This morning, I was watching one of my ninth grade English classes rehearse their scenes for Romeo and Juliet. Seriously, sometimes I really, really like my job. This was one of those times. I got to sit back and watch my re-designated English Learners (that means they are supposed to be totally fluent in reading and writing English now. Key word is “supposed to be”. Don’t go there, No child left behind crap, stupid republicans…) speak the speech of Shakespeare.
Iambic pentameter in the inner city. Coolio.
When we started with Act One of the play, the students read it as if it were in Chinese and I swear, I thought most were going to need Botox the way they squinted and furrowed at the words. Then through translating it into their own language, translating it into “text-speak” and finally relating modern song lyrics to it, they began to read it the way Shakespeare and god had intended it. Well, at least they no longer hated it. Well, at least they were showing up for class.
I love teaching Shakespeare in the hood. If you have never heard the Balcony scene rapped while the rest of the class taps out a beat on the desks in perfect unison…Seriously, such beauty is found there. I was in awe of them. I figure as long as they can do that to it, perhaps they understand it as well. A rose is still a rose. Ya know?
Next week all of the ninth grade classes have to do scenes from Romeo and Juliet with the original language but need to take it out of the Elizabethan time period and put it somewhere else in history and then justify it. It beats making them take standardized tests. So far they have changed the sets to Compton, Ancient Egypt, and a Mafia owned restaurant in New York in the 1920’s. There’s one where Romeo is a zombie too. That one, I am really looking forward to seeing.
Now, because I am a sadistic English teacher, part of their grade will be for memorizing the scenes to be presented next week. Ah, torturing children with English; this is the crap that keeps me young.
“But Ms. Levine,” several of them whined, “I can’t memorize things.”
“Have you ever tried?” I sympathetically asked.
“Um…no, but I know I can’t”. They stare blankly at the ceiling.
I pause and then tentatively say, “But you’ve never tried.” I wait for a response. And then sigh. And then roll my eyes. And then walk back to my desk.
I do that a lot as an English teacher. As a mother too.
“Hey Max, you want to try some carrots today?” I ask every freakin night at dinner.
“Umm…no thanks, mommy. I don’t like them.” He says sweetly, every freakin night at dinner.
“But you’ve never tried them, honey.” I say with a press-on smile, trying not to get frustrated by my children’s eating habits, every freakin night at dinner.
“Um…I know, but I’m sure I won’t like them.” He says omnisciently. Well, as omniscient as a seven year old can be about his disdain for veggies.
“And you Dash?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Um…no thanks mommy. I don’t like them.” He says every freakin night at dinner.
I pause and then tentatively say, “But you’ve never tried them.” I wait for a response. And then sigh. And then roll my eyes. And then walk back into the kitchen.
I guess that time I threatened my children with broccoli was a bad idea. It was funny at the time.
I feel like I repeat myself. A lot. Again and again. Over and over. Becoming redundant and repetitive and redundant and repetitive. A lot.
It would be fun if I could just say something once, have it truly heard and then move on with my life.
As a teacher:
“If you are talking you can’t hear me tell you to be quiet.” “Your assignment was due yesterday.” It might help if you actually wrote down the assignment.”
As a mother:
“No really, it’s time for bed so please stop transforming now.” “Henry the cat does not eat pizza.” “I don’t care if it is January, Santa is still watching you.”
As a new online dater answering emails from prospective dates:
“No, the red flames on my mini-van are not a euphemism for anything. I actually have red flames actually on my actual mini-van.” “It might help if you read my profile.” “Yes, they are real but thanks for asking.
So, I guess writing will have to do. I don’t think I would get my point across if I read it aloud to people because no one seems to be listening. Not that I have many points in my blogs. Which doesn’t really matter because no one is listening anyway. But I will just keep moving onward with them anyway.
I'm sorry, what was I saying? No, seriously.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
I can’t leave my house; there’s a pimple on my chin.
There is one major difference between Henry the cat and myself. Well, actually there are a lot. I rarely meow, if I wore fur I would get yelled at, and he is male. But the ONE major difference is that he doesn’t care if he gets a pimple because, well, he’s a cat. Cats don’t seem to care about much. Except of course, if they are fed, have their bellies scratched and if there are toes to bite. Hmmm…sounds like someone I once dated, but he wasn’t neutered.
Cats don’t have to have jobs, they can sleep anywhere they choose and they like to kill things and bring them to you, because they still think they are tigers.
Last October, Henry woke me up in the middle of the night by licking my nose. I promptly carried him out, came back to my bed to find, Phineas Schnicklefritz, one of our hamsters, lying dead on my pillow. Oh goody, a gift from Henry to his Kitty-Momma. I came downstairs, put Phineas in a box and outside, and then noticed something on the floor in the kitchen. I turned on the light to find Hamstersaurus Rex (hamster number two) next to Henry’s food bowl. I put him in the box with Phineas and tentatively went to the cage to see that Henry had pushed the cage bars in, presumably with his head and freed all of the hamsters. Then stalked them one by one. The only one that was still not found that night was Kevin. (yes, Kevin. Phineas Schnicklefritz, Hamstersaurus Rex, and…Kevin. I know.)
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen at 5am. It was still dark, I was barefoot, the smell of coffee from my preset coffee pot lulling me into a false sense of security. Then I stepped in...Kevin. Well, a piece of Kevin. Well, actually pieces of Kevin. Three to be exact. Something resembling an organ of some type, a foot and I have no idea what the other furry little piece was. Didn't really examine it too closely.
