You called, I didn’t answer. I wasn’t ready for conversation. So I let the phone ring.
Then I passed you on the street. You didn’t see me, or maybe you chose to look away.
It was an accidental crossing with a familar stranger and I foolishly fell right back in love.
Ok. I re-posted sleeping with the friend. I have received quite a few emails asking why I took it down. The only good reason was that I didn’t like the way I wrote it. The cop-out reason: on account of me being a chicken and not owning up to my actions, and my fear of peoples perceptions and rejections. I’m a loser, what can I say. Anyway, it’s back up. However, I have turned the comments off. That’s right. I don’t need to defend my drinking and driving politics anymore.
I saw you today. At first I didn’t want to be there. I thought of a million excuses and reasons for me not to go, but still I did. Once I was there I was ready to leave, something in me didn’t want to stay. I was nervous and I couldn’t sit still. My attention was elsewhere, not on the talk at hand. My mind drifted along with my eyes. It was difficult, almost impossible for me to concentrate on one particular thing. My thoughts kept jumping. My fingers kept thumbing. My words kept stumbling and all I could think of was, “Why am I here?” And my answer, “You.” You’re the reason I was there and the reason I shouldn’t have stayed.
I saw you today. I saw you cry. And I couldn’t comfort you. I didn’t know what to say or how to hold you. I didn’t know how. I just stood there, it was all I could do. I was paralyzed with helplessness and guilt. You were alone and you looked at me. I always find it hard to look you in the eye. I saw the wet on your face and the tears were still in your eyes. And again, I just stood there. Then you took me in your arms and you held me. You relieved me when I should have been consoling you. Why? I didn’t need to be held. I should have been there. But I failed you. It’s not the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I have perfected the art of failure to those I care the most about.
I saw you today. I should have been there for you, but I was a coward. I let fear and judgment consume me, and I remained planted in my seat. I let you stand alone and broken. I let you fall apart, while I sat back and watched. I should have been a friend and been there for you. I should have held you, soothed you, been a pillow for your head. I should have been the strong one and pulled your weight along with mine. Your burden I should have picked up and carried. I didn’t have to say anything. I didn’t have to have words of wisdom or a solution to it all. I just needed to have been by your side and held you along the way. I should have been the eyes that cried with you and the knees that kneeled with you. I should have been there.
I saw you today. And you saw me. You saw what I was capable of and how easily I can turn my head. You saw my weakness, my quickness to leave. There are a lot of things I should have done, and I’m sorry.
“Ms. Murphy! Ms. Murphy!”
“Yes Evan, what is it?”
“The frogs! They’re stuck together!”
“Stuck?”
“Yeah, they are on top of each other.”
Apparently our class pets, Gus and Greta, after only knowing each other for one day have fallen madly in love. So much, that over sexed Gus has been mounted on top of poor Greta for four days now, causing my third graders to ask and ask and ask questions. “What are they doing?” “Why is Gus hopping around on Greta’s back like that?” “Why are they making that horrible croaking sound? It sounds like they are dying.” “Are they supposed to do that?” And in response to their questions, being the mature, educated teacher I am, I simply laugh and say, “Aw, look how sweet, they are cuddling.”
My students have become obsessed with the frogs. I cannot get them to leave the love frogs alone. One boy keeps trying to pull them apart. He just smiles and says, “I don’t think they are supposed to be doing that.” I keep trying to redirect their attention to something else, but no luck. I keep turning the tank around, you know to give ol’ Gus and Greta some privacy, but those curious kids keep turning it back around. They know that something is going on, something adult. It also doesn’t help that all the other teacher’s come in making little comments and wanting to look at the frogs. I mean come on, I’m trying to teach here and it’s not Sex-ed!
Though, I do find it funny. I laugh everytime I find Joseph trying to pull them apart. However, I am concerned. How long does the mating process of frogs last? They have been “doing it” for four days straight. I’m worried for poor Greta and a little jealous.
Jaymez: Dear Jesus, I’m so hungry. Could you please send me some food? PLEASE!! Thank you.
