Dear Intrepid,

What up.

Remember when we were in the ditch this morning? Yeah, that was kind of fun--leaving the house at 6:00 in the morning, extra early in the extra-cold-outside. That little bit of snow we got last night left the roads in Elgin a goddamned mess, even more of a goddamned mess than they normally are, and there we were, daydreaming about lesson plans, and we missed County Road 14--just by a bit--so I slammed on your brakes, and the ice took us. The ice took us right on into the snowy ditch, and it was enough even that you were on your side. I tried to push on your gas, in hope--in hope--that I could drive you out of that snowy bitch of a ditch, but of course not! That's not how this works! When I tried to get out of you, gravity even took the door! It was like getting out of a space shuttle. It was like we had landed on the moon...

So there we are, in the ditch at the intersecition of County Roads 11 and 14, in the ditch, sort of on our side. And it was -9 this morning--that's what I saw on a sign (but of course, that was after the sun came up, so I bet when we were alone it was colder).

You know, Intrepid, I know that this ditch-plan was just your way of getting us to have a moment alone. I know how you must feel--I just climb inside you when I need you, you take me where I need to be, and then we part ways. That's not fair. You just wanted some time with me. You just wanted a moment alone. This wasn't the best way to do it--maybe a cute letter in a little envelope on my pillow would be better--but you had something to say, and you said it. I understand. I love you, too.

So we were alone, Intrepid, but I teach first hour, you know. I had to get to school, and in Elgin there are few cars--especially at, now, 6:15 in the morning, so I had to call for help. We called Kris, who has been a life-saver in more ways than one this weekend, and she gave us the number for Virgil's in Rochester, who would come and tow us right out of that ditch.

That was nice. Plus, I had a pen and paper all ready since my briefcase was on the front seat. That was nice.

Oh--hey!-- Remember, remember how then I had to call the tow company? And I said--I said--um, hi, I'm in a ditch and I need to be out of it. Can you help? And they said yes. And I had to give them directions as to where I was! That was scary, thinking that they'd never find me on those Elgin backroads. Whoa! And then we had that little laugh together, when the guy on the other end said and what kind of vehicle do you have? And I told him what kind of vehicle you were, Intrepid, but afterwards I said to you Um, what kind of vehicle do I have? I have the vehicle in the ditch that has a blonde-haired girl who's kind of crying in it. If I lie and tell you I have a Buick, you aren't going to help me? You're going to drive on by, huh? That was silly.

And then we had to call mom and dad, because I don't have credit left because I'm that broke--remember how I told you about that? Yeah, all of my credit cards are maxed out, and I couldn't have paid this guy if I tried! So we had to get Mom's credit card number so I wouldn't be stranded in the ditch forever. That was so silly.

Oh--but this is the best--this is really a gas! Remember how the heat on you stopped working yesterday on the way to school? Like at first you were warm, like a reassuring kind of warm, and then all out of nowhere you started blowing cold air? And I was like pssshhht Intrepid! Don't do that, dude! Not cool! So then we called Dad and he said that it might be your gasket or even your radiator, which it probably was, because that was all weird and smoking yesterday. So your heat is broken, you saucy bitch, and I couldn't even leave you running whilst in the ditch. And your radiator would make you overheat! (Don't worrry--I get this all the time. I often make sexy beings overheat.) I know this is because you wanted us to cuddle up, nice and close, but there was that 20 minutes while waiting for the tow that I thought I might freeze to death in you--I couldn't feel my toes! That's not fucking silly at all.

Then, because of The Inferno I really started to get thinking about this Virgil tow guy who was coming to save me. Like Dante's guide. And since my car was so disgustingly cold, it was like he was saving me from the frozen ninth circle. Maybe that would be a story worth sharing with the studes if I had nothing better to say. Virgil the tow truck driver, driving into Elgin to pull me out of hell.

