A Tale Of Two Degrees

 11 Oct 2026 latest attempt at fictional postcard.

                                                      A Tale Of Two Degrees

    Your child did All Of The Things. He graduated from high school with a high GPS,went to college to pursue a degree. He liked the outdoors, but he couldn't monetize that so you refused to pay for school unless he got a "real" degree.

      He stayed the extra two years to get an "M" in front of his "BA" and went immediately to work at a Big Corporation that magazines declare as The Most Successful due to their stock prices. He hated it.

        He sat in a cubicle with numbers. He wore a suit. He made no friends. Everyone talked about money and how to get more of it and he looked longingly at Ansel Adams photos, and Outdoor photography wishing he was outside. He loves the outdoors. He was always in the woods as a kid, always camping. An Eagle Scout. Traveled to ski with friends. 

       After six months, however, The Big Corporation  ewasmbattled in a hostile takeover and your son lost his job. Last hired, first fired. The Big Corporation had to shed, and they ended up getting takenover anyway, and everyone lost their job. But your son was first fired. Freshly minted money degree still in its folder. So he has that going for him.

        Soured on Big Business, he takes some time to regroup. Decides to do boating tours for a bit in a southern state. But the apartments kept by the Large Corporation to house the workers do not have airconditioning or clean water, so he leaves halfway through the season. Big Business follows him and keeps mucking things up, and he tells you he's sorry, but he's miserable. He's going to find his own way.

        He bought a van and moved through states trying to find his way, and he uncovered the Coast Guard. 

        He joined. He's been there four years and is a senior crew member who trains the newbies.

        He makes half of what he made at the Big Corporation. The Coast Guard has insurance, he's lucky there. He's happy. 

        He wants to fly the helicopter and is working toward that goal.

        You tell people all you ever wanted was for him to be happy.

        Well, he's happy.

        

        Your daughter wanted to go to college for theatre. You told her you would not pay unless she got a "real" degree. So she went to college for advertising. She got to travel overseas, she got a job in NYC and goes to parties and gatherings.

        She didn't tell you but she's been sexually assaulted twice, once in college and once at her first Ad Agency.

        Nobody knows about it. She's using her theatre training to act like everything is fine.

        The bottom fell out of advertising when AI bullied its way onto the scene, and her agency collapsed with many others. Those who survived fired the humans. Still in NYC, she found a small theatre company whose shows she attends regularly. She asked if they needed help---any help, as she was on unemployment and just wanted someplace to have to be.

        She agreed to run the front of their house, make coffee, keep the bathrooms clean and helped create original advertising that simultaneously skewed all AI fakes while building up the true human experience of theatre. 

        Last year they produced her play.

        It's about a woman who survives Sexual Assault and lives her best life as an artist.

        She has a small apartment, uses public transportation and skips everywhere she goes.

        She is happy.

        Regardless of how you strong arm  us into capitalism, we will make ourselves happy. 

        Without you.

        We will find a way.

61 Years Are Too Many: Circles

 

        11 October 2026

        Only six of you read this, please do not call SafeToTell I'm fine. I write to process and posting is part of the process. I'm. Fine. 

    "Sometimes a person has to go a very long distance out of his way to come back a short distance correctly."

                            -- Jerry from Zoo Story by Edward Albee

         Circles.

        Obvie circle of life.

        Trash cans.

        These two images that I immediately conjure are my thesis.

        These are the two circles I see.

        It also explains my mindset, who I am and where this is going.

        "This" being the authoritarian regime, public education and my mental health.

        If you put these two images side by side, they equal "life is garbage". If it was a rectangle, it'd be a dumpster fire.

        But they are circles. So. The trash can you imagine may be on fire or not. Usually mine is, but today it is not. Progress?

         Another circle closed this week. 

        I keep saying "closed" because a circle is closed. I thought about "complete", but back in 2015 counselors starting calling suicide "completed suicide" because it needed an adjective, I guess, and I've struggled every since. Because suicide is a word that contains any adjective you'd like to throw---completed, ended, unalived---unto itself. Why are we qualifying it? 

        Also closed is final. Complete is construction, surgery, grocery shopping. It's whole. Everything moves on and I guess you start another cycle.

        My circles close.

        Even though six people read this, I'm hesitant to name buildings. That's open ended PTSD that will never close or be complete.

        Building 1, Building 2 and Building 3.

        I was removed from Building 1, rescued by Building 2 and voluntarily left Building 2 before it went full Building 1 Redux, and was invited to Building 3. Different districts, different vibes. Closing circles all the way.

        I haven't been tracking the circles the way I should.

