How can anyone who hasn’t seen the sun in days stop themselves from feeling blue? Or gray? Or from hurting the nearest kitten that comes close to their yard?

I do not know. But it has made me Super Cranky which is like Super Superior but angrier and with clenched fists.

It’s making me engage in passive aggressive behavior.

It’s becoming nearly impossible to get through a day without sprinkling around some bad words.

No one is funny right now.

Oh, and another thing that’s just really irritating? Stop taking a gazillion pictures of yourself while you’re on vacation and posting them. I don’t care that you ate that shrimp cocktail on that tropical island with a drink that had 15 kinds of liquor in it. No, I just don’t. You’re just being mean now.

And pizza? I MISS YOU TERRIBLY. Because whatever, I know there are a ton of new ways to eat a pizza without any cheese on it but damnit, I miss cheese pizza. Look there. You made me cuss and say ‘damnit’ which, by the way, is the real way to spell it and not ‘dammit’ because that’s just stupid. Damnit.

Now that I’m combining foul language and junk food into one paragraph it’s time to get to the bidness.

January, you’re a hard month. You make everything seem dreary and you’re unmotivating. It’s hard to exercise and work out but when I do go to the gym the gross, sweaty, beefy guys make eye contact with me every 40 seconds while I’m on the elliptical and I don’t like that. The only reason I’m making eye contact back is because I’m questioning if they’re really looking at me and THEY ARE BUT I WANT THE M TO STOP IT. You’re just no fun anymore, January. It’s not me, it’s you. You have weak ass weather and the I don’t even like award shows anymore and the one holiday you have to offer is still, God help me, controversial in 2010. Sorry, MLK, that we’ve reduced you do initials. I come bearing gifts, though, January. I come in the name of all the depressed, weathered, wanna-be-startin’-somethin’-but-too-lazy-to-start-somethin’ people who want to do something fun like trick or treat during the month of January.

We’ll start this weekend, ok? Saturday night. We’ll go from house to house with a pillowcase in hand and ring doorbells to see if our neighbors are still alive have heat and some candy coated goodness to offer.

If they have a keg instead then ok. That’ll do.

SUPER RE-TARDO

Growing up, we weren’t allowed to say the word “retard” or even “shut up”. Repressive Catholic parenting did that to me but we also never talked about sex and we all know where that lead. In any case, the other day I was at the store and these two brothers were fighting and arguing and punching each other in the side of the head and one of them called the other a “Super Retardo” and then the mom laughed and stopped scolding them and they pretended to wear capes and become some strange sort of super hero and then I laughed along with them and the mom gave me this warm smile that said, “Aren’t they cute? And don’t you kind of want to take them home with YOU instead so that I don’t have to wonder about what kind of missile range it would take to pick them off from afar?”

At least that’s how I interpreted it. In my own superheroiness (Jaysus! That’s not a word AT ALL and my English Lit. degree betrays me more and more!) this week I’ve made some observations:

1. I had to kill a mouse with my bare hands. By “bare hands” I mean wearing gloves and putting it in a plastic bag and slamming it on the ground to put it out of its misery. This was enough scarring to my soul that I went and put a ten dollar bill in a jar that I use for therapy.

2. The guy at the front desk at my work sounds just like Matthew McConaughey every time he answers the phone. It’s bizarre and wildly entertaining to call him to for ridiculous things like, “Did I leave my pen at your desk?” or “Are you Team Jacob or Team Edward or Team Shirtless?” You know who else does a mean impersonation of Matthew McConaughey? Matt Damon.  

3. My Christmas shopping was finished in two days. I’m online-shopper-ninja-like that way. But I did have to go to Target for some things and realized that I couldn’t pay my $300 bill because I hit my limit for debit that day so I left the store, went to the bank to get cash, and returned where I decided to park right in front of the store because, yes, sometimes I am that jerk and I had my limit with stupid people that day anyway. It’s possible and even probable that I stuck out my tongue at a few drivers when I did it, too. Yes. Totally probable. Also probable: excessive use of the eff word.