So I got to calling Mr. O, because he had to cover some lessons for me, and he said did you call someone, and I got all sarcastic and told him I was just planning on hanging out there for awhile until I froze to death. That was sort of fun, but I could tell you were getting mad at me for making that joke. I don't know what you really expected, though! And while we were waiting, while I managed to sit on my feet which didn't warm them, and then we called the tow company and wondered where the hell they were! But then they came, and he put all of those weird ropes on you, and we moved out so very slowly, Intrepid. But he pulled us out, and then with mom's card we gave him $100--and then he said, yeah, these roads, this road is really bad. We're gonna have a lot of tows here today! You think instead Elgin would just plow, but what's the fun in that.

It was an adventure, Intrepid. Oh--hey--hey, remember yesterday after school, in the parking lot, when it was so cold that you almost didn't start?! Let's not try to pull that fucking shit today.

Remember---remember how I have to stop at the gas station to buy you antifreeze today? God, you're so greedy. No, I still love you.

You're such a saucy bitch.

Best wishes,

Jeano

**

I'm not crabby today, and that comment isn't sarcastic. In spite of the mess of this morning, it's been a good day. Here's why:

So, car in ditch. Sucks, yes, heat's broken, yes, have no money to pay tow guy, yes--but you know what rocked about this situation? I fucking got myself out of it, and then it was over, and then everything was awesome and back to normal. It functioned as normal life should function.

Observe:

LIFE HANDS YOU PROBLEM-----> SOLVE PROBLEM ------> REPEAT.

This is nothing compared to what the last couple of weeks have been:

LIFE HANDS YOU PROBLEM ----> TALK ABOUT 700 WAYS TO SOLVE PROBLEM ----> NONE OF THOSE SOLUTIONS WORK -----> GRADE 900 PAPERS IN TWO DAYS.

One problem, four phone calls, out of ditch, solved. Fuck yeah! I accomplished that this morning, and it was enough to jet-fuel me through the rest of the day. All of the classes went well (true, there wasn't as much "lecturing" going on--but still, they all felt good) and I laughed a lot and I didn't look like an asshole today--not even once! And the students like the comments on their hell projects. I found out a student hates me because in "teacher hell" he sent a "teacher" who "taught Dante" without any "serious objectives" in mind there because she "joked about hell too much." My punishment was to be stabbed by arrows and be repeatededly told it's just a joke! Ha. Stupid students. Like I care. Who takes hell seriously? Ah yes. People who take Dante's hell that seriously are the ones who I don't-care-what-they-think-of-me.

So today. You were alright. I'm going to go home and celebrate you by eating some good food, and taking a nap, and following what I did yesterday--grade papers to the Jukebox Gold station and listen to some ELO and Tears for Fears.

Will the Intrepid make it? Well, we've already determined it has such an intrepid soul. Of course it will. Dad's coming to Elgin this weekend.

I've needed a "who fucking cares" day for so long! Woot! Normally I'd be freaking out right now. It's like someone put 17 anxiety pills in my Cherry Coke Zero. Mmm, pills.

survival; surviving; survivor

It wasn't snowing a goddamned flake on my way to school this morning. The storm was in Mankato, and the familiar MPR meterologist voice said it was moving on East, moving on over to Rochester. And move it did. The windows in the classroom were white all day--all I could do was watch that shit fall--and after school I walked my 3 1/4 inch heels right on through that at least 7 inches of fucking snow, and it wrapped around my ankle and melted right on through the tights. And isn't it so odd after such a big fucking snowfall, how you get in your car and you are certain you are trapped in a tomb. You'll close the doors and they'll freeze shut, you'll start the car and instead of being able to drive forward the ground will open to darkness below you and the car will descend--slowly, of course, because that's how it works--and then close on the top and you'll be trapped forever. But it will be warm, so you'll kind of like it at first. Until you run out of air.

The day ended today, and I was locked out of my office; I ran around to find my way back in for awhile, graded some papers (I think I graded a total of 160-some papers today from 9:30 to 3:30--not bad, considering I was teaching 4 of those hours at school.) And I finished looking at that last student "I'd Rather" sonnet and stared into space for awhile. After a minute of staring, I realized I was wasting time--60 more giant projects to grade tonight, woot, and then I went up to grab my coat and head out into the snow/car tomb.

