61 Years Are Way Too Many During 2026 Halloween Week

                                                 1 Nov 2026

        Too many planets in retrograde, a spiritual storm like one right after the industrial revolution, the week before midterms, a full moon, a waxing moon, and Halloween?

        You gotta be kidding me.

        No, no you weren't kidding me. But I made it.

        Harper and Jim's birthday was Friday the 23rd.

        Waxing moon 25th.

        Full Moon the 26th.

         Full moon in Taurus 25/26 and the pinball effect. Everything lights up in your head.

        Neptune in Aries were last transiting 165 years ago. 

        Did I lose you?

        You knew I follow this stuff, you know it. I just feel like I can talk about it.

        You don't have to believe in it. You just have watch  or read any real news you can find --I recommend Ground News, 1440, Meidas Touch or Aaron Parnas. Even Rachel Maddow is real news. 

        We are in a very real convergence. It's not the apocolypse friends, it's not the end. As much as I would love an asteroid straight through my eye, we are not so lucky. It's a reboot.

        In other words: Ya done fucked up humans, so earth and spirit and God and Santa Claus and Mother Earth are gonna shake this planet like a snowglobe to reset it. So buckle up.

        In a desperate attempt to feel positive I hired someone to paint the dining room. It's now a mint that is overtly positive and vibrating. Yesterday, on Halloween day, Jim and I scrubbed and steamed the floor, took the china cabinet apart to clean it and washed everything in the cabinet. Literally thought it'd take three hours and it literally tool all day. Literally.

        Friday I was supposed to go to a district thing. I did not. My hand was the size of a baseball glove and I was completely exhausted. So I slept and went to the doctor. Dock me a sick day, I do not care. I needed sleep and antibiotics. While I was there I also scheduled a mammorgram, dropped off a poop sample and have been put on cholesterol meds. Which is hilarious because I hardly ever eat, how can my cholesterol be high?

        Thursday I woke up and when I petted Sock, she bit me. I mean bit. Not a cute little nip, this 100 year old demon sunk her fangs to the muscle. Poor girl, since I hand feed her turkey she thought I was food, and chose violence by biting the hand that feeds her.

        Thursday at 5 pm was Trunk or Treat. After allowing the kid I knew had measured incorrectly to put the puppet theatre on a dolly, walk it down the hall to the elevator and not have it fit in the elevator because he measured incorrectly, we settled into finding table decor and costumes. I knew he was wrong, he's almost always wrong, but I let them fail. Not everyone supports my approach, but in theatre it's important to fail and start over, it teaches problem solving. However, in this case, as this kid is specifically head strong, it is taking a minute to get through.

        The best part was everyone we encountered in the hall looking at me and saying "That won't fit". Dude. I know. He needs to learn. Aren't we all teachers here?

        The event was a huge success, even through a fire alarm. We suspect the Haunted Hallway used a fog machine. No evidence, just 24 years of experience with alarms going off during events---including during an ACT test---fog machines are frequently the culprit.

        My thespian president wore an inflatable chicken suit and danced the entire night. The kids had "fortunetelling" with prizes and "bean bag/cup" toss with prizes and candy. We had a line most of the night, but most of the games had lines---it was a shocking turn out. There are only 600 kids registered in the building, and we had at least a thousand people come through the gym. We were next door to  Tri M, whose game of toss was way too complex for the kids. I thought ours was too easy, so I guess we evened out.

        I told the kids my swollen hand was rabies, which they did not find funny. Or they couldn't hear me over the music in the gym. Or they don't care.

        Thursday we also had to put up the cast list after Wednesday callbacks. That's a blog unto itself.

        Wednesday we had "callbacks" for four kids, three of whom bailed and no longer want to do the show. So we had to have a very real conversation about just cancelling the show. Which we clearly decided not to do since I told you we posted a cast list. You can't NOT put something up after the tax payers paid for your theatre renovation. So the choir teacher contacted an alumni about singing the plant, and I roped a tech kid into playing Mushnik and we had a cast list. Eight person cast, three in choir, one former choir kid and four non singers. Two of them are do wops.

