For eleven days it lay broken on the floor, a shoe with its heel twisted at an impossibly wrong angle, a crime scene that would make any Jimmy Choo-loving woman wretch.
My favorite shoes suffered this break on a particular day when I was lecturing for another professor. After class, while I was turning off the computer, I leaned back on the heels of my gorgeous high heels and (forgetting they aren't made of steel...) "click" the heel popped off.
So off I hobbled, to my office (no extra shoes there) to my car (nope, no shoes there) then home, where there were shoes... but not the ones I wanted.
That's OK, I told myself. Be open to new shoes. The universe is full of wonderful things, make room for something new....
I placed my broken shoes in a corner, by my home office, and tried not to look at them.
But despite my best efforts and best intentions, I just couldn't throw those gorgeously carved wooden platform leather topped shoes away.
Then again, I couldn't fix them.
These awesomely perfect shoes were a super amazing sale find of $12. It would make more sense to buy new (cheap) shoes than to bring these (cheap and broken shoes) to the dreaded shoe man (with that awful shoe smell) and ask for help.
For almost two weeks, I shopped and shopped but no other shoe had the right heel, the same lift, that exact color and texture that made me smile.
Nothing looked good enough. Nothing looked right. I didn't even try a single shoe on.
(Note to self: "investigate serial shoe monogamy")
Then yesterday a surge of courage and hope rolled over me.
I picked up the tube of Gorilla glue that normally terrifies me (what if it spills? what if I glue the washing machine closed? wonder what it smells like.....?) and decided that I would find a way to stick that heel back on.
At first it didn't work, but I tried again with more glue and a steadier hand until the heel stuck back up against the rest of the shoe, flat, strong and stable like it should be.
So if you see me smiling a little more than I should be today, you'll have to forgive me -- I'm wearing my favorite shoes and thinking about what they taught me.
It's great to let go and grow, but some things are worth fixing.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Camp Mommy: Under Attack*
It is after lunch and before what would be afterschool if they were in school which they are not because its Spring Break.
Zack is sitting on my lap quietly.
We rock back and forth, silently. He's tired, I'm tired.
No, maybe not tired. Peaceful.
Yes, the two of us both feel calm and peaceful.
The spell is almost broken by loud metallic crash in the other room, and Zoe almost-cursing (Dannngggrrrrrr...UGH!) in a loud whisper to herself.
She doesn't call for either of us.
She doesn't say she's hurt.
I can hear her breathing heavy, like she's lifting or pulling or fixing something challenging.
Zack and I stay quiet, still slowly rocking back and forth, resting in each other's peaceful company.
Then I hear her a loud dial tone come out of the speakerphone in the other room.
So... it sounds like she hurt herself.... trying to dial the phone?
It seems so, Zack answers quickly, then hugs me, as if I even a little bit had entertained getting up and saving Zoe from the horrible dangerous phone.
We laugh together for a minute, then he slides off my lap and slips away to bug his sister, as if inanimate objects weren't enough for her to battle on this lovely day at Camp Mommy.
Zack is sitting on my lap quietly.
We rock back and forth, silently. He's tired, I'm tired.
No, maybe not tired. Peaceful.
Yes, the two of us both feel calm and peaceful.
The spell is almost broken by loud metallic crash in the other room, and Zoe almost-cursing (Dannngggrrrrrr...UGH!) in a loud whisper to herself.
She doesn't call for either of us.
She doesn't say she's hurt.
I can hear her breathing heavy, like she's lifting or pulling or fixing something challenging.
Zack and I stay quiet, still slowly rocking back and forth, resting in each other's peaceful company.
Then I hear her a loud dial tone come out of the speakerphone in the other room.
So... it sounds like she hurt herself.... trying to dial the phone?
It seems so, Zack answers quickly, then hugs me, as if I even a little bit had entertained getting up and saving Zoe from the horrible dangerous phone.
We laugh together for a minute, then he slides off my lap and slips away to bug his sister, as if inanimate objects weren't enough for her to battle on this lovely day at Camp Mommy.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Camp Mommy Day #1: Big (Crafty) Love
I leave the house early early and shorten office hours to spend time with my kids who are on their Spring Break (which is never the same as my Spring Break, but I've had Spring Break every year since 1986 so I'm not complaining).
Two minutes after the sitter leaves the house, both of my normally happy kids are twisting and climbing around me with complaints like sticky thorns... what is there to DO? Where are we going to GO? But I'm BORED!....
So I packed the kids off to Michael's Craft Store, telling them I was going to buy plastic flowers for our yard because Tita said they use them in Cuba and it really works.
They believe me.
So the three of us walked around that store for a good hour while I picked up 50% Daisies (in teal, in white, in orange, in purple, in black, in pink) and then Irises and then Petunias and matched them in bunches and them in rows and considered them and put them down.
Then decided I couldn't live without them and generally pretended that I would really stick plastic flowers outside my house without the supervision of a real Cuban.
In between all of that general wandering around, we find cheap things for the kids to do and make.
Of course, I didn't buy the plastic flowers. In my entire life I have never been seized (more than once or twice) with the urge to buy plastic flowers. And that was the 1990s. And I've put that all behind me.
$11 later and we are home, each kid armed with 50% off craft supplies and happy mood from a nice car drive on a sunny day.
This means one thing. Time off for Mommy.
I know, I know, in real camp, someone would supervise the children.
But I taught the Vietnam War this morning. I shaved my legs, I've had meetings.
My 9-5 is 5-1, and it's already 4pm and I have another shift (dinner, whatever, darkness, sleep) before repeating it all tomorrow. I slip away from the happy kids to take off my dress, take off my heels and put on my yoga pants.
I cuddle with a pillow and watch to the Series Finale to Big Love, listening every now and then to the chirping happy-craft-day-at-camp kid voices coming from the room.
I get thirsty and push pause, and leave my warm soft TV spot.
Just as I'm turning the corner I hear Zoe telling Zack (in a sugary sweet hushed tone extra nice nice way), "Remember you're not going to tell Mommy..."
So I bang my fist on the wall, causing them both to jump.
"Tell me, what? That you LOVE me?"
And they laugh, because that isn't what they were talking about at all.
We laugh together and suddenly it does feel like camp again, like last summer when we were all rested and relaxed.
I sneak back to my lunch break before the next shift -- dinner, whatever, whatever, darkness -- and watch the end of Big Love, then, because the kids were so happy, I got to write for a little while.
Two minutes after the sitter leaves the house, both of my normally happy kids are twisting and climbing around me with complaints like sticky thorns... what is there to DO? Where are we going to GO? But I'm BORED!....
So I packed the kids off to Michael's Craft Store, telling them I was going to buy plastic flowers for our yard because Tita said they use them in Cuba and it really works.
They believe me.
