Happy/Merry Chris-makkah

I am positive about two things during the month of December:  there are way too many holidays and everything at every store is always 50% off the day after Christmas.  But let’s face it, the second one is much more important to me than figuring out what the hell myrrh is used for.   

Okay, seriously, here’s the short list of December holidays: Besides Christmas there is Kwanzaa, Festivus, The Hopi Soyaluna Ceremony, The Winter Solstice (which includes the Halcyon Days) (natural highs only please), Yalda, Holy Innocents Day, Boxing Day, and believe it or not National Chocolate Day.  Seriously, I did not make that last one up.  I personally celebrate that one about once a month…

I really don’t know that much about Kwanzaa but it seems to be similar to Hanukkah.  They have something that resembles a menorah and that’s all I know.  I have several students from Africa so I should probably learn about it.   Festivus was created by Jerry Seinfeld and I am sure his wife just steams cauliflower and hides it in their children’s food to celebrate the day.  The Winter Solstice has something to do with Stonehenge and Boxing Day is literally about boxes that were used to hold presents from Christmas that were filled up with charitable things to give to the poor so it’s basically a glorified re-gifting day.  Yalda is the celebrations of the birth of Mithra, the Persian Sun god and has something to do with pomegranates.  Why the people who make POM haven’t picked up on this holiday for a marketing campaign is beyond me.  And then, there is Hanukkah or Chanukkah.  The spelling varies but the story is about this cool guy named Judah and his brothers the Maccabees who held off the Syrians or the Lybians or some middle eastern sect who hated the Israelites and then there was a miracle with the oil and it lit the lights of the temple for eight days.  Or something like that.  It’s been a few years since I went to Saturday School.

Let’s face it, if it ain’t Christmas it is barely accepted in this country.  I don’t care how liberal, how democratic or how I-believe-the-whole-world-should-be-treated-equally you are.  Christmas rules and all of the other holidays drool. 

Sometimes this totally sucks.  For example, try being the only Jewish family in New Hope, Minnesota during the month of December.  There were no other Jews for miles and my parents were from The Bronx.  They had a totally different accent and had no freakin clue what a “hotdish” was.  The whole city drank “pop” while my parents drank “soda”.  It was a challenge for all of us.  However, I have to say having that half New York/half Minnesota upbringing worked out well (now that I can look back on it with a sense of humor and lots of therapy) and probably made me more interesting than the average Minnesotan.  Or the average bear, for that matter.

During the month of December, being the only Jewish students in our school, it came down to my sister and me to explain the story of Haanukkah or Chaanukkah to our peers.  There was no Google back then.  It all came from Saturday school for us which meant we actually had to listen to what our Saturday school teachers were saying.  Plus, we actually had to remember what they told us.  Seriously, that was just too much pressure.   Of course teaching the kids in my class to play dreidel was like teaching them to play craps.  They loved it.  I was like the Hanuukah or Chanuukah Bookie to some of them.  I really should have charged more than just chocolate coins...

Anyway, being the only Jewish family was confusing during this time of year for several reasons. Number one:  Hanukahh or Chanukahh was always being referred to as “the Jewish Christmas”.  This was as offensive as the phrase, “Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”  (I often respond to that phrase with “Funny, you don’t look ignorant.”)   It’s just that Haanukah or Chaanukah is so NOT the Jewish Christmas.  It’s about a miracle of light not a miracle of a baby without sex.  I used to love to remind my peers how Jesus was actually a Jew first before he became Christian.  Sometimes there was nothing more fun than going to my friends’ bible study classes and making sure I brought that up during the class.  I always loved the look of the Sunday school teacher who usually stood there perplexed and not knowing quite how to respond to that.   Bad little Jewish girl…

Number two:  Telling the sweet little Levine girls that only good Christian kids received presents on Christmas from Santa was like, the meanest thing you could possibly do to a kid.  Wasn’t I good?  Hadn’t I been good all year?  I mean, before I was a rebellious teenager who thought Madonna was the role model I should follow.  When I was five or six years old all I wanted was a tree that was all sparkly and pretty and a red felt stocking with presents in it.  Jeepers, I was a good kid.  Didn’t Santa like Jewish kids?  What was his problem anyway? 

Ya see, at five, we didn’t equate religion with Santa.  I knew I was a different religion from all of my school chums, but was I really so different?  Seriously!  Good kid here!  I didn’t understand any of it.  Was Santa just mean or did he not know there were Jewish kids who believed in him too?  I decided to take matters into my own hands and write Santa a letter one year and tell him this.  I told my mom afterwards what I had done and she pretty much had no choice but to make sure my heart wouldn’t be broken.   So, being the emotionally supportive parents that they were, they opted for “holiday stockings” for Christmas morning.  We put out cookies and milk the night before and of course a few carrots for the reindeer.  Every year I told my parents I could see reindeer tracks in the snow.  And even though we didn’t even have a chimney, I believed in my heart that Santa knew I was a good kid who just wanted a few toys and like, a Pez dispenser in the shape of a snowman.  This made me happy and validated the way only a fat, white-haired, red-suited man could do.  I have wondered since if it made my parents uncomfortable…hmmm…ah, who cares, there was Pez.

The irony of the two holidays was the myth of the Jewish kids collecting eight presents for the eight nights of Haannuukkaah or Chaannuukkaahh when really, we got like, two really cool presents the first two nights and then socks and jammies and school supplies for the last six nights.  Yep, nothing says a present like Wonder Woman underwear. 

The sparkly and pretty tree was not going to happen in our house, no matter how much I wanted one.  Luckily, when I was in high school, my friend Chris let me come over and decorate her family’s Christmas tree.  I was in Jewish girl heaven.  They let me put on almost all of the ornaments and string the lights.  I can still hear the Carpenters’ singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.  It was the 1980’s so back then I wore really huge earrings (usually one at a time) and I remember I was wearing this silly red Transformer earring that was huge so we hung it on the tree as a joke.  Apparently, to this day they still hang it on their tree every year.  Thank goodness for Facebook or I would never have known they still did that.  Ah, technology.

Today, my kids are half Jewish and half um, not-Jewish.  So we have half of a tree decorated in blue and white (Hanukahh or Chanukahh colors) with little white lights.  We name him Toby the Hannamas Tree every year and we have our Menorah right next to the tree.  Of course not too close because that would be a fire hazard.