        Ya gotta do what ya gotta do. 

        And this is my last show gotta doing what I gotta do--I'm done.    

        Monday and Tuesday the moon stirred issues with classes, kids are sick or late or pulled for testing or mental health. I have had it with my Intro, this wee's assignment---to simply imitate the voice and posture of a famous person that they like---fell completely flat. So we're reading Fences next week and I'm scrambling for plays to read going forward.

        The Big Crash is understanding this department cannot be saved. It is not my fault, and someone else would advocate differently and perhaps have some luck.

        As stated at the beginning, I believe in signs and spirit and everything happens for a reason. I also know for a fact that none of those things have my best interest emotionally or financially in mind. I still have no idea why I wasted 18 years in Littleton. I saw clearly the intention of Hinkley and knew going in that it was temporary. 

        This one...I have no idea. I was not applying or looking for jobs. I had decided to retire at the end of the 2024/25 school year or at least stop teaching theatre. But I was not applying anywhere. I was not going to move a muscle---if God wanted me to do something, then I was going to be still and let him do it.

        Even if you do not read signs, you gotta admit Kennedy literally calling me out of the clear blue sky was at least wild, if not a legit sign.

        And even if you do not read signs, you gotta admit nothing suggests I was called to Kennedy to  actually rebuild their program. As usual, it's something lame like impacting a kid's life. UGH. Exhausting. 

        You know me well enough to hear the sarcasm.

        I fully understand my job has never been to run, stitch back together or rebuild a theatre program.

        My job is to get kids excited.

        Or A kid. In this case, It's A Single Kid. I can even tell you which one. 

        That's what happens when everhthing hits retrograde: it's a reveal. 

        The truth comes out whether you like it or not. 

        Scene.

        

61 Years Are Too Many: Further Reflections on Bookstores and Drag Queens

                             25 October 2026

    barista my age, retired from GIANTCORP and is now happy as a barista. 

        After leaving the little purple house on 17th street, we toddled across the street to a bookstore. Which is new, because I was pretty sure it was Strings back in the day, but I am really dating myself. Maybe it was a small restaurant and pub. I wonder what happened?

        Anyway, it's now Denver Book Society---they opened last year---and it's fabulous. It's been years---years----since I've sat in a bookstore at a coffee bar and just chatted the afternoon away.

        The barista shared that she is a retired Big Deal from A Big Company Here In Colorado and works as a barista in the bookstore for funsies. Because, being A Big Deal retired from A Big Company, she has plenty of moohlah to pay her bills and have insurance. Good for her. I said "good for you" and then she told me her age...and I went silent.

        She's my age.

        A second employee---much younger, younger than my own children---works in the bookstore because she loves books and reading and talking to people about books and reading.

        Which is why she became a teacher.

        And then quit because the job as a high school lang arts teacher was not about talking to people about books and reading. So she quit.

        Because it was about proving she was teaching by tracking data points and attending biweekly meetings and being observed weekly and writing directives on the board so any adult could walk in and identify her lesson, but the kids Do Not Care--you know. They wanted control over every apsect of her curriculum. 

        Then she became a librarian in an elementary private school---hoping a change in content and age groups would heal her literary loving soul--and that the job would be her dream of talking to people about books and reading.

        It was not, and she left education entirely.

        Because it was about parents attacking her for the book titles and bullying her to stop recommending books to their kids. It was a horrible experience with entitled people who wanted to control every aspect of their child's intellectual growth.

        So now, she's poor but happy to be in a place where she can do what she loves.

        Steph and I just shrugged---Steph left teaching years ago and I'm still being held hostage---because we both get it. This person was probably a very good teacher. She was positive, open, enthusiastic---all things the education system stomps into submission within three years. Sigh. I'm glad she got out and I'm glad she's happy.

         It was wild to be in a neighborhood that is managing to hold on to both a drag house and a new bookstore. 

        It's not real "hope", it is a resurgence of what life was like when there was hope.

        Or something.

        Scene.

