Ahh, the gynecologist. Nothing says fun like the phrase, “scooch down please”.
As we, as women (well, duh, like a dude is going to go to the gyno) age, having our girlie parts spelunked in becomes just more and more enjoyable. Period, babies, menopause, and then death. I’m sugar coating it a bit…
We start by getting our periods, which nowadays thanks to hormone-ladened-genetically-modified food, comes earlier and earlier. This first frightens the bajeezus out of us and then we tolerate them. Then, we are confused by them and then miss them. Well, we miss the thought of them. Okay, maybe not. I still have mine, so check back with me in a few years and I will let you know if I miss them. I am guessing no.
On July 13, 1980 I got my period for the first time. As all women do, I remember the exact moment. That wonderfully, dauntingly, awful and extraordinary moment of my first step into womanhood. Of course, I was up at my friend Josh’s parent’s cabin without my mother. Yep. Eleven o’clock at night I look down and the first thought was, “Oh my god, I’m dying!!!” The second thought was, “I want my mommy.” Try sharing a room with a prepubescent boy when you both are thirteen and having his mom explain this particular rite of passage to you without the prepubescent boy finding out. Ugh, the thought of Josh knowing that I had, well, ya know, become a woman in his presence was just more than my own pubescent self could handle. I don’t think he ever found out, which was good for both of us. I am guessing he really had no desire to know that Aunt Flow was visiting his parent’s cabin as well.
Then of course the whole teenage hormonal-thing totally sucks. I just read this article which explained how when female chimpanzees hit puberty they up and leave the chimpanzee nest. Or tree. If they don't want to leave, the parents just kick them out. This seems to cut down on fighting between the teenage females and the parental females. Sometimes I think my mom would have preferred sending my sister and me off somewhere during those particular years. Oh hey, that was what summer camp was for.
My mom was pretty great while we were burgeoning woman. In retrospect, she had a lot of patience for us. My dad traveled often for business, which was a wise idea. Having three premenstrual women in the house at the same time would make any man travel a lot. My mom volunteered for Planned Parenthood back then which made talking to her easy. I think she enjoyed the closeness we felt for her. I think some of my friends were envious of the relationship I had back then with her as well as the one I have nowadays with her. She was always good at finding the right thing to say to us. Well, most of the time. The past is always more romantic when you view it from twenty years past. The best thing she ever told me about sex was, “If you have to ask yourself a question more than once, most likely the answer is no.” Of course listening to yourself is the hard part. You keep hearing yourself think, “this is a baaaaad idea” and yet…well, learning from one’s mistakes is part of growing up too. I guess that means I am still growing up. Crap.
My mom could also always find the coolest cards for every occasion. I bring this up because she still does this. She actually found a little plaque for me that read, “She packed up her potential and all she had leaned, grabbed a cute pair of shoes and headed out to change a few things.” She just sent this to me. Like, two days ago. I love it. At first, I thought she had had it made for me and was a little let down when she told me she bought it in an airport. Because who else could this plaque possibly be meant for?!?! Seriously, I actually packed up my potential and my cute shoes and actually headed out and changed some stuff. I do like that I have a little plaque hanging on the fridge that validates this idea of what I did and what I have changed. But now I am forced to wonder who else has one of these plaques…hmmm…
So, back to the road map of woman. Babies. Then we decide to have babies which cause several things to happen. First, strange and magical things happen to our bodies as we grow a person in our bellies. Most things women won’t tell you because we want the human species to continue. We don’t want to scare the younger girls. Actually, if we did share this info with some promiscuous teenage girls they might use more birth control. I won’t go into details here because there are guys who read what I write and I want them to continue to read my blog. Also, the mothers who are reading this already know what these “magical” things are. They can just giggle, nod, roll their eyes and I will continue writing. Where was I? Oh yeah. Secondly, all modesty goes out the window when you give birth. You will have a nurse or three, doctors, interns, residents getting a peek at the crowning baby and you sooooo don’t care that you haven’t waxed in six months. Which is good. This way you can focus on pushing out a baby. (yes, ow.) Thirdly, this thing called “pregnancy head” happens where you can’t remember anything. That side effect doesn’t seem to go away. Now I refer to it as “momnesia” and my mom calls it a “senior moment”. I have also heard it referred to as “CRS” and for the life of me I can’t remember what the hell that stands for.
Anyway, after babies, you hit your forties and all hell breaks loose. Although the whole myth of the sexual peak seems to be true, so it’s not all bad.
In our forties, we start getting hormonal. Well, more hormonal than we used to be. Things like pimples occur which is, like, come on, I have crow’s feet and wrinkles now? Seriously? Maybe it’s not so much the hormones that are affecting me but rather the physical side effects from the hormones that are just pissing me off. Pimples, skin that used to be tight and is now squishy, wrinkles, weird periods, having something snipped out of your uterus, these things would piss off the happiest person. Yes, before all of these raging hormones I was a cheerful, sprightly optimist with a song in my heart. No, really. Whatever.
Oh! "Can't Remember Shit" That's what CRS stands for. I feel better now.
