I DId it Again. Sorry.

> Dear Zoe's Teacher,

> Yesterday I enthusiastically cleaned off all the papers on the
> counter and mistakenly tossed out Zoes wordlist, rendering her
> incapable of doing tonight's homework of putting those words in
> alphabetical order.
>
> I know this is her responsibility, but I feel awful.

> I watch Hoarders too much and have been overcompensating.
>
> Sincerely,

> Melissa (Zoe's Mom)

According to My Rules

....this is cooking from scratch.

I had to even get out some aluminum
foil!

Interloper

I am trying something brave bold and new.

Instead of picking my kids up at carpickup, I've parked my car and
I'll meet them in the courtyard.

Because I'm trafficphobic, I arrive twenty minutes early and back into
an easy to get out of spot.

So far three minvans (white, blue, copper) have slowed to a stop in
front of me, scowling slightly into my unfamiliar vehicle.

I think I might be in someone's usual spot.

I imagine a tow of ponytailed khaki wearing brunette usually park
here, next to each other, and my presence has wrecked their afternoon
chat.

Because of me, theyll probably drink too much tonight, maybe one of
then will burn dinner.

I could be wrong.

Either way, I hold my ground, sitting in my car alone and furiously
write something important. (This).

Hot and Young

I'm wandering the aisles of Target with Zoe and Zack in tow, lingering in the airconditioning because our house is so hot.

We walk through shoes, toys and belts and end up where we never go -- the baby section.

The kids ooh and ah over the tiniest shoes, the softest blankets, the sweetest pictures on the packages.

Zoe pulls my hand so I bend down a little so she has my full attention.

"Look YOUNG," she commands, "so that people will think YOU can have babies..."

I straighten up and laugh at her, then   lead them out of the baby section -- from which I've happily graduated summa cum laude --  to the chocolate aisle, to the wine aisle and back to the unairconditioned  house, happy to be old and wise and hot. 

Who is the Secretary of State?

What does the Secretary of State Do?

What Does the Secretary of State Do?

Spanish American War (sorta)

Civil War

How Was Your Three-Way?

It's no secret I spent the better part of my summer eating.

My personal favorite was taking the kids to lunch at Steak-n-Shake, where the three of us could roost at a table, giggle, play and feast for $20 (including tip).

Every time I went to Steak-n-Shake this summer, I ordered the Chili Three-Way.

And every time the waitress came by the table, she'd ask me, things like "How is your Three Way?" and offer "Would you like more crackers with your Three Way?" 

And each time, I'd giggle and look down and mumble something like, "My chili is fine."

The  last time we were there, during the last week of summer vacation, the restaurant was particularly quiet in between the breakfast and lunch rushes.

While the kids discussed what kind of fish we should buy, the waitress swung by our table with refilled drinks, picked up my plate and asked, "How was your Three Way?"

This time, I looked her right in the eye and said, "Are you SERIOUSLY asking that?"

She shrugged and piled more plates, "That's what we're trained to say...."

And off she went, as though on skates, leaving me at the table with both kids staring. "Whats so funny Mom? Was she supposed to laugh?"

I fidget with my iPhone and look at the bill, offering them a vague excuse like "it must be me, your mom is just..... (mumble mumble)....."

As August winds down and turn back to fruits and vegetables, I don't miss the McFlurries or the Frosties; I don't miss pizza or french fries, but I'd like another Three Way.

The **** Beer Guy

As usual, I'm overdressed for Walmart, but as usual, I don't care.

I go straight to the back to start with the easy stuff. Water. Orange Juice. Biscuits. Yogurt.

He's standing there, at the end of the aisle, smiling at me.

I smile back, vaguely, then turn my attention back to the vast selection of sugarfree powdered drink mixes.

He speaks. "Dr! ... Dr.... um, I remember, wait...."

Zack smiles and helps the poor guy. "Her name is Dr. Melissa."

He nods his head, then shakes it again, as if my name was a ball rolling around in his head looking for a place to fall into, causing lights to go off like a pinball  machine.

"Dr. Salami!"

