My high school students don’t really have dates. They seem to be a bit unnerved by the term “date”. Like, it implies a grown up thing; involving putting on something other than jeans and tennis shoes and manners. Some of my girls say they have no time for dating. Like its algebra. Because I seriously have no time for algebra. Or laundry. So, I totally get that.
However, they tend to “hang out”. Which apparently is the casual side of dating. Although I have this cute couple at school that has been hanging out for two years. They are in that “I-love-you-so-much-I-can’t-focus-on-anyone-else” place which actually is nice to see. I have suggested they wrap each other in cellophane as both are college bound. Crap, they need a Sex Ed class at my school.
So, now that I am a grownup who dates, what is the difference between hanging out and dating? Then add on the “meet and greet” where you get to see if they hold up to their computer profile and I am dumbfounded.
Ah, the meet and greet. The who-are-you-and-why-should-I-care meeting. Yeah, seriously, we are actually looking at the virtual you and the carbon-based you and doing a five paragraph compare and contrast paper in our heads. That might just be me. I do have a tendency to write five paragraph essays in my head on most things. Persuasive essays where I can prove arguments as to why my children should do their homework and clean up the playroom in order to get their allowance; the expository essay, where I explain repeatedly things like, why cats shouldn’t eat pizza, why getting an C in my class won’t help you get into college and why I feel the need to teach in three inch heels. Well, the third one should just be like, "nice shoes, Ms Levine", and leave it that. Personally I don’t like to explicate upon my shoe choices. They’re pretty, and make me tall, and well, let’s face it, they make me happy damit, so bite me.
But I digress.
I like the compare and contrast essay, because you can usually get away with four paragraphs. Ya know, list of compares in one paragraph and a list of contrasts in the next, an intro and a conclusion. Sort of like a pro con list with examples and explanations. So, when I meet a prospective date, um, excuse me a prospective hang…okay, some dude that I hope won’t follow me home and murder me. Anyway, when I meet the “real” you, I look at you and think back to your online profile and start the process. Personality, intelligence, eye contact, ya know, stuff I can totally judge you on. Oh stop, they are totally judging me, as well. But that is the fun part of online dating, you get to be picky. You don’t have to respond if you don’t want to. I love this! I have decided to never date a short guy again. Nope, you have to be this tall to be on this ride. I mean…never mind.
What I mean is you can check out the virtual man and see if they even remotely interest you. I like to go with the first reaction I have as a guide. The verbal agree or disagree, as it were. If the noise of “Ugh” escapes my lips, I move on. If the noise of “AAHHHHH!!!!!!!” escapes my lips, then I quickly turn to my bookmarked picture of George Clooney until I calm down from the sheer shock of unattractive men who think the bathroom snap of them is attractive. Yikes and a half.
But if the noise of “mmm” or “hmmm” or anything with an m-sound should escape, I pause. I tilt my head to the side and consider. I read, I ponder, I respond to their message to me with a witty remark. That is another good thing about just messaging. If they don’t get my written humor, then I skip them as well. My written is more thought out than my verbal. Well, kind of. At least with written you can spell check. Plus, I love writing these weird, flirty responses as sort of a litmus test. I also just like to confuse men with figurative language. I am evil, I know, but it keeps me young.
So, at the meet and greet, if they can see past my boobs and I don’t have to explain my jokes, then we move to a date or a hang.
This is where I get confused. I seem to have no idea what the difference is between hanging out with someone and being on a date with someone. Does a date connote “date behavior”? Am I supposed to be all coy and crap? Does date behavior have to resort back to when I was dating in high school? ‘Cuz back then, it was dating and not hanging out. I remember hanging out in groups, but not in couples. So, does hanging mean they pay or I pay or do we split it? Should I offer and hope they pay? Should I remind them I work as a teacher and hope for the best? Does dating mean I should shave my legs? Does hanging mean I shouldn’t? Does dating mean skirt and hanging mean jeans? Yes, cute shoes will be worn on both. Duh. Does dating mean that I only should date you and hanging mean I can hang with others? Which means casual and non-committed? Can you be a casual dater and a casual hanger? Can you be a serious hanger? Seriously. I am confused. Don’t even get me started on playdates…
The other night, I had a wonderful evening with a prospective-hopefully-non-serial-killer who made me think “mmm” as he walked me to my car. He kissed me on the cheek and said, “nice hang”. What the hell…?
I just hope he wasn’t talking about my boobs.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
I am too tired to sleep.
I fell asleep in Dash’s bed again. A nightly occurrence I try desperately to avoid because it goes a little something like this:
8:15pm “Mommy, snuggle me and read us a book, please!” says Dash.
8:30pm “Mommy, sing us a song and then snuggle me more.” Says Dash.
8:45pm “Goodnight boys” says Mommy. “Sleep well, my angels. First one to go to sleep gets to pick a cartoon in the morning.”
8:46pm “But Mommy, I need a million kisses!” says Dash
8:50pm “Goodnight Mommy” says both the boys with hugs and kisses and then one more hug and then one more kiss.
8:53pm “Mommy!!! I can’t sleep!” says Dash. “Try!” says Mommy, who is now on her couch trying to grade papers. (oh let’s face it, I am on my couch waiting diligently for the silence from upstairs. The silence, I fear, will never come…)
8:55pm “Mommy! Please snuggle me! You are nice and squishy to cuddle with.” “Jeepers, thanks Dash” says Mommy. “I feel so pretty now.” “Mommy, you are like my very own Pillow Pet.” Says Dash. “Again” says Mommy, “thanks Dash”.
8:56 Mommy trudges back upstairs reluctantly with the distinct understanding of snuggling with Dash until he is asleep and then she is sleeping in her own bed. She is indignant about this and is going to stand her ground. She has work to do. She needs some mommy-time. She needs to go back to shopping on OKCupid because it’s kinda getting fun now. Five more minutes and that’s it…
9:56pm “Damn” says Mommy, as she wakes up in Dash’s bed. Nice freakin nap.
I have to remember that some day he will no longer ask for snuggles. Someday he will not want to hold my hand when he crosses the street or sit on my lap to read a book. Besides, he is too cute to say no to. He has mastered the pout with the big saucer eyes. Damn his cuteness. Oh, who am I kidding. He is my very own Pillow Pet.
So here I am. Again. Overtired and still awake. But I need to check my email first. Damn students with questions.
“Ms. Levine, is anything due tomorrow?”
“Ms. Levine, do we have to do the vocabulary?”
“Ms. Levine, do you expect me to actually read the entire chapter?”
I type the word “yes” over and over again.
So here I am thirty minutes later. Overtired but still awake. But I have to get lunches ready for school and coffee ready for the morning and the clothes laid out for the boys because if I don’t Dash will want to have a fashion show even though he wears a uniform to school. That still has yet to sink in. Each morning the kid wakes up and asks what day it is; then groans and says, “Ohhhh…I thought it was Saturday. When is Saturday again?”; and then wants to choose his outfit. Then changes his mind. Last year, this ritual became the bane of my existence. This year he has a little uniform of a white shirt and navy pants. Why in god’s name would a pre-school want their students in white shirts? We have gone through eight shirts because there is not enough bleach in the universe to get rid of pre-school stains. White shirts? Seriously?
Thirty minutes later. Overtired but still awake, texting conversations because I am too tired to speak in complete sentences now. I love that you can have an entire conversation with someone and barely use vowels. Unfortunately, sarcasm doesn’t always translate well via texting and some clarification is needed. The jokes lose some humor in the explanation.
Same thing happens with text-flirting, or rather flirxting. Things can be misconstrued. In a laughable way. Hopefully, a laughable way.
Last night I felt like I had a whole date while in my jammies with a mud mask on. It’s like I’m faux-dating. There I was flirxting away; an entire conversation filled with witty repartee and absolutely no need to shave my legs or apply lip gloss. Or even speak. I could be clever and have great banter and I was still actually able to grade papers and paint my toes red. Seriously, I can multitask better than anyone I know. Sometimes, because my bathroom is so small, I can clean the floor, talk on the phone, apply mascara and clean out the cat box. All one handed and all at the same time. I am that talented.
Okay, now I am just getting punchy.
Last but not least a shower because if I don’t do it at night, invariably Dash will wake up before my 5am alarm and demand morning snuggles. And chocolate milk. And Cheerios. And I will barely have time to apply concealer to my puffy eyes let alone shower.
Okay, shower, jammies, bed, then reading Jane Austin (teaching it soon) and that, no offense to Jane, will put me right out. Ah, sleep sounds good right now…
Crap, now I’m awake.
8:15pm “Mommy, snuggle me and read us a book, please!” says Dash.
8:30pm “Mommy, sing us a song and then snuggle me more.” Says Dash.
8:45pm “Goodnight boys” says Mommy. “Sleep well, my angels. First one to go to sleep gets to pick a cartoon in the morning.”
8:46pm “But Mommy, I need a million kisses!” says Dash
8:50pm “Goodnight Mommy” says both the boys with hugs and kisses and then one more hug and then one more kiss.
8:53pm “Mommy!!! I can’t sleep!” says Dash. “Try!” says Mommy, who is now on her couch trying to grade papers. (oh let’s face it, I am on my couch waiting diligently for the silence from upstairs. The silence, I fear, will never come…)
8:55pm “Mommy! Please snuggle me! You are nice and squishy to cuddle with.” “Jeepers, thanks Dash” says Mommy. “I feel so pretty now.” “Mommy, you are like my very own Pillow Pet.” Says Dash. “Again” says Mommy, “thanks Dash”.
8:56 Mommy trudges back upstairs reluctantly with the distinct understanding of snuggling with Dash until he is asleep and then she is sleeping in her own bed. She is indignant about this and is going to stand her ground. She has work to do. She needs some mommy-time. She needs to go back to shopping on OKCupid because it’s kinda getting fun now. Five more minutes and that’s it…
9:56pm “Damn” says Mommy, as she wakes up in Dash’s bed. Nice freakin nap.
I have to remember that some day he will no longer ask for snuggles. Someday he will not want to hold my hand when he crosses the street or sit on my lap to read a book. Besides, he is too cute to say no to. He has mastered the pout with the big saucer eyes. Damn his cuteness. Oh, who am I kidding. He is my very own Pillow Pet.
So here I am. Again. Overtired and still awake. But I need to check my email first. Damn students with questions.
“Ms. Levine, is anything due tomorrow?”
“Ms. Levine, do we have to do the vocabulary?”
“Ms. Levine, do you expect me to actually read the entire chapter?”
I type the word “yes” over and over again.
So here I am thirty minutes later. Overtired but still awake. But I have to get lunches ready for school and coffee ready for the morning and the clothes laid out for the boys because if I don’t Dash will want to have a fashion show even though he wears a uniform to school. That still has yet to sink in. Each morning the kid wakes up and asks what day it is; then groans and says, “Ohhhh…I thought it was Saturday. When is Saturday again?”; and then wants to choose his outfit. Then changes his mind. Last year, this ritual became the bane of my existence. This year he has a little uniform of a white shirt and navy pants. Why in god’s name would a pre-school want their students in white shirts? We have gone through eight shirts because there is not enough bleach in the universe to get rid of pre-school stains. White shirts? Seriously?
Thirty minutes later. Overtired but still awake, texting conversations because I am too tired to speak in complete sentences now. I love that you can have an entire conversation with someone and barely use vowels. Unfortunately, sarcasm doesn’t always translate well via texting and some clarification is needed. The jokes lose some humor in the explanation.
Same thing happens with text-flirting, or rather flirxting. Things can be misconstrued. In a laughable way. Hopefully, a laughable way.
Last night I felt like I had a whole date while in my jammies with a mud mask on. It’s like I’m faux-dating. There I was flirxting away; an entire conversation filled with witty repartee and absolutely no need to shave my legs or apply lip gloss. Or even speak. I could be clever and have great banter and I was still actually able to grade papers and paint my toes red. Seriously, I can multitask better than anyone I know. Sometimes, because my bathroom is so small, I can clean the floor, talk on the phone, apply mascara and clean out the cat box. All one handed and all at the same time. I am that talented.
Okay, now I am just getting punchy.
Last but not least a shower because if I don’t do it at night, invariably Dash will wake up before my 5am alarm and demand morning snuggles. And chocolate milk. And Cheerios. And I will barely have time to apply concealer to my puffy eyes let alone shower.
Okay, shower, jammies, bed, then reading Jane Austin (teaching it soon) and that, no offense to Jane, will put me right out. Ah, sleep sounds good right now…
Crap, now I’m awake.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Princess and The Doctor
I just came home from a fabulous birthday party for my pal Lexi. She’s seven. Normally I really don’t enjoy children’s birthday parties. They are loud and children on sugar scare me. My own children scare me when they have had too much sugar. I scare me when I have had too much sugar. However, Lexi’s birthday was a girls only party at a princess tea house. Seriously. Six little girls who got to play dress up, be princesses and have tea and cake. The moms didn’t get to wear the tiaras though, which I thought kind of sucked. I love my tiara. It’s from the 99 cent store and pink and sparkly and makes me an awesome super hero. Maybe I should start wearing it more…
Anyway, the party was charming and lovely and the tea room was so resplendently over the top; filled with dolls and princesses and a heart shaped tea table. The girls were happy with their clip on earrings and silly little sparkly pumps. The moms had fun as well, as there was sangria.
As I watched the little girls pulling the feathers off of their boas, some stuff occurred to me. First of all, I love having boys, don’t get me wrong. I have mastered the art of becoming an awesome Decepticon and can fence with Nerf swords better than most men. I love Legos and can kick some serious butt while shooting bad guys with my trusty semi-automatic Nerf gun. I love that I have momma’s boys that are sweet and sensitive, imaginative and ladies men yet still transform into rough-housing, dirty faced miscreants. I wouldn’t trade them in for anything, even when I am exhausted, even when I step on Bakugan toys in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom and even when they don’t listen as I tell them for the seventieth time to do their homework.
With that said, it was nice to be surrounded by giggling girls, dressed up in sparkly ball gowns whispering secrets to one another. It made me think of when I was little. I wanted to be a princess. I was a ballerina. I loved the tutus and ballet slippers until my boobs started looking seriously ridiculous in a leotard. That was when I switched to acting. Seriously, not enough sports bras in the universe to hold those things properly in a leotard. When I was little, I loved playing dress up and putting on shows in the backyard and I loved trying on my mom’s shoes and jewelry. Actually, I still do that. I loved being a girly girl.
So when I was standing in the princess section of the toy aisle at Target, shopping for Lexi’s birthday, I thought, maybe while buying the princess play earrings and her very own pink and sparkly tiara, I should buy her a play doctor’s set or a play lawyer’s set. Actually, I didn’t really see a play lawyer’s set. What would be in one of those anyway? A brief case and a secretary? Perhaps Barbie’s Dream Courtroom? Pink judge’s chair with matching gavel? Ken would be the defense attorney and Skipper would be the court reporter. Smurfs for the jury box? Hmmm…
Anyway, I thought about the feminist message we were sending by buying these silly toys. Allowing girls to dress up as princesses and letting them think they will marry Prince Charming is kind of a dangerous thing. Again, we rarely end up with Prince Charming because he is only two dimensional. Even the 3D version of Prince Charming wouldn’t remember to put the toilet seat down. I thought I would marry Prince Charming and we all know how that turned out.
I try to teach feminist or rather humanist ideals which probably makes me a total hypocrite because I still love playing dress up. Now, it’s just called "going out on dates". Unfortunately, I rarely end up with Ken, which I guess is good considering he isn’t anatomically correct.
It’s the same thing with my boys. ( no, they are anatomically correct.) I don’t allow any toy guns that are not Nerf. Even those, I am not a fan of. Well, sort of. I do like shooting them. Gets out some aggression. But the whole gun thing scares me, especially since I just spent two hours of professional development learning about what to do if our school gets locked down because of a gunman. (gun person?) Makes me not want to fail any of my students. Especially the angry ones.
This year for Chrismakkah, Max wanted an Easy Bake Oven and I was all over that. Although try finding a plain old fashion incandescent light bulb to put in it was not easy. You can’t use soft white or long-last bulbs, they don’t work; and the new energy saver ones give off no heat to cook the little tiny cakes. Big dilemma here. Huge. We haven’t baked anything in it as of yet because I can’t find a damn light bulb for him to cook with. Wow, that is a sentence I really never thought I would hear myself say. I guess I could let him use the genuine oven, but that kind of defeats the whole purpose.
Anyway, back to the weird feminist stuff that is floating through my head right now. The woman's study classes I took in college told me I could and should be an independent woman. I loved those classes because they made me feel like I could be anything I wanted to be. I could be a doctor if I wanted. Although I really don’t like blood or math, so that was out. I guess my point is the whole princess-doctor issue is sort of like the whole Madonna-whore issue, isn’t it? Men want woman who are a little bit of both. Just as we women want to be treated like a princess but still make as much money as the male doctors. If we are going to be independent, then why can’t we have both? I want the girls that I teach to know that they can and will be anything they aim for. I want them to know they can be independent and still date cute boys. I want them to know, as well as myself, that there is room for both. I want women who are aggressive to be known simply as aggressive and not bitches. Its not fair. If a man voices a strong opinion, then he is a go-getter. If I voice one, I am an overly emotional bitch. When in reality I am only one once a month.
Sometimes I think no matter how far we have come we still are back in the 1950’s where women vacuumed in high heels and men thought women should be vacuuming in high heels. Although vacuuming in high heels is not as easy as it looks. I once tried it, tripped over the cord and smacked my face right into the coffee table. I had a swollen lip for a week. It looked like I had collagen injected into only one side of my lips. Not really a good look for me.
I want to be treated with respect but I can’t help being validated when I guy tells me I’m pretty. Just like a seven year old princess. Crap, forty-three years old and I still can’t figure this dichotomy out. Is it alright to be both? Because I am. There is a happy medium somewhere, I just know it. For seven year olds and for forty-three year olds. Perhaps if there were a Barbie Dream Courtroom the point would be made better. Great suits, little pink heels, precedent setting verdicts. I should call Mattel.
Probably a little soap boxy for my blog, but hey, read me, read all of me.
And by the way, I will still always wear high heels. Just not for vacuuming.
Anyway, the party was charming and lovely and the tea room was so resplendently over the top; filled with dolls and princesses and a heart shaped tea table. The girls were happy with their clip on earrings and silly little sparkly pumps. The moms had fun as well, as there was sangria.
As I watched the little girls pulling the feathers off of their boas, some stuff occurred to me. First of all, I love having boys, don’t get me wrong. I have mastered the art of becoming an awesome Decepticon and can fence with Nerf swords better than most men. I love Legos and can kick some serious butt while shooting bad guys with my trusty semi-automatic Nerf gun. I love that I have momma’s boys that are sweet and sensitive, imaginative and ladies men yet still transform into rough-housing, dirty faced miscreants. I wouldn’t trade them in for anything, even when I am exhausted, even when I step on Bakugan toys in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom and even when they don’t listen as I tell them for the seventieth time to do their homework.
With that said, it was nice to be surrounded by giggling girls, dressed up in sparkly ball gowns whispering secrets to one another. It made me think of when I was little. I wanted to be a princess. I was a ballerina. I loved the tutus and ballet slippers until my boobs started looking seriously ridiculous in a leotard. That was when I switched to acting. Seriously, not enough sports bras in the universe to hold those things properly in a leotard. When I was little, I loved playing dress up and putting on shows in the backyard and I loved trying on my mom’s shoes and jewelry. Actually, I still do that. I loved being a girly girl.
So when I was standing in the princess section of the toy aisle at Target, shopping for Lexi’s birthday, I thought, maybe while buying the princess play earrings and her very own pink and sparkly tiara, I should buy her a play doctor’s set or a play lawyer’s set. Actually, I didn’t really see a play lawyer’s set. What would be in one of those anyway? A brief case and a secretary? Perhaps Barbie’s Dream Courtroom? Pink judge’s chair with matching gavel? Ken would be the defense attorney and Skipper would be the court reporter. Smurfs for the jury box? Hmmm…
Anyway, I thought about the feminist message we were sending by buying these silly toys. Allowing girls to dress up as princesses and letting them think they will marry Prince Charming is kind of a dangerous thing. Again, we rarely end up with Prince Charming because he is only two dimensional. Even the 3D version of Prince Charming wouldn’t remember to put the toilet seat down. I thought I would marry Prince Charming and we all know how that turned out.
I try to teach feminist or rather humanist ideals which probably makes me a total hypocrite because I still love playing dress up. Now, it’s just called "going out on dates". Unfortunately, I rarely end up with Ken, which I guess is good considering he isn’t anatomically correct.
It’s the same thing with my boys. ( no, they are anatomically correct.) I don’t allow any toy guns that are not Nerf. Even those, I am not a fan of. Well, sort of. I do like shooting them. Gets out some aggression. But the whole gun thing scares me, especially since I just spent two hours of professional development learning about what to do if our school gets locked down because of a gunman. (gun person?) Makes me not want to fail any of my students. Especially the angry ones.
This year for Chrismakkah, Max wanted an Easy Bake Oven and I was all over that. Although try finding a plain old fashion incandescent light bulb to put in it was not easy. You can’t use soft white or long-last bulbs, they don’t work; and the new energy saver ones give off no heat to cook the little tiny cakes. Big dilemma here. Huge. We haven’t baked anything in it as of yet because I can’t find a damn light bulb for him to cook with. Wow, that is a sentence I really never thought I would hear myself say. I guess I could let him use the genuine oven, but that kind of defeats the whole purpose.
Anyway, back to the weird feminist stuff that is floating through my head right now. The woman's study classes I took in college told me I could and should be an independent woman. I loved those classes because they made me feel like I could be anything I wanted to be. I could be a doctor if I wanted. Although I really don’t like blood or math, so that was out. I guess my point is the whole princess-doctor issue is sort of like the whole Madonna-whore issue, isn’t it? Men want woman who are a little bit of both. Just as we women want to be treated like a princess but still make as much money as the male doctors. If we are going to be independent, then why can’t we have both? I want the girls that I teach to know that they can and will be anything they aim for. I want them to know they can be independent and still date cute boys. I want them to know, as well as myself, that there is room for both. I want women who are aggressive to be known simply as aggressive and not bitches. Its not fair. If a man voices a strong opinion, then he is a go-getter. If I voice one, I am an overly emotional bitch. When in reality I am only one once a month.
Sometimes I think no matter how far we have come we still are back in the 1950’s where women vacuumed in high heels and men thought women should be vacuuming in high heels. Although vacuuming in high heels is not as easy as it looks. I once tried it, tripped over the cord and smacked my face right into the coffee table. I had a swollen lip for a week. It looked like I had collagen injected into only one side of my lips. Not really a good look for me.
I want to be treated with respect but I can’t help being validated when I guy tells me I’m pretty. Just like a seven year old princess. Crap, forty-three years old and I still can’t figure this dichotomy out. Is it alright to be both? Because I am. There is a happy medium somewhere, I just know it. For seven year olds and for forty-three year olds. Perhaps if there were a Barbie Dream Courtroom the point would be made better. Great suits, little pink heels, precedent setting verdicts. I should call Mattel.
Probably a little soap boxy for my blog, but hey, read me, read all of me.
And by the way, I will still always wear high heels. Just not for vacuuming.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Oh, that’s right, you already said that…
There is this quote I recently heard, “People will tell you who they are when you first meet them, but we ignore it." The thing is it is totally true. If you listen closely enough, the first time you hang out with a person, you will know everything you need to know about them. Good or bad. Well, that is, most of the time…
Let’s start from the beginning. During the first week of school, I have my students do a short assignment called, “Five things you want Ms Levine to know about you”. They tell me things like, “I am shy please don’t call on me in class.” and “I like the Jonas Brothers but can’t tell my friends because they will think I am gay.” and, my personal favorite, “I don’t like English class so don’t expect me to actually read any of the books you assign.” To that one, I like to respond with, “Then don’t expect me to actually pass you.”
Essentially, the students mean what they say. I do fight to change the ones who don’t wish to talk or read, etc. However, as the year progresses it really is “this is who I am and you should know that because I already told you”. I also do the assignment too. It usually includes the following:
1. I have two children whom I talk about way too much, but you have to listen to me and laugh at my jokes because I am grading you.
2. I am usually overly caffeinated but that is a good thing.
3. I take things personally; like when you don’t do the homework I assign and you make me fail you by not doing the homework I assign.
4. I am probably the most sarcastic teacher you will ever have.
5. I actually like teaching and if you bring me Starbursts, I may give you extra credit.
I’m telling them all they need to know about me as well as the rules of my class. Yet, they are always surprised when they are not allowed to turn in late work five weeks after it is due. Hmmm…seriously look at the damn syllabus you and your parents, please.
Listening…yep, we all need to do that more. Including me.
With dating (yeah, you knew that was coming) it is extremely important to listen, especially on the first encounter. That first meeting, in the you-tell-me-yours-and-I’ll-tell-you-mine portion of the evening; a man will tell you EXACTLY who he is but we, as women, are rarely listening because all we are thinking about is holding our damn stomachs in and hoping there is not a booger in our noses. We try to listen but we are very busy trying to project fabulousness. We want to be perfect and wonderful on the first few dates (because the real "us" scares the crap out of us) so we don’t actually project the real image of ourselves. It’s more like the CGI version of us. Special effects such as lip gloss, a push up bra, and really good jeans help make us who we would like to be on the first few dates. But let’s face it; they aren’t listening to us either because they too are focused on our push up bras and really good jeans. The lip gloss works nicely too.
Men do it too. Well, hopefully not the push up bra, but the right pair of jeans on a cute guy, just yum, ya know…um, where was I? Oh yeah, things we should listen to.
One guy once told me, “ya know, I’m a real asshole sometimes.” Why was I even remotely confused when he actually was one to me? “I’m not looking for something serious right now.” You want sex, we get it. (Or maybe you would prefer a comedic relationship.) It’s the big things we don’t listen to. Or rather chose not to hear. The little things? Hah! Forget it. It’s not like he is going to say he has no idea how to refill ice cube trays or can’t change the toilet paper or has no idea where you keep the trash bags in the kitchen. Those are just things as older and wiser females we just come to expect. Naturally, we know they will leave their socks nowhere near the hamper because that is just a male thing (my boys already do that). They have no aim, they have stinky feet and are not ashamed of their gas, and well, again, there are just things we women inherently know about men.
I have given up on the projected image of me because I no longer have the tolerance or fortitude to play the silly dating games. Plus, my hair never comes out right when I use CGI.
Anyway, I don’t like playing by “the rules” anymore because they are stupid and energy-sucking and I have no patience for them anyway. I want serenity, damn it, in my dating life. Don’t play games with me and actually listen to what I am telling you. I will then try to do the same for you. If I want to call you after the first date, I’m gonna. If I don’t want to see you again, well, um, well…I will make up a nice story about having to go into the witness relocation program and if you run into me at Trader Joes, to please call me Barbara. I’m honest, just not painfully honest.
Ya see, my on line profile is as honest as it comes. I put it right out there in the first line of the thing, “I am a sarcastic pain in the ass with too many shoes…” Now on that day when I am actually am a pain in the ass, don’t say you weren’t warned. And please, do not mock the wall o’ shoes in my bedroom.
The sentence continues with “…and I have red flames on my mini-van.” I don’t quite understand why people think I am using that as a euphemism for saying I think I am hot. Seriously, I have enormous red flames. On my car. And even though I have these enormous red flames, I can never seem to find my car in The Whole Foods parking lot. Usually Dash spots it, but that’s why he gets an allowance.
You should also know and be warned: there are things people say but don’t actually mean. These are called "codes". Learn ‘em.
“I’m not typical” means you totally are. “I am drama free” means you totally aren’t. A woman says she doesn’t want a commitment, it means she wants to get married in two years. A guy says he doesn’t want a commitment; it means he wants to have sex in two dates. Learn the codes, people. Saves time and energy and lip gloss.
Let’s practice some codes, shall we? If I say, “All I really want is someone to come home to” I mean….Yes! That’s right! It means, we are going to my house to hang out because your house smells like cilantro. Let’s try another one. If a guy says, “I’ll call you”, it means…That’s correct! It means you actually did have a booger in your nose. The whole freakin night. Very good. If he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow” it means two business days. If he says, “You look great in that skirt” it means, “I can totally see your undies through it and thank you”.
See? It’s very easy to decode people. Alright, Bonus Question: if a guy says “I love you” on the very first date it means to run really, really fast, far away or you will end up married with two kids and writing blogs about dating twelve years later.
Okay, that’s the bell. Have a nice day.
Let’s start from the beginning. During the first week of school, I have my students do a short assignment called, “Five things you want Ms Levine to know about you”. They tell me things like, “I am shy please don’t call on me in class.” and “I like the Jonas Brothers but can’t tell my friends because they will think I am gay.” and, my personal favorite, “I don’t like English class so don’t expect me to actually read any of the books you assign.” To that one, I like to respond with, “Then don’t expect me to actually pass you.”
Essentially, the students mean what they say. I do fight to change the ones who don’t wish to talk or read, etc. However, as the year progresses it really is “this is who I am and you should know that because I already told you”. I also do the assignment too. It usually includes the following:
1. I have two children whom I talk about way too much, but you have to listen to me and laugh at my jokes because I am grading you.
2. I am usually overly caffeinated but that is a good thing.
3. I take things personally; like when you don’t do the homework I assign and you make me fail you by not doing the homework I assign.
4. I am probably the most sarcastic teacher you will ever have.
5. I actually like teaching and if you bring me Starbursts, I may give you extra credit.
I’m telling them all they need to know about me as well as the rules of my class. Yet, they are always surprised when they are not allowed to turn in late work five weeks after it is due. Hmmm…seriously look at the damn syllabus you and your parents, please.
Listening…yep, we all need to do that more. Including me.
With dating (yeah, you knew that was coming) it is extremely important to listen, especially on the first encounter. That first meeting, in the you-tell-me-yours-and-I’ll-tell-you-mine portion of the evening; a man will tell you EXACTLY who he is but we, as women, are rarely listening because all we are thinking about is holding our damn stomachs in and hoping there is not a booger in our noses. We try to listen but we are very busy trying to project fabulousness. We want to be perfect and wonderful on the first few dates (because the real "us" scares the crap out of us) so we don’t actually project the real image of ourselves. It’s more like the CGI version of us. Special effects such as lip gloss, a push up bra, and really good jeans help make us who we would like to be on the first few dates. But let’s face it; they aren’t listening to us either because they too are focused on our push up bras and really good jeans. The lip gloss works nicely too.
Men do it too. Well, hopefully not the push up bra, but the right pair of jeans on a cute guy, just yum, ya know…um, where was I? Oh yeah, things we should listen to.
One guy once told me, “ya know, I’m a real asshole sometimes.” Why was I even remotely confused when he actually was one to me? “I’m not looking for something serious right now.” You want sex, we get it. (Or maybe you would prefer a comedic relationship.) It’s the big things we don’t listen to. Or rather chose not to hear. The little things? Hah! Forget it. It’s not like he is going to say he has no idea how to refill ice cube trays or can’t change the toilet paper or has no idea where you keep the trash bags in the kitchen. Those are just things as older and wiser females we just come to expect. Naturally, we know they will leave their socks nowhere near the hamper because that is just a male thing (my boys already do that). They have no aim, they have stinky feet and are not ashamed of their gas, and well, again, there are just things we women inherently know about men.
I have given up on the projected image of me because I no longer have the tolerance or fortitude to play the silly dating games. Plus, my hair never comes out right when I use CGI.
Anyway, I don’t like playing by “the rules” anymore because they are stupid and energy-sucking and I have no patience for them anyway. I want serenity, damn it, in my dating life. Don’t play games with me and actually listen to what I am telling you. I will then try to do the same for you. If I want to call you after the first date, I’m gonna. If I don’t want to see you again, well, um, well…I will make up a nice story about having to go into the witness relocation program and if you run into me at Trader Joes, to please call me Barbara. I’m honest, just not painfully honest.
Ya see, my on line profile is as honest as it comes. I put it right out there in the first line of the thing, “I am a sarcastic pain in the ass with too many shoes…” Now on that day when I am actually am a pain in the ass, don’t say you weren’t warned. And please, do not mock the wall o’ shoes in my bedroom.
