Yesterday I drove my dad's truck down to Rochester/Elgin to meet Mr. O & Mr. T (another English teacher-man) for lunch, and then I drove to Elgin to take some things from the chicken coop that I'd need for school.
It wasn't easy, being in Rochester again. Well, I should rephrase that. It was easy being there, but it wasn't easy leaving. It wasn't easy thinking of myself on my own instead of alongside Mr. O or in close range of Mr. T, who helped me plan so much last year.
But it was an amazing two-hour lunch. Mr. T told us about his trip to New Zealand (tell us all about New Zealand, Mr. O said, and I piped in with, yeah, what's their per capita income! and then Mr. O recognized his dorkiness and we continued with comments like, please list all of their major exports.)
Mr. T has decided everyone should move to New Zealand, although I told him that I can't live on an island because I'll get too claustrophobic, running along the shoreline screaming: let me off, let me off, let me off! (Like that episode of The Simpsons when Marge is on the plane.)
Mr. O said he'd spent the summer camping, that he'd accidentally grown a mustache (please, please, grow a mustache, I pleaded, and then walk around town in a Cheap Trick t-shirt) and that he'd recently spent the week with relatives who'd eaten four pounds of bacon in four days.
They had bacon for every meal, he said. I made them salad with grilled chicken and the next day they said, "yeah, we're gonna go find some bacon." For one meal, they just had bacon, a plate of salami, and cheese, and you were supposed to make some sort of sandwich out of it. And then the next morning they woke up--and guess what they made. Bacon.
And eggs? I asked.
No. Just bacon.
I said, I bet your house smells awesome.
And we talked about movies, and Beowulf (you haven't seen the movie, I said. Well, it's nothing like the poem at all. You have to see it. Beowulf sleeps with Grendel's mother and the dragon is his son! She seduces him by touching his giant sword) and my chemistry/English classroom and summers and paychecks and slabs of concrete. Mr. T told us of his glamorous extra credit opportunities: There's a 5 point extra credit opportunity for anyone who builds a life size replica of Noah's Ark. ...If you read the entire Divine Comedy instead of just Dante's Inferno and write a 20 page paper about it: 5 points. ...If anyone needs 5 extra credit points, I'm offering an opportunity if you get a pictorial version of The Epic of Gilgamesh tattooed all over your entire body.
We're all quite hilarious people.
I suppose nobody really cares about any of this, but I think I'm just writing it so I remember--that maybe I don't necessarily have to let last year go and go forever, that maybe I can live away from Rochester and just be happy that there are a couple of people I connected with there, that it was my first school, Century, that if you work with at least one or two people that you really connect with (who look at life the same way you do, maybe, or at least find the funny things about it) that a job could be really amazing.
Must I say again, why grad school was really some sort of dream job where you worked with all your friends---the same reasons I loved my job at Subway when I was 17, breaking into the store with Steven at one in the morning and drinking all the Koolbursts my gut could handle, and why probably the best job I'll ever have was when I worked at Videoland for $5.25 with Lance and red-headed Liz, laminating dead mosquitoes and talking about movies all day and watching videos of pregnancy in reverse in the backroom. Sometimes I imagine how amazing it would be if all of us were high school teachers--if all of you came with me and we taught in the same school--and the thought of it makes my head almost explode.
Not interested? Fine. I'll tell you another mouse story.
After lunch I drove the truck to Elgin to load it with so much of my shit. The shit has been in the chicken coop for the past couple of months. Two months offers more dust that one would initially imagine.
I first grabbed a filex folder, the kind that is like a storage box, the one I intend to use for handouts for kids who are absent, and I put it in the back seat of the truck. And then I looked inside the tiny little hole, and inside that tiny little hole was a tiny little mouse.
Now. I expected that I might come across some sort of grossness while loading these things. I expected juicy spiders whose bodies look like they may be filled with water like a balloon ready to burst--and I got them--but I did not expect that the first thing I touched would have a mouse in it.
So I screamed. Of course! And even before getting the thing out of the truck, I imagined what would've happened had I not seen it, if I'd loaded it all up and then while turning onto 52 felt fur and then tiny nails at my ankle while I was trying to drive. I thought of how I'd have died. Not in an accident, but of a goddamned heart attack. Can you fucking imagine.
