Algebra Teacher

I bought a book the other day called 642 Things to Write About. It's full of prompts for writing practices and I finally have some time to dive in. I grab my water, a good pen and head outside to sit in the warm air and listen to nature. On my laptop I turn on some classical music to mingle with the yard's music and within five minutes there is a murder.

Of crows.

There's a murder of crows in the trees and they evidently have something very important to discuss because they're loud as heck and a little distracting.

The egg salad I had for lunch is rolling around in my belly and why shouldn't it? I never eat egg salad. I've made probably 50 deviled eggs over the last two weekends and didn't eat one. But for some reason it seemed like a good idea and now my stomach is laughing at me. Also a little distracting.

My skin is itchy because I'm outside in the sun and I'm ignoring it because dammit, I don't get to do this very much. I'm a little sweaty too but that's also being ignored.

I open the book of 642 Things at random and flip the pages nonchalantly, skimming the ideas. I land on one that interests me because I know the situation it prompts. I suppose that's the point of these books. To help you remember all the things about yourself you already know.

"Write down everything you can remember about your algebra teacher." 

He was a dick. He had big bags under his eyes that were permanently fixed and he wore shore sleeved plaid shirts and khakis. He scowled most of the time. In between classes he'd stand in the hallway and tell people to move along like a middle aged Jedi but not nearly as cool. He used to call me 'squirrel cage' and I'm still not really sure what that meant. He failed me once and I was right back in his class the next year. He had a poster of Murphy's Law hung in the back of the classroom and he used an overhead projector to go over the previous day's assignment. If you wrote fast enough and didn't get caught, you never had homework. I was not fast enough and often got caught.

I remember one day I was one of the last to leave class after an hour long test. I walked to the back of the room where he sat looming behind a giant wooden desk, his feet propped up. He was grading papers and as I approached he peered at me over the top of his glasses. I handed him my test, nervous. I hated algebra, he knew it, and he didn't care. "How do you think you did?" He asked me.

I sighed. "I don't think I did very well actually."

He was quiet a moment, looking over my paper. He gave a small smile as he looked up at me,"No. You didn't. But because you used correct grammar--because you didn't say, "I didn't do good", I'm passing you with a C-."

I stared at him, stunned. Another teacher came into the room and he shooed me out to the hall where my friends were waiting. I was almost out the door when I heard him call after me, "Hey, Squirrel Cage! Next time, study."

Mr. Swanson.

He wasn't really a dick. I thought he was a dick because all teachers are dicks when you're in high school. He was a good teacher. He pushed. Do I remember anything about algebra? Not a damn thing. BUT I remember him and maybe that's what means the most.

Expletive

I'm fucking cranky.

I'm in the kind of mood that needs the word 'fucking' to properly accentuate it.

My cat sprayed my books. Not all of them, just the ones I really liked which could be any of them because I love them ALL. Fucking cat. I love him but I'm mad at him right now. The only reason he's not been skinned for a hat is because I was able to salvage all of them. They are currently drying from a thorough scrubbing with enzymatic cleaner but they're gonna make it. Ever spent the evening cleaning books? Sniffing pages and soaking them with cleaner and hoping later when the book dries that it's not all warped and ruined? It's not as fun as it sounds.

I'm also fucking sarcastic.

My  lady bits are being weird. They're going against the Pill and it's annoying and that's a big part of why I'm cranky because I'm fucking crampy too.

I ate a brownie and I'm going to blame that on the lady bits acting up. It has nothing to do with my emotions being tied to my eating habits. Stress eater? Nah.

See above.

Ugh. I was feeling SO good. I mean, since this change of eating thing has started, I've lost 15 pounds. That's amazing. I even ate a piece of cake and it was glorious and I didn't freak out.

Then some stuff happened and then a little more stuff and then I cried a LOT and then I wrote things that can't go on the internet and I still didn't gain weight and I should be super happy about that. That should be enough to not need to use the f bomb as a particularly colorful adverb.

But it's not.


I've been inside my head a lot lately. I find myself singing along to the radio while I'm driving without even knowing what the song is. I'm on autopilot which might just happen with driving routines, but it's weird.

I've tried retail therapy. It helps a little. I find that just walking into a Target can make me smile. Roaming the aisles is nice until the people become too much, or the price for ceramic dog cookie jars becomes a little too ridiculous and I need to leave.

I've worked in my garden a bit. It helps a little. I'll walk through the yard and pinch off dead things here, pull a weed there. The grass feels good on my feet until I come across a dead thing the cats have left in the yard. Fucking cats.

Dammit, why my books??? I'm having a serious whiny moment of "Why me?? It's not faiiiiiir!"

I'll be fine.

In the grand scheme of things, is it that big a deal? Maybe not the grand scheme but yeah. Kind of is. But I'm drinking a glass of wine so it's becoming less so.

I wish that I could allow myself to feel things more. Seems funny to say that but I mean that I wish I could just accept my feelings, acknowledge them and then just move on. Instead they seem to linger like a really bad fart. Fucking feelings.

I'm hungry now too and I've been avoiding the kitchen because of the whole brownie thing from earlier. I know I should eat, but the guilt is strong. And my stomach is pissy about the chocolate.

I'm done with today. I'm done with cranky and being hungry and pissy. I'm done with hating my cat-he's just doing what he thinks he needs to do and doesn't understand my love of books. However, if I ever find out that cats can understand shit like that, and he's been doing it on purpose? I'll kill him. I'm done with brownie guilt too and leftover stuff and things from earlier and I'm totally done with feelings.

Fucking day.

