Sort of Blog

'Ol inner workings...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Fri, 20 Jul 2012 20:32:00 +0000

It's been so long that I had to reinstate my account and figure out how to post via this bloggy-thingy. I've been motivated to post, maybe more often this start up- again. *tap, tap. Is this thing on?

Depression brings me here. Its truth, realness, darkness. I'm not depressed now, you see... but the last few days have been rough on the 'ol inner workings. Depression is something I've learned about through my years-- mostly that I have it from time to time and that there isn't a magic pill that keeps it away. Though I do take medication and I've been to therapy, depression is in my DNA. It's a part of me, who I am, how I operate, why sometimes I can't get up to do anything... Yesterday I mad a sandwich. It was a breakthrough.

It's refreshing that this thing called depression isn't something I have hide so much these days. It use to send me in fits of, "I don't feel good." "My head." "My back." It wasn't a lie. But I've learned through the past few years that the actually body pains was the ramifications of said depression. It's a dark place. It's a scary place. It's a place that many don't understand, but unfortunately, it's a place that many people visit. Much less frequently for myself-- thanks to medication, therapy, wife, friends, and GOD.

I wanted to kill myself a few years ago. Actually, I had wanted to kill myself for many, many years-- I only came to a breaking point, where that thought was very real a few years ago. I was blogging a lot in those days. Looking back, I guess a lot of truth was written to hide the fact that I was going to kill myself. I had a plan. It was in the works. Everyone was going to be better off.

I'm lucky. While the last few days have been rough, I've been fighting off those thoughts-- something I use to revel and roll around in like a fat pig in the mud. Oink, oink.

It's a dark and lonely place, plotting your death. Some call it selfish, but in the inner workings, well... it's a feeling of giving up so those you love can live better, happier lives. It's not that love isn't enough. It's that you don't deserve that love and everyone would just be better off-- in the long run-- after the initial sting-- if you were just gone.

We need to rip at the truth and expose it. None of that crap is true. People do love you, me. You, me, we are deserving of that love. I have love to give. I am not spoiled goods. People need and appreciate you, me. Suicide cause deep, everlasting scares-- scares that don't fade. Find help. Say it out. Shout it.

As the death settles front his round of dark times, I'm so very thankful to be alive. The air seems brighter today. I see more clearly. I'm standing up straight and walking with purpose. Tomorrow will be better too. And the next day. It does get better. Promise!

Scars...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 22:30:00 +0000

I’m not sure how I got headed back to this here blog, but here I am, nonetheless. Gesh, it’s funny reading about some of the insights (or lack thereof) I’ve had in years past. Browsing the posts, I’ve stopped and question if I in fact wrote what I was reading.

Awkward at times, this blog-revisit has provided a pretty cool way to capture some of the growth I’ve experienced that past few years. Dare I say growth?
And since today marks a pretty significant milestone in my life, I thought I might provide myself a little update in the off change I again become nostalgic in a few years. Hell, who knows. Maybe I’ll pick-up blogging again.

So, the milestone: Today is my tenth anniversary with The Wife. Pretty cool, huh? Why I’m a wasting time blogging about it? Well, it’s because I’m at work—my part-time gig proctoring babied athletic scholars at my former University. Did you brainy-folk know that athletes not only get a one-up on scholarships, but they’re also required to attend study halls where there are free tutors, computers, and resources to ensure they keep a 2.0 GPA. Yup, and they all bitch about it, too. I’m here, paid ten bucks an hour to ensure they stay focused and don’t try to cheat their time. Shuyeah, pretty sweet deal… especially for me because it typically provides me with the chance to get teacher work done on the University’s dime, when I’d normally do that work for free.

So, back to the milestone: Ten Years! It’s pretty amazing. Gosh, we were babies when we got married. And though much hasn’t changed, so much has!

1) My wife is an amazing woman, but I no longer put her on a pedestal. She isn’t perfect. She has faults. And though I’m certain she could have done better in way of a mate, I’m not so bad. In fact, I’m a pretty good husband. I dye her hair. I try to remember to put the seat down. I’m learning to fix things around the house.

2) Yes, a house. The Wife and I bought a house about two years ago. It’s nothing fancy. It’s a 1,300 square foot, 3 bedroom, 1 bath ranch. But it is ours and it is our home. Ownership is a wonderful, but strange thing. It’s nice being able to paint at will. It’s not nice having to pay for a broken heater or leaky roof. With our house came my 1 car man-cave. I’ve got hammers, and power drills, air guns and miters saws these days. In nearly two years, I’ve learned to lay tile, drywall, do basic electric and plumbing, and build things—like shelves for the library/guestroom and for my daughter.

3) Yup, I said daughter. Twig turned 1-year old at the end of January. Though I can’t believe it’s been a year already, it’s difficult to imagine our life without her. More so, she’s so big now that I can’t even remember what it was like to hold her when she was just an infant. I miss those days, but each day is filled with newness and happiness. She’s walking, learning to talk, problem-solving, causing problems. Last night she woke up screaming. Her back teeth are breaking though and she wasn’t taking it well. The cries were scary. They hurt me. I almost cried myself. For me, fatherhood has evoked clarity and perspective. I’m still me, but only a better version.

4) I’m fat again. It bothers me, yes. But not like before. My self-image use to be so tied into, well image. And though I’m sure that I will never be fully secure in the image of me, I’m alright with me. I’m a pretty good person. And if anyone is judging this book by its cover—even if that anyone is me—it’s not really worth my effort.

5) With that said, I miss the former fitter me. I miss the burn; the sweat; the skinny jeans. I don’t miss the constant analysis of calories; the obsession of what is going in must come out. My working out was not a one of health. Thought it brought outer confidence, I was still a mess inside—burring it all with miles, reps, lifts and laps. And when I had shed 60-pounds and could almost be happy, I was my most unhappy. I shed it, and at the core I was just a fucked up little boy trying to pretend that I was a man.

6) Perhaps it is only the happy pills I take daily or the therapy I attend (at one time weekly), but I’ve started to uncover a happiness that I never thought I deserved. I’ve spent a lot of time looking back, seeking an answer as to why I’m such a depressed and self-loathing person. I’ve looked and looked for the reason why I feel so fucked-up in my head. I wanted so badly a title or diagnosis or affirmation that there is something in fact wrong with me so I didn’t feel like there was in fact something wrong with me.

I guess I’ve learned in these last few years that there isn’t an answer for any of it. Seeking clarity from the past only fogs the present. I don’t need affirmation that I have the right to be screwed up a bit from my past. And that celerity actually makes me feel less screwed up. The bouts of depression are probably going to be a part of my make-up, as I’ve learned they’re part of my genetics. Taking a look inward, being honest, and hell writing about it here has helped recognize the onset of the lows and gives me a bit more stability when riding out the wave.
And since I’m pretty sure I’m the only person going to read this, keep that mindset if you hit any bumps in the road in the future. Bruises from bumps in the road are a part of life, no use self-inflicting scares because of those bruises.

Tears...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 21:45:00 +0000

And today there were tears.

It felt good to finally let it go, let it out, let them fall. My baby being gone knocked me into a bit of depression that I really didn't think related directly to the loss. But these tears were for the little one.

