tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399156032698504942024-03-12T20:57:49.190-07:00hmmm...seriously?I have no idea what I am writing about. Follow me anyway.seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-76902114153871577642021-11-12T09:13:00.001-08:002021-11-12T13:08:45.664-08:00 The Diabolical Floof<p><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">On a sunny day in August 2010, we decided to adopt a cat. The boys, at that time 4 and 6 years old, wanted nothing more than a Tabby kitten. I told them we’d have to see what they had at the shelter, but they were adamant about a Tabby kitten. We walked into the smell of way too many animals and after noses pinched, we started looking into the cages. One kitten among all of the cats, and he was an orange Tabby. Eight weeks old with a meow that begged to differ, coarse hair, and a bit of an attitude. However, my boys wanted a Tabby kitten so we chose him. Perhaps he chose us. Henry Griffith Kittlelands. Eight weeks old and ready to go. We brought him home and I quickly explained to my boys that kittens and cats rule the house and we should let him explore his new environment. He smelled everything. He was afraid of the couch and kind of freaked out by the floor-length blinds but started checking out the staircase one step at a time. He wandered upstairs to the cat box in the bathroom and walked away. I picked him up and put him in the litter just so he would know where it was and he marched around a bit and then jumped out. This continued throughout the evening and my children were in love with this little orange ball of fluff and sass. Later that evening, after I put the small boys to bed, I could not find Henry anywhere. I searched high and low throughout our townhome and started freaking out that I couldn’t find him. Finally, an hour of anxious panicking later, I found our new kitten asleep across my son’s head, purring boisterously, knowing he was home. It’s weird, after that, his fur became floofy soft. Like all he needed to bring out his softness was a family to love him.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-77522de2-7fff-bb4a-8705-352c4cf6a7cb"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then the toe biting began. I wanted to kill him. Each time I would fall asleep at night he would find my toes above or below my blankets and bite them. Not my children’s, mind you, just mine. I kept tucking my toes beneath the blankets, but still, they were bitten. He grew out of that phase in a few weeks only to find a new fun obsession. I had one of those iPod chargers with an alarm clock attached and Henry figured out how to press the button to turn the music on. The first two times he did this, I assumed it was my alarm going off in the morning. I would get up and feed him and then realize it was 4AM. Perplexed profanity. How could he figure this out? On the third morning, I woke up just enough to see Henry standing on my dresser and then gently pressed his paw onto the alarm button of my phone. Like he just sat there and took one paw and pressed. Motherfucker woke me up five days in a row. I had to finally plug my phone into another charger just to keep him from waking me up. Diabolical, perhaps. After that came opening the cupboard with the cat treats, turning on the tv, also at 4am, opening my drawers but only pulling out my underwear, and of course, the Great Hamster Massacre of 2010. After this, the diabolical moniker would be infamously etched into history. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ah, the hamsters. At first, he would just sit atop the cage and poke his paws gingerly into it to sort of freak the hamsters out. Hamstersaurus Rex, Phineas Schnicklefritz, and Kevin (see earlier blogs cuz I can’t even go into explaining the names again) would freeze and then go back to the hamster wheel of anxiety (caused mine, not theirs) and try to ignore him. Little did they know their days were numbered as he was plotting their demise. We still thought he was a cute and adorable, sweet, but very smart Tabby kitten...</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One fateful night, Henry woke me up with way too many kisses, licking my nose almost raw. I said a polite thank you for the affection and then promptly put him outside my bedroom, closing the door. I realized he had left his cat toy on my pillow and went to grab it to bring it to him, when I realized it was indeed Phineas, dead on my pillow. Oh goody, a cat present. I immediately wrapped Phin in a towel, put him in a shoebox, and brought him downstairs to the patio. As I came back into the living room, I knew if I looked at the hamster cage I would know what he had done. All energy went into not looking but my curiosity that should have killed the cat got the best of me. The hamster cage was bent inwards and all of the hamsters had disappeared into the night. I knew Phin was the first victim and wondered when the other corpses would appear. I knew Henry had killed them all and it was just a matter of time to find their cold, dead, hamster bodies. Ugh. Superduper ugh. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the next day and a half, the other bodies were found. Rex by Henry’s food bowl and pieces of Kevin had been bandied about for me to step into. Yuck and a half. My children, as wonderful as they were when small and naive decided Henry just needed a "time out". Me and ridiculous Gen X parenting...</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sigh...perhaps diabolical feline needed a friend. My friend, Terri the Vet, suggested that between the biting of toes and the killing of hamsters, perhaps Henry needed his own kitten. Enter Maurice Navidad. Black Tabby kitten was brought by Santa’s Kitten Elves because my boys, although Jewish, were very good boys.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maurice was five weeks old and so tiny he could fit in one of my hands. Nothing but bright green eyes and a plop of fur. The tiniest floof ever. In the light, you could see his Tabby stripes and he was a puffball of yumminess. Henry seemed to agree. When he met Maurice he didn’t growl or hiss; he just seemed to know that this was HIS kitten and boy did he love him so. They grew up together with my children. Scars from the cats and from life, we all grew up together as one big floofy happy family. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I remember when my now-husband, Cameron, came to my house for the first time. Henry loved to meet people because he figured all people would want to rub his deliciously soft belly. Maurice, on the other hand, was frightened of most people and hid under the couch until they left. However, when Cameron came over the first night, not only did Henry wrap himself around his tall legs, Maurice came to sit on his lap. It was not even a first date and yet I knew he could be trusted around my family because Marice deemed it so. When your shyest animal says a man can be trusted, well that was the man for me and my kids. (I love when the cats are right). I think when Henry saw this 6’5” ginger in front of him, he figured he was the best gigantic orange Tabby in the world.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fast forward a few more years and we welcomed Velma Luna Theodosia into our family. Luna is a Russian blue Tabby and a fabulous diva. Maurice fell in love and because of that Henry didn’t want anything to do with her at first. Terri the vet still can’t figure out why Maurie, who was neutered before he was brought to us, mounted her in that special way. Seriously, you can take the cat out of the kitten but if it’s true love…</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, Henry stopped sleeping on me at night and kept his distance from us all. He had other things on his mind, such as teaching himself how to pee on the toilet and figuring out how to open the sliding glass doors, and of course, constantly talking to me about the world and the treats he needed in his bowl. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time passed on and the threesome grew to be the closest knit threesome I have ever seen. They would have meetings that I could only wonder about and then things in the living room would be moved to fit their liking. It was disturbing but in a good way. The three cats loved each other so much. Henry was in charge of things, the most delightful alpha male who made decisions I wasn't always privy to. I had no say in what he decided so I decided to pretty much let him be in charge. I was just glad he wasn’t a republican. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, the pandemic hit, and lockdown began. At first, the three cats kept looking at us as if to say “Why are you still here? We have things to do that don’t involve you. Will you be leaving soon because we can’t get our stuff done?” Then after a few months, they were like “You’re not allowed to leave anymore because you make the most divine napping areas when you’re supposed to be in class.” My students loved my cats. Unfortunately, my cats were there more than my students were. When I say my cats were “there” I mean like on my laptop or lap or sometimes both at the same time, “there”. You try teaching rhetorical analysis while a Tabby takes up residence on the keyboard. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fast forward to two nights ago. Actually, three weeks ago when Henry decided to start sleeping on me again. I would lay on my side and he would perch on my curves and fall asleep. Even when my middle-aged hips were screaming at me to turn over, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. He was so happy, purring voraciously on me; I would just lay there wide awake until he moved. He would then sleep on my head, my back, back to the curve of my hips, all of a sudden totally connected to me again. I should have known...</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, two nights ago, I went up to the roof to sit by the fire with a well-deserved glass of wine after a day of teaching high school and I called (literally I called my child on his cell phone) to see if he was doing his homework. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Henry is snuggling on me. He hasn’t done that in a while so I’ll do my homework in a bit”. There was such a smile to my son’s voice, I couldn’t say no. We have a rule in our family that when a cat is napping on you, you stay there so they can nap. (see above paragraph) And we enjoy the snuggliness of said cats as well as the excuse to not do anything but be a human floof bed. Seriously, that’s like the best rule. When cats snuggle and nap on your lap like a weighted blanket, you totally do not move. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Five minutes later, my son ran up frantically screaming for me to come down because something was wrong with Henry. I ran downstairs to find my favorite orange feline not moving. I have been trained in CPR so I tried it on him and several minutes of chest compressions and blowing into his tiny mouth...nothing helped. I felt myself cry out in disbelief. I didn’t want to believe it, but he was gone. I held the limpness of his body in my arms and cried. He had been there through all of my children’s childhood growing up with them and being a staple in our home. We all had scars from his love and temper and Henry-ness, and now he was gone. Dead. Cold. Nothing. It was more than I could bear. How could he be gone? He ate a ton of food and snuggled us that day, and then...nothing. He was gone. My heart broke into a million pieces as I wrapped him in one of my son’s old baby blankets. I put him in an Amazon box because those were his favorites. Never mind the expensive cat beds we bought, all he wanted was a big Amazon box. I have a million pictures of him in Amazon boxes. Those were what he wanted to nap in. That or a pizza box. If there was a pizza box anywhere in our house he would find it and sit on top of it and take a nap. It amazed me how much he loved boxes. And naps. Maybe he was a sleepy UPS driver in his past life.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I called a place, the first place I saw online, The Rainbow to Heaven people. So sweet to me as I cried on the phone to them. $400 later they were on their way to pick up Henry. They had this little gurney for him and they were so respectful and kind. Before they got here, Dash and I held him and told him his life story. I stroked his soft belly. It was cold. How could this be? How could he have gone so fast? I didn’t want to leave his side. After we put him on the gurney, we all said goodbye. My husband, a giant ginger cat himself, was inconsolable. They had such a special bond that even after death, will never be broken.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can’t believe he died on my son’s lap. I told Dash what an honor that was. Henry picked a place to die and it was him because he loved him. He loved him. You could reverse either pronoun and it wouldn’t matter because both love each other. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I guess this is Henry’s eulogy. His ashes will be brought back to us and we’ll put them in Cameron’s garden because, besides my squishy curves, that was his favorite spot. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tonight I put on a sweatshirt to go upstairs to sit by the fire and couldn’t figure out what the horrible smell was until I realized I was wearing the same shirt when I held him to say goodbye. Not really a smell I wanted to remember. I thought of keeping the sweatshirt as a keepsake, ya know, never washing it? But it’s a really cute hoodie and I’d like to wear it again, minus the smell. (No matter how sad I am right now, omg, dead cat smells like dead cat.)</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Okay, I’m an English teacher so I desperately need a theme to understand why I have written this. Loving people, even if they’re cats, sucks because it hurts when they die? No. Let’s be more thoughtful. Loving people, even if they’re cats, is wonderful because they enrich your lives and even though you are sad when they die, they live on in your heart. Yah, I like that better. Much better. Even if my hoodie still smells real, really, really bad. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Goodbye, my ginger Tabby floof of yumminess. You will stay in our hearts and the stories of your diabolical adventures will keep you infamous forever.</span></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-51732291678453709552021-08-22T08:20:00.000-07:002021-08-22T08:20:23.354-07:00 Part Two: Have Fun, Be Safe Or Going Home 125 lbs Lighter and Yet I Still Feel Bloated<p><br /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-0337779a-7fff-f8c3-6839-d55611ce8ef3"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">3pm EST. We land. I have napped, watched a terrible movie but it had Sam Heughan in it so who cares. Nothing says relax and unwind like a hot ginger Scottsman. My husband is a ginger with some Scottsman in him and so I bought him a kilt and well...ya know...life is good. But this is not about my love for my Ginger Highlander or </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Outlander…</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">yes, son going to college...yes, that’s what I’m writing about...</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After we arrived at our hotel we went walking through campus. It’s a city campus so it took a very humid, 90-degree long time to find the damn place. I was dressed in black pants and a shirt that in hindsight, may have made me look thinner, but not the best weather choice. Although I probably lost about five pounds in sweat. When we saw the outside of his dorm it began to kick in for reals. (as my students say) Like for real for real. His silence and deer-eyes were only surpassed by the sweat that had pooled in my shirt and pants and socks and bra. I would address his feelings, I thought, as soon as there was air-conditioning. I thought my hot flashes were gross and damp, but for now, it seemed there was no way to tell if I was having one or not. “I am just this sweaty and gross and hot”, I said to my sweaty brain. This is the weather and not me. So weird. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, we found a little farm-to-table restaurant and I got some water and food into my wide-eyed-soon-to-be-freshman-son. Hopefully, he would talk to me, but we only discussed the local politics (poli sci major) and what sights we would see. He said we’d talk later. I guess, no I KNOW, seeing his dorm made it all real. For both of us. Would I still have to be strong for both of us now that he is a burgeoning adult? Never mind; I knew the answer. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Getting back to the hotel, we watched a movie, played on our phones, and talked a little. “Overwhelmed,” he said. “Scared out of my mind,” I thought. “It’s a lot to take in,” he said. “OHMYFUCKINGGOD” I thought. Okay, a good night's sleep, tours of the city and some shopping and we’ll...be...fine...sigh...</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tomorrow is the day we move in. I mean he moves in. I don’t know why I keep saying “we” about his college experience. We’re moving in. We’re taking this class or that. We’re buying a green lamp for our dorm. (It’s really cute). Tonight instead of both of us retreating to our computers to watch TikTok or the newest episode of </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">White Lotus </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(staring Steve Zahn who I went to high school with and was the Ado Annie to his Will Parker) (Yes, name dropping is beneath me, but Steve is so amazing in this, I had to put it in there) we played gin-rummy and he kicked my ass six games to one. What the hell? I didn’t even try to lose. I have decided to take this as a sign from the universe and it means he’s ready to win and be on his own and be an adult and, whatever. Ugh. I hate losing. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s almost midnight and our move-in time is at 8am. He’s just gone to shower and I’m sitting here, hoping my melatonin will kick in soon, thinking this is the last night that I get to say “go to sleep” and he actually has to listen. Every night since he was born, I would say, “Sleep well, my angel”. Every night no matter where he was. And yes, I’ll keep saying it to him, but now it just may not be EVERY night. Wow. Just...wow. How? How is this possible? He was watching “Thomas the Train '' and “The Backyardigans”</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and that seems like a week ago. A few years ago I wrote a blog called “Magic Mommy Boo-Boo Kisses'' about his seventh birthday. His SEVENTH birthday. That was like two days ago! I can’t do this. I’m going to get on the plane on Sunday and think “What am I missing? What did I leave behind??” and I’ll realize it’s my oldest child.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Breathing. OMG...okay...I’m not going to cry. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Going to watch reruns of </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Outlander</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and fall asleep. Seriously… sigh…</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Moving Day. The Road of Trials</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At 5am I woke up with a start and was convinced we’d missed our move-in time. Shaking and heart pounding, I saw his little face in the other bed in the hotel room and he looked so not ready for all of this. Oh wait, that’s me. I’m projecting. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I lay there for a few hours thinking about the things I would miss about my eldest and how I couldn’t wait to see my youngest and how annoying I was going to be to him with just ONE son to mother until our </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">actual</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> alarm went off and then both of us just kind of looked at each other. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Okay,” I said, “Let’s get moving!” (pun intended).</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went down to the lobby to grab the luggage cart, realized I had forgotten my key (needed for the elevator) texted my son to come to get me. He, of course, grabbed the Metro card instead, leaving both of us locked out of our hotel room. The manager smiled under his mask and gave us a new key. I swear I heard him mutter “Freshmen parents” under his breath. Our uber arrived and we made our way to his dorm. Neither of us could eat and I really felt like I was going to puke in the uber, but I was doing my best to hold it together and well, down. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we grabbed all of his belongings, the deluge began. Not of tears, but of rain. The weather app said there was a 10% chance of rain. 10%!! ONE OUT OF TEN CHANCE OF RAIN. We looked at each other and began to laugh. The umbrella was already packed. Sigh...</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Road of Trials?” He asked. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On with your hero’s journey!” I said. We brought everything up to his cute little room. We both just stood there. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I put my hand on his shoulder and asked, “How are you doing?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He sighed. “I’m ready for this, mom.” He said. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I know you are,” I said. “You can go back to the hotel and I think I can do the rest of the move on my own. I need to stop depending on you so much. I’m ready.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was our conversation almost verbatim. The words I wanted to hear and dreaded to hear all at the same time. I guess it was time for me to be ready too.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back at the hotel in my college-mom-swag, I was packing up my stuff to head home. Sans child. He turns 18 in two weeks so he’s still a ‘child’ to me. Breakfast with him tomorrow and then back to California. I sat in my empty hotel room fidgeting like an ADHD kid. Didn’t even want to watch </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Outlander. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I decided to go for a walk (because we’ve only been averaging five miles a day so maybe I’d toss a few more miles in there for good measure). I actually remembered to bring my umbrella for that ridiculous 10% chance of rain and as I stepped outside, I was ensconced in a sunshower - the perfect metaphor for all of the parents dropping off their kids for their freshmen year. (And actually all of those sophomores who didn’t get to go to ‘real school’ during the pandemic, but unfortunately they’re being treated like Jan from </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Brady Bunch</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> because they’ve been to college, just not like real college. Totally sucks for them and they deserve a welcome too!)</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway...back to my metaphor. Sunshower, blah, blah, blah. The sky, a beautiful endless array of blue and white with nothing but the potential for brighter days ahead. However, it’s raining like how it feels in my heart right now. The dichotomy of motherhood. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Have fun. Be safe. I love you, Max.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-40159174561176332792021-08-20T19:39:00.000-07:002021-08-20T19:39:12.124-07:00Part One: HAVE FUN BE SAFE Or Sending your first kid to college and not curling into the fetal position on his dorm room floor.<p><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s four days before my son leaves for his freshman year of college. He’s chosen an amazing school with merit scholarships because he’s awesome and financial aid because I’m a teacher. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-8816404b-7fff-da3a-e16b-32df0173f847"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I always told my boys that they could do anything they wanted and be anything they wanted as long as they put the work in. And he did. 4.3 GPA, academic decathlon medalist, a good kid with good friends. His friends, actually both of my kids’ friends, are amazing. As a parent, you hope when they reach their teenage years they don’t do what YOU did in your teenage years. Oh dear god, I have apologized to my parents repeatedly. (Again, I’m so sorry for...well...yah, you know.) However, my kids both have these collections of friends who are aware of the world around them and actually want to make it a better place. They have fun together, they created this whole crew during the pandemic and stuck together playing games online and keeping each other sane. They are all so supportive of each other too. It’s weird but good. For now, I can be sated in the knowledge that the influences on my children are relatively positive and not destructive or ruinous. Of course, I could be totally wrong, but as a high school teacher, I’ve seen crappy teenage influences (mostly from students and not from teachers who are still employed) I’m pretty sure I’m right. I hope. I think. No, I’m good. My husband, Cameron likes to ask me if I’d rather be happy or right and I always answer “both”. Sigh...</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Two days to go. He’s packed. Okay, he packed and I checked his three suitcases and then we had a little meeting and I sat on his bedroom floor and began pulling crap from under his bed. That was an hour of my life I won’t get back. “Oh my god! I’ve been looking for that!” was heard throughout our household. Oh goody. More stuff to pack. I taught him how to roll shirts and proper shoe placement and the phrase “We’ll just order it on Amazon” popped up again and again. Hmmm….I need to google a Target near his dorm…By the way, I gave him my other big suitcase and now he’s obsessed with weighing each one so it’s not over one hundred pounds. OMG, do you know how much it costs to check baggage?! WTF? Why does it cost $30 to check one bag but $220 to check three? I am afraid of math but even I can figure out that THAT is just stupid. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One day left. He said goodbye to his girlfriend of over four years. Think about that for just a moment: four years ago he was in eighth grade. They’ve been friends since six grade and have been connected at the hands, staring into each other’s eyes and telling each other how cute the other was for four years. They are the most amazing couple and they adore each other so much; they inspire each other to do their best; she did Academic Decathlon because of him (and won a gold in speech because she’s amazing and beautiful inside and out) and he joined the salsa team. Umm...dance, not the stuff on tacos. He doesn’t really like sauce on tacos but man, he likes to dance. Their last performance (still recorded because of the pandemic) they danced together and if they stay together, I’m totally playing that at their wedding. I once joked that good thing we had the pandemic so they would be used to face timing each other every night. Neither of them found that amusing. Seriously. They will be approximately 2852 miles from her college to his. Yah...I know. My heart hurts too. Her mom and I would love this to be it and for long-distance to work and all of that. I just have to wait it out I guess and hear how it goes. I want nothing more than for his heart NOT to break. And that’s basically all I want. Be happy and healthy and loved. That’s it. The rest is frosting.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">4am. My alarms have been going off since 3:30am but I only went to bed three hours ago after sitting on my roof contemplating my motherhood over a glass of wine or three, waking up is hard to do-ooh-ooh-ooh. I sat by my firepit last night and went over checklist after checklist, his and mine, wondering what I have forgotten. His little brother (not so little - actually taller than me - only the cats are shorter than me) decided to stay up until we left. I think it was just the excuse he needed to play video games all night with his pals before his school started. I let it go. Pick your battles. He bought his big brother a going away D&D gift (seriously, I have no clue what the hell you do with twenty-sided dice) hugged him, and promptly fell soundly asleep on the couch the second we started heading out the door. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All packed up, his stepdad, my wonderful husband, Cameron, was packed up at 2am because he couldn’t sleep. He said it was just insomnia, but I know his love for this kid who chose him as a dad was so great, there was no way he was sleeping that night. You don’t get to pick your parents, but sometimes you get to pick the people who actually want to be there for you and Cam is there for them. So fabulously, incredibly there. He didn’t have to be and yet his love and support for them is beyond anything I could have asked for. I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t think he’d be a good step-father or “Step-Cam” as the boys have always called him. We could only afford to have me take my son to college this far away from home (hello teacher salary) so leaving was so hard for my stoic Viking. However, after he dropped us at the airport, my son realized he had left his passport. And his social security card. And his laptop charger. And my sanity. And so Cam and his son got to hug one last time and he didn’t even complain when he had to come back to the airport twice. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be continued...</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-13497444756313118862021-05-08T21:15:00.000-07:002021-05-08T21:15:20.485-07:00Mother's Day Mani-Pedi<p style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">What do I feel about mother’s day? It's a day where my kids are not allowed to fight with each other. I get a mani-pedi, and maybe someone else cooks. Not really guessing anyone else will cook because no one knows how to cook. My kids said they would like to learn to cook but that doesn’t seem to have panned out. They have cooked when they need to do a school assignment that requires it and that is always a mess in a half. Max making bread. Hehehe. I made him knead the dough for 10 minutes and it still didn’t taste like actual bread. Dash used to make pretzel bread. However, I was the one who had to supervise and clean up the massive spills of baking soda water that accompanied the cooking of said pretzels. I cook. That’s it. When I ask my husband to cook, they get take-out or bake some breaded chicken from the freezer. So, no one cooks but me. I usually love cooking but sometimes I really don’t. I try to make healthy meals but when I say, “Hey! Let’s try some squash blossoms or cauliflower! Yay!” I am brutally rebuffed. My kids hate vegetables. I guess that’s my fault, threatening them with broccoli all of these years. Who would have known they would have taken that seriously! I have tried everything and usually end up hiding veggies into their actual meal. That works. You can put cauliflower in anything and they have no idea. But now Max is going off to college in the fall so he won’t eat veggies unless a girl threatens him with them, I guess. Crap, he’s probably going to live on pizza. Freshman 15, watch out.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-6abf8eca-7fff-b3ea-9feb-212b2043b2d2"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They’re getting me a mani-pedi for tomorrow and that’s what I want. There will be flowers and “I love yous” and hopefully some cleaning of our house without me actually asking, but I doubt it. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mother’s day is a wonderful Hallmark holiday where there is brunch and the threat of being nice because it has been mandated. With that said, my children have always been good at writing cards for me, poetry with misspelled words, sentiments that only we as a family understand. And I love each and every moment of it. They have this mandated (yes I know I keep using that word) obligation to make me feel special on one day of the year, but they don’t seem to know that I feel special all year long because they are my kids and I love them. They make me feel special when they share their thoughts on life. They make me feel special when they share their deepest secrets with me. They make me feel special when they tell me they love me and quietly kiss my forehead to say goodnight to me. They make me feel special when they know I’ve had a bad day and offer hugs. They make me feel special when they offer to reach things off the high shelf because they can now reach them without a stepstool. They make me feel special when they can access things on my phones that I had no idea existed. They make me feel special when they let me read to them from my Facebook memories from when they were little and couldn’t reach the high shelf. My children make me feel special most of the time. And I wouldn’t have mother’s day without having them. And no matter how much sleep I lose worrying about them or no matter how I blame them for the stretch marks on my stomach, they love me for me. Their imperfect mother. Do I need a day that reminds me of this? Absolutely yes! Manis and pedis for everyone!! And hopefully some snuggles.</span></p><p style="height: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>x</p></span>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-34056725161970990562015-05-17T09:07:00.000-07:002015-05-17T09:07:34.937-07:00Teacher, teach thyself.<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">I haven’t written in a
few years because someone was metaphorically standing over me with a scowl and
it was no longer fun to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However,
I realized tonight that I always tell my students to write in their journals that
I have given them, when they feel things, any things, meaningful or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write them down, I say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t shy away from what you are feeling
because you will learn from it, I say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Face
your fears and realize that by writing you may figure out a few things, I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">Well, tonight, I’m doing
just that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">I am addicted to Facebook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I said it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I owned it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m good with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of you reading this are addicted to Facebook
also because you are reading my blog on Facebook, so ya know, there’s
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s nothing wrong with
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although sometimes I think I really don’t
need to see your dinner before you eat it and some of you post way too many non-relevant
YouTube videos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that I’m
complaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The downside of Facebook is
that I have found out three people have died in the past year by simply logging
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, it’s ridiculous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I log on to post some snarky reflection on a
disastrous yoga class and Bam!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find
out someone I cared about is dead while standing in line at Nordstrom Rack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The lines are long when you can’t find some
random green-shirt person to check you out so I get bored).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of this, I have put back serious
sales items.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One cannot just stand in
line at Nordstrom Rack whilst crying just to purchase a pair of Betsy Johnson
pink leopard pumps that are 70% off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even I can’t do that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sad
thing is that they are never there when you go back after you have stopped
crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sigh…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">Today whilst on Facebook,
I saw that one of my amazing high school students from four years ago graduated
from college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I posted how proud of her
I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and her twin sister (who is
also graduating) will probably never know how amazing I thought they were in
high school; they are the kind of students teachers hope for, wish for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved having these two girls in my
classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved watching them grow and
blossom and then after they graduated from high school (and I let them “friend
me”) watching them blossom into women who will hopefully take over the world or
at least add to it with their immense presence and fabulousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of them wrote back to me about the
influence I had one them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eloquent words
made me cry and made realize a few things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">Being a teacher is like
being a combination of a pit bull, a punching bag and a white wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You push and push and hope your students
learn and of course (groan) do really well on all of those new sparkly Common
Core tests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You yell (hopefully not a
lot), you take their bullshit and disrespect and hope they learn from how they
treated you (after a detention or two) and the reaction you gave them (death
stare) .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You talk and lecture and teach and
then get the wonderful questions like “What are we doing?”” and “Was there
homework?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m thinking of having my
favorite statement of “I wasn’t listening” turned into a tattoo or a billboard
to hang outside my classroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
teaching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stranger</i> right now and
can’t help equate Camus’s absurdity of life to the sometimes absurdity of
teaching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My absolute favorite student statement
has to be “I don’t get it”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then ask
them to be specific and tell what exactly they “don’t get”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I usually get the blank stare and a repeat of
their comment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then repeat my comment
and then, well, it just gets ugly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">I hate it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I will do anything I can to make them learn but occasionally have to
