Airing My Dirty Laundry

It's a good thing that no one's reading this blog anymore, because I'm about to let loose. My relationship is pretty close to being in complete shambles. At this juncture, I'm pretty sure we're both to blame, but his short temper doesn't help. It's times like these that I long for the days when I was single and carefree dating whomever and whenever I wished. Life was a cabaret and I was a young, slightly heavier Liza Minnelli.
There are times that my relationship is everything I've ever wanted and then there are times like right now. I wish he'd pack all his belongings and go suckle on his mother's teet (since that's what I suspect he does when he goes over there anyway).
There are also times when I contemplate being a lesbian, only to realize that I'm not attracted to women. A girl just doesn't have many options these days.
And let's face it, I'm no spring chicken. Who knows how many child bearing years I have left?? If the old man was out of here, I would totally begin the adoption process. But, no. Still waiting on a man.
Isn't it funny that after all that sufferin' for sufferage, I'm still letting a man rule my life. Ugg. But, it's true. You can't be married to yourself, although if you could, that would be awesome! You can't fertilize your womb by yourself, but again, if that was possible, how convenient would that be?! And probably not as messy as the real deal.
So, here I am. A woman now 30 who has invested 3 years into a man who may or may not be worth it after all. What to do? Kick him to the curb? Try and work it out?
Turns out there are no easy answers. Usually, I'm a pretty decisive kinda gal, but today, wishy-washy at best.
Relationships suck.

Love and Football

I thought I was a cool girl. I thought I was the girl that could hang out with all the guys. I mean, I weld, I use power tools, I build stuff, I drink Boone's Farm straight from the bottle and I like football. Like being the operative word.
People who like football watch one or two games a week. The drink a beer, they eat pizza, they root for the home team and all that.
But, people who love football, well that's another story all together.

I love my boyfriend. Yes, we fight and sometimes I wish the earth would temporarily swallow him up, but at the end of the day - or week, as it may be - I still want to be his girlfriend. However, never ever ever did I ever predict what it would be like to live with someone who loves football.

I haven't held a remote in my hand in 48 hours. And it's not because I haven't wanted to watch TV, it's because the TV is totally and completely devoted to the love of football. And it's just too much trouble to try and get a show in edgewise.

Having Direct TV also doesn't help. I mean, how many games can possibly be played on one day?!!! More than I can count, it turns out. Thank Sweet Jebus for Netflix. This relationship would be over without it.

And so, to sum up, it turns out, I'm not a very cool girl. My like of football has now been turned into hatred because I've been forced to live with so much of it over the past two years. Yes, I can weld and use power tools, but all I want to watch now are romantic comedies and crime shows. I don't want to watch a football game. Not in a boat, not with a goat, and definitely not four days out of the week.

What'cha do?!

"Miss Queen, whatcha be doin' when you leave here?"
That's what one of my 5-year old students asked me today.  I said, "Lots of things!  Sometimes I go home, sometimes I go teach a yoga class."
"Yoga?!  I can't even do yoga no more!"
I suspect he has no idea what yoga is.

Ridicuous things I've said today:
"Where do I want your bottom?!"
"Your artwork is NOT a toy!"
"Stop spitting into the crayon cup, please."

I Can't Cuss at Work

I want to cuss a blue streak! Just let loose and let the F-bombs and b!tch%s fly all over the place! But, I can't because I teach elementary children and it might actually get me fired. Who knows?! I've never tried it, nor seen anyone do it, so I don't really want to test it out.
But, man! am I going to fantasize about it.
I would like to go up to some of the heifers I work with and tell them what I really think about their work eithic, their inability to get along OR be helpful, and their crusty feet.
I would tell them once and for all how I really feel, then make a dramatic exit. And possibly take a few days off. That's my fantasy. And during my few days off, I would do all I could to let my muscles atrophy and watch as much Netflix as possible. Mmmmmmm...wonderful.
In other news, my students are being really good right now, although I see a couple staring off into space. I can't blame them, though. It's what I wish I could be doing right now.

Wit's End

If one more child asks me if I'm pregnant, I'm going to quit the teaching profession all together! I know I've gained a little weight, I know I'm not in the best shape, but seriously! I don't even look kind of pregnant! I'm just fat.

And, it's not like most of my students don't have fat mothers! I see them everyday picking up their children. . .