They were not all tears of sadness.

The Lord needed my child in heaven, for whatever reason, now. I'm happy this one was a chosen one, one that can watch over and do good work now.

Still, the what could have been on Earth saddens me.

I know this baby will watch over its younger brother or sister, when he or she makes it here. I know that one day we'll all be united and perhaps laugh and play together.

I loved my unborn child before I even knew it was growing inside my wife. And I still love that child, though our eyes never met.

Things will be alright.

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 18:33:00 +0000

Yesterday a letter from my brother appeared in my mailbox. I was expecting it. I had recently written him in reference to The Wife being knocked up. I knew he hadn't received word that our little one was without a heartbeat and thus hadn't made it.

I normally look forward to receiving mail from my kid brother. Despite everything, I love the guy and look forward to our longhand communication; however, I wasn't looking forward to this letter. I sat it on the table and prepared myself for the excitement that would be read through his chicken scratch and horrible spelling and grammar ability-- worse than mine, even.

Eventually, I worked up the courage to open it. And it read as I had expected. He was thrilled. He was excited for me. He assured me I'd be a great father. He wished he could be around to share it with me and The Wife.

What I hadn't prepared myself for was the anger that would follow.

My little brother is a father himself. He and his girlfriend became pregnant with my nephew when she was 15 and he was 19. They had made plans to abort this child, but never got around to it. So, when my little nephew entered the world on September 11, 2001 they were not at all prepared. All of this could be forgiven, I suppose, but my brother failed to ever step up to the parental plate.

In the letter he wrote about how having a child brings such joy, how it completes you, and how it causes a life revaluation.

Yet, my brother is currently serving a 48-yearr prison sentence for murder. Clearly, I can't say he's much of a father. I can't say that he ever took his fatherly responsibilities too seriously, especially the night he became high, and put a bullet in another man's head over some drug deal gone bad. Of course that all brought to the surface that he use to keep drugs and guns under my nephew's bed, among other disgusting displays of parental irresponsibility.

Of course, he voiced all that in his letter... listing his screw ups, regrets, and remorse.

Still, it did not make it easy to read. Him and his advice. Him and his joy. Him and his talk about the child he can't raise. Sometimes life is just unfair. It's unfair that I won't be a father this go around. It's unfair that my nephew was dealt a crappy father.

I wonder who I'll be unfair to when I write him back assuring him that he does what he can to be a good father, and that I'm alright with God's plan... that things will be alright.

Untelling process...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 18:06:00 +0000

Some folks say you should wait to share your news until after the first trimester. You know, just in case something goes wrong. After all, I've read that nearly 25% of pregnancies end in natural demise. The Wife and I couldn't hold back with our baby news and once we started to tell, we couldn't stop.

I've learned, the untelling process is an interesting one.

Some folks seem to know exactly what I need to hear. Those folks are few. Others seem to take the news harder than The Wife and I had taken it. I end up assuring those people that everything will be fine, that it happened for a reason and that me and The Wife are fine. Other find comfort in the corners of the room, diverting direct eye contact. For some I've found, it opens wounds of their own personal loss. Many hugs follow the news... sometimes tears. Is it odd that I have yet to cry? Or do I rest assure, like some friends have stated, it will come in time.

It's rainy this afternoon, the tear drops tap outside of my classroom rather than stream down my cheek. I feel a mute of depression, but it's not something unlike the cycle of depression that often seeps in from time to time. But unlike those times, I don't want to jump off a cliff or put a bullet though my brain. Something in me is still smiling, a joy much like that which invaded when The Wife told me we were going to be parents.

Those helplessly happy thoughts of what is to come are still swimming.

I don't regret the joy I spread to others, too early for some. It was a joy that should be shared, a joy that I was happy to share... that I'm still happy I shared. The pain that followed this time is just the journey to a greater good, a goodness I'm sure I can't completely comprehend.

How could I?

You see, I don't feel defeated. I almost feel inspired. And though so much of the future is unknown right now. Will we ever have children? It's a journey I'm excited to take, with my wife, the woman I love more and more each day.

I see the beauty...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 15:39:00 +0000

When I found out that The Wife was pregnant it was a surreal experience. Cognitively, I knew that it really wasn't all that amazing in the grand scheme of things. I mean, people get pregnant all the time. The Virgin Mary... that was impressive. Still, I couldn't help but be proud, excited and thrilled. I felt like little ol' me (for the record: not a penis reference) had accomplished something pretty miraculous.

I was a man! I'd spread my seed.

Reading, it's also not that uncommon for things not to work out. Medically, doctors call it a "natural demise." Us commoners call it a miscarriage. When I told my mom this morning that yesterday our little 9 week baby had no heart beat, she asked if The Wife's body had aborted it. She meant no harm, but the term made my stomach turn.

We knew there was some issues the first time we went to see the doctor. Then, the heart rate was well below the norm. After rushing home to Google through medical journals, I knew the chances of things working out weren't in our favor. Still, I didn't think it would happen to us. My Wife is in perfect health. More, she has a sole that is filled with peace and love. Horrible things shouldn't happen to such a wonderful person. Hell, even in my unwonderfulness, I beat the odds years ago when the cancer cards were stacked against me.

People have babies all the time, yet the joy is so unique and surreal. It seems, though miscarriages are not uncommon, the pain is just as unique and surreal.

Some might call it fear, but this is when I most wrap myself around my faith. I believe that God has a plan for us. I've learned, humbly, that His does not always match my own. I'd still have a baby on the way if it did. But I've also learned, that in time, His plan has always worked for the best even when I don't fully understand it.

Is there sadness? Yes. Is there disappointment? Sure. Still, there is no anger. I don't feel rejected. There are no lingering questions of, "Why us." More so, I don't feel forsaken.

Right now I feel closer to God than I have in years. I feel closer to my wife than ever before. There is a force that makes me love her more.

Even though muted a bit by sadness, I see the beauty that is all around me. And if God willing, I can't wait to share it with my future child.

Whisper of God...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 14:30:00 +0000

Hello blog. It's been a long time, baby. Despite your insistent tapping, I haven't missed you much. It isn't that I don't care. I do. It's just, well... I haven't needed you. I know that sounds incredibly one sided. Maybe you needed me. But I didn't need you.

Don't be sad. You should be pleased. You've help bring me to a place where I don't feel the need to purge my thoughts, my fears, my concerns, my worries. Things seem to be sorting out lately on their own. You, Sort of Blog, has made that possible.

So thank you for that.

And despite my newly found independence, how wavering it may or may not be at this point, I don't want to cut you out forever and all together. I do enjoy our little chats. You're fun to read and manipulate and hold late nights in the dark corners of the couch. Tap. Tap. Tap.

So here's what's new with me...

-I'm full-force back into the swing of school. New students and old, I don't foresee any major hurdles in way of instructing and getting these little minds motivated and on board. Relief.

-I'm an organized freak in my classroom this year. The mounds of papers that engulfed me last year or neatly organized, filed and labeled. And I can find them!

-We're paying off bills despite the economic hit The Wife's work took this month. She's looking for a new job and seems to have one in hand. We'll see.

-I'm motivated to take root in my own schooling, profession and lifestyle.

