Bless me Father,

For I have sinned.

Sometimes I make things up. Not in a bad way. But, I’m a teacher, you see, and a little poetic licence sometime goes a long way to get to the point of a moral. So, I have lied, more than a few times. In my defence, the kids don’t know this. I get to the point and they get the message. I call that a win/win. Don’t you?

I have also cursed. A lot. But so does everyone else in the staffroom. Otherwise, how could we cope with some of the traumas we learn about? So, excuse me, please, on that one. We were all at it. (Pointing, rather pointedly.)

Father, I have also lost the plot a few times and went ballistic with my own kids. But I think you would have too. I mean, how do I keep the head with some of their insignificant complaints after what I see and hear during the day?  I know that’s no excuse because it’s not their fault that some kids have shitty parents. I want to tell them how lucky they are but I don’t want to see them cry. So, sometimes, I lose it. I’m trying my best. Really, I am.

I also sometimes swear and curse just for the hell of it. You’ve heard me. I know I’m not shocking you.

Fuckety. Fuckety, bastardy, shitty, God-awful parents that don’t deserve kids sort of swearing.

I really, really try not to do this ‘cos I don’t know where those parents are coming from. God knows, (that would be you) all what sorts of shit they’ve had to deal with.

But, God forgive me, I still want to batter their faces in.

I mean, I really want to knock ten bells out of them. And I know this is not fair because I don’t know all what sorts of traumas they’ve come through.

Yadda, yadda,yadda.

I still want to stand up to them and really get in their faces and …well, you probably know what limbs  I want to rip off, so there’s no need to go there.

Father, I don’t for want for me to be a violent psychopath with reasons that could be justified in court.

Please help me to either not give a shit about these kids. Or, at the very least, to recognise that,sometimes, I will find myself breaking every commandment in my head. But I won’t act on them and you’ll forgive me for the thought, I hope. I promise I won’t castrate every person that dares to abuse a child.

I’ll think about it, though. Is that a sin?

P.S. If you could see your way to us winning the lottery a lot of the above could be avoided. At least, by me.x Kisses and cuddles. xxxx



Is that even a word? Of course it is. I checked it. You don’t seriously think I would use a word that was made up by me?


I paraphrase.

One who finds it difficult to get to the point without describing everything.


I met a woman down the street today who was pushing a pram. It was a lovely pram; full of beautiful colours and challenging activities for her offspring.

OK. Maybe not that, exactly. But you get the idea.

For some reason, my husband is not interested in the particulars of a case but insists on knowing the point immediately. As in, ‘What’s the point to this story?’

It pisses me off big time.

OK. I’ve got a boring story to tell. Please let me embellish it so that it sounds as if I have a life.   

Is this a man thing?

Or, maybe, ‘Oh God, I’m boring the arse off the world,’ kinda thing?’

Most women I know like to embellish the finer points of a story and do so in an entertaining and self-effacing sort of way.

They make the boring sound entertaining because they observe the details.

Unfortunately, a lot of men do not appreciate the finer details.

‘Get to the bloody point, woman,’ is what they’re really thinking.

I am horrified at this idea. The very notion that a story worth telling is stunted in its prime.

Except for one teensy, tinsy observation.

I have listened to and continue to listen to, ‘stories from school’, and, let’s face it, if there was ever anything created that was destined to drive you to distraction and bore you to death is the story of, ‘She said’, ‘I said’, ‘She did’ and ‘I did back’.

That aside, you can usually pass muster with your kids. ‘Oh, did she? That’s awful. What did you say?’

Slightly different story going on here with your nearest and dearest.

So, OK, darling , I’m sorry that the point of all my stories is lost in the minutiae. But, I’ve been here all day wiping the crap off of shitty knickers and trying to come up with a menu that suits everyone, so forgive me if I can’t just ‘get to the friggin’ point’. I’m trying to have a conversation here.  Made up, for your information, of all the drips that go into making the drops of life. I beg your pardon for not holding your attention in some riveting account of the day in the life of….. well, you get the idea.

I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

This, by the way, is a very profound observation.

I repeat, I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

As opposed to?

Sometimes, I don’t know.

Advice For an Old Fart

OK. It doesn’t happen often, especially now that my mum has gone. But occasionally, and I do mean occasionally, I am forced to turn to others to ask for advice.

I don’t like it. I’m not a good asker of anything.

I seem to have been born with a gene that does not mind giving but I don’t really like asking.

This is not a good thing.

Not at all.

No, no, no.

And I’ll tell you for why, if you’ll bear with me. (Hold on. Bear? Bare? Brrr?)


Here’s why not asking for help is not a good thing.

This could get complicated.

I’m just warning you.

If you like giving help there is the suggestion that you get a buzz from that. OK. I can deal with that. I like giving help.

If you don’t like asking for help, you want to be independent and self-sufficient and crap like that. Yup. That’s me.


Big problem.

Apparently, my inability to ask for help from those I give help to leaves them feeling like shit.

