’t go, but that’s gotta be something.

trigger happy

As I already knew, today has confirmed that I am indeed a royal mess.

And no, I’m not beating up on myself. I’m not sobbing (though I have shed several tears this afternoon). I’m not hysterical or anything.

Just a mess—as per normal.

A mess who doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

When Chad left, I’d felt him be very different for a few weeks. I had finally learned what he needed. When he was figuring something out, he needed his space to figure it out. When he did, he’d tell me. I’d done such a good job. Worrying about it, but not bothering him to tell me what was wrong. For some reason, I got in my head that he was not attracted to me because I’d had a beard for a couple weeks. That came from nowhere, but it was the only thing I’d figured out that was different. I shaved. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I finally asked him to at least give me an idea of what was going on inside of him. Thus started the conversation that lead to him leaving me. Shut the fuck up, Brandon.

Today, as soon as I finished blogging, I knew I would not be able to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t. Very nicely, the boy told me that obviously I should run. He is no longer coming for the weekend. Shut the fuck up, Brandon!

It’s Thursday and I’m already looking forward to being back at work on Monday.

I’m relieved. I’m not going to fall into a similar relationship like I had before with the first boyfriend. Not that this would have been, but in my mind that was being triggered.

I’m so greatly disappointed. I’ve loved talking to him for hours every night. I wanted a weekend filled with kissing, bubble baths, holding hands, falling asleep in a beautiful man’s arms, feeling cared about.

Was it real feelings for him or was I reliving Chad?

Either way, him ending things saddened me for not getting the chance to discover more of him, but also triggered the feelings of Chad leaving, which is where I went for a couple hours after our phone call ended.

I could call and beg him to still come down, but I know I’d just freak out again. Everyone, I’m sure, knew I wasn’t ready to give this a try. I should have too, and I guess I should be glad that he walked away before I had to hurt us both even more.

I can’t tell one emotion from the other anymore. I can’t tell what is real and what is simply baggage from the past. What is love (or the inkling thereof) or what is displaced love for Chad. (Who, once again, contacted me on a day when I was making very big romantic decisions—every single fucking time!)

So, relief over not having to figure things out (coward), loneliness for the boy I hoped to spend the weekend with and the man I had planned to spend my life with. Confusion over absolutely everything else.

la dirección por favor

It’s another one of those days where I could easily sit down and write for the next twelve hours. Partly due to my frame of mind, partly to the weather—It’s my favorite weather to write in: gray, wet, perfect fireplace-romantic-day by the fire.
I wrote a ton yesterday and when I got read to post, I lost it. That is a rare occurrence, but so frustrating. Especially when you really have poured out your heart and emotions. They were things I really wanted to put out into the universe and ponder; however, I don’t know if I have it in me to repeat. I think it would feel forced, so I may just let them be.
I am struggling with what I want and what I know. The date I wrote about a couple weeks ago is happening again. Without going into details, it is becoming clearer and clearer that I need to shut the door and run. At least I think. It’s ridiculous how much baggage I have from my first relationship. Scars and wounds that are so deep—and somehow still fresh so many years later—that it makes it nearly impossible for me to differentiate between what is reality and what is residual affect (yes I wanted affect—not effect). My gut is saying that if something is triggering such things I probably shouldn’t question and just go with it. However, there are other aspects that trigger a few of the wonderful moments with him—and that is really hard to pass up or turn down. It’s strange how an abusive and sadistic relationship and a relationship that poured goodness into me can combine to make a situation immensely confusing. If it was just one or the other, the choice would be clear, but having aspects of both complicates things. Or maybe, probably, I’m intentionally letting them be complicated. If the first relationship is popping up, that probably should be enough to confirm that the aspects of the wonderful relationship I’m experiencing now aren’t real. In true sucker-for-punishment fashion, I’m not yet clear what I will do. I don’t think I can pass up the moments that have a similar taste as the ones I fear I’ll never get back.
Switching as quickly as I can, I have to brag on my brother. He graduated with his Associates degree last night—with honors. This is the boy that none of us (him included) were sure would even graduate high school—not because he wasn’t smart or capable enough. He also had an interview yesterday and it seems likely that he will have his first full-time job as well! Very, very proud and happy for him. And while it’s rather funny, it also hard to see him have to face the reality that just because you have a degree and a full time job, it doesn’t necessarily mean you can afford a place to live and things to eat. Luckily, he has always been the best in our family with money. Someone needs to be so that they can support the rest of us. Ha!
The graduation was interesting. The audience was screaming and yelling the whole time at people on stage—even when the flags were being presented. While I have much less patriotism than I used to, that really bothered me—especially the number of people who either didn’t cover their heart or were confused which hand. Grown adults looking at one another trying to figure out which hand! And choosing wrong!!!
The other aspect that both intrigued and bothered me (though I know if I ever get rich and famous [LOL—yeah right!], this comment will come back to bite me), was how much of the ceremony was in Spanish. Not interpreted, just flowing from English to Spanish and back again. Over and over. The other part that I found interesting was how much of the Spanish I actually understood. Not full sentences and such, but enough to often know what the main idea was. A lot of it was religious and about God, which was pretty cool actually. I love Spanish and would kill to be fluent—Probably my love of Ricky Martin’s old Spanish albums that I fell in love with before he ever when English, but whatever.
The other part that is frustrating to me—through a ceremony done partly in a language not my own, I was able to follow and understand more than I often can about my own life and the direction that seems forced on it and that I sometimes choose.