Grumpy Old Man

I went to the store at lunch today. I parked and grabbed my bag, headed through the parking lot. Standing at the front door was an elderly man holding a clipboard.

I sighed inwardly, "Please don't talk to me. I just want to get my parsnip chips and get out."

Someone else was talking to him as I passed and I kept my eyes averted. "Please, please don't see me..."

"Are you a registered voter ma'am?"

Dammit.

I hesitated for a split second, debating if I was far enough away to pretend I hadn't heard him. But then I thought, "Don't be rude. He's just doing his thing. You could at least acknowledge the guy. Lots of people have probably walked right past him today without even a glance."

I stopped just in front of the door and turned, "I'm sorry, were you speaking to me?"

I noticed then how hard he looked. His hair was white, a red baseball cap crammed onto his head. He was wearing simple old man clothes, nothing extraordinary. It was the scowl he wore that made him so unattractive.  "Yeah. You a registered voter?" His voice was hard too. Angry. I'd seen it in people before.

I smiled, put on the retail/waitress face, "Actually I am but I just-"

"Yeah ok. Whatever. That's fine." He cut me off and turned away to the next pedestrian, dismissing me.

I don't know why but I tried again. I thought maybe if I could explain...If I could tell him that I was registered but I'd flaked on registering in the new county when I moved.  I thought if he understood that about me that he wouldn't be so harsh.

"No, I mean-"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he grunted, still not looking at me.

I turned and without thinking about it, I said, "Well, don't ask people if you don't want to know."

I went inside the store and passed a woman near the entrance who had overheard me. She smiled. "Right? He was pretty grumpy."

I smiled back and we commiserated the way that strangers in grocery stores do and then I went to find my chips.

When I left, I glanced over to where he'd been standing and saw his clipboard and bag.

I looked for him. I felt like...I don't know...maybe if I smiled at him...  I mean, he probably had been ignored all day. He might be going through any number of things personally or maybe he didn't really want anyone to talk to him either. I just felt compelled to connect with him somehow. To let him know I'd seen him.

But that didn't happen. I got back in my car and drove back to work singing an old Paula Abdul song at the top of my lungs. I didn't think about him at all until just now.

The other day I was talking to a coworker and I learned she wrote too. It got me thinking about how I hadn't been writing much lately. Tonight I planned to let myself be inspired. I had decided to try and write tonight and when I opened this page to begin, I saw it.

My blog is called I'll Tell You How I Really Feel About That because I tend to not hesitate in sharing my opinion. I am tactful but I have a pretty strong sense of right and wrong and I'm not afraid to discuss it. I am also a believer in sharing my feelings. That whole 'heart on you sleeve' thing? I am that heart. And under my title, under the section that says 'About you' I'd long ago chosen one sentence for strangers on the blogosphere to sum all of that up.

"Don't ask unless you want to know."

Thoughts and Acceptance

I have a lot of Thoughts.

Some of them can't be shared here-this is the internet after all-and that sucks a bit because those are the ones I want to get out the most.

I've been hand writing them instead. It helps.

I'm sitting outside on my deck listening to the birds and the waterfall pond thingy and trying to be peaceful, but the Thoughts are yelling.

This new way of eating/lifestyle change is probably immensely boring for anyone else. I feel like it consumes everything I do and that includes conversation with others.

"Want to have some of this?"
"Are there carbs or sugar in it?"
"Yeah..."  Or more often, "Umm, I don't know?" In which case I usually grab the item, scan the ingredient panel and sigh.
"Can't eat it."

I can't help it. This is me now I guess.

I flip over packages for literally everything and look at the carb content. If the carbs are low, I check the sugar. If the sugar is low, I look for sugar alcohol because those fuckers are usually going to mean a night on the toilet. Then I check again because maybe the sugar free whatever is suddenly worth it.

It's not. Nothing sugar free is good for you. It's full of chemicals that freak out your digestive track and leave a weird taste in your mouth. I know this and yet I eat it anyway.

Nothing with sugar is good for you. Or carbohydrates. The carbs turn to sugar and the sugar gets in your blood and your pancreas wigs out and starts yelling about insulin and then your kidneys get all stressed....

I can't enjoy food like I used to. The Thoughts are there to say things like, "Do you want diabetes? You remember your mom died from that, right?"

I've been trying so hard this last month. I went cold turkey on everything delicious. I lowered my glucose, blood pressure and weight. Can you tell by looking at me? No. So I tell you because my self esteem sucks and I need the fucking acknowledgement.

I can't help it. This is me now I guess.

The scale says I've lost weight. I touch my chin and it feels like there might be less of one. I turn to back out of a parking space and it doesn't feel like I'm going to pull something. I don't hurt as much in general and I'm sleeping better.

I know that things are changing but it doesn't feel the way I want it to look.

The Thoughts tell me that even if I was a healthy weight I'd still be mentally fucked up. They're right. That shit was here first. "You'll still have abandonment issues even if you can cross your legs comfortably," they remind me.

Sometimes the Thoughts play with PMS and then things get really interesting. I swear to god my life is reading food labels and work and dealing with emotional bullshit.

My body goes through the gauntlet of premenstrual symptoms. One day, I'm raging pissed at anything. Another day I cry at Criminal Minds. Yet another day I battle cravings of all things delicious. And there's 'bloat day'. And 'my clothes suck and nothing fits day'. And 'why do the cats hate me day?

I am rationally irrational. I mean, it makes sense. I understand what is happening to my body and I accept the insanity.

I can't help it. This is me now I guess.


It's probably intensely boring for anyone else.