What I hate

I know that one of the guidelines for contentedness is to avoid complaining or making negative statements. Since I am aware of that tenet, I think it is acceptable for me to rant about things I detest. Also, I haven't blogged for awhile. It's significantly easier to get back into my  blogging routine if I just can post about things I loathe (for the first entry, at least):

1. Those home-made, overly cut muscle tees that guys wear at the gym--- generally, the guys who wear these are not in tip-top shape. You don't have to be perfect, but when you wear those muscle tees, there is an emphasis of focus on one area---it better look fucking good.

2. The whole black leggings, Ugg boots, and black North Face jackets look--- I know that this look has been in style for ages, but I think it is stupid. You're basically saying to the world, "I'm lazy, but I'm also wearing an outfit that has a MSRP of over $200.00. I also hate when brand names are visible.

3. Those inflatable lawn decorations for the holidays---I think they're tacky (and this is coming from someone who loves all things Lisa Frank). One of my neighbors has one that is a giant yellow rubber duckie with a Santa hat. That's fucking weird. It reminds me some of the set decorations from Batman Returns. Okay, now that I Googled that image, I've decided it is more than weird; it is incredibly creepy.


4. The length of football games-- The constant stopping of the clocks--I can't stand it. John says that if the refs did not constantly stop the clocks, then players would be dead. There have to be modifications to the game that could result in less time AND less possibilities of death.

5. Rachael Ray--I'm not the only one either. If you Google "I hate Rachael Ray," you'll definitely get many results. I hate the sound of her voice; she sounds like the stereotype people in other parts of the U.S. imagine when they think of East Coasters. I hate that she has made millions of dollars on the concept of cooking simply. I do that on an everyday basis. Toss some olive oil (not EVOO), chicken, veggies, and rice into a pan and, bam, you have a meal.

6. Holiday traffic--- NJ already has enough traffic as it is, but the situation is exacerbated during the holiday months. Even at 10pm, you can sit on a highway and see a stream of red taillights. I live here because of John and his family. If I was still single, I'd like to think that I'd be setting out for a less populous state.

That's about it for now. Honestly, there are definitely far more things that I like than things I detest. This post was a good way to get back into blogging though. 

Toilet phobia

So I googled "toilet phobia." I googled it because I, for many years of my life, actually did have a slight fear of using bathrooms. After googling, I was expecting a search result that would be a single word which would mean "fear of using bathrooms." I found out that the issue is far more complex.

http://www.outlooksw.co.uk/sites/default/files/images/resources/Toilet%20Phobia%20download.pdf

Apparently, fears associated with toilets involve the following: not being able to urinate etc., fear of being too far from the toilet (what does that even mean? women are literally sitting ON it and men have that lovely option too), fear of using public toilets, and fear that others may be watching/scrutinizing/listening. Toilet phobias can be related to social phobias, panic disorders, and OCD.

I guess my bathroom fear could connected to panic disorder. I didn't use meds or anything to surpass my fear; I simply turned off the light.

My bathroom fear could be pinpointed right around the time my father passed away. I was six years old and, as with most children, couldn't really understand the whole concept of death. My father was staying with my grandparents at the time in which he passed away. This made the whole concept even more foggy. He was at our house one day and then, another day, he was completed gone from the earth.

During the funeral ceremony, or at some point shortly after, I recall someone telling me, "Don't worry. Your daddy will always be watching over you, no matter what."

Those words needed to be realigned because, honestly, they screwed me up for about 10 years of my life.

Wait, my father is ALWAYS going to be watching me???!?

So began the two step process of using bathrooms.  Step one involved making sure that the shades were down (what if he was flying around like spirits are apt to do and flew past the window) and step two involved turning off the light switch. If he was always watching me, I figured I'd make it less obvious by turning off the light.

I realize that the above logic and procedure is completely screwed up. Kids, however, take words on a very literal level. I took those words, no matter how comforting they were supposed to be, and completely distorted them.

As an adult, I've gotten over turning off the lights in a bathroom. I still pull down the shade because having it up just seems incredibly weird. I also get a little nervous about the slight cracks between the stalls of public bathrooms. If I have a hooded sweatshirt, I'll take it off and hang it on the hook inside of the stall. I then will hope that the cotton will somehow magically drape itself over that crack.

Okay...so I guess I still have some issues to resolve.

"It ain't a hobby, it's a job"

John and I have always done things slowly. It took us eight years before we got married. It took him a long time to graduate college; then, it took him even longer to go back and get a degree in a true passion. Even simple tasks are done slowly, especially by me. I'll take one item out at a time and place it on the conveyor belt at a cash register. I'm sure this irks people. I don't care.

When John was getting his B.S. (love that abbreviation), he worked part-time at a liquor store. When people would ask what my husband did for a job, I'd respond with a vague "Oh, he is back at school, but he is working at a retail store." Inevitably, they'd ask what type of store. There's no way to class up the word "liquor store." So, there it was--- he works at a liquor store.