Just like old times, Elgin. How I'll miss the days of dressing while standing on my bed so a mouse doesn't run up my leg.
So I picked up the file folder and threw it to the grass, and a mouse pranced out. I didn't think there was just one. I thought a whole mouse nest had been set up in the thing, that I'd look to the bottom and see mouse babies. But fortunately no.
And I loaded the rest of those boxes. I didn't see any more mice. But that doesn't mean they weren't there. And the ride home I was pretty certain that they were going to come out and attack me.
The boxes are still sitting in the truck, and I very much do not want to unload them. I know there's gotta be another mouse. Some of those things were open bags (I was in a hurry when I packed, and as a result, some of my books will now smell like dead chickens) and mice hide themselves in any vacancy. I'm now officially frightened to start organizing my stuff for school, even though I desperately need to. Even though yesterday when I said I'd done nothing, no pretty much nothing all summer, Mr. O looked at me very seriously and said, now when does school start? And breathed sort of heavy in fear for me.
Er, it'll be fine.
And if anyone would like to come over and listen for scratching noises at the tailgate, please do. I have to get my shit together and there are possibly vermin in the way.
Same shit, different outfit.
You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself. Not one single fuck.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
these are dog days in Albertville
(Wednesday & Thursday)
This is that week of summer when people who don't have an air conditioning either make it, or they don't. They sweat in their sheets with fans in their faces, or they stay with Central-Air friends. They go to the movies a little more than usual, order giant Cokes, they hang out in the cooler section of the grocery stores, then they take cold showers, then they put ice in their shorts. This is that week of summer.
And yesterday was that week of summer of my youth. When I finished teacher classes in Hutchinson, I came home to Albertville. When he came home, my dad said: they brought us Gatorade and water at work. It's fucking hot. Small town dog day: my mom cleaning out her car in the driveway with the Shopvac, shoeless. "Walking After Midnight" playing from the garage radio--the old crackly one that sounds like it should be in an old gas station--and my dad with the air compressor and it's little loud motor.
I'd asked him to fill up the tires on my mom's old bike, the 12-speed Brittany with the handlebars that look like an ass. I was going to the movie store to buy a used copy of Beowulf. He let the air flow through the air compressor, blew it in the dog's face, and Bourbon let out a tight-muzzled bark and put his tail between his legs. While my dad filled the tires, I brought Bourbon a bowl of cold water. He took two laps and then wrapped his leash around the bowl and splashed most of the water onto the concrete garage floor. He was panting so hard it looked like he couldn't stop grinning, as though he'd just had the best lay of his life.
I like riding the bike around town. Wallet in the hand on the side of the brakes that don't work. The tires have metal guards that have rusted. A basket could easily fit on front. It's a grandma bike. I parked it out front of the store, no lock, got my movie and turned around home. When I got back, my dad had the Intrepid in the cul-de-sac, hood up. Goddamn thing, he said. He was in his navy blue work pants and a black shirt and baseball cap. The radio was still crackling from the garage. In his mouth, a cigar with the mouth end chewed and frayed. He spit a chunk of tobacco from the cigar on the road. Goddamn leaking coolant. The engine was running and giving off it's own heat, like a field of corn in the humidity. Goddamn. The dig sniffed the sweat off my leg with his cold nose.
This morning the run was (as I've said before) like running under a down comforter. I stunk. And after, I went to a movie alone (500 Days of Summer--a good flick, but maybe a bit depressing by my lonesome) and bought markers and crayons for my classroom and an old sewing kit from the thrift store to hold them. And tonight, another bike ride on the 12-speed. This one at dusk, past the bars, with big sunglasses not dark enough to block the glare of the setting sun. The only adults on bikes in Albertville are either followed by children or have whiskey plates and revoked licenses, so I'm a rarity.