I am still optimistically confused this December.  I am still unclear on the Kwanzaa origins, the connection between the Winter Solstice and global warming and have no idea how Santa fits in with Jesus (the whole bunnies and Jesus rising from his grave on Easter baffles me as well).  I do know that there is magic in all of the holidays.  I see it in my children’s faces and not just when they open their presents either.  I have Santa on Facebook and as much as I like to threaten them with Santa (“eat the damn broccoli or I’m I.M.ing Santa”) having them read Mr and Mrs Claus’s status updates is a wonderful way to start our mornings. They count down the days, draw pictures and sing songs and I sing right along with them because I still like to believe in the magic of the holidays.  Christmas or Hanukah or Chanukah who cares, it's all about family and wonderment.  Being rich in friends and not in gifts.  Seriously, do you know one person who can watch It's a Wonderful Life without tearing up?  Unless of course it's the colorized version.

My kids will be with their dad on Christmas so I will be celebrating the traditional Jewish Christmas which involves a day of movies followed by Chinese food.  Ask any Jew and they will probably tell you the same thing.

Happy Holidays.

A Gosling Thanksgiving

First off, may I just say, Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and hope the Native American people of this country don’t hate the white people too much today.  I have been trying to gently explain the actual history of Thanksgiving to Max and how sometimes the Pilgrims weren’t very nice to the people already living here and how Columbus didn’t “discover” anything.  That one cannot discover a place that already has people living in it.  That would be like me saying that I discovered Starbucks or Loehmans.  He smiled and nodded but walked back to the kitchen to finish decorating cookies.  I am on my mini-vacation so should stop trying to have these little “teachable moments”.  It must suck sometimes to be a teacher’s kid.

My kids are just happy we are decorating Thanksgiving cookies so the civics lesson will have to wait, I guess.  They are having a blast decorating the cookies.  Ya know, traditional Thanksgiving cookie shapes:  Turkeys, maple leaves and dolphins.  Yep.  Nothing says Thanksgiving quite like aquatic mammals.  I actually made blue icing for them.  The boys have decided the turkeys should be rainbow colored.  Because of that request, my hands are now rainbow colored as well.  My thumbs are a lovely shade of pink.  But I love cooking on Thanksgiving, so I’m not complaining.  I love making everything from scratch.  I love roasting pumpkins for my pumpkin pie just so I can say that I roasted pumpkins for my pumpkin pie.  I am actually only making two desserts this year which was a difficult decision to concede to but there will be only nine people at my house this year and I know my boys will only be eating the blue dolphin cookies.  They probably won’t even touch the pretty maple leaves, iced in a lovely shade of light orange.  Which is also the color of my pinkie. 

I do love Thanksgiving for the idea of taking a little time out to be grateful for all of the stuff you have in your life.  That and taking time out for binge eating an entire meal made with butter.  I try diligently to not invite vegans.  Tofurkey scares me and seriously, vegans just don’t appreciate the butter component.  Or the turkey component for that matter.  It’s not like I eat like this every day, seriously, I would gain all of the weight back and I threw away all of my fat clothes so that cannot happen.  So, yes, grateful for butter and people who love butter.  But grateful for lots of other stuff too.  Grateful my parents are here at my house which means I didn’t have to fly home to Minneapolis on the busiest travel weekend of the year.  Super duper grateful for that. 

But instead of telling you all of the things I am grateful for, I took a poll this year at school and asked my students what they were grateful for.  I got a lot of answers of family and friends; video games and new phones.  I did get one kid who said he was grateful to have me as his English teacher but I am guessing he was just sucking up to get a good grade in my class.  Some kids said they were grateful for their lawyers and some said they were grateful just to be out of school for the week.  Two of my kids said they were grateful to have a home after being homeless.  That one made me think and be grateful that the universe seemed to be looking out for them.   Homeless kids and along with the few who mentioned their lawyers; seriously grateful.  I knew a few were for parents and a few for themselves.  Those are the ones that make my job hard to do without wanting to adopt them.  Good kids.  Most of them.

With all of the heartfelt grateful lists, I did appreciate the girls who said they were grateful for Hello Kitty, Elf cosmetics and Ryan Gosling.  I mean, who isn’t grateful for Ryan Gosling?  I liked how none of them hesitated on what they were grateful for.  I liked how all them smiled when they said what they were grateful for.  Not a bad poll. 

Before bed last night, I asked my boys what they were grateful for.  I was second on Dash’s list, right under racecars.  Max was grateful for my love.  Man, I love when he says that.  There is nothing more validating than a sincere eight year old. 

Okay, back to my turkey and my stuffing and my marshmallow ensconced sweet potatoes and my caramelized brussel sprouts and of course, my blue dolphin Thanksgiving cookies.  I am totally grateful my children have this wonderful sense of humor that incorporates marine life into the festivities.  Well, let’s face it; I am just grateful for them.  My life would be so boring without them.  I am also grateful for my friends and my family, the Gone with the Wind marathon on AMC, and having a great home filled with love and warmth and Hello Kitty.  And if it were filled with Ryan Gosling…

Oh, and by the way, I am grateful for the people who read this blog.  All of you.  Happy Thanksgiving.

It is what it is

I am realizing that the phrase “it is what it is” has become my favorite phrase.  There are others too.  “this too shall pass”, “that which does not kill us makes us stronger” and “success is the best revenge”.   However, sometimes it just…is what it is. (I should probably be citing these quotes with a good old fashioned MLA citation, being the English teacher here, but I’m tired so bite me.)

Another good one is “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade” but I gave up the good juicer in the divorce so making lemons becomes more arduous than one might have remembered.  I loved that juicer.  It was the big silver one from William Sonoma that had the old fashioned handle that made things fun to squeeze.  It was like, two feet high and made juicing entertaining.  But I traded that in for some freedom and peace of mind, so my little plastic juicer will do just fine.  Plus, Dash likes fresh squeezed OJ and getting fruit into that little man is arduous as well, so I will squeeze with what I have.

So, if one doesn’t have the big William Sonoma juicer or access to a good Nietzsche quote, then what does one do?  Bathtub, shoes, chocolate, treadmill.  Well, not in that order.  But definitely treadmill after the chocolate.  Usually, I am lucky and stress causes nausea so I lose weight when I am stressed.  The treadmill is good because there is nothing better than sweating to loud angry music while releasing some well needed endorphins.  Greenday is perfect for this.  So are Christina Aguilera and surprisingly, Pittbull.  Loud, really, really loud, so as to drown out the objections and yelling in my own head.  Adele is playing now.  I like her.  Soulful. 