I used to envy his hours at the liquor store. All of these eccentric customers would come in---people who would make ideal characters in short stories or poems. This one Russian woman came in and would buy Jersey Cash 5, Mega Millions, and whatever other daily tickets were being sold. She would bring her son with her and John would yo-yo with him. Maynard would come in, wearing tattered Sanuks. He'd bring his guitar and jam in the middle of the store. Carmine was tall and brassy. She wore a lot of makeup and told me, on several occasions, "You're husband is a sweetheart. And I'm not blowing air up your ass."

And then there was Eddie. Eddie would sit for hours and play scratch off lotto. One day, I commented to him, "Geez, lotto is really a big hobby of yours." I said it cutely and innocently, but he responded sharply, "This ain't a hobby; it's a job."

I myself have been playing lotto for over a year. Like clockwork, I go to the corner store every Tuesday and Friday. I purchase one Jersey Cash 5 and one Mega Millions. The odds of winning Jersey Cash 5's jackpot are about 1 in 675,000---it's considered one of the "best odds." The odds of winning Mega Millions jackpot is 1 in 275 million, but, as the commercial goes You never know. 

I still work hard at my teaching job and haven't decided on the lotto being my job just yet. What I would do if I won is an interesting question to ponder.

John and I have a joke about winning. If we win at least $30,000 I can get a vanity license plate that pays tribute to the film Rockadoodle. This is a weird obsession that I have, despite never having seen the movie.

In reality, I'd be so ridiculously nerdy with the money though. I'd get new windows and siding on the house. I'd go on one of those all-inclusive cruises. We would try to start a family and not worry about daycare expenses. I'd buy a Prius.

Every time I check my lotto numbers, there's a quick pulsing of my heart. The most I have ever won is $10 and that occurred once. I've won $1 about five times over the past year. Still though, I keep playing. It's not a hobby; it's not a job; it's a wish. 

Inspirational Memes and Daily Emails

I used to get a daily email called something along the lines of "Happiness Quote of the Day." The quotations were lovely and supposedly inspirational, but after awhile I unsubscribed from the email list. Don't get me wrong--I love quotations, in general. Since I was thirteen years old, I've kept quotation journals filled with lovely sentiments, favorite lines from novels, and so forth. I just found that when I got the daily email, I'd read the quotation, nod my head in agreement, and then just kind of go on with my day. It didn't impact me too much. I also have this habit of hoarding emails, so those quotations would just stay in my inbox for ages.

Filling our lives with too many "inspirational" memes or posts can probably produce the opposite effect of motivating us. I see people all the time who post words of wisdom on Facebook, but then I never see them following through with those words of wisdom. If you're posting a quote about changing your life, then perhaps over the course of time that I've known you, there should be some kind of change in you (life habits, career, education, ...something).

I'm not against inspirational quotations, but instead of posting tons of daily memes, what about walking around with a scant amount of them perpetually in your mind?

I have a few quotations that I keep in my permanent memory. These have been with me for years---now that I am in my 30s, I can even say that these quotes have been with me for over a decade.

"Humor will act as a catalyst to purify the tragic"-- Aristotle
This one has been part of me since my last year of high school. I feel that it works well with my life b/c I've had so many screwed up things happen (although who hasn't?). Sometimes, I just have to poke humor at those occurrences. I feel like Augusten Burroughs would ascribe to the sentiment in the above quote too.

"In the midst of winter, I realized that within me there lay an invincible summer." -- Albert Camus
Camus' quotation reminds me of Aristotles---this idea of finding strength and aspiring to freedom when there is chaos and struggle around you.

"Carpe diem."
I try to follow this one, but sometimes I'm just lazy ;-)

"Procrastinators unite!!!!.... tomorrow"
(my mode of thinking when I do not seize the day).

Listed below are some favorite quotations from my "teen" quotation book. Ah, youth. Also...look at that handwriting...way neater than the crap penmanship kids have nowadays.

Add cWhy the hell I chose to save this quote and write it down, I have no idea. I live in NJ. We're known for malls more than anything else. The one nature hike I took in my life was a required one. My friend faked an asthma attack so that our nature hike could end early.

Clearly, this quotation makes sense if anyone sees my photos from high school...overweight...acne...and I wore dude clothes, boxer shorts and all....

Sweet.... a poem by Ralph Fletcher...I used to love cheesy poems like this...I still do. 

Sounds of Suburbs

When we moved into the house, I guess I had this vision of complete and utter peacefulness. Sounds would be contained within people's houses and I would no longer have to deal with the nuisances of apartment noise: hearing arguments, lovemaking, praying, and television viewing between thin walls. 

I was wrong.

