After I had finished my blog last night, ladened with strep throat, a massive headache, swollen glands (And not the good kind); coming off of my second day of horizontal-ness (again, not in a good way), my children arrived a few minutes later and I had to magically turn back into a Mommy. Seriously. Dear god, single motherhood blows when you are sick, but then again, I think back to when I was married and realized being sick back then totally blew as well. Don’t ask. Seriously. Not even worth going into. No, I am not still holding a grudge. No, really. Whatever.
Anyway, with help from my wonderful pal Moy, we wrangled my children to do homework and eat dinner. He left, I bathed them, counted to three about three hundred times until they finally got into bed after I used that powerful tool known as “Jewish Mother’s Guilt”. By the way, never even knew I was good at JMG until I had children. Super awesome tactic that I try to use sparingly.
So, then my sweet son Max knew I was still sick and apparently wanted to earn some bonus points, so he read to Dash and me. It was a great book about sharks. Oooh. Scary. I fought diligently to stay awake through the fascinating shark story, and then promptly went to sleep in my own bed and fell into a weird and wicked night of half-assed sleep. I prefer full-assed sleep. Ah, come on, that was funny.
My dreams were wicked and symbolic and encompassed every dating scenario I seemed to have this year. There were high rises and my back yard and my school and I think the rain forest, not sure. There were nice men and not so nice men and some hot dream sex and some weird dream sex (not in a good way). Not the most restful nights of sleep. I blame the antibiotics. Not really enjoying them. Plus, there is that no wine thing. Not like I am going to go par-ty with strep throat. Crap, just saying the phrase “par-ty” makes me tired as well as sounding like some middle aged person.
So, the 5am alarm went off Friday morning and after thinking my face looked far too puffy to actually be my own, I summarily downed two cups of coffee, the antibiotics that my stomach doesn’t seem to appreciate very much and of course, posted a snarky facebook update. Let’s face it, for the past two years; my snarky-ness has gotten me through my silly, little life. This is the crap that keeps me sane. I love that I have a place to stick all of the non sequiturs that pop into my head. I love the definition of non sequitur too, as it is just plain old French for “does not follow”. That could be used to describe most of my instincts as well as my status updates.
At 6am I was dressed and pseudo-ready for the day; woke up my kids, noticed some sniffles from them, fed them, dressed them, hugged them, drove them to school. The caffeinated high from not have tasted coffee in two days was working for me and I arrived only three minutes late to school. My principal looked at me with surprise, apparently not having received my email announcing my reemergence from my cocoon of strep throaty-ness. Does anyone at my school actually read my emails? Ever?
My morning was a barrage of “Oh, Ms. Levine, you look terrible” to “Oh, crap, you’re back”. Several attempts at “but we didn’t have homework because the sub didn’t give us any” but that doesn’t really work unless the entire class plays along. The only masterful deception was from my sixth period eleventh grade English class, who worked well as a team. I am now allowing them to take the vocab quiz on Monday simply because I enjoyed their performance. Of course, by the time I reached sixth period, I nearly passed out in front of that specific eleventh grade class. I actually had to sit down. I was seeing double which increased my class size (badump-ah) and was totally dizzy. You would think the eleventh graders would have felt badly for me and stopped their stupid charade. I had to hand it to them for continuing on with the “we didn’t get the homework” farce. Little do they know, by Monday, I will have made the little quiz into a big ass test just to mess with them. What can I say? It’s a living.
It was about that time, I received a call from Dash’s preschool telling me he had a fever. I was able to leave early (apparently the rumors that I had fainted had reached the principal’s office) and high tailed it over to Dash’s school, calling his doctor as I drove (yes, with a headset). I called my mom and started to cry. Started, but would not allow myself to continue. Instead, my mom let me rant and rave and vent. I like her.
I arrived at Dash’s school picked up my fevered boy; he hugged me and said, “Mommy, you gave me your sick.”
I apologized and we picked up Max and headed back to Kaiser Permanente for the fourth time in the past month. Because of Kaiser's lab, their wait time and their ridiculously expensive co-pays for urgent care, I have begun calling them Kaiser Soze. (Just so you know, I don’t have the little umlaut thingie that is supposed to go over the ‘o’. But I looked it up and that is how you spell Soze. I thought it was Souzai. Weird.)
Long story short (too late): the first strep test for Dash came back normal and he is sound now asleep. Max has the sniffles and is also asleep. For some reason I am completely awake now. Which totally blows. I realized that the minute I picked up my sick kid, I stopped being sick. I mean, I still feel kind of crappy, but it was put away until he was okay. I guess that’s good. I switched into Mommy-mode and made sure he was snuggled and medicated. Like any good mommy does I guess. I am not super-mommy, just a good mommy, I hope. At least that is what I tell my kids. And myself. I guess it’s that idea that your children are more important that yourself. They are. Any parent reading this blog is nodding right about now.
I just wish all people would understand this. Especially single guys who are not fathers (not that they know of). I actually told a guy I was dating once, "you may make me come first, but my children will always come first". I know. It was funny at the time. Not actually dating him anymore. Hmmm…
There was also one guy who was dating another woman besides me and couldn't decide between the two of us, so I told him that he couldn't have his cake and eat me too. Yes. Totally snarky.
Alrighty, I am now coming down from the oh-crap-I-gave-my-child-my-stupid-illness-guilt.
Hey, look at that. I can make myself feel guilty too. Man, I am a true Jewish mother.
Seriously.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
It’s hard to do aerobics while you’re napping
I have strep throat. This is actually the first time I have been vertical in two days. I have tried not to speak to anyone, except my mom, cuz let’s face it, even when you are forty-three, you still want your mommy when you are sick.
She lives very far away; she lives in a far off very snowy place where if I were to move, I would have free babysitters and people to take care of me when I was sick. It’s a magical place called Minnesota. Snowy and cold and only lake beaches, but right now, sounds like the best place in the whole wide world. I miss my mom. I need chicken soup. I need someone to watch over me. Crap, it even hurts to sing...