"I've been called worse," I answer, dropping four boxes of drink mix into the cart.

Now he has my full attention.

"And you don't remember ME..." He accuses.

I look him up and down for hints.

He isn't wearing a name tag, just the patch of the beer company he's delivering for.

"You're the beer man, how could I forget you?"

In the time it takes for him to look genuinely disappointed, I remember his name.

I also remember that he was the only student to ever steal money from me during class.Four classmates turned him in, and the entire thing was pretty ugly. It's been four or five semesters, so I've let it pass. I don't think he's graduated, so I don't ask.

Besides that, I'm already eying the cinnamon rolls.


 "I remember you. You're W****. And now you're W**** ,The Beer Guy."

He laughs. I laugh, and he turns away, back to the cooler, back to his life, back to delivering his beer.

Eat * Sleep * Fork

On the night of the full moon in July, I closed my Mac, zipped it into its pretty pink case, and put it away in an experiment to find a simpler, freer summer experience.  I decide to find out what life would be like without my Mac on my lap. 

Just in case it turned into an epic fail,  I didn't tell anyone about this. 

Until now.


And here it is.


My summer 2010 memoir: Eat. Sleep. Fork.


*EAT*


The best part of not having a laptop on my lap has been cuddle time with the kids, one tucked under each arm on the oversized stained green recliner.


 We ate ice cream by the gallon, popcorn by the bowl, and spent an inordinate amount of time at Olive Garden (mostly laughing).


I ordered M&Ms on everything, and ate them plain (by the nibble; by the handful) in dark movie theaters, laughing.


*SLEEP*


Meanwhile, something beautiful happened.


 After ten years of being waken by  crying infants, breastfeeding babies, screaming toddlers, happy bouncy children who couldn't sleep past 7am on weekends, the kids sleep late.


Let me be extra clear. BOTH of the slept late, day after day over and over this summer.wonderfully dangerously late, past Regis and Kelly, past Let's Make a deal, sometimes even past The Price is Right.


The house feels quiet these mornings while they sleep, like the lovely silent pause after an intentional crescendo.


Because I couldn't write, I spend my vacation mornings in a stupor watching seasons of  On Demand programs so vacuous their titles even now disappear deliciously out of my head like merengue melting on my tongue.   I shamelessly gluttonously continue to stuff myself with junk TV, eat ice cream, and do absolutely nothing but count how many more days I have left to do absolutely nothing.





*FORK*


The only problem I came across in those delicious hours curled up on a recliner was a persistent and recurring itch on my back right behind my brastrap, right where I really just couldn't scratch.


I tried to twist agains the chair, to wriggle and squirm to get the itch scratched but no luck; it just got stronger.


Next to me was an empty mug of ice cream, a fork and a napkin.


I wiped the fork off with the napkin, and although I knew I was alone in the house, I looked around before leaning forward and slipping the fork down my back to JUST the right spot.


As it hit the spot an involuntary "ohhhhh" slipped out me before I could purse my lips and look around.


No one.


CLEAR.


I kept scratching, moving the fork up and down behind my bra, shuddering with pleasure and relief, trying to keep myself as quiet as possible and mostly failing.


Again and again that day and the next while the kids are sleeping, distracted and otherwise gone, while I am alone,  during repetitive commercials on On Demand that are too short to fast-forward through, I pull my fork out (it is mine now, I marked all over it with a red sharpie so that its precious tines will never be immersed in another meatball) and find those elusive itchy spots and scratch them until a little line of drool runs down my chin.


On the third or maybe the fifth day of eating, sleeping and forking,  I call my Mom.


"Mom, I'm sorry I haven't called, I've had nothing to say because I haven't done anything because I've just been sitting in this chair watching TV and scratching my back with a fork."


She laughs, "Are you calling for absolution? Is this confession!? You're forgiven.... "


"Oh no," I answer, quicker than she'd expected. "I do NOT want to be forgiven,  lady! I'm calling to BRAG about the fork...."


From there, the conversation goes to  the kids, to Project Runway, to Abuelo.