61 Years And Still Here: The End Of Kindness

                                                                 25 October 2026

       My former- and only--work wife took me out to drag brunch yesterday for my birthday

       She quit teaching after kid #2 because there was no way her salary was going to be relevant when she got pregnant with kid #3. She would literally only be working to pay for day care. 

        She was an amazing teacher, and this was a huge loss. But again, as we've learned from our current envioronment: Nobody Cares. So she had to quit to be a mom, so what. She's doing her sacred female duty.

       Because she is fortunate enough to be married to someone who makes good money, she peaced out and moved on to live her best life.

       To say I am insanely jealous is an understatement. Like saying "Weird Al is weird" is an understatment. Like saying "Selma Hayek is pretty" is an understatement. 

       Anyway, we did the brunch and then sat at a bookstore and had coffee, and I realized how deeply I regret remaining in teaching.

       Everything about her life since teaching is better. Everything.

       She has stories about traveling, about her kids, she still talks about Shakespeare and the Greeks and reads and loves her local library and knows her kids' school and district because she got involved.

        My kids went to school where I was teaching so they could have a ride.

        She paid for a very expensive day out, and then when I told her she was a great mom she said "You're very kind."

        No. I'm not. I never have been.

        What I am is honest.

        I have never been kind.

        I've been supoortive, lent a shoulder to cry on. 

        I've been vigilant, returned a wandering toddler to his apartment from the edge of the parking lot.

        I've been humane, ask any of the rescue animals who've lived in my house.

        I'll have to look up this line in my head...there is a quote "There's something hard in you, like biting on tin foil." That's how I've always imagined I am.

        AHHHH! Yes. It's the description of Larry Underwood. What's his name is walking with him on the beach trying to sober him up and get him to understand he's screwed up. Wayne. Larry doesn't think very clearly, or very well, even sober. But the idea that he's a survivor, he'll get through whatever is thrown, is obvious.

        That was a fun rabbit hole.

        Ok, side note, what is with this whiney white woman claiming the liberals are racist? What the fuck is going on? Jim has football on and I just heard the commercial.

        That was wild.

        But now I'm in Larry's headspace. Larry was a neurotic mess. When fame hit fast, he had no scaffolding or experience to deal with it. He did what many would do; he threw parties and did a lot of drugs. But he had this one good friend, Wayne, who even though he was annoyed to the tits with Larry, cared enough to pull him out and say "Dude, what the hell?' 

        Everyone thought Larry had it together. Even Wayne, who said "there's something in you that's like biting down on tin foil" he meant it as "you're better than this, and you'll land on your feet."

        Which is exhausting. Larry would have not made a single good choice if Wayne didn't care enought to say something, and he didn't ultimately respect Wayne enough to listen. And Wayne also helped clean up the mess, because that's what you do when you care.

        He wasn't kind. He was honest.

        I get this relationship.

        And I get Larry.

        And I have no idea if this is about Steph or not, but maybe it is. I was all flavors of angry when we met yesterday, I'm not doing well: I can't with the cruelty of the regime and nothing at my job is working smoothly. I need a space where nothing is on fire. Steph yelled at me about how lucky we are that we not just get to attend drag shows, but we enjoy them; we get them. "We" have the capacity to enjoy life, and "They" do not. They are rich and power hungry and  miserable.

        When I pivoted "Right, but they are in charge and we're the ones who will end up in camps and we're the ones suffering." 

        She wasn't having any. To be fair, she was two bottles into a bottomless belini, but she actually told me to shush.

        "We know how to be happy. We know how to celebrate and support this---" she gestured to the performers in the little purple house. "We're better. We'll win. Hold onto that." She may have called me an idiot or something in closing. She was not wrong.

        And so, all in all to sum up, I came home yesterday and realized I hadn't watched any Aaron Parnas or MidasTouch posts. And when I did, I only skimmed them because I have to believe she is correct.

        We win because we are open. We are not racist. We are not homophobic. We can see real fraud in real time, even when nobody else can (or will). We are creatives, we are human beings, we love art and bookstores and weird borderline junk shops. We rescue animals and raise our children and do The Best That We Can under the boot of a cruel regime.