But then something happened. I felt like I had dry heaves, but my stomach wasn't sick-feeling--my body jerked a couple of times--and that was it--I burst into tears and just openly wept for a good 10 minutes straight. I had to run to my desk chair to catch myself from falling to the ground to weep. Rich, heavy sobs, enough tears to Christen the desk calendar on my desk, snot and sniffling and red eyes. The whole bit. How odd what a physical reaction these tears were--just like your body throws up to reject what you've eaten. I dry heaved tears, and then I fucking "threw up" everywhere.

It felt good, like throwing up feels good, but of course it still left me with a taste in my mouth. And after crying you don't get to say Yeah, I threw up in your secret way of telling people you're really sick. I can't convince people of my mental state by saying yeah, I cry-barfed in my office yesterday. Yeah, it's that bad.

Ha. Cry-barfed. Feel free to use that. Weep-puked. Sob-hurled.

Two quizzes went poorly today. Meaning: I didn't prepare them good enough. I didn't cover the material to the best of my potential, didn't convey it in the most effective way. I threw a shitload of terms at the freshman on Friday and expected them to know the terms. 13 in one day? Nice, Jean. That's really practical. Of course, on Sunday, in the 6th hour of your 8 hours at school Mr. O came in to do some work and said, so, what would you say about that vocabulary student-presentation you did on Friday?

Uh, well, Mr. O, it sucked some big ass.

So what would you change about it?

Well. Pretty much everything. Yup.

Then I stayed at school for another couple of hours, and then I came home and did work for another four, and then I thought that I sealed Sunday with a nice sense of relief and finality, and then I got 120 papers from the freshman today, and then the quiz sucked, and then the 11th grade quiz really fucking sucked, and then I let the student-teacher helper grade the quiz for me, and then I realized that so many of the answers were objective that I'd pretty much have to grade it myself--no fault of hers, of course!--and then I realized that I'd have to do that in my prep hours tomorrow, meaning that all of my planning needs to happen tonight, but I also have 60 huge projects to grade, and I might explode, or I might cry-barf again, but my body knows there is no time for this. There was no time for the first cry-barf. That was 10 minutes. That was 2 projects. Jesus Christ.

I talked to Kris, who so kindly returned my venting phone call today, thank God. And the miserable drive home to Elgin was a relief even though the roads were a slick mess, because I could concentrate on not-dying instead of how much I suck ass in the classroom.

To Kris, I said: I just know that our mentor teachers were told "let them make mistakes--you have to let them make mistakes" and it pisses me off. I haven't not-failed at anything for the last 3 weeks.

I know, she said.

I should shovel the driveway, because it is the only way I will get out tomorrow, but my bruised tailbone and a shovelfull of snow do not make good companions. I'm a piece of shit for making James do it, and I'm sure he's really regretting not actually fixing the snowblower. Sigh.

Sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh. I suppose if he gets home after 10:00 tonight, I'll have to go do it.

I know my blogs for the last couple of days--weeks--months? have been horribly cynical. It's hard not to be this way--not about teaching--I love teaching, still. But I have never, ever, ever, so consistently failed at anything in my life. And I am not good at failing. Well, I'm okay at failing the first time, and then picking myself up, then putting extra and extra hours into it the next time--but in this--in high school, in this program--extra hours do not equal extra success. Or, is it that I'm exhausting my hours, and would have to physically stop sleep to literally work on something for those extra hours to find success? Also, I like to procrastinate, which is fine on your own watch. But now I'm working on my students' watch. On Mr. O's watch. Now I'm writing shit in his gradebook and fucking it up and driving him crazy.

I want so fucking bad to be good at this. I don't think I've ever wanted something more, and I don't think I've ever tried so hard for something that I haven't yet gotten. How else would my body physically weep when my mind didn't even take the time to stop and think about how much I needed it.

the first time and the second time and hell

Today I learned that you remember a certain type of pain like you remember a young face you haven't seen in awhile. (Like--when you lose or gain weight, you notice how your face carries weight. You say, there you are again, less-fat Jeano, or more-fat Jeano. I remember you.) Pain is the same way, the sharp feeling that travels up your spine must find its way right into the hippocampus, triggering a memory of that same sharp feeling from years and years ago.