Anyway, the plaque my mom sent arrived on the afternoon I arrived home after having a biopsy. Nothing to worry about, kind and concerned readers, just a precaution. As my gyno put it, I am forty-three. End of story. Hopefully, the end of story, but I am not that worried. Three other women I know around my age just had biopsies also (and were just fine) and I hate feeling left out. I’m such a conformist. Or rather my girlie parts are. Two years ago I had my left ovary removed. Which kinda sucks cuz now I lean a little to the right and I am a staunch Democratic. (badumpah).
So, during my doctor appointment, I actually used the phrase, “Hey, before you go spelunking in my uterus, I have a few questions” to my gynecologist. She liked that. My gynecologist is super cool, around my age, a woman, and has the same sense of humor as I do. It makes being spelunked in a bit easier to take. I thought it make a good title for my blog. Then I started thinking of all of the crap we go through and then the plaque arrived. And there ya go.
Yes, I just justified my blog. I had to. I couldn’t remember what the hell I was writing about. Now it makes sense. Well, it makes sense to me…
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Unzip your closure
I was talking to a friend of mine the other day who was going through one of the most annoying of breakups. Even more annoying than the breakup of my marriage; although hers didn’t have lawyers involved. The reason hers was so annoying was because the guy just disappeared. Not like abducted by aliens or deported out of the country; but rather disappeared without saying goodbye. Nothin, nada, zip, zilch. No phone call, no email, no text message, facebook message or tweet; just disappeared without so much of an explanation. I hate these men. And the thing that sucks is that, male or female, we have all been there before. All you have to do is say goodbye. Lie to us and tell us “it’s not you, it’s me” and let us move on. Seriously.
It’s not the breakup that makes people crazy. It’s the lack of breaking up during the breakup that makes us crazy.
All people have to do is let us know if we are waiting for them to deal with whatever they are dealing with or we are done waiting and now on the path to getting over them. Once we have that choice made for us, we can then get on with our lives because we know what we are getting on with. But when we get no closure, we sit there, waiting for something, some clue as to why we have been broken up with.
Closure. It’s a total therapy word that gained popularity in the 1980’s to help people deal. Deal with life, love, traumatic experiences, and sometimes, a little bit of all three. Closure helps people to move on or at least realize why they are eating a gallon of rocky road ice cream. They can justify their behavior when they are buying six pairs of shoes. They know exactly why they can’t sleep or having weird dreams that seem to symbolize their waking lives. Being up at 4am when the cat is still sleeping suddenly becomes clear and we can just feel sorry for ourselves and then the next week, we can sleep.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Shoe shopping can be used in all sorts of circumstances. Personally, when something wonderful happens to me, I like to celebrate with a pair of fabulous shoes (on sale). They say, “Woot! You are fabulous and deserve these Steve Madden sparkly purple pumps!” On the other hand, when I am totally depressed, man-related or otherwise, I like to drown my sorrows in a pair of fabulous shoes (on sale) that say, “Oh honey, don’t worry, you are fabulous and deserve these Steve Madden patent leather Mary Janes that make your legs look breathtaking.” Either way, shoes seems to make me feel happy. Oh shut up. I know several men who feel the same way about shoes. Yes, not just heels on the women they are looking at but for themselves as well. (nothin wrong with a good foot fetish) I only know a few who wear heels, but I do have a straight male friend who has more boots then I do. Of course, he does live in Seattle where shoes get ruined very often because of the rain so it’s good to have a strong collection of boots as a back up to Seattle mud. Oh look, I justified his boot collection for him. Man that is nice of me.
So basically the shoe industry wouldn’t feel a thing in the sales department if people actually gave some closure to their breakups. Trust me, I will keep it going all by myself.
Seriously, all one has to do (and seriously, I am saying male or female here) is say something, anything that makes us realize it is over. There is nothing more pathetic than waiting by the phone, refreshing your email over and over again, and waiting for something to happen. Just be a grown up and end it in a polite and civilized manner that allows us to move on. There was once where this guy I had been dating for months stopped calling and disappeared. I ran into him three months later and found out he had been bitten by a Recluse Spider and had been in the hospital for six weeks. He had been in a coma for three weeks of it and had lost twenty pounds. THAT is the only excuse for disappearance I will accept.
Now, sometimes with technology we tend to get lazy with breakups. I had a student last year who was in a long distance relationship whose girlfriend broke up with him on a text. Personally, if I could have I would have flown to her house and smacked her for that. It was horrible. It was so impersonal and icky. I hated how devastated he was by it. If someone ever broke up with me on a text, I may actually drive over to his house and smack them and I am a pacifist. I abhor violence, but a text-breakup? Seriously? Grow up. I think the amount of sincerity in a breakup should be proportionate to the amount of sincerity there was in the relationship. It’s like relationship math. Yes, I suck at math (and spelling) and yet I can figure this math problem out.
Look, all I’m sayin is when you change manicurists because they have stabbed you one too many times in the cuticle, you really don’t need to say goodbye. You can just find another manicurist. If you are forced to change medical insurance by your employer, you don’t need a face to face with your gynecologist to move on. Well, face to vagina, but whatever.
