THESEARETHEDAYS

student 1: (playfully socks student 2 in the shoulder)

student 2: (playfully taps student 1 in the balls)

student 1: (bowls over)

student 2: awww, my bad, dude. did i hurt you?

student 1: (laughing) naw, i'm straight.

me: (to student 2) did you just sock him in the nuts?

student 2: (laughing) hell yeah. the secret to a good ball tap is flicking the wrist, ms. banana.

me: excellent. note to self . . .

EXO-POLITICS

sooooooo . . . i've been called back for next year.

no, no exclamation point.

i AM happy, of course.

wait, no, RELIEVED. "happy" definitely is NOT the word.

out of 45 teachers laid off in my district, i'm one of 8 who has been asked to return . . . so far.

approximately 20 more people will get off of the RIF list if/when a "renegotiated contract vote" goes through. after that, another 17 will remain on the list. then, IF governor brown obtains approval for the tax extension, then the rest may be called back at any time thereafter.

for my part, any small modicum of joy i might feel at being able to return to my teaching position next year is substantially subdued by my colleagues' absence.

THERESISTANCE

(1990, sun valley, ca: i'm the tall androgynous-looking kid with the paige-boy haircut . . . president of the future teachers of america club, 6th grade, at roscoe elementary school. oh, and btw, i was a narcissistic asshole back then, so that's why i wrote "me beautiful me" . . . i'm a dick.)

i hermit.

i hermit when things in my life go awry, which is, in recent days, much more often than i'd like. i hermit because it's painful--physically, mentally and emotionally painful--asking for help or for comfort. i prefer squirelling myself away into some dark corner and working things out.

alone.

so, i've been hermitting.

several weeks ago, i did, indeed, get RIFed (reduction in force, made redundant . . . canned . . . you get the idea).

i thought i was fine. i made jokes to all my friends about how i'd wash their windows, mow their lawns, clip their toe nails . . . and in a worst case scenario, prostitute my wares to the highest bidder.

well, i'm not ok.

as i face down the real possibility of losing the one thing i've ever really wanted to do, the one thing i've ever done well--teaching--i'm finding i'm definitely NOT OK.

teaching is all i've ever wanted to do.

when i was in 6th grade at roscoe elementary school in sun valley, i was president of the future teachers of america club.

and sure, i also wanted to be a rockette, an astronaut, mary poppins . . . and at my family's not-so-subtle behest, a lawyer . . . i always came back to teaching as my dream.

it was my FIRST CHOICE. yes, FIRST. not second or third. not plan B or C or D. it's what i've always dreamt of doing.

always.

and i believed--mistakenly so--that as long as i worked hard, loved the kids, taught them well, encouraged them, helped them, served as a good role model i'd get to keep on teaching.

but i was wrong.

although tenured, i didn't have sufficient seniority with which to save my faculty position.

and, apparently, what matters most is years of service, not the quality of that service.

it's so fucked. good and truly fucked. sans lube. dry, painful, inexpert, passionless fucked.

y'know, they say that "those who can't do, teach" . . . but some of us who CAN, CHOOSE to teach and teach WELL.

and we teach, yes, but we do so much more besides. we encourage and nurture and counsel and laugh and bring joy and knowledge and perspective and questioning and understanding . . . and if we're lucky, inspiration.

i take it back, peeps. i take it all back.

i don't want to wash your windows or mow your lawns or dole out pedicures or blowjobs.

i don't want to be a rockette or an astronaut or mary poppins or a lawyer.

i don't want to be a textbook editor or an administrator or a substitute.

i want to be what i've always been, what i've always known i'd be and what i always hope to be: a teacher.

THISMISERYWILLSUFFICE

i awoke, only to find my lungs empty
through the night, so it seems i'm not breathing
and now my dreams are nothing like they were meant to be
and i'm breaking down
i think i'm breaking down

and i'm afraid to sleep because of what haunts me
such as living with the uncertainties
that i'll never find the words to say
which would completely explain
just how i'm breaking down

i've become, the simple souvenir of someone's kill
like the sea, i'm constantly changing from calm to ill
madness fills my heart and soul
as if the great divide could swallow me whole
oh, how i'm breaking down

someone come, someone come and save my life
maybe i'll sleep when i am dead
but now it's like the night is taking up sides
with all the worries that occupy the back of my mind
could it be this misery will suffice

--dallas green, city and colour, "sleeping sickness"

THESMALLPRINT

it's that time again.