Anyway, as I was saying or rather lazily typing, I tried not to talk to too many people yesterday and today because I was a little dizzy and still can’t seem to see that clearly. According to my blackberry, I sent two texts while in a drug induced sleep yesterday. Apparently, they were quite flirxty so now I have a date for Saturday night. Not exactly sure with whom…
My wonderful friend Moy took my boys to school the past few mornings so I was able to be asleep without a small child sitting directly on top of me. This always helps the healing process. Plus that whole pesky driving thing is no fun when you would just rather be horizontal. Driving horizontal. That oddly sounds dirty. I think it’s the fever. I think at this moment I could make anything sound dirty. Actually, at most moments I can make things sound dirty. It’s a gift. I can usually just do that with my eyes, but since I am blogging and not webcam-blogging (not a chance, I would have to put on eye liner for that), you will just have to take my word for it.
I am going to have to turn back into a mom in about 30 minutes so I am slowly trying to become vertical. I am slumped back into my desk chair, learning back with my arms stretched out wishing I had one of those voice controlled keypads because this is starting to hurt my wrists.
Motherhood blows when you are sick. I have to make lunches and dinners and check homework and then prepare for my school day tomorrow too. At least it’s Friday tomorrow so I can re-hibernate on Saturday, unless of course the date on Saturday ends up to be someone really cute. Then I will muster up some energy to well, put on lip gloss and a push up bra and pray I will be home by 9. Or that he is in the medical profession. Or better yet, that he is a masseuse. My neck hurts. My head hurts. My hair hurts.
This is actually the first time I have been sick in a year. This is amazing because the last two years have been nothing but illness for me. The year I was in graduate school I was sick with the flu three times. Last year, my first year of teaching high school, I was sick so often, I was actually known by name at our Urgent Care. The first semester, the first three months of teaching, I had pneumonia once, the seasonal flu twice and the stomach flu for ten days. By February 2010, I was a size four. (I always like to see the positive side of things.) I may have been sick but I was hot. Well, mostly from fever, but damn, size twenty-eight jeans will make anyone feel better. At least my ass was happy.
It’s funny. Even with being ill, my throat all swollen and yucky, I am still lying on my couch trying to decide if I can muster up enough liveliness to go to the gym. Just for the treadmill or yoga. But we all know that is so not going to happen. I actually thought about it this morning but fell asleep before I could make my decision.
Typing hurts. Head hurts. Throat hurts. Hair still hurts.
I will finish this later. That is if I am not napping.
She lives very far away; she lives in a far off very snowy place where if I were to move, I would have free babysitters and people to take care of me when I was sick. It’s a magical place called Minnesota. Snowy and cold and only lake beaches, but right now, sounds like the best place in the whole wide world. I miss my mom. I need chicken soup. I need someone to watch over me. Crap, it even hurts to sing...
Anyway, as I was saying or rather lazily typing, I tried not to talk to too many people yesterday and today because I was a little dizzy and still can’t seem to see that clearly. According to my blackberry, I sent two texts while in a drug induced sleep yesterday. Apparently, they were quite flirxty so now I have a date for Saturday night. Not exactly sure with whom…
My wonderful friend Moy took my boys to school the past few mornings so I was able to be asleep without a small child sitting directly on top of me. This always helps the healing process. Plus that whole pesky driving thing is no fun when you would just rather be horizontal. Driving horizontal. That oddly sounds dirty. I think it’s the fever. I think at this moment I could make anything sound dirty. Actually, at most moments I can make things sound dirty. It’s a gift. I can usually just do that with my eyes, but since I am blogging and not webcam-blogging (not a chance, I would have to put on eye liner for that), you will just have to take my word for it.
I am going to have to turn back into a mom in about 30 minutes so I am slowly trying to become vertical. I am slumped back into my desk chair, learning back with my arms stretched out wishing I had one of those voice controlled keypads because this is starting to hurt my wrists.
Motherhood blows when you are sick. I have to make lunches and dinners and check homework and then prepare for my school day tomorrow too. At least it’s Friday tomorrow so I can re-hibernate on Saturday, unless of course the date on Saturday ends up to be someone really cute. Then I will muster up some energy to well, put on lip gloss and a push up bra and pray I will be home by 9. Or that he is in the medical profession. Or better yet, that he is a masseuse. My neck hurts. My head hurts. My hair hurts.
This is actually the first time I have been sick in a year. This is amazing because the last two years have been nothing but illness for me. The year I was in graduate school I was sick with the flu three times. Last year, my first year of teaching high school, I was sick so often, I was actually known by name at our Urgent Care. The first semester, the first three months of teaching, I had pneumonia once, the seasonal flu twice and the stomach flu for ten days. By February 2010, I was a size four. (I always like to see the positive side of things.) I may have been sick but I was hot. Well, mostly from fever, but damn, size twenty-eight jeans will make anyone feel better. At least my ass was happy.
It’s funny. Even with being ill, my throat all swollen and yucky, I am still lying on my couch trying to decide if I can muster up enough liveliness to go to the gym. Just for the treadmill or yoga. But we all know that is so not going to happen. I actually thought about it this morning but fell asleep before I could make my decision.
Typing hurts. Head hurts. Throat hurts. Hair still hurts.
I will finish this later. That is if I am not napping.
Friday, February 18, 2011
PMAT
Why? Why do people have to be cryptic and mysterious and not say what they mean? Seriously, I do not get it. Say what you mean and mean what you say or you will just make me cranky. Children, students, friends, prospective dates, everyone. I think it has something to do with texting. OMG, WTF, BTW, LMAO, or my least favorite of all: LOL. Crap, just take the one minute it takes to write out that it was funny. For god sakes, if you are over forty please just type clearly. Remember those typing classes they made us take in the seventh grade? They weren’t just so we could take the wonderful finger placement of the asdf and ;lkj and then throw them out the window. Hmmm...Finger placement sounds dirty.
My students have this habit of writing papers like they text. Some even type papers on their phones, which is a wonderfully environmental friendly choice, but hey, capitalize the damn “I”, won’t you? Write “you” instead of “u”. Seriously, if I see IDK one more time, I am going to fail that damn student just on principal.
