60 Years Are Too Many: Mandatory Trainings

 2 June 2026

        Believe me, I am very aware my prediction did not come true. But I'll hold on until the end of June. 

        I love to carp and complain about the multiple trainings I have to go through every year at the beginning of the school year.

        I also have to do the same trainings on a different platform to work at the pony school, or PA school where I was doing summer musical pop ups for years. I also hate that they charge me for fingerprints to work at these places when I'm a TEACHER and my fingerprints and background check are ON FILE with the CDE. They just want to steal more money.

        Ok. So.

        I just did my child abuse reporting training. Let's say I've done this at least 30 times, conservatively. But this time, I felt enraged.

        Here's why: I HateThat We Need This Training.

        If only if only parents would parent. 

        Which we all know is complicated by job loss, stress, no access to affordable childcare or health care. 

        We all know the statistics. And by "we" I mean Six Gentle Readers. You guys are educated and kind and reasonble humans.

        Just because a kid is low income does not mean they are victims of abuse. It means their parents cannot afford to feed and clothe them. That's not parental neglect, that's societal abuse. It causes stress. It puts the family in a pressure cooker, and increases the likelihood of child neglect or abuse. Know how you fix that?

        Affordable child care, free parenting classes, affordable healthcare and mental healthcare, job stability, ACTUAL SUPPORT. It doesn't fix everything--there will always be outliers who are simply cruel or deranged---but these elements put in place for everyone would change this country.

        My Cuz and I were talking. She was raised poor--like poor poor--in Denver in the 1970's. I was not aware of any insurance or monetary concerns around my healthcare as a kid. I got a physical before camp, my toe stitched up when I fell off my bike, my leg soothed and wrapped when boiling water was tossed on it. We just went to the doctor or the hospital.

        My Cuz's experience was very different. She said they went to a building that was "County Health Care". She was just a kid, she doesn't remember what it was called, now she just calls it "The County", but she remembers the exact location. I have vague memories that "Free Clinics" existed in Denver. Not in the suburbs where I was. 

        But they existed. My Aunt had three kids as a single parent, and she provided for them the absolute best that she could. So medical was The County, and food stamps were groceries and my Cuz has lived one of the most frugal, impressive lives I know. We're both 60, and from where I stand she is rich. She learned how to live close to the bone, and how to invest even tiny amounts of money to grow an actual "portfolio". Yet she still gets nervous when she has to spend money. Which I love about her and is also off topic.

        The point is there was something in place, funded by Denver, that allowed free or very low cost care to humans. Where did that go?

        Unfortunately, we've all seen or experienced abuse in some form. I cannot fathom severe child abuse. I had all of my buttons pushed as a parent and made some poor choices, but I never abused the kids.

        It's ridiculous that teachers have to be on top of signs of child abuse, as well as feed kids and regulate them and be a shield against bullets. 

        Here's the thing, if you are hitting or abusing your child and leaving marks, and then sending them to school, in addition to Whatever The Hell Is Wrong With You that causes you to abuse your child, you are either irrevocably stupid or irretrievably narcissistic  Did you not think we would call CPS?

        Story Time.

        When Genoa was in preschool, we called it the Little Church Preschool in Platt Park, I was still occasionally acting and sort of running a theatre. I had stage makeup in a tackle box, as one does. Genoa and Harp used to love to play in it. Why not? We also made jello and squished our toes in it. This surprises no one. The thing was that I neglected to remember was that they were going to preschool the next day, and I had not put any base on their arm or body before they dug five fingers into the bruise wheel and drew fingerprints across their torso. Sister Harp helped by painting their back.

        I did the best that I could scrubbing it out, but theatre people know: if you didn't put on a base you're bruised for days. 

        I took her to school. I pulled her and her teacher to the side. I showed her the bruise wheel, the small digging finger impressions, and Genoa's remaining body art. I could see her calculating, and she was not wrong. I wasn't a teacher yet, so I didn't know anything about mandatory reporting. She chose to believe me after talking to Genoa, and I am eternally grateful. 

        Now that I'm a teacher and I've been in this game for a minute, I understand how desperately we do NOT want to call CPS. Not because we're chicken. Not because we do not love our students. But because we know CPS are overwhelmed, and we know the process and that the likelihood that nothing will change is higher than the likelihood that the parents will win the lottery, pay for excellent health care, sign up for mental health counseling and live their lives instead of just surviving. Or the other side where the parents have money and strong legal council and because of their position on the social ladder they will deflect and attack until you stop asking questions. They'll do the same to CPS. 