The sentence continues with “…and I have red flames on my mini-van.” I don’t quite understand why people think I am using that as a euphemism for saying I think I am hot. Seriously, I have enormous red flames. On my car. And even though I have these enormous red flames, I can never seem to find my car in The Whole Foods parking lot. Usually Dash spots it, but that’s why he gets an allowance.
You should also know and be warned: there are things people say but don’t actually mean. These are called "codes". Learn ‘em.
“I’m not typical” means you totally are. “I am drama free” means you totally aren’t. A woman says she doesn’t want a commitment, it means she wants to get married in two years. A guy says he doesn’t want a commitment; it means he wants to have sex in two dates. Learn the codes, people. Saves time and energy and lip gloss.
Let’s practice some codes, shall we? If I say, “All I really want is someone to come home to” I mean….Yes! That’s right! It means, we are going to my house to hang out because your house smells like cilantro. Let’s try another one. If a guy says, “I’ll call you”, it means…That’s correct! It means you actually did have a booger in your nose. The whole freakin night. Very good. If he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow” it means two business days. If he says, “You look great in that skirt” it means, “I can totally see your undies through it and thank you”.
See? It’s very easy to decode people. Alright, Bonus Question: if a guy says “I love you” on the very first date it means to run really, really fast, far away or you will end up married with two kids and writing blogs about dating twelve years later.
Okay, that’s the bell. Have a nice day.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Are these things on?
So, I finally went out with one of these guys from the whole online dating thing and if he was really 5’11’’ then that would make me 5’10”.
Seriously, if you are going to lie about something to your prospective date, why would you lie about something so un-liable? Something that I will notice if I am a sighted person and when you are standing right next to me. Of course, he was 50, so maybe he used to be 5’11” and now is shrinking. I used to be 5’6”. Now I just wear heels.
Aside from the you-are-not-as-tall-as-you-said-you-were issue, the guy talked faster than I did, wore too much cologne and made no eye contact with my actual eyes. I didn’t even have on a ton of cleavage (pimple was gone by then) and yet, I kind of wanted to tap on my breasts and say, “Is this thing on?” for him. Look, I know they are big. I'm okay with that, but for god sakes, they are just boobs. I know I can still sometimes get free stuff because of them like Erin Brockovich, but come on...seriously, they are not shiny objects that should distract grown men that much.
You should have seen me when I was nursing. Dear god, they were bigger than Max. Like, bigger than he is now and he is seven. Seriously, there was a point with Max when he was an infant where I was a 40G. Yes, you read that right.
Strangely enough and perhaps because the universe likes me sometimes, they are now smaller and still face north. Sometimes in my life that is all I need to get me through my day. Although, smaller is a relative word. When I left my husband at a size 16, they were like a 38DD to an E. Then one day, about six months later, I figured they might be smaller because my bras were no longer fitting. Nordstrom is my favorite placed to get measured. Perhaps because they are actually trained to measure you and aren’t just randomly fondling you like a prom date. So, my Nordstrom boob-guru measures me and says, 32DD. I froze. I looked at her blankly for a moment then yelped with glee, yes, glee was actually yelped. I threw my arms around her neck and hugged her. I told her my brief story,(hah, just noticed that was a pun. Get it? Lingerie section at Nordstrom? “Brief” description? Oh never mind) bought three really expensive bras for my lovely new boobs. Well, older boobs. Older…but happier boobs.
Older but happier. I like that. That kind of describes me. Nope, that totally describes me. I think back on the past and live without regret. Now some of you who know me really, really well are wondering how that is possible (my sister) and are rolling their eyes right now. So to clarify, I will put in the following disclaimer: Although I now live without regret, sometimes, I smile, giggle for a moment and shake my head in a what-was-I-thinking-oh-well-it-made-a-good-story kind of way. Actually I like those moments. Hehehe.
Anyway, someone recently asked me how long I was married and how much of it was good. I said the first couple of years weren’t too bad. Out of ten. To be very honest, with you and myself, the month before I got married, I almost called it off. That was our first fight and it was not pretty. It wasn’t fought well, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure why, but something made me go ahead with it anyway. Perhaps the non-refundable deposits.
However, if I hadn’t gotten married, a few things would have never happened:
1) I would never have had Max and Dash and that would have sucked.
2) I would still be fat and that would have sucked.
3) I wouldn’t have become a teacher and that would have sucked.
4) I would have never become the me I am now and that would have sucked.
No matter how much anguish, distress and Ativan it took me to get to this place right here, right now; sitting in my jammies, watching my children play, wondering if I can get cat pee off of my comforter or if Anna’s Linens is having a sale today…this is the me I really like. Besides the whole boobs-are-pointing-north part of me, I like this whole yes-I’m-exhausted-but-I’m-okay-with-it part of me.
Seriously, if you are going to lie about something to your prospective date, why would you lie about something so un-liable? Something that I will notice if I am a sighted person and when you are standing right next to me. Of course, he was 50, so maybe he used to be 5’11” and now is shrinking. I used to be 5’6”. Now I just wear heels.
Aside from the you-are-not-as-tall-as-you-said-you-were issue, the guy talked faster than I did, wore too much cologne and made no eye contact with my actual eyes. I didn’t even have on a ton of cleavage (pimple was gone by then) and yet, I kind of wanted to tap on my breasts and say, “Is this thing on?” for him. Look, I know they are big. I'm okay with that, but for god sakes, they are just boobs. I know I can still sometimes get free stuff because of them like Erin Brockovich, but come on...seriously, they are not shiny objects that should distract grown men that much.
You should have seen me when I was nursing. Dear god, they were bigger than Max. Like, bigger than he is now and he is seven. Seriously, there was a point with Max when he was an infant where I was a 40G. Yes, you read that right.
Strangely enough and perhaps because the universe likes me sometimes, they are now smaller and still face north. Sometimes in my life that is all I need to get me through my day. Although, smaller is a relative word. When I left my husband at a size 16, they were like a 38DD to an E. Then one day, about six months later, I figured they might be smaller because my bras were no longer fitting. Nordstrom is my favorite placed to get measured. Perhaps because they are actually trained to measure you and aren’t just randomly fondling you like a prom date. So, my Nordstrom boob-guru measures me and says, 32DD. I froze. I looked at her blankly for a moment then yelped with glee, yes, glee was actually yelped. I threw my arms around her neck and hugged her. I told her my brief story,(hah, just noticed that was a pun. Get it? Lingerie section at Nordstrom? “Brief” description? Oh never mind) bought three really expensive bras for my lovely new boobs. Well, older boobs. Older…but happier boobs.
Older but happier. I like that. That kind of describes me. Nope, that totally describes me. I think back on the past and live without regret. Now some of you who know me really, really well are wondering how that is possible (my sister) and are rolling their eyes right now. So to clarify, I will put in the following disclaimer: Although I now live without regret, sometimes, I smile, giggle for a moment and shake my head in a what-was-I-thinking-oh-well-it-made-a-good-story kind of way. Actually I like those moments. Hehehe.
Anyway, someone recently asked me how long I was married and how much of it was good. I said the first couple of years weren’t too bad. Out of ten. To be very honest, with you and myself, the month before I got married, I almost called it off. That was our first fight and it was not pretty. It wasn’t fought well, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure why, but something made me go ahead with it anyway. Perhaps the non-refundable deposits.
However, if I hadn’t gotten married, a few things would have never happened:
1) I would never have had Max and Dash and that would have sucked.
2) I would still be fat and that would have sucked.
3) I wouldn’t have become a teacher and that would have sucked.
4) I would have never become the me I am now and that would have sucked.
No matter how much anguish, distress and Ativan it took me to get to this place right here, right now; sitting in my jammies, watching my children play, wondering if I can get cat pee off of my comforter or if Anna’s Linens is having a sale today…this is the me I really like. Besides the whole boobs-are-pointing-north part of me, I like this whole yes-I’m-exhausted-but-I’m-okay-with-it part of me.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Repetitive Redundancy
This morning, I was watching one of my ninth grade English classes rehearse their scenes for Romeo and Juliet. Seriously, sometimes I really, really like my job. This was one of those times. I got to sit back and watch my re-designated English Learners (that means they are supposed to be totally fluent in reading and writing English now. Key word is “supposed to be”. Don’t go there, No child left behind crap, stupid republicans…) speak the speech of Shakespeare.
Iambic pentameter in the inner city. Coolio.
When we started with Act One of the play, the students read it as if it were in Chinese and I swear, I thought most were going to need Botox the way they squinted and furrowed at the words. Then through translating it into their own language, translating it into “text-speak” and finally relating modern song lyrics to it, they began to read it the way Shakespeare and god had intended it. Well, at least they no longer hated it. Well, at least they were showing up for class.
I love teaching Shakespeare in the hood. If you have never heard the Balcony scene rapped while the rest of the class taps out a beat on the desks in perfect unison…Seriously, such beauty is found there. I was in awe of them. I figure as long as they can do that to it, perhaps they understand it as well. A rose is still a rose. Ya know?
Next week all of the ninth grade classes have to do scenes from Romeo and Juliet with the original language but need to take it out of the Elizabethan time period and put it somewhere else in history and then justify it. It beats making them take standardized tests. So far they have changed the sets to Compton, Ancient Egypt, and a Mafia owned restaurant in New York in the 1920’s. There’s one where Romeo is a zombie too. That one, I am really looking forward to seeing.
Now, because I am a sadistic English teacher, part of their grade will be for memorizing the scenes to be presented next week. Ah, torturing children with English; this is the crap that keeps me young.
“But Ms. Levine,” several of them whined, “I can’t memorize things.”
“Have you ever tried?” I sympathetically asked.
“Um…no, but I know I can’t”. They stare blankly at the ceiling.
I pause and then tentatively say, “But you’ve never tried.” I wait for a response. And then sigh. And then roll my eyes. And then walk back to my desk.
I do that a lot as an English teacher. As a mother too.
“Hey Max, you want to try some carrots today?” I ask every freakin night at dinner.
“Umm…no thanks, mommy. I don’t like them.” He says sweetly, every freakin night at dinner.
“But you’ve never tried them, honey.” I say with a press-on smile, trying not to get frustrated by my children’s eating habits, every freakin night at dinner.
“Um…I know, but I’m sure I won’t like them.” He says omnisciently. Well, as omniscient as a seven year old can be about his disdain for veggies.
“And you Dash?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Um…no thanks mommy. I don’t like them.” He says every freakin night at dinner.
I pause and then tentatively say, “But you’ve never tried them.” I wait for a response. And then sigh. And then roll my eyes. And then walk back into the kitchen.
I guess that time I threatened my children with broccoli was a bad idea. It was funny at the time.
I feel like I repeat myself. A lot. Again and again. Over and over. Becoming redundant and repetitive and redundant and repetitive. A lot.