So the three of us walked around that store for a good hour while I picked up 50% Daisies (in teal, in white, in orange, in purple, in black, in pink) and then Irises and then Petunias and matched them in bunches and them in rows and considered them and put them down.
Then decided I couldn't live without them and generally pretended that I would really stick plastic flowers outside my house without the supervision of a real Cuban.
In between all of that general wandering around, we find cheap things for the kids to do and make.
Of course, I didn't buy the plastic flowers. In my entire life I have never been seized (more than once or twice) with the urge to buy plastic flowers. And that was the 1990s. And I've put that all behind me.
$11 later and we are home, each kid armed with 50% off craft supplies and happy mood from a nice car drive on a sunny day.
This means one thing. Time off for Mommy.
I know, I know, in real camp, someone would supervise the children.
But I taught the Vietnam War this morning. I shaved my legs, I've had meetings.
My 9-5 is 5-1, and it's already 4pm and I have another shift (dinner, whatever, darkness, sleep) before repeating it all tomorrow. I slip away from the happy kids to take off my dress, take off my heels and put on my yoga pants.
I cuddle with a pillow and watch to the Series Finale to Big Love, listening every now and then to the chirping happy-craft-day-at-camp kid voices coming from the room.
I get thirsty and push pause, and leave my warm soft TV spot.
Just as I'm turning the corner I hear Zoe telling Zack (in a sugary sweet hushed tone extra nice nice way), "Remember you're not going to tell Mommy..."
So I bang my fist on the wall, causing them both to jump.
"Tell me, what? That you LOVE me?"
And they laugh, because that isn't what they were talking about at all.
We laugh together and suddenly it does feel like camp again, like last summer when we were all rested and relaxed.
I sneak back to my lunch break before the next shift -- dinner, whatever, whatever, darkness -- and watch the end of Big Love, then, because the kids were so happy, I got to write for a little while.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
A Castro By Any Other Name...
Before every unit I give a pretest.
This week, as part of the pretest, I put a picture this of Fidel Castro up and asked, "Who is this?"
In one class, two guys in the front blurted the answer out (in a "duh" tone; I think they thought I was really wondering who was in the picture!), so that class found out the answer quickly.
Out of my other two classes, about 50% correctly identified the man in the picture as Fidel Castro (not all spelled it the same way - there were a few "Kastro" and some "Feedels" and a "Phedel" that I decided to count as sorta correct).
This week, as part of the pretest, I put a picture this of Fidel Castro up and asked, "Who is this?"
In one class, two guys in the front blurted the answer out (in a "duh" tone; I think they thought I was really wondering who was in the picture!), so that class found out the answer quickly.
Out of my other two classes, about 50% correctly identified the man in the picture as Fidel Castro (not all spelled it the same way - there were a few "Kastro" and some "Feedels" and a "Phedel" that I decided to count as sorta correct).
- 23 students thought the image was Osama bin Laden
- 6 thought the man in the picture was Saddam Hussein
- Stalin(3)
- Tom Cruise (2)
- Liam Neeson (2)
- George W. Bush (2)
- Lincoln, LOL
- Middle Eastern Terroriots
- Theodore Roosevelt
- Kumar from “White Castle”
- Che
- Jimmy Frimmel
- Hitler’s cousin Jimmy
- Ben Linden
- John Cock
- John Cain
- Jeff Clain
- Jeff Swindell
- Whodumwhosum
- A smoky guy
- Jose Cuba
- Coy Moses
- My Dad
- Chiba
- Rafiki
- Casa Blanca
Monday, March 14, 2011
Faith
In her perfectly still mind,
as empty and silent as the Grand Canyon,
she floated along
on the sound of extinct rivers
still roaring past
her beautifully carved and scarred
landscape
completely ready
and absolutely certain
of the water's
return.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Lunch Bunch 1: Leaky Princesses
During my Spring Break, I join Zack and Zoe for lunch at their cafeteria, with their friends.
My son apparently has a harem or something like that because the closest boy to him is eight girls down the line of chattering first graders who all sit on the same side of the table facing empty seats where parents would be if they were visiting.
A tiny girl in front of my with angelic blonde hair and impossibly white teeth nibbles a cheese sandwich "with Mayo!" she proclaims, causing the girls and Zack to wince all grossed out.
They compare lunches, take sips and sit awkwardly.
I spy their high-class icepacks enviously. I can't find where they hide those suckers in the store, or/and when I do find them I think "oh, no, we don't really need new ones..." so I give my kids the same years-old battered and leaky blue packs, mummified in two feeble layers of zipped baggies.
I point it out to them. You have a soccer ball! Your mom rocks! And you have... an insulated sandwich holder! A+ supermom! And you have... a Princess icepack! Cold princesses, cool!
Zack and his harem all giggle, and I sneak my third mini-muffin from my son's lunchbox.
The girl with the soccer pack adds, "I used to have the Princesses! But they leaked...."
You had to throw it away? I ask, making an exaggeratedly sad face. I understand the sentimentality of the six year old heart.
She nodded, giggling and pretending to be sad. That is my cue. I take a carton of chocolate milk and hold it up as a toast.
A line of girls hold their juiceboxes and thermoses up. Zack smiles proudly, impossible to embarrass.
It's a good policy to throw leaky princesses away. We should all agree to that now. It's a good rule to have for life. No leaky princesses.
We high-5 each other and a cafeteria aid comes to stand near us and do this clapping thing that translates to "stop making noise, pay attention to me" -- and I stifle my frown. This is America, we are free to laugh, I want to say, but I don't because I know that's a lesson they'll have to learn on their own.
My son apparently has a harem or something like that because the closest boy to him is eight girls down the line of chattering first graders who all sit on the same side of the table facing empty seats where parents would be if they were visiting.
A tiny girl in front of my with angelic blonde hair and impossibly white teeth nibbles a cheese sandwich "with Mayo!" she proclaims, causing the girls and Zack to wince all grossed out.
They compare lunches, take sips and sit awkwardly.
I spy their high-class icepacks enviously. I can't find where they hide those suckers in the store, or/and when I do find them I think "oh, no, we don't really need new ones..." so I give my kids the same years-old battered and leaky blue packs, mummified in two feeble layers of zipped baggies.
I point it out to them. You have a soccer ball! Your mom rocks! And you have... an insulated sandwich holder! A+ supermom! And you have... a Princess icepack! Cold princesses, cool!
Zack and his harem all giggle, and I sneak my third mini-muffin from my son's lunchbox.
The girl with the soccer pack adds, "I used to have the Princesses! But they leaked...."
You had to throw it away? I ask, making an exaggeratedly sad face. I understand the sentimentality of the six year old heart.
She nodded, giggling and pretending to be sad. That is my cue. I take a carton of chocolate milk and hold it up as a toast.
A line of girls hold their juiceboxes and thermoses up. Zack smiles proudly, impossible to embarrass.