Then you have the dating texts and we get to add messaging to the mix. Oy. Don’t get me started. (too late) The ones from prospective dates with their silly little online messages, yep, those. The people online who seem not to have a clue. Or the one-line-trying-to-be-super-awesome-cool-and-not-give-away-anything-about-myself message. The dating websites should come with a super-glow-in-the-dark-decoder-ring with every membership.
I don’t want to sound like a bitch (too late) but there is this one guy who has sent me four messages, none which I have answered. Um, hello, not interested, go away now, bye. I mean, I always feel bad when I push the “not interested” button because I don’t want anyone to take it personally, but let’s face it, you should take it personally. I don’t want to go out with you because I am not attracted to you whatsoever. Accept it deal with it and move on, please.
Then there are the spelling errors. Oh dear god, I am the worst speller for an English teacher (something my students actually enjoy) but if you are going to write it, try to spell it correctly. Seriolsy. Oops. I mean, seriously.
Then of course there are the ones that don’t understand humor in a text. I try to be clever, but re-explaining yourself over and over again kind of makes the humor subside. Then there are the guys who try to be clever and fail miserably and teeter on being offensive.
Ya see, all men think they are three things: Great kissers, fabulous lovers and that they have a sense of humor. Rarely do you get all three. I have all three, but I am rare. Well, medium rare, but close enough. Plus, I have a rather high opinion of myself now. I didn’t used to. I used to think that all things in the world were my fault. The depleted ozone layer, 'cuz I used too much hairspray, my x-husband’s failed business, 'cuz he said so, Anne Heche’s career, etc. Yep, that was all me. At least that is what I felt like. That was what I was told. I guess when you hear it over and over again, you tend to believe it. Y know, I once ran into Anne Heche at Trader Joes and then a week later she had her epic melt-down. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
Some people can see that I am fabulous. Some think I am alright. I guess all I can sort of hope for is that no one thinks I am a pain in the ass. Or if they do, they think I am pain in the ass but totally worth it. Sometimes I think my biggest fear in the whole wide world, besides my children hurting themselves, sharks and cockroaches, is that my x-husband was right and I actually am a pain in the ass. Like, 100% of the time. Like, I am wrong and annoying and not as funny as I think I am and my ass is much bigger if you are standing behind me and I am not really that fabulous. Yes, these are the fears. That some guy who I really like will think, “Nice rack, but a pain in the ass, so really not worth the effort”.
I guess that would be texted, “PITA”. Great, now, I’m hungry. Humus sounds good right now. Anyway, I am a PITA some of the time, once a month definitely, but not a PUTA but certainly a PYT. Well a PMAT (that would be ‘pretty middle aged thing’ for those of you are diligently trying to figure it out and area a fan of Michael Jackson from when he was still black).
The thing is, I am a pain in the ass. Shhh…don’t tell anyone. Not everyone knows (I’m whispering now). My kids don’t know this yet and they are really the only two males that really matter in the grand scheme of my life. The rest really don’t matter. Someday one might, but they will always come second. Oh, that totally sounded dirty. Stop giggling.
Anyway, one last point. There was one day Max walked up to me, wrapped his arms around me and said, “Mommy, I love you and think you are the best mommy in the whole wide world. No really, mommy, I do. I mean that. I do.” Those big green eyes looking up at me, sincerely, nodding his head to convince me. I love it. My seven year old already knows how to validate me.
Best validation in the whole wide world. Seriously.
My students have this habit of writing papers like they text. Some even type papers on their phones, which is a wonderfully environmental friendly choice, but hey, capitalize the damn “I”, won’t you? Write “you” instead of “u”. Seriously, if I see IDK one more time, I am going to fail that damn student just on principal.
Then you have the dating texts and we get to add messaging to the mix. Oy. Don’t get me started. (too late) The ones from prospective dates with their silly little online messages, yep, those. The people online who seem not to have a clue. Or the one-line-trying-to-be-super-awesome-cool-and-not-give-away-anything-about-myself message. The dating websites should come with a super-glow-in-the-dark-decoder-ring with every membership.
I don’t want to sound like a bitch (too late) but there is this one guy who has sent me four messages, none which I have answered. Um, hello, not interested, go away now, bye. I mean, I always feel bad when I push the “not interested” button because I don’t want anyone to take it personally, but let’s face it, you should take it personally. I don’t want to go out with you because I am not attracted to you whatsoever. Accept it deal with it and move on, please.
Then there are the spelling errors. Oh dear god, I am the worst speller for an English teacher (something my students actually enjoy) but if you are going to write it, try to spell it correctly. Seriolsy. Oops. I mean, seriously.
Then of course there are the ones that don’t understand humor in a text. I try to be clever, but re-explaining yourself over and over again kind of makes the humor subside. Then there are the guys who try to be clever and fail miserably and teeter on being offensive.
Ya see, all men think they are three things: Great kissers, fabulous lovers and that they have a sense of humor. Rarely do you get all three. I have all three, but I am rare. Well, medium rare, but close enough. Plus, I have a rather high opinion of myself now. I didn’t used to. I used to think that all things in the world were my fault. The depleted ozone layer, 'cuz I used too much hairspray, my x-husband’s failed business, 'cuz he said so, Anne Heche’s career, etc. Yep, that was all me. At least that is what I felt like. That was what I was told. I guess when you hear it over and over again, you tend to believe it. Y know, I once ran into Anne Heche at Trader Joes and then a week later she had her epic melt-down. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
Some people can see that I am fabulous. Some think I am alright. I guess all I can sort of hope for is that no one thinks I am a pain in the ass. Or if they do, they think I am pain in the ass but totally worth it. Sometimes I think my biggest fear in the whole wide world, besides my children hurting themselves, sharks and cockroaches, is that my x-husband was right and I actually am a pain in the ass. Like, 100% of the time. Like, I am wrong and annoying and not as funny as I think I am and my ass is much bigger if you are standing behind me and I am not really that fabulous. Yes, these are the fears. That some guy who I really like will think, “Nice rack, but a pain in the ass, so really not worth the effort”.