green leech

I took another step towards growing up yesterday. It’s strange that a person can feel as old as I do most days and still need to grow up.
I opened a new checking account yesterday. No big deal, right?
I’d had the same accounts since high school. So many things had been added and taken off that it was completely overwhelming and seemingly impossible for me to get them under control. Last month, I paid nearly four hundred dollars in overdraft charges—even though I’d check my balance every day. Something bizarre always seemed to come through or some strange technicality happened (that even when explained to me I couldn’t understand). In a time in my life when every dollar seems to make a huge difference (I found a twenty in my pocket after doing laundry the other day and it was cause for much rejoicing), such ridiculousness of paying for things that are nothing but fees is preposterous. Obviously, the majority of such nonsense was my fault, but much of it truly seemed out of my control, and my bank would offer nothing to help—why would they, look how much money they were making off me…
So, I sat there at the new bank for a couple hours, going over details of accounts (I even did research of different banks, accounts, and safeguards—look at me!), and account protections and such. Each moment was akin to torture. I HATE talking about money. Hate it. It’s an area I feel so inadequate and incompetent about, and I end up feeling like a scolded child—which is part of the reason it has taken me so long to do anything about. Ridiculous, but true.
It will take a couple months to get everything transferred over and the other account shut down, but I’m on my way, and I’m pretty excited about it. If I can start figuring this all out, I may be able to start even getting some things paid down (not off, but down), and it could be a really cool thing.
After combining some debts and increasing my mortgage payment by nearly double, when Chad moved in (my choice, not his) and then turning into a single income household again, I have spent the past year—in addition to all the emotional hurt—overwhelmed and drowning in my financial situation. I feel (and hope) that I have begun the swim that will take me closer to the surface where my head can at least catch a breath at some point.
They say that money is the root of all evil—or the love of money. People with money are seen as selfish and elitist. I have a hard time with that. When I actually had money and didn’t have to worry about finances, I would have given anyone whatever they asked for—and did very often. Didn’t matter if it was a dear friend or some stranger off the street who needed a twenty. Now, however, I tend to hold onto it with a death grip (well, at least in comparison).
I look forward to one day where I’m not picking which bill to pay and which three to suck up the missed payment fee and able to once again give freely to those who ask or need.
Either way, it’s nice to know I’ve started to unbury my head from the sand and make some adult decisions about my financial life.