        This week's circle closure was a clear "snap" in my head.

        When I was working at Building 1 and doing Little Shop of Horrors, the retired teacher from our sister school came over to "help". He actually wasn't done teaching or directing, he had just Had IT with the principal. When he quit he asked if he could come over and help out, so I hired him and then fired him and he kept coming back. It is an hilarious and sad story, and if I ever see him again, it will be another circle closed. But the point today is that he designed the set design for LSOH.

        He had left his building abruptly, leaving his students to wonder what had happened. He sent his resignation through the US mail, knowing it would take longer to receive, and his job didn't post until almost the beginning of the school year. His seniors were both angry and confused.

        One of his seniors is now a social studies teacher in Building 3. She hopped on the theatre train last year as Tech Director, telling me she was a graduate of our sister buidling and knew my name from Building 1. Right? That is a circle unto itself.

        Her high school theatre teacher --who is the guy I hired after he quit her building--quit the summer before her senior year. She never really knew what happened to him. I laughed and said "Well, he worked for me for a minute before I had to fire him. He did the sets for Metamorphoses by Mary Zimmerman and Little Shop of Horrors."

        She will be helping my students design and build the set for LSOH in Building 3.

        That was a circle I heard snap shut. Like a plastic ring. 

        I can tell you already she'll be easier to work with than him. And last year I saw his training in her while we worked on Mamma Mia, but so far I see none of his missing safety morals were passed on. She's very safety conscious.

     The man poured paint thinner on burlap to stiffen it, knowing we had stage lights directly behind that heated up, and an open flame in the water for a few seconds.

        When I said plainly "You're gonna kill a kid" he shrugged "There are plenty, they can be replaced."

        That's how that went.

        When I told his former student, my current TD about that incident, she laughed and replied "He said that all the time." 

        He taught there for over 20 years. Seriously. You said that to kids?

        These circles are endings. But I don't know how many I'm waiting on to be able to afford to leave. 

        Because I am not still teaching theatre for the love of teaching theatre. I'm still teaching because I started only 24 years ago, and at 61 I can only retire at half my salary. 

        On which I cannot survive. And at 61, its impossible to find another job that would also offer insurance, because I'm not old enough for Medicaid.

        Greatest Country In The World.    

        So I just want a Circle Count to tell me how many more are needed to build a chain---one long enough to sustain me in a new job with insurance, or one like Marley's that I can just rattle around and scare people.

        See how I brought that circle around to a close? 

        More circles to come as I force myself to remember them.

        

So 61...

 

        It's not easy to self examine at 61.

       I had to have a pity party first.

       I have no idea who I am.

       "What do you want for your birthday?"

        An end to the authoritarian billionaire regime world wide.

       To see consequences for the damage done to human beings and our planet in the name of greed.

       These are not things anyone can gift me.

       They want a tangible answer. Something they can wrap up in pretty paper.

       My children are delightful and manage to come up with creative gifts from local artisans or to spend time with me getting a pedicure.

        But it makes me more depressed. Because I cannot ease their lives, and ultimately all I want is for them to be happy.

        All I see is a string of failures. Failed jobs, failed parenting, I can't keep a plant alive.

        I see every mistake, every misstep, every poor decision made out of fear and I am ashamed.

        I know Robin Williams suffered greatly from depression, and he cranked up the energy and the funny and the kindness to 11.

        I don't know how to do that. 

        I'm a poor friend. I have no idea how to be a friend.

        I voted against everything that's happening now my entire life, only to have greedy cheaters win anyway.

        What is the point of caring.

        I have friends who are artists and create and channel their energy into creations, and I struggle to remember why I teach theatre because everything happening in education is counter productive to building strong theatre performers. So...there is little to pour my energy into without navigating administrative road blocks and causing frustration and the belief in my heart that "None of this matters, anyway."

        I can't have even a passing light hearted meaningless conversation with colleagues.

        And I have no idea Who I am.

        I made the choices I thought I was supposed to make, based on other people's perceptions, causing me to mistakenly attach "Who I Am" to those choices.

        And they were all empty. Up to and including becoming a theatre teacher.

        I've been burned out since 2019.

        But I keep working to pay my mortgage and help my kids whose lives are not what they were hoping for, either.

        Nothing but struggle, financial anxiety and frustration with their own inability to actually pay their own bills with college degrees.

        I can't smash the rear view mirror when the choices I made led to this moment.

        To remind you that I do not live in a bubble, and the regime is part of my mental health issues, I can only hope the Mad King's meltdown over crowd sizes and the Peace Prize are what's causing him to say "There are big surprises coming....the Republicans aren't leaving" is All One Mad Thing.

