Irrational Fears, I Haz 'em

(Did you know if you accidentally hit the return key instead of say, the tab key, that your post gets posted likity split? We learn something new everyday.)

So the irrational stuff. Or is it? Or should we just get all pseudo-psychological and blame my upbringing on this one, which I'm having a very hard time putting into words:

If I run out of gasoline, VERY, BAD, THINGS will happen.

No really. The other morning my first errand of the day was to go get gas. Of course my "let's not use up more dead-dinosaurs than we have to" self said I should try to go to a gas station on the way to JC Penny as that was my next intended goal. (more on that later)

This entailed my getting onto the freeway at about 10 AM, you know, AFTER so-called "rush" hour?

Lies. Bitter scarring, lies.

As I was patting myself on the back for correctly navigating my way onto the freeway on-ramp (dude, seriously, did not get lost AT ALL), I was presented with the sea of stopped cars, as far as the horizon, really...and my gas light chose at that exact moment to light up.

No, really.

In the place where the rational thoughts live I knew that the light was on because I was indeed dangerously low on dino-blood, but the incline was the culprit. As soon as we leveled out, the light should go off. I also knew that even if I was really in the orange-light-of-doom level of gas, I had miles, MILES to go before the car would stutter and sputter and transform into 1600 lbs of detritus.

MILES!

Unfortunately, the irrational part of my brain has the power of projection, because these thoughts wholly and completely drowned out everything else:

"OH! MY! GOD! ORANGE LIGHT! ORANGE! LIGHT!"

and took control of my limbs even:
"IS THE AC OFF? TURN OFF THE RADIO! DIM ALL THE LIGHTS! DON'T USE THE GAS PEDAL JUST LET IT ROLL! LET! IT! ROLL!"

No, really. Cuz turning off all the electrical bits will make my engine work that much less so I will have a drop more if needed. The world may never know, because actually, yes, I did need every spare drop of gas before I got to the gas station, but instead of drowning out the thoughts while listening to NPR go on about all the awful things going on in the world, I got to sit back and listen to my crazy-pants thoughts weave all sorts of world-ending scenarios that had me stalling and running out of gas MILES from anywhere...um, in the middle of Seattle.

See, I kept thinking back to when my mom, older brother, and I were driving back from my mom's work and the gas gauge was dangerously sitting at the "E" while we were sitting in non-moving traffic. In the middle of summer. In LA.

The freeways are not just the arteries of the state of California, they are the only known ways of travel for the majority of Angelinos. They will NOT, NEVER, EVER get off the freeway to take the streets because, um, NO IDEA how to get to their destination that way. Or that was the case back in the 80s. Had we been equipped with GPS navigation equipment, I think my mom might have ventured off the freeway, found a station, filled up and tada! We'd have been all good and happy.

But she didn't.

Instead it was (what felt like) hours of her sighing and tapping the steering wheel with her right-hand pointing finger and saying things like, "Andale carritos," and musing about what we'd have to do if we got stuck on the freeway, out of gas, and more tapping of the finger and moving it about conducting some weird symphony (and yes, I do actually do that myself now, hmmm, learned habit maybe?).

And here's the thing, the entire time, needle on empty, no orange light. Not until we got off the freeway and drove up, then down those hills right off my mom's exit.

My mom's "AAAAAAIIIIIEEEE" wail is not something I can reproduce, but I can tell you it only comes out when REALLY BAD THINGS are about to transpire and therefore has seared itself into my brain in connection with serious accidents, deaths, losses of passports/important documents, and the appearance of that damned orange light from hell.

We coasted into her gas station of choice just in time...just as I did, somewhere in the middle of not-University but not-Ravenna, orange light firmly blazing by that point.

Once I finished topping everything off and resetting my trip-meter to 0.0, this weird calm came over me. I knew I was going to have to deal with way more traffic and madness and errands and possible 100 degree weather, but I just didn't care. The orange light was gone and there was gas in the car and I did not have to use plan I was stitching together in my head (Andy + motorcycle + gas can that I did not yet own + where the hell am I and how do I get him here...), and all was right with my world again.