restrained

It’s another one of those days when I want to say all the things I’ve said a million times before. Ask the same questions that end in Why that never have a fulfilling answer. When I simply want to go on and on, hoping that if I say it enough, scream it enough, cry over it enough, that the answers will come or life will change or the bottomless cavern will finally empty itself from within me. One of those days when I stop myself, knowing how pathetic it is to continue to dwell and ache and hope. So, for today at least, I’m stopping. I won’t go there. However, I needed the comfort of the keys clacking and my guts spilling at least a bit. Now to push forward—or at least hold on against the current.

wishing I could use my head more and heart less

It was a rather emotional day yesterday. I had parent teacher conferences until eight, and then I dreamed about the kids all night. It was the first time I’ve ever completely redirected a parent in front of their child—actually nicely chewed them out in front of their child. Told them how they were treating her was unacceptable and cruel, that they needed to act like the parent and get in touch with reality. The conversation lasted nearly an hour, and all of us at one point or another were in tears. It was one of those moments where you think about what the consequences could be of your words. You could lose your job. You could cause a lot of drama. You could be the one fucking person who has actually stood up for a little girl to her face and tried to do something. One of the moments when you remember what is important—and it isn’t keeping your job.
After, I went to my principal and social worker and gave them a warning (my principal has always asked if we do something that might make a parent upset to let her know so that she won’t be taken off guard—I’ve had to do that more than once). While I kept my tone respectful, I broke about every rule there is in public education. Don’t make judgment calls or tell a family what they are doing wrong, blah, blah, blah. I was expecting, at the very least, (even though my principal is crazy awesome) a reminder of my professional responsibilities. Instead, she said, ‘Good job. That’s what I would have said—someone needs to.’ Crazy awesome. Take that college professors at UNC who told me I shouldn’t be a teacher because I was too concerned about the kids lives and not worried enough about Shakespeare (Which is why I abandoned my teaching degree the first time around)!
Developing a crush on someone has also come with its pit falls—much more than when I was just going on dates and excited to see someone. While I have no idea how things may go with this boy or if it is even smart, I do have a pretty sizable crush on him. Which is triggering a refresher course on how much I love and miss Chad—you know, just in case I’d somehow forgotten. And, it’s strange to actually have feelings for someone else who isn’t the man that I can’t seem to not see as my husband (how’s that for a confusing sentence?). To top yesterday off, it was the first time in several weeks when I couldn’t stop the tears over him and stuff the ache that has become such a constant that I don’t even notice it.
Tonight, my principal (crazy awesome, remember) is letting me jet out of conferences early to go to dinner and a musical (In the Heights) with my bff and his bf. Should offer some solace, stability, laughter, and love in the midst of it all.

(Just realized this is my 500th post. Huh.)