I guess that would be texted, “PITA”. Great, now, I’m hungry. Humus sounds good right now. Anyway, I am a PITA some of the time, once a month definitely, but not a PUTA but certainly a PYT. Well a PMAT (that would be ‘pretty middle aged thing’ for those of you are diligently trying to figure it out and area a fan of Michael Jackson from when he was still black).
The thing is, I am a pain in the ass. Shhh…don’t tell anyone. Not everyone knows (I’m whispering now). My kids don’t know this yet and they are really the only two males that really matter in the grand scheme of my life. The rest really don’t matter. Someday one might, but they will always come second. Oh, that totally sounded dirty. Stop giggling.
Anyway, one last point. There was one day Max walked up to me, wrapped his arms around me and said, “Mommy, I love you and think you are the best mommy in the whole wide world. No really, mommy, I do. I mean that. I do.” Those big green eyes looking up at me, sincerely, nodding his head to convince me. I love it. My seven year old already knows how to validate me.
Best validation in the whole wide world. Seriously.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Happy Capitalist Mockery of Chocolate Day
On the first day of grad school at USC, I kept hearing the word “pedagogy” and decided I should probaly learn what it meant. Pedagogy is the study of teaching. Important to know when getting one's Master's in education. So, on the first day of my over priced education, I was pedagoged in the science of pedagogy. Yes, pedagoged is not really a word. But, what the hell, I’m an English teacher, so I think that gives me the right to make words up like, flirxting and googleable and pedagoged.
Anyway, one of the pedagogy thingies I learned was called “lowering the affective filter”. This is one of those super-neato teacher terms that mean “making the classroom a happy place and building self esteem so a student feels smart enough to learn stuff”. I try diligently to do this in my classroom. I tell the students learning is fun and they are capable of cognitive reasoning and blah blah blah. It works, too. Then Valentine ’s Day comes along and messes that all up. Nothing says “I’m a pathetic mass of goo” and “my life sucks” like Valentine’s Day.
Don’t get me wrong. I like love. I like chocolate. I even like heart shaped chocolate. I especially like the little heart shaped Valentine Peeps that are marked down 50% on the day after Valentine’s Day. If you poke a hole in the cellophane wrapper of the Peeps, they get just the right amount of staleness that makes them totally yummy. Then of course you have Tuescher’s Champange truffles in Beverly Hills which, if one could marry chocolate, this would be the chocolate I would marry. Of course, I would weigh 300 pounds from being married to truffles, but who cares, I would be happy and the truffles would never leave the toilet seat up.
So, yes, chocolate, love, all good. So why, might you ask oh wonderful readers, do I dislike this day so much if I actually like love and chocolate? Because Valentine’s Day has become a corporate mockery and has lost all of its meaning.
Making someone wear red and hope someone will validate them on that one special day once a year is ludicrous. It’s stupid and makes people feel like crap. If you are single, then you feel like crap because the world is decorated with hearts and little cherubs should be buzzing around you, but they’re not buzzing around you, they are buzzing around the guy next to you who is looking at someone else.
If you are actually in a relationship, you may end up feeling like crap as well. There is all of this pressure to buy your significant other something romantic on Valentine's Day. Emphasis on BUY. God forbid you forget to buy something, then your significant other might think you are secretly harboring feelings for someone else or that you really don’t like them all that much because you couldn’t see the ten million ads that told you diamonds were on sale at Zales. But, hey, you can eat chocolate that is 50% off the next day to heal your wounds. You’ll just be eating it alone.
The thing is I am not so cynical and jaded to hate all of this romantic stuff (I just may need therapy). However, if someone is going to tell me how they feel about me, I want them to do it without Hallmark or 1-800-Flowers telling them they have to. I want to be told how great I am on a Wednesday. In March. Or July. I’m not that picky. And please don’t send roses to the person’s work. I mean, come on, that is just unprofessional and makes colleagues ask way too many questions. Some guy I used to date sent me roses one day at school after we had broken up and I called and yelled at him. No, I am not heartless, but, just come on! Seriously, I had to walk through the entire school, facing scrutiny and questions from all 200 of my students while carrying a humongous vase of problematic flowers. If he knew me at all, he would know two things: 1) I don’t like red roses (white roses, in case I date you at some point and you are reading this right now) and 2) don’t surprise me at work. Well, alright, maybe the surprise at work thing may work for some people, but personally, I just hate surprises. When I was in sixth grade, this boy I liked told me there was a big Valentine surprise for me in my desk. When I opened my desk, there were two dead bull-head fish lying there. Now, when people tell me there is a surprise for me, I see bull-heads (Yes, I know I need therapy.). And 3) (I know I said two, but I thought of a third one) If we are broken up, sending flowers will not make me swoon and say, “Yes, all is forgiven! Take me now!” I mean, please, come on. On second thought, I am way too cynical and jaded because I'm not about to fall for that crap. Bring me flowers when I actually like you. In private. And make them white ones, please.
With that rant behind me, I did enjoy helping my son Max make a Valentine card for his little girlfriend, Lucy. I helped him cut out a pink heart and he put stickers on it. He must like her because he didn’t even draw a Transformer on the card and he knew she liked pink. He sighs when he sees her and blows kisses to her. He blushes when he talks about her. Yes, he is seven, but man, he is well on his way to being the perfect boyfriend. Crap, he’s going to be a teenager someday and then he’s going to realize the power he will have over girls with his sparkly green eyes and romantic heart. I can’t imagine my boys as men. Yikes. I can’t believe I have to train these cute boys to be good men. Double yikes.
Wow, I think I totally contradicted myself there, but I do want my boys to believe in romance and love and that good stuff. They don’t need to be cynical and jaded for at least a few decades.
The true meaning of Saint Valentine is totally lost these days. I googled him (because he is googleable) and found out a few things. (By the way, this is a pedagogy thingy called “a teachable moment”) St. Valentine is the Patron Saint of affianced couples, bee keepers, engaged couples, epilepsy, fainting, happy marriages, plague, travelers, and young people. When he was martyred, his head was put on a stake.