And so continues life in Albertville. I've seen too much of my sister, and fortunately little of Dingleberry. He's nocturnal. Actually, it's like he's an old ghost and haunting the place. Like I see through him now. I see him in the refrigerator for a snack. I see him walking in the basement in the dark, I see him smoking cheap cigarettes in the garage, slowly bringing his arm to his mouth to take a drag, sitting in an old lawn chair, with legs crossed and a blank look on his face, staring. (A washed up Hollywood bombshell, rethinking her life, it's like. He might as well be holding a neat glass of scotch.) I even convinced myself that he wasn't really here, maybe the ghost of the family that used to live in this house, the kid that killed himself back in '85--a couple of years before music told kids to kill themselves. But that's dark. And he can't be a ghost from a family past, because we're the first family in this house. We built it. And by the rules of the supernatural, this will be the place that I will have to haunt.
***
(Saturday)
I wrote that above part a couple of days ago, had to save it to Word, but didn't get a chance to publish it. And now, I must update you on the granny bike situation.
That was two days ago. Last night, Friday, I made a bad decision to go bike-riding in a sundress. Here's some free advice: don't bike in a dress unless you want the line of cars at the stoplight waiting to go to the outlet mall to see your blue underwear.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you. What I wanted to tell you is that Albertville has a bully and he lives right by my block.
It was around 7:00 last night, and it was hot and I was bored, so I wheeled the 12-speed out of the garage and hopped on. I tucked my dress in my crotch, thinking it wouldn't blow up, and for the most part it didn't right away. So, I'm in a sundress and flip flops on this granny bike, pedaling slowly, probably wearing a stupid grin on my face because it feels like 1953, and also probably wearing a little bit of chocolate on my face because I've just had a giant piece of chocolate cake.
A couple of blocks down, I pass a gaggle of kids. They aren't riding their bikes, but they're sitting on them, perched like birds, really, hanging out on the corner. One kid, a mean one, stops and looks at me. He has a smug look on his face. I don't think this smug look is directed at me, because I'm an adult and he's like fucking ten years old.
But then he gives a smug nod to match his smug grin, and he says: hey. He says hey as though something important is going to follow, hey as in hey, I have to tell you something.
And me, in my sundress and probably-chocolate-face, say, hello.
And then he stares at me, And it is at this point that I realize that this kid is a bully. His shaggy blond hair, his smug grin and nod and perched-on-my-bike stance, and his red shirt. Everyone knows bullies wear red shirts.
Then he says, NICE BIKE.
I half-laugh at his comment, and then am confused by it, and then say, thanks! And give him a big grin and ride on. But about three full pedals afterward, I'm full-fledged pissed at this kid. I want to turn around and wheel back and point at him and say, yeah, well NICE HAIRCUT! Did your mom give it to you? And then I want to say, you know what, I'm a teacher and you can't talk to me like that, you fucker. I want to say, are you aware, young man, that I am TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD?
But I guess instead I was just glad that he didn't call me fat, that he only commented on my ironically awesome bike (and that he just didn't understand the irony), and that he was probably going to grow up to be an asshole, or accused of date-rape when he was 17, and that if I really wanted, I could've kicked the shit out of him.
And then I drove into town--into the increasing bike-speed wind--and showed everyone my panties.
This is that week of summer when people who don't have an air conditioning either make it, or they don't. They sweat in their sheets with fans in their faces, or they stay with Central-Air friends. They go to the movies a little more than usual, order giant Cokes, they hang out in the cooler section of the grocery stores, then they take cold showers, then they put ice in their shorts. This is that week of summer.
And yesterday was that week of summer of my youth. When I finished teacher classes in Hutchinson, I came home to Albertville. When he came home, my dad said: they brought us Gatorade and water at work. It's fucking hot. Small town dog day: my mom cleaning out her car in the driveway with the Shopvac, shoeless. "Walking After Midnight" playing from the garage radio--the old crackly one that sounds like it should be in an old gas station--and my dad with the air compressor and it's little loud motor.
I'd asked him to fill up the tires on my mom's old bike, the 12-speed Brittany with the handlebars that look like an ass. I was going to the movie store to buy a used copy of Beowulf. He let the air flow through the air compressor, blew it in the dog's face, and Bourbon let out a tight-muzzled bark and put his tail between his legs. While my dad filled the tires, I brought Bourbon a bowl of cold water. He took two laps and then wrapped his leash around the bowl and splashed most of the water onto the concrete garage floor. He was panting so hard it looked like he couldn't stop grinning, as though he'd just had the best lay of his life.