It would be fun if I could just say something once, have it truly heard and then move on with my life.
As a teacher:
“If you are talking you can’t hear me tell you to be quiet.” “Your assignment was due yesterday.” It might help if you actually wrote down the assignment.”
As a mother:
“No really, it’s time for bed so please stop transforming now.” “Henry the cat does not eat pizza.” “I don’t care if it is January, Santa is still watching you.”
As a new online dater answering emails from prospective dates:
“No, the red flames on my mini-van are not a euphemism for anything. I actually have red flames actually on my actual mini-van.” “It might help if you read my profile.” “Yes, they are real but thanks for asking.
So, I guess writing will have to do. I don’t think I would get my point across if I read it aloud to people because no one seems to be listening. Not that I have many points in my blogs. Which doesn’t really matter because no one is listening anyway. But I will just keep moving onward with them anyway.
I'm sorry, what was I saying? No, seriously.
Iambic pentameter in the inner city. Coolio.
When we started with Act One of the play, the students read it as if it were in Chinese and I swear, I thought most were going to need Botox the way they squinted and furrowed at the words. Then through translating it into their own language, translating it into “text-speak” and finally relating modern song lyrics to it, they began to read it the way Shakespeare and god had intended it. Well, at least they no longer hated it. Well, at least they were showing up for class.
I love teaching Shakespeare in the hood. If you have never heard the Balcony scene rapped while the rest of the class taps out a beat on the desks in perfect unison…Seriously, such beauty is found there. I was in awe of them. I figure as long as they can do that to it, perhaps they understand it as well. A rose is still a rose. Ya know?
Next week all of the ninth grade classes have to do scenes from Romeo and Juliet with the original language but need to take it out of the Elizabethan time period and put it somewhere else in history and then justify it. It beats making them take standardized tests. So far they have changed the sets to Compton, Ancient Egypt, and a Mafia owned restaurant in New York in the 1920’s. There’s one where Romeo is a zombie too. That one, I am really looking forward to seeing.
Now, because I am a sadistic English teacher, part of their grade will be for memorizing the scenes to be presented next week. Ah, torturing children with English; this is the crap that keeps me young.
“But Ms. Levine,” several of them whined, “I can’t memorize things.”
“Have you ever tried?” I sympathetically asked.
“Um…no, but I know I can’t”. They stare blankly at the ceiling.
I pause and then tentatively say, “But you’ve never tried.” I wait for a response. And then sigh. And then roll my eyes. And then walk back to my desk.
I do that a lot as an English teacher. As a mother too.
“Hey Max, you want to try some carrots today?” I ask every freakin night at dinner.
“Umm…no thanks, mommy. I don’t like them.” He says sweetly, every freakin night at dinner.
“But you’ve never tried them, honey.” I say with a press-on smile, trying not to get frustrated by my children’s eating habits, every freakin night at dinner.
“Um…I know, but I’m sure I won’t like them.” He says omnisciently. Well, as omniscient as a seven year old can be about his disdain for veggies.
“And you Dash?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Um…no thanks mommy. I don’t like them.” He says every freakin night at dinner.
I pause and then tentatively say, “But you’ve never tried them.” I wait for a response. And then sigh. And then roll my eyes. And then walk back into the kitchen.
I guess that time I threatened my children with broccoli was a bad idea. It was funny at the time.
I feel like I repeat myself. A lot. Again and again. Over and over. Becoming redundant and repetitive and redundant and repetitive. A lot.
It would be fun if I could just say something once, have it truly heard and then move on with my life.
As a teacher:
“If you are talking you can’t hear me tell you to be quiet.” “Your assignment was due yesterday.” It might help if you actually wrote down the assignment.”
As a mother:
“No really, it’s time for bed so please stop transforming now.” “Henry the cat does not eat pizza.” “I don’t care if it is January, Santa is still watching you.”
As a new online dater answering emails from prospective dates:
“No, the red flames on my mini-van are not a euphemism for anything. I actually have red flames actually on my actual mini-van.” “It might help if you read my profile.” “Yes, they are real but thanks for asking.
So, I guess writing will have to do. I don’t think I would get my point across if I read it aloud to people because no one seems to be listening. Not that I have many points in my blogs. Which doesn’t really matter because no one is listening anyway. But I will just keep moving onward with them anyway.
I'm sorry, what was I saying? No, seriously.
Monday, January 10, 2011
I can’t leave my house; there’s a pimple on my chin.
There is one major difference between Henry the cat and myself. Well, actually there are a lot. I rarely meow, if I wore fur I would get yelled at, and he is male. But the ONE major difference is that he doesn’t care if he gets a pimple because, well, he’s a cat. Cats don’t seem to care about much. Except of course, if they are fed, have their bellies scratched and if there are toes to bite. Hmmm…sounds like someone I once dated, but he wasn’t neutered.
Cats don’t have to have jobs, they can sleep anywhere they choose and they like to kill things and bring them to you, because they still think they are tigers.
Last October, Henry woke me up in the middle of the night by licking my nose. I promptly carried him out, came back to my bed to find, Phineas Schnicklefritz, one of our hamsters, lying dead on my pillow. Oh goody, a gift from Henry to his Kitty-Momma. I came downstairs, put Phineas in a box and outside, and then noticed something on the floor in the kitchen. I turned on the light to find Hamstersaurus Rex (hamster number two) next to Henry’s food bowl. I put him in the box with Phineas and tentatively went to the cage to see that Henry had pushed the cage bars in, presumably with his head and freed all of the hamsters. Then stalked them one by one. The only one that was still not found that night was Kevin. (yes, Kevin. Phineas Schnicklefritz, Hamstersaurus Rex, and…Kevin. I know.)
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen at 5am. It was still dark, I was barefoot, the smell of coffee from my preset coffee pot lulling me into a false sense of security. Then I stepped in...Kevin. Well, a piece of Kevin. Well, actually pieces of Kevin. Three to be exact. Something resembling an organ of some type, a foot and I have no idea what the other furry little piece was. Didn't really examine it too closely.
For the rest of the week, I continually found pieces of Kevin. (which a friend of mine thought would make a really great name for a band) I was warned by my favorite Veterinarian, Terri, this would happen, but ignored it. It was Henry's and the hamsters' destinies, I guess. Rodents and Felines and their ways of life. The hunt, the chase. I really never wanted to experience the food chain in action nor experience it in my own home, but I guess it is all part of their lives. Cycle of life, so to speak.
Like me. Not that I kill hamsters or anything. I thought about it once when Kevin wouldn’t get off the damn wheel at 3am, but never went there. No, I am talking about the cycle of life for a woman. (Did you see that transition coming? Or was it like, a really good twist? I was reticent to compare hamsters and women. Let me know how it goes for me, won’t you?)
I am forty-three, have crow’s feet and yet still, my peri-menopausal self decides it needs to add a pimple to the mix. It’s just not fair. It’s like, just pick one, please. Really, pimples or wrinkles. Just pick one, damn it. Not both, I don’t have the energy for this. And it’s the damn hormonal kind, so it doesn’t matter what I do, once a month, there is always one. Or two. Strategically placed where I would need to cut my bangs or wear a burka to hide it.
Cycle of a woman: born, wear tiaras, chase boys, get your period, let boys chase you, go to college, keep chasing back and forth, eventually have babies, continue to wear tiaras, stretch out the belly a few times, get back on a cycle, then all of a sudden your period goes from 28 days to 40 days to 22 days and you wonder why you are sweating when it is fifty degrees out. It is then, the thought of killing hamsters doesn’t sound so crazy. Ah, the cycle of life.
Then of course we get to add the whole premenstrual-ness to the mix. Tonight, I actually explained what PMS was to my male children. I told them I was glad they were guys so they would never have to experience this themselves. At least not until they are in serious relationships with girls over the age of twelve.
“Well, what exactly is DMS?” asked Max.
“Well it’s PMS, honey, it’s a girl thing. It’s when mommy yells, then cries then starts laughing and then cries again.”
“Oh…that.” Max sighed and clutched his teddy-bear named Rivet. “Yep, that doesn’t sound like fun, mommy. I’m glad I have a penis.”
“Me too.” said Dash. “Penises are great.”
And that was the discussion I had with my boys before bedtime. They are going to need therapy someday, aren’t they?
Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane. Same difference.
The thought of sharing my Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane self with more males than Max and Dash and Henry is a bit daunting. I would have to get my own red tent for the back yard.
I try really hard not to schedule dates during THAT time of the month because I would like to appear sane to my prospective dates. However, if I were in a relationship, wouldn’t that allow the guy I was in the relationship with to see that part of me that scares even me? Dear god, not a freakin chance in hell. Forget it, I am staying single and perhaps will start dating again when this crap passes. Like when I am sixty. But then I would have to date sixty year old men…never mind.
I actually have a date tomorrow. I may have to cancel if this thing on my chin doesn’t go away. Of course, if I just wear something with cleavage, he may never notice.
Perhaps I should have put a note at the top of this bloggy thing to warn men of the menstrual contents.
Well, too late. Bite me, I'm pre-menstrual.
Cats don’t have to have jobs, they can sleep anywhere they choose and they like to kill things and bring them to you, because they still think they are tigers.
Last October, Henry woke me up in the middle of the night by licking my nose. I promptly carried him out, came back to my bed to find, Phineas Schnicklefritz, one of our hamsters, lying dead on my pillow. Oh goody, a gift from Henry to his Kitty-Momma. I came downstairs, put Phineas in a box and outside, and then noticed something on the floor in the kitchen. I turned on the light to find Hamstersaurus Rex (hamster number two) next to Henry’s food bowl. I put him in the box with Phineas and tentatively went to the cage to see that Henry had pushed the cage bars in, presumably with his head and freed all of the hamsters. Then stalked them one by one. The only one that was still not found that night was Kevin. (yes, Kevin. Phineas Schnicklefritz, Hamstersaurus Rex, and…Kevin. I know.)
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen at 5am. It was still dark, I was barefoot, the smell of coffee from my preset coffee pot lulling me into a false sense of security. Then I stepped in...Kevin. Well, a piece of Kevin. Well, actually pieces of Kevin. Three to be exact. Something resembling an organ of some type, a foot and I have no idea what the other furry little piece was. Didn't really examine it too closely.
For the rest of the week, I continually found pieces of Kevin. (which a friend of mine thought would make a really great name for a band) I was warned by my favorite Veterinarian, Terri, this would happen, but ignored it. It was Henry's and the hamsters' destinies, I guess. Rodents and Felines and their ways of life. The hunt, the chase. I really never wanted to experience the food chain in action nor experience it in my own home, but I guess it is all part of their lives. Cycle of life, so to speak.
Like me. Not that I kill hamsters or anything. I thought about it once when Kevin wouldn’t get off the damn wheel at 3am, but never went there. No, I am talking about the cycle of life for a woman. (Did you see that transition coming? Or was it like, a really good twist? I was reticent to compare hamsters and women. Let me know how it goes for me, won’t you?)
I am forty-three, have crow’s feet and yet still, my peri-menopausal self decides it needs to add a pimple to the mix. It’s just not fair. It’s like, just pick one, please. Really, pimples or wrinkles. Just pick one, damn it. Not both, I don’t have the energy for this. And it’s the damn hormonal kind, so it doesn’t matter what I do, once a month, there is always one. Or two. Strategically placed where I would need to cut my bangs or wear a burka to hide it.
Cycle of a woman: born, wear tiaras, chase boys, get your period, let boys chase you, go to college, keep chasing back and forth, eventually have babies, continue to wear tiaras, stretch out the belly a few times, get back on a cycle, then all of a sudden your period goes from 28 days to 40 days to 22 days and you wonder why you are sweating when it is fifty degrees out. It is then, the thought of killing hamsters doesn’t sound so crazy. Ah, the cycle of life.
Then of course we get to add the whole premenstrual-ness to the mix. Tonight, I actually explained what PMS was to my male children. I told them I was glad they were guys so they would never have to experience this themselves. At least not until they are in serious relationships with girls over the age of twelve.
“Well, what exactly is DMS?” asked Max.
“Well it’s PMS, honey, it’s a girl thing. It’s when mommy yells, then cries then starts laughing and then cries again.”
“Oh…that.” Max sighed and clutched his teddy-bear named Rivet. “Yep, that doesn’t sound like fun, mommy. I’m glad I have a penis.”
“Me too.” said Dash. “Penises are great.”
And that was the discussion I had with my boys before bedtime. They are going to need therapy someday, aren’t they?
Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane. Same difference.
The thought of sharing my Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane self with more males than Max and Dash and Henry is a bit daunting. I would have to get my own red tent for the back yard.
I try really hard not to schedule dates during THAT time of the month because I would like to appear sane to my prospective dates. However, if I were in a relationship, wouldn’t that allow the guy I was in the relationship with to see that part of me that scares even me? Dear god, not a freakin chance in hell. Forget it, I am staying single and perhaps will start dating again when this crap passes. Like when I am sixty. But then I would have to date sixty year old men…never mind.
I actually have a date tomorrow. I may have to cancel if this thing on my chin doesn’t go away. Of course, if I just wear something with cleavage, he may never notice.
Perhaps I should have put a note at the top of this bloggy thing to warn men of the menstrual contents.
Well, too late. Bite me, I'm pre-menstrual.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Seriously, men should come with references.
About fifteen years ago, I was single and thirty years old and wanted to get married already and have kids. Not much has changed, except for the wanting to get married part and I already have kids. Oh, and I’m forty-three. So, I guess a lot has changed. Even with all of that change, really, not much has changed. Yes, I love contradicting myself. Yes, I know, I am my own dichotomy. Actually, I am my doppelganger, but that’s another story for another time.
I used to allow my friends and family to fix me up on blind dates because of the wonderful advice I used to get from my Grandma Sylvia, “wear a sweater, you never know”. I wrote about this in my first blog, but for my new followers (all fifteen of you), I will explain. I like the idea of the figurative quality of this statement: Always be prepared because life is an adventure; you never know where life will take you; buy your own condoms, etc. And, hey, if you are cold, then it totally works as well. Man, I miss her. Grandma Sylvia rocked.
My grandmother, back then, wanted to fix me up with some grandson of some friend who lived in LA. How could I say no to my grandmother? Seriously, she was the grandmother, so if I didn’t say yes, then I would hear about it at the Passover seder forever. And ever. It would be the fifth question.
Obviously, I said fine. The guy, whose name I totally don’t remember (blocked it out) looked like Mr. Potato Head although I think I was actually more sexually attracted to the real Mr. Potato Head then to this guy. After the 45 minute coffee clutch, he decided a friend of his might be a much better match for me. Really. I am not kidding. Yep, my blind date wanted to fix me up on a blind date. At first I thought, you are Mr. Potato Head and YOU are not attracted to ME? Seriously? And then, the thought of what a great story this would make kicked in and I decided to be fixed up with his friend. I know, I know, I had very few hobbies back then. I didn’t even have my fun little bloggy blog yet. However, I said okay anyway. (sweater mentality)
The friend was actually not too bad, we dated a few times, but that is not the point. Just a really great story. I mean how many of you actually can say they were fixed up on a blind date by a blind date? Yeah, I know.
The point is that both of these young men came with references. They knew someone I did and therefore, I was assured they were not serial killers. Even though most serial killers were more attractive than these two.
Nowadays, with this whole online dating thing, there are no references. There is no way you can actually know if the wonderfully sardonic profile was written by that genuine guy or if any of it is even true. They could be paid escorts that pander to the over forty set (no, don’t go there) or mass murderers or worse, republicans. You try to be open minded and enjoy the mystery of giving someone your phone number and having a great two hour conversation with them. You laugh at their jokes, you listen to their stories you count how many questions they actually ask you and if they are even listening to you; and they seem really great, but in the back of your mind you are thinking, “serial killer”. Even if and when you actually go out with one of these prospective dates you will never know if they are sincere or full of shit. (I keep saying you, but in reality, I think you all know I mean me. I mean, it is my blog...)
My big sister, Elyse, has requested I do the following for any man I actually meet in person from the online dating thing. For safety purposes only. Which I totally appreciate.
1) Call my best friend, Kelly, and tell her where I am going. Time, location, etc.
2) Keep all phone numbers of men I will be going out with on my computer so the police have a lead when I have been murdered and left in a dumpster.
3) Don’t shave my legs.
So, just for my big sis, I will follow her rules. This however will be bad in the summer when I want to wear a skirt.
You can’t actually google someone until you have a last name. And yes, we all do it. Whenever we meet someone new, we try to find out if they are googleable. That’s a word now. Even if it’s not, I just made it up, so it is now. Says me, the English teacher.
On the online profile, there should be a link to a police website to see warrants and arrest records. I am not talking credit checks, because that would make most men not want to date me. Plus they would see just how much I owe on my student loans.
This anonymity thing is starting to get old (and its only been like, a week. I haven't actually seen one of these guys in person. Yet.).
Mystery, dear prospective dates, does not mean you are sexy and cool. It just means you are not telling me something. Just tell me who you are. Seriously, I am sure it is not that bad.
Oh, who am I kidding...
I used to allow my friends and family to fix me up on blind dates because of the wonderful advice I used to get from my Grandma Sylvia, “wear a sweater, you never know”. I wrote about this in my first blog, but for my new followers (all fifteen of you), I will explain. I like the idea of the figurative quality of this statement: Always be prepared because life is an adventure; you never know where life will take you; buy your own condoms, etc. And, hey, if you are cold, then it totally works as well. Man, I miss her. Grandma Sylvia rocked.
My grandmother, back then, wanted to fix me up with some grandson of some friend who lived in LA. How could I say no to my grandmother? Seriously, she was the grandmother, so if I didn’t say yes, then I would hear about it at the Passover seder forever. And ever. It would be the fifth question.
Obviously, I said fine. The guy, whose name I totally don’t remember (blocked it out) looked like Mr. Potato Head although I think I was actually more sexually attracted to the real Mr. Potato Head then to this guy. After the 45 minute coffee clutch, he decided a friend of his might be a much better match for me. Really. I am not kidding. Yep, my blind date wanted to fix me up on a blind date. At first I thought, you are Mr. Potato Head and YOU are not attracted to ME? Seriously? And then, the thought of what a great story this would make kicked in and I decided to be fixed up with his friend. I know, I know, I had very few hobbies back then. I didn’t even have my fun little bloggy blog yet. However, I said okay anyway. (sweater mentality)
The friend was actually not too bad, we dated a few times, but that is not the point. Just a really great story. I mean how many of you actually can say they were fixed up on a blind date by a blind date? Yeah, I know.
The point is that both of these young men came with references. They knew someone I did and therefore, I was assured they were not serial killers. Even though most serial killers were more attractive than these two.
Nowadays, with this whole online dating thing, there are no references. There is no way you can actually know if the wonderfully sardonic profile was written by that genuine guy or if any of it is even true. They could be paid escorts that pander to the over forty set (no, don’t go there) or mass murderers or worse, republicans. You try to be open minded and enjoy the mystery of giving someone your phone number and having a great two hour conversation with them. You laugh at their jokes, you listen to their stories you count how many questions they actually ask you and if they are even listening to you; and they seem really great, but in the back of your mind you are thinking, “serial killer”. Even if and when you actually go out with one of these prospective dates you will never know if they are sincere or full of shit. (I keep saying you, but in reality, I think you all know I mean me. I mean, it is my blog...)
My big sister, Elyse, has requested I do the following for any man I actually meet in person from the online dating thing. For safety purposes only. Which I totally appreciate.
1) Call my best friend, Kelly, and tell her where I am going. Time, location, etc.
2) Keep all phone numbers of men I will be going out with on my computer so the police have a lead when I have been murdered and left in a dumpster.
3) Don’t shave my legs.
So, just for my big sis, I will follow her rules. This however will be bad in the summer when I want to wear a skirt.
You can’t actually google someone until you have a last name. And yes, we all do it. Whenever we meet someone new, we try to find out if they are googleable. That’s a word now. Even if it’s not, I just made it up, so it is now. Says me, the English teacher.
On the online profile, there should be a link to a police website to see warrants and arrest records. I am not talking credit checks, because that would make most men not want to date me. Plus they would see just how much I owe on my student loans.
This anonymity thing is starting to get old (and its only been like, a week. I haven't actually seen one of these guys in person. Yet.).
Mystery, dear prospective dates, does not mean you are sexy and cool. It just means you are not telling me something. Just tell me who you are. Seriously, I am sure it is not that bad.
Oh, who am I kidding...
Thursday, January 6, 2011
If the shoe fits…
I have two sons. Max and Dash. They are seriously (and I don’t just say this because I grew them in my belly) the coolest kids I know. Max is dramatic, very smart, sensitive and already a lady’s man. He has at least two girlfriends and decides every play date with a female child is a date and he not only has to hold her hand but open the door for her as well. Dash is my independent explorer who must do everything by himself except of course, sleep. If I had a nickel for every time I have fallen asleep in that little guy’s bed, well, there would be, like, a whole, um, pile of nickels. (I really need to find a new way of ending that phrase)
Normally I am the TV-patrol and allow no television on school nights. Although I am back to work, Max is still on vacation and well, Dash is still in pre-school. I know Dash has an arduous day ahead of him tomorrow of contemplating crayons and discussing who has the bigger booger in their nose. Right now Dash is learning to read and do math, and he is totally flabbergasted by the concept of zero. He can not quite grasp that if you subtract zero, you will still have the same number you started with. The idea of something actually not having anything to it, no value, is foreign to him. Personally, I think it actually pisses him off. I guess he just wants all things to have some sort of value. I have no idea why I am telling you this; but it just fascinates me. That idea of not being able to accept that nothing from nothing leaves nothing (ya gotta have something/if ya wanna be with me). (You are all singing that song now, aren’t you?)
