Can menopause be that far behind?

So I went to Target today. I needed body soap and lotion, laundry detergent, and greeting cards for various upcoming celebrations. As I wandered through the aisles I came across reading glasses. Ha ha ha ha, I don't need those. So what if I have to hold some papers as far from my face as possible as I rotate the paper looking for just the right angle of visibility? That means nothing other than there's something wrong with the light. Anyhow. Just for fun I "put [my] toes up against the bottom shelf and read the lines." Um. +1.50, whatever that means. It's amazing what I'm not actually seeing up close.

As I stood there contemplating the fading of the bloom off the rose, the female expiration date, the Autumn of my life, I noticed the Depends and the various creams, lotions, and potions meant to ease the discomfort of old age right next to the glasses. Ugh. I had to turn and look away.

Right across from all this? Ribbed condoms. KY. Enhanced for her pleasure. Trojans. And all sorts of similar stuff. Rows and rows of it. Really? Couldn't they come up with better placement for either of these stage of life products? It was all rather depressing and ironic and satiric and funny and sad all at the same time.

But I gave in and bought the glasses. They're red with tiger stripes. Enhanced for my pleasure.

From propane to methane

Ms. Grumperini, what is propane? A very good question asked today during our lit study. We had been discussing the chapter we had read last night, the narrative elements, the personal connections; and we had moved on to words we didn't recognize or understand. So I opened it up for discussion. It's a gas. It comes in those tanks you use in a gas grill. It's like gas you put in your car. Oh wait no, that's gasoline. The perfect opportunity to talk about the difference between gas and liquid and of course solid. Let's take water for instance. When it's water, it's a... liquid! Right. When it's an ice cube it's a... solid! Right! When you're boiling water and you see the steam coming off the top, that steam is... gas! Right! Oh, so like gas is like air! How do they get the gas in the tank? Why isn't gasoline a gas? Did you know that they think that there is methane gas in the Bermuda Triangle?

Uh oh. Methane gas. A student said methane. Please don't let any of the other kids have a clue what methane gas is. Snicker snicker. Uh oh. Someone knows. More snickers. Giggles. That's not appropriate (said by a student). Why? What's methane??

Uh oh. More giggles. Laughter. Fine. Methane gas is the gas that is released when someone, um, well, farts. Laughter, giggles, snickers. And it lights? Uh oh.

And then, as if I didn't have 30+ years of maturity on these kids, I find the story about one of my asinine friends who decided to see what would happen if he tried lighting his own methane coming out of my mouth. "...and he burned his butt."

That was the end of any constructive conversation about our literature study book. But they'll remember what propane and methane are; AND the difference between solid, liquid and gas.

I wonder...

...should I sell everything I own and move back to VA? I wonder if I could get a job there that pays more than here...

Things are not looking good here. But afterall, everything I own is just things. I don't need any of them as long as Bonnie and I have a place to sleep. Right? A room with a bed and a place for my clothes and Bonnie's water dish. That's really all that is needed.

It may come to that. Quickly.

Balance

There are two sides to every issue. How do I do this AND that AND enjoy them AND do them well? All things in moderation. Ah, the curse of the sign of the scales. Balance is an ongoing struggle for me. I'm either all or nothing, and I can't do the in between. It's 100 mph during the week, and crash and burn on the weekends. Or at least on Saturdays. I have come to hate Saturday. Yes, hate. I don't wanna do jack shit on Saturdays, and I end up tortured over this; which makes Saturdays even worse.

Perhaps I should just embrace this idea of doing nothing on Saturdays, make it ok, give myself permission. Perhaps once it's ok, I'll be free to do or not do as I so please without the added weight of blame and shame and the ensuing lethargy. And perhaps without all that lethargy and busy busy blame, I'll actually get something done AND enjoy the day?

I need to try this, this idea of making my zombie day ok. Of course, I'll have to wait a week. I already hated yesterday.

The joys of teaching

Me: With your partner you're going to read about [insert whatever it was here]. Then, discuss the topic in your group, take notes, and afterwards you'll present what you learned to the class.

Kids: What? You're kidding, right?

Me: No. Evil cackle. This way you learn something, you teach it to everyone else, and then they'll know what you know.

Kids: But... present to the class? Seriously??

Me: Seriously. More evil cackling.

One 5th grader: Hey! I didn't sign up for an evil teacher!

Me: Nope. You just got lucky!

Nightmare go away!

So after letting the newly charged battery run almost to the point of running out of gas, I head to the station to fill up. Praying the battery has been charged enough, I turn it off, fill up, and hemorrhage some more money. (Seriously? Almost $30 to fill up my car??) Battery dead. At the gas station. On a Sunday morning. Thank god I had enough sense to get Starbucks first. Station guy says he can't give me a jump - you're a gas station!!! if you can't who can?!?!?! Random guy in the parking lot said ok to giving me a jump, but not without a little attitude. Whateva. I got what I wanted. Am now home, with my coffee (yay), a dead car (boo), and a whole lotta work to do (hiss).

I need something else.

Broken

The blender. The car battery. One of the telephones. My old TV. A desire to do anything productive. Such are Sundays. Everything is broken.