no, not time to see the dentist or my accountant (although, april 15th IS just around the corner . . .).

it's time for my yearly nether region check-up. or, as an ex-boyfriend used to call it, "the heart of darkness" check-up. which i think is totally bogus, not the least of which because there aren't any skulls or savages in my vagina.

not yet, anyway.

i really should be a big girl and cut out all the bullshit, but i have a bad track record with gynos. really bad.

until recently, i've always had male gynecologists. not a problem, right? wrong. they were either too nice (read: creepy) or mean ("why does a single woman need birth control?" i shit you not. a gyno ACTUALLY said that to me once). either over-the-top male feminists or misogynists.

but like i said, my current gynecologist is a woman. and a damn good, solid, honest, intelligent one at that. a real broad. a woman's woman. and i like her.

so, why don't i want to go?

i'll tell you.

last time i went to see dr. j, i nearly committed suicide.

where shall i begin?

let's start with the bathroom debacle.

i arrive and ask to use the ladies'. so, i go. but because i am a SERIOUS germophobe, i don't sit on the toilet. i hover. but because i bend too far over, the piss runs off my crotch and onto my underwear, pants and i even get some on my socks.

awesome.

then, dr. j's lovely nurse escorts me into the examination room, instructs me to disrobe fully and hands me a napkin.

ok, ok, it wasn't a napkin, it was a hospital gown the size of a napkin.

ok, ok, it wasn't a small gown, i'm just a fatass.

that's right, i said it: i'm a fatass.

i get naked and try putting on the gown and it only covers the front of my body.

excellent.

so, i sit in the examination chair and wedge myself in, hiding my backside, but not my complete and utter humiliation. not a problem, though. i'm used to humiliation.

dr. j finally comes in and we chit-chat, blah, blah, blah . . .

it's time for the exam.

she gets up and steps on the pedal that turns the examination chair in which i'm sitting into an examination table--almost as if by magic (but really it's hydraulics).

BUT NOOOOOOO . . .

not this time friends.

no.

the chair/table begins making the sorts of sounds buffalo make when they're fucking. wild, beastly, primitive, undomesticated, feral, barbaric fucking.

it snorts. it coughs. it barks. it moans. it wails and whines and whimpers and whoops and eventually CATCHES FIRE under the strain of lifting my robust figure.

ok, it wasn't a really big fire or anything, but it was a fire nevertheless! there was smoke, alright?!

all the while, dr. j smiles awkwardly, sheepishly and says, "you fucking cunt, you just broke my exam table! this darn thing is sooooooo old. it's not YOU, honey. i just need to get a new chair."

uh, NO, dr. j, i just need liposuction and a muzzle.

then, both of us, red-faced and rattled, get up and move to the examination room next door.

well, dr. j does.

me? i stay put, mortified on a number of levels. i mean, honestly, does she really expect me to move? i would rather die, joan-of-arc-style, in a blaze of glory, spread-eagled and bare-assed, rather than prolong the abasement any longer.

plus, if i DO get up, the entire, continent-sized span of my white, latina ass will be on full display in front of god and everyone.

dr. j immediately sees the, erm, problem and hands me ANOTHER gown to put on, in reverse.

YES, TWO GOWNS . . . one MASSIVE ass.

wunderbar.

so aaaaaaanyway, if cancer weren't so scary, then i might be willing go toe-to-toe with it just to avoid another medical mishap . . .

MICROCUTS

tomorrow, some 50-60 teachers in my district (roughly 10 at my own school, which is approximately 10% of the faculty) will receive pink slips or RIFs (reduction in force slips).

ummm, here's hoping i still have a job next year . . . (fingers crossed)

and, uh, IF i DO get laid off . . . does anyone need a live-in maid? i do great windows.

MAPOFTHEPROBLEMATIQUE

lots of things go together.

peanut butter and jelly.

milk and cookies.

bert and ernie.

peas and carrots.

sonny and cher.

yin and yang.

vodka and i . . .

and, as i have learned in my line of work: embarrassing moments and teaching.

now, usually it's the kids who find themselves in humiliation's unforgiving spotlight while i stifle snickers and snorts in the shadows. but i, too, have had my fair share of mortifying moments in the sun.

ok, more than my fair share . . .

like the time i asked everyone to please pass up their breasts tests. and its sister moment: "i've graded all your chests."

or the time i was sitting at my desk between two students, a boy and a girl, and i passed an SBD (silent but deadly) fart . . . and blamed it on the boy.

or the time i asked for jizz just one moment . . .