It's a good policy to throw leaky princesses away. We should all agree to that now. It's a good rule to have for life. No leaky princesses.
We high-5 each other and a cafeteria aid comes to stand near us and do this clapping thing that translates to "stop making noise, pay attention to me" -- and I stifle my frown. This is America, we are free to laugh, I want to say, but I don't because I know that's a lesson they'll have to learn on their own.
Lunch Bunch: Part #1 Disposable Princesses
Because I didn't have classes during Spring Break, I was able to join my kids for lunch at the cafeteria.
The first day, I joined my first grader for
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Out of the Closet & Easy
Last week I dragged myself in for my infrequent eye exam.
I arrive to my appointment compulsively early as usual, check in, and walk along the cases of frames.
A man in a suit greets me and I tell him what I'm looking for.
"I love the glasses I have on now - I think they are awesomely Tina Fey. But I need another look, something different and something that goes with my blondier hair," I tell him while he appraises the shape of my face and nods.
I continue, "Ever since I became a blonde my daughter won't let me wear these glasses to pick her up at school. That hurts me. Deeply."
I feign a sniff of imagined indignity
He shakes his head laughing and asks, "You haven't always been a blonde?"
I lean over the counter, make sure no one is listening and whisper, "I just became one about a year ago but I feel like I've come out of the closet, like I've been a blonde all along and everyone knew it but me."
He chokes back a laugh.
They call my name and I tell him I'll be back.
I follow a cheerful pink-scrub wearing ponytailed 20-something.
I tell her I'm not going to enjoy this, and she doesn't care. I like that about her.
I tell her that I hate putting my chin on anything and staring into a box.
She says she understands.
I tell her I hate being asked (cheerfully, even worse) "Which is better? One?" "Two?" "Again?" "One?" "Two?"
And she agrees that it gets annoying.
Then I tell that I especially hate having my pupils dilated.
She tells me it's not that bad, that it's much lighter and gentler, and that I'll be fine.
I ask her, "are you going to use a speculum?" but she doesn't answer.
Or laugh.
When she leaves the room with my chart in her hand, I pick up my iPhone and with dilated eyes compose a tweet about that.
I feel better.
Soon enough, it is over, I survive and am rewarded with a prescription for new lenses that are "a little" stronger.
I return to my gentleman at the frames counter, who thankfully is not detained by someone trying on every frame in the shop.
He greets me and asks me if I'd please indulge him and try a particular pair of frames he thought might look good.
Of course I try them on.
He's a professional glasses-picker.
I trust him.
They are red. They are hip. They are different. They are perfect.
"Thanks!" I say, take them off and hand them to him. "What do we do now?"
His eyebrows furrow. He doesn't understand.
"They're perfect. I know what I like, and I like these. Now what?"
He silently exhales all his sales-pitching and coaxing and coaching that he won'tbe doing.
I imagine he also happily pockets the patience I'm not going to drain from him, not today.
I follow him to a chair and stay on my best (translation: QUIETEST) behavior while he writes up the details of the order.
I think he's waiting for me to suddenly change my mind, or to freak out about money or something along those lines. I wonder if our uneventfully quick transaction disappoints him.
We shake hands when I stand up and he doesn't say it, so I do.
"You didn't think I was going to be this easy did you?"
He shakes his head, laughs and then waves at me as I happily leave the store and go back into the world, out of the closet and easy.
I arrive to my appointment compulsively early as usual, check in, and walk along the cases of frames.
A man in a suit greets me and I tell him what I'm looking for.
"I love the glasses I have on now - I think they are awesomely Tina Fey. But I need another look, something different and something that goes with my blondier hair," I tell him while he appraises the shape of my face and nods.
I continue, "Ever since I became a blonde my daughter won't let me wear these glasses to pick her up at school. That hurts me. Deeply."
I feign a sniff of imagined indignity
He shakes his head laughing and asks, "You haven't always been a blonde?"
I lean over the counter, make sure no one is listening and whisper, "I just became one about a year ago but I feel like I've come out of the closet, like I've been a blonde all along and everyone knew it but me."
He chokes back a laugh.
They call my name and I tell him I'll be back.
I follow a cheerful pink-scrub wearing ponytailed 20-something.
I tell her I'm not going to enjoy this, and she doesn't care. I like that about her.
I tell her that I hate putting my chin on anything and staring into a box.
She says she understands.
I tell her I hate being asked (cheerfully, even worse) "Which is better? One?" "Two?" "Again?" "One?" "Two?"
And she agrees that it gets annoying.
Then I tell that I especially hate having my pupils dilated.
She tells me it's not that bad, that it's much lighter and gentler, and that I'll be fine.
I ask her, "are you going to use a speculum?" but she doesn't answer.
Or laugh.
When she leaves the room with my chart in her hand, I pick up my iPhone and with dilated eyes compose a tweet about that.
I feel better.
Soon enough, it is over, I survive and am rewarded with a prescription for new lenses that are "a little" stronger.
I return to my gentleman at the frames counter, who thankfully is not detained by someone trying on every frame in the shop.
I've been that person. The narrative went something like: Nothing looks right, nothing looks good, or if it does look good, it's too expensive so show me something that looks like the one I love and can't have but I'll never be happy with it...has it been two hours? I'm so sorry I just haven't quite found anything, but OH how about those? Oh? I tried them already? *sigh*
He greets me and asks me if I'd please indulge him and try a particular pair of frames he thought might look good.
Of course I try them on.
He's a professional glasses-picker.
I trust him.
They are red. They are hip. They are different. They are perfect.
"Thanks!" I say, take them off and hand them to him. "What do we do now?"
His eyebrows furrow. He doesn't understand.
"They're perfect. I know what I like, and I like these. Now what?"
He silently exhales all his sales-pitching and coaxing and coaching that he won'tbe doing.
I imagine he also happily pockets the patience I'm not going to drain from him, not today.
I follow him to a chair and stay on my best (translation: QUIETEST) behavior while he writes up the details of the order.
I think he's waiting for me to suddenly change my mind, or to freak out about money or something along those lines. I wonder if our uneventfully quick transaction disappoints him.
We shake hands when I stand up and he doesn't say it, so I do.
"You didn't think I was going to be this easy did you?"
He shakes his head, laughs and then waves at me as I happily leave the store and go back into the world, out of the closet and easy.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
To My Students on Spring Break
As you go where you're merrily going, please do me and the universe a great favor.
Be careful.
Wear your sunscreen, wear your helmet, wear your seatbelt, and wear your condoms [as relevant].
Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.
Don't drink and drive, don't drive and text, and don't put your precious life in the hands of someone who does.
We have many more stories to live and to tell, more laughs to have and you have so many more wonderful adventures on your path to becoming who you were imagined to become.
Be careful.
Be careful.
Wear your sunscreen, wear your helmet, wear your seatbelt, and wear your condoms [as relevant].
Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.
Don't drink and drive, don't drive and text, and don't put your precious life in the hands of someone who does.
We have many more stories to live and to tell, more laughs to have and you have so many more wonderful adventures on your path to becoming who you were imagined to become.
Be careful.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Disconnected, Connected
The last time I saw my Mom we were both sick and coughing.
It was before Christmas.
Since then we've bridged the 500 miles between us with short (coughing) conversations, short email and even shorter texting.
Then the other night my Mom calls and asks me a question about something she'd emailed me and apparently I'd ignored.
"I didn't see that question," I tell her, unrepentant. "I get so many questions on email.... I feel like they're writing assignments....Or I glance at them and think I read them but I didn't... I'm sorry."
Mom doesn't laugh.
I hear her take a deep breath like she's dealing with a teenager and needs to choose her words carefully.
The silence feels like she is gathering her courage to say something difficult.
Finally she asks, "Melissa. Please. How can I better communicate with you?"
Now she has my full attention.
No one EVER talks to me that way, at least not since I got tenure.
So I finally push PAUSE and tell her the truth.
"Mom, I just discovered Kitchen Nightmares. I mean, all this time, I never saw it, and now I'm catching up and I'm watching two and three of them a day!"
Now we're communicating.
She suggests that I'd probably also like Top Chef.
I admit to watching Teen Mom 2, Pawn Stars, Hardcore Pawn, American Idol, Jersey Shore, Jerseylicious, Shameless, Boardwalk Empire, Tabitha's Salon Takeover, and as I'm trying to remember other things to make my confession complete, I add "OH! AND there's a new America's Next Top Model! Isn't that AWESOME??"
We giggle together, and then, finally, we talk about Abuelo, about Cuba, about things going on in our family, and we talk and talk until my finger itched so badly I *had* to undo the pause button and see Gordon stick his hand into a box of moldy fruit.
My Mom understood this compulsion, and we got off the phone, happily connected again.
It was before Christmas.
Since then we've bridged the 500 miles between us with short (coughing) conversations, short email and even shorter texting.
Then the other night my Mom calls and asks me a question about something she'd emailed me and apparently I'd ignored.
"I didn't see that question," I tell her, unrepentant. "I get so many questions on email.... I feel like they're writing assignments....Or I glance at them and think I read them but I didn't... I'm sorry."
Mom doesn't laugh.
I hear her take a deep breath like she's dealing with a teenager and needs to choose her words carefully.
The silence feels like she is gathering her courage to say something difficult.
Finally she asks, "Melissa. Please. How can I better communicate with you?"
Now she has my full attention.
No one EVER talks to me that way, at least not since I got tenure.
So I finally push PAUSE and tell her the truth.
"Mom, I just discovered Kitchen Nightmares. I mean, all this time, I never saw it, and now I'm catching up and I'm watching two and three of them a day!"
Now we're communicating.
She suggests that I'd probably also like Top Chef.
I admit to watching Teen Mom 2, Pawn Stars, Hardcore Pawn, American Idol, Jersey Shore, Jerseylicious, Shameless, Boardwalk Empire, Tabitha's Salon Takeover, and as I'm trying to remember other things to make my confession complete, I add "OH! AND there's a new America's Next Top Model! Isn't that AWESOME??"
We giggle together, and then, finally, we talk about Abuelo, about Cuba, about things going on in our family, and we talk and talk until my finger itched so badly I *had* to undo the pause button and see Gordon stick his hand into a box of moldy fruit.
My Mom understood this compulsion, and we got off the phone, happily connected again.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
From GOD
(From July 2007)
On Saturday morning I packed the kids into the car for errands.
By noon we were back home, Zoe watching TV in her room, Zack positioned at the breakfast bar to watch me cook.
Can I have a spoonful of icing?
Icing? No.
I save that for bribing you or rewarding you for being sooooo brilliant.
How about some muffins?
No. Yuck. Those are Zoe's.
Fine. How about some grapes. They're healthy.
How are they healthy?
I get some from the refrigerator, buying time for a great answer.
Grapes grow from the ground. They're natural. I deposit a plate of grapes in front of them.
Natural?
Yes. Grapes come from God.
He holds on up. GOD is in this grape?
Yes!
Zack pretends to hug the grape, then eats it.
Is God everywhere?
Yes.
Is God in your boobies?
I laugh and look down to admire them, then turn to the cabinet.
Would you like chocolate or vanilla icing?
On Saturday morning I packed the kids into the car for errands.
By noon we were back home, Zoe watching TV in her room, Zack positioned at the breakfast bar to watch me cook.
Can I have a spoonful of icing?
Icing? No.
I save that for bribing you or rewarding you for being sooooo brilliant.
How about some muffins?
No. Yuck. Those are Zoe's.
Fine. How about some grapes. They're healthy.
How are they healthy?
I get some from the refrigerator, buying time for a great answer.
Grapes grow from the ground. They're natural. I deposit a plate of grapes in front of them.
Natural?
Yes. Grapes come from God.
He holds on up. GOD is in this grape?
Yes!
Zack pretends to hug the grape, then eats it.
Is God everywhere?
Yes.
Is God in your boobies?
I laugh and look down to admire them, then turn to the cabinet.
Would you like chocolate or vanilla icing?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Please. Stop. Staring.
I’m feeling much better and almost up to my usual breakneck speed.
I leave my office (and the line of invisible students who never seem to come to office hours) to check the faculty room for donuts and/or interesting people to talk to.
Before I can enter the room I see something that stops me in my tracks.
I spin on my shiny black patent heels that have cute rosebuds over the peek-a-boo toes and walk into the staff room.
Four women, of a variety of ages from 20 to 45 working by phones and computers look up.
I untie my scarf, then announce, “She’s staring at my crotch. I can’t go in there.”
They all stop. They are silent.
I repeat myself.
“She’s staring at my crotch. Inappropriately. I can’t go in there.”
Because no one gets up to help, I pull Charlotte up to see.
There, on the door, I tell her, pointing to the culprit -- an important flyer posted at crotch level that included a cool glamour-shot photo of the presenter.
Charlotte scowls for a minute then – in her magical way --- agrees with me while denying me …“Look at her gaze, clearly she’s staring at MY crotch…”
An artistically gifted work study student takes credit for posting the flyer, and at that the conversation turns to me, pulling my scarf on and off and on and off, retying it, taking it off again.
“Why are you flashing us so much today?” asks a beleaguered worker.
I shake my head. “Not flashing, deciding. Is this scarf too much for WW2? I think it might say Cold War.”
Another beleaguered worker answers, “No, wear it… it breaks things up.”
I nod, then agree, repeating her advice.
“Yes, yes, break things up for WW2. I’m ready…..” and off I go into professorland, fixing my scarf so it hangs straight down, covering every bit of my cleavage from that inappropriately staring woman in that flyer.