Digressing now, I promise. There was actually a point here. I’m not just overtired and squinky from going back to work this week. Well, actually I am, but…
SO! Tonight, my boys, my sensitive, radiant and non-egotistical male children requested to watch Cinderella. They even brought me the pink and sparkly tiara to wear while watching it. Dash likes to bring me the tiara when he wants to play super heroes. He thinks it makes me Super Mommy and let’s face it, it does. If I could, I would wear the damn thing while grocery shopping.
Tonight, I was overwhelmed by their sensitivity and just the mere idea they wanted to watch a movie where nothing exploded. Although, Cinderella does transform, she is not an Autobot. She is cartoon beauty. My children were riveted and loved the happy ending. Ah, my boys. Mommy is so proud.
Now, after watching this wonderful, albeit sexist and unrealistic portrayal of love; I came to a few conclusions:
1. Love at first sight can only exist with a pumpkin, some mice and a godmother.
2. Evil people make us try harder to do the things we really want to do.
3. If birds and mice can sew, do you think they could do my laundry?
4. Cartoon men seem to be hotter and more wonderful than men in real life. Even though they are not drawn anatomically correct, they seem to know exactly what they do and do not want.
5. Dressing small animals in clothing will assure the finding of true love.
6. Women magically look better with sparkly clothes and their hair up.
7. True love cannot exist without a rockin' pair of shoes.
8. Disney does not seem to like mothers. I mean, look at Bambi, Finding Nemo, Dumbo, The Apple Dumpling Gang, and Chicken Little just to name a few. All moms in these films are either dead before it starts, killed in the movie or chained up because they are a crazy elephant. Even in The Goofy Movie, Goofy is raising Max, his son on his own. Seriously, Walt had some issues.
9. Mean girls have big feet.
10. And finally, it doesn’t matter if you are a seven year old lego-loving boy or an over forty cynical and jaded mommy, we all love the idea of happily ever after.
Okay, even if all of this happily ever after crap doesn’t exist, it is always fun finding out if it does. I mean, I wouldn’t have the heart to tell my boys that love at first sight is really just a combination of pheromones, lust, timing and really good lighting. Throw in a really good hair day, and even I could be Cinderella. Although I prefer my shoes to be Italian leather.
I hate how they may find out some day how icky people can be and how love can make you do stupid things. How the world nor people are not perfect. But I can’t shield them from everything. Sometimes I wish I had this gigantic magic umbrella just to shelter them from anything that might physically or emotionally hurt them. But I know that is just as realistic as mice who design designer apparel.
After I left my husband, my sister gave me a silver bracelet with the inscription “…and she lived happily ever after.” And just so you know…she is trying her best to do so.
Seriously.
Normally I am the TV-patrol and allow no television on school nights. Although I am back to work, Max is still on vacation and well, Dash is still in pre-school. I know Dash has an arduous day ahead of him tomorrow of contemplating crayons and discussing who has the bigger booger in their nose. Right now Dash is learning to read and do math, and he is totally flabbergasted by the concept of zero. He can not quite grasp that if you subtract zero, you will still have the same number you started with. The idea of something actually not having anything to it, no value, is foreign to him. Personally, I think it actually pisses him off. I guess he just wants all things to have some sort of value. I have no idea why I am telling you this; but it just fascinates me. That idea of not being able to accept that nothing from nothing leaves nothing (ya gotta have something/if ya wanna be with me). (You are all singing that song now, aren’t you?)
Digressing now, I promise. There was actually a point here. I’m not just overtired and squinky from going back to work this week. Well, actually I am, but…
SO! Tonight, my boys, my sensitive, radiant and non-egotistical male children requested to watch Cinderella. They even brought me the pink and sparkly tiara to wear while watching it. Dash likes to bring me the tiara when he wants to play super heroes. He thinks it makes me Super Mommy and let’s face it, it does. If I could, I would wear the damn thing while grocery shopping.
Tonight, I was overwhelmed by their sensitivity and just the mere idea they wanted to watch a movie where nothing exploded. Although, Cinderella does transform, she is not an Autobot. She is cartoon beauty. My children were riveted and loved the happy ending. Ah, my boys. Mommy is so proud.
Now, after watching this wonderful, albeit sexist and unrealistic portrayal of love; I came to a few conclusions:
1. Love at first sight can only exist with a pumpkin, some mice and a godmother.
2. Evil people make us try harder to do the things we really want to do.
3. If birds and mice can sew, do you think they could do my laundry?
4. Cartoon men seem to be hotter and more wonderful than men in real life. Even though they are not drawn anatomically correct, they seem to know exactly what they do and do not want.
5. Dressing small animals in clothing will assure the finding of true love.
6. Women magically look better with sparkly clothes and their hair up.
7. True love cannot exist without a rockin' pair of shoes.
8. Disney does not seem to like mothers. I mean, look at Bambi, Finding Nemo, Dumbo, The Apple Dumpling Gang, and Chicken Little just to name a few. All moms in these films are either dead before it starts, killed in the movie or chained up because they are a crazy elephant. Even in The Goofy Movie, Goofy is raising Max, his son on his own. Seriously, Walt had some issues.
9. Mean girls have big feet.
10. And finally, it doesn’t matter if you are a seven year old lego-loving boy or an over forty cynical and jaded mommy, we all love the idea of happily ever after.
Okay, even if all of this happily ever after crap doesn’t exist, it is always fun finding out if it does. I mean, I wouldn’t have the heart to tell my boys that love at first sight is really just a combination of pheromones, lust, timing and really good lighting. Throw in a really good hair day, and even I could be Cinderella. Although I prefer my shoes to be Italian leather.
I hate how they may find out some day how icky people can be and how love can make you do stupid things. How the world nor people are not perfect. But I can’t shield them from everything. Sometimes I wish I had this gigantic magic umbrella just to shelter them from anything that might physically or emotionally hurt them. But I know that is just as realistic as mice who design designer apparel.
After I left my husband, my sister gave me a silver bracelet with the inscription “…and she lived happily ever after.” And just so you know…she is trying her best to do so.
Seriously.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
"Stuff" is not an excuse.
So, this computer dating thing is…fun. Not like I have gone out with anyone yet. Let’s just take this slowly. One step at a time. It’s hard to want to go out with someone when all you can think of is “Are they a serial killer?” “Are they full of crap?” “Seriously, you are thirty and you want to go out with me?”
The phrase, “yes, but what is wrong with you” is all I can think with these messages I am getting. All of these questions and more go through my little head in these little I.M. conversations and emails. Who are you people anyway?
Some of the profiles don’t tell much and some tell waaaaaaay too much. A few of the gentlemen need to cut back on the caffeine before writing these. Not me, of course. Mine is snarky and those of you who know me, well, it’s pretty much me. I went back onto match.com and am still frightened by all of the men who have winked at me. Seriously, what type of men am I attracting anyway?
For example, some of the profiles that embrace me as one of their “favorites” include rants about how “Israel is a war machine” (did you see that I am Jewish?) and how they were "raised on football and Jesus” (again, Jewish here). I love when they say they are “not typical guys”. That seems to be the typical guy-thing to say so their stating they are not “typical” kinda negates the whole "typical” angle. In fact, they just become standard issue guys. Then there are the guys who admit to being Justin Beiber fans; men who tell you they are “on a journey of self discovery (find yourself and then get back to me, please); men who once again, use the word “awesome” just way to freakin much; and is it me, or is sushi like a euphemism for something or do people just really like sushi? This, my friends is where my mind goes. Sad, but true.
I did have tentative plans with a…what the hell would you call him…hmmm…a possibility? A maybe-date? Prospective annoyance later in life, perhaps? Getting ahead of myself, huh?
Anyway, he messaged me that he couldn’t meet because “he had stuff to do”. Stuff? Seriously? Boy oh boy, that just made me what to change my name to Mrs. Forty-year-old-guy-who-has-no-clue. Seriously, it was a good hair day and everything. Not that I have anything against stuff. I happen to have oodles of stuff to do. I have piles of stuff to do. Really, there is a stuff pile on my desk right now. Oh wait, that’s Henry the cat. Anyway, just, could you just be more specific so I don’t think you are either working for the CIA or burying your last online dating partner’s body. Really, I ask for so little. Just someone normal. Someone without a criminal record or an “awesome ride”.
I have also noticed what fun it is as well to describe my lack of free time to these men. Yep, I know I would love to go out with a guy who has like, one night a week free or needs a babysitter on weeknights but has to be home by 10pm because she has to be up at 5am. Hot.
The under thirty-fives’s seem to think it is endearing how I am a single mom. Like its cute or something. Of course they are going to meet me and think, yep the dark circles kinda give away that I am over forty.
Crap, dating sucks.
I think I am premenstrual.
The phrase, “yes, but what is wrong with you” is all I can think with these messages I am getting. All of these questions and more go through my little head in these little I.M. conversations and emails. Who are you people anyway?
Some of the profiles don’t tell much and some tell waaaaaaay too much. A few of the gentlemen need to cut back on the caffeine before writing these. Not me, of course. Mine is snarky and those of you who know me, well, it’s pretty much me. I went back onto match.com and am still frightened by all of the men who have winked at me. Seriously, what type of men am I attracting anyway?
For example, some of the profiles that embrace me as one of their “favorites” include rants about how “Israel is a war machine” (did you see that I am Jewish?) and how they were "raised on football and Jesus” (again, Jewish here). I love when they say they are “not typical guys”. That seems to be the typical guy-thing to say so their stating they are not “typical” kinda negates the whole "typical” angle. In fact, they just become standard issue guys. Then there are the guys who admit to being Justin Beiber fans; men who tell you they are “on a journey of self discovery (find yourself and then get back to me, please); men who once again, use the word “awesome” just way to freakin much; and is it me, or is sushi like a euphemism for something or do people just really like sushi? This, my friends is where my mind goes. Sad, but true.
I did have tentative plans with a…what the hell would you call him…hmmm…a possibility? A maybe-date? Prospective annoyance later in life, perhaps? Getting ahead of myself, huh?
Anyway, he messaged me that he couldn’t meet because “he had stuff to do”. Stuff? Seriously? Boy oh boy, that just made me what to change my name to Mrs. Forty-year-old-guy-who-has-no-clue. Seriously, it was a good hair day and everything. Not that I have anything against stuff. I happen to have oodles of stuff to do. I have piles of stuff to do. Really, there is a stuff pile on my desk right now. Oh wait, that’s Henry the cat. Anyway, just, could you just be more specific so I don’t think you are either working for the CIA or burying your last online dating partner’s body. Really, I ask for so little. Just someone normal. Someone without a criminal record or an “awesome ride”.
