June– It’s Not Good

Teaching, , , , , , , , ,

Everyone I know, to me: “It’s June! You’re, like, DONE! You must be so happy!”

No.

Fucking, just, no. No, no, no.

I’m sure this is very difficult for non-teachers to understand, but June is actually one of the worst months of the year in our profession. June carries with it a very specific, very potent, very excruciating kind of misery that is like the 3rd cousin of, but not directly related to, the general misery that permeates months September through May.

The kids are OUT. OF. CONTROL. The end-of-year housekeeping tasks are never ending and mind-numbingly dull. Administration is in a state of perpetual pissed-off. The building is 972 degrees, whether it’s a cool or hot day outside. Makes no difference. Heat and humidity of any kind gets trapped, it rises, the air conditioner breaks (if it even worked in the first place), and suddenly you feel as though you are trapped on the E-train platform in the dead of August. Surrounded by other people’s sweaty, prepubescent children. For 8 hours straight.

It’s not good.

So please. I know you all mean well, but save the “You’re done! You must be so happy!” for June 28th, 3:01pm, and not a moment before (or 3:10pm if you want a particularly animated response, as I’ll be 7 shots deep by then).

Because here’s what’s happening now:

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(15 minutes later….)

 

June 3

 

 

Why I Don’t Go To Clubs

Friends, Random Thoughts/Happenings, , , , , , , ,

Last night I went to a club.

No, not a country club.

A club where the music is loud, the crowds are abundant and sweaty (me always being the sweatiest) and everyone is super drunk.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t even understand what clubs are, much less go to them. I don’t even like leaving my Upper East Side neighborhood, and on the rare occasion I do make it downtown, it’s to pursue a buzzed-about meal of bacon, or because I fell asleep on the subway and got lost.

But last night I made the exception for a friend’s dad’s birthday party. Yes, you read that correctly. My friend’s dad, David, the coolest 60-year-old on earth, decided to celebrate his birthday by clubbing in New York City. And it just so happens that the only way you’re going to get me to go to a club is if you tell me that a 60-year-old man and all his 60-year-old friends will be at a reserved table with bottle service.

I’m not being sarcastic. That is my ideal club situation.

So I went with bells on, and we had a blast! David is cooler at age 60 than I ever was or ever will be at any point in my life. And his wife doesn’t look a day over 35. (They also happen to be the loveliest people ever, but I feel that is secondary to how fucking great they look). #lifegoals

So we all partied until 3am, when David decided it was time to call it a night, and the rest of us didn’t really see a point in being there without him.

At 4am I went to bed thinking to myself, “Huh, look at me! I totally CAN do this club thing!” and I gave myself a soft little pat on the back as I drifted into a self-satisfied slumber.

At 5am I projectile vomited. EVERYWHERE.

In the bed. Across my nightstand. Onto the wall. All over my iPhone, alarm clock, and various electrical cords. Then again, at 6am, in the toilet.

David woke up this morning feeling great.

 

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(This was the best selfie we managed to take last night. #notgood)

 

 

Dream Analysis

Relationships, , , , , , , , , , , ,

I’ve always been one to have pretty vivid dreams, and my therapist tells me that when this happens, in order to interpret them I should focus on the FEELING I had in the dream. The actual characters, context, and events of the dream are usually not relevant and shouldn’t be over-analyzed. It’s the emotion during the dream that you should focus on, as it’s likely an emotion you are trying to suppress in your waking life.

I’ve shared this wisdom with Eric, so we now make it a habit to discuss these vivid dreams when I have them (Side-note: We do NOT to make it a habit to discuss Eric’s dreams, as Eric is quite possibly the WORST summarizer of dreams on the planet. He is an exceptional storyteller in general, but when it comes to his dreams, he suddenly has the verbal capabilities of Forrest Gump. It will take him 15 minutes to explain a dream that could not have possibly lasted longer than 7 seconds. The benefit of discussing/interpreting his dream does not outweigh the amount of life minutes lost waiting for him to get to the point, so I generally refuse to participate and just tiptoe slowly out the room as he’s talking, which, 50% of the time, he does not even notice.)

This morning’s discussion…

Me: “I had a dream that you proposed. But the ring was a HUGE purple quartz rock. Literally a rock, in its rock form. And the ring part was flexible plastic, like the kind of ring you win at an arcade, that can fit on any sized finger. It literally looked like this, sitting upon a yellow plastic ring:

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And my sister was in the background yelling ‘I helped pick it out!’ which was just baffling to me, especially considering how nice her ring is, and how impossibly picky she is about jewelry. And you were just sitting there with a shit-eating grin on your face, so proud of your choice, particularly the flexible plastic base, because, as you put it, ‘This way it will always fit, even if you get fatter!'”

Eric: “And how did that make you FEEL?”

(Pause as I contemplate the baseline emotion of the dream)

Me: “It made me feel like you’re a fucking idiot.”

Eric: “Sounds about right. Analysis complete!”