Until the next thing.

Mischeif Managed...

I'm ba-ack.

But I'm not in the right headspace. Too many things going on in there lately. I need to cut back on the over-dwelling and digging up of old memories. They hurtses us something awful sometimes. But it's like...how can I explain so I don't sound too birken-stocky for your tastes?

But really now, you've read about how I must tell a story/dream to make it reality, if you didn't leave then...it's kinda the opposite for some of my memories. I share them with friends and family to get them out of the lurking subconscious so they won't haunt me at my most vulnerable...when I'm sick or tired or...of late, sleeping.

I've had some very poor nights recently where I'm dreaming a scene from my real life but the "players" are all the wrong people. Or maybe I should just say that the main player, the one whom I'm having a great conversation with, watching the stars with, programing the VCR with...that person becomes all wrong. That's when I find I'm slipping into nightmare mode and the cause is one big, bad X who I'd rather went to far far away and stayed there...I mean really now, just when I think I'm all done and over and oh-blah-de, oh-blah-da, life goes on, yeah! He comes back...urg.

It's like those bad b-movies I watched as a kid where the main character thinks the guy helping him/her out is this swell fellow and s/he thinks they're gonna be okay and so UNLIKE The Goonies where the big-bad is actually a sweetie, this big-bad turns out to be the deranged/serial killer/devil?

Yeah, those kind of dreams. But my X plays center stage and I don't realize that he's not my older or younger brother, or my uncle or Lev or Andy or even Richard until he starts ranting and going off on me and laughing that awful laugh that makes me realize I'm in hell and would rather like to wake up now, please...but can't because I suck at controlling my dreams.

Because of this I am distracted and would much rather inundate myself with diverse things as NPR podcasts or reading teen novels that frustrate me cuz it's kinda obvious the author has never driven a vehicle encumbered by snow chains and that whole poetic Justice/suspending my disbelief is rather limited and yet! I can't stop reading the damned thing.

I think it's because her vampire universe is so much more positive and happy than the Buffy-verse or the world of Anne Rice. Or rather, that's my theory. If I wasn't longing for shiny happy things...and yes, I will interrupt myself just here...I guess I do believe this book about danger and dying and bad things happening to good people is light and happy compared to what's swirling in my head just now...The mid-sentence revelations in my blog posts are such amazing things to me. But yeah, if it weren't for that I think I'd have had to ditch the book by now.

See, I know it's all about anxiety and if I just chilled a little more the eye tick would go away and I could sleep better and maybe my tummy would stop it's weird gurgling rumble-nauseous trend and life would slowly get better...but I just got back from L.A. and gah! Life and stress and not enough people at work and the end of the year and did I mention stress? It's a bit much right this second...

And it was 42 degrees on my drive to work this morning. As much as I could not stand the heat of "autumn" in Los Angeles... (more in my next post) I was really rather missing my sweat glands this morning.

Santa Claus & OLG's Miss E

It is amazing what a flood of memories a single statement can bring up.

And what lies they tell you with regards to how you, as a teacher, will or will not affect the teens you are teaching...

Okay, in order of the title.

So I scoured through my journals to try to figure out who had said what, when, with regards to my "one and twenty" post. I really was curious enough to pull out dusty tomes best left untouched (most of the time, really).

It was in the battered and beaten notebook I kept during my sailing days where I found the entry. Reminiscing, (as I did much of--I mean there wasn't much else to do during your midnight watch), while in transit between Bajia Candelaria and Mazatlan after talking endlessly with Santa Claus--really, maybe I mentioned him before? I'll look-- that I found my reference.

It was Mr. Claus that brought up the search for Home; the need to connect with others--especially those who already know you. Those with whom you don't have to start from scratch.

So what if you were a poopie-head when you were a kid, if they were your friends then, and loved you as friends will, they will see past that horrid kid to the person you are today--and remind you of your poopie-headed adventures and you will laugh and laugh, cuz really, what else can you do? That was you, after all.