However, when you have been intimate, emotionally or physically, with someone for more than a month or two, you expect a goodbye with at least a bull shit explanation of why. Even if you don’t like us anymore, we annoy you or we have become too needy or too fraught with expectations about the relationship we thought we had; we are not asking for the Holy Grail of excuses, just a nice “I’m in a different place than you are” excuse works for most of us.
A month goes by and you sit with your friend telling her she should now delete his number off of her phone. She sighs and hits delete. The phone asks her if she really wants to delete his number. She looks into your eyes hoping you will say no, but you just offer her another glass of wine as she hits “yes”. She breathes that shaky breath and sighs again. You sigh as well, remembering the last time that happened to you...
I hoped you liked this blog. If you don’t, it’s not you…it’s me.
It’s not the breakup that makes people crazy. It’s the lack of breaking up during the breakup that makes us crazy.
All people have to do is let us know if we are waiting for them to deal with whatever they are dealing with or we are done waiting and now on the path to getting over them. Once we have that choice made for us, we can then get on with our lives because we know what we are getting on with. But when we get no closure, we sit there, waiting for something, some clue as to why we have been broken up with.
Closure. It’s a total therapy word that gained popularity in the 1980’s to help people deal. Deal with life, love, traumatic experiences, and sometimes, a little bit of all three. Closure helps people to move on or at least realize why they are eating a gallon of rocky road ice cream. They can justify their behavior when they are buying six pairs of shoes. They know exactly why they can’t sleep or having weird dreams that seem to symbolize their waking lives. Being up at 4am when the cat is still sleeping suddenly becomes clear and we can just feel sorry for ourselves and then the next week, we can sleep.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Shoe shopping can be used in all sorts of circumstances. Personally, when something wonderful happens to me, I like to celebrate with a pair of fabulous shoes (on sale). They say, “Woot! You are fabulous and deserve these Steve Madden sparkly purple pumps!” On the other hand, when I am totally depressed, man-related or otherwise, I like to drown my sorrows in a pair of fabulous shoes (on sale) that say, “Oh honey, don’t worry, you are fabulous and deserve these Steve Madden patent leather Mary Janes that make your legs look breathtaking.” Either way, shoes seems to make me feel happy. Oh shut up. I know several men who feel the same way about shoes. Yes, not just heels on the women they are looking at but for themselves as well. (nothin wrong with a good foot fetish) I only know a few who wear heels, but I do have a straight male friend who has more boots then I do. Of course, he does live in Seattle where shoes get ruined very often because of the rain so it’s good to have a strong collection of boots as a back up to Seattle mud. Oh look, I justified his boot collection for him. Man that is nice of me.
So basically the shoe industry wouldn’t feel a thing in the sales department if people actually gave some closure to their breakups. Trust me, I will keep it going all by myself.
Seriously, all one has to do (and seriously, I am saying male or female here) is say something, anything that makes us realize it is over. There is nothing more pathetic than waiting by the phone, refreshing your email over and over again, and waiting for something to happen. Just be a grown up and end it in a polite and civilized manner that allows us to move on. There was once where this guy I had been dating for months stopped calling and disappeared. I ran into him three months later and found out he had been bitten by a Recluse Spider and had been in the hospital for six weeks. He had been in a coma for three weeks of it and had lost twenty pounds. THAT is the only excuse for disappearance I will accept.
Now, sometimes with technology we tend to get lazy with breakups. I had a student last year who was in a long distance relationship whose girlfriend broke up with him on a text. Personally, if I could have I would have flown to her house and smacked her for that. It was horrible. It was so impersonal and icky. I hated how devastated he was by it. If someone ever broke up with me on a text, I may actually drive over to his house and smack them and I am a pacifist. I abhor violence, but a text-breakup? Seriously? Grow up. I think the amount of sincerity in a breakup should be proportionate to the amount of sincerity there was in the relationship. It’s like relationship math. Yes, I suck at math (and spelling) and yet I can figure this math problem out.
Look, all I’m sayin is when you change manicurists because they have stabbed you one too many times in the cuticle, you really don’t need to say goodbye. You can just find another manicurist. If you are forced to change medical insurance by your employer, you don’t need a face to face with your gynecologist to move on. Well, face to vagina, but whatever.
However, when you have been intimate, emotionally or physically, with someone for more than a month or two, you expect a goodbye with at least a bull shit explanation of why. Even if you don’t like us anymore, we annoy you or we have become too needy or too fraught with expectations about the relationship we thought we had; we are not asking for the Holy Grail of excuses, just a nice “I’m in a different place than you are” excuse works for most of us.
A month goes by and you sit with your friend telling her she should now delete his number off of her phone. She sighs and hits delete. The phone asks her if she really wants to delete his number. She looks into your eyes hoping you will say no, but you just offer her another glass of wine as she hits “yes”. She breathes that shaky breath and sighs again. You sigh as well, remembering the last time that happened to you...
I hoped you liked this blog. If you don’t, it’s not you…it’s me.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
The C-Word
No, not THAT word. I am not a big fan of the “C U Next Tuesday" word. Probably because it has been used directly at me a few times. There are some great insults that have been hurled at me. Some great one-word-zingers that get their point across; but that word, nah, don’t like it.