ode to snot, farting, zombies, and dung beetles

There is rarely a day that goes by that I don’t realize my gayness in a whole new way. Especially when compared to other boys. Just like with my weekend date—he is an avid snowboarder and hiker. He loves watching sports (I know, sick right?), fishing, and the ilk. All of which (especially the sports) make my brain synapses stop firing. And as far as fishing—poor worms! Of course, he does river fishing, although not fly fishing—so he uses lures. Poor fish!
Even in teacher’s meeting yesterday, my principal made a joke about her white pants making her butt look big. I laughed really hard (apparently, not loud enough to stand out) along with all the other women. She then apologized to the men and said only a woman would understand that joke. Hmmm… And, in actuality, her pants looked great and she had on these twelve foot heels that were fierce. Which, of course, I had to comment on. Made me very proud of my principal. I wish I was exaggerating this for the sake of my point. I’m not.
However, there is one area that I am typical male (well, besides my sex drive and love of cheeseburgers). I am only recently realizing that I am rather obsessed with gross things. For instance, one of the books I requested from the school’s book fair to have in my classroom is ‘100 Most Disgusting Things on the Planet.’ And it is gross. Gross—but all true, factual, and extremely informative. Some of the most disgusting things I have ever read or hear of—with pictures. It’s pretty fantastic. In addition to enjoying it myself, I also know that kids love this shit! Especially the boys (however, I have found my girls much more willing to do disgusting things—like dissecting and such—than the boys). There is such a lack of male interest in reading and writing and it showing in all the assessments and such—well, give the boys something they actually WANT to read. Duh! Most classes won’t let kids write about ‘violence’ with wars or killing or monsters. Come on! Most boys aren’t like me and enjoy vampire romances!
What highlights this for me is a co-teacher, who swiftly got on to one of my fifth graders, telling him to grow up and that is was disgusting when he starting talking about what we had just read. I stared at her in gapping amazement. She then starting going on about how there were women in the room and he (and the others) needed to show respect. Apparently, my students aren’t the only ones who need to ‘grow up!’ So many people (and by people, I mean several women—NOT ALL!) can’t seems to differentiate between someone being rude and intentionally gross in order to offend someone and the person who is talking about real and rather fascinating things—or at least would be if you’d pull your head out of your ass. And seriously, if you’re hyper sensitive to gross things, having your head in your ass is probably rather hypocritical of you, don’t you think?
So, here is to gross things, the one sortta straight thing about me, and refusing to kowtow to the hypersensitivity and political correctness that is suffocating our boys (and many of our girls!)!

And, when you’re bored at work, look up the details and PICTURES of the Tongue-Eating Louse! Pretty awesome—like something out of Independence Day. I may have a new favorite animal!

timeenough

I’ve always loved having lots of friends. Who doesn’t? Although the list of those I trust with every single bit of my heart are pretty few, I am blessed with so many wonderful people in my life. The hard part is that I rarely get to see many of my friends. Even several that I feel the closest to, I only get to see every few months—which seems crazy when we live in the same town. Between work and work, and family, I don’t have much time to give anymore—even though I’d like to. Hell, I don’t even have time to write anymore. By the time I have an hour or two in the evenings to myself, I’m so exhausted I really can do is cuddle up on the couch with Dunkyn (Dolan has never figured out how to cuddle without being obnoxious) and fall asleep. Last night, I was falling asleep before nine! How old am I?
What is interesting is my oldest and dearest friends never pressure me (well most don’t) or guilt me about my schedule—even though they are the ones I want/need to see the most. However, once in awhile, a couple of them hint at the possibility that I am ditching them for a boy. LOL—I wish! My ‘newer’ friends, however, are constantly asking to get together and seem really hurt when I can’t—which is most of the time.
I do feel a bit guilty of their perception, however, as I can’t even find time to make a date with myself to really sit down and write, I can’t feel too badly. Plus, I do very well when I feel pressured—makes me want to do the opposite.
All of this is compounded by still not being able to go to all the typical places I used to go for fear of seeing Chad and crumbling. Pathetic? Yes. Real? Yes.
I miss the illusion I had not long ago that everything was simple and my life was finally where I wanted it!
Well, now off to screaming, masturbating, and crazy children.

rollercoaster

I’m not even sure what to write today. Or even what to think.
It was an insane weekend. One I probably wasn’t emotionally ready to handle.
He stayed the weekend. Two days were wonderful. One was horrible.
Friday night—Hand’s down the most romantic first date of my life. If felt like I had stepped into someone else’s life. Truly. It was one of those times if you had seen on a movie, you would have said, ‘that’s nice, too bad that doesn’t happen in real life.’ Apparently, it does. I have a deeper understanding of why people make the decisions they do. I could have easily pulled a Britney. If he’d have said, ‘let’s go elope,’ I probably would have done so without so much of a second thought. It was a night that I wish could have lasted forever.
Saturday was a different story. I don’t need to go into details, but it was not good. Lots of tears.
Sunday (while not Friday) was great as well.
He’s going to return in two weeks. Which is good. I’m gonna need those two weeks to begin to get grounded again.