throw in the towel when the absurdity of the apathy gets just too much for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have actually asked some students
if they are happy being in school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
ones who show up every day but do no homework, don’t participate in class and
don’t give a crap – those are the ones I ask if they are happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can’t possibly be happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I ask this question, the ones who aren’t
actually happy usually begin trying to become the student they realize they could
be and then they get an adorable journal from Barnes and Nobel in their
favorite color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not a reward, just
an idea or a suggestion for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
usually helps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If not, at least they can
use it as a coaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">The ones who say they “don’t
care” just get mandatory tutoring, which of course, doesn’t really help,
because, let’s face it they didn’t care to begin with then no pretty purple
butterfly journal will amount to a hill of beans with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so frustrating to teach to people who
don’t really want to be taught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
become an elephant on my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something
who really shouldn’t be there and just gives me a headache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still try to make them become
students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t give up that
easily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After ten years of teaching, I
don’t give up without a fight or at least a parent conference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">Usually the slackers in
my classes like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stranger </i>because
of the apathy and they find themselves engaged without really even realizing
it, but unfortunately by then, it’s no use and they will still be taking summer
school no matter how much work they actually do during this unit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I teach English for summer school so they
will still be stuck with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hah!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a wonderful paradoxical irony.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">I teach, on average, 160
students a year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teenagers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
are their own paradoxes and don’t realize that until I teach philosophy whilst
teaching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stranger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Remember back to when you were that
age?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too young to be an adult and too
old to be a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their parents want
them to have responsibility but won’t let them stay our past ten o’clock on a
school night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can shave but they
can’t vote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, they relate to
the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">paradox</i> simply because they
are one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">But then, with all of
that, most of them do learn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, something-ish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">But…will they remember
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will they apply it to college and
adult life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no freakin’
clue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have kids who are fighting in
Afghanistan and in Iraq and this makes me begin to wonder if poetry and
Shakespeare really play a part of their lives now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It should, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Learning what figurative language is…will that really help them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of
course, the crap I teach helps some of them at least get decent scores on their
SAT’s and I’ve had kids get into UCLA, Brown, Occidental, Tuskegee, Clark, Spelman
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– the list, thank goodness, is endless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had one kid, a retired drug dealer, who got
a 2200 on his SATs with a 4.0 GPA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s
going to Berkeley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote one of his
letters of recommendation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came and
hugged me when he got his letter of acceptance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m good with that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">Okay, here’s my
point:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A childhood friend of mine died a
few weeks ago (yep, found out about that one on Facebook too).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that someone always dies while I’m
in the middle of teaching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stranger</i>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I should stop teaching it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, here I am, in the middle of
explaining absurdism and that Albert Camus said that life has no meaning and
then someone who is MY AGE dies some stupid tragic death and I start looking
over my life and wondering if there is any meaning at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ya know, in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I look at my children and realizing that
despite all odds, I am raising two beautiful souls who are kind and intelligent
and funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who love to snuggle and make
me wonder with amazement at the things of which they are amazed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look at the students I have pushed to go to
college or to find their own way in the world, and they share their
accomplishments with their old teacher on Facebook and I realize that I do have
a legacy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I will be remembered as
the crazy English teacher who wore high heels every day and made them write a
million essays and do weird but poignant projects and made them think or
consider or analyze things in a whole new way and made them care about their
future and realize they need to be selfish with their education and
destinies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">That maybe, just maybe
when I die there will be people who will live on after me who will remember,
and push the next generation forward because Ms. Levine would have wanted that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bell MT";">Tell you one thing – it sure
felt good to write this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-55470145058075040032013-05-12T06:00:00.000-07:002013-05-12T07:59:03.199-07:00I've earned this, damit.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 13.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Ah, Mother’s Day. The only federally mandated holiday that I
can totally get behind. I'm not a big fan of Valentine's Day or Flag Day
and it seems that every morning on the Channel 4 News there is a new
“holiday”. National Grilled Cheese Day, National Chocolate Day,
National Peanut Butter and Jelly Day – why is it always food that is
celebrated? Not knocking grilled cheese, just saying there are more
important issues in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Like today. Today, of all days, to me, on so many levels, is
a really important one. Not just because I am a mother and feel the need
to get a manicure and not feel guilty about it. Not just because I have a
mother and she feels the need to make me feel guilty if I don’t send a
card. But because, damit, I’ve earned it. All mothers
have. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Ya know what? I should be thanked for going through nineteen
hours of labor and then squeezing out a person from a hole that really isn't big
enough for that. I should be thanked for getting pooped on and peed on
and for kissing boo-boos and making ouchies and fevers all better. For
diligently trying to catch vomit with my hands. For being
there for the first time they walked, the first time they read, the first time
they hit a baseball and made it to third base. For checking the closet
for monsters, for nightmares and for being woken up at 4am because they needed
to snuggle. For being Megatron to their Autobots, for watching them
battle in the backyard knowing full well that someone will end up crying five
minutes later. For giggles and silliness and making all of their
stuffed animals have conversations with them. For making lunches for
school every freakin day of the week and sneaking veggies into their dinners
every freakin night of the week. For singing<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Puff the Magic Dragon<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i> and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Dream a Little Dream<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>seven times in a row, in one
night. For trying so hard to do 4<sup>th</sup><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>grade math and giving up but finding
someone who can figure that crap out. For watching every episode of
Pokémon. Twice. For teaching them that boys who can communicate
their feeling are just as cool as boys who have awesome scars. And my
boys have both. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">But the funny thing is, is that none of us, moms I mean, never
think we actually need to be thanked except for once a year when pictures are
drawn and flowers are cut out from tissue paper and homemade cards are made and
extra hugs are given and the phrase, “you get to pick the movie tonight, mommy”
is said even though they secretly know you will still let them pick the
movie. I love this day. I live for this little extra bit of thank
you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The thing is, we don't really need to be
celebrated. We know that this “job” we have is what we have chosen and we
love every minute of it. Well, most minutes of it. We know that we
are the anchor parent, the one that is there, especially the single mommies who
do it mostly on our own. All of the sacrifices and sleepless nights are
totally worth it; not just on this one day of the year, but every day of every
season. Personally, I would legally change my name to Mommy if I could.
Yah, I know, that would be weird. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Then, of course, I look at my sister whose children are teenagers.
Dealing with teenagers, well, I get paid to do that. I look at my
10<sup>th</sup><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>grade students
and think two things: 1) thank goodness I don't have girls and
2) please, dear god, don't let my children turn into teenagers.
Let them just stay seven and nine, all small and cute and innocent. Oh
crap, they will be teens soon. This blog will take on a whole new meaning
when that happens. Seriously, it is my job to turn them into good
men. Magnificent, attentive, non-asshole men all by myself and then just
hope for the best. Let go, let god.
Oh goody, the control freak will then be forced to relinquish control.
Kill me. Just kill me now. I am not sure how my sister does it. And
the funny thing is, she has no idea how
I do it either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">My youngest son drew this picture of me for my Mother's Day gift
and gave it to me on Friday. As he put it, it was me “teaching my
students and reading him books and all of students got the right answer on the
test”. He painted me with the biggest smile and with my
"teacher" glasses on, and I love so much how he sees me. That
my smile translates into who I am. That my smile validates him which
validates me so much more than any job or man or anything ever could. Or
will. That to me is Mother’s Day. That to me is all I need today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I don't have my children until the afternoon today
because they are at their dad’s, so we will celebrate today when they get home
with swimming in the sunshine and a movie that I get to pick. I think I
will choose<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Captain America,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>so at least I get to stare at
Chris Evans. At least got to sleep in on this lovely Sunday morning and
be spoiled by someone who has no connection to my motherhood. He just
wants to celebrate me and I am alright with that. Yep, this tired mommy
could use a little pampering and I know just the wonderful man to do it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">So, to all of my amazing mommy friends, and I must say, I do have
the most incredible collection of mommy friends who support each other like
sisters; and to my sister who is finishing grad school while raising teenagers
with the assistance of a great deal of Tylenol, and to my mother who
taught me the right way to be a mother (and yes, I still seek her advice, because
she is usually right) – to all of you and all of my facebook mommies and the
mommies who actually have missed reading my blog -- Happy Mother’s Day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Yes, tomorrow it is back to the same old shit, so enjoy your day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-6874460065526827972012-11-21T19:46:00.001-08:002012-11-21T19:46:26.613-08:00Happy Lobster Mashed Potato Day<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Normally, I spend the day before Thanksgiving cooking up a
storm. Roasting pumpkins, making dough,
cookies and pie; saying nice things to my turkey before I cook him and setting
the table with cute place cards made by my children. I learned early on to set the table the night
before a festive occasion. My mother
taught me that. Of course she usually
set the table a few days before a festive occasion which made my sister and I
walk very carefully through the house as not to disturb the perfectly positioned
table scenery. But I have cats so they
tend to want to walk and sniff anything new I have in the house, so the night
before is good enough for me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The “good”
dishes and </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;">accouterments</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> come out;
the pretty bowls which are older than me, the china from my parents wedding (I
wanted theirs instead of registering for my own because nothing is cooler than
my parent’s wedding china. Plus, it’s
like fifty years old now so they are now considered antiques. My parents are going to hate that I am pretty
much calling </span></span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">them</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> “antiques” but hey,
antiques have more value than when you say something is just old.), the Nambe
service pieces that I reserve for such occasions and my Nanna’s silver flatware
which is to be hand-washed only, damit. I
love cooking for Thanksgiving. I love
feeding people I love and making them eat seconds and then take left-overs
home. I love Thanksgiving. Seriously.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This year, however, my friend Julie talked me into NOT
cooking and instead, taking our kids to a restaurant. I am torn by this. It will be nice to have a clean kitchen and
not have to scrape stuffing off of the floor and it will be nice not to spend
hours on my feet making sure that everything is perfect. I guess.
The care-taker in me thinks this to be peculiar. The single-mother/teacher who is exhausted is
kinda psyched about the whole thing.
Plus, there is an interactive cookie decorating area for the kids
tomorrow which, let’s face it, THEY are psyched about. I’ve seen the menu too and there will be
lobster mashed potatoes and truffle mac and cheese. Although, just the thought of lobster mashed
potatoes and truffle mac and cheese will keep me on the treadmill for an hour
after I take my Zumba class on Saturday just to work it all off my ass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So, here’s the thing: I actually get to relax on my
mini-vaca and enjoy dining rather than enjoy cooking. I get to have a facial tonight and then sleep
in and then get all dressed up and not have to clean one single dish. Hmm…nice but still weird. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But I digress. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">My favorite part of Thanksgiving, besides explaining to my
children that Columbus </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;">didn't</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> actually “discover” anything because one cannot
discover a place that already exists (that would be like me saying I “discovered”
</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Loehmann's</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">) is
The Grateful List. My friend Terri
(favorite vet in the whole wide world) gave my sister, my mother and me these beautiful
bracelets called “Blessings Bracelets”.
They have four little thingies on them and every time you look down at </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">the bracelet you are supposed to count four blessings in your life.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My children and I already had a dinnertime
ritual of saying the things we were grateful for during the day (an idea from
my friend Hersh) and now we pass around the Blessings Bracelet at dinner and
that way we just do four and then of course, we get to play with the cool
bracelet.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I love what my children are
grateful for.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">They always say me, and
that makes my heart melt each time, but then they add in things like Ninjas,
Pillow Pets, and Legos.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Things like
their imagination and sometimes even school (teacher’s kids) and of course, hedgehogs.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, they are actually grateful for
hedgehogs.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My oldest son has two stuffed
animal hedgehogs, one named Lloyd and one name Lloyd Junior.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Because, ya know, if you are a hedgehog,
well, you need a strong name, like…Lloyd.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I suggested Bob, but nope.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I do
have a stuffed cow named Bob.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I won him
at Legoland.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Very proud of Bob.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My children try to steal him, but I won him,
damit, so he’s mine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But I digress. Again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of my favorite things about being a teacher (besides the
great pay and the total respect of my students) is that on the day before
Thanksgiving I ask what they, my dear students, are grateful for.
