The little things

She delights in the little things during her brief respite

Between academic courses and arduous hours of work

 

Like cream dispersing into coffee, swirling, marbled

And letting her body wake, not to the sound of an alarm

 

Folding laundry, warm and heady from the dryer

Late night interludes with her loud mouth cat

 

Fixing dinner for herself, crafting, creating and dining

The quiet laughter of a group of friends, together and apart

 

She loves the feeling of her extended showers,  steamed perfection

And the pages of silken books that slip through her fingers

 

There’s the tender kiss of her boyfriend’s mouth to her’s

As well as his sleeping search for her, to cuddle, to hold

 

She delights in the little things during her brief respite

Between academic courses and arduous hours of work

642 Things to Write About: 3

Prompt: Everyone was laughing, except you.

I hate that feeling. That horrible, sick curling feeling the bottom layer of your stomach.  That feeling you get when your cheeks turn from their normal ivory to that deep, embarrassed red.  The kind of red that turns certain spots of your face splotchy and even makes your ears go red.  Your fists shake, finger nails biting into palms to keep yourself calm, to keep yourself from lashing out.  It’s that feeling where you know that you’re the butt of the joke.  The punchline.  The effervescent hilarity, that laughter that surrounds you is because of you.  And no, they aren’t laughing with you.  Rather, they are laughing at you.

It’s a more frequent occurrence that not to be the of the joke for me.  I’m somewhat funny, but the jokes that she keeps throwing around are distinctly un-funny.  They are hurtful and while everyone else laughs at my expense, I sit there with a tense smile on my face.  They are drunk and I am not.  This shouldn’t be an excuse, but my brain is desperate to keep a tight leash on my ever dying control.  I am normally the butt of one joke or another.  The reasoning behind the jokes are simply my own features.

I’m a klutz.

I’m blonde (and therefore less intelligent than everyone else in the room).

I’m short.

I’m kind of a sexual deviant.

I don’t drink much, if at all.

I have an obsession with books and literature.

I’m somewhat messy.

I have a real problem with anger and holding grudges (especially against ex boyfriend).

I’m a serious band geek.

While I believe all these traits to be normal, admirable, or simply who I am, others are not so kind.  One of my roommates, the bully of the group, continues to make blonde jokes, a few of our friends chiming in.  The jokes turn into sexual based ones and then she lashes out at my problems with my ex boyfriend.  I sit there and just breathe, holding on tightly to my control.  It is a losing battle.  If I don’t do something soon, I am guaranteed to blow up at some one in this room.  There is a part of me that would like nothing better than to do just that, now is not the time or place.  If I am to exact any form of retaliation, revenge, or similar ideas, I’d prefer my house to be completely sober before I do anything malicious.

Instead of screaming and calling them every nasty name I can think of, I stand up and tell everyone I’m going for a walk.  I’m desperately in some fresh air.  One of my roommates, whom has just appeared from her own room, agrees to accompany me.  With  a casual wave, I go to stand outside.  It’s cold, biting cold.  I’m glad to be wearing my winter coat and boots.  Tugging the hair tie from my wrist, I wrap my blonde hair into a bun, keeping the strands out of my eyes.  the cold does little to calm me down, but it does seem to make my anger settle into a stasis.  When my one roommate joins me, I hear fleeting jokes at my expense through the doorway.

“What the fuck is that girl’s problem?  Just cause she’s a blonde nympho doesn’t mean she has to be a bitch too!”

“She’s just a drama queen.  She’s probably doesn’t have enough brain cells underneath all that hair to really be too angry.”

“She just needs to get laid!”

The laughter is raucous and it hits me like a knife.  My roommate with the red hair joins me and she hands me a pack of TNT poppers.  These are my own brand of anger management.  We walk a ways around the parking lot until we are far enough away from my building to yell.  I swear like a sailor and start my war path.  She listens and we throw poppers on the ground intermittently.  The fire and the smoke blaze up and put themselves out in an instant.  It’s a release of some form.  I complain for the better part of an hour while my roommate listens and comments.  I’m not sure how many loops we’ve made around the building adn the parking lots near by, but it’s approaching one in the morning when we return.  The apartment seems quieter and I am feeling better.

Walking in, I hear the muted sounds of alcoholic puking.  I smile.

I wonder who has the last laugh now?

A Wonderful Thing about Teaching

I don’t believe I have mentioned this yet, but I am an education major.  Specifically an elementary education major.  This semester I have been doing my observations in a pre school not too terribly far away from me.

Let me get something straight very quickly.  I love kids.  I love teaching them, babysitting the, just being around them.  They are the most amazing creatures on this planet.  I adore them.  I think they are so wonderful.

I am teaching nine pre schoolers.  They are between three and four years of age and possibly the sweetest creatures.  Today we had our Thanksgiving feast.  My class was dressed up as the Pilgrims while the other class were the Native Americans.  We sat down to the feast and saw that a little boy was crying.

This little boy was crying because he has a social anxiety and a food anxiety.  He felt scared and concerned and very frightened.  I went to sit down next to him with a cookie and talked to him about snow men and turkeys.  I helped him stop crying and smile.  He gave me his Pilgrim hat and I sneezed, making it fall off my head.  While I ate, it made him calm enough to eat with me.  He ate his sandwich and the candy corn.  I felt so wonderful.  I felt like I really helped him.  One of the other teachers commented that they were going to have to clone me for this little boy.  They think he’s going to be lost without me.  I couldn’t have been more honored.

This is why I love kids.  I want to help them.  I want to teach them.