And I don’t mean “Commitment”, either. I have said it before and I’ll say it again: I have nothing against love, per say, it’s just the idea of a monogamous relationship (right now)and giving up my bed space permanently I am against. Plus, the idea that someone would see me first thing in the morning, with morning gas and eye liner half way down my puffy-sleep-deprived-eyes…yuck. The concept of my partner being exposed to my premenstrual self whom I usually hide away in the magic attic until I no longer scare my children. Yep, not right now, but thanks. I’m sure there will be someone someday who will enjoy these sexy traits of mine, but I am not looking to find out any time soon, so I think we’re good. Of course, I am also not really in the mood for their morning gas, puffy faces or testosterone-poisoned selves on a full time basis either. Small males are enough right now.
No, the C-word I am referring to is the dreaded “Cockroach” (and before you get grossed out, I do NOT have roaches in my apartment. If I did, you wouldn’t be able to walk passed my apartment without hearing screams of terror. Plus, if they were here, I would have moved out by now). The C-thingies (shudder) and I have had a tumultuous and tormented past. Well, they may not mind me, but I mind them. Like, a lot. Like, really a lot. Like, yuck and a half a lot. (shudder)
Back in college, at the University of Wisconsin, Madison (go Badgers) I had moved into a basement apartment (because I wanted to be just like Laverne and Shirley) on, oh what was the name of that street. It was right down the street from The Union. Umm…I’ll get back to you on that. Anyway, the night I moved in, the C-thingies came from everywhere. There I was, in cowboy books, boxer shorts and a ripped t-shirt (ala Madonna) with a can of raid in one hand and a shoe in the other. I felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger before he was governor and still just a bad overpaid actor. Commando Allison! "AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!" (wait, that may have sounded more like a pirate.) Anyway, I killed so many C-thingies I lost count. I finally thought I was done and took off my boots and one crawled over my foot. I ran screaming from my new disgusting apartment at 2am to my friend Rachel’s apartment. She wasn’t thrilled I was waking her up at 2am, but she calmed me down, gave me vodka and let me crash there. The landlords actually moved rather quickly and they cleaned up all of the corpses, bombed my place and I don’t know if it was the freezing winter temperatures or they were actually gone, but they were, actually gone. (shudder)
Landon Street! Oh good, I remembered. I feel better now. Okay, to continue on with my innane bug story...
Flash forward ten years, when I found the cutest one bedroom in Larchmont Village with French doors and built in furniture from the 1920’s. I loved this place. It was so cute and sweet with the original icebox still in the kitchen. Yep, I loved it until they turned the electricity on. Then “they” came from everywhere…again. Return of the C-thingies.
Hundreds. (shudder) I didn’t even try to kill them. I was frozen with fear this time. I could barely move to across the living room to call in back up. It took what seemed to be an hour (like five minutes)to make it all the way to the bedroom and called my BFF Kelly, who drove all the way from Van Nuys and killed them from me. I love her. She understands me. She is also terrified of spiders. I kill hers and she kills mine.
I left my cute and infested pad and moved out that night. The nice thing was I hadn’t unpacked yet so it made moving super easy to move again, one day after I had just moved in. By the way, this is the short version of the story of what became known as “The Pit of Despair”. (shudder)
In the last apartment I lived in with the dreaded X, we had the issue of waterbugs. These are the great white sharks of C-thingies. They look identical to their smaller cousin bugs but live outside and only come in to your house to die. I know all of this information because I had the exterminator on speed dial by then. Richie, the exterminator, who took my calls and inspected my apartment and understood my fears. He was so nice. He was afraid of flying and had only been on an airplane once in his life. He was actually much nicer than my x-husband was to me about my Entomophobia. Although the dreaded X made fun of my jumping onto furniture or running screaming from the room and hiding until it was gone when one of these waterbugs came to visit, he did kill them for me. They would crawl on the walls and ceilings which was the grossest part of these things. (shudder)
When I left him, my first apartment was clean and shiny and bright and apparently had a big hole in the screen of one of the doors because the waterbugs came to roost again. They showed up two weeks after I had moved in. Try to understand this: I had paralyzing Entomophobic fears that made me scream like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween and I had just left my Bug-killer and was planning on divorcing him. Although I hated him, the man still killed my bugs. This put me into a whole new area of my fear. Overcoming my fear.
I was in Grad school for my Masters in Education at the time, so I had these huge text books I liked to use to kill these monsters. My favorite book to use was my Bilingual Education book which was larger than my youngest son at the time. I loved this book. Not just because I liked what Cummings and Krashen had to say about education but I would hurl the book and smash’em. Ummm, not the pedagogic researchers, I meant the bugs.
But then the problem was my fear would kick in again and I couldn’t pick up the dead ones. (shudder) I would try but…I…just…eeewwww….couldn’t. My babysitter apparently came from hearty-stock in El Salvador, so would come over in the mornings and pick up the bug corpses for me. She never made fun of me, she never rolled her eyes at me; she just acted as my waterbug coroner for me without a fuss because she understood my fears. She has a fear of heights so I clean the cobwebs off of the ceiling. We make a good team. I love her. She does my laundry too.
Now a days, we have only had to deal with spiders and crickets, which I can handle peacefully and rarely even kill them. I like the catch and release program for bugs I don’t mind.
So, here's the point of my blog today (you were wondering, I know). I did find the strength I needed within myself to kill these monsters all by myself because I had no choice. Sometimes the only way to face your fears and get over them is to be forced to face your fears. Yep, those little buggers made me woman-up and kick some ass. Like most things in life we are afraid of, we usually remain afraid of them until we have no other alternative but to face them. Whether it is big nasty bugs, leaving your spouse and being on your own, graduating from high school and moving into adulthood or just learning to drive on the freeway in Los Angeles; you do what you have to do when you have to do it.
Of course I am still afraid of the C-thingies. I can kill them if I am forced to, but I still really, really, really don't like them. One crawled into my classroom the other day. (Ah, working in an inner-city school. Good times.) I screamed, jumped on a desk and offered five points extra credit for one of my students to kill it. It was a beautiful moment in education.
(shudder)
And I don’t mean “Commitment”, either. I have said it before and I’ll say it again: I have nothing against love, per say, it’s just the idea of a monogamous relationship (right now)and giving up my bed space permanently I am against. Plus, the idea that someone would see me first thing in the morning, with morning gas and eye liner half way down my puffy-sleep-deprived-eyes…yuck. The concept of my partner being exposed to my premenstrual self whom I usually hide away in the magic attic until I no longer scare my children. Yep, not right now, but thanks. I’m sure there will be someone someday who will enjoy these sexy traits of mine, but I am not looking to find out any time soon, so I think we’re good. Of course, I am also not really in the mood for their morning gas, puffy faces or testosterone-poisoned selves on a full time basis either. Small males are enough right now.
No, the C-word I am referring to is the dreaded “Cockroach” (and before you get grossed out, I do NOT have roaches in my apartment. If I did, you wouldn’t be able to walk passed my apartment without hearing screams of terror. Plus, if they were here, I would have moved out by now). The C-thingies (shudder) and I have had a tumultuous and tormented past. Well, they may not mind me, but I mind them. Like, a lot. Like, really a lot. Like, yuck and a half a lot. (shudder)
Back in college, at the University of Wisconsin, Madison (go Badgers) I had moved into a basement apartment (because I wanted to be just like Laverne and Shirley) on, oh what was the name of that street. It was right down the street from The Union. Umm…I’ll get back to you on that. Anyway, the night I moved in, the C-thingies came from everywhere. There I was, in cowboy books, boxer shorts and a ripped t-shirt (ala Madonna) with a can of raid in one hand and a shoe in the other. I felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger before he was governor and still just a bad overpaid actor. Commando Allison! "AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!" (wait, that may have sounded more like a pirate.) Anyway, I killed so many C-thingies I lost count. I finally thought I was done and took off my boots and one crawled over my foot. I ran screaming from my new disgusting apartment at 2am to my friend Rachel’s apartment. She wasn’t thrilled I was waking her up at 2am, but she calmed me down, gave me vodka and let me crash there. The landlords actually moved rather quickly and they cleaned up all of the corpses, bombed my place and I don’t know if it was the freezing winter temperatures or they were actually gone, but they were, actually gone. (shudder)
Landon Street! Oh good, I remembered. I feel better now. Okay, to continue on with my innane bug story...
Flash forward ten years, when I found the cutest one bedroom in Larchmont Village with French doors and built in furniture from the 1920’s. I loved this place. It was so cute and sweet with the original icebox still in the kitchen. Yep, I loved it until they turned the electricity on. Then “they” came from everywhere…again. Return of the C-thingies.
Hundreds. (shudder) I didn’t even try to kill them. I was frozen with fear this time. I could barely move to across the living room to call in back up. It took what seemed to be an hour (like five minutes)to make it all the way to the bedroom and called my BFF Kelly, who drove all the way from Van Nuys and killed them from me. I love her. She understands me. She is also terrified of spiders. I kill hers and she kills mine.
I left my cute and infested pad and moved out that night. The nice thing was I hadn’t unpacked yet so it made moving super easy to move again, one day after I had just moved in. By the way, this is the short version of the story of what became known as “The Pit of Despair”. (shudder)
In the last apartment I lived in with the dreaded X, we had the issue of waterbugs. These are the great white sharks of C-thingies. They look identical to their smaller cousin bugs but live outside and only come in to your house to die. I know all of this information because I had the exterminator on speed dial by then. Richie, the exterminator, who took my calls and inspected my apartment and understood my fears. He was so nice. He was afraid of flying and had only been on an airplane once in his life. He was actually much nicer than my x-husband was to me about my Entomophobia. Although the dreaded X made fun of my jumping onto furniture or running screaming from the room and hiding until it was gone when one of these waterbugs came to visit, he did kill them for me. They would crawl on the walls and ceilings which was the grossest part of these things. (shudder)
When I left him, my first apartment was clean and shiny and bright and apparently had a big hole in the screen of one of the doors because the waterbugs came to roost again. They showed up two weeks after I had moved in. Try to understand this: I had paralyzing Entomophobic fears that made me scream like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween and I had just left my Bug-killer and was planning on divorcing him. Although I hated him, the man still killed my bugs. This put me into a whole new area of my fear. Overcoming my fear.