Drinking is out.  Well, milkshakes maybe, but then there will just be more treadmill.  Railing at god, yoga, mindless television and well, blogging seems to help.  I have always been a big proponent of writing things down to explain it to yourself.  No one needs to read it, it’s really just for you, but it is nice knowing people in Croatia, France and Malaysia will be sharing my experiences. 

Yelling at strangers is always good.  Driving in LA makes that really easy to achieve.  Customer service people at AT&T make that pretty easy as well.  Let’s face it, most “customer service” isn’t.  Although, I have learned if you are nice to customer service people, you tend to get whatever you need. Wouldn’t that be nice with all people…

You get to a point in your life where you realize you can’t run away from your problems and issues and anxiety.  You need to face it.  You need to deal with it in a pragmatic and positive way.  You need to tell yourself the universe will help you if you ask.  You need to be a grownup and own your issues.  No matter how crappy they are.  No matter if you have no idea what the outcome may be.  No matter what.  Icky-ness ownership comes with maturity.  Right?  Or I could just take a bubble bath and hope for a hug.

An old therapist of mine once told me, “you are going to feel this way until you are done feeling like this, so let yourself feel like this.”  Advice as good as “wear a sweater, you never know”.  So, I guess that means facing the icky stuff you really have no desire to face.  Dealing with it and moving on.  Not taking the world so personally and remembering that although there is crap in the world, there is some pretty great stuff as well.  Focus on the good stuff?  Right?  After all, it is what it is and no amount of shoe buying or milkshake drinking or treadmilling will make it go away.  It will make it easier to take, but in the end, being a grownup will win out.  At least on my end.

Okay, I’m done.  Going to make some lemonade and take a bubble bath.  

That’s not funny.

The education arena is fraught with acronyms.  Man, the pedagogic set loves them.  Seriously, they won’t make a test, a standard or an educational cohort without spelling out something.  CAHSEE, WASC, FERPA, OY.  Then of course, you can never remember what the acronym stands for.  I bet if you tested even the oldest and wisest of the teaching profession none of them would be able to tell you what CAASFEP stood for.  But they could probably tell you what BFD, LOL and WTF mean…

I have recently begun the BTSA program.   Technically I am still a new teacher.  BTSA stands for Beginning Teacher Something or Another.  (I told you these were hard to remember)  When you get your teaching credential in California, you start with a preliminary credential and then have five years to “clear” it.  Apparently, teaching, getting one’s masters, along with by-monthly evaluations by your administrators isn’t enough.  You need to spend two more years learning more pedagogy stuff so you may implement this stuff into your lesson plans.  They (ya know, the big THEY) say that most teachers only teach for five years and then decide they are insane and move on to other jobs.  I guess only giving the preliminary credential weeds out the ones who want their lives back. 

The BTSA program is a two year program but because I am impatient, I have chosen to do the accelerated program which means I am cleared in one year.  I had to write a self-assessment and reflection on the Teacher Standards of California to be approved for it, which by the way, you can find the standards in the NBPTS, the CSTP, or the NCLB.  Yep, I know, more CRAP.

Anyway, so I was reflecting on my teaching standards; which sounds so much more romantic than it really is.  Like I should be gazing into a magic mirror while sipping on champagne, dressed in a flowing gown.  Nope.  I am writing about what things I am good at and what things I suck at as a teacher (drinking tea, in front of my computer in my sweatpants with the big bleach stain on them).  Hmmm…what am I good at?  Creative project based lesson planning, culturally and socially relevant stuff and making my students laugh while actually learning, that I am good at.  Time management, trying to believe that the CST and other standardized tests do anything but teach a child how to bubble things in, and organizing my desk, I seem to suck at.  My desk is like a waste land where essays come to die.  I need to work on actually grading the homework I give out faster or just stop giving homework that needs to be graded.  Oooh, now that’s a good idea.  I actually have a whole slew of stuff to grade but just realized I am giving quizzes tomorrow so I will have oodles of time to finish grading them as the ten week progress reports are due on Monday.  I hate working on the weekends so that will work.  Oh, look, I am good at time management.  

So, I started writing this reflection essay and I kept wanting to crack jokes about the teaching standards.  The running monologue in my head was quite amusing but I realized I should probably write a dry and boring or rather intelligent essay as to not freak out the school district.  But it was hard to keep it that way.  I started realizing that writing amusing anecdotes was a whole mess easier and you all don’t mind when I misspell things or use improper grammar.  Although, my mother sometimes likes to correct my blogs with a red pen and send them back to me, but that’s another story. 

I teach persuasive essays, expository essays, reflective and analytical essays to my students yet the most fun and the ones that ALL of the students seem to turn in are the narrative essays and short stories.  Probably because they are just more fun to write.  I like to think that researching a persuasive essay on “anchor babies” or medical marijuana could be fun.  But I am totally fooling myself.  I wouldn’t really like to write a five paragraph essay on dry, banal socially relevant crap either.  I like to write and then embellish just enough so my blogs are fictional.  No, really, nothing I write here actually happens.  I am really a six feet tall blonde man who is an accountant and hates children. 

When I had to write all of those pedagogic research papers during grad school, I would almost put myself to sleep.  Still got all A’s, but crap, they were boring.  Then when it came to my Master’s thesis, I was allowed to write a half-narrative-half-research-paper on my student teaching experience.  That was actually fun.  100 pages of fun (got 98 out of 100, by the way) because I was telling my story and telling them of my experience.  Basically just writing about myself, which let’s face it, I love doing.  It was actually more fun when I presented it because as an actress, I like to be expressive and well, I knew the people I was presenting to, so it was actually entertaining and enjoyable to perform, I mean, present.

I love writing.  This whole new blog experience has been a wonderful experiment of writing and creativity.  I should have my students blog…hmmm…not a bad idea…I need a rubric for that.

Back to my reflection assessment of moi.  As I said, I do love writing about me, regardless of who I am, and it was actually quite thought provoking for myself to realize what I am good at thus far in my teaching career and what I need some help on.  Unfortunately, my reflection was only allowed to be three pages long but it was based on a forty page document.  I actually had to change the font size to 11.5 just to squeeze in the last bit of over-wordy-ness that is me and my writing.  I had one small laughable moment in it and then the rest was a serious assessment of how I see myself as a teacher.  So the BTSA organizers at LAUSD will be very happy with my reflection on my TSC while teaching GATE, ELL and SPED students all the while hoping to increase my CALSTRS account and using some VAPA and SDAIE strategies to increase our CST scores to raise our AYP and API. 

Now I am back to blogging.  Way more fun.  Not bad for a six-foot tall blonde accountant. 

I’m not a cougar, I’m a leopard

If you have read any of my past blogs, you know by now that I am a high school English teacher in South Los Angeles. I can honestly and sincerely say I love being a teacher and adore my students. Last year I was coerced into being the senior class advisor. Damn kids knew I would love to plan prom. (Dig through my blogs and read The Prom and Fast Cars Stupid Tests.  That way you can get the big picture of my job as senior class advisor.  And plus, I'm super funny, so read them.)  As tumultuous as last year was, being their advisor had more rewards than negativities; although I vowed very loudly I would never, never do it again. So, of course this year I am senior class advisor again. Oh, shut up. Don’t ask. Seriously. As I said, I love the kids. I hate them right now, but that is another story.

Last night was the Halloween Dance fund raiser so the seniors could have a prom. We have no Booster club or PTA and have no outside resources for anything that doesn’t involve academics. It’s sad really because the students have to come up with a ridiculous amount of money for all of the senior activities. Payment plans are arranged and fund raising started in the first week of school. Yikes and a half. So, tonight, after a lot of planning was this great opportunity to raise enough for the first of four deposits for prom. It all started off alright…

Since I have seventh period as my “conference period” (which was like a gift given to me at the beginning of the year. I swear, the idea of teaching six classes and then totally done is a great and wonderful thing, I love it.) so we started getting the seniors dressed and made up for tonight’s event. (I have become awesome at making my kids into zombies.) (No, not while I am teaching ) I, of course, dressed up, because, well, I love dressing up for Halloween. I am usually a cat or a bunny, but a mommy cat or mommy bunny because I am in my forty’s and don’t have the thighs I used to have which would enable me to pull off the gyno-mini of today’s costumes. I did my makeup with a brown nose and whiskers, with bronze and gold cat eye shadow; donned my leopard ears and tail with my leopard skirt, and got to work on downloading scary noises for the haunted house. I was then called to the office to have a parent conference. Nothing says “serious teacher” like whiskers, spotted ears and a tail. I walked into the office and one of my seniors said, “Wow, Ms Levine, you look like a cougar.” He then laughed and walked out of the office. I yelled after him, “I’m not a cougar, I’m a leopard!!” But I knew the damage was already done. Why don’t teenagers realize that jokes are only funny the first or second time you tell them? Seriously, I should teach them the“less is more” rule. But then again, I have to repeat myself three or four times in my classroom, so maybe I’m not really modeling that behavior. Hmmm...

Anyway, the parents thought it was cute that I was a leopard English teacher. After that, I had to brave the assembly in costume to explain the rules of the dance and plug it one more time. We needed to raise $1000 tonight and we were going to be close. Yes, standing before my students with a tail was a new experience for me, but it did keep the assembly light and kind of amusing. One junior girl asked me if I would be their senior advisor next year. I paused. For like a really long time. In my head there was “NO!!!!!!!” but I just smiled and said, “We’ll see.” Yeah, no freakin way. Of course I said that last year too…

The middle school Halloween party was great. Over a hundred kids showed up, all in costume and the haunted house scared the bajeezus out of them. I had jokingly said to the haunted house committee that I wanted it to be soooooo scary that at least one kid would wet his pants and a few would cry. Well, at least I got my wish. I am, after all is said and done, a high school teacher, so I do enjoy tormenting the little ones. And it was all in Halloween fun.

The high school dance started off well. Food was being eaten, glow sticks wrapped around everyone’s necks, my seniors dragged me on the floor to dance with them, and it was fun. But then…I noticed a few kids were wobbly. Ya know, just staggering enough so you knew something was up. Then there were a few kids with dilated pupils who were just a bit too happy. And then there was the cloud of pot smoke emanating from the boy’s bathroom. Enough was enough. We just were done. This started sucking. I have a tendency to take these things personally. Not like they are doing it to ME personally, but their actions are stupid and could cost them dearly. I hate when teenagers act like stupid teenagers. Do it after the dance, not during it. Yes, you are teenagers and I know you are going to experiment with stuff, but don’t do it when the director, who just wrote you a letter of recommendation, is three feet away from you. Don’t do things that might get you expelled. Think. Now there’s a plan.

There were one hundred kids on the dance floor when I walked in and had the DJ turn off the music and turn up the lights. I took the mic and made them stop. “There are way too many people here tonight who are drinking or getting high. We are done now. Time to go home.” I heard the words come out of my mouth and felt like that old person who didn’t understand teenagers. That person the kids couldn’t come to when they needed someone older and wiser to talk to. But I also knew that this was NOT the place for it. Experiment in your parent’s basement like I did when I was in high school. Get drunk after the dance at the after party at the kid’s house whose parents were on vacation, like I did in high school. Yeah, I didn’t actually say that to them, but I think it was implied.

We cleaned up. Well, some of us cleaned. Most of the kids bailed. I can’t blame them, but still, you need to clean up the mess you made. Hah! So many levels on that one!

There are still fake blood stains on the cafeteria floor; at least I hope they are fake. The seniors that actually stayed to help clean up were depressed because they had no idea where this left them. Would they still have a prom to go to? Or would they be punished for the actions of the stupid others? Would we still be able to fundraise or would they be paying $200 per prom ticket? There will be a meeting on Monday and I will pray the administration doesn’t blame me. Which they probably will.

I arrived home around 11:30pm and thought about my day. My feet hurt. My eyes hurt. My head hurt. Probably because of the damn leopard ears on a headband. I poured myself a large glass of wine because my kids were at the dreaded x’s house for the night. Then I wondered if I was being a hypocrite for drinking tonight. Then I realized that I was forty-four years old and had been up for almost nineteen hours and was in a great state of disappointment and wonder. No, I was not a hypocrite. I was of just over twenty-one.

I will not be senior advisor next year. Please remind me of this in September when wide-eyed students start begging me and I remember why I love doing it in the first place. Seriously, please remind me of this night and the countless battles for them that I don’t seem to win. Please remind me of the amount of money I spend on babysitters so I can be there for potlucks and Gradnight and stupid fundraisers where the kids smoke skunkweed in the bathroom (seriously, couldn’t they have gotten some good medical marijuana that didn’t smell that foul?). Please remind me that I could just be an English teacher and be happy educating my students and not planning the prom and graduation.

And please remind me that I am not a cougar, just a mommy leopard who likes to care for her kittens.

Oh, and Happy Halloween.

Oh yeah, like that was decaf

When you go to Starbucks at 7:30pm to read a book and wait to pick up your kids from their dad’s house and order a decaf, you expect it to be decaf.  Yes, it was that salted caramel latte that I spent four bucks on, but it should still be decaf, right?  Yes, I know that decaf does have some caffeine in it, but still, it shouldn’t make me feel like I’ve taken one of my ADHD student’s medications.  Right?  Oh, crap, am I awake right now. 

I have been up since 5am (because it’s a school day) and have not stopped going since 5am.  This was my day:

5am wake up to Kei$ha, cuz that makes me dance down the stairs to get my coffee.

5:10 watch news to make sure the world hasn't ended, check horoscope, laugh at horoscope, update status on Facebook, check email, check weather.

5:15 put ice pack on eyes to reduce the puffiness from just, ya know, waking up in the morning and being up at, ya know, 5am.

5:30 go upstairs apply concealer and hit myself with a pretty stick.  Complain to myself about my recession hair cut and vow to get it cut soon.  Attempt a bun cuz it’s very teachery looking.

5:45 get dressed

5:50 change clothes

5:55 change clothes again

6am wake up the munchkins with the “morning song” (It’s super annoying and I don’t stop singing until they are outta bed)

6:05 argue with Dash about what he is going to wear today

6:10 breakfast for the boys and cartoons (right now it is all about Pokémon)

6:30 tell the boys to get dressed

6:35 tell the boys to get dressed

6:40 tell the boys to get dressed

6:50 head out the door

6:55 come back to get what I forgot

7am drop off the boys

7:30 arrive at work (on time, for a change)

7:35 say good morning to 100 students

7:45 review what I am teaching because for the life of me, I cannot remember

7:50 turn on Pandora and blare Pink as loud as I can.  Forget that Raise Your Glass has the F-word in it and lower it just enough as to not hear it outside my classroom

8am start class with the first of the 9^th grade classes.  Listen to them complain, hand in homework, receive excuses about why they are not doing their homework.  Quiz them, decode figurative language, try diligently to teach them the difference between direct and indirect objects.  Wonder if it is too late to change careers and become a Cowboy

Repeat for each class of the day

For the rest of the school day:  Play therapist to the girl who just was dumped, the girl whose brother was killed, the boy who wants to drop out, the seniors who are writing their personal essays for college applications.  Remind the seniors to fund raise.  Hear complaints from the seniors about fund raising.  Grade papers, lesson plan, get observed by the principal, breathe. Remind myself to breathe.

3:45 leave as soon as the bell rings (and not a freakin minute later), pretend to be on the phone as to not to talk to anymore students

3:50 get cornered by students

4pm escape to my new car named Tito.  Admire the little flames on his rear end. Become confused as I get into it as it is still so clean and has that new car smell.  Is this really MY car?  Notice there is not one juice box on the floor.  Hmmm...

4:20 go to Trader Joes (it was a tossup between Trader Joes and Target; but then again, when isn’t it?)

4:45 pick up boys, chat with moms, plan playdates, wipe off dirty faces, blow noses

5pm drop off kids at the dreaded x’s  for dinner

5:30 arrive at the YMCA to work off anxiety

6:45 sit in steam room after my work out and just breathe. 

7:30 go to Starbucks to waste time before picking up the boys.  I swear I ordered a decaf, but who cares cuz it’s a salted caramel latte and it’s super yummy.  (I may have mentioned that but the yummy-ness was worth repeating) Read the Bless Me Ultima because I will be teaching this book that I have never read in  two weeks. 

7:45 check out the cute guy who is checking me out

7:50 realize he is really not that cute because I have left my glasses in the car

8pm pick up boys from the dreaded x’s apartment

8:15 discuss Pokémon

8:30 tell the boys to get ready for bed

8:35 tell the boys to get ready for bed

8:40 tell the boys to get ready for bed

8:45 read Dash his favorite book entitled Elmer. We love the patchwork elephant.

9am boys are asleep.  Aaahhhh.

9:15 read emails from students.  “What was the homework, Ms Levine?”  “Is anything due tomorrow, Ms Levine?”  “Can you write me a letter of recommendation, Ms Levine?”

10:30 realize it was NOT decaf

10:35 start writing blog

11pm pray for sleepiness

11:15 realize I have nothing more to write

And that was my day.  How was yours?  No, seriously?

The Deal Breaker

According to The Urban Dictionary, a “deal breaker” is “‘the catch’ that a particular individual cannot overlook and ultimately outweighs any redeeming quality the individual may possess or an issue within a relationship that constitutes one partner breaking up with the other.” They also defined it as “a small penis”. For example, “Hey, I thought you were into that one guy. Nope, he's sportin' a total deal breaker”. There were also two definitions which were alarmingly sexual in nature. They made me wince and say, “oh no you dint”(with a little head wiggle) when I read them so I feel no personal need to include them here. I am not a prude, seriously, but ewwwww.

I love The Urban Dictionary. Because of it, I know what the phrases "baby daddy”, “doo-doo mama”, “Allovadaflo”, “fr rl” and “text-hole” mean and yes, am a much cooler teacher for learning them. Seriously, I work in the hood and my students appreciate that I take the time to understand what the hell they are saying. Although, I have learned that sometimes I really shouldn’t ask for definitions. When I found out what a “Becky” was I think I blushed. Again, it’s not that I’m a prude, trust me, not a prude, but when a sixteen year old smart ass defines it for you, well, then yep, you blush. It’s not as if he called me one or demonstrated it during class. But just try going back to learning about transitive verbs after that. Oh, by the way a “Becky” is a girl who gives really good head. Yep, I know. In front of the whole class. Fr rl.

So, anyway, back to our regularly scheduled blog. I was discussing deal breakers with some single female friends of mine recently, while being forced to attend the stupidest singles event I have ever attended. Not that I go to these very often; in fact, this was the first one, but dear god was it pathetic and dismal. I did have a feeling it might inspire a good blog and look what I am doing right now! Hey! It was worth $26 after all!

So, this party, mixer, abysmal excuse for an evening, whatever you want to call it, was called a lock and key party (which should have had better connotations than it actually had). I remember standing there, in the middle of all of these key holders (Yes, the women carried around locks.  Oy.) and actually saying out loud how I was absolutely, positively not attracted to any of the men in the room. Notta one. My friends agreed. I brought up the idea of deal breakers to question why none of these guys were our cup of tea. I wanted to see if I was too picky or just enjoyed making fun of ill-dressed men.

Now, there are the obvious deal breakers out there, such as wearing sox with sandals, comb-overs and wearing too much cologne. Oh dear god, that last one is just…so…dear god, I hate cologne. There is this guy at my gym; I like to refer to him as Mr. Patchouli Stank. Seriously, it’s like a wall of patchouli has hit you. And hit you hard. I will actually get off the treadmill if he gets on the one next to me; it is that disgusting. Patchouli isn’t a good smell in small doses but that much could actually kill a person. Here’s a good rule for cologne and perfume: If you can smell yourself, then it’s too much. Seriously, the less is more rule is a good one here. I don’t know why men wear cologne anyway. That nice natural man-smell is more than enough. Your pheromones do quite nicely all on their own.

So, smell bad, bad hair or bad shoe-sock combos, all deal breakers. People who don’t read, deal breaker. People who interrupt every sentence and don't apologize for it. (I know I interrupt but only if I have something really great to say and then I always apologize.) People who talk about how much money they spent on their super awesome car, deal breaker. Besides, if a guy talks about what an awe-inspiring car he has, that usually means he is over-compensating for his not-so-awe-inspiring penis, which, as I have already mentioned is one of the urban definitions of deal breaker.

Some of my friends told me that swearing is a deal breaker, but I don’t fucking agree with that one. Then there is the vegan thing, the drinking way too much thing and the never having been married when you are over forty thing. Of course, I do know that being a single mother of two children can also be considered a deal breaker but if you don’t like kids then that is a deal breaker for me, so bite me.

First date deal breakers are a ton of fun. It can turn a dinner into a snack in an instant. The “Oh look, my babysitter is texting me” pretense will definitely be invoked. These deal breakers would include mentioning porn on a first date (that’s like a fifth date topic) or masturbation or how many chicks they have banged. Yes, sometimes put as eloquently as that. When men text or talk on the phone whilst in the midst of a conversation with you. Men who laugh patronizingly at you when you offer to pay for dinner. Like it’s “cute” when you offer to pay. I’m not saying I would actually like to pay for dinner but don’t be condescending about it. Don’t patronize in general. It’s not only a deal breaker but it’s rather annoying.

Then, of course there are the subtle deal breakers that come after the first date such as the just-stopped-calling-for-no-reason-guy, the tell-you-what-you-want-to-hear-guy, and of course the I’m-not-really-a-doctor-but-am-ashamed-to-tell-you-I-work-at-Walmart-guy. The first one is a deal breaker even if they call you a month later and apologize. Well, unless they are really, really hot. I mean, like, they totally distract you when they breathe.  Pathetic as it may be, both men and women may let a few deal breakers slide if they kiss exceedingly well or stand next to you and look at you in a way that makes you forget what deal they broke in the first place. See? Pheromones work all by themselves. No cologne necessary.

By the way, I looked up what “Allison” means in The Urban Dictionary and the definition is as follows: “Girls named Allison are so gorgeous the sun could not rise if they did not exist. Men from all over gather just so they can witness an Allison. Not only are girls named Allison beautiful, but they are feisty, charismatic and truly one of a kind. They will give you the shirt off their back, but do not dare cross them because they can and will be your worst enemy.”

Seriously, The Oxford English Dictionary couldn’t have said it better.

My ass is 44 today and yet my car is brand new

So…yep, I’m forty-four today. (wooo-saaaahhhh) It’s fine. I’m fine. I mean, my forties have been the best part of my life and except for the peri-menopausal crap and the little lines on my face that I am really, really starting to notice, I’m good. No, really. I figure I have made it to another year so apparently I am doing something right. No matter how much I bitch about aging the alternative would kinda suck.

A friend of mine does a grateful list everyday and my kids and I have started doing one at dinner each night. I love when Max looks at me and tells me that not only is he grateful for my love but he is grateful for school as well. Seriously, who is this kid I created? Dash is usually grateful for French fries and Ninjas. But, hey, who isn’t? Along with all of the big things I am grateful for, ya know, my kids, my whole family (Mom, Dad, Elyse, Ron, Brandon, Justin and Ethan), and my shoes; I have a few more for today: I am not sick this week, my kids are not sick this week, I am done grading the 9^th grade essays, I have a job, and there is a Loehman’s birthday discount with my name on it. And now the whole car thing is done with too. Oh, wait, I should back up and explain that one. Hmmm…I think I will back waaaaay up and tell you the whole story. And you have to read it, cuz it’s my birthday so you have to be nice to me. And bring me cake too.

About six years ago, when I was still married, my husband at the time (which makes is sound like I have had more than one, but nope, just the one. That was enough.) told me we were going to buy a mini-van from his boss. And yes, he told me and did not ask me, but that is for another blog at another time. If memory serves, I believe my response had some profanity in it. I also said that if I had to drive a mini-van I was going to paint it camouflage so no one would see me drive it or I was going to put big red flames on it for the sarcastic irony of the situation. And then...I owned a mini-van. Max wanted to name her Mini. I have always named everything and it apparently has rubbed off on my children. For example, Max’s favorite sweatshirt is named Fluffy. His second favorite sweatshirt is named Fluffy, Jr.

And yes…everything I have has a name.

Back to our story. Mini was big and gun metal grey and just… a freakin mini-van. Not a happy mommy. Sure it had more room than my first apartment and I could pack up all of my groceries from Trader Joes without breaking any eggs, but damn it was ugly and so…mom-like. Yuck. So, I did what any normal human being would do: I went on-line, ordered enormous red flames and put them on the doors. This made me absolutely fine driving the mini-van. It also pissed off my x-husband, which was just a perk.

The flames made it cool or rather silly and fun, but over the next six months a few things happened because my x-husband didn’t have it inspected because he had bought it from his boss. Yep, you know what’s coming. First the tires needed to be replaced, then the carburetor needed to be replaced, then the breaks went out and then the engine over-heated and caught on fire. Seriously. I was driving home and it started smoking, I pulled over popped the hood and flames shot out. Yes, now I had flames on the outside as well as the inside. I see the humor. I didn’t see it THEN but I do see it now. Luckily, because the universe sometimes seems to like me, some random stranger pulled up besides my burning car, whipped out a fire extinguisher and put out the fire. Angels in Los Angeles. Gotta love it.

Over the next six years I have put a ton of money into this stupid car. However, two weeks ago, Mini over heated and I had to replace the entire radiator and spent another $475. Then nine days after that, I had to replace the relay fans. I still have no idea what the hell they were but they cost $350. Then three days after that, she over heated yet again. The idea of making the inside of the car worth more than the whole car itself just made me cry. Remember, I am a teacher with crappy credit so it’s not like I could just run out and buy myself a car. However, I have really nice parents who love their grandchildren and seem to be aware of my fear of Los Angeles public transportation. So I drove over to the Nissan dealership by my school (she over heated one last time but I made it there) and with my dad on my cell phone, found the most inexpensive car I could find. A black Nissan Versa. It’s a 2012. I am driving a 2012 in 2011. This messes with my head. Oh, and I named him Tito. If you saw him, you would say, “Yep, he totally looks like a Tito.” No, really.

Oh, by the way, I told the Downtown Nissan guys I would mentioned them here because as sales people go, they were really great. They even gave me a teacher discount.

Tito is all sparkly with no scratches or dings and doesn’t smell like cheerios and apple juice and I have threatened my children with the destruction of Pokémon if they eat anything in the car. Hmmm…going to need flames. Small flames. Just on the back so I can pick out my car in the Whole Foods parking lot. Yesterday I noticed there are a myriad of small black cars in the Whole Foods parking lot. I need to differentiate. Yep, flames probably won’t help me find Tito, but it will make me giggle each time I see them. Always remember, if the mommy is happy the whole world is happy.

The funny thing about selling Mini is it affected me more than I thought it would. I was sitting and waiting for Tito to be polished and gassed up and I had cleaned out Mini (man, was that a gross experience) and I sat there and starred at her thinking that for a car I never wanted, I was sure going to miss her. She has been in so many blogs and status updates. I will really miss pulling up to a red light, next to some hot muscle car and the reaction was always a smile from the driver next to me. Dates always thought my flaming mini-van was a euphemism and would be actually surprised when they saw my car. The phrase, “You really do have flames on your mini-van” was always said with a sense of awe. Even Hollywood tour buses (the big double-decker ones) would point and stare and take pictures of her. I drove my kids to their first day of kindergarten in her. I packed my whole life into her and she was literally the vehicle that drove me into my new life.

But now I have a car that when you roll the windows down they actually roll back up again. The air-conditioner works and it doesn’t make that high pitched whining sound when I turn the wheel. It doesn’t go “clunky-clunk-clunk” when I start up the engine and there is not one ZBar wrapper or Lego on the floor. He’s pretty and I am one happy mommy. Even if I am forty-four today. Oh crap, I am forty-four today…

Wooo-saaaahhhh. Okay, on to the future. There is a Loehman’s birthday discount with my name on it.

Codeine stream of unconsciousness

Sniffle.  Sniffle.  Cough cough.  Sigh. 

Ah codeine cough medicine.  There was a request from my wonderful cousin Jaron that I write a blog while high on cough medicine.  Um, okay.  I have nothing better to do.  Children are at the dreaded x’s house and I haven’t changed out of my jammies in a day in a half so really, no pressing engagements.  I need to shower at some point.  Luckily I can’t breathe through my nose so who really cares if I shower if I am the only one here.  Henry the cat could care less.  Personally, I think he has enjoyed having me home the past two days.  When I fall asleep I tend to become his couch.  He’s getting heavy too…

I would love to know what his meows mean.  I mean, I have a feeling I know what some of them mean because there is some serious attitude behind them, but it would be cool to have an animal translator. 

Alone and sick.  No one to smell me and no one to bring me soup. (pro and con) I would sell my soul for some chicken soup right now.  (Yes, this is my passive aggressive way for me to get some soup delivered to my house today by someone who is reading this and lives in LA.)  I actually tried to sell my soul to the devil once to become a famous actress but to no avail.  I found a crossroads (actually it was at the corner of Fountain and Highland) and told the devil that if he or she did exist, I would love to sell my soul to become famous.  I stood there for awhile.  Nothin.  So, now I am convinced there is no devil which means there is no hell which means there is no heaven and yet oddly enough, I still think there is a god.  I think she likes me too or at least appreciates me.  After all, my soon to be forty-four year old breasts still face north and that is all I need to believe.  Well, that and the idea of how cool my children are.  Max has been doing his best to make me feel better.  Nothing cuter than an eight year old who keeps handing you Kleenex and feeling your forehead. 

Why are tonsils there anyway?  Do we actually need them?  And what is a spleen for?  And why does it always seem like it is the first thing to be taken out on hospital dramas?

I am in a very reflective mood as of late (and not solely due to the codeine cough medicine) as  I have been teaching an over-view of existentialism all week to my 10^th graders because we start The Stranger by Camus on Monday; and if you have never read The Stranger you should totally read it.  Super awesome book.  Well, it did win the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature so yep, it is that good.  Plus The Cure wrote this really cool song called Killing an Arab that people thought was about killing middle-easterners but was really about The Stranger.  Apparently, most people hadn’t read the book and the record was yanked off of the air.  Yes, this was so long ago it was actually a record and not a CD or a download. Absurd any way you look at it.

Why are Pink Lady Apples so much better than Red Delicious?  Baked apples…mmmm…

Most things about my life seem to fall under the heading of absurd.  My career, the men in my life, my upper respiratory virus, and of course my blog.  But the absurd blog is the fun part.  It’s the only way I can vent lately.  If I keep the sarcastic rants flowing I tend to feel much better.  So now, today, we will have a codeine-infused sarcastic rant.  Seriously, I should have posted a warning at the top…oh wait, I did.  Never mind. 

What is the difference between an upper respiratory infection and a lower respiratory infection anyway?  Is one better or worse?

I can rarely take drugs such as these.  Most narcotics make me hurl.  Vicodin, Percocet, and Codeine on its own are just icky and horrible.  Which I guess is good so I could never become addicted to them.  I will stick to the shoe addiction and leave it at that.  But codeine cough medicine seems to work just fine and not make me hurl just make me apathetic and then sleepy and then less cough-y.  Yes, that is now an adjective. 

When I was in labor with Max I had written on my birth plan (ya know, that thing you spend a month writing because you want your baby’s birth to be a certain, specific and perfect way and it goes out the window the minute you arrive at the hospital and realize that even though your water broke you are still at one centimeter and have to go on pitocin anyway) that I could not take narcotics. I had told the doctor, the nurse and the anesthesiologist so of course when the epidural went in after I got to five centimeters and couldn’t breathe through the contractions anymore; of course they put narcotics in the epidural.  Why they would actually listen to the person in labor…anyway…long story short, they were able to take out the narcotics and leave the block.  They also shut the whole thing off when I got to ten centimeters so I was able to feel everything at the end.  Which although my birth experiences were absolutely the most amazing of experiences, the Johnny Cash song Ring of Fire was totally stuck in my head while I pushed my boys out.  Okay, it's now stuck in my head again.  Good song.

Why do gummy bears taste so damn yummy?  They are like squishy pieces of heaven.  If anyone drops off soup to me, could you bring some gummy bears too please? 

So I am getting a bit woozy and there is a couch with my name on it.  Mmm…couch…sleep….good….

I have the most wicked dreams on codeine.  Very symbolic, very graphic, some a bit violent and I did wake myself up screaming last night but that was because I dreamt there was an earthquake and the floor of my house had a big chasm in it and the couch I was on flew across the room with me on it.  But hey, I also had one about finding a room full of clothing just for me.  Bikinis that had feathers, Prada dresses with matching shoes, and suede pants that fit perfectly.  They made my ass look good, so I knew it was a dream.  Dash told me my booty looked squishy today.  I told him that’s what happens when booties get older.  I think I may have scared him with that.  He spent the rest of the morning trying to look at his own super cute booty. 

Why is it a murder of crows, a congress of baboons, a pride of lions but just a group of humans?  We seem to have a self-esteem issue when it comes to anthropomorphic collective nouns.

So, Cousin Jaron, I hope you enjoyed this.  If you weren’t up in San Francisco and were less than an eight hour drive from me, I would suggest you bring me soup.

Of course you can’t hear me, I have a vagina.

Seriously.  Just…seriously. 

I have begun to discover that NOT hearing me is specifically a gender issue.  Yes, I am being totally sexist but the past few weeks men, guys, boys, and dudes have made this abundantly clear.  Don’t get me wrong, I mean, it’s not all men that don’t listen to women -- Ya know, never mind.  That last little justification was totally me wanting men to think that I thought they thought that I thought some of them were actually  listening to me in case I was dating one of them and they decided to support my writing and read this and then they thought I meant them.  Yep.  Nope, I meant all of them.   From age five to seventy-five no man seems to listen to any woman I know of.

 It’s not really a hearing problem and I don’t think it is a listening problem.  At first I thought it was specific to culture and upbringing.  I thought specific misogynist cultures taught their young men to ignore the important things that come out of a woman (not just babies) and really she is just there to take care of you and she doesn’t identify with or recognize the ways of a man’s world.  Once I knew of a man who said that when he arrived home at his house every night, he put his logic away because he just couldn’t do logic with his wife.  I bit my lip so hard when I heard that one, my tooth went through my lip.  Seriously, there are some men out there who when you are speaking directly to them and you are the one who is guiding the conversation with your thoughts and opinions; they have trouble actually looking into your eyes while you speak.  They not only avoid eye contact, but they look away or over your head.  You know they are diligently trying NOT to hear a word you say.  When this is happening, I usually wonder one of three things:  He doesn’t want to talk directly into my cleavage; there is a booger in my nose; or if he acts like a sexist-pig who has no interest in what I am saying long enough, I will just stop talking and go away.  Yep, I am guessing it's the last one.  I am hoping it’s not the middle one. 

The thing is men from all cultures, races, nationalities and religions; they all do the same thing.  And yes, I know a myriad of them stare at my boobs when I speak; but that is the mixture of having large breasts that are right in front of them and the innate male-must-stare-at-a-woman’s-breasts-gene.  Ah, the inherent qualities of a man.  Ya know, like the farting-in-public-gene, the can’t-find-the-hamper-gene or the-ice-cube-trays-will-refill-themselves-gene.  In the male of the species’ DNA there is also the I-can’t-hear-you-because-you-are-a-woman-gene. 

I think it is a gene.  For most of them, I don’t think they are knowingly being sexist.  I mean not all of them.  Yes, some of them get off on being chauvinist pigs and who treat women as though they only have the cooking, cleaning and shopping gene.  And yes, I realize the irony of using the example of the “shopping gene” considering who is writing this blog in the first place and my propensity for cute shoes.   Oh, shut up, I love my shoes and it is not a woman-gene, it is a woman-who-has-good-taste-and-can-find-things-on-sale-gene.  (and I am sure I inherited it from my mother.)

 My adorable and lovable male children could be a foot away from my face and I repeat over and over information and instructions and food options.  They don’t even turn around.  They don't even flinch.  I even tried an experiment with Dash once where I told him, two feet away from his little face, that I was going to take him to buy ice cream before dinner and he could have a double scoop.  Nope, didn’t hear that one either. He kept playing with his Pokémon.  It was amazing.

 Maybe men not listening to women could just be a case of bad manners.  Most men don’t really have great manners unless they went to cotillion classes when they were younger.   Perhaps they have manners for the first few dates when they are on their most polite and best behavior and still hoping they have a shot of seeing you naked.    I was hanging out with a friend of mine this weekend and he was an anomaly.  He had the most chivalrous manners and he was raised by a fabulous feminist mother.  I love that.  Here was this awesome feminist mom and she taught her only son to treat women with respect and manners. That chivalry was actually a sign of respect.  I felt not like a lady but like a woman.   The man actually opened the car door for me.  When was the last time someone opened the car door for me?  Nowadays, a man thinks that hitting the electric unlock button while on his side of the car, makes it seem like he is opening the door for a woman.  But this guy, he actually walked to my door, opened it and even took my hand.  It was the weirdest and most lovely thing that has happened to me in a long while.  He probably didn't listen to me, but it balanced out with his chivalry.

It’s not just the not-listening thing but the interrupting thing as well.  I love when guys do that.  It makes me feel all pretty.  My students do that all the freakin time.  Mostly the male students.  I will be on the third word of a sentence and without even raising their hand they will just interrupt with the most inane of questions like “when is this class over?” or “did you see the Mayweather fight over the weekend?”  Yes, the pugilist princess, that’s me.

Anyway, it is just aggravating me lately.  That's funny, that makes it sound as if I tolerated it before or something.  That almost sounded like once upon a time I had patience for people who didn’t listen to me.  

Tonight I gave Dash a time-out for not listening to me.  Again.  At all.  I had just lost my patience with him and the entire male dominated society that doesn’t listen to me either.  I think I wanted to give a few other males a time-out but he was the only one at my house. 

He seemed so small at the kitchen table, all by himself in his pouty-time-out-ness.  I wondered what he was thinking about.  Perhaps he was reflecting upon his punishment.  Perhaps he was replaying episodes of Star Wars the Clone Wars in his head.  Conversely, after his five minutes of solitude were up, I sat him on my lap with his blanket named “geegee” and asked him if he knew why I had gotten so mad at him and had given him a time out in the first place.  He said it was because he was not listening again. 

Wow, he may have actually heard me.