For the rest of the week, I continually found pieces of Kevin. (which a friend of mine thought would make a really great name for a band) I was warned by my favorite Veterinarian, Terri, this would happen, but ignored it. It was Henry's and the hamsters' destinies, I guess. Rodents and Felines and their ways of life. The hunt, the chase. I really never wanted to experience the food chain in action nor experience it in my own home, but I guess it is all part of their lives. Cycle of life, so to speak.
Like me. Not that I kill hamsters or anything. I thought about it once when Kevin wouldn’t get off the damn wheel at 3am, but never went there. No, I am talking about the cycle of life for a woman. (Did you see that transition coming? Or was it like, a really good twist? I was reticent to compare hamsters and women. Let me know how it goes for me, won’t you?)
I am forty-three, have crow’s feet and yet still, my peri-menopausal self decides it needs to add a pimple to the mix. It’s just not fair. It’s like, just pick one, please. Really, pimples or wrinkles. Just pick one, damn it. Not both, I don’t have the energy for this. And it’s the damn hormonal kind, so it doesn’t matter what I do, once a month, there is always one. Or two. Strategically placed where I would need to cut my bangs or wear a burka to hide it.
Cycle of a woman: born, wear tiaras, chase boys, get your period, let boys chase you, go to college, keep chasing back and forth, eventually have babies, continue to wear tiaras, stretch out the belly a few times, get back on a cycle, then all of a sudden your period goes from 28 days to 40 days to 22 days and you wonder why you are sweating when it is fifty degrees out. It is then, the thought of killing hamsters doesn’t sound so crazy. Ah, the cycle of life.
Then of course we get to add the whole premenstrual-ness to the mix. Tonight, I actually explained what PMS was to my male children. I told them I was glad they were guys so they would never have to experience this themselves. At least not until they are in serious relationships with girls over the age of twelve.
“Well, what exactly is DMS?” asked Max.
“Well it’s PMS, honey, it’s a girl thing. It’s when mommy yells, then cries then starts laughing and then cries again.”
“Oh…that.” Max sighed and clutched his teddy-bear named Rivet. “Yep, that doesn’t sound like fun, mommy. I’m glad I have a penis.”
“Me too.” said Dash. “Penises are great.”
And that was the discussion I had with my boys before bedtime. They are going to need therapy someday, aren’t they?
Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane. Same difference.
The thought of sharing my Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane self with more males than Max and Dash and Henry is a bit daunting. I would have to get my own red tent for the back yard.
I try really hard not to schedule dates during THAT time of the month because I would like to appear sane to my prospective dates. However, if I were in a relationship, wouldn’t that allow the guy I was in the relationship with to see that part of me that scares even me? Dear god, not a freakin chance in hell. Forget it, I am staying single and perhaps will start dating again when this crap passes. Like when I am sixty. But then I would have to date sixty year old men…never mind.
I actually have a date tomorrow. I may have to cancel if this thing on my chin doesn’t go away. Of course, if I just wear something with cleavage, he may never notice.
Perhaps I should have put a note at the top of this bloggy thing to warn men of the menstrual contents.
Well, too late. Bite me, I'm pre-menstrual.
Cats don’t have to have jobs, they can sleep anywhere they choose and they like to kill things and bring them to you, because they still think they are tigers.
Last October, Henry woke me up in the middle of the night by licking my nose. I promptly carried him out, came back to my bed to find, Phineas Schnicklefritz, one of our hamsters, lying dead on my pillow. Oh goody, a gift from Henry to his Kitty-Momma. I came downstairs, put Phineas in a box and outside, and then noticed something on the floor in the kitchen. I turned on the light to find Hamstersaurus Rex (hamster number two) next to Henry’s food bowl. I put him in the box with Phineas and tentatively went to the cage to see that Henry had pushed the cage bars in, presumably with his head and freed all of the hamsters. Then stalked them one by one. The only one that was still not found that night was Kevin. (yes, Kevin. Phineas Schnicklefritz, Hamstersaurus Rex, and…Kevin. I know.)
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen at 5am. It was still dark, I was barefoot, the smell of coffee from my preset coffee pot lulling me into a false sense of security. Then I stepped in...Kevin. Well, a piece of Kevin. Well, actually pieces of Kevin. Three to be exact. Something resembling an organ of some type, a foot and I have no idea what the other furry little piece was. Didn't really examine it too closely.
For the rest of the week, I continually found pieces of Kevin. (which a friend of mine thought would make a really great name for a band) I was warned by my favorite Veterinarian, Terri, this would happen, but ignored it. It was Henry's and the hamsters' destinies, I guess. Rodents and Felines and their ways of life. The hunt, the chase. I really never wanted to experience the food chain in action nor experience it in my own home, but I guess it is all part of their lives. Cycle of life, so to speak.
Like me. Not that I kill hamsters or anything. I thought about it once when Kevin wouldn’t get off the damn wheel at 3am, but never went there. No, I am talking about the cycle of life for a woman. (Did you see that transition coming? Or was it like, a really good twist? I was reticent to compare hamsters and women. Let me know how it goes for me, won’t you?)
I am forty-three, have crow’s feet and yet still, my peri-menopausal self decides it needs to add a pimple to the mix. It’s just not fair. It’s like, just pick one, please. Really, pimples or wrinkles. Just pick one, damn it. Not both, I don’t have the energy for this. And it’s the damn hormonal kind, so it doesn’t matter what I do, once a month, there is always one. Or two. Strategically placed where I would need to cut my bangs or wear a burka to hide it.