        If it's real, I can't be here any more. They will finish destroying us, and I don't need to be around to watch.

        Like most Americans, I have no skills to organize my community. I relentlessly bother my representatives who either don't even try or are unable to get anything changed, then I pay $4.50 for gas and don't buy groceries so I can pay my power bill.

        And I'm working. I'm married. There are two incomes, and we can't do this.

        Stop telling me to invest: invest what?

        Every time we feel like we've got something saved, the HVAC goes out, cars need tires and alignment, or some other rando old house problem snaps and costs us money we no longer have. 

         Lemme try to make it funny.

         Three weeks ago something loudly popped and our power went out. I called Excel and insisted they send a human, as something definitely exploded. The meter had a scorch on it, but it wasn't in flames. I found a phone number on their website. I punched buttons until I was talking to a human. Then I told the human there was popping and a scorch mark. Send A Human. 

          The person on the other end of the line didn't seem to be worried. My dogs ran from the popping, and they'd be in Weld county by now if it wasn't for the fence. It Popped. It was loud. Scorch marks. Send Someone.

           "We'll get the power on."

            "Send someone."

            "We'll try it remotely first...."

            "That won't work. It exploded."

            I need not assign speakers, you know who was who.

            "We will do it remotely and contact you if someone has to come out."

            So we left the house, because nobody was coming and nothing was actually on fire. While grabbing lunch we received a text from excel "Power in your location has been restored."

            That was 19 Sept.

            We returned shortly, to find two yellow cards hanging from the meter, with the cover removed. No human in sight. No text from Excel. No phone call. Two fat black plugs that looked like jumper cables attached to where the meter had been and two yellow tags stating  "Not Grounded" and " Power restored do not replace meter until electrican arrives in ten days."

            Ok. 

            I'm not a genius, but that sounds to me like Excel is sending an electrician within ten days.

            On day 12 I started to wonder what was going on. So I called Excel. I punched buttons until I received a human, who wanted me to pay my bill. Which I had done the day before, but it was a Saturday and hadn't posted. Great. We got that out of the way---"Can I read you this yellow tag and will you tell me what's going on?" And inside my brain---if I had not paid my bill and was unable to do so when I called, were you going to help me?

            I read her the tag.

            "It sounds like an electrician is supposed to come."

            "Sounds like that to me too. So...when is he coming? We've received no information and it looks like you put jumper cables on the back of our house with a big sign that says 'NOT grounded', 'electrician immenent'."

              "No. You're supposed to call an electrician."

               "Wait, that's on us? We pay you for power, and when your meter blows up, we have to pay an electrician to fix it?"

                "Yes."

               "I don't want to be a dick, it does no good to yell at you, but dude your communication sucks. Do you think you could have called or texted the day they came out to give us the full story and information? Your repairman's wording was not specific enough for us to know we needed to call an electrician. Am I being clear and communicating with you that y'all need to fix how you correspond with people who are overpaying your megacorp  for the privelege of having our power shut off for windstorms, unannounced cost increases and other rando outages?"

        To be clear, I did not yell. I don't yell. I like words and you cannot fully understand them if a person is yelling. So I clip them, my articulation is stunning.

        So we had to find an electrican and pay him money we do not have to come out. Turns out the fun continues, the hard electric line to our house is what snapped, causing the meter to explode.

        Because our house is old.

        But I am older.

        I am six years older than our house.

        So my mainline is going to explode, my plumbing has tree roots invading the old pipes,my fountation is cracked.  All Of The Metaphors are happening.

        My father in law always responds to comments like "Good to see you up and around" or any comment about being alive with "It beats the alternative."

        No. No it does not.

        Dead is quiet. Dead is an end to anxiety. Dead is Nothing Is My Problem Any More. Dead is no more evaluations after 24 years of teaching. 

        I texted my cousin to confirm, but I believe my Nana had sold the farm and retired to Arizon by the time she was 61.

        I believe my mom was also 61 when she retired and reverse mortaged her house.

        But nope. No opportunity for any kind of end in sight for me until death. No "living out your golden years" or such. I will literally work until I die. I will die on stage with a drill, mid-obscentity at the light board or falling down the stairs.

        So happy birthday to me.

        For those who need it explained: 24 years of teaching only equals 51% of your salary. So if I retired, I couldn't "retire", as half of my salary is not going to pay my mortadge. I'd have to find a second job, which is hopeful in this economy and job market. So...no.