-Home ownership is in our very near future we hope and pray!

-Despite my recent back relapse (on muscle relaxers now!), I feel great.

-I've dedicated myself to eating healthy and working out. This is another reason I've been absent, my friend. Working out takes up a lot of time.

-I've lost nearly 30-pounds. My once tight 36 pants are piled high on the floor for donation. I'm sporting 34s and they're starting to get roomy. (And all my Large shirts are headed out the door, too)

-I'm running (not right now because of the back) a 27-minute 5K. I ran a 6-minute mile on Thursday (and then hurt my back; yes, a connection).

-I had McDonald's yesterday and didn't beat myself over it.

-I've discovered that I love, love, love racquetball. I'm just really, really, really bad.

-I feel more confident.

-I'm smiling more.

-I talked to my mom yesterday and I didn't want to scream. And hadn't changed one bit.

-I hear the whisper of God.

-I had a baby dream last night and saw the baby's face. Hum?

What about you?

I should spend more time showering...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 00:51:00 +0000

I'll try this...

1) Who was the last person you gave up on?
Sort of my mom. I don't really give up on people, but she's about as close as I come. Because it's safer for me.

2) Have you talked to a complete asshole today?
No she talked to me. I've learned not to really address my supervisor directly.

3) Are you comfortable answering all these personal questions?
That's a stupid question, no?

4) Do you think relationships are even worth it?
Of course. Again, stupid question.

5) If you could pack up and move, would you?
That depends. Do I have a mover? I'm not moving again unless I have a mover. Our bedroom furniture is heavier than !uck.

6) Do your parents really know you?
I think my dad does. Sort of. My mom thinks I'm a judgmental, close-minded, know-it-all, elitist. So...?

7) When was the last time you laughed really hard?
The other day when I turned the shower on while our new cat was in the tub. He freaked out, but couldn't get out because he's too small. It was great. I think I'm going to be a great father.

8) What are you wearing right now?
My smelly workout clothes. I should spend more time showering than answering these stupid things.

9) What are you excited for?
Monday when I start receiving students. I'm a teacher. I should be teaching.

10) Has anyone told you lately that they would always be there for you?
No, but I know at least two people that will always be there for me. And that feels pretty good. It's good that it's a select few because I really don't like people.

11) What do you want right now?
Meat. I've been craving meat lately. I don't really eat meat. But I really want a taco from Taco Bell. And I just saw a commercial for Chicken McNuggets and I almost got in my car and drove down the street.

12) Are your parents divorced?
Thankfully, yes.

13) What were you doing at 8 this morning?
Giving high-fives in the hallway to kids coming off the bus and headed to the cafeteria for breakfast. I was also telling them to, "Stay on the line." But really I don't care if they walk the line. I'm just expected to say that.

14) Do you fall for people easily?
I haven't fallen for anyone since my wife.

15) What is one word that you overuse?
"Um." Even though that's not a word. I like the word ramification, and I probably use that too much.

16) Who was the last person to text you?
My neighbor. It was about the gym. It's always about the gym. Or drinking beer. I wish it would have been about drinking beer. That's more fun than the gym.

17) What’s your mood?
I'm feeling insecure right now and horny, which isn't a good combination... especially when my wife is out of town.

18) If you took a drug test, would you pass it?
Um no. It was my birthday. I was reclaiming my youth... something I haven't done since before I was married.

19) Did you enjoy your weekend?
I watched a lot of movies, took a lot of naps, and watched SNL with some friends. Yup. I enjoyed it.

20) Do you regret doing something today?
I sort of wish I would have told my supervisor to shove her lesson plan up her ass. She handed it to me and then told me to teach it to the staff... all before I had the chance to read it. Then she tore me apart in front of everyone. You know, because I wasn't prepared.

21) Are you slowly drifting away from someone?
Sometimes myself... though I am also experiencing inner clarity. Odd?

22) Last person you told a secret to?
Ha. My pal Kris. She knows almost all my secrets.

23) What’s irritating you right now?
The fact I'm sitting here when I should be cleaning because my wife is coming home tomorrow. And I always like to come home to a really clean house. So, I want the house to be really clean for her. But I'm lazy.

24) Would you ever forgive someone if they cheated on you?
I would try like hell, but it would change everything.

25) Tell me what one of your friends is doing.
One of my friends is probably thinking about sex. It's human nature. Someone I know is thinking about sex. I hope someone I know is having sex. I hope it's good sex, too. Hot and steamy and uninhibited.

26) Are you stubborn?
It depends. Mostly, no.

27) What are you looking forward to?
Didn't I answer this? It seems like I've answered this?

28) Is there anybody you wish you could be with right now?
The Wife. I know... sappy.

29) Are you gonna be home alone tonight?
I've got Jesus in my heart. I'm never alone, right? Plus I have two cats. And monsters in my dreams.

30) Who gave you your last compliment?
Kris. She said I looked really skinny and wanted to know how much weight I've lost because I didn't look so skinny last week when I saw her last.

31) What is one thing you wish you had?
A six-pack of abs. I know that's superficial, but I don't really feel like thinking about something I really wish I had. I'd say a house, but that would come with a mortgage.

33) Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?
Uh I'm married. 7 years. No.

Which way did both #32 and #34 go?
Maybe up my supervisor's ass... with her lesson plan.

35) Do you still talk to the person you fell hardest for?
Almost every day.

36) Last movie you saw in theaters, with whom?
Kris. It was yesterday. And I can't remember the title. How sad.

37) Would you rather go to Tokyo or Paris?
Tokyo. I'd be huge in Japan. And there is probably something to be said about knowing your penis is bigger than 99.9% of all the guys around you. You know, total confidence builder.

38) What are you allergic to?
Folding laundry and cleaning out the litter box.

39) Has anyone ever complimented your eyes?
Lots of times. I think they could be more blue, bigger.

40) Are you listening to music right now?
No, I'm watching the new 90210. It's pretty funny.

41) Who else is in the room with you?
Jesus in my heart and my two cats. We're going to party later.

42) In winter, would you rather wear jackets or hoodies?
I'm a gangster, so a hoodie, I suppose. Dawg!

43) Do you wish you were somewhere else right now?
No. I'm good. Bed?

44) How long can you go without your mobile phone?
I forget it everywhere, so I'd be alright for awhile. At least until I locked my keys in my car and needed a locksmith.

45) What are you doing tomorrow?
Sorting through that damn lesson plan, finishing up some more paperwork and sitting through another meeting.

46) Ever kissed someone else’s boy/girlfriend?
Yes. Then I married her.

47) Where did you last sleep other than your room?
On my neighbors couch. I was so drunk I couldn't walk across the hall to my own bed. I'm 30. not 21. I must remember that the next time I go out with the guys.

48) What’s the worst way to say “I love you”?
While burping?

49) Who was the last person in your room besides family?
Two Filipino girls. We were walking from the porch to my living room to play Nintendo. The White guy just walked across the hall.

50) What is one place you would love to visit?
I'd like to visit my nephew. Not really a place, but that's that.