4. You know what doesn’t get old? Ross the Intern. Who is no longer Ross the Fat Intern, but Ross the Skinny Guy With His Own Show. Also? This doesn’t get old. It’s my favorite video of him. All day now I’ll be saying, “Pineapple! Pineapple! I’m not kidding!”

5. My Christmas present wrapping is the shit. No lie. So long as you don’t worry about how crooked the lines are underneath all that stuff. The more bows on a present the more I am trying to distract you from my wrapping skills. 

BONUS: There is a Christmas song on the radio that uses the words “baby momma” in it. If there were a Super Re-Tardo award I would bestow it on that idiot. CHRIST, PEOPLE. Ok, so admittedly, Joseph had a baby momma but it came after the birth of Jesus. You know why he weeps? He weeps for horrid Christmas songs that glorify the ghetto, folks.

If I were a dog I would be running in a circle, chewing my own tail, and then looking around the room for a chew toy. This is just the way today is going. Scoring a tranquilizer or going on a kennel run should be high on my priority list. What does that make me? A golden retriever? A miniature poodle? A Jack Russell terrier? You’d think I was beyond the idea of writing my blog in bullet form or numbering, but today I am not. Today, I am a hyper dog.

1. Working in a school will ensure that you hear the same phrases over and over again. I’d list them all but if you work in a school you could probably come up with the same ones I have experienced. It’s a universal problem and I could spend a week in a school in Australia and recognize the language as being similar to what we hear in North America (see that, Canada? WE’RE TOGETHER IN THIS!). 

What I keep learning is that it all comes down to beliefs. Teachers don’t want to enforce certain rules because they don’t believe in them. We end up projecting our values and norms onto students in our schools. I see it in our government right now when determining how we’re going to handle the proposal of health care. I’m not sure everyone in this country believes that we all deserve health care. Until that belief is there, we’re going to stop the work that is happening to get. (I do NOT want to start an entire discussion with the interwebs about health care in the United States. Dear sweet Jesus knows I don’t. Even dear sweet Buddha knows it. So does Confucius. Especially Confucius.)

2. One of my sons has a teacher who is giving extra credit for bringing in tissues and colored markers and canned food. I have so much of an issue with that right now and it’s not because we’re in a recession. Of course, we’re “in a recession” because I still have a job. If I were jobless then I’d say we’re “in a depression”. Anyway, I had to re-evaluate whether I did this as a teacher or not and I can’t remember. I probably did. What’s the statute of limitations on apologizing to my former students? SORRY, KIDS AND YOUR PARENTS. THAT WAS CARELESS OF ME.

3. Speaking of former students, one of them invited me to her pinning ceremony because she is getting her degree in nursing. Unfortunately, I can’t attend. Jamie is one of the students I had in 6th, 7th, and 8th grade (that was back when I looped with my kids and it was pretty amazing to see them grow in that amount of time) and she knows all about my friendship with Allen. 

4. Shorty needs to just go ahead and call 911. He’s on fire on the dance floor. This is a constant concern of mine when I hear that song.

5. I have a LOFT giveaway going on in the review section of my blog which can be found here. Go and vote on your favorite outfit I created with the help of a stylist and you could win a $200 gift card from LOFT. That’s TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS. What dog gives away that kind of gift, huh?

This post is one of those that I probably won’t ever go back and read through again. Unless there’s lots of comments that make me ask, “What the hell did I write about that made them say that in the comments?”

Hyper dog, people. I can’t help it. I feel safe here so I know you’ll be okay with all this. CIRCLE OF TRUST.

So, how’s the NaBloPoMo going? Is your MoJo still going? I’ll tell you what. When Mrs. Kennedy came up with this brainchild I was excited and I’m so happy to see some folks doing it along with me. I find my writing tends to speak more toward the ‘audience’ than normal. Remember the other day when I forced you to de-lurk? Yeah. Well, I got that all mixed up. It wasn’t until the 21st apparently. Don’t you want to SLAP me?

Here. I’ll make it up to you. 

In writing for 24 days in a row and finding out that it’s not so much work as it is commitment I’ve also gotten questions in comments that I’ve been really bad about answering. BUT, I do end up answering them in e-mails to people. Now, that? I’m pretty good about doing. 

