“Next time you have an evil plan, don’t say it so loud that God can hear it. Because guess what? You just got smote.”
About a month ago, I asked my students what they want their legacy to be. They responded by staring at me, tempted to say, “I don’t get it,” but knowing that would unleash a speech about claiming ignorance.
So, I explained a little further: People ask you what you want to BE all the time. I want to know what you want to DO. When your life is over, what will people say you did? How will people know that you were on this Earth?
My responses of “good” and “excellent” to their answers were so far from appropriate that I am embarrassed.
I never wanted to BE a teacher. I just wanted to DO something that mattered.
I ended up in some 24-hour urgent care pharmacy last Saturday night. The pharmacist took my USC Credit Union ATM card and asked when I graduated. I responded, and he asked me what I do now.
“I’m a teacher,” I said, pale-faced, somewhat wriggling in pain and desperately wanting my prescription.
“Why would you waste a USC education on becoming a teacher?”
I think it takes a special/stupid/silly/stubborn person to go to work while taking antibiotics. The thing is I’m genuinely not sick enough to stay home, but this particular antibiotic really makes me want to go straight to sleep. So, all in all, it’s a great time.
On the positive side, I’d rather be on antibiotics this week than next (spring break!). At this rate, I’ll be nicely recovered in time to enjoy my much-needed time off.
Obsessed. Yup, I am.
It all started when I came across this ESPN story about his desire to change his name. And I thought to myself, what a jackass. But in one of those awe-inspiring kind of ways.
See, the simple truth of the matter is not that I have a crush on the guy because I don’t. I truly don’t. And really I’m not just denying that because I have admitted to even sillier crushes.
He’s just him. And hilarious while being himself.
Yes, I have asked him to marry me on Twitter three times now. And I have told everybody and their mother that I want to marry him.
But the truth is….I want to BE him.
I want his name.
You see, I think with the name, I’d have the ultimate validation. He’s absolutely my hero. I’m really not joking on that one. To just be you and fly in the face of what everyone says about you, thinks about you, or all the fines that are imposed upon you to try to make you conform is just pretty freaking awesome.
And it’s exactly what I strive to be.
“Well, the good news is that if you lose 10 more pounds from the stress of this job, you could most definitely be a stripper.”
“Bartender, the two Swedish guys drank from my cup….that’s kind of a problem.”
ME: So, if go back far enough, we can see that Jesus descended from Abraham.
STUDENT: Wait, wait, hold up. Jesus was related to the first President of the United States?!?
BOSS: I have to provide an 8-10 page report about the faculty every month.
FRIEND: You know 2 of those pages are about us.
ME: Two EACH. With pictures. From surveillance.
“Him!! The Scary, Jack o’ Lantern pedophile? I would not let him teach my puppy!”
FRIEND: I just don’t know why your crush (on Ochocinco) is slight.
ME: Well, he’s just in the rare category of I’d rather BE him.
“I feel like I’m in a fishbowl. The whole world is just going on around us….”
Happy End of the Week!
This one is not going to be a rant against pharmaceuticals. Nor will it be call for compassion. Nor will it be an indictment against the stupidity of the public option.
When I listen to people argue about this, they are usually people who have their own perfectly fine health plans. Their employers provide them. They’ve never seen the inside of a public clinic. They have low co-pays for everything. They may have high premiums, but their health is genuinely in good hands.
I’m an educated person. I work about 50 hours a week in a non-manual job. I take care of my health both by diet and exercise.
Yet, I’m sitting here dialing an 800 number for independent health insurance so I can pay my monthly premium–on my credit card. I know full-well that I cannot afford this coverage. I also know that the first $5,000 of care I’m going to receive is also going to go on that credit card because it won’t be covered until I run through that deductible. So, over the course of my year, I’m going to spend $6,752 out-of-pocket–or on the grace of Visa–to give myself health insurance.
I tried to use my employer-provided health insurance but I ended up in a clinic where the doctor I was assigned to had left for greener pastures, the smell of vomit in the waiting room was so intense that my face turned green, and the 19-year-old technicians told me flatly that if I were to see a doctor I would not be able to have any lab work done or prescriptions written.
Considering that I am now entering my second stint in graduate school and I work pretty damn hard, I just wanted to put this out there. The health insurance problem is not a problem of the “poor” folks on welfare or the unemployed or the host of other categories I hear people making up to justify their desire to maintain the status quo.
I woke up this morning–on the fourth try–and just made a decision to be in a bad mood. Really, the day could have gone either way, I could have dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, and went about a normal Saturday of grading and running errands.
But I just didn’t want to.
And as I got up to close the blinds in my room and block out the sun, I realized that I’m rarely in a bad mood. Even if I wake up in one, there’s usually so much to do that I have to shake it off pretty instantly in order to function without going insane.
After all the has happened in the past three days, I really thought that I deserved to be in a bad mood. Just mad at everything and everybody.
Totally exhausted. Annoyed. Peeved. Cranky. Bitter. A little sad. Depressed.
All of the above.
So, I’ve slept a lot today. Watched a lot of basketball. Done a whole lot of nothing.