        Also you have to be 65 to get Medicare. So I'd have to find a job with insurance, or more accurately, a job that would pay for my insurance coverage. Neither option is reasonble.

        Nobody wants me.

        Nobody wants us. 

        Our experience is irrelevent, and an AI robot can do the same job.

        It's not just me, a white 61 year old female mother and teacher, it's all of us. They're trying to kill all of us. And they can't even be remotely humane about it. They're doing it slowly.

        Remove retirement with an out of control cost of living. Remove affordable healthcare. Poison the food. Replace the jobs we can manage to hold onto with AI. Fire everyone with expereince from all federal jobs.

        And I'm supposed to smile when a happily retired 70+ year old friend tells me "Age is just a state of mind."

        Fuck You.

        I mean that respectfully.

         I've lost the funny. I haven't been funny for years. I want to be funny again. I admire Josh Johnson, he manages. Even Jon Stewart has gone over to just yelling facts and attaching logical consequences. Which is funny/not funny...sigh.

        This is the rough draft. I will publish this because that is the ritual, then I'll streamline it to something logical and put it on substack. 

        Because it has to be real writing to post there, not the journal stuff you six lovelies struggle through.

        I just popped on social media and found a post that tonight is a "dark" moon. 10/10 at 10:10 pm, Libras are to put out the wish of who They Wish To Be. Who I Was no longer serves me. I made it. Now What?

        Funny, that's exactly why I haven't been able to write this down. 'cause I have no idea Who I Am.

        Today has already been a mess of missed communications and frustration, hurting other people's feelings and it's wasn't me. But I'm married to the guy causing the misunderstanding, and he's doing it largely because I said clearly I DON'T WANT ANYTHING FOR MY BIRTHDAY so he's scrambling trying to concoct something based on conversations and left out a child and I got so angry I cried.

        I don't want to talk about this any more.

        So.

        I guess at 10:10 pm tonight under no moon, I'll pledge a new path for the next ten years that I plan to live.

        AND, my cousin responded. Nana retired at 53.

        Happy Birthday!

        

        
        

61 Years Are Too Many: When The Incompetent Are In My Way

                                                      Begun a bit early, Weds 7 October.

        I just want to pay for the rights.

       I've done a few musicals in 24 years, I know how this works.

       Just give me your Pcard and we're good.

       We don't need a committee.

       Or a meeting.

       Or a budget form filled out. It's coming out of the theatre account, not the building. That form is irrelevent.

        But you don't know that, because you have no idea what my job is, yet you seem to think that your job is to micromanage me doing my job, which you do not comprehend.

        We don't need the principal's approval. She cares less than I do what musical we do, as long as there's something on stage for the community to applaud, she's good.

        This is the same District Ninny who interfered her way into almost cancelling our collage concert.

        She was assigned to us last year. My first impression was "Door Mat".

        I wasn't wrong.

        Just the facts.

        Our theatre is under renovation---you all know that. Irregardless, the principal made us put performance dates for concerts and a show on the calendar back in May.

        Knowing we'd be closed. I assume she was just hoping we'd be open in time.

        And assuming such, admin was aware those concerts would be cancelled or have to be done in the gym if we weren't back open.

        Enter District Assigned AP and New Athletic Director/AP.

        The date on the calendar, set in May, is 14 October.

        District Assigned AP (who we will call Dapp) started asking questions about the concert date at the end of September.

        Questions like "Where will you do this?" 

         To which we responded "We're doing this? The theatre is closed."

         Dapp said " Use the gym".

         OK, our risers are trapped in the closed theatre.

          It got no better from there.

          She won't make a decision without directly talking to the principal. As previously stated, the principal does not micromanage perfroming arts and could care less about our collage concert. The theatre is closed. My guess is she assumed we weren't doing it.

          Dapp can't say we can even use the gym without NADAP permission. 

           And also there's a volleyball game on the 14th. Let's do the 15th.

           And the gym floor is new so we need mats and carpets...and who is locating and setting those up? We asked. She has no clue.

           So we tell the kids it's now the 15th.

           She also wants a meeting about kids not going to classes that day because they are needed to set up risers, shells, instruments and sound in the gym for the performance that night. Standard performance procedure of which she knows nothing.

           The performance is now the 14th after we've already contacted parents and kids got off work for the 15th. But today, the 7th, she changed it. I just got the email.

        The choir teacher, who had had enough, finally popped at Dapp in the hallway.

        I wish I would have been there.

        Dapp immediately shifted gears to being the victim; and this is on us, and don't tell the principal she messed up because she's on thin ice.

