Romantic

by Margaret Atwood

Men and their mournful romanticism
that can't get the dishes done – that's freedom,
that broken wineglass
in the cold fireplace.

When women wash underpants, it's a chore.
When men do it, an intriguing affliction.
How plangent, the damp socks flapping on the line,
how lost and single in the orphaning air . . .

She cherishes that sadness,
tells him to lie down in the grass,
closes each of his eyes with a finger,
applies her body like a poultice.

You poor thing, the Australian woman
while he held our baby –
as if I had forced him to do it,
as if I had my high heel in his face.

Still, who's taken in?
Every time?
Us, and our empty hands,
the hands of starving nurses.

It's bullet holes we want to see in their skin,
scars, and the chance to touch them.

Record Labels

There is a very heavy moment that happens every year in the second right after a student asks me the most dreaded question they dare: "So, what kind of music do you listen to?" The room usually goes silent, every kid waiting to know if my taste matches theirs, for better or for worse, and what my musical inclinations say about me. In that very moment, judgement hangs in the room in the same way that it hung in the Coliseum when the spectators awaited Caesar's signal - will it be life or death for the poor gladiator English teacher?

I always feel like my answer will color the rest of the year, that either they'll respect me for being like minded, they'll shove me into the "old maid" pile, or they'll shrug me off with a label - emo, techno, bubble gum, navel gazer, screamo - or something like that. "Is the cool teacher really cool?" they'll ask, "or have we been snowed the last few months?"

I know it's silly to assign so much meaning to one question and to care about what the answer says about me. Still, I usually answer vaguely - the ole "I listen to all sorts of music," song and dance. But they know as well as I do, that my usual answer is pretty much a cop out. That's why this year I decided to go with, "Actually, lately I'm really interested in this new radio station that plays mostly indie music from people who record in their own homes. You know, the starving musicians who can't afford a fancy recording studio and who refuse sell out to some corporate label. Yeah. I'm into that."

They bought it! I didn't mention that it's the new NPR music station I'm talking about. They didn't ask, as they were nodding approval and wondering what "indie" means.

(Speaking of snowed..)

But there it is. I survived the question one more year.

My time fairy is murdered.

So, it turns out it is surprisingly difficult to write a blog post with a toddler crawling up your leg, crying because you're not paying attention to him RIGHT NOW, with Sesame Street blaring in the background. Add to that a day of high school seniors doing the exact same thing but less endearingly, and what you're left with is a very tired girl whose stress-o-meter points to "OVERLOAD," one tick away from "SHOOT ME."

I realize I've been shitty at this year's NaBloPoMo - as in I've posted- which is good- but I haven't written a whole lot - which, for me, is bad. This is the opposite of what I had hoped would happen. I suppose I thought the magic time fairy would descend upon my world, creating just the right duration for me to calm down from school, be inspired by something, write intelligently about that something, and then have time for things like getting the rest of my ridiculous work load done, making dinner, playing with Jack, bath time, and all the other responsibilities I have, with a few hours left for working out, baking cookies or making sock puppets and homemade glitter, or another some such that perfect moms in a perfect universe do perfectly to make the rest of us feel inadequate.

My time fairy did descend, as requested, but then she did the most disturbing, rude thing one can do to a woman whose stress-o-meter is one tick away from "SHOOT ME." She laughed. In my face. For entire seconds (because who could spare more?). She then flipped me off, turned tail, and flew away.

That's why I had to kill her.

I should tell you that killing time fairies is extremely easy. Turn on one episode of Glee and you'll understand what I mean. TV is the only weapon you'll need..

I wish I could be the type of person who spins plates on poles while doing a back bend and making sandwiches with a smile on my face. But I can't be that girl, no matter how hard I try, (and my smile is usually observed as a grimace). I'm exhausted. Did I mention I have a toddler?

I'll just have to learn to be Ok with writing when I can. Also, I'll have to hope that you'll be patient with me - understanding that I'm trying to visit when I can, that I miss you, and I want to know what's going on in your lives.

In the mean time, I'll try to keep you posted.

Thanks for your patience.