A red package of takeout Chinese chopsticks pull my eye and distracts me from my Mom's story.


"Mom, I have to go,,,,"


"OK," she says,  not asking why, just letting me be free, because she's easy like that.


Because she doesn't ask me, I decide to tell her the truth. "Mom, I have to go because I just  found some chopsticks I want to tape to my fork to make it even longer.... "


The kids came home before I could find tape, so I don't  follow through on my plan, deciding it's some spiritual principle to accept the fork just the way it is.


That night turned into the next night, which turned into another week and then another which now I"ll remember as the summer I spent away from writing,  happily eating, sleeping and forking.

Down Low Love* (Prince Charmin')

Some advice please!


Is it acceptable for a guest to gush about wonderfully soft and luxuriously thick toilet paper?


Or should i just sneak a roll home for further testing?


I'm in love with this lovely toilet paper, with the diamonds that impeccably MATCH  decorated chandeliered bathroom, and it stings a little to not be able to announce it to the world.  


So here I sit, rubbing it between my fingers, thankful for this down low love...

Serenaded like a Princess**

He sings "Clean clean my toilet mom please come clean my toilet mom!"
waving the bottle of toilet cleaner he'd seen on TV while I hunt for
my earring, wondering if he is confusing me with Snow White.

Our Lady of the Ceiling Crack

A few days ago I woke up to a miraculous surprise.

The wonderous Universe -- the same one that cooked a picture of the Virgin Mother on a grilled cheese sandwich and the baked the face of Mother Theresa on a sticky bun --- has painted a Georgia O'Keefe fresco on my ceiling.

Glorious.

Facebook in the Sky

So I admit it, instead of getting right to "writing" I spent a little while dipping my toes in the cold water of the computer, letting my fingers and eyes warm up to the screen and keyboard.

 It isn't that I don't feel like writing, its that I'm writing a funny book about grief in which hundreds of people pass through but three leave empty chairs.

So I confess (publicly before Zoe can tell you) I've spent more time at Target   and more time watching MTV than I've spent writing this week, and the new Jersey Shore hasn't even started yet.

I tell you this (finally? or did you already know?) so you can understand I give myself a few minutes to shift my attention and heart into a writing place because I'm writing about people who've jumped into the sky.

So I go through my usual sites - CNN.com,  Perezhilton.com then email, then Postsecret, then Facebook.

On the Facebook home page every day it suggests new friends to connect with based on mutual friends,  then also suggests it suggests a name of a friend who hasn't been too active on Facebook.

Today, it suggests I get in touch with Carol Strickland, "say hello, Write on her Wall."

Really, it was her, like she's still around on earth able to check Facebook on the iPhone that dangled from her belt every day while she sat in my classes translating lecture into sign language.

 I miss her so much still, the grief is so raw, that just seeing her pop up so nonchalantly brings tears to my eyes.

 I stare at her in the last profile picture she chose for herself, wielding some awesomely deadly weapon, inspired by her no-excuses blackbelt life and her marathon -runner momentum.

 I bet they do use Facebook in the sky, I think,  logging off the internet and getting back to my Manuscript, warmed with gratitude and laughing.

Hello, Carol*

Date Night: One Wish

Cuddling under a red blanket on the sofa with circles under his eyes,
Zack chatters multiple choice questions at me.

"If you had one wish would you wish for no burglars? Or for me? Or for
no burglars AND me?"

"All of the above," I answer, the most words I've gotten in with him
in over thirty minutes of nonstop interrogation.

Zack lifts himself up, raises his eyebrows and pats me on the head
like a proud uncle.

"Good answer. I would wish for Africa to have food and peace" he
proclaims, then leaves me alone to write while he fiddles
unsuccessfully with my Shake Weight.

Camp Mommy and the CosmoGirl Panties Project

It is the last day of summer school, and I am writing, thinking, cleaning and untangling the kids from under and over and around me (constantly). 

Yesterday I created a new writing shrine, sure that it would compel me to sit, stay, pray, edit.  ( So far, not much, at least not what I'm supposed to write.)