They come up with the greatest grateful lists ever. They don’t hesitate about what they are
grateful for either. They mention their
families and friends; One Direction and Justin Bieber (there was also a shout
out for Led Zeppelin this year); Hello Kitty and the new <i>Twilight</i> movie; not wearing uniforms on the weekends and of course their
favorite English teacher. Yah, that last
one usually is from the kids who are sucking up for a good grade. They mention things like “I’m grateful for
living with my mom again” and “I’m grateful for my dad being home” and then I
read between the lines and realize how grateful I am for hearing that from them. Maybe because it puts my life into perspective
or maybe because I am just grateful that they are safe and happy today. Either
way, I love hearing their lists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Personally, I am grateful for my new school. I miss my kids from my last school and some
of the teachers there, but in this one, my classroom is huge, I have laptops
for all of my kids, the staff is wonderful, and the principal actually likes
me. I am grateful for my kids, but if
you read my blogs, you know that should go without saying. They are the best part of me. I am grateful that they still want to snuggle
because they are growing up way too fast and soon they will not only <i>not</i> want to snuggle but make me drop
them off a block away from their friend’s house on a playdate, which will no longer
be called a playdate and just be called “hanging out” or yikes, a…date. Oh, seriously, yikes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Grateful, yes. Restaurant
with Lobster mashed potatoes, truffle mac and cheese and an awesome seafood platter, yes. Writing my blog after way too long, yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Happy Thanksgiving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-10734224832007363652012-02-14T05:35:00.000-08:002012-02-14T05:35:58.840-08:00Chocolate…good. Shoes…good.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">I started thinking about Valentine’s Day today because it is foisted upon us this
time of year like the Republican primaries. Plus, I am far too cynical
NOT to write a Valentine’s blog. All of this thinking made me think of
love and lust and chocolate and of course that made me think of
shoes. Ya see, I have this really cute pair of chocolate brown patent leather
pumps that I was thinking I would wear today to boycott Valentine’s Day but
not boycott chocolate. Get it? Cuz they’re chocolate brown? (That
was totally funny in my head. Seriously, I really need to stop
hanging out with eight year olds who have a propensity for puns.) The chocolate
brown pumps do have little plaid bows and are really cute and I bought them last
year and they were like, 50% off and…oh never mind.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Last night, I had a long but fun
night of basketball practice and Valentine shopping with my boys. My
older son, Max, has a short list of girlfriends this year. Just
two. Both independent, smart, fabulous, great style and yep, eight
years old. I know both of the moms and we really like each other as
friends so we are totally fine if they get married (after college) because then
we would get to be in-laws. Max is
meticulous, let me tell you. We spent like, thirty minutes at the
99Cent store shopping for the perfect gifts. I figure when he’s nine
he can hit Nordstrom and when he is ten: Tiffany; but for now, the
99Cent store will do. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">I really would have loved him to
have made the girls something instead of buying them
something. Remember in grade school when we would spend hours with
pink and red paper, lots of glitter and glue and we would MAKE the
cards? You would come home covered in glitter like the way men come home
from bachelor parties. I love homemade gifts as much as I love bachelors. My favorite
Valentine gifts have always been homemade. This very wonderful man
once sent me a poem which made me smile and sigh for the entire
day. Paintings, songs, a original documentaries (well, it was a short) and once there was a Valentine dinner
homemade and delicious and I didn't even have to do the dishes. I love the sentiment with homemade gifts. Come to
think of it, a Victoria Secrets gift card is always nice too...</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">But I digress…</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">I would tell you what Max bought
them, but both moms read my blog and I do want it to be a surprise for the
lovely ladies. The moms both think it is adorable which is good because there
was this other mom whose daughter used to liked to hold hands with Max at the YMCA and
she got all like, “she’s too young for that!!” What exactly did she
think an eight year old, in a fluorescently lit room with tons of grownups
around was going to do to her precious girl? Seriously, the mom had
issues. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I really want my charming boy to
enjoy Valentine’s Day. I would hate for him to find out it is a
total mockery of love tantamount to corporate peer
pressure. It has nothing to do with St. Valentine’s original
intent. Even if he was the patron saint of the plague, epilepsy, and
bees; don’t forget he was also the patron saint of engaged couples and happy
marriage. The man was clubbed to death because he was secretly marrying couples in love. I'm guessing the divorce rate wasn't as high as it is now, but he was really trying to bring love and joy and blah blah blah. He apparently would secretly help pass notes between the </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">affianced</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> couples and then they killed him and stuck his head on a stake. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">By the way, some chick named Agatha was the patron saint of
single women and some dude named Gregory the Great was the patron saint of
teachers. Nice to know I have someone looking out for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Digressing again…</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">My last year’s Valentine blog was called,<i> Happy Capitalist Mockery of Chocolate
Day. (</i>Crap, maybe I have issues.)</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Anyway, here is how I explained my
disdain for Valentine’s Day last year: </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Don’t get me
wrong. I like love. I like chocolate. I even like heart shaped chocolate. I
especially like the little heart shaped Valentine Peeps that are marked down
50% on the day after Valentine’s Day. If you poke a hole in the cellophane
wrapper of the Peeps, they get just the right amount of staleness that makes
them totally yummy. Then of course you have Tuescher’s Champagne truffles in
Beverly Hills which, if one could marry chocolate, this would be the chocolate
I would marry. Of course, I would weigh 300 pounds from being married to
truffles, but who cares, I would be happy and the truffles would never leave
the toilet seat up.</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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<i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Oh, wait, that
just explains my love of chocolate. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;"> <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Hmmm…hold on. </span> <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Oh yeah,
here we are:</span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
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<i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Making someone
wear red and hope someone will validate them on that one special day once a
year is ludicrous. It’s stupid and makes people feel like crap. If you are
single, then you feel like crap because the world is decorated with hearts and
little cherubs should be buzzing around you, but they’re not buzzing around
you, they are buzzing around the guy next to you who is looking at someone
else.</span></i><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;"> <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">If you are
actually in a relationship, you may end up feeling like crap as well. There is
all of this pressure to buy your significant other something romantic on
Valentine's Day. Emphasis on BUY. God forbid you forget to buy something, then
your significant other might think you are secretly harboring feelings for
someone else or that you really don’t like them all that much because you
couldn’t see the ten million ads that told you diamonds were on sale at Zales.
But, hey, you can eat chocolate that is 50% off the next day to heal your
wounds. You’ll just be eating it alone.</span></span></i></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">That wasn't too cynical. Was it?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Anyway, I would just like to say
once again that I have nothing against love and romance but I just prefer my love and romance on a Tuesday in say, April or June. For no reason
whatsoever. Tell me you love me without the Hallmark card. Bring
me truffles when you just stopped by to say hi. Or better yet, bring
me daffodils on Memorial Day. I like that holiday better. You
get a day off from work.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">Have a nice Valentine's Day.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-6330773518863712222012-02-11T07:42:00.000-08:002012-02-11T07:42:30.540-08:00And I can even do The Dougie<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was
starting to write a blog about how all women think everything is their fault (mostly
because there are certain men who tell them this and they believe them) but
then I received a phone call that totally changed my mind. Yes, I
still think everything is my fault, but that can wait for another
day. I mean, I am sure it was me who caused the hole in the ozone
layer from all of the Aqua Net I used in the late 70’s and the economy is
crashing because I haven’t paid off my student loans yet; but seriously, all of
that can wait for the next blog. Although, the next blog will be on
how stupid Valentine’s Day is, so the “It’s all my fault” blog will be the one
after that. I am kind of just thinking out loud here, ya know,
planning. You probably don’t actually have to be here for this
conversation…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Let me
tell you about some of the good things that can be considered “my fault”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">This is
my third year of teaching at the same very small charter
school. Because the school is so small, I know almost all of the
kids. Plus, because I am one of only two high school English
teachers, I have taught almost all of the students there as
well. Yep, there are only two of us hawking literature which is
great because we have a little more autonomy than if we had to team teach.
However, it may suck for a kid who isn’t thrilled with having me for their
teacher. It’s kind of like, sorry sweetie; you are stuck with me so
make the most of it. It’s probably a good life lesson for my
students. Ya know, prepare them for later in life when they have to
deal with people that are annoying, like college roomates and co-workers and
spouses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Anyway…I
am the senior class advisor again (go back and read <i>I’m a leopard, not
a cougar</i> and <i>The Prom</i>) (go read the old ones too cuz
they’re really funny, if I do say so myself) and these students I have
had for all three years. I know them, I’ve taught them, and I have
learned from them too. They taught me about The Urban Dictionary and
taught me how to do “the dougie” and taught me about the joys of refined
sugar. As much as I think they are a collective pain in the ass, I
really like them. Well, I will be honest and say “most” of
them. But these students, some of them, mean more to me than I thought possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">There is
one kid who this blog is specifically about. His father died on the
last day of school last year, very suddenly. At first, I thought he
was joking when he told me because he had mastered the fine art of sarcasm under my
tutelage as well as having a propensity for dark humor. But his eyes, wide with grief, said it all. I couldn't believe he was even at school, but he said he just didn't want to be at home. It was all too much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Since it
was the last day of school, there wasn’t much going on, and he was totally in
shock, so he asked if he could just hang out in my classroom for the
day. I called all of his teachers and there he stayed, on my
makeshift couch, quietly playing on his contraband phone. He talked
a little, I made him eat (Jewish mother that I am) but mostly, he just sat
there. He asked me if I would come to the funeral. Just
be there. The funeral was one of those huge Liberian funerals where
at least twenty people spoke about his dad. I had met his dad on
several occasions and had had many conversations with him. Ya see,
although I really liked having him as a student, he was a total slacker who
would always be failing my class at some point during the semester so calls
home were inevitable. His dad was very tall and serious but a warm
hearted man. He loved his son, he was a good father and I miss those
conversations about how we were going to light a fire under his son to keep him
motivated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">So, there
I was, white teacher at the African funeral. Big black hat, little
white lady in the back; that was me. It was an open casket and I had
never seen a dead body before and we all had to walk past the casket to pay our
respects to his father. I really didn’t want to, but I did it
anyway. I remember thinking how small his father looked for such a
tall man. It looked like his father but just sort of the shell of
him. After I walked past, I hugged my student and sat back down to listen to the
eulogies and sermon. The reverend was a little man but a powerful
speaker. I think there was one point during his sermon where I
accidently accepted Jesus as my savior, I really didn't mean to. I think my rabbi would totally understand. It
was an accident. I told him about it later, (my student, not my
rabbi) and he laughed, knowing the dialogue that was probably going on inside
my head during the funeral. The surreal nature of being there.
The funeral, the accidental acceptance of Christ, getting lost on the way to
the funeral...seriously, there I was, in “the jungle” of South LA without a
GPS, making repeated u-turns and wondering if the red flames on my mini-van should be blue. It's funny, I wasn't scared of being murdered by gangs but rather scared of what my student
had to deal with. Scared of what we all had to deal with.
Scared of seeing his father one last time. Scared of my own mortality.
And yet grateful that I was there. Seriously, it was a powerful day
that made me want to go home and hug my own children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Months
have passed and one by one my seniors have been accepted into
college. Well, most of them. Some are still waiting, some
have stopped waiting, and some just are waiting to graduate and be
done. I do love this part of being their senior class advisor
because when my seniors do get accepted into college, they run into my
classroom with their acceptance letters and hug me. I always get
chills. This particular student was also accepted into
college. I told him how proud his dad would have been. He
just smiled quietly like his dad would have and nodded. He looks so
much like him...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Last night,
out of the blue he called me to thank me. He said he wasn’t sure if
he ever had. He told me I wasn’t just a teacher to him but something
so much more. I was special to him and I was there when he really needed me and he thanked me
again. I asked him to record that for me so I could play it back and
hear it when teaching became hard and I needed a reminder. It
was a pretty great reminder of why I do what I do for very little money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">I just
felt like sharing that. I haven’t written much lately and it feels
good to be inspired.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> It just
felt really, really wonderful to be validated by a student. It’s not
like I think I am Hillary Swank in </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Freedom Writers</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: small;">, or S</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">idney Poitier <i>To Sir With Love</i> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: small;">but I think I
do some good stuff here. I realized last year that it may be the
administration who pays the teachers, but ultimately, it’s the students we are
working for. Of course, I may get burned out in a few years from all
of the stupid questions they ask like “But what if I don’t turn my paper in on
time?” and “Oh, should I be writing the assignment down or can you just
facebook it to me?” and “Ms. Levine, why do you teach in three-inch heels?” But
for now, I’m good. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Okay, on
to the Valentines Blog with much more self deprecating humor, I
promise. But for now, I will just bask in the glow of that phone
call and know that with the absolute idiocy of the No Child Left Behind Act,
there are a few who have not been left behind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-57668093178309569512012-01-05T22:29:00.000-08:002012-01-05T22:29:04.020-08:00Vodka and scotch and grey ducks<br />
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It is as different as apples and oranges. I don’t like that phrase. I mean, it’s descriptive enough but why
apples and oranges? Because they are
both round but of different tastes, smells and textures? Oh, wait, that makes sense now. But still, there are other things you can say
instead of apples and oranges just to be more creative. What about blueberries and raspberries? Naw, too long. It doesn’t flow. Hmmm…mango and papaya? You can’t really use pineapple for any of
this…or banana for that matter. I mean
that would just sound dirty. Hmmm…lemons
and limes might work…coconuts and kiwis?
They are both round and fuzzy. </div>
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How about choosing something that isn’t fruit. Grass
and astro-turf? Men and women? Vodka and scotch? Both alcohol, but two different colors and two
different tastes. I think that
works. I would say vodka and whiskey but the smell of
Jack Daniel’s makes me want to hurl. I think I will go with vodka and scotch. Mix things up a bit. I have also changed “six
of one, half dozen of the other” to “half of one, one half of the other” just
to watch people try to figure it, or rather me, out. It’s fun to see that “I think you meant
something else” look in their eyes but they are too polite and don’t want to
offend anyone so they say nothing. I
have also changed “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it” to “we’ll jump
off that bridge when we get to it”. That
one just makes more sense to me.</div>
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The one thing I haven’t changed is saying “duck, duck, grey
duck” instead of saying, “duck, duck, goose”. If you are from Minnesota, you will be one of
the only people in the whole wide world to say “duck, duck, grey duck” instead
of saying, “duck, duck, goose”. I have
no idea why. I once asked a farmer if it
had to do with geese being grey when they were chicks but he said that no
farmer was so stupid as to not see the difference between a baby duck and a
baby goose. The Urban Dictionary (and if
it says it there you know it’s true) says a Grey Duck is slang for someone from
Minnesota. Like, it’s an insult or
something. I guess it could be worse. You could be called a cheese-head or a Hoosier. Yikes.</div>
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Anyway, so I was on the treadmill after work tonight and was
contemplating my life as I usually do while on said machine.