There are pleasant sounds in the suburbs. Although it can be frustrating when trying to fall back asleep, I do enjoy the sounds of various birds chirping in the morning. The sound of trees' leaves rustling on a mild spring or fall day is also incredibly enjoyable. Even the distant sound of neighbors' conversations can be enjoyable. 

For the most part though, if anything, the "burbs" are filled with constant noise. Noises are like a domino effect. One neighbor will mow his lawn, the sound of loud motors buzzing back and forth as the lawn get mowed in perfect, symmetrical rows. Once one neighbor is finished with the lawn mowing, it is as if there is an instinctive call made to another neighbor: "Hey, you. There's silence right now. Stir it up." Then, the sounds continue to fill the air. 

Right now, on a Saturday morning, I can hear birds chirping. However, beyond that sound, I hear the noise of a saw (?) or some other large cutting device. I hear a dog barking. My neighbor behind us has an incessant cough, and right now I can hear that too. There's also another buzzing, like that of a weed wacker or piece of power washing equipment. I can also hear the noise of the refrigerator and of the washer going through the spin cycle. Those two noises are my "fault" though. 

Ultimately, I don't think it is a case of moving somewhere "quieter." It's instead a case of moving somewhere in which houses are further apart. NJ has the highest population density in the nation. Most of the houses in the state and built extremely close to one another and, thus, noise is all around. 

I need space.

Burning lips

During winter (which NJ is still enduring), I have a tendency to consume large amount of citrus. Grapefruits are my favorite, although I'm not opposed to oranges. When I peel oranges, I attempt to peel the entire piece of fruit in one peel. I revel in receiving more than 10 slices too. Some slices have those "mini slices" connected to them. With grapefruits, I peel the entire fruit and then carefully cut it into ten slices. Then, I use a knife to remove the outer pith, as well as the pith covering the individual slices.

In short, I've made an artform out of peeling citrus.

The over consumption of citrus often leads to my lips having pseudo-lip liner around them. I realize that temporarily putting a moratorium on citrus consumption will rid me of the crimson lips, but I don't care. I'm stubborn.

Right now my lips are ultra red. I look like I had "the works" done via Botox. In other words, I look like Goldie Hawn. There is also a crude term for what my lips now look like : DSL.

Army of Assholes

Well' I've been teaching for 12 years and it's only logical that, at some point, my former students would reach the age of late teens/early adulthood and I'd be seeing them in public places that I like to occupy.

I saw one of my former students at the DMV. One of my former students waited on me @ Applebee's. Another former student ending up working with John at a temp job. When he found out I still taught at the same school, he inquired if a certain teacher was still "hot." Once a hot teacher, always a hot teacher, right? Hot people age well.

I used to hate bumping into former students, but now if the person acknowledges me, I acknowledge him right back.

Recently, abundant amounts of former students have basically been taking over my gym. It makes sense. I live one town over from where I teach; this gym is situated midway between both towns. It's cheap and offer students additional discounts.

Of course, it is not the former scholars and do-gooders who are joining the gym in huge amounts. It's mostly students who, at age 13, were assholes. I wonder what an outcome chart would look like, in terms of predicting if middle school assholes will indeed continue on that same course for the rest of their life. I realize it is ignorant of me to assume that a 13 year old's personality will be the personality that is set in stone for the rest of his life, but when I think of my 13 year old self versus now, there are not huge amounts of differences. I'm more outgoing, but the core of me is still an introvert. I'm more confident, but the core of me is still insecure and anxious. I'm less of a pushover, but the core of me is still nice and sweet.

When I see past students, I avert my eyes and make it seem like I don't see them. The other day, one got onto the treadmill right next to me. His presence somehow made me work a little harder, kind of like I was thinking, There, you little fucker, watch me go. 

Sometimes I think that maybe they have not made the connection that it is "me" at the gym, but that's idiocy. I've basically looked the same all my life and I haven't aged all that much. I'm pretty easy to identify.

I've gotten over it. Whatever. It was my gym before it was theirs. I'm there alone though and they're marching in their little platoons----an army of assholes.

Chock full of yams

Yesterday, late afternoon into the entire evening, Storm "Janus" hit NJ and nearby regions. I am agreeable to the naming of hurricanes and tropical storms; the tradition, if one can call it that, goes back to the early 1950s. The naming of snowstorms is another situation though; I just don't feel that it's necessary to turn every meteorological event into some sensationalized news event.

We didn't get too much snow, maybe 4-6 inches. It was the light, powdery snow---easy to shovel. Today, a delayed opening for school turned into a full closing. I had visions of productivity in my mind for ways on how I would spend the day. I didn't have too many lofty goals: reading more in John Green's Paper Towns, going to the gym, and cleaning out my "old" work tote bag and moving everything into my new totebag (probably the task that would take the longest---the "old" tote bag is like a time machine---there's probably papers in there from when we bought the house in 2009).

