You didn’t even miss me.

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No one reads this yet.

Except for me. Oh! And sometimes Pat, my best friend who races against the fastest lesbian in the world and that horrible Republican world record breast stroke title holder Roque Santos. Republican? Argh!

I’m waiting to hear from important people and Pat is the one who tries to keep me sane or commiserates with me while I wait.

What is a reasonable amount of time to wait? Does anyone really know? Eric says, “Be patient”, Frank says, “Fuck those mother fuckers” and Pat says, “We just have to keep counting on each other to get through this”

Today, I was waiting for the kids to sit down and get to work and I thought to myself, “How long should I reasonably wait before I pick up my own rollie chair and throw it across the room? One minute? Two minutes? Is it even reasonable to chuck a rollie chair at a high school student or would a pencil be better?”

I’m afraid that my teaching career might end one day with the headline: HIGH SCHOOL TEACHER SHANKS STUDENT WITH PENCIL.

It could happen.


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Okay…. My students convinced me that we should watch the film Precious. I wanted to, I really did. I’m not a prude in any way and if you ever do read my blog you will figure that out pretty quick.

5 minutes in, my stomach was sick and turning from the cussing and verbal abuse. 10 minutes in, I was thinking, “Wow this is a modern era re-write of The Color Purple. Precious as Celie, Her step father replaced with a biological father who once again rapes the main character. (Two babies to follow) Blu Rain, Precious’s beautiful teacher who loves to sing aka Sug Avery.

I felt annoyed and decided to stop watching and read the book PUSH before continuing with the film…. so stay tuned.

Right now I’m watching Moulin Rouge…. a re-write that isn’t bothering me at all because it is SO beautiful to watch.

Full of spaghetti and cake.

Okay…  days later I finally finish watching Precious. The second half reminded me of Sharon Flake’s, The Skin I’m In. I wish someone would make Sharon’s book into a movie.

I like the lead actress that plays Precious, I’d like to jump into the screen and kill Monique, and if I had my way, we would have seen Precious graduate college with Mongo in tow.

I don’t care what Tiger does

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I do not care who Tiger bangs.

Do I feel bad for his wife? Yeah. Sure. I’ve been there. Personally, to be in that situation and have the WHOLE world look at you SUCKS.

When Old J began to use heroin again, they wrote a huge article about it in the LA times. The next day at school, every teacher I knew came up to me and said, “Are you okay? I read the paper.”

Okay, if you really cared, you wouldn’t mention it. You would just let me walk on by quietly and let me deal with the pain of having my personal life made public.

People always say, “Well they asked for it by being famous.”

Great. That’s like saying I ask for kids to be assholes to me because I became a teacher. Lame.

Tiger can bang away. He is NOT my moral compass. I have bigger worries on my mind like:

Will my student Javier be able to finish school and help his girlfriend take care of their brand new baby boy?

Will my daughter be cancer free this year?

Will I be laid off from teaching this year and unable to take care of my entire family?

If I see another photo of Tiger and his banging broads, I might pick up a golf club myself.

Great Aunt V

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One of the reasons I can’t seem to think straight these days is because I’m still reeling from the death of my Great Aunt V.

My Great Aunt V. was an impressive woman. Raised poor, made her way to UCLA where she graduated top of her class and became a teacher in the Beverly Hills School District. She was beautiful, impeccably dressed and mannered, and a man magnet with looks in the league of Julie Newmar. Definitely “statuesque” Wong Foo!

V. was one of the woman who inspired me to be a teacher. V. and C. (my sister)

I loved my Great Aunt V. but was never extremely close to her until my sister, the executor of Great Aunt V.’s estate asked me to care for V. the last few months of her life.

She was moved from her home in Marina Del Rey, where she had a full service care giver, to a retirement home not far from my house which was known for being clean, active, with kind and knowledgable staff. I liked the place because it was only stinky during assembly line diaper changing hour and they had an old man who played piano medleys every Monday to the entire group.

V. was transferred down by ambulance. They checked her in and she didn’t wake up for three days. They tried to tell me that it was totally normal, for a 98-year-old who just endured a traumatic move to sleep for three days. All I kept thinking was, she’s going to die on my watch and everyone is going to hate me.

For three days I didn’t sleep at all. I would wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if she was alive and still sleeping. I went to her room each day and began to decorate the walls. I bought bright-colored floral decals that looked just like real flowers. I covered the walls in vibrant swirls of color. I climbed up on the chair and continued to swirl the flowers across the ceiling so that when she woke up, she would see a beautiful garden growing on the pale white walls. A mean administrative assistant came in on the second day and told me I didn’t have permission to paper the walls. I was so wound up by this time that I stapled the package that held the decals to the wall by V.’s bed with the directions above the light switch: “Will NOT harm walls. Peel and Stick. Easy to remove.” I wanted to take a picture of me flipping the bird and write FUCK YOU underneath in big black sharpie but I resigned myself to going to the fire station and getting the okay from the fire department that the decals were safe for retirement home use.