        Which is why I do not work for CPS. Nobody is ever going to tell them the truth. How exhausting must it be to care enough to do this work, to investigate homes and parents and offer resources to assist through difficult times and know that nobody wants to talk to you, those who should tell the truth are too afraid and everyone else is silent or lying.

        Anyone wanna respond to these sweeping generalizations?

       So in conclusion, all in all, to sum up: I hate that we need this system in place and that it is collapsing under the weight of human need and lack of funding. 

    Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Postcards Over Days

     1 June 2026

                            

        I've gotten used to doing this daily, so having an interruption was a disruption causing dysregulation nation. See what happens? So...I'll sum up since I was busy actually doing things instead of watching kids rehearse or whatever the hell it is I do for a living.

                           Thursday night I met with Kris and Megan

        I have known these two since high school. We weren't close friends in high school due to a difference in intellect: theirs is higher than mine. Megan is a college English professor and Kris is a social worker for Kaiser.     

        They hate it when I point that out the smart thing, but truth is truth.

        And here's what I love about seeing them-I don't have to talk. I tend to yell and lecture or I get foggy and flummoxed, and have noticed of late that I speak in a defeated monotone that depresses me. So I don't like to talk. It's nice to be in a space where limited speaking is an option.  

        Friday  I signed out, listened to retiring teachers who are younger than I am, turned in my  keys and the dog bit me.  Boring. You know that already. It was fun.

        Saturday spent with my Cuz Lisa and my Aunt and Uncle and Other Cousin

        My Cuz lives up in Grand Junction. She was down for her niece's graduation, and chose to spend some time with me. Our spare room that we redecorated has come to be known as "The Ancestor Room" and the other one is "The Cats' Room".  The ancestor room has my dad's Navy jacket, the box that kept his ashes, a windmill, portraits of his grandparents and of Jim's dad's grandparents and The Hated Accomodation for his service because it is signed by Trump. Turns out when your dad dies and he gets The Thing, you don't get to request that a different president signs. I think they get A Lot of complaints, because as soon as she said we could receive the paper, she added "It's signed by the sitting president of the  United States" and repeated herself on three different occasions.

        Anyway, that room is also referred to as "Lisa's room". 

        So she was staying here Saturday night, and she conned me into going with her to my Aunt and Uncle's house. I am not friendly---you're aware of this, O Gentle Six Readers--but my Uncle was my dad's best friend, and losing my dad was a blow for him. I haven't seen him since we scattered dad's ashes a year ago. So I went.

        My Uncle is known family wide as an Equal Opportunity Racist

        He is also Mexican. I'm not sure how much that matters, but it's an added descriptor to explain the following.

        So I grew up with him calling us "h)^>s", which my chidren yell at me to stop saying . He would tell off color jokes about Mexicans who were also thieves, and honestly I can't even rewrite anything he said to me on Saturday. Let's just say at 83 years old he's as sharp as a tack and hasn't changed a bit. I didn't even bother to react or rebuff during his ten minute political monologue. I sat quietly, hands cupped under my chin, and blinked happily. I'm not going to change his mind so no reason to waste my breath. Even when I agreed with his perspective I stayed quiet. I listened, and he was surprisingly on point if you take the current economic decline out of the equation. He has that Old Man Thesis that nobody wants to work. OK. I'm not going to change your mind, and I'm here 'cause you were my dad's bestie and I know you miss him.

        Fun side note. I was told to stop repeating my uncle's jokes because they were racist---even though the man making the jokes about Mexicans is Mexican, I guess the racist part is me repeating them, even when I'm doing so to help explain his personality. So I stopped. But when I started at Hinkley, I asked some of the Mexican kids what their take was on these jokes. They exploded with laughter and said "We all have that uncle, he tells the same jokes! You are not racist to tell us this stuff, it's familair--we know this guy!"

        The Wyckoff family has some very specific traits:

        *We talk louder than anyone else in the room, which means volume must be increased many times over the course of conversations. Or--like me---you just stop talking because it's easier to listen and slows down getting overwhelmed. This trait is exacerbated when three people in the room are wearing hearing aids that they refuse to turn up or are simply ineffective.

        * We hold many conversations at once. There were five of us in the living room, and four conversations: My cousin Dawn and I, Lisa and my aunt and uncle, me and my uncle and Lisa and my Aunt. At any given time any one of us could have contritubted to a separate conversation-in fact we did. When my Nana and Grandpa were still alive, it was much worse as they would talk simultaneously and you had to struggle to follow both monologues coming at you. I ended up talking more than I expected as Dawn is in an education related field. Stuff in common is nice.