I have also noticed what fun it is as well to describe my lack of free time to these men. Yep, I know I would love to go out with a guy who has like, one night a week free or needs a babysitter on weeknights but has to be home by 10pm because she has to be up at 5am. Hot.
The under thirty-fives’s seem to think it is endearing how I am a single mom. Like its cute or something. Of course they are going to meet me and think, yep the dark circles kinda give away that I am over forty.
Crap, dating sucks.
I think I am premenstrual.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
And now back to my previously scheduled schedule…
Starting back tomorrow it will be as follows:
5am wake up
5:05am pour coffee
5:10am log on to computer
5:15am pour second cup of coffee
5:30am get dressed and become Ms. Levine teacher extraordinaire
5:55am pick out shoes.
6am still picking out shoes
6am change shoes
6:10am make Max and Dash’s breakfast with super-hero chocolate milk (ok, seriously this non-sugared-decaffeinated-chocolate powder has like, 33 veggies and fruits in it. Which works out well since my children hate most foods.)
6:12am pour second cup of coffee
6:15am wake children by singing annoying songs until they actually get out of their beds.
6:30am wait for babysitter to arrive while feeding children breakfast and watching Transformers
6:40am pray that her wonderful babysitter has not overslept again and hope he is now using the alarm clock she bought him for Christmas.
6:45am leave for work.
6:48am return to house for the things she forgot
7am(ish) arrive at work to be the advisor for the Newspaper Club
8am start teaching
3:45pm stop teaching
4:30pm arrive at gym for 30 minute on the treadmill and 10 minutes of abs or arms or butt or whatever really needs the work out.
5:30pm pick up kids
6:15pm make dinner and lunches for the next day
6:20pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:18pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:23pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:30pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
7pm dinner and hanging out with my boys (Dash is really into family game night)
8pm clean children
8:20pm read books and tuck them into bed
8:45pm chase Henry, the cat out of the boy’s room
9pm put Dash back into his bed and promise to snuggle with him
10pm wake up in Dash’s bed (nice nap)
10:05pm contemplate grading papers
10:07pm clean me
10:30pm read what I am teaching the next day
11ish fall asleep with the cat
3am kick the cat out for biting my toes
5am wake up
Wow, no wonder I slept so much on vacation…
5am wake up
5:05am pour coffee
5:10am log on to computer
5:15am pour second cup of coffee
5:30am get dressed and become Ms. Levine teacher extraordinaire
5:55am pick out shoes.
6am still picking out shoes
6am change shoes
6:10am make Max and Dash’s breakfast with super-hero chocolate milk (ok, seriously this non-sugared-decaffeinated-chocolate powder has like, 33 veggies and fruits in it. Which works out well since my children hate most foods.)
6:12am pour second cup of coffee
6:15am wake children by singing annoying songs until they actually get out of their beds.
6:30am wait for babysitter to arrive while feeding children breakfast and watching Transformers
6:40am pray that her wonderful babysitter has not overslept again and hope he is now using the alarm clock she bought him for Christmas.
6:45am leave for work.
6:48am return to house for the things she forgot
7am(ish) arrive at work to be the advisor for the Newspaper Club
8am start teaching
3:45pm stop teaching
4:30pm arrive at gym for 30 minute on the treadmill and 10 minutes of abs or arms or butt or whatever really needs the work out.
5:30pm pick up kids
6:15pm make dinner and lunches for the next day
6:20pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:18pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:23pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:30pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
7pm dinner and hanging out with my boys (Dash is really into family game night)
8pm clean children
8:20pm read books and tuck them into bed
8:45pm chase Henry, the cat out of the boy’s room
9pm put Dash back into his bed and promise to snuggle with him
10pm wake up in Dash’s bed (nice nap)
10:05pm contemplate grading papers
10:07pm clean me
10:30pm read what I am teaching the next day
11ish fall asleep with the cat
3am kick the cat out for biting my toes
5am wake up
Wow, no wonder I slept so much on vacation…
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Change and the world laughs with you. No, wait…
“We must become the change we want to see”. Gandhi. I like him.
I used to fear change, now I seem to embrace it. The past two years, for me, have been all about change. Change of address, change of marital status, change of pants size, yep a whole mess of change. In fact, if I had a nickel for all of the change that has occurred in the past two years, I would have a whole piggy bank full of change.
I have approximately 30 or so hours of vacation left. 5am Monday morning is looming over me like a gigantic gargoyle. I love teaching, don’t get me wrong, but hanging with my boys and making cool things out of legos while still in our jammies, is such a nice change from hearing, “was anything due today, Ms Levine?” Again, if annoying questions from my students were nickels…just sayin’.
Since it is New Years Day, I have some intentions for this upcoming year. I like to call these silly bets I have with myself INTENTIONS instead of RESOLUTIONS. Anything I tend to RESOLVE to do, ends up not being resolved or resolute in any fashion. This then makes me feel like a total failure and not very pretty. However, if I INTEND to do something, then it kinda sorta takes the pressure off of me and I can focus on what I intend to do and in the end, actually accomplish them. You see, good intentions are the hobgoblins of little minds. No, wait. Good intentions pave the path to the devil’s playground. No, wait. Crap, now I have confused myself. Anyway, the point is, is that I have gotten very good at my New Year’s Intentions.
Take graduate school. Three years ago I INTENDED to get into the master’s program for teaching at USC. I began that January 2008, filled with fabulous intentions, objectives and purpose. I studied diligently for the GRE’s, learning algebra again, for the first time. I studied 3 hours a day for that mind numbing test along with all of the other fun California teacher tests. Seriously, my head just hurts when I think about the Pythagorean theorem and parallelograms and anything that had letters instead of numbers. That is one thing my right brain could just never understand. How the hell can you add two letters? Is their amount based on where they fall in the line in the alphabet? And why is always x and y? Why not k or j? Why is there letter discrimination? Seriously, I just don’t get it and please don’t try to explain it to me or I will start to cry or start throwing things at you or both.
But I digress. Long story short, I got in.
So, the MAT (Masters of Arts of Teaching) program began in June of 2008. My son, Max, liked to call it the Jedi Masters program. The summer session was nine weeks long and in the seventh week of it, I left my husband. Yep, took the kids, hopped into the flaming minivan and scooted. Then this bizarre thing happened. Yes, more bizarre than having a flaming mini-van or my need to make three types of cupcakes for my New Year’s Eve party last night. One day I was having a small anxiety attack while contemplating my primary language literacy paper. I thought to myself, “Can I do this? Seriously, can I really do this?” Then I heard this voice. It sort of sounded like Kathleen Turner because I like to have my inner guide be a sexy woman’s voice. No idea why. The voice said, “You have no choice BUT to do this. It is not a question of how you will do this; it is only a question of when you will finish this.” You are totally hearing Kathleen Turner’s voice right now, aren’t you? I know! She is like the best inner spirit voice ever!
So, yep, I realized I had no choice but to finish it because I had these two very cute boys who depended on me. I was totally responsible for them. And even worse, I was totally responsible for me as well. So I sucked it up, stopped sleeping so much and bang! Fourteen months and seventy pounds later, I was divorced, a teacher and a Master Jedi.
Wait a second. Ok, I have totally lost my train of thought and have no idea what I originally wanted this blog to be about anymore. I really have to pay more attention to myself when I am writing. I started with a Gandhi quote…hmm…something about intentions? Or change?
Oh, yeah, I remember now. Change is good.
Oh whatever. Happy New Year. Seriously.
I used to fear change, now I seem to embrace it. The past two years, for me, have been all about change. Change of address, change of marital status, change of pants size, yep a whole mess of change. In fact, if I had a nickel for all of the change that has occurred in the past two years, I would have a whole piggy bank full of change.
I have approximately 30 or so hours of vacation left. 5am Monday morning is looming over me like a gigantic gargoyle. I love teaching, don’t get me wrong, but hanging with my boys and making cool things out of legos while still in our jammies, is such a nice change from hearing, “was anything due today, Ms Levine?” Again, if annoying questions from my students were nickels…just sayin’.
Since it is New Years Day, I have some intentions for this upcoming year. I like to call these silly bets I have with myself INTENTIONS instead of RESOLUTIONS. Anything I tend to RESOLVE to do, ends up not being resolved or resolute in any fashion. This then makes me feel like a total failure and not very pretty. However, if I INTEND to do something, then it kinda sorta takes the pressure off of me and I can focus on what I intend to do and in the end, actually accomplish them. You see, good intentions are the hobgoblins of little minds. No, wait. Good intentions pave the path to the devil’s playground. No, wait. Crap, now I have confused myself. Anyway, the point is, is that I have gotten very good at my New Year’s Intentions.
Take graduate school. Three years ago I INTENDED to get into the master’s program for teaching at USC. I began that January 2008, filled with fabulous intentions, objectives and purpose. I studied diligently for the GRE’s, learning algebra again, for the first time. I studied 3 hours a day for that mind numbing test along with all of the other fun California teacher tests. Seriously, my head just hurts when I think about the Pythagorean theorem and parallelograms and anything that had letters instead of numbers. That is one thing my right brain could just never understand. How the hell can you add two letters? Is their amount based on where they fall in the line in the alphabet? And why is always x and y? Why not k or j? Why is there letter discrimination? Seriously, I just don’t get it and please don’t try to explain it to me or I will start to cry or start throwing things at you or both.
But I digress. Long story short, I got in.
So, the MAT (Masters of Arts of Teaching) program began in June of 2008. My son, Max, liked to call it the Jedi Masters program. The summer session was nine weeks long and in the seventh week of it, I left my husband. Yep, took the kids, hopped into the flaming minivan and scooted. Then this bizarre thing happened. Yes, more bizarre than having a flaming mini-van or my need to make three types of cupcakes for my New Year’s Eve party last night. One day I was having a small anxiety attack while contemplating my primary language literacy paper. I thought to myself, “Can I do this? Seriously, can I really do this?” Then I heard this voice. It sort of sounded like Kathleen Turner because I like to have my inner guide be a sexy woman’s voice. No idea why. The voice said, “You have no choice BUT to do this. It is not a question of how you will do this; it is only a question of when you will finish this.” You are totally hearing Kathleen Turner’s voice right now, aren’t you? I know! She is like the best inner spirit voice ever!
So, yep, I realized I had no choice but to finish it because I had these two very cute boys who depended on me. I was totally responsible for them. And even worse, I was totally responsible for me as well. So I sucked it up, stopped sleeping so much and bang! Fourteen months and seventy pounds later, I was divorced, a teacher and a Master Jedi.
Wait a second. Ok, I have totally lost my train of thought and have no idea what I originally wanted this blog to be about anymore. I really have to pay more attention to myself when I am writing. I started with a Gandhi quote…hmm…something about intentions? Or change?
Oh, yeah, I remember now. Change is good.
Oh whatever. Happy New Year. Seriously.
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