Back in DA HOOD...

It's good to be back to the old neighborhood, albeit weird to be in a different house on our same lot. At first the house felt like a hotel: all new stuff and none of it familiar. But now, it is truly feeling like home, and my agoraphobia is coming back. I don't wanna leave my house, you gotta take me kicking and screaming away from it now that I finally have it.

I've observed some wonderful small town characters from my front porch since I've been here, also. There are colorful folks in this town: from Judy, the town drunk who drives around on her John Deere Gator, to The Walking Man, who had a breakdown on Wall Street, or so the rumour goes. He walks around town all day every day. He used to never wave much, but now he follows local custom and waves at us. Maybe it's cuz we are now famous because of our fire.

I can't forget Crazy Alberta, the woman who terrorizes the kids from her car -- and who drives like a bat out of hell around town -- she drives past our house at least 5 times a day, if not more. I see her during every other cigarette.

And finally, there's the Man with No Sleeves: the stocky biker dood who rents the crappy house across the street and moves his 3 trucks around his yard to follow the shade...well, one truck doesn't move as it has a nice bed of weeds growing underneath the rusted frame.

Damn it's good to be back. Maybe soon, we can add one eccentric, PUBLISHED author to the local character list. We almost have the money saved to get my innermost thoughts published, and see if the world gives a shit.

When Life Hands you Lemons…

…make lemonade, is how the cliché goes. Well, I say spit on the lemons. I’m exhausted from the clichés: time heals all wounds, God never gives you more than you can handle, and the best yet is maybe this happened for a reason. What reason would there be to have all my worldly shit and four cats burn up?

I’ve heard all of these things over the past 4 ½ months. Balderdash, is what I say. (That’s a fancy term for bullshit, in case one wonders.) Time will never help me get over all of the pictures, yearbooks, and other momentos that define my past that I lost in that raging fire. God gave me WAY more than I can handle, but my psychiatrist gave me the drugs to deal with it. And the only reason I can see for the fire is that we got a bitchin’ new house … so God wants me to be materialistic? I think not.

See, this is where I’ve been stuck for awhile I guess. I am trying like hell to enjoy this brand new sterile house. I truly love it; it has everything I’ve ever wanted in a house; a big kitchen island, an exotic master bathroom, and a big huge basement to store all of our slowly accumulating shit in. We have plenty of love to make the house a home, and we have collected a menagerie of pets (two cats and one bunny) to share our space with.

But what we lack is history. We have no proof of our existence before January 29, 2009. I have a few things that were at school, like my high school wrestling cheerleading pillow, letter, and show choir album to help me remember my youth. But EVERYTHING else is gone, and I’ve yet to cry about it. I see my shrink at the end of this month, on the fifth-month anniversary of the fire. He will say that externally I am well: sleeping right, eating right, and concentrating on life’s tasks. But will he notice that a part of me died in that fire?

Has anybody noticed that my heart seems hardened to this tragedy? Will anybody care that we are all still hurting, in spite of the beautiful new house and its furnishings?

Pass me the rum, think I’ll make me some rum punch with that lemonade.

Tattoos and Stretch Marks

Some may call it a mid-life crisis, but I call it divine inspiration. I want to get a tattoo at the ripe old age of 45. I've never been opposed to tattoos, but I'm afraid of the pain and I've never found the image that I want to permanently etch on my body.

But recent events have made me change my mind. First, I had a brilliant idea. I'm going to ask my real father to draw me up a tattoo -- just as soon as i choose a concept. He's an artist, and I think THAT would be the coolest thing ever. Second, I found a tattoo artist who does very good work. Third, I'm at a place in my life where having a tattoo hidden on my body wouldn't prevent me from being employed. As a matter of fact, in these times, a tattoo would make me even hipper and cooler to the kids.

Only problem is I'm afraid of the droopy, saggy skin that happens with age. I don't want some gross-looking thing on my body in 20 years -- if I'm so lucky to live that long. So, if I place said tatt on my ankle, maybe it will not stretch. Maybe I could brand myself with an image that is meaningful and beautiful and unique.