        *Saying good bye takes as long as the visit itself. I am historically the one to walk through the center of the room and simply leave. My Uncle has been known to walk to a door and stand there with it open, shaking his head and rolling his eyes while growling "Damned Wyckoffs!"

                                                     Sunday at FanCon

        It used to be ComicCon but now it's Fanzine...Fantopia....Fan Expo. That's it. So I call it Fan Con. I also call Pride Fest "Gay Con". I'm not wrong.

        Maybe eight years ago Harp and I started going to Comic Con. I get my steps in and she wears a costume and bonds with like minded people. Or getting a signed copy of The Princess Bride and Cary Elwes saying "You are a cutie" as he hugged her. It was awesome, her eyes were saucers. He IS her childhood, she'd been watching Princess Bride since she was a toddler. I've been to some great panels and there is some nice artwork,but my central objective is people watching.

        We took her partner this year since he's never been, and today (Monday) is his birthday and she didn't want to not include him the day before his birthday. This was not a normal FanCon Sunday-which are traditionally the slower day, which is why we go. This year the elves and hobbits and whatsitsis descended upon the convention center on Sunday.

        OOF.

        I asked loudly on more than one occasion "Who is stage managing this thing?" It was not well managed at all. However, while I was judging the overpopulation of 3D printed figurines--and by 'judging' I mean making rude faces at them and refusing to stop at any table containing such -- I happened upon a young lady dressed as Seymor Krelborn, holding her homemade Audrey 2 puppet plant in a planter. I felt both old and delighted at the same time. Somebody who knew musical theatre in place teeming with anime titties and D&D dice? O Rapture!

        Mismanagement examples:

        * Orlando Bloom was to speak at 1.30 pm in the Blue Bird Ballroom 1. He or someone else spoke at noon in the same ballroom. The crowd forming a single line massive curve was pushed to the center of the lobby while they emptied the previous house. At 1.15. The house holds a thousand people. There were ushers with signs bellowing "If you're going in, squish to the center, if you're exiting, follow the sign and go around the outside (of the people in the center)."

        Who stage managed this?

        * Ahead of time, people pay for a spot to get an autographed photo of Orlando Bloom. There was a ten a.m. slot that was either overbooked or his other talk started at 11 and he had to leave. Either way, when the 4 pm people arrived, there were 10am folks in line who had not had their photos signed.

        Who stage managed this?

                                          Monday Pony School Training

        And here we are, Monday 1 June 2026.

        First let's acknowledge that my prediction was wrong. I did not wake up to a Big Beautiful Announcement. 

        So I drove to Arvada for pony shool orientation. Which is funny, as this is the third year I've done it. But review is good, even though the new clips are dificult but I'm glad they are there, Rocket reared up at the pony circle last summer and almost hurt himself. But I had to ask for help with the clip, and then relaized my arthritis has gotten worse and I couldn't get the cinch tight enough. UGH. I'm 60 dude. I'm starting to feel it. And in the heat this summer, walking on uneven ground near and in the stables...I'm grateful for the quiet and respectful teenage assistant. He's the same kid they gave me last year, he's awesome. He was impressively calm when Rocket got spooked, and also when we forgot to lock the corral and the ponies escaped. THAT was a good time. They're like dogs playing keep away. Such funny personalities. Anyway he's great, even though I'm pretty sure his grandparents are my age.

        You know: 60.

        My fave pony Taz is still in his residency at the Farm Preschool. All of them were! Last year, Aspen had left the corral for a greener pasture when I arrived, but this year Taz, Orbit, Sky, Rocket and Trixie are still there. So are the goats ---my class got to contribute to naming them last summer---Butterscotch and Smore. And Piggy Allen Poe is as grunty and ugly as ever, what a delight to see his grey hide and wirehair mohawk. He is only allowed to free range outside of the barn if the ponies are corralled, but someone moved a trailer on the neighboring property that used to prevent him from wandering down to the cul de sac, so now he's more closely monitored. He moves pretty quick for a porker.

        I love him. I get him. When it's 100 degrees out he just lays in his water --a kid's swimming pool--and looks defeated. Last year a kid asked me why his water was so dirty. My response "He's a pig" went over beautifully. He understood. Kids get it. I get Poe. 

        Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: 30 May Gratitude

 

    30 May 2026

            Grateful I still have my memory to wish my sister a Happy Birthday by texting her a Jim Carrey gif.    

