not here to help, only to observe and pass judgment

I have lived here three years. I no longer wake up for my car alarm, fire and police sirens, or the domestic disputes of my neighbors. The faucet in the kitchen drips, that keeps me up all night.

The nadir of my insomnia seems to be agreeing to things, perhaps in an effort to trade ridiculous favors for sleep. Most recently, I agreed, after negotiation, that I would get hair extensions that appear to be a mullet if my sister wins the lottery in exchange for half of the winnings. She wanted me to grow the mullet, but I think it would be funnier if I got a weave and I cannot imagine any circumstances where I would actually expend the effort to grow my hair long enough to have it then shaped into a mullet, however if I get the job in Kentucky but not the job in Texas I may grow a mullet and call it ‘being incognito.’ I could never grow a mullet in Stepford, there is a city ordinance against them and my barber cuts your mullet if you want her to or not, my hair looks terrible but I go to her because I support her humanitarian efforts.

More alarming than my fixation on mullets is that people still grow them. Mullet hunting is what got my father, sister and I through our latest trip antiquing with mom when my parents came to visit. My sister called it the highlight of our vacation – we caught a mullet that was longer than she is tall. Someone spent her entire adult life cultivating a tacky hairstyle.

When I was in college I had a boss who had a mullet almost like that, but she cut it off and gave it to locks of love. I am actually annoyed that I was not written up for asking if the hair was made into a mullet wig. I thought it was a reasonable question and completely out of line. It is probably metaphysically impossible for that hair not to reform into a mullet. No matter what you did to that hair, it would reform into a mullet and I imagine that it is even now working its way back to her to reattach itself to her head.

I also like to imagine that someone built an altar out of stone and cut the mullet off with a bronze knife not unlike how Abraham was supposed to sacrifice Isaac in the Old Testament. In my imagination someone with nice hair was about to have it shorn off when the hairdresser heard Wendy’s screams of anguish having gotten caught in a bramble, sparing the person with beautiful hair and at the same time bestowing a wig upon some unfortunate child.

Other things I have agreed to include going rafting down the Colorado River and cliff diving in Mexico. Peter pointed out that I am impervious to peer pressure, I do nothing I would not already do on my own: I just look for backup from Jeremy and do what he does – because two boys are dumber than one – even at this late age. We will be in our eighties rolling around in wheelchairs finding something dangerous to do. We will live that long: we are too stupid to die.

I just hope that when I do jump off that cliff, two summers from now, my hair extended mullet is not caught in a branch, causing me to slam into the rocks and not the water.

In Church today we were supposed to write down our sins and burdens and nail them to the cross before the slamming of the book signifying Christ’s death.

It was really difficult. It was really difficult to do because they gave me such a small piece of paper. I was tempted to nail my laptop to the cross. It was also difficult not to peek at what the person sitting next to me had written down. He leaned over and whispered, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” I let him see mine. I had written down, veritas vos liberabit, or the truth will set you free. I did not look at his, God knows I wanted to, but I felt dishonest as I felt this exercise was unnecessary and had not actually written down my sins or burdens. God knows.

We went up to nail them at our leisure. I went up to nail my paper to the cross – it was one thing to not write your sins down but it was another to note go up at all – and when I came back, I noticed that he had written his sins resting on his worship folder. You could have done a rubbing of his sins on another sheet of paper. That was tough, I am nosey, but it would have been too dishonest, even for me.

Chaos Bean, however, is still in church trying to squeeze it all on one piece of paper.

This is Holy Week, the A+ Christians are watching, “The Passion of the Christ” while us C- Christians enjoy, “Jesus Christ, Superstar.” Actually, Chaos and I only have a CD of the motion picture soundtrack but that is just as well. We are so lazy right now that it is too difficult for us to sit down and watch a movie.

I would like to say that I have been working my tail off, and I have, I have been throwing myself into my teaching, graduate school, and even my part-time job. A parent wants me fired at school, with a laundry list of personal complaints that do not address my job performance and point to no tangible malfeasance – an example of which is that I match my socks to my sweater vests. That is moral turpitude of the lowest form if I have ever seen it. The other parents are in my corner, I am not worried for my job: this is just an annoying waste of everyone’s time.

I did not just call a girl in my graduate class, “stupid,” and “lazy” but I called her “retarded.” This is a bad thing to say, terrible when you are a teacher and the absolute worst when you are a special education teacher in a room full of your peers. How dare I bring the retarded down by equating them with my classmate? I always forget to say “graduate class’ and keep giving people the impression I said that to a child. If you are not appalled enough please note the class is a theology one and our current unit is how Christians interact with one another.

My Great Grandmother adjusted my attitude: she would me back up (tight) and set me back on the straight and narrow (minded). She is dying, and while I am okay with this, you are not. Whoa unto you: once she goes humanity has lost the only sure check on my mouth and capacity for meanness. I will not go all Israelite when she dies, I would never tear my clothes or sit in ashes, even for her but I do fear life without a physical conscience and someone in my family who believes in me and trusts in my abilities.

At my part-time job, I am not only paid better than I am for teaching, but I am also employee of the month. I am going to wear my plaque heralding my status around my neck like Flava Flave at my places of employment where I am not appreciated.

Today, I asked my boss not to sneak up on me when I was only pretending to work. I also found our new school uniform. My supervisor at my second job’s husband came in wearing a shirt that read, “Please don’t interrupt me when I’m ignoring you.”