Things I want to say, but can't...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 22:36:00 +0000

Tomorrow I pack up my little Ford Focus and head to my tailor of a classroom to get started with my cleaning routine before the kids start arriving. Though my summer doesn't official come to a close until next Monday, I'm headed back early to get a hop on things... plus, I've been asked to present at the new employee orientation for my school district at the end of the week, and I've done little in preparation to inspire the new blood. So after the cleaning, I need to prepare something inspiring and motivational... Here are things that I'll want to say, but can't:

There is no class that will prepare you for what you are about to experience. Throw away all you think you know, and pray to God that you're creative enough to come up with ways to keep the kids from killing one another or their teacher.
You are their teacher. Watch your back as it will take awhile for that to sink in completely.
If it seems that the students are out to get you, it's because they are (which is why I said watch your back!). They smell fear; they prey on fear. You are going to be very, very, very fearful.
Assume that things went well your first day of school if you can't remember a damn thing that happened.
If you can recall an event from the first day, it was probably a tragic misstep on your part: you lost a kid, a kid lost his arm on the playground, you threw a kid so he'd get lost-- if this happens, do as Jenny does and blame it on Johnny.
In a few weeks from now, when you wake up at 5:00AM in the shower and you're not sure how you got there, remember that teaching was your dream. You love this!
Oh and when you look in the mirror and wonder why you've aged ten years, it's because you have. The kids think you're old because you look it. You're a teacher now. Get use to it.
Before the students arrive, write everyone you know a letter. Apologize for not being available for the next six months, for not returning calls, for not responding to emails, for talking only about school, for falling asleep at dinner or in the middle of conversations. They are going to be pissed. They are not going to understand.
Your going to scream, yell, throw, and kick things. I'm going to tell you not to, because it REALLY doesn't work. But you're going to do it anyway. This doesn't make you a bad teacher. This makes you a first year teacher.
You're also going to scream in your sleep, because when you're not spending every waking moment in school or thinking about school, you're going to be dreaming it.
Don't befriend the teacher next to you and tell him there is an apartment available below yours. He might be a freak and hire male prostitute drug dealers. (Allegedly!) He might develop a crush on you. (Allegedly!)
Some teachers think teaching is a competitive sport. If nice things are said about you, they're going to talk shit about you. If you're willing to share resources, they're going to steal them. If you need help, they'll laugh in your face. Stay clear of these teachers. Don't become one.
Don't spend hours on your lesson plans. Shit is going to go down that you can't prep for in a lesson plan. Plus, the administration is never going to look at them.
If for some reason things move smoothly, and you're able to complete that crap of a lesson plan, have a box of tricks to pass the time. Math races, Hang-man, Stump the teacher, Around the world. Silent reading? Well, of course! Hell, practice fire drills. Just don't put in a movie.
Know that the administration isn't going to look at your lesson plans, but believe they'll be knocking at your door if they are late. Promptness is a virtue ever teacher must hold close, even if the administration never does.
When specialists and administration use all those fun educational buzz words in staff meetings, you know, to help you to "enhance student engagement in the classroom," what they really mean to say is, "Teach to the test." Your scores will define you as a good or bad teacher. Be a good one! Do whatever it takes.
When all else fails, use bribes. Stickers, candy, pencils, let the kids eat glue if they want. Whatever. I can't count the number of pizzas I sneaked into my classroom. But my scores were solid!!!
Oh, the administration is never there when you need them-- unless of course you're screwing up or breaking rules. They're always there to see that. When this happens, offer them pizza.
The secretaries are a bunch of bitches. Give them pizza, too! It might just save your life.
You're going to want to smack the parents harder than you'll ever want to smack a student (though you'll want to do that, too). Since both would result in the loss of your job, I suggest subliminally brainwashing the students to smack their parents for you.
Lie. Tell the kids whatever it is you think they might need to hear to get them to do what you want: I love you all so much; You're all so smart; I care too much for you to let you treat yourself that way; I'm going to miss you over the break. If you do this enough, you might actually start to believe it yourself. And in the end, it will be the truth...

**If you don't know me, you might think I hate being a teacher. I don't. I love my job and I love the students with whom I work. Teaching is an amazing experience. It is also one the pushes you to insanity. Humor, I have found, is the best remedy.

Mom's visit...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 22:29:00 +0000

FACTS: My parents’ marriage was built on love. Love probably remained during and after the divorce. Love isn’t enough. My parents abused their twenty-plus year marriage. Infidelity, jealousy, mistrust, rage, and cruelty plagued their unity. Drugs and alcohol, always main staples, dug deep those last years. Addiction is a family affair. My mom liked to smack me around some nights. Still, I would hide her keys so she wouldn’t drive. I was reminded that I was unplanned and unwanted. A daughter is what she wanted, she’d scream to me and my brother. And though I tried to protect him, he wasn’t too little to be clouted. Police, like the gray goose centered on our porch, were familiar at the house. My father was far from innocent. My mom when pregnant was made to change in the closet, away from his seeing eyes. Thirty years ago, the ocean looked more appealing to my father than watching the birth of his first son. He yelled a lot, too. He insulted me. He seemed to hate the son that wore his name, threw, and walked like a girl. As a small child I didn’t know the definition of fag, though I remember that’s what my dad called me when fighting with my mom. I was an honor student, but never earned the 10 bucks my brother was promised if he brought home an A. Still, he was smarter and more talented. He didn’t go to school, do his chores, or follow the rules. But my dad loved him because he could throw a football and kick a soccer ball. He was so proud of my little brother’s athletic ability; he liked to tell me whenever I accomplished one of my goals. I was proud of my kid brother, too. I loved him deeply, and I tried my best to raise him to be a good, respectable, and loving person. I cooked his dinner. I checked his homework. I woke him up to walk him to school. When he was in trouble with a teacher, I sat in the office with him. And when he was in rehab, all those times, I was there to trough through therapy. Love isn’t enough. He would steal from me. He would punch me. He would insult me. And when the foundation cracked, and the walls had tumbled, I stood in the rubble of a house alone. Everyone else had gone their separate ways before I had the chance to realize that perhaps I wasn’t as strong as I had thought…

TRUTH: Though the above, and so much more, has carved into me, I’m a forgiving person. I’ve learned to forgive through the Grace of God, His love, and His forgiveness. Years I tried to sweep it under the rug, but eventually the rug lumps, unable to hide the dirt and grime. Forgiveness has allowed me to open the door, and sweep it out. At times, particles take flight and the breeze brings bits back in through the open windows. I continue to sweep it back out. I can talk about these things now, not to look back and shutter, but to stand strong and continue to rise.

WITNESS: Forgiveness has made it possible to love, to love myself. That self has grown to love, trust, and respect others, including those that crushed me. Relationships have flourished and I’m stronger for it. Forgiveness of others, and forgiveness of self is all powerful.

FAILURE: My mom failed to find the strength to forgive, to forgive herself. Love that I know resides is trapped in self-denial. It is my fault she does not have more money, because I told her not to destroy my father. It is her brother’s fault that she is depressed, because he died. My brother destroyed her because he killed a man for drug money. It’s the police’s fault that he is in jail, that she can’t have a license for a few too many DUIs. He lost her house, because her mother refused to rescue her from debt. Her abuse boyfriend is blamed for all her items lost in storage, because he wouldn’t go get a job. Even after the visit, I know we do not have a close relationship because I’m a judgmental, “always make the right decision,” only see things black-and-white, opinionated, complacent son.