and the list goes on, including my newest:

second period. full class. 42 students.

it was cold. (yeeeeeees, it gets cold in southern california.)

i'd worn a poncho to school. (yes, a PONCHO. but it was a very cool, very expensive, very awesome poncho. it was NOT a speedy gonzalez, frito bandito, or chiquita banana poncho. it was a sexy beast, badass, but still keepin' it classy, professional poncho.)

said poncho got itself stuck in my crack sometime between first period and second period. (what can i say? i've got some weight to lose, ok? so, yeah, it got in there good, alright? i mean, it was on an expedition. lewis and clark style. i'm serious. maybe it was looking for unchartered territory. maybe it was looking for gold . . . or jimmy hoffa . . . or atlantis . . . or el dorado . . . or the missing minutes from the watergate tape . . . i don't know, but it was up there good.)

i didn't feel it. (no comments, please.)

cheerleader: ms. banana, come here for a second.
me: why?
cheerleader: just come here for a moment.
me: WHY?
cheerleader: just do it.
me: (walks over to her seat) what's up?
cheerleader: (giggles) turn around.
me: why?
cheerleader: do it!
me: (turns)
cheerleader: (pulls poncho from my ass)
me: (feels violated!) what the fuck?!?!
class: (rolls around on the floor laughing, dying)

is it not bad enough teachers get neither respect nor pay?

clearly, gahd hates teachers.

RULEDBYSECRECY

dear crusaders,

thank you for coming by, sharing your time and thoughts. this was incredibly fun! i do so look forward to visiting your blogs and writing together.

rach, a special thanks to you for organizing this crusade. you're amazing.

now, it's time to 'fess up . . .

here's the TRUTH:

the secret--i peed on coco. TRUE. i swear. don't know how she got in there. don't ask. BUT SHE DID.
the lie--my nephew and niece did not ask for a duck.
the (interesting) quirk--i like doing my "business" in the dark.
the annoying habit--i never close things properly. in this case: coco's cage.
one of my best character traits--i can see humor in ANYTHING most things.
one of my favorite things in the whole world--my family, especially my nephew and my niece, who are the light and laughter of my world.

AND

here's the TRUE STORY, in its entirety, which i wrote some time back:

not all of life's lessons come from wise, old, respectable sources like our parents, other elders, teachers, or religious scriptures. sometimes they come from much humbler, far less conspicuous places . . .

this is a true story about a hamster named coco.

my brother and his wife both have dog and cat allergies. so, when my nephew and niece got to that age in a child's life when it becomes absolutely necessary to have a pet, my brother and his wife bought them a hamster.

coco, may she rest in peace, was a lovely, delightful hamster. she was demure, petite, loyal, slow to anger, quick to laugh, clever with capacious cheeks and long, pearly white teeth. like all nocturnal creatures (and mobsters), she slept during the day and became active at night, running for hours on end on her little wheel under silvery moonlight.

it is this last that leads us to our tale . . . since i often babysat and am a notoriously light sleeper, in the evenings we’d necessarily move coco from the guest bedroom to the adjoining bathroom. coco, being the ever-gracious hostess, slept in the loo with nary an objection.

one morning, i awoke at the unholy hour of 3am for my usual early morning tinkle. with no lights or wits about me, i rolled from the toasty cosiness of my bed to the icily tenebrous bathroom. in complete darkness, i sat down on the toilet, and as my eyes adjusted to the stygian blackness, i strained to see little coco in her cage. but she was nowhere in sight.

i called to her. no response.

i glanced into the bath tub. nothing.

i turned and peered into the shower. still nothing.

i quickly scanned the floor. no coco.

panic began setting in.

where could she have gone?

had i properly shut her door the night before? how had she escaped? the children would never forgive me if i'd lost their coco.

my mind raced.

it went from the plausible: the children . . . was it them? had the children taken her upstairs to sleep with them without telling me?

to the impossible: la llorona? why not? with no children of her own, maybe she felt a hamster--especially one as handsome as coco--was a suitable replacement.

the chupacabras? not much blood in hamsters, to be sure, but perhaps all it wanted was a light midnight snack.

what? who? how?

WHY?

as i reached for some tissue, a sudden dread enveloped me. i'd checked everywhere for coco. that is, everywhere save the toilet on which i was sitting.

but, no . . . absurd! she couldn't have. could she? how could she even get in there?

using my kegels, i stopped midstream. i listened and then came the most horrifying, indeed, the most sickening sound i could have possibly heard at that moment . . .

splish . . . splash . . . splish . . . splash . . .

