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Having recently pulled my 6-year-old out of public school and put her into a small, ruralesque private school (which I can barely afford), I have been quite understandably obsessing over the public education system in this country.

Since I’ve found myself in the unlikely position of putting two children through elementary and possibly secondary school for the next decade and a half, I have every right to vent about the public education system. A system which was supposed to provide my children with a passably decent education, at the low-low cost of FREE for the next 14 years (roughly) of my childrens’ lives.

But I didn’t expect to watch my vibrant, funny, creative and extremely sensitive child gradually turn into a basket case once she started school. It all began last year in kindergarten where the teacher informed me she was the “ring leader” to a bunch of girls, “liked to chat” and had trouble listening. The latter proclamations were reiterated on her report card (I only had one meeting with the kindergarten teacher (from now on referred to as ASSHOLE) because apparently only one meeting is necessary “unless there’s a problem.”) So I cluelessly figured the chatting and poor listening skills were sort of age appropriate considering she was FIVE.

Silly me! Apparently they’re supposed to be reading mid 19th century novels by five and quoting Shakespeare in order to pass some arbitrary test by third grade. I mean, I was eating paste and studying my naval at five, but whatever. So I got a call from ASSHOLE in May (the school year ends in June) who stated that my child, “was the only one who wasn’t getting it.”

ASSHOLE explained that “it” was listening and sitting still and the implications that she had ADD or some other dreaded acronym hung unspoken in the air. Now, I’m not sure why she waited until the end of the year to communicate the issue in this way, and what the fuck constitutes a “problem” if this doesn’t, but then I don’t have a degree in secondary education so who am I to judge? I probably didn’t have PMS when ASSHOLE called because I remember being very nice and very apologetic about the whole thing. I mean, I knew my kid could be annoying and I figured she needed some more time to adjust to the militant atmosphere of public schooling.

First grade brought with it new challenges, including more homework and another clueless teacher who I’ll call ASSHOLE 2. This teacher was nice and all, but she was ineffectual and uncommunicative. As such, I received a pamphlet one day with a permission slip requesting that my child be enrolled in an adjustment program. This was the ONLY communication I’d had with the teacher since the school year started (about six weeks into the start of the year). So naturally I wrote her a note asking her to call me. I won’t go into the details of the program beyond saying that it seemed completely arbitrary based on my child’s academic progress (which was excellent) and it became the catalyst for me to seek educational alternatives.

Yadda Yadda Yadda, we pulled the kid out of first grade and now she’s in a nice artsy fartsy school which she loves. She’s taking Spanish, drama, dance and liberal arts. She has no homework in first grade. She draws pictures of the trees outside the classroom window and is allowed to take her shoes off. Woo freaking hoo, an actual education.

But since this was a big decision requiring my family eat beans out of a can for the next 10 years, I did some research into things like No Child Left Behind – a law that requires all students to reach some uniform level of achievement by 2014 which is measured by annual tests that begin in third grade. What happens if the kids fail the test or the schools score poorly as a whole, you ask? They lose funding and are labeled as “bad” schools or whatnot.

Oh I get it! I can see now why it’s so important for my 5 year old to learn how to read in kindergarten, and only get 30 minutes per WEEK of free time in first grade. That’s a completely realistic expectation for a 6-year-old, right? RIGHT???

I guess I can understand the pressure the teachers are under even in the early grades…sure…and of course the teachers, including ASSHOLE and ASSHOLE 2 are desperate to get kids to sit the fuck down, shut up and study their numbers/letters/words so they’ll pass the damn test and the school will get its damn money. That makes the whole “discipline- through-humility” thing kind of necessary.

What is humilitarian discipline, you ask? Well, in my child’s first grade class the kids were awarded “money” if they behaved and “money” was taken away if they didn’t behave. A running tally of the sit-down-and-shut-up fund was kept on the board for all the students to see. But it wasn’t enough for them to behave, their entire ROW had to behave and if someone in the row was an evil, mean-spirited little urchin who didn’t “shudder” follow rules, then the entire row lost money. At the end of the week, the row with the most money won which apparently entitled them to something. I forget what. I think it may have been to pelt stones and sharp objects at the poor sorry losers who had the least amount of money.