Brooke: I’m sorry, Jesus doesn’t feed homos.
Jaymez: APPARENTLY! We are fucking starving and we have to wait on Donald.
Brooke: That’s just Jesus laughing at you.
Jaymez: I hope your vagina falls off.
A text message with Jaymez earlier this evening. I need to visit him, it’s been too long.
My taste in music is that of a wide selection. Typically, I gravitate towards singer/song writers, such as Racheal Yamagata, Ryan Adams, Rhett Miller, Ray LaMontagne, Damien Rice, Regina Spektor, David Gray, and Schuyler Fisk. Now, there are times when rap/hip hop or even heavy metal are the only notes that will satisfy my music mood. And there are also days/nights, where nobody but Ella Fitzgerald, Otis Redding, and Sammy Davis Jr. are able to fix. These are moments when I have a glass of wine in hand and I’m feeling down, or sexy, or a little soulful. Then there is my “lyrical life.” When certain words from a song, that at certain times will fall perfectly parallel to my day, my week, my month, or even my year. And sadly, as guilty and ashamed as I am, I’ll admit I also listen to the occasional Kelly Clarkson, Avril Lavigne, Ryhanna, and the reason for this post: The Pussycat Dolls.
During Gilmore Girls, which this season has kept my interest much more than last season. They really should have kept Amy Shreman-Palladino as head writer. The show lacks substance, wit, and banter without her. But anyway, during commerials, the network kept airing previews for “America’s Next Pussycat Doll.” And of course my first reaction was, “WHAT? How many Pussycat Dolls do they need? There’s already like 20 of them. And who would want to be a Pussycat Doll anyway?” Then commercial after commercial, they pulled me in (I tip my hat to the advertising team, job well done.) Who WOULDN’T want to be a Pussycat Doll? They sing, they dance, and their resemblance to a stripper is uncanny? Maybe I’ll just watch for the first few minutes.
The show started off, ok. But then, THEN the girls started to sing. Now, “Don’t Cha” is not a song that I’ve ever had on repeat or has it gotten me through rough times, or even soothed me to sleep at night, but it has blarred through my car, while I belt out the lyrics and it is a sultry, sexy song that every girl secretly desires to sing…secretly. I mean what girl has never wanted to go up to a guy and say, “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?” But after hearing the first girl sing, “Don’t Cha” I knew I had to turn it off. I cannot tell you the last time I heard this song, but it’s been a while. But even if I never hear it again, I don’t ever, EVER want anyone other than Nicole, lead Pussycat, to sing it. Just as I only like to hear Destiny’s Child, and I’m referring to Michelle, Kelly, and Beyonce. I only like to hear them sing “Survivor” not three Tri Delta girls, drunk in a bar. Seriously girls, leave it to the professionals or at least the 47 original Pussycat Dolls.
I listen to other stuff too: Kings of Leon, Gomez, Travis, Guster, Butch Walker, India Arie, Joe Purdy, Ben Harper, Matt Nathanson, Old School Abbey, Jenny Lewis, Tyrone Wells, Norah Jones, Stevie Wonder, Fiona Apple, Idina Menzel, Joshua Radin, Dashboard Confessional, Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, and Say Anything. I could go on, but that’s a post for another day.
I woke up this morning thinking of cake. Cake and ice cream. I wanted both, I needed both, I needed them right then and I wasn’t going to be happy until I had them. But, it was 8:32 am. What kind of person wakes up at 8:32 am and craves cake? And more importantly, did I want to fall into a category where gluttonous people scarf down pounds of cake and ice cream for breakfast? Yes! Yes! Yes! I did. Though, there were two things preventing me from my bliss: the cake and ice cream were down stairs in the kitchen, two flights down, and secondly, I hadn’t eaten any real food yet. I’m hypoglycemic and if I eat sugar without first coating my stomach with a nice layer of carbs or protein, then my sugar shoots straight up then bottoms out. And on the flip side, if I didn’t eat soon, then my sugar would bottom out from lack of sugar. It’s a vicious cycle.