*

The first time I bruised my coccyx was in the fourth grade, while roller skating on a field trip at Skateland. At first, I told Mr. Brinkman that I would just skate on the carpet, where it'd be safer if I fell, but he would have none of it. That's not allowed, he said, and pointed at the sign. Just go skate on the floor with all of the other kids, where you can hear the music okay.

I told him that it wasn't fair that I had to pay five dollars for a field trip that I didn't even want to be on and again, he told me to skate, unless I just wanted to sit on the side next to him and watch all of the other kids have fun. So, I skated. I made a mess of things, of course, being a baby-fat heavy fourth-grade Jeano. Getting into the skaters, skating their ellipticals around the smooth concrete of the ring, was like waiting to get into a double dutch jump rope. I was apprehensive every time I considered pushing off the wall and thrusting myself into the moving universe. But I had to, because I didn't want to hang out with Mr. Brinkman. He was tall and weird, his forehead was ridiculously large, and his cologne made him smell seven Uncle Jim's. Plus, he wore gold jewelry.

I got the hang of it after a while, except for the stopping part. But there was a little half-wall on one side of the rink that was easy enough to run into and then hold onto. During one of the last songs, I'd worked my way into the center--under the disco ball. Kids were moving in circles around, I was faster than some and slower than some. I followed the painted ellipital circle on the floor, skated over the dots of light from the disco ball, sped up and sped up, but not even on purpose. And it was then that I fell.

The worst part about falling over in a skating rink is watching your fingers--because when you fall, they are openly splayed for hundreds of orange wheels to crush. The real worst part is all of the kids who laugh at you, skate on by, the kids who growl because they have to skate around your big fat self. The real worst part, though, is that you can't get up by yourself. The floor is slick, the world around you is moving in fast enough circles to make you nauseous, and you have absolutely nothing to hold onto.

Just because you fell doesn't mean everybody else stops.

I don't remember how I got off the floor, but I do remember that I spent the rest of the trip next to Mr. Brinkman, who I am sure was trying very hard not to laugh at me. I also remember that it was weird how I'd fallen for no reason. Nobody pushed me. I hadn't tripped. It was just a moment. And because of recent "religious" lectures from my aunt Jeannette, I had convinced myself that since I couldn't remember the fall, that the devil himself--Satan--had pushed me over. Fourth grade Jeano thought, well, it makes total sense that the devil would push me. I mean, here I am a good Catholic girl, and that pisses him off. So he pushed me down in the skating rink. I wondered if anyone saw it, like a giant red claw just appeared out of nowhere, or if a gusty wind came in and caused the fall. I convinced myself he'd done it invisibly, by causing a quick slip that seemed like I'd done it myself: he'd gotten into my brain, it was an inside job.

The bigger the baby, I suppose, the bigger the boom.

The second time I bruised the tailbone was Thursday. This week, hell week at school. I fell in the hallway on the walk in, landed awkwardly. Luckily, I get to school early enough so nobody could see the ridiculous fall, bags flying, my high-pitched shit! as I went down. Or, maybe it was the second time I fell on Thursday, on the way to study hall, after the bell rang. One student in the hall saw me, just stared. I said hahaha, you didn't see that! Hahaha. And he stared at me with his mouth wide open and didn't respond. Clearly the kid had more important things to worry about.

It didn't start to hurt until today. I made it through yesterday, moped around, sat on my ass quite a bit. This morning I ran five miles at school, in the snow. I felt the pinch when I'd run at a certain angle. Now, it hurts to sit. It doesn't hurt to stand, but it hurts to get there. It really hurts to bend over. It really, really hurts to cough, because it moves my back and it moves my tailbone. It is the exact feeling that I had in fourth grade. I remember clearly that week I spent on my parents' bed, not sitting down because of the pain, the way I had to crawl my ass down to the toilet seat, arms clinging to the wall around me, because of the pain. Because of the pain.