            Grateful my family is not grumpy or surprised that I sent the Jim Carrey GIF--of him dancing in thule skirt on a lawn in Ace Ventura -- in a thread including my sister, not just to my sister.

            Grateful for Eric and Stephanie who also love me regardless of my challenged texting acuity. For someone who writes most of their life, I cannot manage to spell words via text. Or build congnizant sentences. Voice to text somehow made it worse.

            Grateful that my job allows me to overpay for minimal insurance.

            Grateful I had  $60 in my checking account to pay at Urgent Care because my dog bit me. I'm fine--he got his weird curvy talon stuck in a floor grate while jumping striaght into the air as He Always Does as I opened the door, and landed, getting his talon stuck --which is new, he's never done that before--- and panicked. He bit me while I was liberating said talon. He looked so scared, and I could have taken a second to get a towel to wrap around his head, but I didn't. I just whipped in and yanked his claw out. He barely got me, but it's still a dog bite and I am 60. So.

            Grateful Kaiser only lightly harasses me about my outstanding balance for specialists within Kaiser that I'm still mad I have to pay extra for and allows me to be seen regardless. I've had The Other Kind Of Insurance that will not allow you to see a doctor until your past bill is paid. And I did not riot in the streets. Sigh.

            Grateful Marty had his updated rabies shot. I can't remember the name of the movie with people trapped in hotel and they all had rabies. That's where my brain went.

            Grateful the vet tech looked up Marty's records when I called because Do Not Ask Me where his collar or tags are.

            Grateful for "walking tai chi" and "chair yoga". My knee isn't "bad enough to have surgery" because I can still use it. Grateful for western medicine and Kaiser again who won't operate until it's gone too far and do not believe in preventative medicine. Excellent philosophy. Also sarcasm. Not Grateful.

            Grateful for Kris and Megan who still talk to me after forty years of friendship. 

            Grateful our employment can at least help our children out financially when they need it. "At least we have the house"---which we don't, really, the bank still owns it--is our morning mantra.

            Grateful for a husband who has stuck around through All Of It, and is still here.

            Grateful for the mighty G and H who are beautiful, strong, independent and kind. How am I so lucky to have such marvelous offspring?

            Grateful I can "touch grass" when picking up my doggos poop. I use a bag, weirdos, I'm not scooping with my palm.  I know you know that, but sometimes I worry.

            Grateful that I can write these mangled but positive blogs while the dumpster fire burns merrily in my country.

            Grateful "Unfriend" is easier than not answering the phone when it rings, and panic attacks at the grocery store and concern they know where I work and might show up. I have no memory of "unfriending" more than a handful of people in the past, but I remember the anxiety- worried that I had hurt someone's feelings. White, female and 60=raised by guilt. Be Nice to other people, don't make them uncomfortable...blah blah blah. Yet I still "have" a mohawk and enter a room like Bette Midler. Insides do not match outsides, Blog "Inside/Outside" on 5 April.

            Grateful for my coffee this morning, the coffee maker, Marty whining at my feet for another ttreat, the kitty peeking up the stairs,fat muppet Indie panting, Togo eating her breakfast, Sock screaming at Jim to be placed back on her heating pad, the sunshine. Morning. Sore arms--dog bite and tetnus shot--but still here. I'm still here. Anyone else hear Elaine Stritch?

            Grateful for the first day of summer "break". I start pony school on the 8th of June. Expect blog and FB pony spam.

            I find this to be good for my mental health. You don't have to read it, but you do. And I am GRATEFUL.

            Good morning.

60 Years Are Too Many: Last Day

     29 May 2026

        Wouldn't it have been cool if I had thought to track every day of the school year?

        The only reason I've been able to write this much is becuase we're post musical, kids stopped attending and my mental health needed something. I couldn't write new or altered lesson plans because I never knew who was going to show up every day, and when only two kids---or one---shows up the last two weeks of school, there really isn't any lesson plan in theatre you can create. Do not come at me with slam poetry or original monologues: I didn't know which two or which one would show up. Just stop. I'm a professional, and believe me: I tried every single game/exercize/...ad infinitum.

        The headache is pretty consistent though. End of year stuff is always fun. I can count on a cough, a UTI or a yeast infection. The headache is a new touch.

        When I pulled in this morning they were already unloading the theatre. I watched my flats and lumber get loaded into a truck. Hope it comes back, lumber is expensive. That ply that we use for platforms is $40 a sheet. Dude.

        Axios scoops and reports from his source Jared Kushner and the ritual is the same every week...he's manipulating the stock market and we all know it. It's Thursday. There is a peace agreement and cease fire just around the corner, place your bets.

