Around The Water Cooler


It’s been quite some time since I last posted on The Frontal Lobe, which isn’t surprising.  Given my initial desire to write a blog and my usual excellent follow-through, I’m surprised I even know the log-in information for my WordPress account.  Thank goodness for, “do you want Google to remember your password.”

This is certainly not to say that I haven’t actually written anything, I’ve written quite a few things, all of them lousy and uninspired.  I wrote a mock interview with a narcissistic blog writer who was full of himself, I’m not sure what part of my ego that catered to, but in the end it was trash, and definitely deserved a sarcastic mocking hashtag most likely created by sister—who upon reading that sentence will now look to create a sarcastic mocking hashtag for this post.  Maybe I just hate the word blog so much that I am repelled from creating content.

Psst.  I have a secret!  I know exactly what keeps me from writing exactly what I want to write.  It’s my profession.  You see, I am a teacher. Image

When you work in a cubicle for a monolithic, massive, chain, grocery, coffee, fast-food, company, you have every right and are even expected to bitch.  If you don’t bitch, you’re considered a do-gooder that is probably trying to brown-nose your way to some position where you can crap on other people.  However, in education you are not allowed to utter the negative feelings you have about your job.  If you do, people think you must be in the wrong line of work, and they’ll look to fire you.

Breaking news, teachers don’t always like their jobs, but that doesn’t mean they’re not good at them.   Doctors don’t wake up everyday and say, holy crap I love seeing the same sick fucking people every week, guess what you sick fucks, try and take better care of yourself, maybe cut down on the cigarettes and cheese curds and take the fucking stairs for a change.  Nobody goes and tells the doctors that they’re in the wrong profession.  Unless they say that to your face.

Teachers are human beings.  Just because we take in your precious gems each and every day doesn’t mean that we are not inclined to the occasional I-hate-my-jobitis or your kid is a actually a C student rant.  Oh, I hear all of the teacher-haters out there saying, “but you get summers off.”  And, now I’ve said too much – the golden calf is out of the box – summers off!!! 

You see, even this minimal amount of dissatisfaction is frowned upon.  We have the same water coolers, we have the same slow talkers, skittish bathroom users, and the funny guy who wears suspenders.  We have bosses and systems that make less sense than you can imagine and the redundancy of our line of work is staggeringly epic.  Let’s be honest, we’re an institution that is modeled on Government with a capital G.  We are the kings of acronyms.  Our TPS report have TPS reports and at least 2 memos and 1 meeting in order to accurately disseminate the information.  The codes and rules of governance are ripe for blogging about, but…

We’re teachers.  We love our jobs.  Each and every day is sunshine, rainbows, and lollipops; we sing cumbaya during circle time, (actually we don’t do that song because it mentions “lord” and that’s a no-no in our business,) and we go home refreshed to live our extravagant lives.  Obviously, we make plans to visit Tahiti and save whales in Alaska, because as teachers we make so much money we can actually use it to start our wallets on fire.Image

“But you get summers off.”  If a teacher gets summers off then it’s because they have another bread winner in the house that brings home a real salary, or have been doing it so long, that when they started the copy room had a typesetter and printing press.  The other 90% of us do something else, we do summer school, we tutor, we work at retail jobs – which are amazing places to work at if you want to bitch – we wait tables and bartend; but trust me, it’s a glamorous life that none of us ever ever ever bitch about.

Note:  To any future employers considering me for a future position, please view this is an example of my ability to write, not my attitude towards my job.  (Shhhhh, they’re listening.)




I have this list of topics I somehow think I should write about; the list has your standard fare: politics, education, world events, Hugh Jackman…blah, blah, blah, and of course slippers.  Hun?  What the hell was I thinking when I wrote slippers on this list?  Don’t get .  me wrong, I’ve got some serious opinions about slippers, and just seeing it on the list makes me need to write about it.  The history of slippers is not interesting or widely written about from what I can ascertain in my 5 minutes of Googling while taking a deuce; it seems, as usual, the Egyptians are the creators of this “footwear.”  However, I digress.

I’ve received numerous pairs of slippers as Christmas gifts; it seems somehow that despite never asking for a pair of these foot covers they are an item my family believes I should wear.  They typically are the last gift opened, and let me practice my “thanks, you shouldn’t have smile.”  My family will inquire several times throughout the year about a rumored pair of slippers someone may or may not have gotten me, but invariably the inquiry was surface level, and not meant to do anything except make me feel a pang of guilt for knowing exactly where said slippers resided and doing nothing about it – sort of like knowing where the dog pooped and not cleaning it up.  After several weeks, a month tops, of occasional use they disappear under the edge of the bed or dresser to eat dust-bunnies and lost socks.

What is most objectionable about the slipper is its lack of integrity, of moral character or its willingness to take a stand on size or discernible shape – I mean really, I can wear either one on my left or right foot – gimme a break, commit already!  Also, they’re lined with an insulation that the attic is jealous of, easily causing nightmarish foot sweats and the need to take them off every 20 minutes.  Typically they look like something made circa Native Americans being the majority; and let’s face it – they’re Sarah Jessica Parker horse face ugly – you look at them a certain way and can justify calling them unique, but they’re not, they’re ugly – let’s call a spade a spade here.  (Read this before you call me racist for using that turn of phrase:

I don’t know if this most recent gift will find its way to the green of Spring and tramp across the drive way to get the paper (which I don’t get, but just sounded extremely suburban American to say,) but I’ll be grateful that I have a pair of slippers and make a point of not kicking them under something right away.  The ironic thing about my relationship with slippers is that I almost never take off my shoes when I’m inside; I can’t stand walking around the house in my socks, especially in the winter.  Go figure.