HOPE: My mom stands in the shoes I once filled. I blamed others for my failures and pain. I held onto a past that could not be changed. I allowed myself to be the victim, rather than the survivor. She is broken, lost, and afraid. I was once those things. Because I know, I still hold a distant hope that she’ll find her bottom and rise above—as my father and my brother have done, each in their own possible ways.

CLEARITY: I cannot change my mother, just as I could not change my father or my brother. I cannot support her, because it only enables. I cannot engage in her denial, because it enrages me. I cannot help my mother, because she does not want help. I cannot protect her, because she is self-destructing. Her support, engagement, help, and protection is in the misery she carries, the stories of denial she tells herself— misery and denial that keep her up at night.

LOVE: Despite it all, I will always love her. Will love ever be enough.

**This is what I've gathered from my mom's visit. worth every penny I spent.

It's safer...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 01:43:00 +0000

I've been sitting here trying not to think about how my mom hasn't called to tell me she made it safely home on her flight. She was to arrive at 7:00, but you know how the airlines work these days...

I have no expectations after this trip. It's safer that way, for me.

Still, you'd think rules of common courtesy would apply. A person buys you a ticket for a vacation and you don't spend a dime during your visit, so you call when you arrive home to give a quick, "I'm home safe." Maybe a, "Thank You."

But it's safer not to have expectations.

Even if she does call, it's safer. I'll keep her at a distance, because if I've learned nothing else from her visit, it's that though I have changed, she has not. And all that has been revealed cannot be summed up so simply. I have much to think about.

Without expectations, because it's safer...

My own promises...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 00:45:00 +0000

Shall I tip in a toe, walk out and swim to the forever horizon? I'll be at peace while the sharks nip at my ankles. Their love is for blood, not born to protect. Instead, I'll face the reality to my right. She once shed blood and held me tight, whispering motherly promises for my future. Her son's blood spilled for those broken promises that he's held for far too long. I'll skip them like shells into the deep blue, stand strong on the shoreline, and create a future for myself.

Of her love

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 23:44:00 +0000

My mom arrives tomorrow. I bought her a plane ticket for her birthday, a olive branch to perhaps mend broken ties with her. We'll see how it goes.

To prepare, I've been cleaning and completing a list of projects that I've want to start and finish for some time. Nothing like a deadline to get you motivated.

And nothing like stress to get your house clean... when I'm stressed, I clean. And cleaning is what I've been doing. I fucking shampooed carpets today. I organized my files, moved furniture, refinished and painted furniture... I even vacuumed the feather duster.

I invaded the closet to measure the distance between each hanger-- all shirts alined, organized by color, and my shoes lined like militants prepared for battle. I wish I had more feet so I could wear them all!

Our little pantry, the refrigerator--the labels face forward, alphabetically (though I switched back from size of container). I ironed my jeans and shorts before putting them back in my drawers. My underwear all neatly folded, stacked and next to my rows of socks packed tight like peas in ponds. She'll be in those drawers if I leave her along. I want her to see that I'm worthy of her love.

Who does these things?

Yes, stressed. I have no idea what this week will bring. I'm not sure how my mom will look. I'm not sure what words might be minced. I'm not positive I won't put her back on a plane the moment she arrives.

To drink

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 22:03:00 +0000

Ocean breeze and green trees, the rain has stopped and I can smell growth, birth, and renew. Lightening bugs dance against a dark black curtain as bright stars seek to be seen through the bright city lights. This is home, now. The hollow door closes calmly behind. The silver chain echoes as it bounces back against the jam and molding, exposing my variability to myself. No chains, nor distance can keep me. And smell of mom's cookies that she never baked lingers. I find a corner of the room, hidden from the light, to shed my first tear. I'd swim in it if I could, laps upon laps, gone forever into the blue horizon. Dive deep and fly away. Free from the pain that gravity brings. Its reality presses against my chest. And another falls. Mankind has spilled enough tears to fill an ocean. And yet, the earth is thirsty for more. Why do we make each other cry? To fill the glass. To drink. Drunk off the sorrows of others, the light shines through. The seed sprouts. And the birds sing.

Pain. It doesn't really hurt.

Found

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 00:41:00 +0000

His thoughts run rapid
Whirl wind leaves on a sweet October night.

Search for meaning in an uncertain world
Direction sought on uncharted maps.

A song bird sings, orchestrating a cry
Beseeching direction from his promising mother.

Leaves, heavy with penitence, hang
Overhead protection for my brittle skin.

He forges ahead--the future,
Against thorn bush branches.

Frolics in his blood shed, someone somewhere
Holds me back. Up. Down. Down.

The reflecting pond marvels the scares
Reminders of survival, not of pain.

He throws stones to break truth
And I bask at veneers of imperfection, not of pain.

A butterfly's wings brush against the breath
An air that warms us both.

The lonely blue jay replaced
The harmony of mother and son.

Cold, ruthless pain, will if fade
With infant eyes closed.

Mother’s arms wrapped around her child
Familiarity pries the son from the womb.

Eyes wider, and I shutter
lies lead to the long and winding path.

A deep breath and a whistle
I take the blue jay’s simple song.

I am...?

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 00:45:00 +0000

I've been reading The New Earth. Actually, I've finally finished it. It's not something that I'd typically pick up because I stray away from the buzz worthy books. Thanks to Oprah there is a lot of buzzing, which is yet another reason to boycott. But others have suggested it, told me to read it. Someone who reads this blog has suggested it frequently. I figured I wasn't going to escape it.

So I picked up. And I gave it a go.

I like to think I'm pretty grounded and in touch with myself and those around me. You know, self help is beneath me... I know who I am. What I do. What I like. What pisses me off.

Hello ego.

I've come to realize that I'm just a lost spirit, searching, seeking, wanting more. But more of what? I'd like to order a pizza right, I can tell you that. I'd also like to lose about fifty pounds. Own a house. Drive a nice car. Help more in the community. Dedicate myself fully to my faith. Be a better friend. Be a better husband. Be a better teacher. Be a better son.

More, more, more.

I'm sure if the clarity came from the book itself, of if it's always been there and the author simply put into words that I could devour. (More like snack, since it took me so long to consume its entirety).

When I read over things I've written in the past, I see that I'm pretty much in the same place I was years ago. Sure, there has been growth (and I'm not just talking mid-section), but really I'm just marking time. And as much as I love a parade, I want to go on with it... not just stand in place going through the motions, looking at the same old stuff, playing the same old song.

My writing is like a broken record.

A few years ago, all I had to say was that I wanted to finish school and how desperate I was to be a teacher. I thought that would make me complete. Today, I've finished school and I am a teacher. And all I can think about is getting back into school so I can earn my PhD.

Will Dr. Sortofblog complete me?

No. Nor will losing weight. Buying a house. Being considered a good friend. Owning a house. Blah. Blah. Blah. Because all I'll want is more, more, more. I'm always seeking. I'm always wanting. I'm always moving. I'm always defining. I see that I'm just trying to feel an emptiness.