One of my favorite things to read in Time each week when it comes delivered to my house is to read about the celebrities or political figures or writers and the 10 questions section. This last week it was about Zac Efron and let’s face it: I’m no superfan when it comes to him, but I still learned a lot about him in reading the answers he provided. Since I’m doing all this talking to you I thought I’d take the lazy way out give readers a treat and allow questions. Because if that isn’t the easiest way out I don’t know what is! Except writing lists!

Let’s do this thing. I’ll pick ten questions and then that will be my post tomorrow. I’ll answer questions and write them as they come to me. If it gets out of hand someone will have to throw out the Safe Word. That word is SANITY. Because after 24 days of writing, I’m pretty short on that.

Ready? Set? Hey! Are you ready? OK. Let’s GO. No slapping.

You know how you get that itch, that desire to have a dog? And it’s always the same thing. It starts with seeing a puppy somewhere and telling yourself that no one in the whole wide world will ever love that puppy as much as you will love that puppy. This never happens in those mall places, though, because all you can think is, “Holy crap! These dogs are drugged! You know they drug these dogs, don’t you? If they’re sedate, they give them uppers. If they’re hyper, they give them downers. Stupid mall puppies. Totally drugged and strung out.” See, it doesn’t really happen with the dog breeders. Those people love their pets. I mean LOVE. They’ll tell you all about how the momma dog went into labor and then describe in detail about how the dog pushed out a whole bunch of slimy puppies and then they’ll offer you an alfalfa sandwich that you can eat while they check on their garden and get the paperwork together so you can take a dog home. Of course, you’ll suspect that there’s weed growing in their garden because they just look like they own a bong, but don’t get too close to the back door just to satiate your curiosity. There’s a lot of dog crap back there.

Where was I?

That’s right. I was telling you how it starts.

So it starts with wanting a puppy. For me, this was eight years ago and now Lola is a dog (not a puppy) and sometimes I try to calculate her age in dog years and then I realize that maybe she’s older than me and how is that possible and whoa! are those gray hairs on my dog’s chin and WHOA! IS THAT A HAIR ON MY CHIN? and then my brain cramps up and I start looking for the Geritol in the cabinet but only come up with something that’s a “softgel” and the next thing I know I’m debating in my head whether “softgel” is an actual word or is it something that the drug companies made up and while I’m pouring some “softgels” into the palm of my hand I realize that the dog is now humping my leg but not because she wants to make out with me. It’s because she wants me to take her for a morning walk. And the pee! The pee is coming!

And this? THIS is how that starts, people.

It’s November. It’s cold. My bathrobe sits on top of the furnace in my room (old house, water based. it’s LOVELY on the skin.) and it’s the first thing I reach for in the frigid mornings and it warms me up right away. Oh, look. There’s an old pair of wooly boots sitting in the corner and they’re easier to reach than my slippers and wow, a scarf. Suddenly, you’re dressed and warmed up and looking like you live in Gray Gardens and the dog wants to go for a walk NOW. RIGHT NOW. and you think to yourself “Why should I bother putting other clothes on when I’m nearly dressed and this will keep me warm enough to walk the dog down the street and back?” and “I think it’s dark enough so that no one will recognize me.” and a myriad of other things that allow your brain to convince your fashion self that this? It’s OK. It’s alright to wear this getup first thing in the morning and once the dog is walked you can properly dress yourself for work.

But before you can look like a non-deranged human being who has a job you run into a cop who is slowly patrolling the streets and his window is down so you decide a “Good morning, officer!” is in order and then he starts a conversation with you and you actually utter, “I know I’m dressed like I escaped from a loony bin, officer, but really. Do they let crazy psych patients keep dogs? No. No, they don’t. I’m normal. I swear.” and he gives you a look that all but says, “Lady. I haven’t had enough coffee for the likes of you.” and suddenly your brain takes a trip on trying to figure out if you have friends with bail money.

I just wanted you to know that you should leave me alone in the early morning when I’m dressed like this and my dog just needs to pee.

But now I know how it starts when I see people dressed like I’m dressed this morning and I will no longer judge them.