Split Personality

Thankful for Christine

The folks over at ModCloth are affording me the opportunity via their ModCloth Thank-a-thon contest to write about a person I am thankful for. Please enjoy my extremely sincere attempt:

The Office Supply Store:

“Do you think it’s worth a dollar fifty to make our boss happy?” I asked her. We were standing in front of a depleted end cap at Staples, weighing whether or not a package of multi-expressioned smiley face push pins would be part of our next diabolical plan. A stranger standing next to us, pretending to ignore our conversation, smothered a snort.

School:

FISH. It’s an acronym for something. I have no idea what it stands for other than it’s in a book , one that’s among the favorite self help texts used, supposedly, for breathing life back into stifled, floundering grade school faculties across the country. Campuses, at this very moment, are having staff retreats – playing “get-to-know-you” games that involve answering questions like, “How have you made you students’ day? If you have a story about that, grab a red construction paper fish from the pile,” and “How have you been there for the kids lately? Take a green fish if you have,” or “Take a yellow fish if you’ve played lately.” Think, pair, share; think, pair, share. “Now, everybody, throw your fish.”

Or something like that.

It’s times like these, when I’m sitting in the middle of a faculty FISH exercise, a pile of papers in my inbox needing to be marked, that I’m glad to have my equally cynical cohort, my accomplice extraordinaire, Christine, sitting next to me. Mocking such endeavors in the form of secretly exchanged glances, or the defacement of construction paper fish, or by the planning and executing of diabolical plans – chocked full of jackholery - are the only ways we know how to deal with the overwhelming proof that in our country teachers are not considered intellectuals.

Apparently, we’re FISH.

Choose your attitude:

A black and white printout touting this message is taped on the back of the main office door, so that when one exits the office, she sees the sign. Underneath the message are two faces, the elementary equivalent of theater masks: a happy face and a sad one.

“What’s up with this sign? I would wager that it’s part of the FISH philosophy,” I said to Christine as we walked together out of the office.

“Dude. There are more than two choices aren’t there? I mean what about being mad (zigzag mouth) or surprised (large oval mouth) or indifferent (a line)? Are these two the only options? ”

“We should add the others. Obviously, this sign is lacking.”

It was agreed. With enthusiasm, everyone, including the office staff, riffled through their desk drawers looking for markers, finding any excuse to throw caution to the wind.

“This will be a great joke,” we exclaimed. “It’ll make our boss’s day! She’ll laugh at our ingenuity and praise us for playing! This is our way of FISHing without being intrusive! And she’ll understand that positive change comes from all sorts of places, including sad faces. It will be brilliant!!”

Markers in hand, we set about “correcting” the sign. We added all sorts of facial options, delighting in our creative genius, liberating the masses, hoisting our own petards! We were cheered and revered by all and, after many high fives and giggles, our mission complete, we skipped back to the realities of our lives – down the hall to our respective classrooms.

The Next Day:

The next day the sign had been replaced with a new, clean printout. The glory of our masterpiece had been taken down without the slightest acknowledgement or reprimand, thrown like a dead fish onto a trash heap.

The Office Supply Store:

Christine raised an eyebrow and smirked. “It might not be worth making the boss happy, but a dollar fifty to make us happy? Absolutely, it’s worth it.”

“I’ll take two packages. Let’s add a card that says ‘See! There are more than two attitude choices!” I said with a fist in the air.

“And we’ll put one package on our boss’s desk when she’s not looking!”

“Yes! And I’ll divide the other one between us as souvenirs.”

And we skipped off to the checkout counter having crafted a new reality, one that involved as many expressions - diabolical glee, perhaps - as we could imagine.

** Thank you, Christine, for being my very dear friend - the one who hears me, goes to bat for me, and is a complete jackhole, no matter what others think, with me. I am thankful for you, always and forever. I love you!!

Overheard: Salon

During a break from the titillating stimulation of dead white men like Sir Francis Bacon and Mr. Winston Smith*, a side conversation at the salon:

Him: "So, what's your favorite male, angry dance moment in an 80's movie?"

Me: (inquisitive, befuddled brow, clearly (though I couldn't see myself) since he had to give a patient example)

Him: "For example, mine's Kevin Bacon - when he does that angry gymnastics dance in the warehouse in the movie Footloose."

Her: "Right. And mine is Emilio Estevez's detention dance in The Breakfast Club."

Me: (smiling) You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you. That's why I love you both, dearly. "I'm not sure.."

**Technically Winston Smith isn't dead, but come on! The bullet's coming any day now, right?

My week, summed up in a clip: