Hit the shit on my to-do list.  Left work early and blew off the afterwork, informal meeting at a local bar. 

We got to find out how my ultra-Republican governor has made adjustments to my "lavish" benefits package.  The teacher in the room next to mine has been teaching for 34 years.  She can't afford to retire.  She's got a boy in highschool.  The health insurance for them both would cost almost half her pension check.  That doesn't sound very fucking lavish.  I already know my class sizes are going to be around 40 next year.  Woo-hoo, 40 sixth graders all hitting puberty simultaneously in my classroom.  I can't wait.  Hiring freeze, layoffs, I lose my stipend for an advanced degree, I don't get my salary increase for taking professional development, but I still have to pay for the classes out of my pocket to keep my certification. 

I'm trying to figure out what kind of place I could afford to live in.  It's not good.  I've got an 80 pound dog.  There's going to be a problem there.  I don't understand why everybody doesn't want to be a teacher.  It's totally fucking worth it.  I took as many science courses as I'd need for an Engineering degree and I'd already taken Calculus.  I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. 

"Yeah, I'll help out thousands of kids.  What could be better than that?"

Getting paid, fucktard.

I'm fucking exhausted.  Everything I do makes me tired.  I'm apparently using a good deal of my chemical energy regrowing shit.  I'm too fucking stressed out to eat much.  My activity level is super low, too.  I feel fucking terrible.

I drove 50 miles to my job. 

I picked up my "Here's how you're fucked at your job now and how we're screwing you on your benefits" package.

I printed out my grades.  I talked to my boss.  I hooked up with my substitute and talked about next week's planning.  I pulled my daughter out of her last class and left early.

I drove 50 miles home.

I dropped my daughter off at my house.  We ate.  We talked.

I left my daughter at home and drove to pick up my son.  Normally, my daughter and I walk the dog up there.  It's less than three miles round trip.  My young one only has to walk the one way.  It's a nice walk.  We're right along the desert.

I made noodles for my son.  I talked to my father about my wife on the phone for a little while. 

I took the kids out to the movies.  We saw Rango.  It was good.  I have to put on a facade for the kids.  I can't sit there watching the film with a 1,000 yard stare.  Have to laugh.  The kids loved it.  The animation was amazing.  During the film, I couldn't concentrate.  While I was thinking about my situation, I realized a terrible secret.

Why does my wife think she's going to be fucking party girl?  She'll be a 40 year old single mom with two kids and a full time job.  That's pretty much a fucking impediment to being party girl.  I think she plans on moving in with my mother-in-law.  My fucking mother-in-law is going to raise my fucking kids while my wife pretends she's in college again, sowing wild oats.  My mother-in-law would totally go for it too. 

I am fucking shitting my pants for the last 40 minutes of the film.

This is all speculation, but I'm pretty fucking smart.  I'm good at puzzles.  If I were a betting man (and I am) I'd put money on this scenario.

The kids and I stopped at the store and picked up ingredients for hot fudge sundaes on the way home from the film.  The weird, devil cherries.  Real whipped cream (I'm totally going to huff the can later).  Assorted sprinkles.  Real hot fudge.

The secret to a good hot fudge sundae is to put the fudge in the bowl and microwave it until it's slightly fluid.  Use a spoon to spread it around on the bottom of the bowl.  After it cools slightly, then spoon in your ice cream.  This keeps your fudge from clumping, melting your ice cream too much, and allows you to more easily control how much fudge you get in every spoonfull.

Now, I'm fucking exhausted.  Kids are in bed.  I had a good night with them.  Everything, of course, was tainted by the fact that the entire time, my wife is being a Dancing Queen.

Maybe I'll go out next weekend while she watches the kids.  I'll go to a gay bar.  I'll wear my wedding ring.  I'll tell people that I'm going to get divorced, have had it with women, but can't hook up yet because I'm not officially divorced.  I'll get all the attention in the world.  I'll get free booze and coke.  I'll throw up in the bathroom, pee, have to throw out my underwear, and then text my wife to come get my ass at 4:00 am.