        We vote.

        We do not cheat. 

        We are honest and believe in cause and effect, science is real and ever changing and the earth is being destroyed.

        And we can't stop any of it.

        But we can over pay for bellinis and mimosas and watch two drag queens own their lives, connect to their audience and allow us to choose Freddy Mercury as a diva even though he was a guy. 

        That was oddly specific and out of context. The show aligned with the DIVA exhibit at the museum. You can connect the dots.

        If you want to believe that white people are the ones being attacked, I can't help you.

        If you want to believe that your problems are caused by a small fraction of the population, and not the capitalist greed machine; I can't help you.

        And you don't want my help. So why am I screaming?

        I am not kind. I'm just awake. Female. A mother. A teacher. A creative. I have empathy for other humans, animals and the fate of the planet.

        But I am not kind. Never make that mistake. There is something in me that is like biting on tin foil. And if you push me, I will not fall over.

        Scene.

        

LSOH Circle

                                                         21 OCTOBER

                                                ANOTHER CIRCLE

        I said I'd start writing down circles.

       Last spring, Jim and I attended Hell's Kitchen at the DCPA with his banker. Because it was super fancy special, we had a dinner before and one of the cast members came down to shmooze, and blah blah blah.. There was a couple at our table in their 30's who were very conversationable. Which is a word I've made up and shall keep.

        Without revealing much about myself other than I work in high school theatre--I would rather to listen to other people's stories--- they volunteered that they had been dating since high school.

        They graduated from Kennedy. They were in choir and band.

        I asked about their experiences in the department here (I'm writing at my desk), and they loved it though they were only peripherally involved. 

        I'm mixing up the timelines, but the theme is the same. Stay with me.

        They saw Little Shop of Horrors at Littleton.

        I almost jumped out of my seat "I directed that! You're kidding!"

        They said they attended because they had heard about Littleton's program and that the show was specifically amazing for a high school.

        This is a circle, not a brag.

        How many people can say that this happened? How many people can say "I am teaching in a building from which someone graduated who was at dinner at my table at the DCPA, who saw a show I directed 15 years ago in another building?"

        I had forgotten entirely about this story until last Friday. I was sitting with the kid designing our plants, explaining how this must be our vision -which is why we're building, not renting. Then I looked at them and it all came back...I told the story and said "That show was great because it belonged to Littleton. The plant belonged to one of our alumni. It was ours."

        The circle closed.

        Because now I'm directing LSOH at Kennedy.

        And it will be great because it will belong to Kennedy.

        

61 Years And Still Here: Hump Day Postcards

 

                                                            21 October 2026

    Today is my mom's 82nd birthday.

    Today is the day after Zippy Martin left us over the rainbow bridge. He was an Excellent Good Boy and will be sorely missed. He was an angel on earth who needed to go back to heaven.

    Today is the day I made a kid cry about his monologue.

     Hear me out. 

     It had nothing to do with his projection or enunciation or any mechanical aspect. It was not because I Am Mean.

     It's also a monologue he chose himself, so it's not on me for forcing him to be Tom in Glass Menagerie. Again, this is not because I Am Mean.

    I pulled monologues from several different plays. The one he chose was Fat Pig by Neil LeBute. As with all pieces that I pull, they are written by real playwrights and are from real plays. Which means, they're really well written.

   I suspected something was amiss when he chose it. He's a quiet kid, seemingly non binary and has never said anything about dating, so I was surprised at first, because it's a monologue about breaking up with a woman because of pressure from friends. Then I realized he was attaching to the deeper social commentary, beyond a man falling in love with a plus size woman; he was feeling this conflict in his soul.

   He is not officially enrolled in this acting class due to his concurrent enrollment college schedule. But he attends every M/T/F and arrives 30 minutes late on Weds after college like clockwork. That's how much he values theatre.

    And by extension, that is how much I value his commitment.