My day turned into full-on slovenliness. I played Bookworm on the computer, watched Beautiful Girls  on Netflix, and ate yams. Yes, I said it; I ate yams. I've been on this yam kick recently--I've even been eating them raw.

Now, it's 7:30 at night and I basically wasted the day away. The wacky thing is that I feel incredibly exhausted right now. I'm basically tired from doing nothing. My eyes are glazed over from looking at the television, computer screen, and smartphone screens throughout the day's duration.

Even though I am in no mood to do it, I'm off to the gym in a few minutes. They weren't kidding about the cold spell either. I walked outside a few minutes ago and it was dreadfully cold. Maybe I am just getting older, but I don't recall winters being this miserable years ago. It's "biting cold weather" and the meteorologists say it will last for a week or so this time. In the blunt words which I relayed to my co-worker yesterday: I fucking hate snow.

Case of You

We had a workshop today on the topic of argumentative essays; these essays will be a part of next year's PARCC testing. During the workshop, we covered warrants, claims, evidence, and other terms of which I am not familiar. I sat there, boggled, wondering if I had the capacity to teach those skills to 6th graders.

After the workshop, there was only one word to describe how I felt---- downtrodden. Whereas I used to be able to do "fun" things in the classroom, mixed in with the normal formulaic essay instruction in prep for state tests, now I feel like the school district should just hire a robot in place of me. The robot would could be programmed with all of the necessary information to spew out of its monosyllabic mouth; it would not have emotional reactions to what it had to teach or tell children.

After the workshop, I drove home, ate a large amount of pretzels, drank half a beer, and took a nap. The sleep was anything but blissful. I actually probably did not actually fall completely asleep, but instead rested in the dark, hearing cars driving up my street and hearing the sounds of the neglected dog across the street.

A few minutes ago, I listened to Joni Mitchell's song, "Case of You." After the first few verses, I could feel my eyes well up with tears. That kind of crying is sometimes welcomed---it makes us feel human. That kind of crying reminds me of how wonderful simplicity is---good old fashioned emotions. Sometimes I feel like the world around me is filled with utter chaos. Who cares about big screen televisions, "On Demand" channels, or social media statuses?

I went to college because I thought that it was the "right" thing to do. You go to college, you work hard, and then you get a "good" job (however you want to define that). That's just what you do; I don't really know why.

It's 12 years later and I have a "good job," a house, and a mortgage--all the things of which the American dream consists. Sometimes I have a secret wish that the house burn down. I think back to when we lived in the apartment. We had extra income, although we didn't take advantage of it. We should have traveled to exotic places. The extra cash just sat in the bank account.

Meanwhile, my sister has, on a whim, lived in Florida. She then got tired of Florida and moved to St. Thomas. The sun brightly greets her on a daily basis. She works enough to have money to do fun things and that's how she lives her life. When we were younger, I think that people thought she would be a "loser" or a "lost soul." I feel that I, instead, am the lost, stuck soul. There has to be more to life than a tattered mattress in need of repair, cracked sidewalks, and windows that don't open. 

Winter Job Opportunities for Contractors

It's a well-known fact that contractors get significantly less business during the winter (in terms of home repair and construction). It's cold and the weather is unpredictable; people just want to stay inside and wait until spring to get home repairs completed. Then, the contractors are basically stumbling over jobs. In short, a contractor's winter lack lucrative opportunities.

It's also a well-known fact that gym memberships skyrocket after New Year's Day. A recent article pinpointed one gym company, Strait Fitness, which gets 15% of its total annual memberships via post-New Year's Day: http://www.marketplace.org/topics/business/new-years-resolutions-boost-gym-memberships

A common resolution is to "lose those last ten pounds." It's a resolution that is much easier said than done. Furthermore, if someone has gained weight over the holidays, the weight loss goal should really be 10+ whatever was gained.

In addition to joining gyms, January is the time of the year where you have to hear all about pitas, flat breads, "low carbing" it, Greek yogurt, and other seemingly miraculous wonder-foods. A lot of it is processed shit anyway. I say that the way to eat is to be able to state the ingredients, point blank, of your meals. For instance, I had yams, green beans, chicken, carrots, and olive oil for dinner. Easy enough to say. I also had enriched flour, water, malt, canola oil, salt, yeast, and soda...otherwise known as pretzels.

According to another article, about 33% of all resolutions are broken by the end of January and 80% are broken overall. Okay, that was not really from an article, but rather it was from wikianswers. Anyway, we all know that resolutions rarely turn into permanent habits.

My great idea is for contractors, during winter months, to open gyms targeted at the people who make gym membership their New Year's resolution. The contractors could make loads of money for three months. By the end of March, membership would have dwindled, but it would not matter since the end of March is likely the beginning of "contractor season." The Resolutions Fitness Centers would be a winter job gig for the contractors. 