I like riding the bike around town. Wallet in the hand on the side of the brakes that don't work. The tires have metal guards that have rusted. A basket could easily fit on front. It's a grandma bike. I parked it out front of the store, no lock, got my movie and turned around home. When I got back, my dad had the Intrepid in the cul-de-sac, hood up. Goddamn thing, he said. He was in his navy blue work pants and a black shirt and baseball cap. The radio was still crackling from the garage. In his mouth, a cigar with the mouth end chewed and frayed. He spit a chunk of tobacco from the cigar on the road. Goddamn leaking coolant. The engine was running and giving off it's own heat, like a field of corn in the humidity. Goddamn. The dig sniffed the sweat off my leg with his cold nose.
This morning the run was (as I've said before) like running under a down comforter. I stunk. And after, I went to a movie alone (500 Days of Summer--a good flick, but maybe a bit depressing by my lonesome) and bought markers and crayons for my classroom and an old sewing kit from the thrift store to hold them. And tonight, another bike ride on the 12-speed. This one at dusk, past the bars, with big sunglasses not dark enough to block the glare of the setting sun. The only adults on bikes in Albertville are either followed by children or have whiskey plates and revoked licenses, so I'm a rarity.
And so continues life in Albertville. I've seen too much of my sister, and fortunately little of Dingleberry. He's nocturnal. Actually, it's like he's an old ghost and haunting the place. Like I see through him now. I see him in the refrigerator for a snack. I see him walking in the basement in the dark, I see him smoking cheap cigarettes in the garage, slowly bringing his arm to his mouth to take a drag, sitting in an old lawn chair, with legs crossed and a blank look on his face, staring. (A washed up Hollywood bombshell, rethinking her life, it's like. He might as well be holding a neat glass of scotch.) I even convinced myself that he wasn't really here, maybe the ghost of the family that used to live in this house, the kid that killed himself back in '85--a couple of years before music told kids to kill themselves. But that's dark. And he can't be a ghost from a family past, because we're the first family in this house. We built it. And by the rules of the supernatural, this will be the place that I will have to haunt.
***
(Saturday)
I wrote that above part a couple of days ago, had to save it to Word, but didn't get a chance to publish it. And now, I must update you on the granny bike situation.
That was two days ago. Last night, Friday, I made a bad decision to go bike-riding in a sundress. Here's some free advice: don't bike in a dress unless you want the line of cars at the stoplight waiting to go to the outlet mall to see your blue underwear.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you. What I wanted to tell you is that Albertville has a bully and he lives right by my block.
It was around 7:00 last night, and it was hot and I was bored, so I wheeled the 12-speed out of the garage and hopped on. I tucked my dress in my crotch, thinking it wouldn't blow up, and for the most part it didn't right away. So, I'm in a sundress and flip flops on this granny bike, pedaling slowly, probably wearing a stupid grin on my face because it feels like 1953, and also probably wearing a little bit of chocolate on my face because I've just had a giant piece of chocolate cake.
A couple of blocks down, I pass a gaggle of kids. They aren't riding their bikes, but they're sitting on them, perched like birds, really, hanging out on the corner. One kid, a mean one, stops and looks at me. He has a smug look on his face. I don't think this smug look is directed at me, because I'm an adult and he's like fucking ten years old.
But then he gives a smug nod to match his smug grin, and he says: hey. He says hey as though something important is going to follow, hey as in hey, I have to tell you something.
And me, in my sundress and probably-chocolate-face, say, hello.
And then he stares at me, And it is at this point that I realize that this kid is a bully. His shaggy blond hair, his smug grin and nod and perched-on-my-bike stance, and his red shirt. Everyone knows bullies wear red shirts.
Then he says, NICE BIKE.
I half-laugh at his comment, and then am confused by it, and then say, thanks! And give him a big grin and ride on. But about three full pedals afterward, I'm full-fledged pissed at this kid. I want to turn around and wheel back and point at him and say, yeah, well NICE HAIRCUT! Did your mom give it to you? And then I want to say, you know what, I'm a teacher and you can't talk to me like that, you fucker. I want to say, are you aware, young man, that I am TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD?
But I guess instead I was just glad that he didn't call me fat, that he only commented on my ironically awesome bike (and that he just didn't understand the irony), and that he was probably going to grow up to be an asshole, or accused of date-rape when he was 17, and that if I really wanted, I could've kicked the shit out of him.