Monday, February 14, 2011
I'm the One They Warned You About
I believe that one small act of chocolate kindness can make a ridiculously big difference in someone's day, so over my many years of professoring I've developed a ritual of bringing lots and lots of candy for my students on Valentine's Day.
Each year after I pass bowls of candies around my classes there is always a ton of candy left, so I've make it a habit and ritual to walk the halls of my building offering Valentine's Candy to students sprawled on the floor texting, students standing in the halls whispering, and other students generally milling around doing what students do in college hallways between classes.
And each year -- no matter what candy I offer -- students respond the same.
With widened eyes and serious frowns, they say "no."
All of them.
Always.
"No, no thank you, no candy, thanks."
I offer again, again and again.
And they always turn away a little and whisper again, again, and again, "No, really, no thanks..."
And as I walk away, I know what they're thinking, whispering and texting "FINALLY! A STRANGER just offered me CANDY!. I know I'm supposed to say NO to strangers offering candy, but no stranger has actually been kind enough to offer my candy, so finally I was tested and I passed the test!!! Yay! I passed the test!!"
So I take my bowl of candy back to my office, thankful to have played a small (and non-toxic) part in other people's holiday, and offer myself a small act of chocolate ....and laugh.
Happy Valentines Day*
Each year after I pass bowls of candies around my classes there is always a ton of candy left, so I've make it a habit and ritual to walk the halls of my building offering Valentine's Candy to students sprawled on the floor texting, students standing in the halls whispering, and other students generally milling around doing what students do in college hallways between classes.
And each year -- no matter what candy I offer -- students respond the same.
With widened eyes and serious frowns, they say "no."
All of them.
Always.
"No, no thank you, no candy, thanks."
I offer again, again and again.
And they always turn away a little and whisper again, again, and again, "No, really, no thanks..."
And as I walk away, I know what they're thinking, whispering and texting "FINALLY! A STRANGER just offered me CANDY!. I know I'm supposed to say NO to strangers offering candy, but no stranger has actually been kind enough to offer my candy, so finally I was tested and I passed the test!!! Yay! I passed the test!!"
So I take my bowl of candy back to my office, thankful to have played a small (and non-toxic) part in other people's holiday, and offer myself a small act of chocolate ....and laugh.
Happy Valentines Day*
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Monkey Girl
It's a sweltering Sunday morning in August, and I'm helping my friend pack her house into a horse trailer so she can leave Tallahassee, leave me, go far away and be a professor in Palm Beach.
That's OK. She will be happier there.
She hates moving, so I keep things light.
I brought drinks for everyone, and post-it notes so I could stick silly dirty notes into her boxes.
Around noon, her almost-fiance leaves with a friend to pack a bed from his house.
Power Man is an unusually large man whose "day job" is a powerful position.
He is a man who is used to commanding respect and holding people's attention.
He also is bigger than 300 pounds and completely bald... but I can't write that, can I?
No one has appointed him chief engineer of the moving van, but he has assumed that title and power that goes with it.
Each and every (motherf*ing) time his engineering hit a glitch, he called for Monkey Girl to climb over the boxes, through the little air space, over the headboards and move things.
Each time, Monkey Girl did what she was asked. Enthusiastically and proudly.
Monkey Girl is flexible, fits into small spaces, and gets a huge buzz out of winning small missions.
So anyway, off goes Power Man for an hour to get something.
Monkey Girl (a mover) and Ms. Jackson (the moveee) end up in the airconditioning.
Ms. Jackson (who, shhhh, has MS and fibromyalgia) gives me the look.
That look.
The one that says please please forget all the boxes, just use your strong and accurate hands to rub my back.
15 minutes later, Ms. Jackson is facedown on the floor in a pool of drool as I work yoga positions on and with her, stretching, pulling and threatening her muscles.
By the time power man comes back, Ms. Jackson is smiling, no longer in pain, no longer as anxious.
Monkey Girl? I need you to climb under that sideways bookcase, go to the other side of the mattress, stand on the sofa and dislodge that rocking chair leg. Then slip this rug between the two.
Fine. I grab the rug, hustle to my mission, thinking I'm leaving the lovebirds.
He follows.
Minutes later, drenched in sweat, I emerge triumphant.
He mops his face with a towel.
Where did you learn these amazing Monkey Girl moves?
I smile right into his beet red face.
On top of your girlfriend.
I flash him the peace sign, and dash back into the airconditioning.
Soon after that, I left the moving party, went back to mommyland.
But as far as I know, Power Man is still standing there, speechless.
That's OK. She will be happier there.
She hates moving, so I keep things light.
I brought drinks for everyone, and post-it notes so I could stick silly dirty notes into her boxes.
Around noon, her almost-fiance leaves with a friend to pack a bed from his house.
Power Man is an unusually large man whose "day job" is a powerful position.
He is a man who is used to commanding respect and holding people's attention.
He also is bigger than 300 pounds and completely bald... but I can't write that, can I?
No one has appointed him chief engineer of the moving van, but he has assumed that title and power that goes with it.
Each and every (motherf*ing) time his engineering hit a glitch, he called for Monkey Girl to climb over the boxes, through the little air space, over the headboards and move things.
Each time, Monkey Girl did what she was asked. Enthusiastically and proudly.
Monkey Girl is flexible, fits into small spaces, and gets a huge buzz out of winning small missions.
So anyway, off goes Power Man for an hour to get something.
Monkey Girl (a mover) and Ms. Jackson (the moveee) end up in the airconditioning.
Ms. Jackson (who, shhhh, has MS and fibromyalgia) gives me the look.
That look.
The one that says please please forget all the boxes, just use your strong and accurate hands to rub my back.
15 minutes later, Ms. Jackson is facedown on the floor in a pool of drool as I work yoga positions on and with her, stretching, pulling and threatening her muscles.
By the time power man comes back, Ms. Jackson is smiling, no longer in pain, no longer as anxious.
Monkey Girl? I need you to climb under that sideways bookcase, go to the other side of the mattress, stand on the sofa and dislodge that rocking chair leg. Then slip this rug between the two.
Fine. I grab the rug, hustle to my mission, thinking I'm leaving the lovebirds.
He follows.
Minutes later, drenched in sweat, I emerge triumphant.
He mops his face with a towel.
Where did you learn these amazing Monkey Girl moves?
I smile right into his beet red face.
On top of your girlfriend.
I flash him the peace sign, and dash back into the airconditioning.
Soon after that, I left the moving party, went back to mommyland.
But as far as I know, Power Man is still standing there, speechless.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Name This Dictator --
On the PRETEST for Unit #2, put up a picture of Benito Mussolini and asked them to fill in the blanks:
This is ___________, leader of ___________.
Ten students (out of 76) correctly identified him by name and associated him with Italy.