Way to go ASSHOLE 2! You not only succeeded in maintaining order, you succeeded in turning my child into a basket case afraid to speak in public and constantly ashamed of herself and the other children in her row (on the weeks they were losing). On the winning weeks (so few and far between for my talkative child), you managed to make her feel superior and label other children as “bad.” What a great lesson!

So now she’s in private school and, having had some time reflect on this entire experience and having a severe case of PMS, I have to say…

WHAT
THE
FUCK???

Every single parent I’ve spoken to with kids in public school have a similar story, some of them are far worse – particularly for kids in the older grades. Many people don’t have the choice to pull their kids out of what is essentially a hostile situation. Why don’t millions of parents have the choice? Why do millions of kids need to suffer or be medicated to fit into an unrealistic mold? Why don’t we storm the Capitol and take our children back?

Because we don’t all have PMS at the same time. Damn.

This morning I weighed two pounds more than I did yesterday and I really should’ve gotten back into bed then and there. But I suppressed this temptation and got dressed for the gym with no small amount of apprehension, stoically ignoring the running commentary in my head.

(I don’t want to go to the gym..I hate these workout pants…I hate this coffee…I don’t want to eat a healthy breakfast, I want a damn donut…what’s the point of going to the gym when I’m a fat cow anyway?…I hope nobody looks at or talks to me…)

So I went to the gym even with the bad attitude. Apparently it was naked day in the women’s locker room, but only for the fit people. This is not what I needed. They were everywhere – sitting, standing, bending (ugh). One of them was even on the scale. She may as well have been humming to herself as she nudged the little weight thing ever so slowly to the right, “la la la, thinner than you, la la la, I love my ass…”

Who stands on the scale in the women’s locker room…completely NUDE? I mean, it only took me 20 seconds of hostile scrutiny to determine that she weighed 118 pounds. Of course she knew how much she weighed! She was just engaged in naked scale exhibitionism to torment me.

Go buy a damn scale!

(I have a bad attitude. I have a bad attitude. I have a bad attitude)

Somehow I got through the workout without killing anyone (or myself) and managed to avoid Starbucks on the way home which would’ve completely canceled out the minimal exercise I managed to do (it’s six hours later and I still regret that). But my bad attitude didn’t get any better when I got home and realized my phone had been shut off because I didn’t pay the bill last month.

Ooooops.

I dug out the most recent bill which indicated the due date was 9/7/07 (vindicated!), but that I’d completely missed the past due amount from July. Oh. Still, why would the due date be 9/7/07 IF THEY WERE GOING TO SHUT THE FUCKING PHONE OFF BEFORE THEN?

I paid the bill online and called the phone company, silently acknowledging that it probably wasn’t the best time to speak with another human being.

Verizon: Hello ma’am, how may I help you?
Me: Please turn my phone back on.
Verizon: Do you plan to schedule a payment?
Me: I just paid online (eye begins to twitch)
Verizon: Hold on just a moment
Me: Steam (quite literally) begins seeping from my ears
Verizon: Okay, well because your line was deactivated, you will be billed $34 on your next statement to reactivate it
****There is a palpable moment when I can choose to bypass the hormones surging through my brain and be polite. I palpably ignore it****
Me: That’s bullshit!
Verizon: Your phone will be turned on sometime between now and 7 pm
Me: Can you be any LESS specific?
Verizon: (terrified silence)
Me: This is bullshit (yes, I said it twice)
Verizon: Look, ma’am, I can’t give you a specific time or I’d have to give you my name
Me: (not seeing a problem with this) I don’t see a problem with that.
Verizon: Can I help you with anything else, Ma’am?

And so I hung up. Without saying good-bye. If you work for the phone company, I really do apologize.

If I could inject chocolate directly into my veins, I would.

I live in an area filled with winding single lane roads, mountains and rural tranquility which works out really well for me 2.5 weeks out of every month. However, during the middle of the third week, when PMS rolls in like a summer storm (or a bad cliche), it’s just plain annoying.

One-lane roads that are also very windy make it nearly impossible to pass people who like driving s-l-o-w-l-y. Please don’t meander for 30 minutes on a windy country road. Please pull over. Please speed up. Please get out of my way.