It’s either contemplate my life or fantasize about winning the
lottery. Depends on the day. And the music playing in my head. Sometimes I like to ask a question to myself
and have it answered by hitting shuffle on my IPod. See what comes up, listen to the lyrics and
read into them as some sort of a sign. </div>
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So,
tonight, while contemplating my life, I asked myself why I haven’t written my
blog in awhile. I already knew the
answer to that question. Lately when I
try to write, it feels as if there are a few people standing behind me, judging
what I write and it makes it arduous to write how I feel about anything. I begin to write and hit delete. Begin to write and hit delete. I missed writing. I missed hearing people sending wonderful
comments to me about my blog. I missed
checking the stats to see that people in France and Moldavia and The Bahamas were still reading my stuff. </div>
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I started thinking about why writing now is so
much more painstaking than before. I
love writing and it soothes my savage soul.
Or my restless and impatient soul.
Or my anxiety-ridden-question-asking-soul. Sometimes I don’t care who reads it, it just feels
good to write it. But lately, those
people standing behind me in my imagination have become a big hindrance. I told myself to listen to the music and maybe
I would create a blog while getting my heart rate up to 155. I hit shuffle on my IPod and the song <i>Turning Tables</i> by Adele came on. Not the most heart pumping thing to exercise
to, but I began to listen to the lyrics as to answer my own questions. “As hard as you try, no, I will never be
knocked down” and “Under your thumb, I can’t breathe” rattled through my head. The lyric “Next time I’ll be braver, I’ll be
my own savior” gave me my answer and I started thinking of how my attitude had
shifted. It was different now. I was different now; from how I once
was. As different as apples and
oranges. Or rather vodka and scotch.</div>
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A positive imagination can’t hurt you, I know that. However, negative fantasizing (ya know, when you
imagine a conversation in your head, something that hasn't happened yet and you imagine it at its worst and then it snowballs into a full blown
fight in your head or the worst possible scenario and you decide it would just be easier to lie on your couch
and hide under the covers instead of moving forward) can hurt you. But we all do it. Just need to do it less. Use your imagination for good instead of evil. Of course some evil thoughts can be good too. Hehehe.</div>
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Maybe that’s why Minnesotans use grey duck instead of goose
in the game. You got to play by tapping
on little heads and calling them purple duck and polka dot duck and rhinestone
duck. You got to use your imagination
and not just keep saying “goose, goose, goose”.
Hmmm…not a bad way to kick start the imagination at a young age. I should play that with my kids. Of course, then there would be Transformer duck and Pokemon duck and Lego duck... </div>
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By the way, the next song on my IPod was <i>I’m Sexy and I know it </i>by LMFAO.
Yep, that one worked too.</div>
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<br /></div>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-62727363928478297582011-12-24T14:01:00.000-08:002011-12-24T14:01:39.078-08:00Happy/Merry Chris-makkah<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I am positive
about two things during the month of December:</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">there are way too many holidays and everything at every store is always
50% off the day after Christmas.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">But let’s
face it, the second one is much more important to me than figuring out what the
hell myrrh is used for.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Okay, seriously,
here’s the short list of December holidays: Besides Christmas there is Kwanzaa,
Festivus, The Hopi Soyaluna Ceremony, The Winter Solstice (which includes the
Halcyon Days) (natural highs only please), Yalda, Holy Innocents Day, Boxing
Day, and believe it or not National Chocolate Day. Seriously, I did not make that last one
up. I personally celebrate that one
about once a month…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I really don’t
know that much about Kwanzaa but it seems to be similar to Hanukkah. They have something that resembles a <i>menorah</i> and that’s all I know. I have several students from Africa so I
should probably learn about it. Festivus
was created by Jerry Seinfeld and I am sure his wife just steams cauliflower and
hides it in their children’s food to celebrate the day. The Winter Solstice has something to do with
Stonehenge and Boxing Day is literally about boxes that were used to hold presents
from Christmas that were filled up with charitable things to give to the poor so
it’s basically a glorified re-gifting day.
Yalda is the celebrations of the birth of Mithra, the
Persian Sun god and has something to do with pomegranates. Why the people who make POM haven’t picked up
on this holiday for a marketing campaign is beyond me. And then, there is Hanukkah or
Chanukkah. The spelling varies but the
story is about this cool guy named Judah and his brothers the Maccabees who held
off the Syrians or the Lybians or some middle eastern sect who hated the Israelites
and then there was a miracle with the oil and it lit the lights of the temple
for eight days. Or something like
that. It’s been a few years since I went
to Saturday School.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="" name="top"><br /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Let’s face it,
if it ain’t Christmas it is barely accepted in this country. I don’t care how liberal, how democratic or
how I-believe-the-whole-world-should-be-treated-equally you are. Christmas rules and all of the other holidays
drool. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Sometimes this totally sucks. For example, try
being the only Jewish family in New Hope, Minnesota during the month of
December. There were no other Jews for
miles and my parents were from The Bronx. They had a totally different accent and had
no freakin clue what a “hotdish” was.
The whole city drank “pop” while my parents drank “soda”. It was a challenge for all of us. However, I have to say having that half New
York/half Minnesota upbringing worked out well (now that I can look back on it
with a sense of humor and lots of therapy) and probably made me more
interesting than the average Minnesotan.
Or the average bear, for that matter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">During the month
of December, being the only Jewish students in our school, it came down to my
sister and me to explain the story of Haanukkah or Chaanukkah to our peers. There was no Google back then. It all came from Saturday school for us which
meant we actually had to listen to what our Saturday school teachers were
saying. Plus, we actually had to
remember what they told us. Seriously, that
was just too much pressure. Of course
teaching the kids in my class to play </span><em><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif;">dreidel</span></em><em><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-style: normal;"> was like teaching them to play
craps. They loved it. I was like the Hanuukah or Chanuukah Bookie
to some of them. I really should have charged
more than just chocolate coins...</span></em><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Anyway, being
the only Jewish family was confusing during this time of year for several
reasons. Number one: Hanukahh or
Chanukahh was always being referred to as “the Jewish Christmas”. This was as offensive as the phrase, “Funny,
you don’t look Jewish.” (I often respond
to that phrase with “Funny, you don’t look ignorant.”) It’s just that Haanukah or Chaanukah is so
NOT the Jewish Christmas. It’s about a
miracle of light not a miracle of a baby without sex. I used to love to remind my peers how Jesus
was actually a Jew first before he became Christian. Sometimes there was nothing more fun than
going to my friends’ bible study classes and making sure I brought that up
during the class. I always loved the
look of the Sunday school teacher who usually stood there perplexed and not
knowing quite how to respond to that. Bad little Jewish girl…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Number two: Telling the sweet little Levine girls that
only good Christian kids received presents on Christmas from Santa was like,
the meanest thing you could possibly do to a kid. Wasn’t I good? Hadn’t I been good all year? I mean, before I was a rebellious teenager
who thought Madonna was the role model I should follow. When I was five or six years old all I wanted
was a tree that was all sparkly and pretty and a red felt stocking with
presents in it. Jeepers, I was a good
kid. Didn’t Santa like Jewish kids? What was his problem anyway? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Ya see, at five,
we didn’t equate religion with Santa. I
knew I was a different religion from all of my school chums, but was I really so
different? Seriously! Good kid here! I didn’t understand any of it. Was Santa just mean or did he not know there were Jewish kids who believed in him too? I
decided to take matters into my own hands and write Santa a letter one year and
tell him this. I told my mom afterwards what
I had done and she pretty much had no choice but to make sure my heart wouldn’t
be broken. So, being the emotionally supportive parents that
they were, they opted for “holiday stockings” for Christmas morning. We put out cookies and milk the night before
and of course a few carrots for the reindeer.
Every year I told my parents I could see reindeer tracks in the
snow. And even though we didn’t even
have a chimney, I believed in my heart that Santa knew I was a good kid who
just wanted a few toys and like, a Pez dispenser in the shape of a
snowman. This made me happy and
validated the way only a fat, white-haired, red-suited man could do. I have wondered since if it made my parents uncomfortable…hmmm…ah, who cares, there was Pez.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">The irony of the
two holidays was the myth of the Jewish kids collecting eight presents for the
eight nights of Haannuukkaah or Chaannuukkaahh when really, we got like, two
really cool presents the first two nights and then socks and jammies and school
supplies for the last six nights. Yep,
nothing says a present like Wonder Woman underwear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">The sparkly and
pretty tree was not going to happen in our house, no matter how much I wanted
one. Luckily, when I was in high school,
my friend Chris let me come over and decorate her family’s Christmas tree. I was in Jewish girl heaven. They let me put on almost all of the
ornaments and string the lights. I can
still hear the Carpenters’ singing <i>Have
Yourself a Merry Little Christmas</i>.
It was the 1980’s so back then I wore really huge earrings (usually one at
a time) and I remember I was wearing this silly red Transformer earring that
was huge so we hung it on the tree as a joke.
Apparently, to this day they still hang it on their tree every
year. Thank goodness for Facebook or I
would never have known they still did that.
Ah, technology.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Today, my kids
are half Jewish and half um, not-Jewish.
So we have half of a tree decorated in blue and white (Hanukahh or
Chanukahh colors) with little white lights. We name him Toby the Hannamas Tree every year and we have our Menorah right next to
the tree. Of course not too close because that would be a fire hazard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">I am still optimistically
confused this December. I am still unclear on the Kwanzaa origins, the connection between the Winter Solstice
and global warming and have no idea how
Santa fits in with Jesus (the whole bunnies and Jesus rising from his grave on
Easter baffles me as well). I do know
that there is magic in all of the holidays. I see it in my children’s faces and not just
when they open their presents either. I
have Santa on Facebook and as much as I like to threaten them with Santa (“eat
the damn broccoli or I’m I.M.ing Santa”) having them read Mr and Mrs Claus’s status
updates is a wonderful way to start our mornings. <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">They
count down the days, draw pictures and sing songs and I sing right along with
them because I still like to believe in the magic of the holidays.
Christmas or Hanukah or Chanukah who cares, it's all about family and wonderment.
Being rich in friends and not in gifts.
Seriously, do you know one person who can watch</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">It's a Wonderful Life</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">without
tearing up? Unless of course it's the colorized version.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">My kids will be
with their dad on Christmas so I will be celebrating the traditional Jewish
Christmas which involves a day of movies followed by Chinese food. Ask any Jew and they will probably tell you
the same thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Happy Holidays.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-3835840416753110452011-11-23T21:16:00.001-08:002011-11-24T07:19:55.445-08:00A Gosling Thanksgiving<br />
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</div>
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First off, may I just say, Happy Thanksgiving to all of you
and hope the Native American people of this country don’t hate the white people
too much today. I have been trying to
gently explain the actual history of Thanksgiving to Max and how sometimes the Pilgrims
weren’t very nice to the people already living here and how Columbus didn’t “discover”
anything. That one cannot discover a place that already has people living in it. That would be like me saying that I
discovered Starbucks or Loehmans. He smiled
and nodded but walked back to the kitchen to finish decorating cookies. I am on my mini-vacation so should stop trying
to have these little “teachable moments”.
It must suck sometimes to be a teacher’s kid.</div>
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My kids are just happy we are decorating Thanksgiving
cookies so the civics lesson will have to wait, I guess. They are having a blast decorating the
cookies. Ya know, traditional
Thanksgiving cookie shapes: Turkeys,
maple leaves and dolphins. Yep. Nothing says Thanksgiving quite like aquatic mammals. I actually made blue
icing for them. The boys have decided
the turkeys should be rainbow colored.
Because of that request, my hands are now rainbow colored as well. My thumbs are a lovely shade of pink. But I love cooking on Thanksgiving, so I’m
not complaining. I love making
everything from scratch. I love roasting
pumpkins for my pumpkin pie just so I can say that I roasted pumpkins for my
pumpkin pie. I am actually only making
two desserts this year which was a difficult decision to concede to but there
will be only nine people at my house this year and I know my boys will only be
eating the blue dolphin cookies. They
probably won’t even touch the pretty maple leaves, iced in a lovely shade of
light orange. Which is also the color of
my pinkie. </div>
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I do love Thanksgiving for the idea of taking a little time
out to be grateful for all of the stuff you have in your life. That and taking time out for binge eating an entire meal made with butter. I
try diligently to not invite vegans. Tofurkey
scares me and seriously, vegans just don’t appreciate the butter
component. Or the turkey component for that matter. It’s not like I eat like this
every day, seriously, I would gain all of the weight back and I threw away all
of my fat clothes so that cannot happen.
So, yes, grateful for butter and people who love butter. But grateful for lots of other stuff
too. Grateful my parents are here at my
house which means I didn’t have to fly home to Minneapolis on the busiest
travel weekend of the year. Super duper
grateful for that. </div>
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But instead of telling you all of the things I am grateful for,
I took a poll this year at school and asked my students what they were grateful
for. I got a lot of answers of family
and friends; video games and new phones. I
did get one kid who said he was grateful to have me as his English teacher but I
am guessing he was just sucking up to get a good grade in my class. Some kids said they were grateful for their
lawyers and some said they were grateful just to be out of school for the week. Two of my kids said they were grateful to
have a home after being homeless. That one made me think and be grateful that
the universe seemed to be looking out for them.
Homeless kids and along with the
few who mentioned their lawyers; seriously grateful. I knew a few were for parents and a few for
themselves. Those are the ones that make
my job hard to do without wanting to adopt them. Good kids.
Most of them.</div>
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With all of the heartfelt grateful lists, I did appreciate
the girls who said they were grateful for Hello Kitty, Elf cosmetics and Ryan
Gosling. I mean, who isn’t grateful for Ryan
Gosling? I liked how none of them
hesitated on what they were grateful for.
I liked how all them smiled when they said what they were grateful
for. Not a bad poll. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Before bed last night, I asked my boys what they were
grateful for. I was second on Dash’s
list, right under racecars. Max was
grateful for my love. Man, I love when
he says that. There is nothing more
validating than a sincere eight year old.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Okay, back to my turkey and my stuffing and my marshmallow ensconced
sweet potatoes and my caramelized brussel sprouts and of course, my blue
dolphin Thanksgiving cookies. I am
totally grateful my children have this wonderful sense of humor that
incorporates marine life into the festivities.