Cycle of a woman: born, wear tiaras, chase boys, get your period, let boys chase you, go to college, keep chasing back and forth, eventually have babies, continue to wear tiaras, stretch out the belly a few times, get back on a cycle, then all of a sudden your period goes from 28 days to 40 days to 22 days and you wonder why you are sweating when it is fifty degrees out. It is then, the thought of killing hamsters doesn’t sound so crazy. Ah, the cycle of life.
Then of course we get to add the whole premenstrual-ness to the mix. Tonight, I actually explained what PMS was to my male children. I told them I was glad they were guys so they would never have to experience this themselves. At least not until they are in serious relationships with girls over the age of twelve.
“Well, what exactly is DMS?” asked Max.
“Well it’s PMS, honey, it’s a girl thing. It’s when mommy yells, then cries then starts laughing and then cries again.”
“Oh…that.” Max sighed and clutched his teddy-bear named Rivet. “Yep, that doesn’t sound like fun, mommy. I’m glad I have a penis.”
“Me too.” said Dash. “Penises are great.”
And that was the discussion I had with my boys before bedtime. They are going to need therapy someday, aren’t they?
Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane. Same difference.
The thought of sharing my Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane self with more males than Max and Dash and Henry is a bit daunting. I would have to get my own red tent for the back yard.
I try really hard not to schedule dates during THAT time of the month because I would like to appear sane to my prospective dates. However, if I were in a relationship, wouldn’t that allow the guy I was in the relationship with to see that part of me that scares even me? Dear god, not a freakin chance in hell. Forget it, I am staying single and perhaps will start dating again when this crap passes. Like when I am sixty. But then I would have to date sixty year old men…never mind.
I actually have a date tomorrow. I may have to cancel if this thing on my chin doesn’t go away. Of course, if I just wear something with cleavage, he may never notice.
Perhaps I should have put a note at the top of this bloggy thing to warn men of the menstrual contents.
Well, too late. Bite me, I'm pre-menstrual.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Seriously, men should come with references.
About fifteen years ago, I was single and thirty years old and wanted to get married already and have kids. Not much has changed, except for the wanting to get married part and I already have kids. Oh, and I’m forty-three. So, I guess a lot has changed. Even with all of that change, really, not much has changed. Yes, I love contradicting myself. Yes, I know, I am my own dichotomy. Actually, I am my doppelganger, but that’s another story for another time.
I used to allow my friends and family to fix me up on blind dates because of the wonderful advice I used to get from my Grandma Sylvia, “wear a sweater, you never know”. I wrote about this in my first blog, but for my new followers (all fifteen of you), I will explain. I like the idea of the figurative quality of this statement: Always be prepared because life is an adventure; you never know where life will take you; buy your own condoms, etc. And, hey, if you are cold, then it totally works as well. Man, I miss her. Grandma Sylvia rocked.
My grandmother, back then, wanted to fix me up with some grandson of some friend who lived in LA. How could I say no to my grandmother? Seriously, she was the grandmother, so if I didn’t say yes, then I would hear about it at the Passover seder forever. And ever. It would be the fifth question.
Obviously, I said fine. The guy, whose name I totally don’t remember (blocked it out) looked like Mr. Potato Head although I think I was actually more sexually attracted to the real Mr. Potato Head then to this guy. After the 45 minute coffee clutch, he decided a friend of his might be a much better match for me. Really. I am not kidding. Yep, my blind date wanted to fix me up on a blind date. At first I thought, you are Mr. Potato Head and YOU are not attracted to ME? Seriously? And then, the thought of what a great story this would make kicked in and I decided to be fixed up with his friend. I know, I know, I had very few hobbies back then. I didn’t even have my fun little bloggy blog yet. However, I said okay anyway. (sweater mentality)
The friend was actually not too bad, we dated a few times, but that is not the point. Just a really great story. I mean how many of you actually can say they were fixed up on a blind date by a blind date? Yeah, I know.
The point is that both of these young men came with references. They knew someone I did and therefore, I was assured they were not serial killers. Even though most serial killers were more attractive than these two.
Nowadays, with this whole online dating thing, there are no references. There is no way you can actually know if the wonderfully sardonic profile was written by that genuine guy or if any of it is even true. They could be paid escorts that pander to the over forty set (no, don’t go there) or mass murderers or worse, republicans. You try to be open minded and enjoy the mystery of giving someone your phone number and having a great two hour conversation with them. You laugh at their jokes, you listen to their stories you count how many questions they actually ask you and if they are even listening to you; and they seem really great, but in the back of your mind you are thinking, “serial killer”. Even if and when you actually go out with one of these prospective dates you will never know if they are sincere or full of shit. (I keep saying you, but in reality, I think you all know I mean me. I mean, it is my blog...)
My big sister, Elyse, has requested I do the following for any man I actually meet in person from the online dating thing. For safety purposes only. Which I totally appreciate.
1) Call my best friend, Kelly, and tell her where I am going. Time, location, etc.
2) Keep all phone numbers of men I will be going out with on my computer so the police have a lead when I have been murdered and left in a dumpster.
3) Don’t shave my legs.
So, just for my big sis, I will follow her rules. This however will be bad in the summer when I want to wear a skirt.
You can’t actually google someone until you have a last name. And yes, we all do it. Whenever we meet someone new, we try to find out if they are googleable. That’s a word now. Even if it’s not, I just made it up, so it is now. Says me, the English teacher.