        What's sad is that so many are compliant in this, out of fear or greed. He and his corrupt cronies need to be ousted. OUT. OUT. The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf was ostracized and allowed to be killed because the village was tired of him being A Big Fat Liar.

        Hold on. Did they let him die? 

        Worse. Aesop let the wolf eat the sheep as the boy hollered and was ignored. The boy survives to "learn his lesson". But the community's sheep were wiped out.

        Damn.

        I'll let that settle. That fable is a little too close to home right now. And I am a sheep in that story.

        Listen to some hold music in your head for a minute.

        Ok.

        So they're loading out all my lumber and flats and they took down the wood cubbies someone built years ago. So...maybe they are going to install a vacuum in the shop wall. I got two different stories and shrugged at them both. The vaccum wall approach caused a fire at another high school last year during their performance, so I'm pretty sure that's the choice they are making. 

        Dear Readers, all six of you, we well know I'm not there to stay. So I don't much care.

        Unless I win the lottery this summer, I'll go back next year to attempt to finish what I started against a renovation that will prevent a fall production. Just call me Sisyphus.

        Also, today is 29 May. If There Is A God, Trump will drop dead on Monday 1 June. In public. It has to be in public or they'll prop up his corpse and pretend he's still alive.

        A few weeks ago I was convinced This Was A Thing that had happend with Stalin, or Pole Pot or Ceausescus , or some dictator that had been propped up after death. Not like Mussolini who was dragged and torn apart, which sounds great. Or like Lenin who laid in state--I think he's still there---but the only one I found was some Asian guy in the 1700's (I think) who died and they kept schlepping him around in his carriage all over the country, throwing fish into the carriage to mask the smell.  

        Of course I do not remember his name or year or country and now I can't find it, but it happened and it was real.

        My point is, I believe that unless he drops in front of cameras, they will cover it up. They believe we're pretty stupid---and we've done nothing to disprove their hypothosis--so they could just prop him in the oval office and say "He's not sleeping, he's blinking". That will start a social media fire where nobody actually stops to check if he's breathing. I give it a few days before rigormortis sets in and they need a new plan.

        When that happens, all will be chaos. They do not have anyone ready to lead, and we don't have anyone ready to lead. I don't trust Newsom. Sorry, buddy. I trust Pritzker a bit more. I trust Buttieieg but they can't support him as a candidate 'cause he's gay and that's a bridge too far. Momdani might be a frontrunner. Their party is shattered, it will take a decade to rebuild. And even then, it will be two parties, 'cause the OG republicans and MAGA have split.

        There will be no choice but a civil war. Which will suck, as the economy will collapse once the AI bubble pops and everyone wakes up to the Ponzi scheme of cryptocurrency and bitcoin. You idiots did this to us. You let yourselves be conned, you made them rich by handing over your money and now our entire economy is going to collapse.  Walk Away and let the adults take care of your mess, ok? Just...sit still and shut up.

        That took a turn, huh?

        So.

        Back to my day. 

        I sat and listened to the retiring teachers. One graduated from Kennedy in 1991, which is super cute, and he's been teaching 30 years.

        I graduated in 1984. 

        I'll pause while you imagine my reaction.

        Did you get "kryssi leaned over to her millennial colleague and said 'Fuck, he's younger than I am' to which her colleage bellowed laughter, and then passed it on to the choir teacher and texted the AP."         

        I'm not so sure it was that funny, but we're all pretty frazzled. 

        Then I got home and my dog bit me.

        More on that later.

        

23 Years Are Too Many

 

    28 May 2026

        Okay.    

       This isn't a usual "Turn in your keys, clean up, see ya" end of year.

        There is a theatre renovation starting next week, so I had to clear out my office. I also began to clear paths and make piles in the shop. Allegedly, they will be loading everything---all lumber, flats, tools---out of the shop so they can do Whatever It Is they're going to do back there.     

        Think they'll bring back all my lumber, flats and tools?

        I hate this.

        I had to go through this at Littleton and they didn't even mess with the shop. They just ripped up the stage and house...

        So let's address a few burning questions in order: 

         1.   If Kennedy is slated to "close" due to low test scores and poor attendance, why are they bothering to renovate the theatre?

         2.   How am I teaching Stagecraft in a classroom until October.

         Number one.  Okay. First, lemme just restate: They cannot shift any of the money to the band room, which flooded and destroyed all of the instruments, and is still uninhabitable. 

    The theatre works, it's functional, there is No Need to renovate it other than to update the lights and sound. 