And then I drove into town--into the increasing bike-speed wind--and showed everyone my panties.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
the thinking game.
Since the weather is going to hang out in the 90s this week, and since the humidity will be that wet, sticky mess--as though the state is one giant locker room--I've decided to start my four-miles-a-day running routine. Eating whatever I've wanted all summer hasn't gone so well in losing weight, really. 3 miles a day gave me great calves, though.
But wouldn't it be great if I'd had this idea any other week of the summer? Those weeks of 60s and 70s and gentle breeze? That's not how life works, though. The best ideas come at the least opportune times. How many poems I've written while in that lucid stage between sleep and awake, poems that are forgotten by the next morning.
Well, I'm crabby today. I got my haircut yesterday and the woman thought I was in high school. And it's my fault: I went with my mom and let her pay for it. I'm waiting for the government to send me the money they owe so I can buy school supplies. This house stinks. I sleep too much and watch too much TV and I have no desire to prep anything for school. All summer, I just look at apartments I might get when I finally move to Hutchinson. They're more expensive than they should be. I asked my mom to go car shopping with me next weekend, and she responded with YOUR STUDENT LOANS ARE GOING TO BE $600 A MONTH! and now I can't stop freaking out about money, again, even though she really has no real source for any of this information.
I just want all of my fucking stuff in one fucking place. That's all I want. I would like to sleep in my own bed, please. I would like a car that doesn't drain itself of power steering fluid every five hours and sound like it makes whale sounds when I turn the wheel. Summer, summer, summer, please, please end.
Tomorrow I go to Hutchinson to take a couple of prep courses--for technology I can use in the classroom. They pay me to come. Not much, but they do. It will technically be the first time I've earned my own money since May 2008. That's 15 months. If you've been wondering how someone could be so broke, that's why. If you're wondering why someone would give up any sort of living to go to school, to get a teaching license, to work fulltime for free, all I can tell you is I'd still do it again. I'd do it so again.
And without money all I've been able to do is think about things. I just think, and think, and think all fucking day, and never, ever do. I think about what I'll do when the time comes to do something. Think about it, stress about it, sleep so I stop thinking for awhile. What will I buy when I finally get to go grocery shopping? What clothes will I give away and replace? What will I buy for my classroom? What will I wear the first day of school? What will I say in my introduction to all the teachers in this district? Where will I live? What will I drive? How much can I afford, and when does my pay start? What will I bring for lunch everyday? Will I have to eat in the teacher's lounge? Does Hutchinson have a bell that rings, or a long-note tone?
I want to wake up and I want it to be October.
*
On the lighter side of things, my good friend Lance is now a husband and a father, the father part of him known as: Papa Lance. His "wedding of the century" was one hell of a party, full of nostalgia from Winona undergraduate days. The pushing reminder that I most certainly do not see Lance enough, which is ridiculous. Certainly the most fun I've ever, ever had in Fargo. It just feels so good to see friends so happy. Lance is married! And years ago, he was just a swinging bachelor with a hammock in his living room.
But wouldn't it be great if I'd had this idea any other week of the summer? Those weeks of 60s and 70s and gentle breeze? That's not how life works, though. The best ideas come at the least opportune times. How many poems I've written while in that lucid stage between sleep and awake, poems that are forgotten by the next morning.
Well, I'm crabby today. I got my haircut yesterday and the woman thought I was in high school. And it's my fault: I went with my mom and let her pay for it. I'm waiting for the government to send me the money they owe so I can buy school supplies. This house stinks. I sleep too much and watch too much TV and I have no desire to prep anything for school. All summer, I just look at apartments I might get when I finally move to Hutchinson. They're more expensive than they should be. I asked my mom to go car shopping with me next weekend, and she responded with YOUR STUDENT LOANS ARE GOING TO BE $600 A MONTH! and now I can't stop freaking out about money, again, even though she really has no real source for any of this information.
I just want all of my fucking stuff in one fucking place. That's all I want. I would like to sleep in my own bed, please. I would like a car that doesn't drain itself of power steering fluid every five hours and sound like it makes whale sounds when I turn the wheel. Summer, summer, summer, please, please end.