IT WAS COCO!

and i had just given her a golden shower.

OMG.

i stood up and looked into the toilet. THERE SHE WAS. there was little coco clinging to the side of the bowl for dear life.

oh, the humanity!

without a thought or moment's hesitation, i reached into the bowl and pulled her out. then, i rushed to the sink and turned on some warm water.

she didn't move.

i was terrified. had i killed her? i knew i shouldn't have had so much water before bed! (thank god we didn't have asparagus for dinner . . .)

i finished rinsing her, and placing her gently on one of the soft, fluffy, pink hand towels, i dried her off.

she still didn't move.

fuck!

please move, coco, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaase.

then came the desperate prayers to god: dear god, if you let coco live i promise to go to church, call my mother more often, stop using profanity . . .

and then, she keeled over.

OH MY FUCKING GOD, she's dead!

thanks a lot, pal!

she LITERALLY keeled over.

some people have the kiss of death.

i, I have the piss of death!

OMG.

i moved in very close.

i nudged her.

and i'll be damned if she didn't spring back to life like frankenstein's monster, scratching and snarling . . .

oh, thank you lord jesus!

then, slowly, coco sat up and began fluffing her fur. after about ten minutes, she was once again perfectly coiffed. she'd been to hell and back, but in true coco style, she didn't look one bit worse for the wear.

i tossed a towel over her and put her softly back in to her cage, making sure the lock was firmly shut.

no, i didn't tell my family. i didn't tell anyone.

until now . . .

and there you are, wondering why you've wasted five minutes of your life reading this shit.

well, little coco went on to live several more happy years at the banana household. and me, i learned a great lesson from that tiny creature: no matter how bad your life gets, you always have to keep a sense of perspective about you because i guarantee that even at its worst, your life is not so bad that you're in a toilet getting pissed on. not usually, anyway . . .

(yeah, ok, i'm sorry. and no, i can't give you your five minutes back.)

KNIGHTSOFCYDONIA

(what? and miss my chance to poke fun at religion?)

i've decided to try my hand at crusading . . . you know, minus the sword, the armor, the knights in white satin, the catholic guilt, the bloodshed and the trips to the middle east.

here's the challenge: in 300 words or less, i'm supposed to tell you . . .

one secret
one lie
one interesting quirk
one annoying habit
one of my best character traits, and
one of my favorite things in the whole world

what follows here encompasses all of the requisites above, but in no particular order. it is not an entirely original piece--as i have written about this story before--but rather a summary of a previous experience, which neatly fits the bill, methinks:

when my niece and nephew were little, they asked their parents for a pet. initially, they requested a fuliguline companion, but their pool was too small. next, they petitioned for a rabbit, bloviating and extolling the virtues of hares, but all to no avail. in the end, they got a hamster.

coco was a delightful hamster. petite, loyal, slow to anger, quick to laugh, clever with a blade-like wit, capacious cheeks and long, pearly white teeth, she--like all nocturnal creatures (and mobsters)--became active at night.

since i often babysat and am a notoriously light sleeper, in the evenings we’d necessarily move coco from the guest bedroom to the adjoining bathroom. coco, being the ever-gracious hostess, slept in the loo with nary an objection.

one morning, i awoke at the unholy hour of 3am for my usual early morning tinkle. with no lights or wits about me, i rolled from the toasty cosiness of my bed to the icily tenebrous bathroom. in complete darkness, i sat down on the toilet, and as my eyes adjusted to the stygian blackness, i strained to see little coco in her cage. but she was nowhere in sight.

calmly, i looked about, pondering coco’s whereabouts.

but as i reached for some tissue, a sudden dread enveloped me. i'd checked everywhere for coco. that is, everywhere save the toilet on which i was sitting.

absurd! she couldn't have. could she? how could she even get in there?

using my kegels, i stopped midstream and listened. then came the most horrifying, indeed, the most sickening sound i could have possibly heard at that moment . . .

splish . . . splash . . . splish . . . splash . . .

IT WAS COCO!

and i had just given her a golden shower.

can you figure out what's what?

ANSWERS THIS COMING FRIDAY.

UNITEDSTATESOFEURASIA

this just in: i have a sense of humor.

no, it's true.

kal just said so.

all this time i thought what i had was a penchant for crude, self-deprecating, foul-mouthed sarcasm, but now i know it's called "humor".

AWESOME!

thanks, kal!