In closing, honey-loving, engaged couples who faint after a seizure and have the plague while travelling when they are young, you people, can pay homage to Saint Valentine. The rest of us should just be happy with chocolate that is on sale on February 15th.
And yes, I need therapy.
Anyway, one of the pedagogy thingies I learned was called “lowering the affective filter”. This is one of those super-neato teacher terms that mean “making the classroom a happy place and building self esteem so a student feels smart enough to learn stuff”. I try diligently to do this in my classroom. I tell the students learning is fun and they are capable of cognitive reasoning and blah blah blah. It works, too. Then Valentine ’s Day comes along and messes that all up. Nothing says “I’m a pathetic mass of goo” and “my life sucks” like Valentine’s Day.
Don’t get me wrong. I like love. I like chocolate. I even like heart shaped chocolate. I especially like the little heart shaped Valentine Peeps that are marked down 50% on the day after Valentine’s Day. If you poke a hole in the cellophane wrapper of the Peeps, they get just the right amount of staleness that makes them totally yummy. Then of course you have Tuescher’s Champange truffles in Beverly Hills which, if one could marry chocolate, this would be the chocolate I would marry. Of course, I would weigh 300 pounds from being married to truffles, but who cares, I would be happy and the truffles would never leave the toilet seat up.
So, yes, chocolate, love, all good. So why, might you ask oh wonderful readers, do I dislike this day so much if I actually like love and chocolate? Because Valentine’s Day has become a corporate mockery and has lost all of its meaning.
Making someone wear red and hope someone will validate them on that one special day once a year is ludicrous. It’s stupid and makes people feel like crap. If you are single, then you feel like crap because the world is decorated with hearts and little cherubs should be buzzing around you, but they’re not buzzing around you, they are buzzing around the guy next to you who is looking at someone else.
If you are actually in a relationship, you may end up feeling like crap as well. There is all of this pressure to buy your significant other something romantic on Valentine's Day. Emphasis on BUY. God forbid you forget to buy something, then your significant other might think you are secretly harboring feelings for someone else or that you really don’t like them all that much because you couldn’t see the ten million ads that told you diamonds were on sale at Zales. But, hey, you can eat chocolate that is 50% off the next day to heal your wounds. You’ll just be eating it alone.
The thing is I am not so cynical and jaded to hate all of this romantic stuff (I just may need therapy). However, if someone is going to tell me how they feel about me, I want them to do it without Hallmark or 1-800-Flowers telling them they have to. I want to be told how great I am on a Wednesday. In March. Or July. I’m not that picky. And please don’t send roses to the person’s work. I mean, come on, that is just unprofessional and makes colleagues ask way too many questions. Some guy I used to date sent me roses one day at school after we had broken up and I called and yelled at him. No, I am not heartless, but, just come on! Seriously, I had to walk through the entire school, facing scrutiny and questions from all 200 of my students while carrying a humongous vase of problematic flowers. If he knew me at all, he would know two things: 1) I don’t like red roses (white roses, in case I date you at some point and you are reading this right now) and 2) don’t surprise me at work. Well, alright, maybe the surprise at work thing may work for some people, but personally, I just hate surprises. When I was in sixth grade, this boy I liked told me there was a big Valentine surprise for me in my desk. When I opened my desk, there were two dead bull-head fish lying there. Now, when people tell me there is a surprise for me, I see bull-heads (Yes, I know I need therapy.). And 3) (I know I said two, but I thought of a third one) If we are broken up, sending flowers will not make me swoon and say, “Yes, all is forgiven! Take me now!” I mean, please, come on. On second thought, I am way too cynical and jaded because I'm not about to fall for that crap. Bring me flowers when I actually like you. In private. And make them white ones, please.
With that rant behind me, I did enjoy helping my son Max make a Valentine card for his little girlfriend, Lucy. I helped him cut out a pink heart and he put stickers on it. He must like her because he didn’t even draw a Transformer on the card and he knew she liked pink. He sighs when he sees her and blows kisses to her. He blushes when he talks about her. Yes, he is seven, but man, he is well on his way to being the perfect boyfriend. Crap, he’s going to be a teenager someday and then he’s going to realize the power he will have over girls with his sparkly green eyes and romantic heart. I can’t imagine my boys as men. Yikes. I can’t believe I have to train these cute boys to be good men. Double yikes.
Wow, I think I totally contradicted myself there, but I do want my boys to believe in romance and love and that good stuff. They don’t need to be cynical and jaded for at least a few decades.
The true meaning of Saint Valentine is totally lost these days. I googled him (because he is googleable) and found out a few things. (By the way, this is a pedagogy thingy called “a teachable moment”) St. Valentine is the Patron Saint of affianced couples, bee keepers, engaged couples, epilepsy, fainting, happy marriages, plague, travelers, and young people. When he was martyred, his head was put on a stake.
In closing, honey-loving, engaged couples who faint after a seizure and have the plague while travelling when they are young, you people, can pay homage to Saint Valentine. The rest of us should just be happy with chocolate that is on sale on February 15th.
And yes, I need therapy.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Not tonight honey, I have children
Seriously, dating in my twenties was sooooo much easier. I had no one to be responsible for except myself. I still worried about the occasional serial killer, but it was only me who was in danger so it was alright. Never actually dated a serial killer. Well, not one that killed me. I once dated a guy who said he never actually killed anyone but he really liked cereal. He also broke up with me on my twenty-fourth birthday. Seriously.
Ah, the carefree dating of a twenty-something where the only one in serious trouble was me and my psyche. Insecurities made it more fun. No, really. When you are an insecure twenty-something, you had a choice. You could be trapped in the self-doubting hell of a woman’s head or you could just jump in with both feet and leave it all up to fate. I chose to jump. A lot. My BFF, Kelly, used to say I had “relationshipettes” because they never lasted very long. But that seemed to work for me. I could date freely and without hesitation or reservations. I loved the spontaneous dates where you never knew where the date would take you. I once ended up in Vegas at 4am. I would write about that story, but as we all know, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Mmm…Vegas…hehehe.