When I find myself behind you during this delicate time of the month, I suddenly become Marge Simpson behind the wheel of her humongous Canyonero. Only my car’s not a huge SUV, it’s a not-so-zipply little Toyota that my PMS-addled brain THINKS is a huge SUV.

I don’t tailgate or gun the engine (as if my shrimpy car would intimidate anyone). I mutter to myself and get a slightly psychotic glare of rage in my eyes and suddenly I’m screaming:

DRIVE, FUCKER, DRIVE!!!

No, that doesn’t make me feel better. And no, my kids aren’t in the car when I lose it (usually). But that’s PMS for you. Screaming like that of course gives me a headache which can only be cured by popping four Motrin , washing them down with a Cafe Mocha and eating a large piece of cheesecake. There is absolutely no logic to the above reaction. I’m normally a very defensive driver.

This post and this post are what I get for letting a man contribute to this blog. Still, it’s good to have a different perspective on PMS, I suppose. But it’s not like he didn’t expect some kind of retaliatory response, right? So without further ado…

First thing’s first….Entrapment, my ASS! But let me please address your issues more succinctly, PMS  Victim.

“For me, it’s not just one week a month, it’s two. The first week she’s an emotional wreck and the 2nd week the she-bitch comes to a head. What in the hell happened to the woman I first started dating? I swear she never had periods then. In fact, I’m rather sure all the girlfriends I had before my wife never had periods either – is this some evil trick to dupe us men?”

Guess what, this is the same woman you started dating all those years ago. PMS is not a deep dark secret – however, it’s very different living with someone who has PMS than it is dating someone with PMS (I imagine). If we went around moaning and clutching our aching breasts all the time, then we’d get nothing done (and neither would you). So, no, it’s not an evil trick – it’s called having a high tolerance for pain. Consider the fact that she lets her guard down enough to show you she’s uncomfortable a compliment.

“But wait, I understand that once a month she’s going to cry uncontrollably at commercials and very soon after that she’s going to bite my head off for something that I do every day.”

You’re probably more consistently annoying than you realize. PMS doesn’t cause annoyance – it just removes some of the layers of patience that protects you from our rage on a regular basis. I’m going to resist giving any marital advice here…moving on…

“I understand women get cranky and pissy as they bleed out every month, I understand that woman go through this excrutiating thing called child birth and I understand that you have to have cold pieces of metal jammed up there and your boobs squished in some hideous machine at least once a year. What I don’t understand is how you (women) hide it until we’re trapped in a legally binding document.”

I think what’s actually happening is that you are completely oblivious to a woman’s discomfort until you’re forced to deal with it, which kind of has to happen when you marry someone.

I mean, I understand that when men get kicked in the balls it’s really painful, but I never realized just how bad it was until I witnessed it firsthand and the poor schmuck doubled over and turned purple. Who knew?

The other day, I was feeling PMS’s gentle onslaught knocking at my uterus door.  I purchased fresh flowers, a bottle of champagne, and a cheesecake covered in chocolate icing.  Because there’s only myself left to get romantical with, and now that I’m single again, well, hell, I can eat shit like chocolate-icing covered cheesecake.

 Jealous?  I know you are.  Give the elliptical a nice fondle for me, will ya?

In my opinion every cheesecake should be labled “Cheesecake for One”, in a nice, friendly font, like a 26-pt. Comic Sans MS, with a smiley face next to it.  I’m just sayin’.

For the record, I would just like to add at this present juncture in time, that I shared one piece of my cheesecake with my no-child-support-paying Baby Daddy.  Sort of as an apology for the previous week of rage.  But just one piece, ’cause I may be a bitch, but I ain’t crazy.

So now I’m sitting here at my desk, working away, and realize it’s getting close to lunchtime.  By “getting close”, I mean “11:30am”, and by “lunchtime” I mean, well, how much have you been paying attention, really?

So there was 2/3rds of a cake in the fridge yesterday, and around midnight, I started feeling a little sorry for myself.  “I can’t eat an entire cheesecake”, I sensibly reasoned with myself.

So I didn’t.  I just had a little piece.

And then I ate all the icing.

And through the wonders of time-lapse photography, here it is, approximately three seconds after this post.

Lunch over.

Don’t be a hater.