Of course, this happens during hell week at school--hell week because I'm teaching Dante's Inferno (and no, have not let it slip past me that "coccyx" sort of sounds like "cocytus," the ninth circle of hell--where the devil himself lives and chews on the treacherous while encased in that thick layer of ice). The devil didn't push me this time, but I think I pushed myself. Hell week. It has different meaning for me than that joke I make with the students--it's my first week of full time teaching. It's twice the amount of classes, double the papers to grade, double the lessons that I had to plan over winter break. It's eating me alive. I've had a recurring dream all week where I faint in front of the class and Mr. O always has to stand behind me and catch me in front of the students, and then I wake up, really, feeling dizzy. I almost cried in seminar, again, on Thursday. Not because I'm sad, not because it's hard work, but because--but because it's just so much. So much to take in and no time to vent about it. No time to write about it, no time to share everyone else's hell stories. You're not a great teacher, Mr. O said, not yet, and that's okay. He had to talk me down out of a funk again on Friday--discussion has been horrible this week, and I feel dumb--I'm teaching stuff I've just learned; the 11th graders, I feel, are resistant, and I have to get up and teach after watching Mr. O just be amazing with them--amazing response, amazing answers, amazing humor. I'm missing it all, and I'm sure I'll have it someday, really. But I hate waiting, and I want it now. I don't want to wait and learn this shit and have learning experiences. I want to have all of the answers in front of me. I want teaching to be intuitive. And I'm starting to get inklings of this intuition, but it's not there yet. It's hard to live with myself when all I can do is make mistakes. Everyone else forgives me for these mistakes, but I can't forgive myself. Because I know I can be better. Fuck crawling. I want to wake up and walk tomorrow.

This is my second first-year of teaching. And next year--because I'm officially on my own--will be my third first-year of teaching. I hate having so much to learn. I hate being young.

Mr. O, I said. You know how I'm supposed to tell you when I need something? He looked at me, sort of scared. Like I was about to be brutally honest. I need to know when you failed. I just see you in such a "light" right now--that I need to know what it was like when you started out. I want to know the shit that you went through, the strugles you had. Make me a list of all the times you failed. (It's not easy to be an intern for someone, who I've been told too many times, is the best teacher in the district.)

He laughed. Um, yeah, no--that sounds really uplifting for me to do. "List everything you've failed at." Hm.

I pouted a bit and told him it was for me, please, and he agreed. I agreed we wouldn't have to discuss it school, when he has to teach the next hour. But how else. How else can I be confident that I don't fucking suck? I have to know when great people failed. Instead of observing good teachers, I just need to observe a bunch of assholes who make me feel better about myself. Seriously.

Writer and teacher, Jeano. Way to pick the two professions that make you hate yourself like no other job really could. Probably not the best move. It's so much easier when you can blame classroom problems on something else, when (even when it's true) you can convince yourself that an outside power causes something to happen, when you can say that the students aren't getting it, it's not me instead of knowing, yes, it's you--it's your fault that 29 students get it and three don't--it's your fault they didn't do well on the quiz (maybe you didn't remind them enough times to study, maybe you didn't prepare them enough, maybe your quiz was too hard)--it's your fault that they don't raise their hands enough in class--it's your fault when the discussion gets on a tangent and rips apart the tiny holes in the plot of Romeo & Juliet instead of focuses on what is working and the text, itself. It's all your fault.

You don't get to blame the devil for this one.

students of the corn

My second hour today freaked me out. Discussion was a mess--nobody raised their hands, and I talked myself into circles out of frustration. Basically, discussion turned into direct lecture, which I fucking hate. And the students--instead of searching for answers in their books when I asked questions, just stared at me. They just kept staring and staring and not saying anything. I expected them, in unison, to just say yessssss teacher without any fluctuation in their uni-voice.

Maybe they're planning something.