This idea came to my mind because the gym was so crazily packed today. I had to deal with limited access to treadmills; meanwhile, some girl was walking at a 2.0 mph pace. 2.0?!?!?! I don't care if you're a contestant on Biggest Loser; you can do better than a 2.0mph pace--that's a 30 minute mile! You might as well cut down on the snacking and just sit on your ass at home instead.

Resolution Fitness Center....I think it could work. 

Sexy Snowplow Men

Maybe it's because they generally appear to be the exact opposite of me, in terms of interests. I'm sure some of them read poetry, but for the most part, they're different from me. They drive lifted trucks with large tires. They wear flannels and work boots. Their hands are callused from manual labor.

And I find it all extremely sexy.

Tonight, I was at Walmart. Yes, I know, I know. They pay their workers horrible wages and pull insurance scams, etc. Many other American corporations do the same thing. I know that I still shouldn't shop there, but I do anyway---for odds and ends. I was looking at a display of clearance sweatshirts. $6.50 for hooded sweatshirts--not a bad deal. The shirt selection was paltry though. There were lots of odd colors: purple, neons, bright blue, kelly green, and some gray ones too. The only shirts left were either men's small or men's 3XL.

I managed to snag a gray medium sized shirt--literally, the last one. After I left the display, these two guys walked over. They were medium height, medium weight... not really "built," but not scrawny either. They both had on flannels, zip up hoodies over the flannels, well-worn jeans, and light brown work boots. I didn't have to even see their faces and, immediately, I thought they were hot.

It's interesting how fast we can look at someone and gauge his attractiveness. According to an article at http://www.nature.com/scitable/blog/our-science/love_in_02_seconds, it can take a mere 0.2 seconds for the brain to release chemicals that "feel love." I'm assuming a short amount of time is also taken in regard to the brain responding to someone else's physical attractiveness.

I think it's always interesting to think of origins of our conceptions of attractiveness. Since high school, I can recall being attracted to "labor" looking guys. I even remember taking the Greyhound bus from Ohio to NYC (after visiting our grandmother for the holiday) and being attracted to the Amish men, with their long facial hair and large hands. I've never really dated any guys who did hard labor, although I once had a summer fling with a mechanic. He called his mother "Mommy" though, so I can't really associate him with being a true "masculine" type of guy.

I guess a lot of this has to come down to my father's death. I have minimal images of him in my memory, but the ones that stand out are ones related to his hard manual work. He was a contractor and drove a hunter green truck. He often wore this olive green knit beanie hat. When I see a man who resembles that description anyhow whatsoever, I think that my "father memory" radar goes off.

I call her red

This past summer, I dyed my hair a reddish brown. To me, the color was ridiculously noticeable. To everyone else, the color was ridiculously subtle.

To me, slight change of any kind is monumental change.

This past week, I had noticed that my "mousy brown" roots were overtaking my strands of "reddish brown." I decided that I wanted to be bolder with my hair color and truly make it noticeable. The color I purchased was from Garnier's Ultra Intense Red for Darker Hair collection. Ultra....Intense....Red... these words fully got my attention. The color itself was named "medium intense auburn." That color sounded innocent enough. My hair would be a bold red, but not "fire engine red," or "Dutch tulips red," or "pomegranate red."

In brief, the color I currently have is definitely intense, but it is not really medium or auburn. I look like I am paying homage to Kurt Cobain's red hair. I seem to constantly have a similar Cobainesque frown on my face too, a self-assertion that I feel like I look ridiculous.



I dyed my hair on Sunday afternoon and washed it twice. The drain looked like I had just taken a bath in cherry Kool-Aid.

When I walked into work on Monday, I took the side entrance. As soon as students came into homeroom, they uttered, "Oh my god. RED." It was said with such conviction that I knew that my hair looked crazy. One student asked, "Did you dye your hair?" I had 1,000 snarky comments to reply, but held them inside; I just felt like a complete idiot.

This week has been okay; I've had back and forth moments where I re-evaluate my views on the color. There are, however, still some major issues with it. One of the main issues is that the dye is so strong by the start of my hairline; I've been using large amounts of ivory concealer to cover up where the red remains linger on my skin. I seem to be accepting of the hair color when I am in dimly lit places, but the bright lights of classroom make my red hair as bright as possible, and do nothing flattering for my pasty white skin.

Tonight, I re-watched some clips from My So-Called Life. Garnier should redo the packaging for the color I have and call it "Angela Chase Red." While this color might have looked amazing on angsty, sixteen-year old me, it looks like shit on 33 year-old me.

I just made a Friday appointment to get my hair cut and reversed back to its glorious, mousy brown self.

Give me a fucking break.... Mr. Grey

Okay, so it's been over a year and a half since the first 50 Shades book was published. The book has clearly hit, pummeled, and annihilated the masses. My mother even read the book, although she was surprised at the content: "I thought it was going to be about sex with old people....50 shades of grey.... I've never done that type of sexual stuff though!" Okay, mother, TMI.