    The band room, on the other hand, just lost all of its instruments and likely has black mold and a swamp monster. But you can't use any of the money coming in to help the department that needs it.

     Grant and Mill Levy renovations are annoying.You can only use the money for what it was originally intended. So--follow me here---even though the school is in danger of "closing", they still have to renovate the theatre because that's what the money was for. Even if we don't get out of orange and have to go into innovation or reimagination or whatever the buzzword is these days. Follow me again---going into innovation or reimagination or whatever the buzzword is these days means getting rid of all admin, making teachers reapply and cutting departments. You know--like performing arts. Or consolidating-making the choir teacher also teach band, or the choir teacher also has theatre. It's always the poor choir teacher.     

        So, if we don't get out of orange in August and are in the middle of a theatre renovation that keeps performing arts dark until at least October, preventing us from performing, it will be an easy decision to say "Consolidate"  and boom. Because we didn't do any shows while the theatre was dark, so why do we need to do shows? OH, we paid for this renovation, oops.

        Expensive renovated theatre in the hands of overworked and under appreciated choir teacher who cannot possibly float two departments, two full theatre productions and four concerts on her own.

        This debacle matches my time line. I have already done 90% of what I said I would do here. You could argue I've done 100% if you remember I said "I'm just here to get the wheels back on". Which you could argue I have done.

    But if you argue my class numbers are still low which means only 90%, then with the theatre closed in the fall, I can only make it to 95%-- That last 5% is a stagecraft class. So I will have to call it at two years in 2027 without having fully rebooted the theatre. My license expires in June of 2027 anyway. Hmmmm. Coincidence?

        Number two. When I was hired I immediately began sussing out what the kids in this building need. I was told by admin "they" wanted a theatre; the kids and the community. That was inaccurate and became screamingly clear when I struggled to get The Odd Couple up.    

        My choices at that point were that the admin who hired me lied to me because they want a theatre, or admin has no idea what it takes to build a strong theatre department and they want a "comprehensive high school" that includes all three in their performing arts.     

        I chose to believe the later, as one must do for one's own sanity.

        Once I decided they had no idea, as we powered through the musical, I listened and watched the kids. What they want is to work with their hands. They do not want to act or be seen on stage or anaylize scripts or any of the stuff that I like. Those are also the things I Am Good At. What these kids want is exactly my achilles heel in theatre: tech. But OK. I was hired to do a job.     

        I knew we'd be dark in the fall for the renovation. I also knew if we didn't offer stagecraft for next year, we'd miss the window of opportunity. Besides, just putting in on the scheudle doesn't mean kids will request it. Right? So I put it on the schedule.

        Forty kids requested it.

        Oh, okay. Great. So, now what?

        We'll be learning props and costumes, building and baking and cooking and stitching and design in the fall in the classroom. Some set designs, sketches and cardboard models. I can teach that. But...they signed up to use a drill and build and learn the light and sound boards. 

        My hope is the admin who registered the kids did so soley based on those who requested it. That way they will hang on with all the design and paperwork stuff until we can get down there and Do The Things. Theatre classes used as dumping grounds go poorly, and in stagecraft we have so many safety issues, it's irresponsible.

        Also, admin only gave me one section of stagecraft, and I capped it at fifteen. So In Theory I will have a manageable number of kids who actively requested tech theatre.

        Which is why I added stitching, and cooking and baking. At least they will be able to Do Things. 

         And yet...I think I've said this before...I don't think I'm coming back.     

       I suspect that feeling is valid, based on the PTSD I've had in the past. But those BOTH happened in October, not over the summer. So it's just a feeling, not a premonition.

       The feeling does not match up with my visualizations which are flashing 2027 at me. It doesn't match up with my license expiring which is 2027. It doesn't match up with the projected date that Kennedy will go into "innovation" or whatever the hell the buzzword is, which is 2027.

        So why am I glitchy?

        Likely because I'm sixy and sixty years are too many, and I'm twenty three years in and can retire at only 52% of my salary which is robbery and everything sucks all of the time. 

        And every summer I secretly hope to win the lottery.

        Because I'm done teaching theatre. I'm done directing. I'm too old for anyone to seek out my limited talents, and I'm too tired to apply for jobs anymore. I only do pony school because I need the money and they're actually truly appreciative and nice to me.

        And yes, I'm depressed. We know this. Who cares? So is anyone with a conscience, eyeballs and ears.

        I stopped applying for jobs in 2023, I couldn't go to any more educational theatre interviews and watch their faces when they registered my age. But two weeks ago...I started looking around. I really wanted a gig at Red Rocks Community College, a desk job working with the concurrent enrollment kids. But my experience is in teaching, not counseling, so my application didn't even get past the AI bot. 