On the online profile, there should be a link to a police website to see warrants and arrest records. I am not talking credit checks, because that would make most men not want to date me. Plus they would see just how much I owe on my student loans.
This anonymity thing is starting to get old (and its only been like, a week. I haven't actually seen one of these guys in person. Yet.).
Mystery, dear prospective dates, does not mean you are sexy and cool. It just means you are not telling me something. Just tell me who you are. Seriously, I am sure it is not that bad.
Oh, who am I kidding...
I used to allow my friends and family to fix me up on blind dates because of the wonderful advice I used to get from my Grandma Sylvia, “wear a sweater, you never know”. I wrote about this in my first blog, but for my new followers (all fifteen of you), I will explain. I like the idea of the figurative quality of this statement: Always be prepared because life is an adventure; you never know where life will take you; buy your own condoms, etc. And, hey, if you are cold, then it totally works as well. Man, I miss her. Grandma Sylvia rocked.
My grandmother, back then, wanted to fix me up with some grandson of some friend who lived in LA. How could I say no to my grandmother? Seriously, she was the grandmother, so if I didn’t say yes, then I would hear about it at the Passover seder forever. And ever. It would be the fifth question.
Obviously, I said fine. The guy, whose name I totally don’t remember (blocked it out) looked like Mr. Potato Head although I think I was actually more sexually attracted to the real Mr. Potato Head then to this guy. After the 45 minute coffee clutch, he decided a friend of his might be a much better match for me. Really. I am not kidding. Yep, my blind date wanted to fix me up on a blind date. At first I thought, you are Mr. Potato Head and YOU are not attracted to ME? Seriously? And then, the thought of what a great story this would make kicked in and I decided to be fixed up with his friend. I know, I know, I had very few hobbies back then. I didn’t even have my fun little bloggy blog yet. However, I said okay anyway. (sweater mentality)
The friend was actually not too bad, we dated a few times, but that is not the point. Just a really great story. I mean how many of you actually can say they were fixed up on a blind date by a blind date? Yeah, I know.
The point is that both of these young men came with references. They knew someone I did and therefore, I was assured they were not serial killers. Even though most serial killers were more attractive than these two.
Nowadays, with this whole online dating thing, there are no references. There is no way you can actually know if the wonderfully sardonic profile was written by that genuine guy or if any of it is even true. They could be paid escorts that pander to the over forty set (no, don’t go there) or mass murderers or worse, republicans. You try to be open minded and enjoy the mystery of giving someone your phone number and having a great two hour conversation with them. You laugh at their jokes, you listen to their stories you count how many questions they actually ask you and if they are even listening to you; and they seem really great, but in the back of your mind you are thinking, “serial killer”. Even if and when you actually go out with one of these prospective dates you will never know if they are sincere or full of shit. (I keep saying you, but in reality, I think you all know I mean me. I mean, it is my blog...)
My big sister, Elyse, has requested I do the following for any man I actually meet in person from the online dating thing. For safety purposes only. Which I totally appreciate.
1) Call my best friend, Kelly, and tell her where I am going. Time, location, etc.
2) Keep all phone numbers of men I will be going out with on my computer so the police have a lead when I have been murdered and left in a dumpster.
3) Don’t shave my legs.
So, just for my big sis, I will follow her rules. This however will be bad in the summer when I want to wear a skirt.
You can’t actually google someone until you have a last name. And yes, we all do it. Whenever we meet someone new, we try to find out if they are googleable. That’s a word now. Even if it’s not, I just made it up, so it is now. Says me, the English teacher.
On the online profile, there should be a link to a police website to see warrants and arrest records. I am not talking credit checks, because that would make most men not want to date me. Plus they would see just how much I owe on my student loans.
This anonymity thing is starting to get old (and its only been like, a week. I haven't actually seen one of these guys in person. Yet.).
Mystery, dear prospective dates, does not mean you are sexy and cool. It just means you are not telling me something. Just tell me who you are. Seriously, I am sure it is not that bad.
Oh, who am I kidding...
Thursday, January 6, 2011
If the shoe fits…
I have two sons. Max and Dash. They are seriously (and I don’t just say this because I grew them in my belly) the coolest kids I know. Max is dramatic, very smart, sensitive and already a lady’s man. He has at least two girlfriends and decides every play date with a female child is a date and he not only has to hold her hand but open the door for her as well. Dash is my independent explorer who must do everything by himself except of course, sleep. If I had a nickel for every time I have fallen asleep in that little guy’s bed, well, there would be, like, a whole, um, pile of nickels. (I really need to find a new way of ending that phrase)
Normally I am the TV-patrol and allow no television on school nights. Although I am back to work, Max is still on vacation and well, Dash is still in pre-school. I know Dash has an arduous day ahead of him tomorrow of contemplating crayons and discussing who has the bigger booger in their nose. Right now Dash is learning to read and do math, and he is totally flabbergasted by the concept of zero. He can not quite grasp that if you subtract zero, you will still have the same number you started with. The idea of something actually not having anything to it, no value, is foreign to him. Personally, I think it actually pisses him off. I guess he just wants all things to have some sort of value. I have no idea why I am telling you this; but it just fascinates me. That idea of not being able to accept that nothing from nothing leaves nothing (ya gotta have something/if ya wanna be with me). (You are all singing that song now, aren’t you?)
