The Budding Optimist

Recently, Dr. B gave me a stern talking-to. He told me I need to drink less wine because it messes with my nervous system, which is already hyper-susceptible to anxiety and depression. He told me to try pot instead. "Never let it be said that Dr. B is a prude," said my Mr. Rogers-esque psychiatrist. Now that marijuana is legal, I should not have been afraid to visit a dispensary. However, my boss lost his job last year because of a compromising photo concerning him and a whole lotta buds, so I was not taking any chances. First, I asked Cara, who loves not only marijuana but all substances in general. She was busy with baseball games. Then I asked Georgia, who was way more of a badass than me in elementary school, and who must therefore, it should stand to reason, still be more of a badass and get me some drugs. She was busy with her flea-market business, though. On the plus side, she gave me this cool Babs record! Then I asked my sister Dragonfly, aka Lily, who dropped out of

I've been living in denial about my immediate future. Rather than using the summer to prep for teaching 7th grade, I've been hoping that something else will open up last minute in, say, Greece, and I will be able to leave 7th grade 4,000 miles behind me and relocate to a place that has no 7th grade. Or that at least I'd be on Corfu teaching 7th grade. The curriculum where I'm supposed to teach is...confounding. I told Stella I don't know what I'm teaching. Since she works in Clayton and is the best teacher I know, I trusted her to tell me where to start and then kick my ass into gear. Stella opened her computer, spent 7 minutes examining the curriculum published for my district, then slammed the computer shut and said, "Yeah, good luck with that; that's a mess. Sorry, T." So I refuse to look. I refuse to check my school email. I refuse to set up my classroom. I refuse to remove "high school English" from my signature or update my LinkedIn