Red Flags

Sometimes I wish I was on that show Lost in Space just so I could have one of those huge waggly-armed robots yelling “Warning! Warning! Danger Will Robinson!” (Well, in my case, Mrs. Robinson…hehehe). Now, Lost in Space is not unlike being lost in LA. When I first moved to Los Angeles, 174 years ago, we didn’t have GPS devices or cell phones or any other handy gadgets that made it easier to find your way. No MapQuest or Google either. (Crap, I feel old right now). We did, however, have Thomas Guides. They were the big map books we all used to find our way. Literally, not metaphorically. If you think texting and driving is dangerous you have no idea how perilous it was to drive around with a big fat map on your lap. Back in the early 90’s, I got lost everywhere I went. Seriously, I never went anywhere new without making at least three u-turns. On the positive side, it did help me find really cool and interesting parts of Los Angeles I never would have found had I not gotten lost; like Larchmont Village, Santee Alley and Watts. The latter was a bit more frightening than the prior. And mom, if you are reading this, I was perfectly safe the whole time. In Larchmont…

By the way, when I am speaking of Lost in Space, I am referring to the show in the 1960’s and not the pathetic remake movie of the 1990’s. I was not old enough to appreciate the original shows on television but hey, that was what college was for. That and learning all of “the warnings”. Ya know what I mean by “the warnings”; the red flags that pop up about potential relationships. Actually, that was what my twenty’s were for. Ummm…maybe my forties too…

I wrote a blog called "Oh, that's right, you already said that", about people telling you exactly who they are when they first meet you and you just get to choose if you want to believe them or ignore them because they are really cute and look good in jeans. But with this whole on-line dating thing, before you meet the guy, there are things you should be aware of. There are things they are telling you after you have messaged back and forth for a few weeks and now have moved onto phone conversations.

A very wise friend of mine who is a teacher at my school told me a wonderfully physiological theory the other day. Although men are built with more physical strength women are built with intuition to help us to find the right man. Of course, once again, whether or not you chose to listen to your instincts is up to you. I think of it this way: when we are mothers, we know instinctively when our children are sick, have hurt themselves or are hiding under our desks eating the cookies we just baked when we told them they couldn’t have anymore cookies until they ate at least one vegetable. We instinctively know when there is a clearance sale at Loehmans or DSW. Of course that just might be my DNA from my mother’s side. We even sometimes know when there is a booger in our noses when we are talking to a cute guy. Okay, that last one is more paranoia, but I think you have gleaned a point here.

The red flags however, how do we know if they are warnings or just paranoia?
Let’s just make a list of all of the flags, red or other hues, that made me go “Umm…wait” and you be the judge.

1. He does not text. At all. Actually is some strange Luddite who barely uses his cell phone because he thinks the world is a better place without technology. Yet drives a Lexus with a GPS. Hypocrite with technology, hypocrite in other places?

2. He only texts. Hates talking on the phone. Is that being guarded or being a multi-tasker?

3. He only emails. I understand the whole not wanting to give out a number due to, serial killers and identity thefts and Amway salesmen, but come on. Plus, all of my emails come to my Blackberry. That way he can always get ahold of me...

4. He texts six times before you ever have a chance to respond. Yep, too needy.

5. He texts after it is very, very, very clear there is no connection whatsoever just to ask if you have changed your mind. Twelve times. (That’s not really a red flag, its more of an amusing anecdote. Seriously, twelve times. TWELVE TIMES. And by the way, I stopped responding after the fifth text then he was just texting to himself. Hmm…that is like a Billy Idol song revamped. Oh-oh-oh-oh.) (Did anyone get that joke?)

6. He immediately asks about your children. Yep, that one just makes me run screaming the other way. I appreciate the interest, but it kind of skeeves me out. Again, be careful not to scare the single mommy.

7. He apologizes for everything with overly detailed explanations and uses the phrase, “But honestly” a bit too much. And this is before we have met.

8. He talks about the women he has slept with. Like I am going to ask for references or something.

9. He thinks my schedule does not accommodate him. Well, duh.

10. He wonders, in written form, if I will ever put him first because I have children. Again, well, duh.

So, there you have it. You can guess which red flags I chose to ignore and which I acknowledged, appreciated and listened to.