Digressing now, I promise. There was actually a point here. I’m not just overtired and squinky from going back to work this week. Well, actually I am, but…
SO! Tonight, my boys, my sensitive, radiant and non-egotistical male children requested to watch Cinderella. They even brought me the pink and sparkly tiara to wear while watching it. Dash likes to bring me the tiara when he wants to play super heroes. He thinks it makes me Super Mommy and let’s face it, it does. If I could, I would wear the damn thing while grocery shopping.
Tonight, I was overwhelmed by their sensitivity and just the mere idea they wanted to watch a movie where nothing exploded. Although, Cinderella does transform, she is not an Autobot. She is cartoon beauty. My children were riveted and loved the happy ending. Ah, my boys. Mommy is so proud.
Now, after watching this wonderful, albeit sexist and unrealistic portrayal of love; I came to a few conclusions:
1. Love at first sight can only exist with a pumpkin, some mice and a godmother.
2. Evil people make us try harder to do the things we really want to do.
3. If birds and mice can sew, do you think they could do my laundry?
4. Cartoon men seem to be hotter and more wonderful than men in real life. Even though they are not drawn anatomically correct, they seem to know exactly what they do and do not want.
5. Dressing small animals in clothing will assure the finding of true love.
6. Women magically look better with sparkly clothes and their hair up.
7. True love cannot exist without a rockin' pair of shoes.
8. Disney does not seem to like mothers. I mean, look at Bambi, Finding Nemo, Dumbo, The Apple Dumpling Gang, and Chicken Little just to name a few. All moms in these films are either dead before it starts, killed in the movie or chained up because they are a crazy elephant. Even in The Goofy Movie, Goofy is raising Max, his son on his own. Seriously, Walt had some issues.
9. Mean girls have big feet.
10. And finally, it doesn’t matter if you are a seven year old lego-loving boy or an over forty cynical and jaded mommy, we all love the idea of happily ever after.
Okay, even if all of this happily ever after crap doesn’t exist, it is always fun finding out if it does. I mean, I wouldn’t have the heart to tell my boys that love at first sight is really just a combination of pheromones, lust, timing and really good lighting. Throw in a really good hair day, and even I could be Cinderella. Although I prefer my shoes to be Italian leather.
I hate how they may find out some day how icky people can be and how love can make you do stupid things. How the world nor people are not perfect. But I can’t shield them from everything. Sometimes I wish I had this gigantic magic umbrella just to shelter them from anything that might physically or emotionally hurt them. But I know that is just as realistic as mice who design designer apparel.
After I left my husband, my sister gave me a silver bracelet with the inscription “…and she lived happily ever after.” And just so you know…she is trying her best to do so.
Seriously.
Normally I am the TV-patrol and allow no television on school nights. Although I am back to work, Max is still on vacation and well, Dash is still in pre-school. I know Dash has an arduous day ahead of him tomorrow of contemplating crayons and discussing who has the bigger booger in their nose. Right now Dash is learning to read and do math, and he is totally flabbergasted by the concept of zero. He can not quite grasp that if you subtract zero, you will still have the same number you started with. The idea of something actually not having anything to it, no value, is foreign to him. Personally, I think it actually pisses him off. I guess he just wants all things to have some sort of value. I have no idea why I am telling you this; but it just fascinates me. That idea of not being able to accept that nothing from nothing leaves nothing (ya gotta have something/if ya wanna be with me). (You are all singing that song now, aren’t you?)
Digressing now, I promise. There was actually a point here. I’m not just overtired and squinky from going back to work this week. Well, actually I am, but…
SO! Tonight, my boys, my sensitive, radiant and non-egotistical male children requested to watch Cinderella. They even brought me the pink and sparkly tiara to wear while watching it. Dash likes to bring me the tiara when he wants to play super heroes. He thinks it makes me Super Mommy and let’s face it, it does. If I could, I would wear the damn thing while grocery shopping.
Tonight, I was overwhelmed by their sensitivity and just the mere idea they wanted to watch a movie where nothing exploded. Although, Cinderella does transform, she is not an Autobot. She is cartoon beauty. My children were riveted and loved the happy ending. Ah, my boys. Mommy is so proud.
Now, after watching this wonderful, albeit sexist and unrealistic portrayal of love; I came to a few conclusions:
1. Love at first sight can only exist with a pumpkin, some mice and a godmother.
2. Evil people make us try harder to do the things we really want to do.
3. If birds and mice can sew, do you think they could do my laundry?
4. Cartoon men seem to be hotter and more wonderful than men in real life. Even though they are not drawn anatomically correct, they seem to know exactly what they do and do not want.
5. Dressing small animals in clothing will assure the finding of true love.
6. Women magically look better with sparkly clothes and their hair up.
7. True love cannot exist without a rockin' pair of shoes.
8. Disney does not seem to like mothers. I mean, look at Bambi, Finding Nemo, Dumbo, The Apple Dumpling Gang, and Chicken Little just to name a few. All moms in these films are either dead before it starts, killed in the movie or chained up because they are a crazy elephant. Even in The Goofy Movie, Goofy is raising Max, his son on his own. Seriously, Walt had some issues.
9. Mean girls have big feet.
10. And finally, it doesn’t matter if you are a seven year old lego-loving boy or an over forty cynical and jaded mommy, we all love the idea of happily ever after.
Okay, even if all of this happily ever after crap doesn’t exist, it is always fun finding out if it does. I mean, I wouldn’t have the heart to tell my boys that love at first sight is really just a combination of pheromones, lust, timing and really good lighting. Throw in a really good hair day, and even I could be Cinderella. Although I prefer my shoes to be Italian leather.