I just don't know where that emptiness comes from right now?

I want to really sit down and really reflect on this book and give it a true review (See, I'm doing it again, this post isn't enough. I want more) but I'm too tired. But since it's fresh, I want to sort some things out. Rather, I want to lay it out now, so I can sort it out later.

-I need to be more present.
-I can't allow that voice in my head define me, situations, or others.
-I can't take things so personal. The world is not out to get me.
-Fear death not, and I shall really live.
-See beauty in all things.
-Realize that things happen for a reason, the inner voice defines it as good or bad.
-I deserve it.
-I am...

...?

That fat ass...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 22:47:00 +0000

I think that Humpty Dumpty was framed.

No. No. Here me out…

He did not really fall off the wall. That fat ass was pushed.
Folks didn’t feel that an egg-head like Mr. Dumpty should possess such fame, money, and respect. Some wise guy decided he’d teach Mr. Dumpty, by making him look like an idiot… making it seem as though he fell not once, but twice!

Unjust. Unforgivable.

Mr. Dumpty got not only bad media coverable and a terrible reputation for being stupid and clumsy, but in further investigation, also received many hospital bills that his insurance would not cover due to his own, “ignorant negligence.”
I’m positive, while little kids sing the Humpty Dumpty Rhyme, Mr. Dumpty is sitting in a mental institution attempting to crack his shell and fry himself for breakfast. His one hope, to one day be an Egg McMuffin.

I’m not lovin’ it!

It is my opinion that Congress should hire Ken Starr to investigate. Clearly, there was a cover-up that followed when all the King’s men “tried” to put Mr. Dumpty back together again.

Through this dark veil

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 15:56:00 +0000

I know that love and forgiveness are the answers. I must remember that wounded people commit dark acts in dark places. That is where addition takes people. There, they truly become lost souls— totally separated from their higher power and those who love them— from their true self.

The addiction rules and it is cruel and very, very ominous. I remind myself that he, in his deepest soul, is still that little boy I helped to raise. He is still the boy that I loved and still love. And he needs love more than ever. I wonder how incomprehensible his act must be to himself, because I know inside him is that goodness that once shined through.

I have become grateful for these struggles. I can truly empathize with the families on TV and those sitting across from me at the conference table in my classroom. Their criminal stories ring true when I hear their cell doors lock or when they breathe their last breathe. I know deeply in my heart that someone somewhere is suffering a loss while others cheer in praise.

Addiction is a curse that takes on many shapes. It’s never a pretty form, but God has made a way for me through this dark veil. I use the lessons learned for good, for understanding, for teaching. I turn to the light to help heal my pain and shattered dreams for my brother. The addiction destroyed that. But I am not destroyed.

Nor will his son.

Protruding vomit hitting pavement

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 00:34:00 +0000

It's the Fourth. The holiday of big bangs and patriotic parades.

Independence Day was always filled with a mix of emotions. I looked forward to our suburban parade of drum cadences, fire trucks, and the presenting of the colors.

But I dreaded the party that followed, a tradition that had made my parents famous. It was an event that was often talked about months after the clouds of booms and bangs drifted out of the night's sky.

In our small back yard, we raised the volleyball net, fired up a multitude of grills, and iced the variety of kegs.

Patronage to the patriots!

Invitations were never sent. It was common knowledge that if you knew my parents, you knew that you were invited-- and your kids, too.

The parties started out innocent enough. The kids all chocking down hot dogs so they could beg their parents for money for the local carnival. The oldest of all the kids, I lead the group down the old dirt path to the park where we'd all inevitably argue which death trap we'd ride first.

Years later, I wounder how that traveling carnival ever met safety code requirements. Or how it is that no one was ever lost in the masses.

Hours would pass. Rounds and rounds of the Egg Roll ride, the Spide, and the Ten Top. Spent from standing in line after line, and broke from playing too many rounds of darts, all the kids would head back to our house... knowing that the climate had changed.

As darkness approched, so did the slurs of speech, droopy eyes, and staggered stances.

One year my mom insisted that I brush my teeth three different times before I went to bed. It was 8:00. At nine, I learned of adultery when I walked in on two of my friends' parents having sex in my bedroom-- not with their spouces. My mom tour her ACL trying to fight her pal for making eyes at my father. The next year, he was arrested for DUI during a beer run after the kegs went try.

Wendows were broken. Cars were crashed. People fought. It wasn't unusual for a member of the party to fall off our roof trying to get a better view of the fireworks over the trees that grew taller each year. It didn't even seem odd the year someone was arrested for trying to saw down those trees when they had finally grew to totally obstructed our view.

As bombs bursting in air, the sound of protruding vomit hitting pavement rang in the background.

My parents knew how to honor the Founding Fathers. This was the way to honor America.

An adult now, I've chosen to do things differently. My holiday are not about inebriation. An intiment cookout with a small group of friends and a few beers will suffice. I don't even need the booms and bangs. Sparklers in the backyard suffice. This year, impromptu front pourch cookout with the neighbors did the trick.

But I wonder about the kids I use to walk that dirt path with to the land of cotton candy and elephant ears. Did they find in a way out like I have? Or are they falling off a roof top somewhere, right now, vomiting on pavement. Are their children watching with giggles, hiding in secret their fright and shame?

I'll only brush my teeth once tonight.

God Bless America.

That damn cat...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Sat, 14 Jun 2008 10:23:00 +0000

I know a man isn't suppose to cry. Not in front of his wife. And not over a silly cat.

But he was my buddy. He was my friend. He understood me. And now he's gone.

Jo Jo was a Sweetest Day gift for The Wife the year before we were married. Though I had picked out a rough looking kitty that I though we could doctor back the health, crawling up the cage he shared with his brothers and sisters, Jo insisted that he was going to be mine. In that moment I knew he was be too; he had spunk.

He seemed to complete our little family from the start. Hidden away in my beat up car, Jo meowed hello to The Wife and sat beside she and I as we ate fries and shared a shake during her lunch break. She loved him instantly, which made me love him, too. And like that, Jo became our first little baby.

He lived with me before The Wife and I were married. He'd welcome me home from class each day. In those early years, he was small enough and liked to sit on my shoulder while I did anything in the house: cook, clean, brush my teeth... except when I'd try to type a paper. He'd jump on the keyboard because he wanted me to pet him. And all attention was on him when The Wife and I were together--- he demanded it.

Of course in those days, Jo wasn't Jo. First he was Kitty Meow Meow, then Suki, and then Josephinia. Nothing seemed to fit. After his first vet visit, it was discovered that Josephinia was a boy. And Josephino he became... as well as Jo, Jo Jo, Jo-cat.

We believe this sexual identity crises contributed to his often anti-social and sometimes bipolar behavior. Like me, he didn't like many people. He definitely didn't like folks touching him (or me for that matter, including The Wife). And like mine, the mood swings were frequent and unprovoked.

More than anything we liked to nap. Jo was a napper. We could nap like champs. He liked to sleep on my chest; I think because he listened to heart. I soon became dependent on his purring to fall asleep. We also liked movies, tv, and reading.