Seriously, once you get out of high school, you don’t get a guidance counselor to guide you; unless you get a licensed and qualified therapist but really, I have no time for my much needed therapy right now. I only have my overly-analytical-paranoid-in-much-need-of-a-longer-spring-break-mind as well as my brood of fabulous friends (yes, this includes my sister) to guide me and let’s face it, I don’t listen them as much as I should either.

I have noticed that the people I seem to listen to the most and actually learn from the most lately are a select group of female students who have taken to confiding in me about their love lives. I find myself giving them advice about boys and then listening to what I am actually saying to them and realizing I need to take the advice I am giving. Crap, this stuff does not change. Men, boys, guys, idiots, etc, do not seem to change much with age. Maybe now they shave more and have mortgages but really, they don’t change much in any other department.

Or maybe its women don’t change…

Hmmm…

Once upon a time...

Once upon a time, in a city of pretention and really good shoes, lived a princess. A lovely and sarcastic princess who just wanted to be happy. One day, in her youth, she was cruising the clearance rack at Loehmann’s when she came a across a beautiful Mark Jacobs skirt marked down 99% off the original price. As she reached for the skirt, another person had reached for it as well. The other person was a wicked witch with a propensity for designer skirts. The lovely and sarcastic princess tried to persuade the wicked witch by using her charm and wit, to let her buy the skirt because after all she was a princess. Alas, the wicked witch said no and seemed quite pissed off by the request; so pissed off in fact, the wicked witch cursed the lovely and sarcastic princess with a dastardly curse.

“You will never be able to choose the right man!” She cackled. “You will be happy in life but never in love! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

And with a puff of crimson smoke she was gone, taking the damn Mark Jacobs skirt with her.

“What the hell was that?” wondered the lovely and sarcastic princess. But she shrugged it off when she found a Prada sweater for 114% off the original price (birthday discount), and went on her merry way.

Several years later, the lovely and sarcastic princess met a handsome prince who swept her off of her feet and dazzled her with his Hollywood connections and his snappy dressing. The handsome prince proposed to her on their very first date. It was love at first sight, just like in fairy tales. Um, wait…this is a fairy—oh never mind.

Anyway, they married quickly in a whirlwind and she thought to herself, “Hah! That stupid wicked witch was wrong! I have found the right man; someone who will love me and take care of me and never hurt me.”

However, little did she know that the handsome prince was under a curse as well. The moment he kissed the lovely and sarcastic princess he turned into an evil troll who would make her life miserable. She was bound to him by love and commitment and knew if they could only go to princess/troll therapy then maybe just maybe they could make it work.

Nevertheless the evil troll would not go to princess/troll therapy and after a decade of trying to make her ridiculous marriage work, the lovely and sarcastic princess finally grabbed the two princes she and the troll had created (who thank goodness took after her in the looks department) and hopped into the royal sarcastic princess-mobile and left the evil troll for good.

However, as we all know, evil trolls have a tendency to hold on to things they don’t want to let go of. They like to lie and cheat and steal as trolls often do to make their lovely and sarcastic princesses come back to them.

The lovely and sarcastic princess and the evil troll would have epic battles for the next three years and the princess would win every time because she had good and right on her side and the troll, well, he was a troll so ya know…trolls are just icky.

Then one day, there was a battle of epic proportion and there was a chance the lovely and sarcastic princess might be beaten by the evil troll. She fought with right on her side and he fought with lies and deceit on his. She was frightened, as the battle took place in the darkest part of the forest and she was all alone. The battle was challenging as the troll fought cruelly and callously. Just as the lovely and sarcastic princess thought she was defeated, a light appeared in the forest and a magical adjudicator appeared out of nowhere. The magical adjudicator listened to both sides of the battle and with his supreme knowledge and benevolence he ordered the evil troll away to be banished forever and ever and ever.

At last the lovely and sarcastic princess had won fair and square and had been validated along the way for she knew in her heart that good and right would always win out over a big stupid-assed troll who only thought of himself.

The lovely and sarcastic princess went on to achieve greatness and was a great princess mommy and her little princes grew up to NOT be trolls but to be benevolent themselves and very successful doctors specializing in therapeutic plastic surgery for trolls in exile.

The lovely and sarcastic princess went on to date several more trolls as well as some insurance salesmen, an editor or two, some actors and even a cable guy; but decided she didn't really want to be married again. Being happy with her two little princes and happy within herself was enough for her. Well, most days.

The lovely and sarcastic princess realized the wicked witch's curse wasn't so bad after all. She was absolutely fine not being happy in love as long as she was happy in life. And ya know what? She was.