I hate how they may find out some day how icky people can be and how love can make you do stupid things. How the world nor people are not perfect. But I can’t shield them from everything. Sometimes I wish I had this gigantic magic umbrella just to shelter them from anything that might physically or emotionally hurt them. But I know that is just as realistic as mice who design designer apparel.
After I left my husband, my sister gave me a silver bracelet with the inscription “…and she lived happily ever after.” And just so you know…she is trying her best to do so.
Seriously.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
"Stuff" is not an excuse.
So, this computer dating thing is…fun. Not like I have gone out with anyone yet. Let’s just take this slowly. One step at a time. It’s hard to want to go out with someone when all you can think of is “Are they a serial killer?” “Are they full of crap?” “Seriously, you are thirty and you want to go out with me?”
The phrase, “yes, but what is wrong with you” is all I can think with these messages I am getting. All of these questions and more go through my little head in these little I.M. conversations and emails. Who are you people anyway?
Some of the profiles don’t tell much and some tell waaaaaaay too much. A few of the gentlemen need to cut back on the caffeine before writing these. Not me, of course. Mine is snarky and those of you who know me, well, it’s pretty much me. I went back onto match.com and am still frightened by all of the men who have winked at me. Seriously, what type of men am I attracting anyway?
For example, some of the profiles that embrace me as one of their “favorites” include rants about how “Israel is a war machine” (did you see that I am Jewish?) and how they were "raised on football and Jesus” (again, Jewish here). I love when they say they are “not typical guys”. That seems to be the typical guy-thing to say so their stating they are not “typical” kinda negates the whole "typical” angle. In fact, they just become standard issue guys. Then there are the guys who admit to being Justin Beiber fans; men who tell you they are “on a journey of self discovery (find yourself and then get back to me, please); men who once again, use the word “awesome” just way to freakin much; and is it me, or is sushi like a euphemism for something or do people just really like sushi? This, my friends is where my mind goes. Sad, but true.
I did have tentative plans with a…what the hell would you call him…hmmm…a possibility? A maybe-date? Prospective annoyance later in life, perhaps? Getting ahead of myself, huh?
Anyway, he messaged me that he couldn’t meet because “he had stuff to do”. Stuff? Seriously? Boy oh boy, that just made me what to change my name to Mrs. Forty-year-old-guy-who-has-no-clue. Seriously, it was a good hair day and everything. Not that I have anything against stuff. I happen to have oodles of stuff to do. I have piles of stuff to do. Really, there is a stuff pile on my desk right now. Oh wait, that’s Henry the cat. Anyway, just, could you just be more specific so I don’t think you are either working for the CIA or burying your last online dating partner’s body. Really, I ask for so little. Just someone normal. Someone without a criminal record or an “awesome ride”.
I have also noticed what fun it is as well to describe my lack of free time to these men. Yep, I know I would love to go out with a guy who has like, one night a week free or needs a babysitter on weeknights but has to be home by 10pm because she has to be up at 5am. Hot.
The under thirty-fives’s seem to think it is endearing how I am a single mom. Like its cute or something. Of course they are going to meet me and think, yep the dark circles kinda give away that I am over forty.
Crap, dating sucks.
I think I am premenstrual.
The phrase, “yes, but what is wrong with you” is all I can think with these messages I am getting. All of these questions and more go through my little head in these little I.M. conversations and emails. Who are you people anyway?
Some of the profiles don’t tell much and some tell waaaaaaay too much. A few of the gentlemen need to cut back on the caffeine before writing these. Not me, of course. Mine is snarky and those of you who know me, well, it’s pretty much me. I went back onto match.com and am still frightened by all of the men who have winked at me. Seriously, what type of men am I attracting anyway?
For example, some of the profiles that embrace me as one of their “favorites” include rants about how “Israel is a war machine” (did you see that I am Jewish?) and how they were "raised on football and Jesus” (again, Jewish here). I love when they say they are “not typical guys”. That seems to be the typical guy-thing to say so their stating they are not “typical” kinda negates the whole "typical” angle. In fact, they just become standard issue guys. Then there are the guys who admit to being Justin Beiber fans; men who tell you they are “on a journey of self discovery (find yourself and then get back to me, please); men who once again, use the word “awesome” just way to freakin much; and is it me, or is sushi like a euphemism for something or do people just really like sushi? This, my friends is where my mind goes. Sad, but true.
I did have tentative plans with a…what the hell would you call him…hmmm…a possibility? A maybe-date? Prospective annoyance later in life, perhaps? Getting ahead of myself, huh?
Anyway, he messaged me that he couldn’t meet because “he had stuff to do”. Stuff? Seriously? Boy oh boy, that just made me what to change my name to Mrs. Forty-year-old-guy-who-has-no-clue. Seriously, it was a good hair day and everything. Not that I have anything against stuff. I happen to have oodles of stuff to do. I have piles of stuff to do. Really, there is a stuff pile on my desk right now. Oh wait, that’s Henry the cat. Anyway, just, could you just be more specific so I don’t think you are either working for the CIA or burying your last online dating partner’s body. Really, I ask for so little. Just someone normal. Someone without a criminal record or an “awesome ride”.
I have also noticed what fun it is as well to describe my lack of free time to these men. Yep, I know I would love to go out with a guy who has like, one night a week free or needs a babysitter on weeknights but has to be home by 10pm because she has to be up at 5am. Hot.