You think I'm paranoid, but we had a few minutes to spare at the end of the day today, and I walked around and passed back papers and they just stared some more. Their heads, their eyes, followed me around the room as I walked up and down the aisles to find the students who needed their work returned. The room was so quiet. And finally, I broke and said: ALL OF YOU ARE REALLY FREAKING ME OUT RIGHT NOW. PLEASE STOP STARING AT ME.

*

Anyway. Tomorrow, I'm think I'll use the fingers on the nose trick, Kris. Or, maybe I'll just tell them how it's ridiculously bad behavior, when a teacher asks you a question, to stare at her forehead while you wait for someone else to do the work for you. I'll say, when you don't do as well on the quiz, or on the final, you might have to ask yourself. Is this because I just stared at Ms. P while she was teaching and didn't actually interact with the text? I'll make a snarky comment like So, when it's quiz time, you guys are going to say: What? You're not quizzing us on how you wore your hair on Wednesday? Because all I did is stare at you for an hour straight while you blabbed on about whatver play it is we're reading.

I know this is my fault--I've got to find some other way, with only 15-20 minutes to cover all of the good stuff in Act IV. But: we're done with the staring and the mouth breathing.

a day back

A dark ride to school this morning. I almost slipped on the driveway, which has formed a very thick, lumpy blanket of ice over the gravel. Burned tires in the driveway, saw the smoke, smelled the heat, pulled into the road, also covered in ice, but then covered in sand. But not enough sand to give traction to the hot tires. For some reason, on this ride into town, I was thinking of stamps on envelopes. Perhaps because I have to mail something to the P. But I thought of my graduate school application for Mankato. The only application I sent out--no other schools--lassiez faire. A couple of last minute revisions to the poems the instructor said were alright and had shown the class. Asking for letters of recommendation, one from a nonfiction instructor who said what was your name again, then?--the instructor I'd had the semester before who'd shown us an essay she'd written about being in the woods with a friend, where she'd had to seal her own maxi pads in a ziploc bag and then bury in her backpack to keep the smell away from bears. (Hm. To have that essay now, to read it with new eyes.) My application to Mankato was sent out the day before it was due. Mankato. Hm. I'd said when Jess told me she was applying for the Forensics program. This was January. This was about this time 5 years ago. 5 years. Graduate school? I said. I could probably go to Graduate School. Who knows what else I'd do. Never before had I had the thought. I went to the MSU website, printed off the applications for the program, for the Teaching Assistant position. Filled them out, printed off the poems from the semester before, stuffed it all in an envelope once it turned February and the applications were actually due. I procrastinated. Either the post office was closed or I hadn't the ambition to go, so I found stamps without knowing the postage and arraged them on the front into a big crooked rectangle. Was it enough postage? Didn't know. But I think of Christina and Jenny applying for the same program. I think of them researching during their lost year, thinking writer, writer, writer. I imagine Christina emailing for the letters of recommendation months before instead of just a couple of weeks, I imagine Jenny revising her letter. I should find mine. I should read it and wonder it must have been fate that they let me in, because it was nothing else. I imagine Christina and Jenny stuffed their enevelopes ever-so-carefully, double checking their homemade checklists, I imagine the patience with their signatures in fine black pen. I can even see Christina taking out an iron and a towel and literally ironing out the wrinkles of her application. Paying for Postal Insurance, Delivery Confirmation. Perfection. My crooked stamps. Driving up to the mailbox on Broadway in Winona, dropping the skin-toned envelope into the blue, toothless mouth. Why not.

The same with the application to this program. Found the information a week before it was due. Emailed, emailed, asking for advice, signed up for the Praxis test, sent information forth, put this time through the post office. I think I spent more time at the Diamond Lake Post Office than I did in my own house, mailing applications for jobs, and this one to a school. And then the interview, and then an email to James, who I knew lived here, and then all of this. All of these decisions, and now, this school, this office, this desk, these students. These students.