I was in Grad school for my Masters in Education at the time, so I had these huge text books I liked to use to kill these monsters. My favorite book to use was my Bilingual Education book which was larger than my youngest son at the time. I loved this book. Not just because I liked what Cummings and Krashen had to say about education but I would hurl the book and smash’em. Ummm, not the pedagogic researchers, I meant the bugs.
But then the problem was my fear would kick in again and I couldn’t pick up the dead ones. (shudder) I would try but…I…just…eeewwww….couldn’t. My babysitter apparently came from hearty-stock in El Salvador, so would come over in the mornings and pick up the bug corpses for me. She never made fun of me, she never rolled her eyes at me; she just acted as my waterbug coroner for me without a fuss because she understood my fears. She has a fear of heights so I clean the cobwebs off of the ceiling. We make a good team. I love her. She does my laundry too.
Now a days, we have only had to deal with spiders and crickets, which I can handle peacefully and rarely even kill them. I like the catch and release program for bugs I don’t mind.
So, here's the point of my blog today (you were wondering, I know). I did find the strength I needed within myself to kill these monsters all by myself because I had no choice. Sometimes the only way to face your fears and get over them is to be forced to face your fears. Yep, those little buggers made me woman-up and kick some ass. Like most things in life we are afraid of, we usually remain afraid of them until we have no other alternative but to face them. Whether it is big nasty bugs, leaving your spouse and being on your own, graduating from high school and moving into adulthood or just learning to drive on the freeway in Los Angeles; you do what you have to do when you have to do it.
Of course I am still afraid of the C-thingies. I can kill them if I am forced to, but I still really, really, really don't like them. One crawled into my classroom the other day. (Ah, working in an inner-city school. Good times.) I screamed, jumped on a desk and offered five points extra credit for one of my students to kill it. It was a beautiful moment in education.
(shudder)
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Prom
It is 2am and I just got home from the prom. No, not mine, silly, the Senior Prom which I coordinated, hosted and watched over like the Jewish mother I am. My ears are ringing and I am strangely wired right now. This is the second night this week I have been up this late. I am going to pay for this.
The first night this week I was up past my mommy-teacher bedtime was Thursday. It was Gradnight at Disneyland with my Seniors. I worked all day Thursday, picked up my kids, played with them, fed them, bathed them, read to them, then the overpriced and well trusted babysitter arrived at 8pm. I left to meet my students at school and we headed to Disneyland at 9:30. I got everyone squared away before the bus arrived and noticed a few of my senior boys smelled like a bar. None were drunk, just, well, smelled like they might become so, so I put my foot down. I lectured in the main foyer of the school.
“You don’t need to get drunk at Disneyland!” I began LOUDLY. “For crap sake, it’s the happiest place on earth!”. One of my more amusing students offered for me to smell him. “Come on, Ms. Levine, you know you want to smell me.” I laughed. They know me too well by now. I can’t be pissed too long at any of them.
Gradnight was fun but exhausting. There were four dance areas, food, fireworks and all of the thousands of students were locked down at Disney. I knew they were relatively safe. At least from any outside harm. What they did to themselves, who knows.
My fellow chaperone and I rode two rides and then stood in line at Space Mountain for an hour. It was 2am and I realized we had stopped chatting. I offered to buy him a churro if we left the line and headed to the chaperone center. He was happy to leave. Disney treats their chaperones well. Well fed, we watched a movie with the other sleeping chaperones until 4am and then headed for the bus to start collecting the kids. A thirty minute walk at 4am was not as much fun as it sounds. By 5:30, we realized we had lost two misdirected students who took a wrong turn and ended up at an IHop OUTSIDE of Disneyland. Thank goodness they all had my cell number. We scooped them up by 6am and headed, zombified, back to school.
Sleeping all day threw off my schedule. I collected my own kids at 5pm and regaled them with stories and gifts from Disneyland. I was surprised they weren’t mad at me for going to their favorite place without them. But presents and pizza made up for it. I fell asleep ten seconds after them and woke up with the worst cold. They let me sleep on the couch while they played video games on the computer. They even brought me orange juice (spilled all over the living room) and snuggled me until 10am. I love my children. And apparently am bringing them up right (ya know, not complaining that I was immobile on the couch all morning).
My children started arguing around 11am and I suggested to Max that if Dash was going to shoot him with a Nerf gun, he needed to tackle him and tickle his brother. This advice was given while I was in the shower, so all I heard were screams of laughter.
After I dropped them off at the dreaded X's house, I headed to a summer teaching position job interview where I was forced to take a mock SAT exam. Just so you know, the old adage, “those who can’t teach, do” is partially true. I scored a perfect score on the vocab, a perfect score on the reading comprehension and then a 20% on the grammar. Yep, my mom enjoyed that one.