At 11am after dealing with emails and exams and voicemails and waffles and frog-admiring, I take the kids to Target.

Figuring summer camp would be $300 a week that I'm not spending because I'm at home with the kids, I don't feel bad indulging them in little shopping sprees like this.  

Zack gets a Pixos maker. 

I get a ShakeWeight and a candle that smells like bleach.

Zoe takes herself happily to lunch at Subway. 

Once  the kids are happily detained and I've moved around enough words to call it "writing" I start my afternoon exercise routine of putting on  high heels  and picking up of toy cars and flip flops and books and socks, intermittently twirling around to a song on Pandora.

Under the couch I find a bat, flip flops and batteries.  

From the coffee table I harvest a coffeemug and carry it to the kitchen. 

I pick up the four yellow clay Minions that Zack left for me on the kitchen counter, move them to the windowsill, then do dishes, load the dishwasher and answer three more "panicked last day of Summer School" emails.

After that I tackle the pile of art supplies and books that have accumulated since breakfast on the kitchen table. The crayons go in the trashcan, the paper goes back into the stack, and the library books go that bag in my car. 

On my way to deliver Zoe's library book to it's rightful place, Cosmo Girl! Make it Yourself! (Hearst Communications, 2007) grabs my attention. I stop in the middle of the living room (still blissfully ignored by the campers at Camp Mommy) and indulge myself in a silent guilty flip through the projects we haven't done during this summer where we have overslept and undercrafted. 

Bright pictures of Cosmo Girls making Cosmo Crafts pull me into the small book, and I read through instructions to make polka-dot makeup bag, decorated ballet flats, leave-in conditioner (1/2 cup liquid fabric softener, 1 cup water, spray bottle), fizzy bath bombs, a ribbon front halter, and boys-of-the-week panties.

That's right, boys-of-the-week panties. 

On page #18 there are instructions on how to rip up seven pairs of panties, sew them back together with satin ribbons and dangling charms, and decorate them as following: 

"Pick seven guys' names. Chose an M name for Monday (Mike), a T name for Tuesday (Tom), etc.  Write one name in silver fabric paint across the front center of each pair of panties. Let dry 2 hours."

At that, I put the book away library books, and danced back into the living room, feeling like writing again.

Tooth Fairy, Be Warned

Tooth Fairy,

Zoe woke up and was incredibly disappointed to find only $3.

And also she thinks you took the money from her July 4 tooth-loss and
gave it to her again.

Whatever you did just know that $3 " buys her nothing at Starbucks,"
and she's a bit grumpy. I told her I'd lend her $2.

You're welcome, again, but listen --(( I need to know you know I'm
serious) PLEASE stop hiding teeth in my bra. That is not a secure,
tooth fairy approved location, and it's awkward when they fall out.

Peace*

If You Love Something.... (A Frog's Tale)

Today each of the kids had $5 to spend at Target.

Zoe bought herself a tall cup of Starbucks.

Zack couldn't find anything "in his price range" so I dragged him to get the rest of the stuff on my list (trashbags that aren't crappy; honey; k-cups; bananas...).

As we turned from the water aisle and pass the cheap chip section, Zoe stops short in front of the cart, saving a life (temporarily) -- " Stop! Look! A frog!"


Zack throws himself on it, both called and carried by a ball of puppy dog enthusiastic love he feels for all living things. "Can we keeeep it? And call it George? And please can I have it and put it in a ..."

"Yes." I interrupt his needless begging. "Yes, get George, come on," I beckon him to follow me past the wine, towards the honey

"Yip-Hoo," he shouts,  clicks his heels, loses George who makes a heroic leap towards the cream corn, then reclaims him. "Come here guy, I LOVE YOU!"

For the next hour Zack carries George cupped in his hands through Target, then through the grocery, chatting away at his captive happily and unselfconsciously.

While I pause to consider Triscuits (are they worth $3.50 or wait until they are buy-one-get-one-free? are they a necessary food group? do I really need them? is there cheese at home? can I please have a can of spray cheese just his once? how much is the spray cheese? $3.99, sigh, absolutely not, but I'm PMSing just this once please? NO...  ),  a rack of overpriced overmarketed underquality plastic toys catches Zack's attention.