These students are tired today. They're sad to be back, but anymore break time would've broken them. The only enthusiasm they show is when they share gossip, J is dating this nasty girl, and he asked her out on New Years Eve, and this morning he was playing it like it was no big deal, like it wasn't all nasty. This was what I heard in the hallway this morning, as I prepped the classroom for bodies again. Good to be back. I tricked them with a quiz, pretended it counted when it didn't. I'm allowed to do these things. We shared one thing from break. I lied and told them I'd forgotten their names so they all had to say them as we shared. They didn't buy it.

A fragile morning. A student has cancer. We connected eyes (both through the lenses in our thick-framed black glasses) in the hallway this morning before class, as she was getting onto the elevator with a friend, putting crutches in first and then feet. Well, good morning, how was break, I said. Not so well, she said, I was sort of diagnosed with cancer and I spent a week in the hospital. I felt the color fall out of my face, babbled something like Oh my God, how, why, I'm so sorry and she saved me. She saw me struggle with this information, maybe she even saw a dark shade cover my eyes, and she said Oh, well, no, it's luckily not life threatening, but the cancer is eating my bones and there are two inches already gone from my leg. I didn't think of my grandfather's bone cancer, but I think of it now. In that moment, I want to hug her, tight, I even want to pet my hand over her thick, long, black hair. This girl must only weigh 90 pounds, and the cancer is eating what she has, from the inside, tearing down her structure. I stand, in shock, apologize again, and she brings up homework, and in the same breath as hers I say homework is not on you mind right now. Take care of yourself. Tell me what you need. She thanks me, gets on the elevator; and in class, during the movie, I stop by her desk to remind her that she doesn't need to worry about turing in anything--she can use the assignments as a guide for where the class is (and she really is brilliant, anyway, and she knows this play), and she thanks me, and then when the bell rings and students pour out of the double classroom doors, she hops through a door a student holds for her and looks back and says, Thank you again, Ms. P. I really wish she'd stop saying that.

if you thought the new year would stop me from complaining, you were fucking wrong (and stupid)

This program is kicking my ass. The students are kicking my ass. The classes I'm teaching are kicking my ass.

I spent the last three days in the classroom, freezing, because when students aren't there, they don't turn the heat up. I worked for seven hours today, and I don't feel like I got that much done. I spent four days working on the unit for the Juniors and I don't feel like it's good enough, and I spent a lot of time in the last couple of days re-learning the things I'm teaching--and it makes me nervous, reading things new, and fresh, and being expected to teach them to the Honors students with some level of depth. Of course, I love learning this stuff, of course, I love teaching and designing lessons. But there's just not enough time. There's not enough time to re-learn all of the content, to get used to the textbook, to design lessons, to organize and lead a discussion, to write unit plans and then expand on unit plans for the grad class. My brain melted today, turned into a steaming gooey soup and leaked out of my ears.

And sometimes I think that Mr. O might want to give me back, like the puppy he got for initial appeal but that now shits on the floor and begs for food.

And I'm nervous. I'm nervous for the 11th graders, I'm nervous for my Middle Ages and Renaissance plan, I'm nervous I'm going to sweep into Mr. O's class and the students will hate me because I'm not him, I'm nervous that this is much, much less than the normal workload for teacher and I'm already falling apart. Yipes. Yipes. I have 60 papers to grade tomorrow night, and some new material to relearn, and I'm tired just thinking about it.

I'm making more changes to my diet, I've decided. From now on, I may only consume the following:

1) Advil
2) Diet Soda

Think of all the recipes I can make with these two staples. Advil casserole, diet soda bread, Advil and diet soda pizza.

let's start thinking about when the sun will warm the ground

It has been a real mess of a break, in spite of all the days leading up to break. R & J is going well with the freshman, I'm sort of caught up on plans, the medication is out of my system, and I've been sleeping well. The house, for once, is sort of warm and cozy, and James is working off a serious sinus infection by snoring on the couch. We brought in the new year with weird drinks and Liz's new beau and Apples to Apples and one of the quickest games of Trivial Pursuit I've ever played. We spent the rest of the night with venison sticks and egg rolls and Chad at the piano and me next to him with my guitar, working out the chords to "Auld Lang Syne." (In the key of G--G, D, C--and so on, with a brief Em at the close.) I'm in love with a new band that I can't get enough of. James and I have started a weight loss contest that will get me to the gym at least three times a week. So far, kicking the fried food and red meat out of my diet has been okay, and any cookie and holiday-treat temptations are out of my way.