        I also thought about working at the Colorado Train Museum as the Volunteer Director. I know jack about trains or volunteering, but I'm a beast with scheduling and communication.

        I am done. And writing this I realize I'm looking for my retirement job. Because I can't afford to retire, I'll have to work someplace full time with benefits, but I don't want to be around edcuation anymore. I have no desire to sub---and besides, you can't get insurance when you do that.     

        I truly hate capitalism.

        Because I've worked long and hard enough to have earned the opportunity to have access to reasonable insurance and stay home and write.

        And where the hell is my STL to sign my stupid checkout form so I can leave?

        Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Unsolicitied and Unfounded Predictions

 

    27 May 2026

        I am not a psychic, nor do I play one on TV. 

       But I read Trump's unhinged posts and listen to his rants.

       The Truth Is Out There.

       I offer my Off The Cuff Five Predictions; based on late night AI and "Truth" social posts from Trump, a few scattered psychics, my own cobbled infant level understanding of Tarot, prayer and common sense.

         #1   A Fake Alien Invasion. Like War Of The Worlds only "covered" by Fox News. People will die unnecessarily so Trump can look like a hero and "save" us. It's his last resort as his wars and tarriffs have failed. So will this. It will cost lives, but it will fail. Those who missed it--he posted an AI image of him leading an "alien" in handcuffs while the world burned around him. People are going to die because of his fearmongering.

        #2 His death in June. It will not stop the insanity, but it will slow it down and everything will be revealed. Musk will try to take over. I really want this to be 1 June 2026 meaning...next week... but I accept it could be next June, but it's June. Honestly if he dies this June, I doubt his admin would move forward with the alien invasion scenario.

        #3 What is happening--and has been since 2016--is what Bible Thumpers call "The Rapture". It is not Christians being called to heaven in glory and the non believers left behind. The reality is that human beings are evolving past religion, into what we are supposed to become.  Did NONE of you people listen to Yoda? "Luminous beings are we. Not this crude matter." Those left behind will not evolve, or embrace change and will be the ones left with a destroyed planet and nothing but hate. Their AntiChrist will be whatever is left of MAGA or the oligarchs, and everything beautiful on earth will have been "called home". Only the empty rock and AI will be left here for them to fight over. Terminator without "real" humans underground.

        #4 I will not live to see this disaster repaired, but somehow I will be part of repairing it. Which is wild to say becuase I'm 60 and I have a headache just thinking about this stuff. But somehow...a teeny tiny bit of the repair will be because I said or did or taught or stitched or planted some miniscule something.

        #5 My children will be part of the New Generation that rises in kindness, community and peace.    

        So Let It Be Written.

        So Let It Be Done.

        Scene

60 Years Are Too Many: Twenty Two Graduations

     27 May 2026

        Today is our 37th anniversary.

       He had to work and I had to go to graduation.

       Which is today's story.

       Today was the 22nd graduation I have attended. Yes, I am a 23 year veteran, PERA says  I have 23 years in. Which I do--they count the first year I was a sub. Which is why I've only attended 22 graduations.

        The first years at Littleton, all three schools graduated on our field and it was always the hottest day of the year. I spent Harp's graduation fixated on watching her in the hundred degree heat, hoping she wouldn't pass out. My first year I foolishly dressed up in an actual dress and flats---I do not do heels--and almost expired from the heat. The senior teachers liked to tell stories about the year it snowed on graduation day, but in my 18 years there, that was a fairy tale. It was always blazing hot.

        And no disrespect, but I heard way too many valedictorian speeches praising the popular IB TOK teacher and commenting on the doors opening into the hallways, knocking students in the head as freshmen.  

        Then DU figured out it could make money off of high schools by allowing them--and by "allow" I mean "charge money"-- to graduate on their campus. Specifically the Ricks Center. Specifically on the hockey ice. Which they cover, of course. But dude. Why do schools blow good money on ridiculous nonsense like this? Littleton, Aurora AND Denver have all fallen for it. Parking costs money for parents and students. It's nothing but a jingle jangle money maker for a private university that does not appear to need the money.

        My final graduation ceremony--which sadly was at DU--with Littleton was the sweetest. One of my theatre kids was selected to be The First Graduation Poet. She wrote a lovely poem that included beautifully veiled references to how poorly the principal was treating staff, and honored me with a reference to my mohawk. I wish I had the poem. 