"Mom, do I still have $5?"

I put down the Triscuits, turn away from the spray cheese, reach in my pocket and pull it out to show him.

"Good, I need to buy this turtle for George, so he will know I love him..." He plops an overpriced bauble into the cart.

I stop there, (hugging a box of Wheat Thins, wondering if there is cream cheese at home...) and consider whether to pop  Zack's happy love bubble and ask him if he really meant what he'd said.

He doesn't notice me, all of his attention on narrating to George the joys of  marshmallows and the many sub-species of goldfish (by size, by color, by flavor, sorted like wines).

I really have to know, so I put the Wheat Thins down, skip all crackers for the week, and catch up to him. "Zack, are you buying this turtle as some show of love for the frog? or is it for yourself?"

"Myself," he whispers, "but I'll pretend it's for George."

I wink back in complicity, deciding not to untangle his ethics as we pass pickles, salad dressings, olive oil and salt (which I later realize I forget to buy. Again).

Later, while I unpack frozen pizzas and Trix yogurt, Zoe and Zack join George the frog in some Roman Bath ritual celebrating the initiation of a frog into the family.

In silence (more accurately: ignoring their pleas for me to SEE THIS and EEEEK MOM and my favorite A TOWEL A TOWEL A TOWEL),  while wiping down the counters, brushing lunch crumbs into the sink,  I thank the universe that the best things in life are free.

(except for George the frog, who is in captivity)

Chocolate Chip Cure

Zack stands in front of me, frowning.

"What's up? Do you need to go to the bathroom?" I ask concerned enough by the way he was holding his stomach to put my novel down.

He shakes his head. "No, it feels like I'm getting my period."

I get him a handful of chocolate chips from my super secret stash, then we cuddle and watch last nights shows from the Lifetime Channel.

Soon enough, he is cured, and - after sneaking more chocolate chips - I go back to my novel.

Inside Out*

Book Review: Because She Can by Bridie Clark

Set "The Devil Wears Prada"in the publishing industry and you have "Because She Can," a sharp and witty romp through New York, the Hamptons and the angst of all the major life decisions that come with achieving mid-to-late 20s status in America.

Good enough to pass on to a friend who is headed to a beach, then later on ask her to buy you at least two margaritas and you know she'd have to say yes because the book was so good. 

Book Review: Storyville by Lois Battle

Take a trip to Storyville, a time and place in New Orleans history!

Beautifully researched, highly detailed, delighful.

A great summer read*

Book Review: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

Why had I never heard of this book? Nevermind, I guess it arrived at the perfect time in my journey. 

This wisdom fable reminds me of "Illusions" by Richard Bach and  "Celestine Prophecy" -- I loved them both, and I loved this too.

When I'm rolling in $$$, this will be a book I would give to friends and students.

It's that good.

It's that important.

So, until then, I hope a copy of this book finds its way to you *

Book Review: Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult

Thank you, Jodi Picoult. I expected your usually enticing  heart-wrenching narrative, and you didn't let me down.

When I finished this book I sat still for awhile, unwilling to leave the characters that Jodi Picoult lead me to love.

 I hugged this book and passed it on to my Mom.

Book Review: That's Amore by Wendy Markham

I am so thankful a friend passed this delightful and just slightly magical book to me.

Because I'd never heard of Wendy Markham I kept sticking this book on the bottom of my book-pile,  mostly expecting it to be another "single woman wants to get married and can't find anyone until BAM she finds him and WOW they get married and all their friends love each other and the end" book.

Forgive me, Wendy Markham, I underestimated you.

This book reads like a twelve hour movie (think: When Harry Met Sally with a little... *more*), so stock up on popcorn and poptarts before curling up for what I promise will be a delightful romp of a story.

Book Review: Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh

Masterfully told story about the three women who marry the same man, one at a time, told through the eyes of the man's son. 

This is a  smart and delightfully woven tale of family,  courage, honestly, poverty and optimism told by a brilliant writer.