Well, let’s face it; I am just grateful for them. My life would be so boring without them. I am also grateful for my friends and my family,
the <i>Gone with the Wind</i> marathon on
AMC, and having a great home filled with love and warmth and Hello Kitty. And if it were filled with Ryan Gosling…</div>
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<br /></div>
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Oh, and by the way, I am grateful for the people who read
this blog. All of you. Happy Thanksgiving.</div>
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<br /></div>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-74493081929595662282011-11-09T17:55:00.000-08:002011-11-09T17:55:30.138-08:00It is what it is<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am realizing that the phrase “it is what it is” has become
my favorite phrase. There are others
too. “this too shall pass”, “that which
does not kill us makes us stronger” and “success is the best revenge”. However, sometimes it just…is what it is. (I should probably be citing these quotes with
a good old fashioned MLA citation, being the English teacher here, but I’m
tired so bite me.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another good one is “when life gives you lemons, make
lemonade” but I gave up the good juicer in the divorce so making lemons becomes
more arduous than one might have remembered.
I loved that juicer. It was the
big silver one from William Sonoma that had the old fashioned handle that made
things fun to squeeze. It was like, two
feet high and made juicing entertaining.
But I traded that in for some freedom and peace of mind, so my little
plastic juicer will do just fine. Plus,
Dash likes fresh squeezed OJ and getting fruit into that little man is arduous
as well, so I will squeeze with what I have.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So, if one doesn’t have the big William Sonoma juicer or
access to a good Nietzsche quote, then what does one do? Bathtub, shoes, chocolate, treadmill. Well, not in that order. But definitely treadmill after the chocolate. Usually, I am lucky and stress causes nausea so
I lose weight when I am stressed. The
treadmill is good because there is nothing better than sweating to loud angry
music while releasing some well needed endorphins. Greenday is perfect for this. So are Christina Aguilera and surprisingly,
Pittbull. Loud, really, really loud, so
as to drown out the objections and yelling in my own head. Adele is playing now. I like her.
Soulful. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Drinking is out.
Well, milkshakes maybe, but then there will just be more treadmill. Railing at god, yoga, mindless television and
well, blogging seems to help. I have
always been a big proponent of writing things down to explain it to
yourself. No one needs to read it, it’s
really just for you, but it is nice knowing people in Croatia, France and
Malaysia will be sharing my experiences.
</div>
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Yelling at strangers is always good. Driving in LA makes that really easy to
achieve. Customer service people at
AT&T make that pretty easy as well.
Let’s face it, most “customer service” isn’t. Although, I have learned if you are nice to
customer service people, you tend to get whatever you need. Wouldn’t that be
nice with all people…</div>
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You get to a point in your life where you realize you can’t
run away from your problems and issues and anxiety. You need to face it. You need to deal with it in a pragmatic and
positive way. You need to tell yourself
the universe will help you if you ask. You
need to be a grownup and own your issues.
No matter how crappy they are. No
matter if you have no idea what the outcome may be. No matter what. Icky-ness ownership comes with maturity. Right?
Or I could just take a bubble bath and hope for a hug.</div>
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<br /></div>
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An old therapist of mine once told me, “you are going to
feel this way until you are done feeling like this, so let yourself feel like
this.” Advice as good as “wear a
sweater, you never know”. So, I guess
that means facing the icky stuff you really have no desire to face. Dealing with it and moving on. Not taking the world so personally and
remembering that although there is crap in the world, there is some pretty
great stuff as well. Focus on the good
stuff? Right? After all, it is what it is and no amount of
shoe buying or milkshake drinking or treadmilling will make it go away. It will make it easier to take, but in the
end, being a grownup will win out. At
least on my end.</div>
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Okay, I’m done. Going
to make some lemonade and take a bubble bath. </div>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-49150190296287162872011-11-03T20:32:00.000-07:002011-11-03T20:32:55.291-07:00That’s not funny.<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The education
arena is fraught with acronyms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man, the
pedagogic set loves them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously,
they won’t make a test, a standard or an educational cohort without spelling
out something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>CAHSEE, WASC, FERPA, OY.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then of course, you can never remember what
the acronym stands for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bet if you
tested even the oldest and wisest of the teaching profession none of them would
be able to tell you what CAASFEP stood for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But they could probably tell you what BFD, LOL and WTF mean…<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have
recently begun the BTSA program.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Technically I am still a new teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BTSA stands for Beginning Teacher Something
or Another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I told you these were hard to remember)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you get your teaching credential
in California, you start with a preliminary credential and then have five years
to “clear” it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, teaching,
getting one’s masters, along with by-monthly evaluations by your administrators isn’t enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need to spend two more years learning
more pedagogy stuff so you may implement this stuff into your lesson plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They (ya know, the big THEY) say that most
teachers only teach for five years and then decide they are insane and move on
to other jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess only giving the
preliminary credential weeds out the ones who want their lives back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The BTSA
program is a two year program but because I am impatient, I have chosen to do
the accelerated program which means I am cleared in one year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to write a self-assessment and
reflection on the Teacher Standards of California to be approved for it, which by
the way, you can find the standards in the NBPTS, the CSTP, or the NCLB.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, I know, more CRAP.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, so I
was reflecting on my teaching standards; which sounds so much more romantic
than it really is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I should be
gazing into a magic mirror while sipping on champagne, dressed in a flowing gown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am writing about what things I am good at and what things I suck at as
a teacher (drinking tea, in front of my computer in my sweatpants with the big
bleach stain on them).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmmm…what am I
good at?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Creative project based lesson
planning, culturally and socially relevant stuff and making my students laugh
while actually learning, that I am good at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Time management, trying to believe that the CST and other standardized tests do
anything but teach a child how to bubble things in, and organizing my desk, I seem
to suck at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My desk is like a waste land
where essays come to die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to work
on actually grading the homework I give out faster or just stop giving homework
that needs to be graded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oooh, now that’s
a good idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually have a whole
slew of stuff to grade but just realized I am giving quizzes tomorrow so I will
have oodles of time to finish grading them as the ten week progress reports are
due on Monday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate working on the
weekends so that will work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, look, I
am good at time management. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, I
started writing this reflection essay and I kept wanting to crack jokes about
the teaching standards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The running monologue
in my head was quite amusing but I realized I should probably write a dry and
boring or rather intelligent essay as to not freak out the school
district.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was hard to keep it
that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started realizing that
writing amusing anecdotes was a whole mess easier and you all don’t mind when I
misspell things or use improper grammar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although, my mother sometimes likes to correct my blogs with a red pen
and send them back to me, but that’s another story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I teach
persuasive essays, expository essays, reflective and analytical essays to my
students yet the most fun and the ones that ALL of the students seem to turn in
are the narrative essays and short stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Probably because they are just more fun to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to think that researching a persuasive
essay on “anchor babies” or medical marijuana could be fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am totally fooling myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn’t really like to write a five
paragraph essay on dry, banal socially relevant crap either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to write and then embellish just
enough so my blogs are fictional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No,
really, nothing I write here actually happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am really a six feet tall blonde man who is an accountant and hates
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I had
to write all of those pedagogic research papers during grad school, I would
almost put myself to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still got
all A’s, but crap, they were boring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then
when it came to my Master’s thesis, I was allowed to write a
half-narrative-half-research-paper on my student teaching experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was actually fun. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>100 pages of fun (got 98 out of 100, by the
way) because I was telling my story and telling them of my experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Basically just writing about myself, which let’s
face it, I love doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was actually
more fun when I presented it because as an actress, I like to be expressive and
well, I knew the people I was presenting to, so it was actually entertaining
and enjoyable to perform, I mean, present. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love
writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This whole new blog experience
has been a wonderful experiment of writing and creativity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should have my students blog…hmmm…not a bad
idea…I need a rubric for that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back to my
reflection assessment of moi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I said,
I do love writing about me, regardless of who I am, and it was actually quite thought
provoking for myself to realize what I am good at thus far in my teaching
career and what I need some help on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unfortunately, my reflection was only allowed to be three pages long but
it was based on a forty page document.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
actually had to change the font size to 11.5 just to squeeze in the last bit of
over-wordy-ness that is me and my writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had one small laughable moment in it and then the rest was a serious
assessment of how I see myself as a teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So the BTSA organizers at LAUSD will be very happy with my reflection on
my TSC while teaching GATE, ELL and SPED students all the while hoping to
increase my CALSTRS account and using some VAPA and SDAIE strategies to
increase our CST scores to raise our AYP and API.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now I am
back to blogging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Way more fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not bad for a six-foot tall blonde
accountant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-16636447484880460462011-10-30T21:31:00.000-07:002011-10-30T21:31:08.630-07:00I’m not a cougar, I’m a leopard<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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 <em>The Prom</em> and <em>Fast Cars Stupid Tests. </em>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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">And please remind me that I
am not a cougar, just a mommy leopard who likes to care for her kittens.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Oh, and Happy Halloween. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-26774307496538134272011-10-19T23:32:00.000-07:002011-10-19T23:32:03.348-07:00Oh yeah, like that was decaf<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it was that salted
caramel latte that I spent four bucks on, but it should still be decaf,
right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, crap, am I awake right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have been up since 5am (because it’s a school day) and
have not stopped going since 5am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
was my day:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5am wake up to Kei$ha, cuz that makes me dance down the stairs to get
my coffee.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5:30 go upstairs apply concealer and hit myself with a pretty
stick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Complain to myself about my
recession hair cut and vow to get it cut soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Attempt a bun cuz it’s very teachery looking.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5:45 get dressed</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5:50 change clothes</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5:55 change clothes again</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6am wake up the munchkins with the “morning song” (It’s super annoying
and I don’t stop singing until they are outta bed)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6:05 argue with Dash about what he is going to wear today</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6:10 breakfast for the boys and cartoons (right now it is all about Pokémon)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6:30 tell the boys to get dressed</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6:35 tell the boys to get dressed</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6:40 tell the boys to get dressed</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6:50 head out the door</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6:55 come back to get what I forgot</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">7am drop off the boys </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">7:30 arrive at work (on time, for a change)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">7:35 say good morning to 100 students</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">7:45 review what I am teaching because for the life of me, I cannot
remember</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">7:50 turn on Pandora and blare Pink as loud as I can. Forget that <em>Raise Your Glass</em> has the F-word in it and lower it just enough as to not hear it outside my classroom</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">8am start class with the first of the 9<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Repeat for each class of the day</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For the rest of the school day:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Remind the seniors to fund raise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hear complaints from the seniors about fund raising.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grade papers, lesson plan, get observed by
the principal, breathe. Remind myself to breathe.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3:50 get cornered by students</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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...</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">4:20 go to Trader Joes (it was a tossup between Trader Joes and Target;
but then again, when isn’t it?)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">4:45 pick up boys, chat with moms, plan playdates, wipe off dirty
faces, blow noses</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5pm drop off kids at the dreaded x’s for dinner</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5:30 arrive at the YMCA to work off anxiety</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6:45 sit in steam room after my work out and just breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">7:30 go to Starbucks to waste time before picking up the boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swear I ordered a decaf, but who cares cuz
it’s a salted caramel latte and it’s super yummy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (I may have mentioned that but the yummy-ness was worth repeating) </span>Read the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bless
Me Ultima</i> because I will be teaching this book that I have never read
in<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>two weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">7:45 check out the cute guy who is checking me out</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">7:50 realize he is really not that cute because I have left my glasses
in the car</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">8pm pick up boys from the dreaded x’s apartment</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">8:15 discuss Pokémon</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">8:30 tell the boys to get ready for bed</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">8:35 tell the boys to get ready for bed</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">8:40 tell the boys to get ready for bed</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">8:45 read Dash his favorite book entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elmer.</i> We love the patchwork elephant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">9am boys are asleep. Aaahhhh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">9:15 read emails from students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What
was the homework, Ms Levine?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is
anything due tomorrow, Ms Levine?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Can
you write me a letter of recommendation, Ms Levine?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10:30 realize it was NOT decaf</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10:35 start writing blog</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">11pm pray for sleepiness </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">11:15 realize I have nothing more to write</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that was my day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How was
yours?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, seriously?</span></div>
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<br /></div>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-78341369724116763692011-10-15T21:16:00.000-07:002011-10-15T21:16:18.400-07:00The Deal Breaker<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Seriously, The Oxford English
Dictionary couldn’t have said it better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-28891276701557185262011-10-09T08:24:00.000-07:002011-10-09T08:24:48.600-07:00My ass is 44 today and yet my car is brand new<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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</span><sup><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">th</span></sup><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">
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.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">told</i> me and did not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ask </i>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. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">And yes…everything
I have has a name. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">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…</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Okay, on to the future. There is a Loehman’s birthday discount with my name on
it. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-9178549952048648572011-09-24T14:51:00.000-07:002011-09-24T14:51:29.922-07:00Codeine stream of unconsciousness<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sniffle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sniffle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cough cough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Ah codeine cough medicine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a request from my wonderful cousin Jaron that I write a blog while high on cough medicine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Um, okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have nothing better to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Children are at the dreaded x’s house and I haven’t changed out of my jammies in a day in a half so really, no pressing engagements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to shower at some point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily I can’t breathe through my nose so who really cares if I shower if I am the only one here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Henry the cat could care less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personally, I think he has enjoyed having me home the past two days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I fall asleep I tend to become his couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s getting heavy too…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would love to know what his meows mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, I have a feeling I know what some of them mean because there is some serious attitude behind them, but it would be cool to have an animal translator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Alone and sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one to smell me and no one to bring me soup. (pro and con) I would sell my soul for some chicken soup right now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Yes, this is my passive aggressive way for me to get some soup delivered to my house today by someone who is reading this and lives in LA.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually tried to sell my soul to the devil once to become a famous actress but to no avail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found a crossroads (actually it was at the corner of Fountain and Highland) and told the devil that if he or she did exist, I would love to sell my soul to become famous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood there for awhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, now I am convinced there is no devil which means there is no hell which means there is no heaven and yet oddly enough, I still think there is a god.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think she likes me too or at least appreciates me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, my soon to be forty-four year old breasts still face north and that is all I need to believe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, that and the idea of how cool my children are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Max has been doing his best to make me feel better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing cuter than an eight year old who keeps handing you Kleenex and feeling your forehead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why are tonsils there anyway?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do we actually need them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what is a spleen for?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And why does it always seem like it is the first thing to be taken out on hospital dramas?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am in a very reflective mood as of late (and not solely due to the codeine cough medicine) as <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been teaching an over-view of existentialism all week to my 10<sup>th</sup> graders because we start <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stranger</i> by Camus on Monday; and if you have never read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stranger</i> you should totally read it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Super awesome book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, it did win the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature so yep, it is that good. Plus The Cure wrote this really cool song called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Killing an Arab </i>that people thought was about killing middle-easterners but was really about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stranger. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Apparently, most people hadn’t read the book and the record was yanked off of the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, this was so long ago it was actually a record and not a CD or a download.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Absurd any way you look at it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why are Pink Lady Apples so much better than Red Delicious?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baked apples…mmmm…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most things about my life seem to fall under the heading of absurd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My career, the men in my life, my upper respiratory virus, and of course my blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the absurd blog is the fun part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the only way I can vent lately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I keep the sarcastic rants flowing I tend to feel much better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now, today, we will have a codeine-infused sarcastic rant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, I should have posted a warning at the top…oh wait, I did. Never mind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What is the difference between an upper respiratory infection and a lower respiratory infection anyway?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is one better or worse?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can rarely take drugs such as these.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most narcotics make me hurl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vicodin, Percocet, and Codeine on its own are just icky and horrible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which I guess is good so I could never become addicted to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will stick to the shoe addiction and leave it at that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> But codeine cough medicine seems to work just fine and not make me hurl just make me apathetic and then sleepy and then less cough-y. Yes, that is now an adjective. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I was in labor with Max I had written on my birth plan (ya know, that thing you spend a month writing because you want your baby’s birth to be a certain, specific and perfect way and it goes out the window the minute you arrive at the hospital and realize that even though your water broke you are still at one centimeter and have to go on pitocin anyway) that I could not take narcotics. I had told the doctor, the nurse and the anesthesiologist so of course when the epidural went in after I got to five centimeters and couldn’t breathe through the contractions anymore; of course they put narcotics in the epidural.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why they would actually listen to the person in labor…anyway…long story short, they were able to take out the narcotics and leave the block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also shut the whole thing off when I got to ten centimeters so I was able to feel everything at the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which although my birth experiences were absolutely the most amazing of experiences, the Johnny Cash song <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ring of Fire</i> was totally stuck in my head while I pushed my boys out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Okay, it's now stuck in my head again. Good song.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why do gummy bears taste so damn yummy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are like squishy pieces of heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If anyone drops off soup to me, could you bring some gummy bears too please?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I am getting a bit woozy and there is a couch with my name on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mmm…couch…sleep….good….</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have the most wicked dreams on codeine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very symbolic, very graphic, some a bit violent and I did wake myself up screaming last night but that was because I dreamt there was an earthquake and the floor of my house had a big chasm in it and the couch I was on flew across the room with me on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But hey,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also had one about finding a room full of clothing just for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Bikinis that had feathers, Prada dresses with matching shoes, and suede pants that fit perfectly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They made my ass look good, so I knew it was a dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dash told me my booty looked squishy today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him that’s what happens when booties get older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I may have scared him with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spent the rest of the morning trying to look at his own super cute booty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why is it a murder of crows, a congress of baboons, a pride of lions but just a group of humans?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We seem to have a self-esteem issue when it comes to anthropomorphic collective nouns.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, Cousin Jaron, I hope you enjoyed this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you weren’t up in San Francisco and were less than an eight hour drive from me, I would suggest you bring me soup.</span></div>
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seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-63724262240905826602011-09-20T05:12:00.000-07:002011-09-20T05:12:08.490-07:00Of course you can’t hear me, I have a vagina.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just…seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have begun to discover that NOT hearing me is specifically a gender issue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I am being totally sexist but the past few weeks men, guys, boys, and dudes have made this abundantly clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t get me wrong, I mean, it’s not all men that don’t listen to women -- Ya know, never mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That last little justification was totally me wanting men to think that I thought they thought that I thought some of them were actually listening to me in case I was dating one of them and they decided to support my writing and read this and then they thought I meant them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope, I meant all of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From age five to seventy-five no man seems to listen to any woman I know of.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not really a hearing problem and I don’t think it is a listening problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first I thought it was specific to culture and upbringing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought specific misogynist cultures taught their young men to ignore the important things that come out of a woman (not just babies) and really she is just there to take care of you and she doesn’t identify with or recognize the ways of a man’s world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once I knew of a man who said that when he arrived home at his house every night, he put his logic away because he just couldn’t do logic with his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bit my lip so hard when I heard that one, my tooth went through my lip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, there are some men out there who when you are speaking directly to them and you are the one who is guiding the conversation with your thoughts and opinions; they have trouble actually looking into your eyes while you speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They not only avoid eye contact, but they look away or over your head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know they are diligently trying NOT to hear a word you say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When this is happening, I usually wonder one of three things:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t want to talk directly into my cleavage; there is a booger in my nose; or if he acts like a sexist-pig who has no interest in what I am saying long enough, I will just stop talking and go away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, I am guessing it's the last one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am hoping it’s not the middle one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The thing is men from all cultures, races, nationalities and religions; they all do the same thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, I know a myriad of them stare at my boobs when I speak; but that is the mixture of having large breasts that are right in front of them and the innate male-must-stare-at-a-woman’s-breasts-gene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, the inherent qualities of a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ya know, like the farting-in-public-gene, the can’t-find-the-hamper-gene or the-ice-cube-trays-will-refill-themselves-gene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the male of the species’ DNA there is also the I-can’t-hear-you-because-you-are-a-woman-gene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think it is a gene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For most of them, I don’t think they are knowingly being sexist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean not all of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, some of them get off on being chauvinist pigs and who treat women as though they only have the cooking, cleaning and shopping gene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, I realize the irony of using the example of the “shopping gene” considering who is writing this blog in the first place and my propensity for cute shoes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, shut up, I love my shoes and it is not a woman-gene, it is a woman-who-has-good-taste-and-can-find-things-on-sale-gene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(and I am sure I inherited it from my mother.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My adorable and lovable male children could be a foot away from my face and I repeat over and over information and instructions and food options.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t even turn around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They don't even flinch. </span>I even tried an experiment with Dash once where I told him, two feet away from his little face, that I was going to take him to buy ice cream before dinner and he could have a double scoop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope, didn’t hear that one either. He kept playing with his Pokémon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was amazing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe men not listening to women could just be a case of bad manners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most men don’t really have great manners unless they went to cotillion classes when they were younger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps they have manners for the first few dates when they are on their most polite and best behavior and still hoping they have a shot of seeing you naked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hanging out with a friend of mine this weekend and he was an anomaly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had the most chivalrous manners and he was raised by a fabulous feminist mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here was this awesome feminist mom and she taught her only son to treat women with respect <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> manners. That chivalry was actually a sign of respect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt not like a lady but like a woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man actually opened the car door for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When was the last time someone opened the car door for me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nowadays, a man thinks that hitting the electric unlock button while on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> side of the car, makes it seem like he is opening the door for a woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this guy, he actually walked to my door, opened it and even took my hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the weirdest and most lovely thing that has happened to me in a long while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He probably didn't listen to me, but it balanced out with his chivalry.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s not just the not-listening thing but the interrupting thing as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love when guys do that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes me feel all pretty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My students do that all the freakin time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly the male students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will be on the third word of a sentence and without even raising their hand they will just interrupt with the most inane of questions like “when is this class over?” or “did you see the Mayweather fight over the weekend?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the pugilist princess, that’s me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, it is just aggravating me lately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's funny, that makes it sound as if I tolerated it before or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That almost sounded like once upon a time I had patience for people who didn’t listen to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tonight I gave Dash a time-out for not listening to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again. At all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had just lost my patience with him and the entire male dominated society that doesn’t listen to me either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I wanted to give a few other males a time-out but he was the only one at my house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He seemed so small at the kitchen table, all by himself in his pouty-time-out-ness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered what he was thinking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps he was reflecting upon his punishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps he was replaying episodes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star Wars the Clone Wars </i>in his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conversely, after his five minutes of solitude were up, I sat him on my lap with his blanket named “geegee” and asked him if he knew why I had gotten so mad at him and had given him a time out in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said it was because he was not listening again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wow, he may have actually heard me. </span></div>
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seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-41787004897835746762011-09-11T11:13:00.000-07:002011-09-11T11:13:13.439-07:00Magicians and bouncers and cake. Oh my.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yesterday was one long ass day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It began at 3:54am when someone texted me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being the worried Jewish mother that I am, I checked to make sure it wasn’t a family member in Minnesota texting with bad news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was from someone simply saying “hi”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3:54 in the morning to say hi when you know I am a mom/teacher who never gets to sleep in on a Saturday?!?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was pissed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ignored it and crawled back into bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell into a fitful half sleep for awhile until my alarm, which I had forgotten to unset rang loudly at 5am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was pissed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned that off and fell into my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ten minutes later, Dash came in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked him what was wrong and he said he just “needed some snuggling”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, couldn’t be pissed at that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He curled into me like a kitten and promptly fell back to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dozed until my phone rang at 6:17am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone I actually like talking to but couldn’t muster the energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too tired to be pissed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laid there, willing myself to go back to sleep with my five and a half year old snoring up a storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ten minutes later, just as I could feel my eyes close, Max woke up and asked for breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, I’m up now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Coffee, super-hero-chocolate milk, cartoons and an argument of who got to go on the computer first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I acquiesced and let Max go on first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I corrected papers, made a phone call (to someone in Minnesota who was two hours ahead of me) and with that the day began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh look, it was 7am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After making the request for the kids to get dressed and brush their teeth six times, we finally got to the YMCA around 10am and I mustered up the caffeinated energy I needed to work out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured we had two birthday parties to go to so working out would be the pre-emptive strike I needed to allow cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Birthday party number one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside in the beautiful California sunshine, eight year old children chased each other around the lawn, munched on pizza and cake and screamed and giggled with glee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, there was actual glee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had remembered to bring my multi-level enzymes so I could actually eat pizza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, the life of a forty-three year old, well, forty-three and three quarters year old, who can no longer digest anything properly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My spasming esophagus reminds me of this daily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, multi-level enzymes and aloe vera juice and I keep the gluten and raw food to a minimum; but I was really hungry and there was pizza so whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh please, I have to take enzymes when I eat a freakin salad too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the magician arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yikes and a half.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of the mommies watched this man walk in and the same two thoughts seemed to occur to all of us. When was the last time this man had sex and wow, this man belongs in a Star Trek shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Balding and long hair at the same time with a polyester suit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Puns and silly humor geared to small children (which was good considering it was a children’s birthday party) cool magic tricks that astounded my children and magic wands in the goody bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dash was so taken by the disappearing rabbits and magic cards that I asked the magic man how much he charged for a children’s birthday party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After he told me how much he charged I said thanks and turned to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He grabbed my arm and yanked me a bit closer to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried to engage in a dialogue as I tried to escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asked for my number and right at that moment, Max had a bathroom issue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank goodness for my children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran quickly away and then oops, we had to leave for the next party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Seriously not enough magic in the world…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I dropped Max off at his dad’s and ran a few errands with Dash before the next bash began; all the while with him toting along his magic wand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned me into a rabbit, a turtle, an elephant and a princess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the last one didn’t take much magic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Birthday party number two was Dash’s best friend's so we had to go home and change clothes because in <em>his</em> words, he wasn’t dressed up enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My little fashion plate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The second party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside in the beautiful California sunshine, five year old children chased each other around the lawn, munched on pizza and cake and screamed and giggled with glee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, there was actual glee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the sound of glee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus there was a bounce house and nothing says fun like a bounce house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> P</span>ersonally, I try to avoid actually going into the bounce house with the kids as there are not enough sports bras in the world for that activity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After an hour and a half, Dash was starting to crash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Too much sugar and no nap. For both of us. </span>We left and I dropped him at his dad’s for their regular Saturday night sleepover otherwise known as “mommy’s night to recharge her batteries”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also known as “mommy’s night to drink wine”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promptly opened a bottle and collapsed on my couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the eternal Saturday night question popped into my head:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To go out or not to go out?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom keeps telling me I need to go out more but the idea of leaving my couch...hmmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus there were things to watch on my DVR.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Couch it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I lasted until 10:30pm and then fell asleep while watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Favorite Year</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m getting boring and lazy in my old age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps I will go out next weekend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey if I get desperate, there is always the scary magician guy. (shudder)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">What </span>I really need to do is to go out dancing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, when was the last time I went out dancing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Dancing is fun. At least I remember that it was fun...hmmm. </span>Anyone want to go out dancing next weekend?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course I would have to leave my couch for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I could just dance on my couch… </span></div>