The rest…. Well….. Here is a sampling:
Jefferson; US
Jerry King, Leader of Hitler’s Army
Fester Adams; ?
Hector; Guam
Mr. Clean; Russia
General Cobbs; Congress
General Cromwell; US Army
Lennon; Russia
General Patton; US Army
Hamler; Russia
Mow; France
Putin; France
Bob; Germany
Serious Man; Leader of Insane Asylum
Hugo; Bulgaria
Gorbachev; Russia
Jean-Paul; ?
Steve Wilkos; Russia
General Baldo; Japan
Sherman; Shermanville
Curly; Soviets
Monday, January 31, 2011
WW2, In Vivid Color (sorta)
Today I put up a picture of FDR and asked my students: "Who was the President of the US during WW2 and how many times was he elected?"
Answers (in no particular order):
Answers (in no particular order):
- · Nickson. 3x
- · Kenedy. 2x.
- · John Hay. 2x.
- · Bush. 2x.
- · Franklin Roosevelt. 2x.
- · Woodrow Wilson. 9x. (Nine? 36 years of Wilson?!)
- · Abraham Lincoln. 1x.
- · Adams. 4x.
- · Truman. 2x.
- · FDR. 2x.
- · Theodore Roosevelt. 2x.
- · Wilson. 3x
- · Teddy Roosevelt. 3x.
- · Nixon. “Was elected in harsh times.”
- · F. Roosevelt. 3x.
- · Franklin Roosevelt. 2x.
- · T. Roosevelt. 2x.
- · Grover Cleveland. 1x.
- · Truman. 3x.
- · Franklin Theodore Roosevelt. 3x.
- · John Adams. 2x.
- · Nixon. 2x.
- · Eisenhower. 1x.
- · FDR. A lot of times.
- · A creepy old man. 3x.
- · Hay. 2x.
- · Johnson. 0 times. [1]
- · Teddy Roosevelt. 4x.
- · FDR. 2x.
- · Teddy. “Elected in warfare times.”
- · Franklin D. Roosevelt. 4x.
- · F.D.R., 3x.
- · Teddy Roosevelt. 2x.
- · Lyndon Johnson. 2x.
- · Franklin Roosevelt. 4x.
- · Woodrow Wilson. 2x.
- · Ford. 12x. Not.
- · Hamilton. 3x.
- · Nixon. 4x.
- · Jefferson. 2x.
·
Friday, January 28, 2011
Politely Looking Away: Wikileaks and Sneaky Peaks
I just read an article about ROTC students not being allowed to read Wikileaks material. According Col. Charles M. Evans, commanding officer of the 8th Brigade, U.S. Army Cadet Command "using the classified information found on WikiLeaks for research papers, presentations, etc. is prohibited."
As a Professor -- an exceptionally curious one who teaches US Foreign Policy -- I thought I would wildly and vehemently disagree with Col. Evans.
I mean, who is HE to tell students what resources they can use? Who is ANYONE to limit academic inquiry?
Then I turned the question on myself.
When I first heard of Wikileaks, I drooled at the idea of so many raw primary sources waiting to be picked, read, analyzed, contextualized and (insert joyful sigh) synthesized.
I decided I would dive into Wikileaks documents and find a way to make an assignment so that my students (too many of whom think the Taliban, lead by Saddam Hussein, attacked us on 9/11/2001) could dive into the current wars and understand them better.
But despite my early enthusiasm, I still haven't created that assignment, mostly because I can't bring myself to read Wikileaks.
Why? The material there isn't for me.
It isn't for public consumption.
The documents on Wikileaks were stolen from my country, and I feel like reading it would be akin to poking through a neighbor's drawers or going through a student's purse when they leave the room.
Perhaps I'm waiting for the feeling that reading classified state documents is "wrong" to pass.
Until then, I will steadfastly and politely and patriotically continue to avert my eyes.
As a Professor -- an exceptionally curious one who teaches US Foreign Policy -- I thought I would wildly and vehemently disagree with Col. Evans.
I mean, who is HE to tell students what resources they can use? Who is ANYONE to limit academic inquiry?
Then I turned the question on myself.
When I first heard of Wikileaks, I drooled at the idea of so many raw primary sources waiting to be picked, read, analyzed, contextualized and (insert joyful sigh) synthesized.
I decided I would dive into Wikileaks documents and find a way to make an assignment so that my students (too many of whom think the Taliban, lead by Saddam Hussein, attacked us on 9/11/2001) could dive into the current wars and understand them better.
But despite my early enthusiasm, I still haven't created that assignment, mostly because I can't bring myself to read Wikileaks.
Why? The material there isn't for me.
It isn't for public consumption.
The documents on Wikileaks were stolen from my country, and I feel like reading it would be akin to poking through a neighbor's drawers or going through a student's purse when they leave the room.
Perhaps I'm waiting for the feeling that reading classified state documents is "wrong" to pass.
Until then, I will steadfastly and politely and patriotically continue to avert my eyes.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Death, Silk and Dust*
It's an hour before my first lecture and I've been in my office since dawn doing the "things" I do in the morning (write lectures, answer emails, youtube videos).
My door is open for once, so I look up when she walks towards my door.
At first I think its one of my students (what? coming to my office before an exam? really??!) but it's one of our awesome departmental work study students.
I was a work study student in the History Dept at Loyola when I was an undergrad, so I take mentoring work study students seriously.
"I hear you might be mentally unstable today...." she says as she stops in my doorway, smiling face framed by heavy bangs and long hair.
I know exactly what she's talking about.
Earlier this morning as I walked by a huge round planter that I walk by ten times a day and stopped to feel some of the leaves of what I thought was a towering bamboo plant.
It was fake.
It was a fake silk plant, pretending to be bamboo.
Then I felt more leaves and there was definitely a dead bamboo plant in the planter, brown and dried.
On the bottom of the planter, dusty silk plants in purples and greens spilled over.
Mortified, I told the people who NEED to know (and they KNOW who they are) that there is a dead dead plant and a fake plant coexisting in the hallway and everyone is walking by it like it's just FINE to walk by death.
And they laughed.
So I laughed and went back to my office.
That's when she showed up and asked about my mental stability.
"Oh I'm stable, alright. My plants are ALIVE. And I have my new shoes on....don't worry about me! " (I lifted my leg up way above my head so she could appreciate the glory of these black clogs...)
"I guess you're doing fine then," she said before she left.
And that's how my day is going -- the usual mix of laughter, history, death, silk and dust*
My door is open for once, so I look up when she walks towards my door.
At first I think its one of my students (what? coming to my office before an exam? really??!) but it's one of our awesome departmental work study students.
I was a work study student in the History Dept at Loyola when I was an undergrad, so I take mentoring work study students seriously.
"I hear you might be mentally unstable today...." she says as she stops in my doorway, smiling face framed by heavy bangs and long hair.