Anyway…
So, now there is single-mom-dating. Now you have to have hesitation and reservations. You have to be good at scheduling dates. Organizing dates. Planning dates. You have to make sure you have a babysitter available and know precisely what time you need to be home. You need to a rain-check already in place should one of the kids get sick. You need to hope your dates are available on the only night you don’t have kids so you don't need to deal with a babysitter's judgmental looks when he arrives to pick you up. It’s like being picked up from your parents’ house but you are paying $15 an hour for the judgmental looks. However if you are dating a single dad, he probably has weekends with his kids, so Saturdays tend to be out anyway, so my babysitter will just have to deal.
Now, after all of the schedules are in place and you have told your children you are having dinner with “a friend” and they seem kind of insulted that you would rather have a grownup around instead of them, well, then you take a deep breath and put on lip gloss and jump.
Should the date go well, you move on to more dates and if those go well, then…ya know…whatever. You can’t exactly ask Mr. Wonderful back to your place because well, there are children upstairs and you, or rather I, would still be wondering if he was a serial killer. If I were to make out on my couch, I would have one ear open to the upstairs in case of bad dreams or bathroom trips. I have a feeling it would not be the most romantic of settings. Child-interuptus, I believe is the technical term.
But what are the options these days? Yes, I am talking about sex. Dear god, do I have to spell it out. Yes, sex. Let's see...motels are out because of the bedbug epidemic in Los Angeles. I am thinking the idea of bugs and other creatures crawling on supposedly washed sheets would make for as unromantic an evening as listening for children while on my couch. And, um, unless it's like, prom, that is kind of a weird idea. Car? Honey, I may do yoga, but come on. Plus, I am not sixteen and don’t feel like being arrested for public nudity. Outdoors, same issue. Plus, right now it’s cold in LA at night and long underwear are sooooo unattractive and bulky. Well, maybe on a cute guy in Levi’s on a motorcycle, perhaps. I mean, he would have to stay warm on the motorcycle and they are kind of snuggly in the outdoorsy way and make a guy's butt look cute…hold on, I am getting off topic again.
Where was I? Oh yeah… Not to mention I am up at 5am on weekdays so I have to hope the man I am on a date with is a sparkling and witty conversationalist otherwise I will be yawning by 9pm and then forget about sex altogether. Okay, I would be still thinking about it but...oh, never mind.
Plus, to be totally safe, you actually have to have the whole have-you-been-tested-for-everything-including-the-Ebola-virus conversation. The pragmatic approach. Seriously, wrap it in cellophane or it ain’t coming near me. Yes, pun intended.
Ugh. I hate dating. Why did I get divorced? Oh, yeah, I remember why. Never mind.
This afternoon, I saw the movie “No Strings Attached”. I wanted to see “Black Swan” but it didn’t fit into the unauthorized double feature I had plotted. So, I opted for the lesser of the two Natalie Portman films. I like her. Ashton Kutcher is cute and all, but the film was kind of blah and predictable. Although, the idea of “friends with benefits” would fit into my busy schedule. Hmmm…
Just something to think about. That and cute motorcycle men wearing long underwear…
Forget it, now I am totally distracted.
Ah, the carefree dating of a twenty-something where the only one in serious trouble was me and my psyche. Insecurities made it more fun. No, really. When you are an insecure twenty-something, you had a choice. You could be trapped in the self-doubting hell of a woman’s head or you could just jump in with both feet and leave it all up to fate. I chose to jump. A lot. My BFF, Kelly, used to say I had “relationshipettes” because they never lasted very long. But that seemed to work for me. I could date freely and without hesitation or reservations. I loved the spontaneous dates where you never knew where the date would take you. I once ended up in Vegas at 4am. I would write about that story, but as we all know, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Mmm…Vegas…hehehe.
Anyway…
So, now there is single-mom-dating. Now you have to have hesitation and reservations. You have to be good at scheduling dates. Organizing dates. Planning dates. You have to make sure you have a babysitter available and know precisely what time you need to be home. You need to a rain-check already in place should one of the kids get sick. You need to hope your dates are available on the only night you don’t have kids so you don't need to deal with a babysitter's judgmental looks when he arrives to pick you up. It’s like being picked up from your parents’ house but you are paying $15 an hour for the judgmental looks. However if you are dating a single dad, he probably has weekends with his kids, so Saturdays tend to be out anyway, so my babysitter will just have to deal.
Now, after all of the schedules are in place and you have told your children you are having dinner with “a friend” and they seem kind of insulted that you would rather have a grownup around instead of them, well, then you take a deep breath and put on lip gloss and jump.
Should the date go well, you move on to more dates and if those go well, then…ya know…whatever. You can’t exactly ask Mr. Wonderful back to your place because well, there are children upstairs and you, or rather I, would still be wondering if he was a serial killer. If I were to make out on my couch, I would have one ear open to the upstairs in case of bad dreams or bathroom trips. I have a feeling it would not be the most romantic of settings. Child-interuptus, I believe is the technical term.
But what are the options these days? Yes, I am talking about sex. Dear god, do I have to spell it out. Yes, sex. Let's see...motels are out because of the bedbug epidemic in Los Angeles. I am thinking the idea of bugs and other creatures crawling on supposedly washed sheets would make for as unromantic an evening as listening for children while on my couch. And, um, unless it's like, prom, that is kind of a weird idea. Car? Honey, I may do yoga, but come on. Plus, I am not sixteen and don’t feel like being arrested for public nudity. Outdoors, same issue. Plus, right now it’s cold in LA at night and long underwear are sooooo unattractive and bulky. Well, maybe on a cute guy in Levi’s on a motorcycle, perhaps. I mean, he would have to stay warm on the motorcycle and they are kind of snuggly in the outdoorsy way and make a guy's butt look cute…hold on, I am getting off topic again.
Where was I? Oh yeah… Not to mention I am up at 5am on weekdays so I have to hope the man I am on a date with is a sparkling and witty conversationalist otherwise I will be yawning by 9pm and then forget about sex altogether. Okay, I would be still thinking about it but...oh, never mind.