And as long as she had a handsome knight to play with once and awhile, and she could pretend to be a damsel in distress and be “rescued” once every few weeks, she would be just fine.

And yes, the lovely and sarcastic princess is totally living happily ever after.

Pain in the ass

My X used to refer to me as a pain in the ass. Everything I did was wrong and everything was my fault. Now that I am on my own and 90% responsible for two small children, I have to wonder if he was right sometimes. Mostly during that week before my period, but sometimes if the timing is just right, I can feel as if I am a pain in the ass all by myself without the use of raging hormones. So am I or not?

I like to make pro-con lists about most things in my life, so I started making a list of whether or not I am truly a pain in the ass or not. It’s either a pro-con list or a second guess list. Not to be confused with a second guest list, which would be a list of men I really don’t feel the need to date but do anyway when I am bored.

Let’s see. I’m opinionated. I’m sarcastic most of the time. I talk a lot. Like, really a lot. Like my students and children start to tune me out when they hear me start a diatribe. Of course when my students do that and then I have to repeat myself, it pisses me off, but perhaps I need to be more succinct when describing assignments. Either that or they should buy planners and actually write down the assignments. Nothing more fun for a teacher than when a student walks into your classroom in the morning wondering if there was homework due. Or the wonderful look of surprise when they see there is a quiz on that particular day even though there was a note on the agenda board for the entire week.

Where was I? Yes, let’s see what else. I go off on tangents. Add that to the list.

I buy too many shoes, I hate doing laundry, I am totally impatient and I am insecure with a fabulous mixture of vanity. I’m too emotional and premenstrual, like, all of the time and have a tendency to repeat myself. Did I mention I talk too much? Oh yeah, already mentioned that one. I think that’s all of the pertinent ones. If you think of any, please don’t bother to let me know because I can’t take criticism well and take things in life way too personally. Of course the last one isn’t really my fault because the things that happen in my life are happening to me so why wouldn’t I take them personally?

There. I can own those. Does that make me an excessively large pain in the ass or does that just make me a woman? Are women just made to think they are pains in the asses of men in general or am I just special?

I was recently listening to Pink’s song “F**cking Perfect”. The radio version when with my children because I have tried to teach them that using the F-word should be reserved only for driving in Los Angeles. I have explained to Max how we don’t get to use that word when pissed at our brother for losing our Legos. So, I guess they get the radio version, but it’s still amazing and describes my feelings about my own life as a teenager as well as an adult to a tee. The whole idea that you should value yourself for who you are and not what others think of you is what I thought I would have achieved by the age forty-three, but here I am writing a blog dissecting the topic of whether I am a pain in the ass or not. So perhaps not. Or rather not yet.

I'm hopeful too. Is that a con? It was the last thing left in Pandora's box, so perhaps.

My pain in the ass-ness hasn’t stopped me from things I have wanted to achieve in life. My pain in the ass-ness hasn’t made me a bad person. My pain in the ass-ness hasn’t interfered too much in my life. Wait, maybe...

Hmmm… Just normal, perhaps? Just annoying, perhaps? Indecisive, perhaps? I suck at decision making too. Add that to the list.
I can’t make a decision to save my life and I have a lot of decisions I have to make lately. Besides the basics of what to wear and what to feed my children, there are lesson plans to hopefully get my students prepared and into college. I have four students taking the ACT test for the first time today. I hope I have prepared them. I have hit them over the head with enough vocab for Harvard and have made them write endless essays. I have strangled them with grammar and choked them with literature and figurative language. Crap, what if they don’t do well? What if I haven’t prepared them enough? What if they weren’t listening AGAIN when I tried to teach them something. Did I mention I tend to blame myself for everything? Add that to the list too.

Hold on. One of my ACT-taking students just texted me to tell me the writing prompt on the ACT test was similar to one of the writing prompts I made them do in class. Cool. I actually prepared them. I feel better now.

Did I also mention I tend to never feel validated by myself and only seem to let myself be validated by others? A sixteen year old just validated my teaching skills. And yep, ya know what? I feel so much better now. Sooooo not a pain in the ass right now. Or at least the pain in the ass teacher who was freakin right about making them writing essays until their hands went numb.