The under thirty-fives’s seem to think it is endearing how I am a single mom. Like its cute or something. Of course they are going to meet me and think, yep the dark circles kinda give away that I am over forty.
Crap, dating sucks.
I think I am premenstrual.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
And now back to my previously scheduled schedule…
Starting back tomorrow it will be as follows:
5am wake up
5:05am pour coffee
5:10am log on to computer
5:15am pour second cup of coffee
5:30am get dressed and become Ms. Levine teacher extraordinaire
5:55am pick out shoes.
6am still picking out shoes
6am change shoes
6:10am make Max and Dash’s breakfast with super-hero chocolate milk (ok, seriously this non-sugared-decaffeinated-chocolate powder has like, 33 veggies and fruits in it. Which works out well since my children hate most foods.)
6:12am pour second cup of coffee
6:15am wake children by singing annoying songs until they actually get out of their beds.
6:30am wait for babysitter to arrive while feeding children breakfast and watching Transformers
6:40am pray that her wonderful babysitter has not overslept again and hope he is now using the alarm clock she bought him for Christmas.
6:45am leave for work.
6:48am return to house for the things she forgot
7am(ish) arrive at work to be the advisor for the Newspaper Club
8am start teaching
3:45pm stop teaching
4:30pm arrive at gym for 30 minute on the treadmill and 10 minutes of abs or arms or butt or whatever really needs the work out.
5:30pm pick up kids
6:15pm make dinner and lunches for the next day
6:20pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:18pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:23pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:30pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
7pm dinner and hanging out with my boys (Dash is really into family game night)
8pm clean children
8:20pm read books and tuck them into bed
8:45pm chase Henry, the cat out of the boy’s room
9pm put Dash back into his bed and promise to snuggle with him
10pm wake up in Dash’s bed (nice nap)
10:05pm contemplate grading papers
10:07pm clean me
10:30pm read what I am teaching the next day
11ish fall asleep with the cat
3am kick the cat out for biting my toes
5am wake up
Wow, no wonder I slept so much on vacation…
5am wake up
5:05am pour coffee
5:10am log on to computer
5:15am pour second cup of coffee
5:30am get dressed and become Ms. Levine teacher extraordinaire
5:55am pick out shoes.
6am still picking out shoes
6am change shoes
6:10am make Max and Dash’s breakfast with super-hero chocolate milk (ok, seriously this non-sugared-decaffeinated-chocolate powder has like, 33 veggies and fruits in it. Which works out well since my children hate most foods.)
6:12am pour second cup of coffee
6:15am wake children by singing annoying songs until they actually get out of their beds.
6:30am wait for babysitter to arrive while feeding children breakfast and watching Transformers
6:40am pray that her wonderful babysitter has not overslept again and hope he is now using the alarm clock she bought him for Christmas.
6:45am leave for work.
6:48am return to house for the things she forgot
7am(ish) arrive at work to be the advisor for the Newspaper Club
8am start teaching
3:45pm stop teaching
4:30pm arrive at gym for 30 minute on the treadmill and 10 minutes of abs or arms or butt or whatever really needs the work out.
5:30pm pick up kids
6:15pm make dinner and lunches for the next day
6:20pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:18pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:23pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
6:30pm suggest ever so pleasantly to Max that he begin his homework
7pm dinner and hanging out with my boys (Dash is really into family game night)
8pm clean children
8:20pm read books and tuck them into bed
8:45pm chase Henry, the cat out of the boy’s room
9pm put Dash back into his bed and promise to snuggle with him
10pm wake up in Dash’s bed (nice nap)
10:05pm contemplate grading papers
10:07pm clean me
10:30pm read what I am teaching the next day
11ish fall asleep with the cat
3am kick the cat out for biting my toes
5am wake up
Wow, no wonder I slept so much on vacation…
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Change and the world laughs with you. No, wait…
“We must become the change we want to see”. Gandhi. I like him.
I used to fear change, now I seem to embrace it. The past two years, for me, have been all about change. Change of address, change of marital status, change of pants size, yep a whole mess of change. In fact, if I had a nickel for all of the change that has occurred in the past two years, I would have a whole piggy bank full of change.
I have approximately 30 or so hours of vacation left. 5am Monday morning is looming over me like a gigantic gargoyle. I love teaching, don’t get me wrong, but hanging with my boys and making cool things out of legos while still in our jammies, is such a nice change from hearing, “was anything due today, Ms Levine?” Again, if annoying questions from my students were nickels…just sayin’.
Since it is New Years Day, I have some intentions for this upcoming year. I like to call these silly bets I have with myself INTENTIONS instead of RESOLUTIONS. Anything I tend to RESOLVE to do, ends up not being resolved or resolute in any fashion. This then makes me feel like a total failure and not very pretty. However, if I INTEND to do something, then it kinda sorta takes the pressure off of me and I can focus on what I intend to do and in the end, actually accomplish them. You see, good intentions are the hobgoblins of little minds. No, wait. Good intentions pave the path to the devil’s playground. No, wait. Crap, now I have confused myself. Anyway, the point is, is that I have gotten very good at my New Year’s Intentions.