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seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-12129116870963950312011-09-08T21:59:00.000-07:002011-09-08T21:59:52.022-07:00Too cool for school and too hot for teacher<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I started back two weeks ago to teaching high school English in the hood but as most teachers will tell you, you barely start teaching until the second week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, maybe just my school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They made the kids do a diagnostic standards (CST) test for two days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was nice because I could do my lesson plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, that was blown to hell when they informed me my books were not going to arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, that has happened the last two years, so I was ready for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a plan B; hell, there was a plan C too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have 9<sup>th</sup> and 10<sup>th</sup> graders this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three classes of each.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look so cute in their little uniforms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Burgundy sweater vests with ties and white shirts and khakis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They hate them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, man do they hate them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially when it is 100 degrees outside and 110 in my classroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, here’s a funny story (I winced and gritted my teeth on “funny” just so you know.):<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Los Angeles began a heat wave on Monday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Labor Day so it was spent with my boys at a neato farm in the Valley in the morning (before it got hot) where we got to feed farm animals and I tried to get the boys to pick some veggies that they might like to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The carrots “scared” Dash and Max said he would stick with apples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget the strawberries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was like a hour of begging and I finally gave in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will just keep hiding the veggies and fruits in their food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will shove it in there any way I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The afternoon was spent at the pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, I love the pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though you know like, every single kid (and probably some adults) have peed in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But hey, swimming in the sunshine?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothin’ cuter than little white tushies after the pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Theirs, not mine) Even with 50 SPF we all still were tan like we were on vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we have a national holiday on a Monday, I like to pretend it is a vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a little one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to put a little umbrella in my coffee and try desperately to move slowly and languidly throughout the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, that never works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My children’s usual languid nature is enough to make me go from languid to impatient in like an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, be relaxed but actually listen and do something by the third time I ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like I have a button stuck on repeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t touch that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t touch that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t touch that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Because I said so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I said so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I said so.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Put the cat down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put the cat down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put the cat down.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jeez, not really much of a vacation now that I think of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was a pool, so…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, back to the heat wave story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, Tuesday, I walk into my classroom and it is like a sauna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn on the air conditioner and it begins to spit luke warm air into a two foot radius. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn on the fan, spray my room with air freshener and begin to sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not even 8am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By 10am, my room becomes reminiscent of a male locker room without all of the naked people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I diligently try to teach and remind my students that in December when the heater doesn’t work and it’s 45 degrees in my classroom, they will long for today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell them they can take off the sweater vests, which is like a federal offense at my school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are fanning themselves with their grammar work sheets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least they are good for something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps the adjectives will fly off of the page and stick to their brains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could happen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wednesday is even worse and by the afternoon, I have had knocked back six bottles of water and sweated most of it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea of eating is repugnant and I just keep sipping, chugging, drinking water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begin to wonder if it is hotter outside than inside and realize there is no difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is 100 degrees outside and a bit warmer and more humid in my classroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teaching grammar becomes amusing as we come up with adjectives to describe my room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hot, sweaty, humid, disgusting, sticky, stifling, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point I decide to buy loofas and seaweed and open a spa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps a nice sweat lodge with a drumming circle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One administrator visits my classroom and asks if I knew how hot it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to say “duh” but refrain as there are fewer and fewer teaching positions available in Los Angeles so I need to keep my muggy one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thursday morning and it is even worse. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like the Florida Everglades and I am sure I have spotted an alligator loitering near the bathroom. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The maintenance man comes and wants to know who turned my heater on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laugh, thinking he is joking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You mean the heater that hasn’t worked in three years?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, your heater is on.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh seriously…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sit down on my makeshift couch (the backseat of a minivan, no really) and laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The students laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nice break, but we continue to learn about adjectives with no end in sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My favorite part is when Mr. Maintenance Guy tells me the air conditioner would work better at 76 degrees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just stare at him, my mouth open, sweat dripping down my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, that makes sense.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I weighed myself at the gym today and have lost five pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So who cares?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back to the sauna tomorrow to teach Lyric Poetry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sweater vests optional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-2150357683708522972011-09-02T21:05:00.000-07:002011-09-02T21:05:16.208-07:00Magic-mommy-boo-boo-kisses<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tonight is Max’s 8<sup>th</sup> birthday party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a slumber party with three of his pals with a Pokémon theme.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took two Tylenol as a pre-emptive strike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate Japanese Anomie of any kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember when Pokémon first came out and it was annoying then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also amazes me that my spell-check recognizes that Pokémon is spelled wrong until it has a little accent over the 'e'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It freakin’ corrected me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> That just seems so wrong in so many ways I would need a brightly colored chart to explain it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But hey, Max and his friends are happy and I am able to do laundry and write a blog. So, I’m not complaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course it’s only 8pm and it is a sleepover so this is going to be a really, really, long night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have been here for two hours and they have had pizza and birthday cupcakes, played on the swings and now are on to the video game portion of the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will be a Lego building contest next and then a Pokémon marathon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just heard the phrase “whoever smelt it dealt it” so you know they are enjoying themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are all really nice kids and they haven’t annoyed me once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I don’t have to entertain them and frankly, I don’t think they really want me here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except to make cupcakes (double chocolate) and pick them up when they fall over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are too old for boo-boo kisses so I don’t even have to deal with that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s weird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the boo-boo kisses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I thought my magic-mommy-boo-boo-kisses would last a little longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole growing up waaaaaay too fast thing, that is weird. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, wasn’t it was just yesterday Max was obsessed with Thomas the Train and spent hours saying “Thomas is bwu!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the day before that wasn’t he putting his toes in his mouth while I was changing his diaper and he was doing that silent baby laugh that makes you just smile when you think of it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And just last week I was rocking him in my arms looking down at a day old baby, marveling at what I had created.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold on a sec, there is something in my eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I was not tearing up at the thought of my baby growing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh shut up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dash is starting kindergarten next week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has recently decided his is really seven years old and not five.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me the other day that when he was born he was actually two years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him that I was the one who was there and also the one that pushed him out into the world and really, I remember him being much younger than two years old when he was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He argued with me for an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>He is trying desperately to fit in with the big eight year olds; just like I did when my older sister had her birthday sleepovers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hated being the younger sister back than but now really enjoy reminding her that she is older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And will always be older than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much, much older than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Alright, to be fair she is only two years older but she used to throw balled up socks at my head while folding laundry so I will now keep reminding her that she is MUCH older than me.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, so Dash is trying to pretend he is seven and the older kids want to know when his bedtime is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Poor little guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is sitting on the couch holding his stuffed Pikachu in one hand and his security blanket, named GeeGee, in the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He keeps looking up at me with these big brown eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I keep blowing him kisses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smiles and catches them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They are all so cute, these little guys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someday they are going to be men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That will scare the bajeezus out of any mommy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I make sure they make the right decisions and don’t screw up their lives?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I make sure I make the right decisions and don’t screw up their lives?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Can’t they just stay this way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ya know, shorter than me, still holding my hand and still asking for snuggles?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, snuggles when they are not trying to be cool in front of their friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crap it is starting already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>But in the quiet solitude of our home, they still crawl onto my lap and lean against me and I smell their hair and sing to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish upon stars with them, I wipe away tears from their eyes, I whisper secrets and give out a million kisses. And my magic-mommy-boo-boo-kisses will still be needed from time to time. I hope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hold on, there is something in my eyes again…</span></div>
seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-92134171324181292302011-09-01T05:11:00.000-07:002011-09-01T05:11:42.567-07:00My shoes weigh five poundsI think I have finally figured out this whole difference-thing between men and women. Ya know, besides the whole penis and vagina thing. <br />
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I was at the gym today and I was watching these two guys weigh themselves on one of those doctor scales. After they weighed themselves they just left it there. They didn’t move the numbers back to zero. There it was: their actual weight right there for everyone in the whole gym to see. They didn’t seem to care. Seriously. It baffled me. <br />
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When I weigh myself (which I have stopped doing, by the way, but we’ll get to that in a sec) I bring a gigantic black drape and hang it around the entire weighing area, then slowly I get on the scale. I then calculate all the things I can take off from the final weigh-in number. Ya know, like when was the last time I poo-ed and if my shoes are on (some are heavier than others. If they are my snake skin boots, forget it. That would be at least five pounds I could deduct) and how much under-wire weighs. Plus the gigantic black drape I am hiding under to weigh myself has got to be at least three more pounds to deduct. Weighing myself is seriously one of the only times I am really good at math. Well, that and when I have to take 25% off of the clearance rack at Loehmanns. Then before I even get off the scale I put all of the numbers back to zero. I check to make sure there are no fingerprints or smudges on the actual numbers I had moved the bar too, just in case. I then either smile and eat a cookie cuz I can or I pout and then eat a cookie because I am now depressed. <br />
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Most men just eat cookies because they feel like eating a cookie. <br />
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Then there is the pool. That is just a place of…well…interesting choices. If you have really good self esteem and are not totally bikini ready, yet feel the need to wear a bikini then good for you. I applaud you. You rock. <br />
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But seriously, men who are like, forty pounds overweight in a Speedo? Seriously? Do I really need to see that? Do my children really need to see that? You watch most women at the pool and they are sucking it in for all its worth. (I didn’t mean that to sound dirty.) Men just let it hang out. (Wow, seriously, I am not even trying to make that sound dirty) Sometimes I think that unless you are a fabulous gay man, you will not really be concerned by your swim suited body. Unless you are a women who doesn’t need therapy, you will just not breathe while pool side. Because when I am in a bikini, there is some serious judgment going on. Well, at least inside my head. <br />
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This is depressing me and now I want a cookie. <br />
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This summer my schedule was different (and very, very long) from my regular schedule with work and hauling children places and I couldn’t find time to work out. It sucked. All of the anxiety I have in life I like to work off on the treadmill and trust me, there is a lot to work off; but this summer I couldn’t get my ever growing ass to the gym to get on the treadmill so I ate to make the anxiety feel better. Because you know that totally worked. So now I am ten pounds heavier and trying distractedly to get back on a schedule and trying desperately to not eat sugar and trying frenetically not to add stress about my weight gain to my list of things to be frenetic and anxious about. Ya know? <br />
<br />
When you lose seventy pounds and gain some back it is a bit aggravating to deal with. I haven’t gotten on a scale since July and now the scale at the gym just glares at me when I walk by. I know what it is thinking too. It is totally judging me and laughing quietly. Stupid scale. Why do you have to be so mean? You’re just a stupid machine! Oh, wait. Then it couldn’t judge me. Ya know, unless it was a transformer. Well, all I know is that there is some serious judgment going on. Well, at least inside my head.<br />
<br />
It is hard enough to date as it is. I don’t need to deal with the exasperating question of whether I should wear Spanx or not on a date under my clothes to smooth me out. They may hold you all in and make you look fabulous and non-squishy and jello-y, but then you have to think about if these Spanx were ever to be taken off of your squishy and jello-y body, what then would you look like? Could I really hold my stomach in for that long? <br />
<br />
Again, some serious judgment going on here. Yes, just inside my head. <br />
<br />
Seriously, I still want a cookie… seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139915603269850494.post-52266097448742653852011-08-19T18:04:00.000-07:002011-08-19T18:04:38.132-07:00Smurf me hardI just got home from seeing The Smurf Movie with my boys. Last day of our mini-summer-vacation so I was running out of activities to do with them. I am not used to being a full time mom. I love spending time with them, I love that we have had some sort of adventure every day this week; but seriously, I am exhausted. A movie was needed. Popcorn is always needed. If you remember from a few blogs ago, I believe that popcorn is a vegetable.<br />
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Anyway, so <i>The Smurf Movie</i>. It got me thinking. No, it didn’t make me wonder why in god’s name must we revisit and recycle stupid ideas from the 1980’s that were annoying the first time around. No, not how the creators of The Smurfs had to be as high as Sid and Marty Croft when they decided there should be little blue creatures who lived in mushrooms and were chased by an evil cat (who totally reminded me of Henry). And not even why I just spent $30 on tickets and popcorn on a stupid Smurf movie just to make my damn kids happy. <br />
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I was wondering, however, who came up with the brilliant and ridiculously sexist idea to put one blonde female Smurf with ninety male Smurfs who were all named for their personalities. <br />
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First of all, the whole idea that one is named for one’s personality seems like it would limit a person, or, rather Smurf. Take Grouchy Smurf. What if he went to therapy and started taking Zoloft? Or what if started taking yoga, could he then become Zen Smurf? Could he then change his name to The Smurf formerly known as Grouchy? Wouldn’t it make him grouchier to know that he would always be called Grouchy Smurf even if he was in a good mood? Man, I can only imagine my Smurf name. Drama Smurf? Or perhaps Sugar Smurf. Nah, that sounds like a Smurf stripper. Maybe just Emotionally-co-dependent-cranky-when-provoked-due-to-perimenapausal-hormones Smurf. <br />
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Now, as the wonderfully intellectual script of The Smurf Movie taught us, (don’t worry, not really a spoiler here) Smurfette was created by Gargamel to tempt the ninety other Smurfs that don’t actually appear to even be anatomically correct. Their little white feetie-pajamas seem a bit tight and you should be able to see, um…never mind. <br />
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Anyway, so Papa Smurf took Smurfette in and kind of made her his daughter which seems a little odd to me. I mean yeah, it was a nice thing to do to take this young girl out of the evil castle of Gargamel and teach her to be a nice Smurf. Kind of like Richard Gere did with Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. But this cartoon was created in the early 1980’s where women wearing power suits and becoming working mothers were all the rage. The book <i>Our Bodies Ourselves </i>was in its fourth edition. Woman Studies majors were becoming a staple at most universities. However, ninety little blue guys and one hot blonde in heels? Seriously? It didn’t fit the times. Plus, wouldn’t it possibly put Smurfette in a precarious predicament being the only babe around? Seems like she could end up in a whole mess of trouble. Of course, we do learn in the film that she can kick some serious Smurf-ass so apparently Papa Smurf taught her to defend herself in case one of the Smurfs, I’m assuming like Hefty Smurf or Gutsy Smurf got a smurf-on. <br />
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Apparently, I am ready to go back to teaching the figurative language and symbolism of literature because I just analyzed the feminist essential questions of The Smurf Movie. <br />
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Yeah…I know…I am smurfin’ ludicrous sometimes.<br />
seriouslyallihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15769929088806922355noreply@blogger.com0