Tomorrow I go to Hutchinson to take a couple of prep courses--for technology I can use in the classroom. They pay me to come. Not much, but they do. It will technically be the first time I've earned my own money since May 2008. That's 15 months. If you've been wondering how someone could be so broke, that's why. If you're wondering why someone would give up any sort of living to go to school, to get a teaching license, to work fulltime for free, all I can tell you is I'd still do it again. I'd do it so again.
And without money all I've been able to do is think about things. I just think, and think, and think all fucking day, and never, ever do. I think about what I'll do when the time comes to do something. Think about it, stress about it, sleep so I stop thinking for awhile. What will I buy when I finally get to go grocery shopping? What clothes will I give away and replace? What will I buy for my classroom? What will I wear the first day of school? What will I say in my introduction to all the teachers in this district? Where will I live? What will I drive? How much can I afford, and when does my pay start? What will I bring for lunch everyday? Will I have to eat in the teacher's lounge? Does Hutchinson have a bell that rings, or a long-note tone?
I want to wake up and I want it to be October.
*
On the lighter side of things, my good friend Lance is now a husband and a father, the father part of him known as: Papa Lance. His "wedding of the century" was one hell of a party, full of nostalgia from Winona undergraduate days. The pushing reminder that I most certainly do not see Lance enough, which is ridiculous. Certainly the most fun I've ever, ever had in Fargo. It just feels so good to see friends so happy. Lance is married! And years ago, he was just a swinging bachelor with a hammock in his living room.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Welcome back, Jean.
Got in at 4:30 yesterday afternoon. Traffic in Minneapolis as expected, but it felt good to drive in the Lowry tunnel again. I've eaten my face off in unhealthy food from my parent's freezer, taken the dog for a walk, painted my toenails bright red. Ate something my dad called a "fart bar" which lived up to its name, lived up to its name for a good four hours.
Ran four miles this morning on Albertville's unshaded sidewalks. I'm going school shopping tomorrow, for Travis, who refuses to come. My mom has given me her check card and his pants and shoe sizes, so I'll decide what the kid is going to look like for 7th grade while he sits at home and plays Wii for 14 hours straight.
This afternoon, my mom came up the stairs and said what the hell do you have? Is that a baby bottle? to the dog, and when I looked over, he was chewing a douche bag. She realized what is was--not hers, my sister's from under the bathroom sink [pause a moment while we all THROW UP]--and yelled at him and took it away. I just pretended not to notice all of it and silently laughed. My back was to her. What kind of gross-o uses a douche? She doesn't even leave the house. How does anything all up in there get dirty?
Might as well just shove a soap on a rope in there and wait for infection.
Oh, man, that's fucking disgusting.
Ran four miles this morning on Albertville's unshaded sidewalks. I'm going school shopping tomorrow, for Travis, who refuses to come. My mom has given me her check card and his pants and shoe sizes, so I'll decide what the kid is going to look like for 7th grade while he sits at home and plays Wii for 14 hours straight.
This afternoon, my mom came up the stairs and said what the hell do you have? Is that a baby bottle? to the dog, and when I looked over, he was chewing a douche bag. She realized what is was--not hers, my sister's from under the bathroom sink [pause a moment while we all THROW UP]--and yelled at him and took it away. I just pretended not to notice all of it and silently laughed. My back was to her. What kind of gross-o uses a douche? She doesn't even leave the house. How does anything all up in there get dirty?
Might as well just shove a soap on a rope in there and wait for infection.
Oh, man, that's fucking disgusting.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The "a little bit less depressing" leaving GB post: the top 20 moments in random order.
1. Me. In Lake Michigan. Drunk and not wearing pants.
2. "Fatties in the back" with Elyse: the rap song we wrote while playing the game of Life. It goes as such: fatties in the back, y'all, hos in the front. Bitches in the sidecar, your mom's in my bedroom.
3. "FUCK YOU APRIL" the only thing Mark took away from Revolutionary Road.
4. Peaches with oatmeal cobbler.
5. "Met him on a Monday and we f'ed all night! The doo run run run, the doo run run."