My room is a mess, and cold, and I don't want to go in there. The Good Doctor has turned into someone mean and rotten who I no longer recognize, and without saying so, I'm certain I ended the friendship. I don't know if I'm sad because with this came a sense of relief, or if I'm sad because I've lost something that I once loved dearly. Or if I'm sad because I couldn't make this work, or if I'm sad because I let myself, so strongly, throw myself into that friendship. In the way that I've grown and changed and matured so much that to think of who I was with him three years ago disgusts me. It angers me that I once was that person.

I know these things will work themselves out--it can't end badly, it just can't--but as of today I feel a failure at the "life" part of life. The work part is fine, the school part is okay, but the money part, which led to the loss of the Good Doctor part--a mess. I feel walked on. I feel evil. I failed.

On the way home from Mankato on the 1st, James and I had a real conversation about all of this. He said things to me like you expect to much of yourself and you have to give yourself more credit for surviving this how you do. Nice of him to say, but my response could only be: yes, but what other options do I have. I could decide not to get out of bed, I suppose, but really? I have to survive this, and it doesn't make me spectacular. I have no other choice. I can't get credit for dealing with life.

Hm. I'm getting frustrated easily, finding that I am being a bit hard on myself. But it's impossible not to be. I will never, ever say: There's nothing you can do about this. Or it's not your fault. I think, mostly, high school teaching has made me realize that there's a lot of shit that I don't know, and I get mad at myself for not knowing it. Why haven't I read more? Why didn't the obvious answer just come to me? What the hell.

Today I went to school, found myself in the cold, cold classroom reading Machiavelli while rubbing my hands over my arms to create warmth. An ice storm hit Rochester while I was in the classroom, coated my car with a thick layer of ice, like frosted glass. I lost my phone for awhile. I faught with the Good Doctor over email; he said he was turning off my phone because I haven't paid my part of our joint contract, says I'm not paying him because I want to fuck him over. He is convinced that I'm evil, full of sabotage. He is accusing me of things that I couldn't dream of doing, of thoughts that never entered my head. Malicious thoughts. I've never had someone accuse me of such horrible things. Have I ever made anyone feel like this? I hope not. I told him to find a therapist.

I have two full weeks left of first semester, then two full quarters of teaching left at Century, and already I don't want to leave. Already I can't remember May. Where was I last May? How was the weather warm, how was the dirt in our driveway blowing up with a gentle breeze, how was the corn growing so green, and how was I reading under the tree house and watering the plants and driving with the window down? Winter has already been so hard on me, weakening my bones, climbing into their hollows and freezing me from inside out. And it's just started.

So, I'm thinking of summer. I'm thinking of flip flops and walking into a grocery store to cool off. I'll be sad, devastated, at being done with school, but I'll have a moment of freedom. In spite of how broke I'll be. Maybe a job in Rochester will be in my queue, and I'll get to stay here--my number one goal right now. Maybe I'll be teaching summer school here, maybe I'll be teaching Day Camp here, at their YMCA. Maybe I'll have found a teaching program on the East Coast that is paying me to come there for awhile, maybe I'll be a writer living out a grant, writing the poems I should've been writing in these last months. Maybe I'll be doing the little things that have been in my to-want-to-do queue for so long: learn a little bit of Polish, meaning enough to impress you; take a woman's self defense course; really get a green thumb; learn to knit, really, so I can give you a scarf; train for half a marathon; read a load of classics; organize a book of essays, with a theme, that I write from scratch; write those 5 poems that I haven't given myself time for in the last weeks, those poems I promised I'd tackle over break, those poems that real stupid life, that real stupid feelings stopped from being written. No time. No motivation. No hope of success. Too cold.