        This is what happens when incompetent people are allowed to keep their jobs and the district just shuffles them around from building to building.

        They do the same thing with pedos. 

        Just saying.

        And I won't even tell you the Saga Of Thespian Community Service.

        It's the first of October and we're all ready to walk out.

        It's not the kids.

        Neat.

        THURSDAY   8 OCTOBER

        Thespians were slated to do their outreach to Miller today, but everything fell apart on their side, not mine. So boo.

        But in other news I can openly listen to LSOH because we announced it as the show and it's not a secret any more. Like it ever really was, but whatever.    

        Of course right now I'm supposed to be meeting with the secretary to get her Pcard to pay the rights, and I'd much rather just sit here and listen to the show and not have to deal with anyone. Even if it's a nice person like the secretary who is always nice always to everyone all of the time, and she does it with a smile and in two languages. 

        WTF is wrong wih her?

        OK, word is out and it turns out staff is jazzed about Little Shop...so...guess I should pay the rights and put together a schedule and do my job.

        Scene.

Sixty Years Are Almost 61: What The Hell Do I Do Now?

 

    4 October

    Well, that was a week.

    I love mandatory PD's that have nothing to do with my content in the first place, and cannot be adapted to be shoved, square peg/round holed style into my content in the second place.

    Leading us to the third place, where I have no filters or interest in even sitting quietly and pretending to play along.

     I looked the teacher running this particularly dumb PD in the eye and said "Just tell me what to do to check the box." Her reply set me off: "You're creative, you figure it out."

    No.

    Nope.

    Nyet.

    No thank you.

    If you're gonna call me stupid---for which "you're creative, figure it out" is code, then you could have spared me the last two hours of my life and sent me the email. Which I would have read, assessed as "stupid" and moved along, without having to face another teacher and dug in my heels and be told by a 35 year old math teacher I have never exchanged more than four words with that I am stupid.

    "You're creative, figure it out." 

    UGH.

    That was Thursday.

    My classes are fine, honestly I can adapt to just about anything---low numbers, spotty attendance, disinterest, behaviors---it's the BS that flattens my spirit.

      I was supposed to be observed this week---again, it's weekly now---but the practice lock down and fire drill during the same period over two days blocked that opportunity. That was nice, I liked not having to do a dog and pony show this week. It sucked for third period, who are Stagecraft and were finishing their models, to have two classes interrupted. But we persevered. It Is What We Do.

      Stagecraft did their model presentations, Theatre 1 cemented their future fate as a "Theatre History and Lit" class, Theatre 2 &3 are a joy and I found myself sharing stories about former students with them, and Peer to Peer could probably spend another week on Thriller and actually learn all the choreography. I just adapted four eight counts for them to use at the end of their Halloween play. It's their favorite part of the play.  

      The rights came in for the musical. God Bless Us Every One, the social studies teacher who helps out with tech wants to do a whole REVEAL thing. I don't just "not care" I DO NOT THE FUCK CARE. So I'll let her do it.

        So tomorrow I get to train Yet Another Assistant Principal on How To Pay For Show Rights, and explain exhaustively that yes, it's expensive and no, you can't do it online because as humanly inaccessible as MTI is, and as relentlessly insistant as they are about doing everything online, they do not have a pay option on line. In fact, the PDF contract they emailed  me had already been signed by another person, so I have to print it out and find some white out----like, where do you even find white out?---and sign it myself after writing the PCard number on a piece of paper that will go into the US Mail and by the Grace Of Dionysus and Saint Cecilia will be received by MTI.

        I honestly think I sent last year's contract as registered mail, just to insure they received it. If they don't get their money, I don't get the librettos and they're not going to follow up if they don't get the money...so...neat.

        I don't give a hoot if someone snatches the mail and steals the AP's P card number, that is not a me problem. But the rights not being paid IS a me problem.

        Once again proving that directors solve problems nobody else even knew existed.

        Whoot. 

        I did get out today to grab a few "commedia" masks for our performance next week. We'll also use them when we do our outreach at Fletcher Miller on Thursday. I love going to Disguises because they are local and family owned and they accept my tax exempt number so I can get reimbursed! YAS! Bonus. 

        Don't mock me, it's the only perk I get.

        "Commedia" is in quotes because they're actually Mardi Gras masks but we don't have time to build our own, and the ones I have that are "real" from Italy are not masks I wish to have schlepped around.

        Oh, ya, I'll be 61 next Saturday. 

        Huh.

        I feel like that's all the news that's fit to print this week. Boring, but I swore I'd do this all year. Lucky for you, my blatherings are not required reading.

        Scene.