   So today we were working through beats and intentions. He arrived at 1 and was the last to read. Which worked out well as he stopped cold and started crying when I asked why his character couldn't speak to Helen face to face. He'd clearly planned the speech, why was he coming apart in delivering it?

    Another student prompted "He's conflicted because he wants his friends to like him but he's in love with her."

    Bingo.

    Sobbing.

    Clean up on aisle 7.

    My work here is done. I'll be at my desk cursing Past Me for not loading my drawer with more chocolate .

61 Years And Still Here: End of Quarter 1

 

                                                            18 October 2016

        I didn't quite "make it"...but I'm employed and writing this. 

        I'm still here. 

        Feel free to hear Elaine Stritch in your head.

        Technology hates me.

        For No Known Reason DPS uses both Schoology AND Infinite Campus for grading. 

        The two platforms are not the best of friends, and so we have to forcibly synch our grades from Schoology to IC every week.

        And...you've met me. You know where this is going.

        At first they weren't synching because I hadn't assigned them to do so in the platform. A simple, stupid step that made me click PROCESS- PROCESS and PRODUCT-PRODUCT.

        Duh.

        So I did that.

        And on 5 October, they sank. Synched. Sank. I like sank.

        But since then, they do not sink. Sank. Sunk. Now I hear the Grinch stink, stank, stunk. 

        I hit synch and they do not synch. Am I supposed to spell it "sync". Probably. But the "h" makes it more hateful.

        Even if I go into IC and double synch there, it's not working.

        I am doing all the steps I was shown. They only worked the one time. 

        In theory, that means it should work every time.

        End of quarter one was Friday. We were supposed to spend our PLT time synching during first period, but there was a fire drill. I had to teach and get grades in the rest of the day, and my next planning period I was in MI/S helping out because all the paras called out.

        So by the time I could sit actually alert admin to my issue, it was 4 pm. 

        I guess they can help me figure it out on Monday. My classes are so small and I have no athletes I do not think I am a major road block.

        Because this is not a me problem. I'm pushing all the right buttons. This is a platform problem. 

        This is a DISTRICT problem becasue somebody made a lot of money agreeing to use two platforms when ONE would suffice. ONE is what I used in two different districts, with little to no issues.

        In addition, I had to be the first proctor for the P/SAT. By they way, everyone I know in other districts got a fall break but we did not--we got proctoring P/SAT. First proctor means they loaded the platform on me and I have to track students.

        I couldn't breathe. I have some nasty PTSD from previous P/SAT platforms that shut down on my computer. That time the coordinator thought all the kids in my room had stopped taking the test, but they were still taking the test, my platform had just stopped working. She was very wound up because an irregular incident report had to be filed and clearly it was my fault for agreeing to help out and I was new in the building so they didn't know about me and I got yelled at and my anxiety spiked and there was literally No Way I had done a single thing wrong.

        I Hate Technology.

        But this time it went fine. I even told the coordiator this was causing me anxiety and he thought I was funny, but sent me a kind second proctor who was a lovely, calming presence.

       And now I have to go to the AT&T store, because my phone is old and Jim got a new one last week that has decided his phone number is my phone number, so messages from him come up as being from me.

        Also my messages to Harp come up as being from Jim.

        And when I send myself links to my number from my, they go to Jim.

        Dude.

        DOOOOOOOOOD.

        I am sick to my stomach right now, I have so much anxiety over having to get a new phone. I hate this every time. It never goes smoothly and I Hate It. I never have the codes to Do The Thing.

        This is my last Iphone. When it dies, I'm getting an old lady flip phone from Consumer Cellular. 

        I also need a laptop of my own, as I've been relying on school laptops too long. I had one for a minute, but it was glitchy----I know, I see your shocked face---and was in the shop for about half of the time I had it. It also had a specific power cord that got lost, and I had to do research to find a resplacement Ugh. It was A Whole Thing.

      kryssi, tell me you hate technology without telling me you hate technology.

      Scene.

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 GPA,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 was embattled 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 discovered 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 attended 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 are the 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. With me. 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 that 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!