Though I wouldn't let him do it often, He also liked lick the outside of a cold glass while I drank soda or ate ice cream. Often he'd sneak without permission. Sometimes I'd find him on the kitchen table or on the counter looking at me sadly, because he knew he wasn't suppose to be there and was now in trouble.

Jo was an inside cat, but like to roll around on the porch and watch birds from the window. He liked playing with puff balls, cotton swabs and The Wife's nail file. He liked to sit up high, on places I'm sure was too tall for him to reach. He liked hiding in the closet, and had more than once spent the afternoon locked in my armoire after sneaking in when I accidentally left it open.

Jo got me through some tough times. When I was in the worst of the cancer treatment, and I just wanted it to all end, he was there. He seemed to cry out every time I thought of dying. When my brother was arrested for murder, and I stayed in bed for nearly a week, he remained close. In March, when I hurt my back, he knew to lay beside, not on me. When I'd hide away to shed unmanly tears, I only let him see because I knew he understood. He let me pet his nose, even though it annoyed him, because it made me happy.

It's strange how an animal can become so much a part of you. I missed him when I was away. I looked forward to seeing him when I got home. Sometimes, I'd rather hang with him than friends.

It seems Jo was dealt a pretty shitty hand in the genetics department in way of a healthy functional body. The doctor insisted that he was going to continue to have pain unless intense surgeries followed. Some signs suggest he's probably always had a bit of pain, but as he grew older, it was growing worse. The surgeries would also be very expensive and they may have not fully cured him from the pain.

Still, I feel terrible guilt that we couldn't afford the nearly $5,000 dollars to try.

So I held him. I petted his head and told him that I loved him. He looked at me as I petted his nose one last time. He made one last cry before putting his head down on my arm. Then, I let him go.

But really, I don't think I ever will... I love that damn cat.

Catching up...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Fri, 30 May 2008 23:59:00 +0000

I was wasting time on MySpace rather than catching up on my blogging. So, I thought I'd repost something I wrote there... here.

WRITE EXACTLY WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND, AND DON'T CHANGE IT!

I'm tired of:

HEARING FAT GAY SEX DOWN STAIRS (NOT THAT THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH BEING GAY OR FAT) AND THE YAPPY FIGHTING NEXT DOOR. SADLY, THESE NOISES COME FROM PEOPLE WE INVITED TO LIVE HERE. OUR APARTMENT BUILDING USE TO BE SUCH A PEACEFUL PLACE UNTIL "FRIENDS" MOVED IN.

Maybe I should:

STOP BEING A VISUAL PERSON SO I DON'T HAVE MENTAL IMAGES OF THE FAT GAY SEX I HEAR FROM BELOW ME. SERIOUSLY, HE SAYS HE ISN'T GAY... BUT COME ON. AND THE IMAGES WOULD BE AS DISTURBING IF IT WERE STRAIGHT SKINNY SEX. SEX IS JUST DIRTY. THAT'S WHAT THEY TAUGHT ME IN CHURCH.

I Wish:

I DIDN'T HAVE SWEATY BALLS. HOW'S THAT FOR A MENTAL PICTURE?

I have lost my respect for:

PEE WEE HERMAN. HE USE TO BE SO COOL-- WORD OF THE DAY, AND ALL. DO YOU REMEMBER THE EPISODE WHEN HE MARRIED FRUIT SALAD. THAT WAS SO PROGRESSIVE FOR THE 80S.

The meaning of my display name is:

IT'S MY FIRST NAME AND THE PART OF MY LAST NAME. I LIKE TREES, SO IT FITS. OR DO I LIKE TREES BECAUSE IT FITS? I DON'T KNOW? IT DOESN'T MATTER. JUST STOP CUTTING DOWN ALL THE TREES. WHAT DID A TREE EVER DO TO YOU? AND IF YOU SAY, "FELL ON MY HOUSE/ CAR" THAT REALLY WASN'T THE TREES FAULT. THAT WAS GOD TELLING YOU THAT YOU SHOULD PRAY MORE. (this only makes sense if you know my MySpace user name, or probably not,)

Love:

"LOVE IS... WELL, LOVE IS... " THAT'S WHAT THE OFFICIANT SAID AT A WEDDING WE WERE AT TWO WEEKS AGO. "IT CAN'T TRY TO BE ANYTHING. IT JUST IS." I THOUGHT THAT WAS PRETTY DEEP. AND PRETTY STUPID, TOO. THAT'S WHY I KEEP SAYING IT OVER AND OVER AGAIN TO MY WIFE. I LIKE HER TO THINK THAT I'M STUPID SO SHE DOESN'T MAKE ME BALANCE THE CHECK BOOK.

MySpace is:

FOR IDIOTS THAT CAN'T FIND ANYTHING BETTER TO DO WITH THEIR TIME. LIKE ME. SURE, I COULD READ A BOOK, BUT THAT DOESN'T HEAT UP LIKE MY LAPTOP, CAUSING MY BALLS TO SWEAT.

Today:

IS MY LAST DAY WITH STUDENTS, EVEN THOUGH I STILL HAVE TWO WEEKS TO SIT IN MEETINGS AND COMPLETE PAPERWORK. I'D RATHER THE TIME WITH THE STUDENTS.

THEY DON'T MAKE ME WANT TO STAB MYSELF WITH SCISSORS, PULL OUT MY NAILS WITH THE STAPLER REMOVER OR WRITE ON MYSELF WITH SMELLY MARKERS A T-SHIRT THAT READS, "HORRIBLE TEACHERS MAKE HORRIBLE ADMINISTRATORS!"

Tomorrow:

I NEED TO GO TO A PARTY, DRINK SOME BEER, AND TRY NOT TO TALK ABOUT TEACHING. I'LL DO EVERYTHING EXCEPT NOT TALK ABOUT TEACHING. IT IS A SCIENTIFIC FACT THAT IF THERE ARE MORE THAN TWO TEACHER'S IN THE ROOM, ALL THAT WILL BE DISCUSSED IS TEACHING. IN FACT, ONLY ONE TEACHER HAS TO BE IN THE ROOM. THAT'S WHY TEACHERS DON'T HAVE MANY FRIENDS. PLUS WE WERE THE KIDS THAT ATE GLUE.

I get annoyed:

WHEN I CAN'T FIND SOMETHING. SO I PRETTY MUCH STAY ANNOYED. THOUGH EVERYTHING IS LABELED, I MISPLACE CRAP ALL THE TIME. LIKE MY WALLET, KEYS, AND CELL PHONE. IMAGINE MY ANXIETY AT THE ZOO WITH 32 SECOND-GRADERS.

what are you doing?

THINKING ABOUT HOW I'M NOT BEING VERY FUNNY IN THIS DAMN SURVEY AND WONDERING IF ANYONE WILL ACTUALLY READ IT AND IF THEY DO IF THEY'LL EMAIL ME OR COMMENT AND TELL ME HOW FREAKING STUPID I AM AND THAT I SHOULD GET A LIFE BECAUSE IT IS A WASTE OF TIME TO DO THESE THINGS AND NOW I'M THINKING THAT THIS IS A REALLY LONG RUN-ON SENTENCE AND THAT I SHOULD GO BACK AND ADD SOME PERIODS BUT I WON'T BECAUSE IT SAYS AT THE TOP THAT I CAN'T CHANGE ANYTHING.