And then there is dating. Oh crap, don’t get me started on being a pain in the ass while dating. (this was not meant to sound dirty)

I was watching an episode of Sex in the City and they were, of course, talking about men. Miranda mentioned something about how it amazed her that all of their great self esteem went out the window if the guy didn’t call. So freakin true. So freakin stupid too. Yep, that doesn’t change as we grow older and wiser. There are wonderful things about aging and learning from one’s mistakes should be one of them. Should, being the key word here.

What was I saying about decision making? Oh, I lose my train of thought too. Add that to the list.

And apparently, I use the word “seriously” too much. Seriously…I seriously don’t think I use it that much. Of course my blog is called “Hmmm…seriously?” so I could be wrong. But I doubt I am wrong. I hate being wrong. Add that to the list too.

My weekend in Minnesota...

Let’s start out by saying how much I loved being in Minneapolis for my nephew’s bar mitzvah. Or as Dash would say, “varmizpah”. Family is good. Cousins are good. Even mom and dad are good. If you know my parents, you know how much fun they are to hang out with. If you know my family, you know how great a party it’s going to be. And of course, like any cultural or religious event, you know there is going to be a lot of food. A myriad of food. A virtual cornucopia of food. Seriously, there was food. I think my ass is now made of peanut butter fudge and my thighs made of lemon cake. We not only ate a ton of food but we talked about how much we ate, how much each other ate and just how full we were. I am actually still full.

So yes, the weekend was a super-awesome-wicked-fun-filled good time. I even got to see two old friends of mine; either I would move to Minnesota for if they asked to marry me. (Just checking if they are reading this) I was amazed by watching not only my nephew rock his haftorah, but watching my own son, Max, read a prayer in front of the whole congregation during the Saturday morning service. Kvelling. Oy, was I kvelling. (My spell check seems to be frightened by Yiddish words) The Saturday night party was a Vikings party with a DJ where my sons danced the night away surrounded by thirteen year old giggling girls daring each other to kiss the bar mitzvah boy. There was a moment in the bathroom where I overheard my nephew’s seventh grade girlfriend being challenged to kiss him by all of her adorable friends in training bras. I felt as if I was back in middle school doing some daring of my own. No, I was not plotting about kissing anyone there but the memories of my own seventh grade year hoping a cute boy named Jon-something-or-other would smooch me in the dark corners of the synagogue flooded my thoughts that night. I found myself giggling as well. Yep, some things just do not change. Actually, one of my nephew’s female friends was the daughter of a guy I used to smooch in high school. Crap, that was weird. I was introduced to her by my sister who opened with, “This is my sister. She used to date your dad…” Yes, I felt…old.

So yes, bar mitzvah was great; party was great; food was great. However…

Getting there…not so great. I was asked to perform the ghastly “airport story” several times over the weekend and a lot of people at the bar mitzvah read my blog so it was also asked if I would be writing about it. I told them I couldn’t write about it until I found “the funny”. Ya know, the sarcastic-self-deprecating way I have of making a story seem more entertaining than it actually is. And by the way, thank you to all of you over the weekend who told me how much you enjoyed my blog and my book! Oh dear goodness, was that validating. Seriously, to hear positive feedback from people who know me, barely know me, like me or have heard about me, seriously, I was validated by the adulation more than when I actually was kissed by Jon-something-or-other while wearing braces and my brand new Calvin Kline jeans in seventh grade back in 19…never mind.

Alright. The story of the airport from hell. (dundundah)

Yes, we were running late; but you try getting a seven and a five year old out of the house on time. We arrived at LAX sixty-five minutes before my flight. According to the Delta website, this was an ample amount of time. In fact, they said fifty minutes was enough. So there we were, waiting in line to get our luggage checked-in curb side. There was only one skycap and the line was long. Like, really, really long. I kept checking my watch and watched the minutes slowly tick by. I chatted in line with the other people and a few of them let us go ahead of them seeing as how the minutes where starting to tick by a bit quicker. After thirty minutes of standing in line the lone skycap was finally ready to check my luggage.

“Sorry,” he said, “you’re too late; I can’t check your bags.”

“What do you mean you can’t check my bags?” I said in my overly calm voice I use with students who tell me things I do NOT want to hear.

“You’re too late. Sorry.” So what? I was supposed to just go home?

“Ok, my flight leaves in thirty minutes so you’re going to need to get a supervisor for me because I have to be in Minneapolis today. I arrived on time, it’s just I have been standing in line for thirty minutes and there is only one of you so really, this is not my fault. Get a supervisor, please.”