Yesterday, one little girl just skipped the whole pregnant question and asked: "Miss Queen, why are you so fat?"

I'm, like, 15 pounds overweight. AND. . .we don't live in L.A. I'm still in the thin category amongst employees at this school, so why is everybody picking on me?!!!

Maybe it's a sign. A sign that children hate me and want me to develop an eating disorder. But the joke's on them, because I already tried to develop an eating disorder and it didn't work! HA!

*sigh*

Maybe I should just give in and get myself knocked up.

Just Remember, I Still Haven't Been Classified as Clinically Insane . . .

I know it's trendy to be a little OCD and everybody says that they are and we all go around pretending that we all have some sort of mental affliction when all most of us really want is attention.

I am not technically diagnosed with the OCD, although I do have some tendencies. However, I am a hypochondriac and nobody who knows me (even a little) will dispute that.

So, yesterday, I kept feeling like I had something in my throat. I coughed and coughed hoping to get it out. When I got home, I looked at my tonsils in the mirror and saw something white perched happily on my left tonsil. I remember BFF (a registered nurse, by the way) said that sometimes, after you've had a cold or a sinus infection these little white clumps can form on your tonsils and if they don't go away in a couple of days, your breath might really start to stink. She also told me that you can actually just pick them off with, like, a q-tip or something.

Remembering these words as I looked at the white object on my tonsil, I embarked on a journey that was both terrifying and successful. For 45 minutes, I poked , prodded, tweezed, gagged, and coughed. I was determined to get this thing off of my tonsil!! Finally, I just stuck my finger back there and felt around until I dislodged it. . .and then swallowed it.

Now, I know what you're all thinking!!! That this is easily one of the most disgusting and disturbing stories you've ever heard me tell! And you're right. It is disgusting. But just imagine what it would be like to be my finger. . .and be thankful that you're not. I know that I am.

And if you're really wondering, it would have done no harm to just have left it alone. Allegedly, they go away on their own. But see, that's my point! I couldn't leave it alone.

So, the next time you drive back home from work just to make sure that you turned the oven off, or check your locks 10 times before you go to bed, just remember: at least you're not crazy enough to explore your tonsils with your finger, a q-tip, and a pair of tweezers.

And then, feel sorry for me.

Absolutely Unstable

I have problems. This is not new news. When I'm busy and I don't have time to bother with my instability, everything just hums along! However, when I'm not busy and I'm feeling sorry for myself, AND my Man Out of Jail (MOOJ) might have said some slightly insensitive things, a trifecta occurs...or maybe more like a perfect storm...

Let's take this weekend for instance: MOOJ was back home from his traveling job, and although we had seen each other just the weekend before, I expected that he would want to spend time with me. Hardly. He wanted to spend time with his "boys" since he hadn't seen them in two weeks. Fine. Whatev. I'll find my own stuff to do that will be BETTER and COOLER!

Well, Saturday night, I came down with a nasty head cold. That's when the real problem began.

You see, when I get sick, as happens at least 3 times a year, I throw a big fat pity party for myself. I think about how alone I am and how I always have to take care of myself and what crappy friends I have because they're not psychic and they can't telepathically discover that I'd like a cup of tea and a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup.

Now, add a touch of testosterone-filled boyfriend hanging out with his "boys" and sit back and watch the fireworks commence!

Oh, it was bad. . .and histrionic. I was in rare form. I was angry, I was sad, I was vengeful, I actually contemplated calling an ex-boyfriend (that I hate) just to try and make MOOJ jealous!! Euripedes couldn't have written a scene more dramatic. The text messages I composed, the voice mails I left, some of them barely comprehesible, were, at best, not suggestive of reasonability.

I'm crazy. And whilst I'm going through an particularly unstable period, I just can't manage to keep it to myself. I first have to direct all my irrational insecurities to my significant other, and then I freely express them to whomever will answer their phone when I call.

You would think, that after nearly three decades of having to deal with myself, I'd learn to lock myself in a room, with only a TV and an Agatha Christie book (possibly a journal also (to be burned shorly after my release)), only to come out when the period of instability has passed. But no. That's not what I do.

I am an evangelical witness to my own dysfunction.

While you may not be able to empathize with my problem, surely you will sympathize with me! Please, please feel sorry for me! Please! I promise I'll invite you to my next pity party. . .and let you fix my soup.

Yours eternally for infinity,
Queen, III