I know exactly what she's talking about.
Earlier this morning as I walked by a huge round planter that I walk by ten times a day and stopped to feel some of the leaves of what I thought was a towering bamboo plant.
It was fake.
It was a fake silk plant, pretending to be bamboo.
Then I felt more leaves and there was definitely a dead bamboo plant in the planter, brown and dried.
On the bottom of the planter, dusty silk plants in purples and greens spilled over.
Mortified, I told the people who NEED to know (and they KNOW who they are) that there is a dead dead plant and a fake plant coexisting in the hallway and everyone is walking by it like it's just FINE to walk by death.
And they laughed.
So I laughed and went back to my office.
That's when she showed up and asked about my mental stability.
"Oh I'm stable, alright. My plants are ALIVE. And I have my new shoes on....don't worry about me! " (I lifted my leg up way above my head so she could appreciate the glory of these black clogs...)
"I guess you're doing fine then," she said before she left.
And that's how my day is going -- the usual mix of laughter, history, death, silk and dust*
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Last Sunday (Cow Penis) Supper
Sunday went something like this.
I got up super duper early and -- because just this once I finally could -- I went to Publix just as it opened at 7am to do the grocery I've been putting off for over a week.
By 8am I am home again, lugging more meat and fruit and veggies than this house has seen all year. I unload, sort and put things away and settle into a long morning of grading.
Around noon I put a pork tenderloin in the oven and start pots of black beans and rice. Soon enough, the house smells like garlic and love.
When the roast finishes, I take it out and let it rest on the counter.
Zoe takes one look at it, and despite the fact that pork roast is her favorite food, pronounces it is a COW PENIS and she isn't going to eat it.
I try to tell her cows don't have penises. I try to tell her pork isn't cow.
She refuses to listen.
She refuses to even try it.
Zack looks at it (respectfully, and maybe a little awed) shakes his head and refused to even try it.
Fine, fine, I tell her to make herself a sandwich, and that I'm not cooking any more today.
She settles back into Hannah Montana (the LAST ONE EVER) and I finish grading my quizzes.
When I'm all done recording grades, alphabetizing them, and putting them away, I head to the kitchen to try the pork.
It is juicy. It is crispy. It's the best damn pork I ever made, so I declare a small holiday and make myself a sandwich with it on Cuban bread.
It's so good I want to dance while I eat it.
Until about two hours later when I got an outrageously bad feeding, dash to toilet and and throw it up.
Honestly, as far as throwing up goes, that wasn't the worst ever. It was fast and it didn't taste bad at all.
I remember when I was in labor for Zoe and I had just eaten a blueberry donut, then a minute later threw it up and it looked and tasted almost exactly the same. Laughing between contractions I announced that I finally understood why dogs ate their vomit. An hour later, I became a parent, and since then I've been struggling with what to feed myself and my kids.
Zoe stands outside the door while the waves of what I decide are food poisoning roll over me.
She comforts me with her words, and when I stop wretching, admonishes me, saying this is what I get for eating the cow penis.
I'm too tired to fight.
I nap.
Later, Zoe and Zack eat Subway for dinner.
Zoe has her usual 6" turkey with an entire salad on it.
Zack orders a 12' ham sandwich, uncut.
Uncut, I ask him, you sure?
Yes, he said, eyeing his sandwich in front of him.
I want it to be as big as that Cow Penis from earlier today, he says with a big smile.
And now you know exactly when and where and why I gave up on cooking Sunday dinner.
I got up super duper early and -- because just this once I finally could -- I went to Publix just as it opened at 7am to do the grocery I've been putting off for over a week.
By 8am I am home again, lugging more meat and fruit and veggies than this house has seen all year. I unload, sort and put things away and settle into a long morning of grading.
Around noon I put a pork tenderloin in the oven and start pots of black beans and rice. Soon enough, the house smells like garlic and love.
When the roast finishes, I take it out and let it rest on the counter.
Zoe takes one look at it, and despite the fact that pork roast is her favorite food, pronounces it is a COW PENIS and she isn't going to eat it.
I try to tell her cows don't have penises. I try to tell her pork isn't cow.
She refuses to listen.
She refuses to even try it.
Zack looks at it (respectfully, and maybe a little awed) shakes his head and refused to even try it.
Fine, fine, I tell her to make herself a sandwich, and that I'm not cooking any more today.
She settles back into Hannah Montana (the LAST ONE EVER) and I finish grading my quizzes.
When I'm all done recording grades, alphabetizing them, and putting them away, I head to the kitchen to try the pork.
It is juicy. It is crispy. It's the best damn pork I ever made, so I declare a small holiday and make myself a sandwich with it on Cuban bread.
It's so good I want to dance while I eat it.
Until about two hours later when I got an outrageously bad feeding, dash to toilet and and throw it up.
Honestly, as far as throwing up goes, that wasn't the worst ever. It was fast and it didn't taste bad at all.
I remember when I was in labor for Zoe and I had just eaten a blueberry donut, then a minute later threw it up and it looked and tasted almost exactly the same. Laughing between contractions I announced that I finally understood why dogs ate their vomit. An hour later, I became a parent, and since then I've been struggling with what to feed myself and my kids.
Zoe stands outside the door while the waves of what I decide are food poisoning roll over me.
She comforts me with her words, and when I stop wretching, admonishes me, saying this is what I get for eating the cow penis.
I'm too tired to fight.
I nap.
Later, Zoe and Zack eat Subway for dinner.
Zoe has her usual 6" turkey with an entire salad on it.
Zack orders a 12' ham sandwich, uncut.
Uncut, I ask him, you sure?
Yes, he said, eyeing his sandwich in front of him.
I want it to be as big as that Cow Penis from earlier today, he says with a big smile.
And now you know exactly when and where and why I gave up on cooking Sunday dinner.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sweet Solstice Eclipse
What is sweet
about this December eclipse
is that
the darkness
will greedily win
(as agreed)
and cease its surge
to pause in
empty glory.
about this December eclipse
is that
the darkness
will greedily win
(as agreed)
and cease its surge
to pause in
empty glory.
And then
-- every time --
(like hope)
(like faith)
(like love)
the silently strong sunlight
returns and grows.
(like hope)
(like faith)
(like love)
the silently strong sunlight
returns and grows.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Like Stairs Going Up, Up, Up
On the cold morning of my birthday (today) after a warm breakfast with my visiting parents, I throw myself down onto the sofa and curl up under a fuzzy blanket.
“It’s my BIRTHDAY and I have the REMOTE all DAY!” I sing to no one at all because the kids are playing with Lady, a lovely borrowed dog who is with us for the holidays.
As I deliberately enjoy my ritual of flipping through wedding dress shows, WW2 shows, Pawn shows, news shows, home shows, cooking shows and funny animal shows, Zoe leaves the dog and Zack to their game of hide-and-seek and joins me on the sofa.