He paused and surveyed the situation. I am not sure if he could see that my hands were starting to shake or that Max was looking at me curiously, but he slooooooowly sauntered away and five long minutes later, the first red-coated supervisor of my adventure arrived.

I quickly and with a pseudo calmness explained my situation ending my diatribe with a “just please tell me what to do now.” She had me follow her to the ticket counter. I heard muffled and impatient chatting, making out only “No, we can’t check her luggage, she’s too late.”

“But I got here on time.” I said. Or maybe I yelled. I’m not sure, but a whole bunch of people were looking at me. My children were very quiet, sitting on the luggage. “Just tell me what to do now” I repeated. Supervisor number one said she was going to get her supervisor. Apparently the grand high nurgle of luggage. Maybe she could help me.

Ten very arduous minutes later, the grand high nurgle of luggage arrived. She had no name tag but said her name was H.C. I didn’t even stop to figure out what the hell that stood for or make a joke about her name or rather lack of one. She refused to stand less than three feet from me, all the while holding her nifty little walkie-talkie in her hand. I was panicking by this point and I could feel the tears begin to well up.

“You were late.” She stated over and over. “This is your fault.” She tritely said. She said it so many times and walked in circles around me like a freakin’ shark circling its prey. I kept saying, “I wasn’t late!” and “You only had one skycap!” I was yelling by this time. No one would help me. There was no sympathy for me. From her, the other people in line, no one. Ten minutes until my flight departed.

I tried to plead with her. “Please stop focusing on the problem and focus on the solution. Just tell me what to do. Please, just tell me what to do!” I reached out to touch her arm as one does with sincerity, to just get her to listen to me and she screamed, “Don’t touch me!!” and then into her walkie-talkie, “CODE BLUE!!!!”

“Oh come on!” I yelled with tears blurring my vision. “Just help me.” I ran back to my children as several red coated supervisors, TSA agents and some airport police began to arrive.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yelled. Max was crying. Dash was holding on to my leg. It was not my finest moment. I let the tears just flow and remember shouting something about having $42 worth of Jewish cookies in my bag that I had to get to Minneapolis for my nephew’s bar mitzvah. But she wasn’t Jewish. She was obviously not even a mom. Most likely this hardened soul hadn’t had love or sex in her life in a long time because the empathy was non-existent.

Red-coated supervisor number three arrived. She explained that the real police were on their way and if I didn’t calm down no one would even hear me. Or rather listen to me. I took a deep shaky breath and regaled my story for the twentieth time. I calmed down. I didn’t stop crying, but I calmed a bit down. Yelling and crying get you nowhere. I knew this. I was usually great with customer service people because I used to be one and when you are nice to them they want to help you. If you cry and scream and get a “code blue” called on you they tend not to want to do shit for you. So, I tried the best I could to gather the last bit of strength I could and calm the hell down.

And then she said she would help me. Finally. I could feel my self exhale.

My flight, well, that I had now missed. She got me on the next one which left in an hour. She looked at me with these big brown eyes that seemed to mirror my own. She waved the police away and took care of me personally, adding how she hoped this would not be the last time I flew Delta. I thanked her repeatedly and then noticed her name tag.

“Your name is Sylvia.” I said quietly.

“Yes.” She said.

“That was the name of my grandmother who died last August.”

She smiled.

I thanked her one last time and decided to treat my children to McDonalds. If you know me, you know that meant I was trying to apologize to them for freaking out. But hey, they will need something to talk to their therapists about when they are teenagers.

But wait…there’s more.

We get to the gate and twenty minutes before the flight, the gate agent tells me we are listed as stand-by passengers. Seriously?

“Let me just call my supervisor…”

I prayed it would not be the nurgle again.

A new red-coated supervisor arrived and again, with my bloodshot eyes and mascara streaked face, I told the abbreviated version of the story again ending it with, “I’m not usually like this.” I even told him the part about the name Sylvia. He smiled and said that I had an angel looking out for me today.

“Go ahead and board,” he said. “And have a good weekend.”

As my children and I boarded the plane I looked back to thank him and asked his name. It was Bill. As I reached the airplane door, I realized I had had two angels watching over me today. My grandfather who had died when I was eighteen was named Bill. I felt a tear fall upon my cheek, only this time, with a smile on my lips.

The moral to this story is simple: Never, under any circumstances, travel on the first day of your period.