        Since then I've only missed one graduation. My first year at Hinkley was  2020...and they did a drive by graduation in their parking lot. I did not attend. The following year they returned to the ice at DU.

        I attended Kennedy's last year, also at DU, even though I'd only been there a few months. I had one senior I felt strongly about representing. Without her, I never would have believed the program could be rebuilt.

        In all of those years, who knows the math, I've never parked in a lot on the DU campus. I have underground and covered parking anxiety, so I always---literally always ---park at the meters by some field. Maybe lacrosse. Who knows. Anyway. It's cheaper than paying $10 to park in an outer lot or underground. And generally, our graduations have been early enough for me to get a spot. We are given parking passes for the outer lots, but every single year I manage to forget or am unable to locate the human with the pass.

        This year, there was a sign that said I needed a parking pass for the pull in meters. I parked anyway, but had anxiety. Two nights ago Jim asked if I was going to graduation.He's never asked and I've always just gone, it's my job, and I bitch about it but I go. But I looked at him and said flatly "I don't wanna go." I figured the anxiety was continuing so I was probably going to get a ticket for parking in The Wrong Place. Premonition or depression? (Spoiler alert, I did not get a ticket).

        I grabbed my regalia----let's pause here. My "regalia". I did not walk at my college graduation. I just don't do pagentry. So my grad robes are robes I procured from storage at Littleton. People would quit and leave their robes behind. So my work wife and I went shopping one year. That was over 20 years ago, but I still have two black robes, one is a master's robe. I also still have masters cowls.

        I do not have a masters.

        At Littleton A.O.--Dr...still can't say her name -had a PhD and we all needed to know about it. She insisted on regalia so she could wear her silly PhD hat. She also liked having rows of masters hoods representing among faculty, because that's who she is. Looks are everything. 

        I had two hoods I was alternating from year to year---one was pink (music) and one was dark blue (philosophy/poly sci/ethics). I also have a light blue one, education, that everybody has so I never use it. If I'm going to fake a masters, I want it to be unique. The hoods were also liberated from the storage closet. I think I had four of them, but somewhere along the line I gave one to another teacher to wear. It's pagentry. Was I unclear?

        It's a costume piece.

        And it is not lost on me that the unearned hood I wear is in ethics.

        I stopped wearing them when it became clear that's what Oaks liked. It became a badge of honor to sit with the other lowly "Bachelor Degree Onlies". There was a social studies teacher who joined us, he refused to wear his masters hood. I had forgotten about that until just now. He would sit next to me and nod in solidarity. It was very Working Class.

        OK. So I grab my liberated masters robe and master of philosophy/poly sci/ethics hood and feed the meter. It's six forty five a.m. Graduation is at eight, seven a.m. arrival.

        I really do not want to be here.

        And I cannot identify why.

        At Littleton kids were not allowed any unapproved regalia. Nothing from your family, we couldn't even give them Thespian cords. Only NHS, IB and their sanctioned stoles. No sign of individuality at all, just school authorized prizes.

         At Kennedy there are stoles worn by kids that were handed down by grandparents, some with grandparents' names. I saw the same at Hinkley and it blew my mind. Native American regalia and sashes they bought elsewhere with flowers and glitter words written in Spanish on their mortar boards. Absolutely glorious. I saw the same when I attended Genoa's college graduation at Ft. Lewis. Such a celebration of cultures and family.

        AO's head would have exploded.

        So I sat with the lovely art teacher and chatted on the bleachers of Hamilton gym, our staging area. We chatted about how nice it is to see diverse and family regalia, the corruption throughout all school districts and she called all of her previous principals "Little Trumps" and I realized...yes. YES.

        I started to not feel great. Nothing big, just intenstinal. Just enough to be able to signal leaving and not having to stay for graduation.

        Yep.

        I bailed.

        I smiled at my kids, they all saw me. I sat with faculty, admin saw me.

        And then I just walked out instead of walking onto the covered ice.

        That was it.

        Quiet, nobody noticed, nobody cared. Which is perfect. Why should they? It's not about me.

        So graduation #22 is "complete".  

        Why didn't I think of this years ago? If you just turn left instead of following the line to the chairs on ice, you are free.

        To be fair, I wouldn't have done this under different circumstances. Hell, I sat there at my last Littleton graduation and quietly watched The Devil practice smiling and gladhanding her precious IB graduates. I was just disregulated in more than one way today. It was very different. The usual joy at seeing so many families and flowered mortar boards just...fell flat.

        I did make it home in time to spend my morning near a bathroom.

        And write this.

       Scene.