Book Review: Sugar Queen by Sarh Addison Allen

It wasn't a mystery, but I couldn't put it down.

Magical.

Lyrical.

Sweet, southern and enchanting.

When I finished this book, I hugged it and carried it around for a few days.

Harmony con Leche

Afghanistan Song: The Next George Clooney Movie

"The general's staff is a handpicked collection of killers, spies, geniuses, patriots, political operators and outright maniacs. There's a former head of British Special Forces, two Navy Seals, an Afghan Special Forces commando, a lawyer, two fighter pilots and at least two dozen combat veterans and counterinsurgency experts....By midnight at Kitty O'Shea's, much of Team America is completely shitfaced. Two officers do an Irish jig mixed with steps from a traditional Afghan wedding dance, while McChrystal's top advisers lock arms and sing a slurred song of their own invention.


 "Afghanistan!" they bellow. "Afghanistan!" They call it their Afghanistan song.

McChrystal steps away from the circle, observing his team. "All these men," he tells me. "I'd die for them. And they'd die for me." (Rollingstone.com)

That's enough, I don't need to read any m0re, I want to see this all unfold in a movie (Hello Trey Parker?).

 I see George Clooney in the corner, singing into a shoe. 

Matt Damon and Ed Norton are sprawled somewhere bragging. 

This is going to make a very very good movie. 

And I thought the only good Rolling Stone-related movie was "Almost Famous."

Obama-McChrystal

As America waits for an announcement after the McChrystal Obama talk,
I am thankful to not be called to be a journalist in this lifetime.

I can't imagine spending weeks with military command watching,
listening, building confidences, then telling a story that sows or
shows conflict, disrespect or discord. Even if the story needed to be
told.

I bet if I'd been there, my story wouldve been about moments of
kindness, courage, and service.

Meanwhile, I'm glued to CNN...

Dream Man, con't

We are lazing on the sofa planning another summer day.

Can we still get paint?

Sure, I tell him. I imagine Zoe Zack and myself outside with lots of
towels and rags, painting a birdhouse or something along those lines.

Bear! He proclaims.

You want to paint a bear?

No, I want BEAR.

You want bear, I repeat, continuing, that doesn't make sense, that's
not grammatically correct...

Buckets of bear! He explains. Lets buy buckets of paint and rollers...

Oh. You have a preferred BRAND of paint. I'm impressed. That'll get
you places. I can't afford that now, I've budgeted $10 for all the
paints. You still on board anyway.

He crosses his arms and nodds his head, building and painting
imaginary houses for us.

My Dream Man

....Zack elbows by where I am huddled up writing.

He grabs a piece of paper, pushes by again declaring, "I've got some
fly killing to do..."

Last week he discovered Norm Abrams and offered to build furniture and
shelves (and a car? Out of wood?) for me.

Such love...

Camp Mommy - postcard

Anonymous Quote

From Camp Mommy, running 24/7, all summer, in my life*

"I've never been happy in my life. And it's all your fault."

I ask, can I write that?

And I sneak away, and do.

Happy Camping*

Kamikaze Daredevil Procrastinating Web Students

Here is a screenshot of my gradebook on Blackboard for a Web class.

 The exam closes on Saturday, and less than 1/3 of the students have taken it.

 This is the scariest part of teaching online.

Revealed: The Pregnancy Scare of 2010

Zack lays next to me on the sofa, moaning.

"What's wrong little guy," I ask, patting and rubbing his bony back through his oversized shirt.

Zoe is on my other side.

"Mom you smell like triscuits...in a good way."
I thank her, kiss her on top of her head.

"Ohhh" he moans again.
Zoe leans across me and asks him, "are you having a baby? Are you pregnant?"

He snaps at his sister, "No I'm NOT. I haven't even had sex yet."
She nods in agreement.

I choke down my laugh, get up from between them and sneak more triscuits.

I was wrong. Twice. (Chikfila and Karate Kid)

Today was a day of errands and dragging the kids around. By 4pm they were starving so I broke my "no eating out on weekdays" rule and went to the Chikfila in the mall before seeing Karate Kid.