For Santa, it was very important to have folks around him that knew you better than anyone else, cuz, well, by the time you got to be his age, most of your family is gone. He was the baby of the group. He lived through wars (and wartime shortages) and served in the marines (Semper FIE!--please don't shoot me ;)), and had accumulated many careers, miles, kids, and an ex wife or two under his belt. And now he was trying to make it in Mexico, cuz even when you're Santa Claus, your Social Security check is still only a pittance, + the VA bennies.

Aaah, it feels good to be able to place that in correct context.

***

Okay...Miss. E...OMG, OLG's, Miss E.

I have to keep reminding myself that she was only 29. It really does bring things more into perspective. I mean, I still blame her for a whole heck of a lot, but that's cuz I have those "letting go" issues, right?

Miss E. was as awesome as she was traumatizing. She was our 6th and 7th grade teacher, right? Or was it 5th and 6th? See how bad it was? I'd rather not remember:

Sr. J
Ms. H
Sr. J/Ms. M/Ms. G, and other random subs, crazy year
Ms. G, but the nice one! HA!
Ms. R who was new and had this thing about our nails being the right length and us being super neat...
Ms. E
Ms. E
Mrs. T

That seems right.

So when I read Suzanna's comment:

"but I do remember that one of the OLG teachers said that the only lifelong friends we'll make are the ones you make in college. How disappointing to hear for 7th/8th graders with their friends in tow."

I sat at my desk stunned as it all came back. Her voice, the nonchalant way she said it, were we in her car? It was almost summer. Were we helping with something? Maybe the graduation? I think I've inherited Homer Simpson's brain, remembering things the way I want to have had them happened, with green hair, and a jack-in-the-box ;). Whatever the case, I was floored.

What did she mean by that! How could she say that! Did she realize how much she was belittling the friendships we had currently? And she thought I was tactless? (Yeah, I've been this way all my life.)

But she was only 29, and using that 20/20 hindsight? Sheltered. She may have grown up in "LA" but she was an El Sereno kid. She went to school a few miles from the house where she grew up. She lived NEXT DOOR to her dad. I think she was uber bitter and disappointed, and really missed her mom (she'd just died, I think). I honestly thought she was WAY older than the 27 we'd guessed during the "how old am I" guessing game in 6th grade.

I mean, really, I am tactless, I fully admit it, I can't help it! I will bust out with the gods' honest truth -- if you are my peer. If you are a 12-year-old, however? Who might even sorta look up to me? I will not dash your hopes. I will be positive and patient (though I stop short at lying) and she is the reason why.

I never "called anyone out" in the middle of class to embarrass them; even if I was having a bad day; even if I hated them with every core of my being; even if I thought they need it. As surly and adult-like as teens will act, they are still kids and these things will stick, I should know.

And if I ever meet up with an ex-student who has told me they just got accepted into Stanford's teacher education program? I won't tell them that they just made the worst decision in the world! That they shouldn't teach! And not because of their personality or what I remember about who they were back in my classroom. I'd never go on and on about how teaching is the most under-appreciated job in the universe; that no matter what they think they can do with the system they will fail. Not when you see the gleam in their eyes and the energy they have to expend! Cuz all that told me was that she was bitter and really should get out of the teaching world...and not be the principal of our old elementary school. (Oh yes, she was.)

And just to round out the whole Tactless clan? Because of her status at that school? My little brother got to experience her too. That last conversation I had with her? Even worse than the "don't be a teacher" one, was her utter disbelief that the child in Kindergarten wasn't MINE. That I was lying about being his sister and not his mother.

Lady, I may be "blessed" with the overly big tummy and child-bearing hips of my dad's side of la familia, but really and truly, I think I'd know if I'd carried and delivered a baby while trying to finish high school. Just sayin'.

Aaauuummm...

Where was I? I was nowhere...that was me really needing to rant and try to get it all out in the quietest way possible. Cuz really, who am I going to tell this all to? Andy? Poor thing hears enough about how awful my day was to have to deal with my childhood trauma. Have I mentioned how much I love the blogiverse? So very much cheaper than therapy :).