Last month, I finally read the first book in the series. It is definitely apparent that EL James turned a piece of Twilight fan fiction into erotica. Christian Grey is easily comparable to Edward. Edward broods because he is stuck "evermore" as a vampire; Christian is stuck with his "secret" and his "red playroom." Anastasia constantly lures Christian in with the nervous biting on her bottom lip. Kristen Stewart did the same bullshit move in the Twilight films; I'm not sure if the "real" Bella Swan chomped on her lips though.

The book is filled with cheesy lines and horrific metaphors & similes. There's lines about Anastasia's "inner goddess" being brought out by Christian. At one point, Anastasia compares herself to Icarus...are you fucking serious?

Despite how horribly written the book is, I've moved onto the second book in the series. I'm reading it on my Kindle and I have to chuckle at the lines that are marked as "most highlighted." Basically, any line at which I want to roll my eyes is a line which has earned thousands of highlights by readers. Here's a case in point, a line uttered by Christian Grey: "No, I'm doing this because I've finally met someone I want to spend the rest of my life with." 2,587 people (admittedly) highlighted that line. That line is a ripoff of the end of When Harry Met Sally and every other romantic comedy movie or book ever written.

Still though, I continue reading it. I guess that I share something in common with Mr. Grey: sadism.

Off to read more passages about inner goddesses, melting hearts, and quivering thighs....

Doodles

I was at a team meeting today (since it is the first one of the year, we discussed students' various home life issues----who DOESN'T have divorced parents in this day and age?) and needed a sheet of paper to jot something down. There was a freshly discarded sheet of paper lying diagonally at the top of the recycling bin. I grabbed it, jot down my notes, and didn't bother to look on the other side of the paper.

Once I went back to my classroom, I, out of curiosity, turned the paper over. There was hearts quickly doodled in purple ink. There was also a name written repeatedly with the first name's first letter, followed by a period and a last name. This is the kind of thing I recall doing in middle school, so I relate. I wrote "Mrs. Michelle Price" over and over. I had had a crush on Jesse since about third grade. By middle school, my crush on him had lasted longer than some of my current friends' relationships with adults.

The doodles that I found today did not strike me as odd. I work at a middle school and can understand the whimsical, romantic visions that come into young girls' minds.

This paper was exceptional though.

It was written by my co-worker!!

I know it is totally a female thing to write your name, either with a signature that includes an intended male partner's last name replacing your own or simply just your own signature. I know I had signed my name repeatedly "for fun" within the past few years.

I am not dumb enough to leave the paper freely accessible at my job.

Hilarious,

Martyrdom

Facebook---where people either post a little bit or where people post every single fucking facet of their lives.

Tonight, someone posted a picture of herself, intently staring at her MacBook, while her six month old infant reclined across her lap. She gave the photo a hashtag of "workingmother." That image brought a few questions to my mind. 1] Someone other than she obviously took the photo. Instead of having hubby take photos of you, why don't you have hubby take the baby off your lap and just get your work done? 2] Why do people feel compelled to post photos or comments and seek martyrdom status? There's tons of single mothers out there who probably don't even have time to pop onto Facebook. You don't see them posting photos of themselves doing five domestic tasks simultaneously. If you want to/have to be a working mother, that's fine. Women, in droves, have been doing it since the 70s; lots of women probably were doing it before then. There's no need to post your photos and seek praise. We all have our battles.

If we're going for martyrdom pictures, I should really post a picture of third-grade Michelle @ Halloween. My mother was drunk off her ass and I had to figure out my costumer for myself. I had a sparkly, green pseudo-Afro wig. I also had access to my mother's closet of 1960s clothing, all of which did not fit her anymore. I wore a fringy leather vest and, along with green Afro wig and bright face paint, was a clown. I should post that photo and hashtag it "fuckedupchildhoodbutendedupok." I don't know how the hell to hashtag something and I don't care to learn anyway.

Chatter

Teacher's workshops are quite amusing. They're not amusing because of the content, but because of the people.

Yesterday, I went to a workshop at William Paterson University. There was free coffee and danishes offered, so of course people were mingling by the food area for the most possible time. I can't fault them for this; I was standing around that area too. Free, watered-down coffee is something I can't avoid. The danishes were gross though---"institutional danishes" is what I would call them. Generally, if a food resembles something that was present in my college cafeteria, I do not dare try it.

When I arrived at WPU, rain was pounding. There was not flooding, sleet, hail, or anything else that could be classified as "dangerous." Nonetheless, the workshop presenter told the crowd of us that the workshop would be starting later because of the weather.  I found this to be hilarious.