I ordered their new spicy chicken sandwich.
It was spicy.
Yep. Spicy.
That's all I have to say about that.

Which is disappointing because Chikfila is so good at being good. Their lemonade is -- perfect.

Their sandwiches and fries are always crispy, hot, perfect. (Except on Sundays)

Even their Chikfila sauce is an amazing little tub of wonderful.

So I expected the spicy chicken sandwich to be special, I expected to love it.

I was wrong.


After dinner I took the kids to see Karate Kid in the mall.

We were the first ones there in the biggest theatre of the complex, and settled in the top back row.

I didn't expect to like it. I had three books packed, and planned to daydream or mentally write, or otherwise distract myself during the predictable kids movie.

I was wrong, again.

Halfway through the movie I started writing fan mail to Will and Jada Smith thanking them for their son (who my son was sure was a girl for the first hour of the movie) and thanking them for making this delicious movie, for the casting, the writing, the cinematography.

The story line -- even if you know it -- unfolded at a masterful pace. Even though most of us knew how it was going to end, the audience laughed, cheered, clapped and jeered. It held my attention for the entire 2+hours, and was well worth the ticket price.

I didn't want to love this movie, I didn't even want to like it.

I was wrong.

For the second time in one day.

Wow. Now go see the movie!

Cow Legs

The Pop Tart Talk

Cereal Talk

Chickens vs. Sacred Cows

Sequel to Cleaning Lady

Pretty Music*

Cleaning Lady

Helpful

Around noon I finish writing Marvin's Book, send it to my agent and
finally
pay attention to the kids.

We decide to see Shrek 4 at 2:00.

Zoe is ready by 1, Zack soon after.

I think I'm ready to go, wearing a new dress that I accidentally
bought a size too large.

The neckline droops. The arms look flappy. I feel bad not giving it
one good shot at walking out the door.

As i sesrch for keys, Zoe takes one look at me, shakes her head and
proclaims, "No. Too....medieval."

I look down and see it too.

Daughters can be helpful.

Waiting at the Door for Carol

*again, from Marvin's Book. "Reprinted with Author's permission, lol"

Waiting at the Door for Carol

I never start without her. She is always early.  Today it is time, she isn’t here.

I can’t start late, but I can’t lecture to everyone except my deaf students – the slides I use are all pictures, they’d be lost without the story.

I ask the class permission for five more minutes and they sit still while I go out the lecture hall’s back door and stand at the glass door entrance to the building.

This was the third semester I”d had her in my classroom, she was never late.

How long should I wait?

When she appeared  I hugged her while racing her into the room. 

Don’t ever be late.

 You gave me a Marvin scare.

Nothing will happen to me, she said as she took of her jacket and settled into that day’s war.

I absolutely believed her.

Point Your Guns at Carol

*from Marvin's Book: The Story of a Professor and a Promise.

Point Your Guns at Carol

One way – just one, of course – to teach the Cold War concept of “containment” is to pretend your translator is the Soviet Union.

Now, move the classroom furniture around and surround the translator, shouting “Don’t expand!!! NOOO!!” while pointing overhead projectors and finger guns at him or her.

Then, while you are acting all crazy, shoutout, “who wants some money?” to your wide-eyed class. 

If they say yes (and believe me, they’ll say yes, especially the ones who are never in class and are so lost they aren’t even taking notes)  tell them to point their “finger guns” at your translator if they are your real allies. 

Believe it or not, a few students will make guns. 

 Usually a guy in the back stands up, finally ready to be called to action.

While they are laughing at the translator translating the entire scenario, race around the room all panicked saying something like

“Contain her! Contain her! POINT YOUR GUNS AT CAROL SHE’S COMMUNISM AND SHE’S SPREADING LIKE SMALLPOX!! We will go to WAR to STOP WAR There will BE  NO MORE WAR now KEEP POINTING YOUR GUNS AT CAROL”

Usually, at this point, your students will decide they might like the Cold War.  

Your translator will probably a little traumatized, though.

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