6. Bowling with Jenny & Elyse. Playing Santa Claus.
7. Dr. Mario domination. And Jeopardy losses. And Monday game night with Mark when Jenny's at class. Battletoads.
8. The running route.
9. Lunch with grandma and grandpa.
10. The beach, the beach, the beach.
11. Waterslides in GB.
12. The maxi pad on that sign we passed every Tuesday.
13. That chai shake I had that one day.
14. Golden Girls with Jenny.
15. The drunken Thursday night: picking out wedding songs and a whole bottle of wine.
16. So much pizza.
17. Can I say the entire 4th of July weekend? The entire 4th of July weekend. The speed boat, the soaking, the hot tub. When I lost my sense of taste for a day and was told: this isn't bad! It's great! You can drink straight vodka! And then I pretty much did, along with cinnamon whiskey and champagne.
18. That guy at McDonald's with the shirt that just said: cheap trick cheap trick cheap trick cheap trick cheap trick.
19. The shirtless man who walks around Green Bay.
20. How I read all of Macbeth and conjured up some lesson plans to teach it and then got the email that said oh yeah I took that out of the curriculum.
Are there more? Yes.
21. The Bullfrogs game when Justin told Jenny her shirt smells like sex in front of a toddler and his very annoyed grandma.
22. Cornhole. Badminton.
23. Jenny's sausage pasta. And all that other food she made me.
24. Woodman's in the summer, throwing groceries at Elyse. Listen to her laugh as I tell a man outta my way!
25. Bad TV with good people.
26. Ice cream at Hansen's.
27. Inappropriateness on the white board; Mary "slut."
28. CHAD.
29. Sleeping in. Sleeping with a fan.
30. Jenny! Just Jenny.
2. "Fatties in the back" with Elyse: the rap song we wrote while playing the game of Life. It goes as such: fatties in the back, y'all, hos in the front. Bitches in the sidecar, your mom's in my bedroom.
3. "FUCK YOU APRIL" the only thing Mark took away from Revolutionary Road.
4. Peaches with oatmeal cobbler.
5. "Met him on a Monday and we f'ed all night! The doo run run run, the doo run run."
6. Bowling with Jenny & Elyse. Playing Santa Claus.
7. Dr. Mario domination. And Jeopardy losses. And Monday game night with Mark when Jenny's at class. Battletoads.
8. The running route.
9. Lunch with grandma and grandpa.
10. The beach, the beach, the beach.
11. Waterslides in GB.
12. The maxi pad on that sign we passed every Tuesday.
13. That chai shake I had that one day.
14. Golden Girls with Jenny.
15. The drunken Thursday night: picking out wedding songs and a whole bottle of wine.
16. So much pizza.
17. Can I say the entire 4th of July weekend? The entire 4th of July weekend. The speed boat, the soaking, the hot tub. When I lost my sense of taste for a day and was told: this isn't bad! It's great! You can drink straight vodka! And then I pretty much did, along with cinnamon whiskey and champagne.
18. That guy at McDonald's with the shirt that just said: cheap trick cheap trick cheap trick cheap trick cheap trick.
19. The shirtless man who walks around Green Bay.
20. How I read all of Macbeth and conjured up some lesson plans to teach it and then got the email that said oh yeah I took that out of the curriculum.
Are there more? Yes.
21. The Bullfrogs game when Justin told Jenny her shirt smells like sex in front of a toddler and his very annoyed grandma.
22. Cornhole. Badminton.
23. Jenny's sausage pasta. And all that other food she made me.
24. Woodman's in the summer, throwing groceries at Elyse. Listen to her laugh as I tell a man outta my way!
25. Bad TV with good people.
26. Ice cream at Hansen's.
27. Inappropriateness on the white board; Mary "slut."
28. CHAD.
29. Sleeping in. Sleeping with a fan.
30. Jenny! Just Jenny.
End of Green Bay Days.
A panic attack this morning when the ipod stopped working on the run. The songs would play one second, skip to the next, move through the list. I couldn't turn it off so I pulled out the earbuds, held it in my sweaty palm and finished the workout. And with a sideache.
Thought of the shitty situation: leaving tomorrow, and with the radio stolen, the ipod my only music.
But I restored it. It works now, after taking off all the songs and putting them back on. Thank God. Surprise, too, that I fixed something technology related. I fucking fixed it.