Teacher workshops are constantly filled with abundant noise...not sounds, but pure noise. The chatter tends to dwindle once the workshop begins, but there are still rude attendants who will try to whisper to their friends. Whispering is the most obvious action ever, that ss--s-ss--ss sound. During the workshop, there were many times when cell phones ringed, buzzed, chimed, and chooed. You'd think that once one person's phone went off that others would mute theirs. Nope.

Teachers tend to attend workshops in pairs, minimally. I attend workshops whether or not someone else is going; I am 33. I think I can attend an instructional course by myself and make it through all the ins and outs of socializing with strangers. "The Quad" apparently disagreed with that sentiment.

"The Quad" was clearly a group of younger teachers--- mid 20s. They reminded me of some pseudo Sex and the City group; each female seemed to have her own style and personality. In my mind, I could even imagine characters' names connected to each individual girl. I'd say "woman," but it just does not seem to be an apt word. One girl was conservatively dressed- a subtle floral shirt with a khaki skirt; she was definitely the Charlotte of the group. One girl had a Vera Bradley bag and that's all I recall---the Miranda of the group.  One girl had a stylish peplum shirt on; she was the Carrie of the group. Then, came the Samantha of the group. She had on a gauzy cobalt blue shirt with black tank top underneath, turquoise skinny jeans, and gold-embellished sandals. It's great to be fashionable and all, but this is a teacher's workshop. I just don't get it.

Meshed in together, I could hear conversations pondering whether or not we would get a PD certificate, talk of effective lamination techniques, and ramblings about Cape Cod.

Basically, I heard this:

Eugene, Oregon

I go through patterns of activity and laziness. Last week was the week of activity. I went to the gym Sunday through Thursday and ate ridiculously well. On Saturday, we ate a brewery (grilled cheese on artisan bread, lots of beers, more lots of beers) and ever since then I have been in an activity slump. Some of my days this week have consisted of staying inside until 4pm and maybe going for a walk in the park, but nothing too strenuous. My eating has been average, but I have not been as careful as I was last week.

I hate when I get like this.

I start watching odd television late at night (documentaries on serial killers, for instance). During day time hours, I watch cheesy movies on Lifetime and other cable channels.

Fourth of July was fun, but it also featured a lack of activity. I ate so much to the point where I had stomach camps; whenever stomach cramps arise from eating, it truly is a low-in-life moment. We all definitely had a fun time, but when I looked at the photos from yesterday, I was disappointed. In full body view, I look heavy. My legs look like they struggle with carrying the rest of my weight. My face has always been round, but now it is even rounder, thus making my eyes look like small, crinkly orbs.

I often wonder if my days of laziness are connected to where I live. I know plenty of people who hike and do "nature things" in NJ, but those types of activities do not immediately come to my mind when I think of New Jersey. Instead, I think of shopping malls. I yearn to move out of NJ. It's expensive, it's crowded, and every time I look around it seems like more land is being plowed over and replaced with unnecessary condos and stripmalls. Today, I Googled Eugene, Oregon. Eugene's nicknames include "Emerald City" and "Emerald Valley." The city's motto is "A Great City for the Art and Outdoors."

I often wonder what I would be like if I lived somewhere that encouraged activity and community involvement. Would I be biking around town with my canvas tote bag and locally grown fruits and veggies? I know that image is so ridiculously stereotypical, but I wouldn't mind epitomizing that image.

As I have often said before, I am "okay" being in NJ for now but eventually... I need to go somewhere else. I should be cautious with my usage of "eventually." If I keep saying "eventually" and do not take any initiative, I might be stuck here. 

Crafting fucktard

I assume that I could do a search within this blog and find out the exact number, but I feel like I use the word "fucktard" pretty often. It's basically like saying "retard," but since "retard" is non-PC, "fucktard" seems acceptable. It's strange that a word which has the French --> English translation of "late" would be less acceptable than a word that features a curse word in the first syllable.

Tomorrow is July 4th and I am attending a friend's "White Trash BBQ." This is an event that I've attended two times before; attending this year will make it a true tradition. I feel like if you do something 3 consecutive years that it automatically equates to an official tradition.

I realize "white trash" is an offensive term and I don't ever really use it to refer to people. "Trashy," which is less offensive because it basically leaves race out of the phrase, is a term I use more often. Why should trashiness be limited to Caucasians?

When people hear the term "white trash," similar images probably come to mind: trailer parks in a state of disarray, trucker hats, bad hair, cleavage (inappropriate for a teen because of age, but inappropriate for an older woman because of general sag), sleeveless flannels, cut-off shorts, Southern rock, Confederate flags, teen pregnancy, and so on. If you do a Google image search for "white trash," that party theme is actually quite common.