Take graduate school. Three years ago I INTENDED to get into the master’s program for teaching at USC. I began that January 2008, filled with fabulous intentions, objectives and purpose. I studied diligently for the GRE’s, learning algebra again, for the first time. I studied 3 hours a day for that mind numbing test along with all of the other fun California teacher tests. Seriously, my head just hurts when I think about the Pythagorean theorem and parallelograms and anything that had letters instead of numbers. That is one thing my right brain could just never understand. How the hell can you add two letters? Is their amount based on where they fall in the line in the alphabet? And why is always x and y? Why not k or j? Why is there letter discrimination? Seriously, I just don’t get it and please don’t try to explain it to me or I will start to cry or start throwing things at you or both.
But I digress. Long story short, I got in.
So, the MAT (Masters of Arts of Teaching) program began in June of 2008. My son, Max, liked to call it the Jedi Masters program. The summer session was nine weeks long and in the seventh week of it, I left my husband. Yep, took the kids, hopped into the flaming minivan and scooted. Then this bizarre thing happened. Yes, more bizarre than having a flaming mini-van or my need to make three types of cupcakes for my New Year’s Eve party last night. One day I was having a small anxiety attack while contemplating my primary language literacy paper. I thought to myself, “Can I do this? Seriously, can I really do this?” Then I heard this voice. It sort of sounded like Kathleen Turner because I like to have my inner guide be a sexy woman’s voice. No idea why. The voice said, “You have no choice BUT to do this. It is not a question of how you will do this; it is only a question of when you will finish this.” You are totally hearing Kathleen Turner’s voice right now, aren’t you? I know! She is like the best inner spirit voice ever!
So, yep, I realized I had no choice but to finish it because I had these two very cute boys who depended on me. I was totally responsible for them. And even worse, I was totally responsible for me as well. So I sucked it up, stopped sleeping so much and bang! Fourteen months and seventy pounds later, I was divorced, a teacher and a Master Jedi.
Wait a second. Ok, I have totally lost my train of thought and have no idea what I originally wanted this blog to be about anymore. I really have to pay more attention to myself when I am writing. I started with a Gandhi quote…hmm…something about intentions? Or change?
Oh, yeah, I remember now. Change is good.
Oh whatever. Happy New Year. Seriously.
I used to fear change, now I seem to embrace it. The past two years, for me, have been all about change. Change of address, change of marital status, change of pants size, yep a whole mess of change. In fact, if I had a nickel for all of the change that has occurred in the past two years, I would have a whole piggy bank full of change.
I have approximately 30 or so hours of vacation left. 5am Monday morning is looming over me like a gigantic gargoyle. I love teaching, don’t get me wrong, but hanging with my boys and making cool things out of legos while still in our jammies, is such a nice change from hearing, “was anything due today, Ms Levine?” Again, if annoying questions from my students were nickels…just sayin’.
Since it is New Years Day, I have some intentions for this upcoming year. I like to call these silly bets I have with myself INTENTIONS instead of RESOLUTIONS. Anything I tend to RESOLVE to do, ends up not being resolved or resolute in any fashion. This then makes me feel like a total failure and not very pretty. However, if I INTEND to do something, then it kinda sorta takes the pressure off of me and I can focus on what I intend to do and in the end, actually accomplish them. You see, good intentions are the hobgoblins of little minds. No, wait. Good intentions pave the path to the devil’s playground. No, wait. Crap, now I have confused myself. Anyway, the point is, is that I have gotten very good at my New Year’s Intentions.
Take graduate school. Three years ago I INTENDED to get into the master’s program for teaching at USC. I began that January 2008, filled with fabulous intentions, objectives and purpose. I studied diligently for the GRE’s, learning algebra again, for the first time. I studied 3 hours a day for that mind numbing test along with all of the other fun California teacher tests. Seriously, my head just hurts when I think about the Pythagorean theorem and parallelograms and anything that had letters instead of numbers. That is one thing my right brain could just never understand. How the hell can you add two letters? Is their amount based on where they fall in the line in the alphabet? And why is always x and y? Why not k or j? Why is there letter discrimination? Seriously, I just don’t get it and please don’t try to explain it to me or I will start to cry or start throwing things at you or both.
But I digress. Long story short, I got in.
So, the MAT (Masters of Arts of Teaching) program began in June of 2008. My son, Max, liked to call it the Jedi Masters program. The summer session was nine weeks long and in the seventh week of it, I left my husband. Yep, took the kids, hopped into the flaming minivan and scooted. Then this bizarre thing happened. Yes, more bizarre than having a flaming mini-van or my need to make three types of cupcakes for my New Year’s Eve party last night. One day I was having a small anxiety attack while contemplating my primary language literacy paper. I thought to myself, “Can I do this? Seriously, can I really do this?” Then I heard this voice. It sort of sounded like Kathleen Turner because I like to have my inner guide be a sexy woman’s voice. No idea why. The voice said, “You have no choice BUT to do this. It is not a question of how you will do this; it is only a question of when you will finish this.” You are totally hearing Kathleen Turner’s voice right now, aren’t you? I know! She is like the best inner spirit voice ever!
So, yep, I realized I had no choice but to finish it because I had these two very cute boys who depended on me. I was totally responsible for them. And even worse, I was totally responsible for me as well. So I sucked it up, stopped sleeping so much and bang! Fourteen months and seventy pounds later, I was divorced, a teacher and a Master Jedi.
Wait a second. Ok, I have totally lost my train of thought and have no idea what I originally wanted this blog to be about anymore. I really have to pay more attention to myself when I am writing. I started with a Gandhi quote…hmm…something about intentions? Or change?
Oh, yeah, I remember now. Change is good.
Oh whatever. Happy New Year. Seriously.
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