Now, I think I'll call Rachmo and discuss the pain factor. She's my former student, my twin separated by 20 years, who has a majority of her body covered in tattoos and piercings. I mean, is it little bee stings or is it oh-my-god-that-hurts? This could be the deal breaker, as I'm a colossal wimp; albeit a wimp with a dream.

Summer Happens...

...at EXACTLY the right time.

Amen.

Whatever it takes...

Allan Monroe is a stoner who doesn't smoke pot (at least not before class that I could tell). He looks and acts the part: hemp jewelry and spacey attitude. When I did final grades last night for photojournalism (the EASIEST class on the planet), his was a 43.76% F.

Our school district studied an educational book entitled "Whatever It Takes" a few years ago. It was a good read, and some conversations ensued that helped us form a culture of learning. Unfortunately, the phrase has been bastardized to mean that teachers are expected to work much harder than students to ensure students pass.

To make a long, predictable story more bearable: Allan came in after his final to try to get a passing grade. We worked for two hours, and once his grade became a D, he decided to try to get it up to a C so his car wouldn't be taken away by his parents. This kid is NOT dumb, I thought, as I entered his 70.14% C into the computer.

Whatever it fucking takes.

Plumbers on Crack

Memorial Day weekend would have been a grand time to officially move into our new house. I say "would have been" because the damn plumber did NOT finish the job as agreed. He told us he'd be done Friday, but instead, only came to measure for the job on Friday and will finish up on Tuesday.

How fucking inconsiderate and lazy. I am so mad...so close and yet so farrrrrrrrrrr.

Well, the distributive property of mathematics applies here (or is it associative?). Plumbers HAVE a crack. I have a foot that would fit in the plumber's crack. Plumbers, therefore, who blow off jobs for 5 weeks DESERVE my foot up their ass.

Ok. Better now.

I am needed

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

While i was waiting for furniture delivery #3, I had Mr. TV News Producer, a former student, go to the high school to "supervise" the kids at newspaper deadline night. We work from after school to 10 PM on these nights, but I really wanted to be there to supervise the furniture deal. (It's a good thing I was there too, one of the whiny delivery doods complained about the mud and almost got my foot up his ass.)

Anyhoo, I maintained cell phone communication with Mr. TV, and I thought all was going well, so I took my time getting back to school. They ordered pizza, and when I returned, things seemed normal enough. Except when the kids got back to work, I realized VERY little work had actually been accomplished in the 2 previous hours.

As the tale of what happened during my absence unfolded, it involved missing Senior editors, soccer games, and students doing tumbling down the hallways. It's hard for a newspaper to get done when you have 3 students actually working. Mr. TV looked like he had been through an old-fashioned washing machine -- and said he had developed a headache from being back in the high school. Welcome to my fucking world!

So, I summonsed up some energy from deep down, and started ordering people to work. The paper got nearly completed by 10 p.m., and I put out approximately 37 fires in the five hours I was there. Kids have so much drama: Lucy, the graphics editor, was annoyed with editor-in-chief's (Laurel) older boyfriend hanging out and making snide comments; Lela, the news editor who happens to have cerebral palsy, was bummed about her parents' impending divorce; and Jason, the sports editor, had to bug out for awhile cuz he was overstimulated and had anxiety.

But, I realized I am needed. It's not enough to have a well-trained staff of high school journalists. I am the catalyst that makes things happen, and I am the hammer that has to drop eventually. According to state law, (Senate File 224) the adviser of a student publication shall "advise" and ensure students adhere to high journalistic standards. The student editors shall assign and edit the news. What the law fails to mention is that the adviser also deals with teenage angst and hormones.

So, to conclude, thanks to Mr. TV News Producer for attempting to supervise and for helping me move furniture into the house, and thanks to my students for keeping me vibrant and alive and youngerish. It's nice to be needed.