Toni's WT4J BBQ, as it has been coined, takes place at her Mom's house in the Poconos. There's beer pong,  flip cup, barbecued meats, a hot dog cart, drunken watermelon, and... a shooting gallery. Across the street from the house is basically woods. Toni's mom takes shitty garage finds and hangs them in the trees; then, we spastically shoot at the items. One year, someone was shooting at an owl lamp and I ran across the street to save it. The owl lamp is OLD, heavy as anything, and features eyeless owls. I lugged it home, but it has been in my closet for 2 years. It's time to bring the damn thing out and actually have people shoot at it.

I generally am a crafting fucktard. In other words, I tend to have crafting ideas and get so far as buying the supplies. In fact, I go gung-ho with getting the supplies. Case in point: a few years ago, I wanted to do crafting with bottle caps. I got bottle caps from friends and from strangers on Freecycle. Currently, I have about 3,000 bottle caps--and that's probably an underestimation. Have I ever actually crafted with them? Nope.

I'm determined to craft for WT4J. I am making a fringy top. I found a tutorial from another white trash-themed party attendee:
http://bargainbecky.blogspot.com/2012/08/how-to-make-white-trash-shirt-with-pony.html

Right now, the shirt has been puffy painted; hello, flashback to 1988! As soon as it dries, I'll do the whole fringe/pony beads process and then.... completion of a crafting task:)

Curmudgeon

Facebook and other social networking sites get me down more often than they lift me up. Still though, I log onto Facebook 5-7x a day. The screen refreshes and suddenly updated "news" is in my feed. I'd say that 80% of the time, the "news" is related to "good news"-- pictures of family vacations, postings about job promotions and other celebratory events, positive comments about one's outlook on life... The other percentage of the time, the newsfeed contains complaints and generally negative utterances. Someone the other day posted about needed $100 battery for her car, blah, blah, blah.

Reading other people's complaints is annoying and I feel like hurling a virtual "Go fuck yourself" across the Internet. Reading people's self-promotion posts is also annoying, as it makes me feel like a lazy fuck who achieves nothing.

I tend to post observational comments. I never self-promote and I try not to complain.

Deep down though, I am certainly a curmudgeon.

I am going to use this post to rant and complain---to hurl that negativity out into the world.

1. I'm not impressed that you got your Master's at NYU or that you went to Oxford; your family is rich and accessible income can make many people's "dreams come true."

2. We used to be friends, but now you are too much of a hipster and I am too fat and the fact that our friendship has ended infinitely sucks.

3. I don't care about your new Subzero fridge or your clean shed; your husband is gigantic and I often wonder how you two had sex long enough for you to get pregnant.

4. Your grammar is so horrible and no one comments on it because of politeness, but you're a fucking idiot....but you probably make more money than me anyway.

5. I don't care that your child makes adorable comments at the dinner table.

6. Kudos on doing your extreme exercise regimen for 3 days, posting about it constantly, and then completely quitting.

Sometimes I think of the following quotation when I am poking around on Facebook:
"The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else's highlight reel." - Steve Furtick

I feel like a loser because I don't consider myself to have the "highlight reel" that others have...but I guess that's my problem and I have to try to sort it out.

Making them fit

The human memory is fascinating. Years will pass and you might not think of a specific moment. Then, out of nowhere, that memory comes back into existence. 

At the library today a patron took out a chick lit novel. The book cover featured a woman lying on a bed and trying to make her jeans budge over her upper thighs. I suppose it was meant to be an image that us "average" women could relate to, however the woman on the cover was fairly thin. I wondered why she would have to struggle to make her pants slide over her upper thighs; her upper thighs were not that fleshy anyway. 

Instantly, I flashbacked to an image from my childhood. A spring green and bright yellow floral comforter covers a bed. The headboard and base of the bed is white wicker. Above the headboard hang two wicker beach-themed pieces. A wedding photo of my mother and father is on the side wall, as is a marriage certificate. The room is always cold and smells like mothballs. 

It is my mother's master bedroom. After my dad passed away, my mother refused to sleep in the bed. For years, she slept on the couch in the living room. The master bedroom was reserved for "getting ready" for work and for doing the "pants maneuver." 

The pants maneuver occurred whenever my mother had a pair of jeans which no longer fit. She would lie flat on the bed, jeans at her ankles, squirming and squirming in order to get the pants over her stomach. When she grew desperate, she would take the waistband of the jeans and make a vertical cut on the right and left sides, thus giving herself more "space" to get into. 

I watched her to do this pants maneuver countless times in life. At one point, she just gave up and began wearing complete elastic-waisted pants. 

I've never done the pants maneuver myself, despite having jeans for which I have grown too big. Those jeans still remain in my dresser: the size 8 Limited jeans that I have not worn since college, the intentionally-tight-as-anything stretch jeans that my sister gave me, the size 13 juniors' denim shorts that I promised I would "lose weight for" and not have to wear again (now they don't fit), and others. 

My mother's pants maneuver had an effect on me: when jeans don't fit, I face reality and buy a new pair with a higher size. Many more women could use a dose of reality.