By the third full day, I was a nervous wreck. I drove to the hospital after school and walked the long corridor in anticipation of finding V.

Each time I stepped closer to the room I wondered if she would be alive. I reached her door and peeked in. She was wide awake, propped up on pillows and said, “Hi honey, where have you been?” I pulled up a chair, laid  my head on her chest and cried for five minutes while she patted my head.

True Love

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Today the kids at school reminded me about a time when I was first dating S and ended up with food poisoning.

I told them I knew that S loved me when he wouldn’t let me pick up the dog poop on our nightly walks. He always insisted on doing it.

But, I said, the day that I knew I really loved S, was the day when I crapped myself and he cleaned me up.

I mean, that’s what you really want in a significant other. Someone who will clean up your crap when you are a big old broken mess.

Big L and DW, my own children, got in a big argument one time over whose butt they would be cleaning when me and Old J got old. (Old J is my ex. He is now married to Replacement J. Together they almost come up with one full brain. Almost.)

Big L said there was no way in hell she was going to wipe Old J’s dirty, hairy, old person butt but DW had already called dibs on mine stating that “Mom’s ass will be old and wrinkled, but at least it won’t be furry!” Of course Big L stomped away complaining that DW always got his way being that he was the baby and all.

I can only hope and pray that DW is right and that my ass will not be furry when I am old and wrinkled but who really knows.

The night I crapped myself S and I had eaten some chicken tortilla soup at one of our favorite restaurants. Not long after, my stomach was spasm-ing with pain and then the vomiting and diarrhea began. New in the relationship, I begged for S to go home so he would not witness my feminine mystic become compromised during my massive crap and barf attack but to my obvious horror, S refused to leave.

I finally gave up begging and fell asleep but only moments later, the ultimate embarrassment occurred. I actually crapped myself while sleeping.

I felt the warm muddy liquid spread across my underwear and solidify into a formidable clump of crap. Embarrassed, I covered my eyes and cried for S to leave but he wouldn’t. I ran to the bathroom and shut the door, screaming all the while for S to please go home, but he refused.

When I finally exited the bathroom, clean, but shame-faced, S had changed the entire bed, put down a plastic pad and a towel for my gurgling butt, and left a bucket by the side “just in case.” I knew at that very moment that I loved him. Loved him more than I had ever loved any man because I knew that he was willing to care for me at my worst. Old J only loved me at my best. Whenever I disappointed, I paid.

S never called me Jabba the Hut in a fit of rage…

Monday Night 9:42 pm

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Last night Big L got in a bar fight.

I can’t even imagine what a bikini girl bar fight looks like but I’m sure it is quite entertaining or would be entertaining if one of the bikini brawlers were not my daughter.

I really don’t want Big L to work at the bar anymore. Doug seems to be banging the new girl and the new girl obviously feels threatened by Big L and if you could see Big L you would totally understand why.

I made Big L.

I actually grew her inside of my magical uterus and shot her out of my vagina which still amazes me that a relatively short woman 5’7″ could actually shoot a 10 pound baby out of her vagina and watch this baby grow into a 6′ 1″ glamazon with a set of 36 D breasts and an ass that can still wear a size 4 in boy’s underoos.

It seems terribly unfair that I have to live with a 26-year-old that looks like she popped off the Victoria’s Secret runway but I love her, and she is mine, and I did create such a fantastic human being so, I must accept that I will stay short and fat and eventually ride around on a rascal in a moo moo eating a ho ho while Big L will continue to be tall and thin and glamorous until long after I am gone.

So, last night Big L comes downstairs and I can tell by her eyes that she had been drinking. They were glossy, not yet in the drunk category, but definitely catching a “shine.”

She is insistent that she did not start the brawl and yes, the new girl did elbow Big L in the face first, but I remind Big L that she in no way needed to retaliate by pulling all of her high school water polo skills out of her bag of tricks and dumping them onto this new girl’s face. If Big L had been in a pool during the fight, the ref would have rolled her the next three games for unnecessary roughness.

“Who stopped the fight?” I asked.

“Oh, a bunch of guys pulled me off her.”

I can only imagine how many semi-drunk paunchy construction workers are home masturbating to this image of my daughter right now.

“You’re kidding me?” (I know I should have had something more profound to say but I was obviously at a loss for words having been thrown into an Elmore Leonard novel without even knowing it.

“No,” Big L says. “We both got sent home for bad behavior.”

This actually does surprise me. I always assumed if you worked at a bikini bar incidents like this led you to a whip cream wrestling ring or at least a very large tip take for the night but home? That was a shock.

“I don’t want you to work there anymore.” I said. “I think the drinking is a problem and obviously, the behavior.”

Big L doesn’t like my answer of course and stomps off to brood over a greek pizza and a bootleg copy of Julie and Julia.