Plus, to be totally safe, you actually have to have the whole have-you-been-tested-for-everything-including-the-Ebola-virus conversation. The pragmatic approach. Seriously, wrap it in cellophane or it ain’t coming near me. Yes, pun intended.
Ugh. I hate dating. Why did I get divorced? Oh, yeah, I remember why. Never mind.
This afternoon, I saw the movie “No Strings Attached”. I wanted to see “Black Swan” but it didn’t fit into the unauthorized double feature I had plotted. So, I opted for the lesser of the two Natalie Portman films. I like her. Ashton Kutcher is cute and all, but the film was kind of blah and predictable. Although, the idea of “friends with benefits” would fit into my busy schedule. Hmmm…
Just something to think about. That and cute motorcycle men wearing long underwear…
Forget it, now I am totally distracted.
Monday, February 7, 2011
I can tell you why I don't like Mondays.
I love The Boomtown Rats. They totally rock. I love that I still have that album on vinyl and it is my life’s ambition to own a turn table again. I love that on some Monday mornings the song “I Don’t Like Mondays” pops into my head. It’s sort of a tossup between that and “Manic Monday” by The Bangles. Then of course there is “Monday Monday” by The Mammas and The Poppas; “Blue Monday” by New Order; “New Moon on Monday” by Duran Duran, and of course, “Monday Morning” by Fleetwood Mac. I realized today why there are so many Monday songs: Mondays suck.
This morning I woke up at 3:30am. I would like to blame Henry the Cat, but he was nowhere to be found. I believe it was one of those fabulous pre-menopausal night time hot flashes that make all of us forty-somethings so freakin happy to be alive. I actually had to get out of bed and put my hair up. I seriously thought of cutting it off right then and there, but I was too tired. So then, body up and hair up, next is mind. I started thinking about the lessons I was going to be teaching today; wondering if the office had printed the Arthur Miller essay I wanted my 11th graders to read but probably didn't; that the senior Valentine Dance was Friday and I needed to call a babysitter; what I needed to buy at the grocery store and I was out of almond milk. Or did I just think I was out of almond milk? Seriously, sometimes I think I am out of something and keep buying it until I have a stock pile of it. I tend to do that with apple juice. Sometimes I have four large Trader Joe’s Organic Apple juice bottles under my stove and then all of a sudden I am totally out because I got used to stock piling it and could have sworn I had one last apple juice, but nope. I look at the clock and its 4am. Rats.
Then Henry the cat realizes I am awake. Oh freakin goody. I need to cut his nails and contemplate the wonderful idea of having him declawed but just couldn’t. I wonder where the spray bottle is because he has decided he wants me out of bed. Now. Stupid cat.
I wrap my toes up in my comforter and go back to thinking about almond milk. Then, I think about my bank account and hope I have stock piled almond milk. Now I am totally up. Start thinking about finances or rather lack of finances…student loans…hmmmm….going to have to pay those back. Yes, so super smart to go to USC and spend a fortune to become a freakin teacher. Rats.
At 5am I finally get out of bed as I smell the robust coffee wafting up the stairs to wake me. I am still in love with my programmable coffee maker. He has coffee waiting for me every morning, with just a touch of cinnamon in it. I love him. I should name him. Bob. If it's really good coffee, perhaps I will call him Robert. Or better, Roberto, when it's Columbian coffee.
Usually that, or rather Bob, helps. But not today. I think I actually fell back to sleep at 4:55am. So, now I am super duper tired. The Boomtown Rats song “I Hate Mondays” floats into my head and I use that as my status update, wondering how many will get the reference. All of my favorite women do. I get dressed; get my kids up while feigning happiness and alertness as I scoot them downstairs. Couch, “Transformers” cartoon, Super Hero chocolate milk (like, 33 veggies and fruits in this stuff.) and more coffee for me. I have been under the weather, so I pop my antibiotics, with the understanding I need to eat with them, but can’t seem to get around to that. Unfortunately, I am reminded of this twenty minutes later when I feel as if I am going to hurl. I quickly down some gluten free puffed rice cereal, which is as delicious as it sounds, and I am not feeling it pass. Teetering on my three inch heeled black boots, my babysitter arrives. He is lucky I have had time to cook him breakfast. I am just lucky that I have a babysitter who will arrive at 6:30am and drive my kids to school four mornings a week. Crap, I should pay him more.
The hurly-feeling begins to pass. Armed with “I hate Mondays” still playing rather loudly in my head, I head to the car and head off to work. On 6th, some guy just stops in the middle of the road and just, well, stops. No blinker, no nothing. Just stops. Does he realize there is more than just he on the road? I know it's 6:30am, but come on. I lightly tap my horn, but it gets stuck and blasts for a good solid minute with me smacking it over and over again until it stops. The guy in front flips me off thinking that solid minute was intended for him. I continue on my merry way.
I turn onto Venice and barely notice the two people in the crosswalk and veer, lose control of the car for a moment and then am glad I am not on my morning call to my sister or mom, because I never would have seen them and would have committed vehicular manslaughter before 7am. Yikes. I narrowly escape the street lamp and decide this is all Monday related.
I get to school, with Bob Geldof still screaming in my head. I decide I really need to hear the song. I pull up to my computer at my desk and play the song really, really loudly before the newspaper staff rolls in twenty minutes late as usual. I decide Bob needs to be a part of my lesson plan this morning. I decided my hatred of Mondays should be a part of my lesson plan this morning. I quickly Google “I Hate Mondays” and the story of Brenda Spencer who shot up a school in 1979 and when asked why, part of her response was “I don’t like Mondays”.
As each class came in, after diligently copying down their vocabulary words for the week, moaning and complaining that I give too much homework and commenting on the really cute boots I was wearing, they would get out their journals and I would ask them to write down how their Monday was going so far. Just as I sat down on top of a desk with the first class, as the journal write began and The Boomtown Rats were blaring from my computer just the way they used to blare when I was my students’ age; just then, my brand-new-bought-on-sale-pants split right up the crotch.
Thank goodness I was wearing undies.
The day went steadily downhill from there.
