I had a steady as she goes week last week, but starting Monday, to quote a phrase from a well known 1960-1970’s television show, “my tiny ship was rocked.” Yes, I know I have bipolar, anxiety and depression, and at once I can be maniac and euphoric, and the next has me crawling out on my roof. And no pun intended, it’s a slippery slope. I work with kind and sensitive people, but I also work with jackals who smell my fear and can’t wait to pounce when possible. My husband helps when he can, but he is never the knight in shining army who will rush in to say, “What’s wrong with you guys?! LIzzy’s ideas are awesome. At least give the a try. Few department members have liked my ideas, so I have to be sneaky. I have to push my agenda forward in a most subtle way alluding to the fact that THEY came up with the idea, and should a friend remind me that it was me (no one in my department but perhaps at a faculty meeting, and says, “Didn’t you suggest that idea? Lizzy suggested it. I tend to say, “Gosh, I though Sally or Ron suggested it! Well, whoever said it! It’s awesome.”
Teachers are a weird breed. As children most of us wanted to be the leader in Follow the Leader, or make a groups of youngsters listen to us. For many summers I wanted to have daycare classes in my basement. My mother was less that enthused about this. There would legalities, kids of which we would be responsible, and it looked doubtful (judging from my convoluted art projects and various hands on learning lessons, that little money (if any) would be made.
Nonetheless, as a middle and high schooler, I turned to the arts: acting, singing, dancing. These artistic endeavors seemed to compliment my desire to teach. I loved the my middle school and high school bands, choirs and play casts created. And I was always sad to see it end.
Once again, you may think, dear writer, what does this have to do with me? What does it have to do with a global pandemic? A couple things. I had the pleasure of listening to a previously broadcast interview with Jodie PIcoult and listed to my brother’s first of many to come business-related podcasts. Feeling humbled might be one way to put it. I think its’ amazing that my brother is working those creative juices. I stretch my creative instruments by listening to others’ creative ideas. But I consistently think of the post-retirement pledge and dream. After I leave the hallowed halls of academia, I want to be the oldest woman writing for a comedy show (Yeah, she’s 50, but she’s woke! She knows what’s going on. And have you seen her kicks? Cute, but not pretentious.” OR, I would love to locate a pile of money and open a no-kill animal shelter. Not to brag, but what I lack in the people skills area, I more than make up in my relationships with animals. I might sound nuts, but I can often see inside an animal’s souls. I hesitate to write this because I know how wacky it sounds, but it has happened enough throughout my life that I know I know symbiosis when I feel it.
Until that time, I am going to run some errands with my MASK on (and answer to know one), ea
I bet in pandemics there are two kids of people. Those folks use the time as a opportunity to “clean their home from top of bottom and twice while interchangeably nursing the twins and getting and snack for them after they successfully try going potty. Naturally the snacks are healthy and whole-grained, And YES the twins are startlng to read. Oh, and did I tell you that Simon and I have reinvigorated our sex life. My orgasms are amazing (I hate her. What’s an orgasm again?!) Thank God for Covid. Right honey?” I smile, but my eyes says, “F*** B****. Have a great day!”
I used to like Molly, but I hate her cheery attitude and very organized life. She runs two miles in the morning and makes EVERYTHING from scratch. She has this really high, irritating voice, but because she is so genuinely kind, adorable , one still has to like her. A little.
I used to think that if I had all the time in the world, I change my hoaders hideaway into a little, quaint Northwoodsy cabin where I could commune with nature. I love being in the water, and sitting by the dock. But being perfectly honest, I like being by my strawberry blow up pool from Amazon that I dip my feet into on our deck. That’s all I really need in a resort.
But I DESPERATELY need to find Lizzy. I lost her that day in March when Covid arrived and everyone from my principal, husband, the police liason office to my department chair told us how this doing classes online would look like. (I think I’ve mentioned I’m a teacher). I’m used to being told what to do. I live by a bell. “Oh, it’s 9:02, it’s my prep. I can rush off the the bathroom. Praise you Jesus. Later I eat two crackers for lunch because I feel like death if I eat more than that in 15 mins. And anyone else can do coffee. Wish I could, but acts as a major diuretic and increases other bodily functions at highly inappropriate times.
So, health be damned, this mother and wife has to get out of Dodge before she eats her young, and quite honestly, they are bigger and healthier than I am, so there is a good chance that I could lose. So surreptitiously, I will have to leave my house and drive to a hotel (Oh sweet Jesus, what is a hotel??!!!). Is this rather risky? Will my son, the worrier, be mad at me? But he is way more worrled for himself that for anyone else. He is beyond petrified. (He has seen a counselor) However, his father was an unhelpful, crabby old man as I endeavored to teach Bible school. He has little patience for me any more, so this little fortress that is sucking the joy and life out of me needs to allow me to leave. For just a day (maybe longer next time). Indeed I am probably playing a bit of Russian roulette with my health, but my mental health is what is taking the beating.
MY know-it-all-bitchy daughter returned today from a trip with her friends. I was in her room sorting pictures. You would have thought that I had defecated on her favorite trophy. She is much like my mother used to be. I loved my mother, but I could never make her laugh or get her compliment me.I irritated all the time, and my bipolar moods were exhausting to her. That changed as I grew older. Back to the Prodigal Daughter. My lovely child came into her room, looked around (no “Hi!”, “Hello,” “thank you for the trip.” Nothing. We would never have been friends in high school. This I do know). She said, “Oh great. I have things to do.” And stormed out. Another blessed mother and child reunion.
So, after organizing parts of many years of photos that will go in albums that my children will probably throw away because sentimentality has no place in 2020, I will be drifting back to sleep. It’ll take about six more hours to organize the pictures, and then I have two other big jobs checked off, and three more a head of me. But I get to drive somewhere!! Hot damn!! I’m driving more than three minutes for green tea! I’ll be by myself. Where no one thinks I weird, stupid, messy, embarrassing or worthy of eye rolling. I think I’m removing her from my Facebook friend list. “She’s not 50, so she doesn’t look at it anyway.”
Quicksand, all I want to do is take my van for an hour an a half drive to return some items, check into a hotel and continue working on my photo albums. Let me have two-three drinks, a salad and a pleasant, guiltless night sleep. Maybe I can sit outside? For three hours, the skies the limit. Have mask, wipes and sanitizer—will travel. At least let’s hope so.