I Want My Money Back
To put it mildly, this summer is not living up to my expectations. So far, I have: not been invited to a funeral to which I should have been invited, been invited to a funeral to which I probably should not have been invited, and alienated my mother-in-law to the point that she is probably wishing she could attend my funeral very soon.
In the meantime, I am fighting a lonely battle against the combined strength of conspicuous consumption and the ridiculous reluctance to relinquish rather redundant refuse. I have nightmares that our world is one giant landfill and that everyone but me has developed the gills necessary to peacefully swim through the detritus.
To top it all off, Mayor Bloomberg wants to ban Big Gulps.
Granted, I don’t live in New York City. And I don’t drink sugary sodas. But, I liked Mayor Bloomberg until he went off the reservation with this one. And, now I’m beginning to question my own judgement. Which is a big ole slippery slope – with a bunch of jagged rocks – down which I do not want to slide on my tender butt.
So, basically, this has been an unpredictable, uncontrollable summer. And not in any kind of a good way.
If it didn’t mean having to get up early in the morning, I would declare myself ready to return to work. At least, in my classroom, my students let me pretend that I have some control. And, as we have already established, they do not question my judgement – because they assume I have none.
On the good side, our new furniture has made it over a month without being chewed up by Wonderbutt. And Dimples and I are reading a super awesome book together that hopefully won’t have any embarrassingly racy sections that I will have to read out loud. (I will tell you the name of the book once we finish and I can give you a full review.) And, I’ve written 4 very short chapters of my own novel, which will not feature Wonderbutt or Dimples or Mayor Bloomberg. Or my mother-in-law. At least not in any recognizable form.
But I might throw in some Big Gulps just to be ornery.