And then…the prom.
Hurrying home from the interview, I threw my hair into a French twist (I had no idea I could actually do this) but some sparkly barrettes in it, applied A LOT of make-up to the dark circles under my eyes, put on my fabulous fifteen year old dress and way too fabulous shoes and headed out the door. The shoes, oh my goodness, they were too fabulous. (And on sale.) Silver strappy sandals, five inch heels, gorgeous and now I have a permanent dent on both of my achilles where the little zippers were. Beauty knows no pain. The dress is fifteen years old and the last time I wore it was on my rehearsal dinner for my wedding. Bad luck aside, I must say, I looked pretty damn good.
The prom itself went off without a hitch. I had my favorite teachers chaperone, so that just made it more fun. My students all looked so…beautiful. The girls who wear their hair up with no make-up at school suddenly looked like women. They were all so sparkly and pretty. Some magically grew hair overnight and eyelashes too. The boys, in their tuxes that matched their dates…all of them…magic.
The thing is, watching an event that you personally planned for eight months go off without a hitch was magic. The two girls who gotten into a fight two weeks ago stayed far away from each other. But then again, it probably would be hard to fight in floor-length ball gowns and five inch heels. But nevertheless, they acted like the ladies they looked like.
There was only one drunk kid and he wasn’t one of mine. Plus, when he did act up and the wonderful security guards of The Bardot wanted to kick him out, I pulled, as my kids call it, “a ghetto Ms Levine” on him, and he was cool for the rest of the night. I really should have kicked his ass out, but he had been fixed up with one of my most favorite and most shy girls, and I didn’t want her night to be ruined. She had to deal with the little drunkard and actually seemed grateful that I watched over her all night.
You plan an event like this, something that is a once in a lifetime event for these kids, and you want it to be perfect. And being, well, me, I wanted it to be so; and it damn near was. You stock it with great teachers who are fun and won’t be a buzzkill; you have an awesome DJ who knows how to play a song for every kid in the place; and you have one of your best friends be the photographer and really, you can’t go wrong. The security at The Bardot was amazed by how great my students were. None of them could believe they were all just kids from South Central. Seriously, I was kvelling, as any good Jewish mother to thirty-eight students would.
I have to say my favorite part of the evening, besides crowning the Prom King and Queen, (I really wanted to keep one of the tiaras. Damn.) was when the very cute and (yay) single supervisor of The Bardot fixed my favorite teacher and me some actual drinks. Seriously needed. Five hours of prom duty. Vodka. Good.
After all of the prom-goers left, we got to go to the club next door, for free, as VIP guests. This was fun for a few reasons. (and fun for about thirty minutes) Number one: a large glass of vodka after five hours of chaperone-ing was very needed. (I think I just said that. That is how needed it was.) Number two: I haven’t been to a nightclub in ages, and we got to be on the DJ stage and watch all of the twenty-somethings tweaking and rolling and whatever. It was all very surreal, go-go dancers, being hit on by twenty year olds (hehehe), to be in my evening gown and French twist, watching this scene that I was no longer a part of and really didn’t feel the need to be a part of anymore. Club days are over for me, pretty much. I mean, I wouldn’t say no to go out dancing because I have realized that the last two times I had been out dancing were at my nephew’s bar mitzvah and at the senior prom I had just attended. Perhaps I do need to go out dancing more, but crap, I am just too tired by the time Saturday night rolls around. Netflix is just too convenient.
So, let’s recap. Too many late nights this week, my cold is coming back, my seniors had fun and that makes me super happy, and I am old and white. Yes, dancing with my Seniors taught me that. Although, I have to say I do a mean “cat daddy”…
I am going to sleep now. And I am sleeping until I have to pick up my children, so don’t call me.
The first night this week I was up past my mommy-teacher bedtime was Thursday. It was Gradnight at Disneyland with my Seniors. I worked all day Thursday, picked up my kids, played with them, fed them, bathed them, read to them, then the overpriced and well trusted babysitter arrived at 8pm. I left to meet my students at school and we headed to Disneyland at 9:30. I got everyone squared away before the bus arrived and noticed a few of my senior boys smelled like a bar. None were drunk, just, well, smelled like they might become so, so I put my foot down. I lectured in the main foyer of the school.
“You don’t need to get drunk at Disneyland!” I began LOUDLY. “For crap sake, it’s the happiest place on earth!”. One of my more amusing students offered for me to smell him. “Come on, Ms. Levine, you know you want to smell me.” I laughed. They know me too well by now. I can’t be pissed too long at any of them.
Gradnight was fun but exhausting. There were four dance areas, food, fireworks and all of the thousands of students were locked down at Disney. I knew they were relatively safe. At least from any outside harm. What they did to themselves, who knows.