*
I've been having issues with time for awhile, but especially since I've been in Green Bay. At the same time it feels like I arrived yesterday and it feels like I've been here for at least three months. The lawn day weekend, the fourth of July weekend, the job offer from Hutchinson--all feel like something from half a year ago, at least a couple of seasons ago, instead of the start of the summer. The year at Century? I can't remember how it started. I can't remember the everyday. And it still feels like seasons until school starts again. I can't envision my classroom, I can't motivate myself to really plan lessons, I can't accept that I'll be going at my own classroom, all on my own. The thought of living in Albertville until October makes me a little sick, but I really have no choice; no money; two months longer without my bed; the thought of the busy schedule that coordinates with eaching. I've forgotten what it's like to not be lazy.
Secretly, I'm glad I didn't work this summer. Secretly, I'm glad I didn't have to work with customers, wake up and go to work. I hate myself for this. I need work to start so I no longer feel like such a slug, so useless, such a bum, such a mooch. I need the students. I need my career.
But how long is it going to take to start, and how long is it going to feel like it takes to start?
Jenny & Mark have taken such good care of me these six weeks. But it's time to leave and start planning. This summer, I guess, I've just put my life on hiatus. Thought of things I'd do if I had money, didn't have creditors calling three times an hour, didn't hate myself for not working even though I suppose I really could have. Hopefully, it's just a pause between studenthood and adulthood, or careerhood. The last time I'll play these games, have to have friends buy me lunch all the time, have to feel ashamed or lazy. I hope this is the last summer I have to make excuses. I spent a lot of the last couple of months feeling like I don't deserve the good things that are happening to me. But also not the horrible things that are happening to me.
It's the summer before I go back to school to teach, not to be a student. To start the next big part of life that eight years of college took me to reach. I keep thinking of what I expect it to be like, but I really have no idea. Other than a lot of work. And what if I just get so busy and overwhelmed I just wish for the days of brokeness, of summer 2009, when I gave myself no responsibility. When I took no responsibility.
Thought of the shitty situation: leaving tomorrow, and with the radio stolen, the ipod my only music.
But I restored it. It works now, after taking off all the songs and putting them back on. Thank God. Surprise, too, that I fixed something technology related. I fucking fixed it.
*
I've been having issues with time for awhile, but especially since I've been in Green Bay. At the same time it feels like I arrived yesterday and it feels like I've been here for at least three months. The lawn day weekend, the fourth of July weekend, the job offer from Hutchinson--all feel like something from half a year ago, at least a couple of seasons ago, instead of the start of the summer. The year at Century? I can't remember how it started. I can't remember the everyday. And it still feels like seasons until school starts again. I can't envision my classroom, I can't motivate myself to really plan lessons, I can't accept that I'll be going at my own classroom, all on my own. The thought of living in Albertville until October makes me a little sick, but I really have no choice; no money; two months longer without my bed; the thought of the busy schedule that coordinates with eaching. I've forgotten what it's like to not be lazy.
Secretly, I'm glad I didn't work this summer. Secretly, I'm glad I didn't have to work with customers, wake up and go to work. I hate myself for this. I need work to start so I no longer feel like such a slug, so useless, such a bum, such a mooch. I need the students. I need my career.
But how long is it going to take to start, and how long is it going to feel like it takes to start?
Jenny & Mark have taken such good care of me these six weeks. But it's time to leave and start planning. This summer, I guess, I've just put my life on hiatus. Thought of things I'd do if I had money, didn't have creditors calling three times an hour, didn't hate myself for not working even though I suppose I really could have. Hopefully, it's just a pause between studenthood and adulthood, or careerhood. The last time I'll play these games, have to have friends buy me lunch all the time, have to feel ashamed or lazy. I hope this is the last summer I have to make excuses. I spent a lot of the last couple of months feeling like I don't deserve the good things that are happening to me. But also not the horrible things that are happening to me.
It's the summer before I go back to school to teach, not to be a student. To start the next big part of life that eight years of college took me to reach. I keep thinking of what I expect it to be like, but I really have no idea. Other than a lot of work. And what if I just get so busy and overwhelmed I just wish for the days of brokeness, of summer 2009, when I gave myself no responsibility. When I took no responsibility.
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