I’m not a cougar, I’m a leopard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and Happy Halloween.

Oh yeah, like that was decaf

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

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

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

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

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

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

5:45 get dressed

5:50 change clothes

5:55 change clothes again

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

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

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

6:30 tell the boys to get dressed

6:35 tell the boys to get dressed

6:40 tell the boys to get dressed

6:50 head out the door

6:55 come back to get what I forgot

7am drop off the boys

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

7:35 say good morning to 100 students

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

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

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

Repeat for each class of the day

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

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

3:50 get cornered by students

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

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

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

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

5:30 arrive at the YMCA to work off anxiety

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

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

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

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

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

8:15 discuss Pokémon

8:30 tell the boys to get ready for bed

8:35 tell the boys to get ready for bed

8:40 tell the boys to get ready for bed

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

9am boys are asleep.  Aaahhhh.

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

10:30 realize it was NOT decaf

10:35 start writing blog

11pm pray for sleepiness

11:15 realize I have nothing more to write

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

The Deal Breaker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yes…everything I have has a name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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