My fellow chaperone and I rode two rides and then stood in line at Space Mountain for an hour. It was 2am and I realized we had stopped chatting. I offered to buy him a churro if we left the line and headed to the chaperone center. He was happy to leave. Disney treats their chaperones well. Well fed, we watched a movie with the other sleeping chaperones until 4am and then headed for the bus to start collecting the kids. A thirty minute walk at 4am was not as much fun as it sounds. By 5:30, we realized we had lost two misdirected students who took a wrong turn and ended up at an IHop OUTSIDE of Disneyland. Thank goodness they all had my cell number. We scooped them up by 6am and headed, zombified, back to school.
Sleeping all day threw off my schedule. I collected my own kids at 5pm and regaled them with stories and gifts from Disneyland. I was surprised they weren’t mad at me for going to their favorite place without them. But presents and pizza made up for it. I fell asleep ten seconds after them and woke up with the worst cold. They let me sleep on the couch while they played video games on the computer. They even brought me orange juice (spilled all over the living room) and snuggled me until 10am. I love my children. And apparently am bringing them up right (ya know, not complaining that I was immobile on the couch all morning).
My children started arguing around 11am and I suggested to Max that if Dash was going to shoot him with a Nerf gun, he needed to tackle him and tickle his brother. This advice was given while I was in the shower, so all I heard were screams of laughter.
After I dropped them off at the dreaded X's house, I headed to a summer teaching position job interview where I was forced to take a mock SAT exam. Just so you know, the old adage, “those who can’t teach, do” is partially true. I scored a perfect score on the vocab, a perfect score on the reading comprehension and then a 20% on the grammar. Yep, my mom enjoyed that one.
And then…the prom.
Hurrying home from the interview, I threw my hair into a French twist (I had no idea I could actually do this) but some sparkly barrettes in it, applied A LOT of make-up to the dark circles under my eyes, put on my fabulous fifteen year old dress and way too fabulous shoes and headed out the door. The shoes, oh my goodness, they were too fabulous. (And on sale.) Silver strappy sandals, five inch heels, gorgeous and now I have a permanent dent on both of my achilles where the little zippers were. Beauty knows no pain. The dress is fifteen years old and the last time I wore it was on my rehearsal dinner for my wedding. Bad luck aside, I must say, I looked pretty damn good.
The prom itself went off without a hitch. I had my favorite teachers chaperone, so that just made it more fun. My students all looked so…beautiful. The girls who wear their hair up with no make-up at school suddenly looked like women. They were all so sparkly and pretty. Some magically grew hair overnight and eyelashes too. The boys, in their tuxes that matched their dates…all of them…magic.
The thing is, watching an event that you personally planned for eight months go off without a hitch was magic. The two girls who gotten into a fight two weeks ago stayed far away from each other. But then again, it probably would be hard to fight in floor-length ball gowns and five inch heels. But nevertheless, they acted like the ladies they looked like.
There was only one drunk kid and he wasn’t one of mine. Plus, when he did act up and the wonderful security guards of The Bardot wanted to kick him out, I pulled, as my kids call it, “a ghetto Ms Levine” on him, and he was cool for the rest of the night. I really should have kicked his ass out, but he had been fixed up with one of my most favorite and most shy girls, and I didn’t want her night to be ruined. She had to deal with the little drunkard and actually seemed grateful that I watched over her all night.
You plan an event like this, something that is a once in a lifetime event for these kids, and you want it to be perfect. And being, well, me, I wanted it to be so; and it damn near was. You stock it with great teachers who are fun and won’t be a buzzkill; you have an awesome DJ who knows how to play a song for every kid in the place; and you have one of your best friends be the photographer and really, you can’t go wrong. The security at The Bardot was amazed by how great my students were. None of them could believe they were all just kids from South Central. Seriously, I was kvelling, as any good Jewish mother to thirty-eight students would.
I have to say my favorite part of the evening, besides crowning the Prom King and Queen, (I really wanted to keep one of the tiaras. Damn.) was when the very cute and (yay) single supervisor of The Bardot fixed my favorite teacher and me some actual drinks. Seriously needed. Five hours of prom duty. Vodka. Good.
After all of the prom-goers left, we got to go to the club next door, for free, as VIP guests. This was fun for a few reasons. (and fun for about thirty minutes) Number one: a large glass of vodka after five hours of chaperone-ing was very needed. (I think I just said that. That is how needed it was.) Number two: I haven’t been to a nightclub in ages, and we got to be on the DJ stage and watch all of the twenty-somethings tweaking and rolling and whatever. It was all very surreal, go-go dancers, being hit on by twenty year olds (hehehe), to be in my evening gown and French twist, watching this scene that I was no longer a part of and really didn’t feel the need to be a part of anymore. Club days are over for me, pretty much. I mean, I wouldn’t say no to go out dancing because I have realized that the last two times I had been out dancing were at my nephew’s bar mitzvah and at the senior prom I had just attended. Perhaps I do need to go out dancing more, but crap, I am just too tired by the time Saturday night rolls around. Netflix is just too convenient.
So, let’s recap. Too many late nights this week, my cold is coming back, my seniors had fun and that makes me super happy, and I am old and white. Yes, dancing with my Seniors taught me that. Although, I have to say I do a mean “cat daddy”…
I am going to sleep now. And I am sleeping until I have to pick up my children, so don’t call me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)