I should have had a vocab list for my day. Headache, slacker, misogynist, technology malfunction, inaudible teaching, sexist, listening skills, ignore, darning, mending, miscreants, Tylenol, sugar, Starbursts, chocolate, disregard, distain, disrespect, detention. And finally, home, couch, kids.
I promised myself I would write about this today and so I have, goal accomplished and now I am done. Nothing terrible or tragic, just frustrating and annoying. Same shit, different Monday.
My Monday is now over, kids safely snuggled into their beds and there is a bubble bath with my name on it. Goodnight Bob. Thanks for spending the day with me. You shall be forever related to my Mondays as well as my coffee.
Seriously, tomorrow I need a better theme song. I should stick to Madonna.
This morning I woke up at 3:30am. I would like to blame Henry the Cat, but he was nowhere to be found. I believe it was one of those fabulous pre-menopausal night time hot flashes that make all of us forty-somethings so freakin happy to be alive. I actually had to get out of bed and put my hair up. I seriously thought of cutting it off right then and there, but I was too tired. So then, body up and hair up, next is mind. I started thinking about the lessons I was going to be teaching today; wondering if the office had printed the Arthur Miller essay I wanted my 11th graders to read but probably didn't; that the senior Valentine Dance was Friday and I needed to call a babysitter; what I needed to buy at the grocery store and I was out of almond milk. Or did I just think I was out of almond milk? Seriously, sometimes I think I am out of something and keep buying it until I have a stock pile of it. I tend to do that with apple juice. Sometimes I have four large Trader Joe’s Organic Apple juice bottles under my stove and then all of a sudden I am totally out because I got used to stock piling it and could have sworn I had one last apple juice, but nope. I look at the clock and its 4am. Rats.
Then Henry the cat realizes I am awake. Oh freakin goody. I need to cut his nails and contemplate the wonderful idea of having him declawed but just couldn’t. I wonder where the spray bottle is because he has decided he wants me out of bed. Now. Stupid cat.
I wrap my toes up in my comforter and go back to thinking about almond milk. Then, I think about my bank account and hope I have stock piled almond milk. Now I am totally up. Start thinking about finances or rather lack of finances…student loans…hmmmm….going to have to pay those back. Yes, so super smart to go to USC and spend a fortune to become a freakin teacher. Rats.
At 5am I finally get out of bed as I smell the robust coffee wafting up the stairs to wake me. I am still in love with my programmable coffee maker. He has coffee waiting for me every morning, with just a touch of cinnamon in it. I love him. I should name him. Bob. If it's really good coffee, perhaps I will call him Robert. Or better, Roberto, when it's Columbian coffee.
Usually that, or rather Bob, helps. But not today. I think I actually fell back to sleep at 4:55am. So, now I am super duper tired. The Boomtown Rats song “I Hate Mondays” floats into my head and I use that as my status update, wondering how many will get the reference. All of my favorite women do. I get dressed; get my kids up while feigning happiness and alertness as I scoot them downstairs. Couch, “Transformers” cartoon, Super Hero chocolate milk (like, 33 veggies and fruits in this stuff.) and more coffee for me. I have been under the weather, so I pop my antibiotics, with the understanding I need to eat with them, but can’t seem to get around to that. Unfortunately, I am reminded of this twenty minutes later when I feel as if I am going to hurl. I quickly down some gluten free puffed rice cereal, which is as delicious as it sounds, and I am not feeling it pass. Teetering on my three inch heeled black boots, my babysitter arrives. He is lucky I have had time to cook him breakfast. I am just lucky that I have a babysitter who will arrive at 6:30am and drive my kids to school four mornings a week. Crap, I should pay him more.
The hurly-feeling begins to pass. Armed with “I hate Mondays” still playing rather loudly in my head, I head to the car and head off to work. On 6th, some guy just stops in the middle of the road and just, well, stops. No blinker, no nothing. Just stops. Does he realize there is more than just he on the road? I know it's 6:30am, but come on. I lightly tap my horn, but it gets stuck and blasts for a good solid minute with me smacking it over and over again until it stops. The guy in front flips me off thinking that solid minute was intended for him. I continue on my merry way.
I turn onto Venice and barely notice the two people in the crosswalk and veer, lose control of the car for a moment and then am glad I am not on my morning call to my sister or mom, because I never would have seen them and would have committed vehicular manslaughter before 7am. Yikes. I narrowly escape the street lamp and decide this is all Monday related.
I get to school, with Bob Geldof still screaming in my head. I decide I really need to hear the song. I pull up to my computer at my desk and play the song really, really loudly before the newspaper staff rolls in twenty minutes late as usual. I decide Bob needs to be a part of my lesson plan this morning. I decided my hatred of Mondays should be a part of my lesson plan this morning. I quickly Google “I Hate Mondays” and the story of Brenda Spencer who shot up a school in 1979 and when asked why, part of her response was “I don’t like Mondays”.
As each class came in, after diligently copying down their vocabulary words for the week, moaning and complaining that I give too much homework and commenting on the really cute boots I was wearing, they would get out their journals and I would ask them to write down how their Monday was going so far. Just as I sat down on top of a desk with the first class, as the journal write began and The Boomtown Rats were blaring from my computer just the way they used to blare when I was my students’ age; just then, my brand-new-bought-on-sale-pants split right up the crotch.
Thank goodness I was wearing undies.
The day went steadily downhill from there.
I should have had a vocab list for my day. Headache, slacker, misogynist, technology malfunction, inaudible teaching, sexist, listening skills, ignore, darning, mending, miscreants, Tylenol, sugar, Starbursts, chocolate, disregard, distain, disrespect, detention. And finally, home, couch, kids.
I promised myself I would write about this today and so I have, goal accomplished and now I am done. Nothing terrible or tragic, just frustrating and annoying. Same shit, different Monday.
My Monday is now over, kids safely snuggled into their beds and there is a bubble bath with my name on it. Goodnight Bob. Thanks for spending the day with me. You shall be forever related to my Mondays as well as my coffee.
Seriously, tomorrow I need a better theme song. I should stick to Madonna.
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