Parties:

ONLY HAVE ONE EYE IF THEY'RE HARDCORE. OH WAIT, THAT SAYS PARTIES, NOT PIRATES. UM, THEIR STRESSFUL FOR ME AT THE START BECAUSE I'M AN INTROVERTED PERSON. BUT WHEN I COME OUT OF MY SHELL I BRING THE HOUSE DOWN... LIKE NAPOLEON. EVERYONE'S FREAKING VOTING FOR PEDRO WHEN I LEAVE THE DANCE FLOOR.

QUESTIONS

Is your cell phone right by you?

I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE IT IS RIGHT NOW. I PROBABLY LEFT IT IN THE CAR... BECAUSE YOU KNOW, THAT MAKES SENSE. IF SOMEONE CALLS, I WANT TO SIT IN MY CAR TO CHAT.

Is there something you want to tell someone?

TO BUSH, "THANKS FOR THAT STIMULUS CHECK. IT'S ABOUT TIME I GET PAID FOR YOU GIVING IT TO ME IN THE ASS THE LAST EIGHT YEARS."

Do you like anyone now?

DO I HAVE SWEATY BALLS? WHAT A STUPID QUESTION.

If you could have one thing right now what would it be?

A REAL CLASSROOM. MY MOBILE HAS BUGS AND ISN'T BIG ENOUGH FOR ALL MY STUDENTS. PLUS, I'M PRETTY SURE IT MAKES ME SICK WHEN I'M IN THERE TOO LONG. IT SHOULD BE DESTROYED, OR YOU KNOW, GIVEN TO THE SPECIAL ED KIDS.

(THAT'S A JOKE, BUT TOTALLY WHAT THE SCHOOL SYSTEM WOULD DO)

What were you doing at midnight last night?

I WAS HAVING BAD DREAMS ABOUT TODAY'S MEETING. IT INVOLVED ME SITTING, LOOKING AT MY SUPERVISOR, AS SHE RAMBLED ON ABOUT WHAT NEXT WEEK'S MEETINGS WOULD BE ABOUT. AND THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED TODAY. OH, AND SHE TALKED ABOUT EVERYTHING SHE HAS TO DO AND HOW WE DON'T HAVE THAT MUCH TO DO.

When is your birthday?

8-30-YEAR OF THREE POPES.

Are you single or in a relationship?

I'M ABOUT AS RELATIONSHIP AS YOU CAN GET.

What are you excited about?

SUMMER. I'M GOING TO DO WHAT I DID LAST YEAR, WITHOUT THE SUICIDAL THOUGHTS.

How is your life?

IT'S PRETTY GOOD.

E'fin rock...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Fri, 30 May 2008 20:32:00 +0000

Wouldn't it be nice if when you lost your wallet and received new and shiny replacement credit cards in the mail... that they came with zero balances.

That would e'fin rock!

It would take the sting out of losing your wallet.

It would also help forgive the slug that found/ kept your wallet-- you know, the dude that's walking around, posing as you.

He'd be the one with the old-maxed-out credit cards.

And you'd be the one with shiny-no-balance credit cards.

You could buy that flat plasma screen TV that's been calling your name, afford cable, and replace the timing belt on your 2001 Ford Focus (because its time).

You probably wouldn't be bitter about your little teacher salary, hating the ones who changed their major in college from Education to business, web design, accounting... or simply dropped out to sell tile.

No.

You could stand at random gas pumps filling up economy cars with two kid saftey seats in the back, while spiting on the Hummers filling up.

I hate Hummers. I hate Hummers with "Support Bush" stickers even more. More than those, I hate Hummers that have "Support The Troops" stickers.

I also hate that I've been too busy to blog the last few days and now I'm going to have to catch up.

Fellow Teachers...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Wed, 21 May 2008 23:28:00 +0000

I've been waiting all day to share this...

So I'm sitting with my group of third-graders as we grooved through our End Of The Year Assessment.

In discussing the armed aggression in Africa, a kid raised his hand.

Being called upon, the boy looked at me and said,

"I think you'd be an excellent Jedi. Yoda, Even."

Sure it was as random as hell, unrelated and totally off task... but it was also the BEST complement I think I've ever received. And I'm pretty sure no other complement in my future will ever compare.

Fellow teachers: May the Force be with you!

It seems with me it is, yes?

kind'a fun...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Tue, 13 May 2008 00:03:00 +0000

I was going through some boxes in my classroom today (still haven't totally unpacked from moving in and now I might be moving out). I found some interesting things- including my last editorial as editor of my high school newspaper. I sort of liked what I had to say:

It’s over.

After two-years as your Editor-and-Chief, it’s time to put this baby to bed. Everything is ready for print— everything except this editorial page. As I sit in the Publications Room, I ponder why I’m here once again at 2 AM. It’s not the first time.

Why?

Inevitably after each release, I’m bombarded with gripes. You don’t like the layout. You were misquoted. You found a typo. You weren’t in this issue. Teachers. The Principal. Even the school board. You all complained.

Why? Why? Why?

I wish that I had some journalistic philosophy why I, and the staff, fight each month to publish this beast. Mostly, I wish I had some last impacting senior philosophy to give as I head for the exit.

I’m still left with, why? It's 2 A.M.!

The answer-- avoidance. This paper and this school have offered me avoidance to the realities outside the brick and mortar. I’ve hacked away here to make a difference, because it was safer than trying to change the outside world.

As my last editorial dwindles to an end, I see my efforts were futile. I’ve made no lasting impression on you, the reader. Rather, I see it’s come time to make an impression on my own life. The brick and mason of WYHS, though good to me, is no longer going to hold me. No. It’s not over.

It’s just the beginning.

Cheesy, I know. But it captures my high school years. Kind'a fun?

Fucking white boy...

noreply@blogger.com (SORTof BLOG) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 22:12:00 +0000

In my job I have to go to a lot of different schools and work with a lot of different kids. They’re different because they’re gifted-- we’re a strange breed.

Anyway, I also have to go to a lot of different schools for a lot of different meetings. The gifted folks like their meetings. But since I’m not really that gifted, I really don’t care for all the meetings. But that’s a mute point, isn’t it.

I hate meetings.

So, I roll up into the neighborhood today where I have meeting. It’s a nice day, so I have the radio cranked (not to NPR) and I’ve got my windows down.

I should mention here that I sometimes forget that I’m white, because I typically work with all black folks. And I forget, because I don’t really realize. Until someone points it out. And they do, because black folk (and I might be stereotyping) like to point out to white folk that they're white.

Like today, while I was stopped at a stop sign, with the windows down, and the radio cranked.

“Get out of my fucking neighborhood you fucking white boy.”

I look to my left and this woman is coming at me with a broom. (Would it be racist of me to mention that she was of African decent?) She was.

There are cars passing in front of me, so there is not place for me to go. Not sure what to do, I hold up my school badge and press the button to roll up the windows.

Aren’t automatic windows the coolest! And the door auto-door-clicker rocks, too!

This stops here dead in her tracks (The school badge, not the window).

“Oh sorry, mister! You’re cool.”

That’s right. Teachers represent!