Now, no matter what my hang-ups are, and I have a few, never is it my intention to make anyone feel like crap. (Sorry, Opinionated Man. I like your style and your writing and your honesty but I’m not big on the whole, ‘please look in the mirror’ thing. No, that’s not true. I just don’t want to be the one to say, ‘Please look in the mirror.’ God, I’m so weak! I’m obviously looking for approbation and have no wish to directly offend anyone.)

Ho hum.

The point is, and I do eventually get there, is that my inability to ASK FOR HELP from the people I give help to leaves them feeling like a taker with no opportunity to be a giver.

Now that sucks.

If I like giving, for whatever dark and mysterious reasons I have not completely analysed, and enjoy doing so, why then do I continually deny others the opportunity to experience the same buzz?

I’ve been told this by people dear to me.

They’ve said things like, ‘You’re a shit. Why won’t you let me help?’

And sometimes they’ve just said, ‘You’re a shit,’ with no further explanation. Not good. Not good, at all.

(No wonder I liked that guy’s post. Insert

((And I’m truly sorry (no, I’m not) for reblogging this post once again. This man is a genius with words. I bow to his knowledge and ability. But, I’m sorry, I can’t help it. THIS post takes the biscuit. I really, really want it out there.))

Back to present.

Asking can be a good thing. Other people get to inflate their egos as much as you. Did I mean to say that?

Geez, I need a psychologist.

OK. Back to point.

I’m really enjoying this whole blogging thing I’ve got going on here. Reading posts, having people read mine, reading more posts, having people read mine. Having people read mine.

(How much approbation do I need? Anyone got a good psychologist’s number?)

My God, it does take me ages to get to the point.

No wonder my brother goes ape-shit on me when I’m talking.

Do I come out of the closet?

I have not yet connected any of my posts to the big, bad external world outwith WordPress. And, if the truth be known. I’m kacking it. (That’s shitting it, for those who don’t know.)

I like the anonymity. I’ve never been this verbose except when I’m pissed or with people who know me so well I can’t hide it.

I’m enjoying ranting away with all these lovely people. You’re all very positive, btw, I really appreciate that. (Fucking approbation again. I’m going to kick his head in if I find him.)

So, stay private and enjoy?

Go public and mortify myself and my children and, quite possibly, my husband?

I love them all to bits and back. But, I just don’t know.

I’ll give you an example. (There’s no shutting me up once I get started. Ask anyone who knows me.)

My eldest son asked me today what exactly I found to blog about. Now, for a young man who has xillion people on facebook I find that a strange question. If I were asking this of myself, it would make perfect sense.

I told him I was blogging about him and all his disgusting habits. It was a lie. Well, nearly. (Watch this space).

A few weeks ago I asked him if he would like to come camping with me and the rest of the crew.

His response?

‘I can’t think of anything I would hate more than sharing a tent with you lot. Except maybe  (having my testicles removed)’ The words in parenthesis are to prevent me from quoting my darling eldest son directly who actually said something somewhat less acceptable. It did involve balls but we weren’t playing tennis here.

So, you see, my decision to ‘come out of the closet’, as it were, reflects on so many more people than myself.

What do I do?

Sorry. I have to insert this here. The myriad ways our minds work!!!!

So, to cut a long story even longer. What would you do?

Can’t Resist It.


Teachers’ hefty salaries are driving up taxes, and they only work 9 or 10 months a year!

 It’s time we put things in perspective and pay them for what they do – babysit! We can get that for minimum wage. That’s right.

Let’s give them $3.00 an hour and only the hours they worked; not any of that silly planning time, or any time they spend before or after school.

That …would be $19.50 a day (7:45 to……… 3:00 PM with 45 min. off for lunch and plan– that equals 6 1/2 hours).

Each parent should pay $19.50 a day for these teachers to baby-sit their children. Now how many students do they teach in a day…maybe 30? So that’s $19.50 x 30 = $585.00 a day.

However, remember they only work 180 days a year!!! I am not going to pay them for any vacations. LET’S SEE…. That’s $585 X 180= $105,300 per year.

(Hold on! My calculator needs new batteries).

What about those special education teachers and the ones with Master’s degrees? Well, we could pay them minimum wage ($7.75), and just to be fair, round it off to $8.00 an hour. That would be $8 X 6 1/2 hours X 30 children X 180 days = $280,800 per year.

Wait a minute — there’s something wrong here! There sure is!

The average teacher’s salary (nation wide) is $50,000. $50,000/180 days = $277.77/per day/30 students=$9.25/6.5 hours = $1.42 per hour per student–a very inexpensive baby-sitter and they even EDUCATE your kids!) WHAT A DEAL!!!!

Heaven forbid we take into account highly qualified teachers or NCLB…

Make a teacher smile; re-post this to show appreciation, all you out there!


I’ve no idea how that all equates in the UK. Haven’t worked it out yet. But I will.

But before you say, ‘Bloody teachers and their holidays,’ maybe just think about it.

Just sayin’.x

Go Bette!!!!!!!