I sing it again, now that I have someone to listen, “It’s my BIRTHDAY and I have the REMOTE all DAY!”
Zoe smiles at my song and adds, “And you get to see Harry Potter today! Aren’t you exited?”
I mirror her super cheery smile, and in turn she pats me gently like I’m her old lady mother, feeble and frail, then asks, “Is today BETTER than last year’s birthday when a BUG went up your BUTT?”
While I give her question the serious deliberation it requires, Zoe takes the remote control from me without asking, out of habit, and is quickly transfixed, flipping channels. She pulls up my blanket and curls herself under it and around me.
Last year we spent my very cold birthday at Animal Kingdom, and I had a horrible cold and could hardly talk.
I should have stayed home but besides an awful chest shaking throat ripping cough, I felt really fine.
I should have stayed home but besides an awful chest shaking throat ripping cough, I felt really fine.
The highlight of the day was at the 4D show “A Bugs Life” where, after a cool 3D movie, the benches come alive, which I didn’t expect (would you?) and some Disney-imagineered bug went straight up my butt through my coat and my jeans.
In response to this surprise invasion I jumped and shrieked something like " EEEEEEEEP!!," which was so funny I laughed at myself and then started coughing uncontrollably so hard and ugly that people in the rows around me in all directions winced and covered themselves and their children with whatever they could.
Their general reaction would have been considered rude, but as we were in the midst of Spanish Flu Death Watch 2009, I could imagine a few people thinking something along the lines of "Dear Stars Above, oh Why? - oh Why? - oh Why? oh Why Did I Not Pack a Surgical Mask to Wear for this Onslaught of Plague from this Red Coated Blonde Weapon of Biological Destruction??" which made me laugh (and cough) harder, causing the the crowd to stampede worse, grabbing their cameras and running from me like paparazzi in reverse.
It may have only lasted a few minutes but it was the highlight of my birthday and my week, laughing and coughing and being unable to sit down out of fear that damn butt invading butt would rise up again.
In response to this surprise invasion I jumped and shrieked something like " EEEEEEEEP!!," which was so funny I laughed at myself and then started coughing uncontrollably so hard and ugly that people in the rows around me in all directions winced and covered themselves and their children with whatever they could.
Their general reaction would have been considered rude, but as we were in the midst of Spanish Flu Death Watch 2009, I could imagine a few people thinking something along the lines of "Dear Stars Above, oh Why? - oh Why? - oh Why? oh Why Did I Not Pack a Surgical Mask to Wear for this Onslaught of Plague from this Red Coated Blonde Weapon of Biological Destruction??" which made me laugh (and cough) harder, causing the the crowd to stampede worse, grabbing their cameras and running from me like paparazzi in reverse.
It may have only lasted a few minutes but it was the highlight of my birthday and my week, laughing and coughing and being unable to sit down out of fear that damn butt invading butt would rise up again.
“That was a good time. Today is better.” I answer Zoe's question, warm with certainty. It’s been an excellent, excellent year and even better year is coming around the corner, like stairs going up, up, up, of that I am sure,.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Motherhood's Silent Sacrifices....
I spent the morning walking around the house like the anti-Santa, tossing crayons rumpled papers and wrappers into a large used Target shopping bag.I did laundry, mopped and vacuumed around kids who ignored me except for turning up the volume on iCarly.
I'm not complaining about cleaning; I do it in a cute apron wearing heels (for "exercise") and playing Pandora on my iPhone.
The real sacrifice came today after laundry, after dishes, after making beds, when I cleaned out the Freezer.
A single ice cream sandwich sat alone in it's box, the sole survivor of a slumber party feeding frenzy.
As a good (sacrificing) Mother, I took it upon myself to do the right thing with that poor grenade of a single ice cream sandwich -- eat it.
I'm not complaining about cleaning; I do it in a cute apron wearing heels (for "exercise") and playing Pandora on my iPhone.
The real sacrifice came today after laundry, after dishes, after making beds, when I cleaned out the Freezer.
A single ice cream sandwich sat alone in it's box, the sole survivor of a slumber party feeding frenzy.
As a good (sacrificing) Mother, I took it upon myself to do the right thing with that poor grenade of a single ice cream sandwich -- eat it.
Quickly, silently, diligently, hiding in the kitchen like the out-numbered underarmed peacemaker that I am, I savored each sweet creamy bite of wisdom and peace.
I had no choice.
The kids would soon find it together during an iCarly iCommercial break snack-hunt and fight over who would get the last one.
No ice cream sandwich meant no fight, I thought, and no fight means peace love and weekend happiness in the house.
No ice cream sandwich meant no fight, I thought, and no fight means peace love and weekend happiness in the house.
I washed the chocolate stickiness off my hands, then folded the empty box and stuffed it into the big red bag of trash, then silently prayed to again and again be allowed to sacrifice myself this way as an instrument of peace.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
7 Holiday Guests
On Thanksgiving, the official start to the holiday season (which, in my mind, ends around the 4th of July) I get the impression these crazy people want me to cook for them.
I can't cook until the house is bleached down clean, and I don't feel like cleaning because, well, I'm the Mom and I say so.
Anyway, I have something more important to do – I have to warn you about the 7 guests that will be visiting you this long Thanksgiving Weekend.
Shopping. She might've hit your house three weeks ago, when someone went through recipes and "planned."
Maybe it will hit at noon when you race to that only place which is open to find that one thing you didn't get. For some people (the crazy ones we read about, the list-making planning people) She is a regular invited guest during the cold predawn hours.
To be brutally honest, I was hoping Shopping wouldn't stop by this year, and when she called me at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving my stomach hurt as I drove to Publix expecting it to be a loud bright crowded holiday nightmare.
It was quiet and empty. In less than 20 minutes, I got everything I needed for under $100 and was out the door. I enjoyed my time with Shopping and I hope she comes back to visit soon.
Cleaning. It's inevitable she's coming by, so you might as well prepare. She can sometimes be a bitch and try to keep you distracted all day (all week!) so watch out.
Before she arrives, set a timer for 30 minutes and get ready to work. Spray her favorite perfume around (Clorox Cleanup), clean off a few counters and toss some laundry in the wash. Or at least kick it completely under the sofa.
Take clutter off the refrigerator, sweep the Legos into the shoebox science project and put it all in the closet where you keep your board games (the ones with the missing pieces).
To make sure Cleaning doesn't stay all day and drive you crazy, I suggest you turn on some music and introduce her to your family and friends if at all possible. With all that attention, Cleaning gets all shy and slips away. (Then the fun begins).
Regret. He is going to show up, so be ready.
Maybe he will give you a surprise and unwelcome bear hug after you ate that last piece of pie standing up in the kitchen with your back to the chaos.
Maybe he will bring up the grief you hoped wouldn't visit today, reminding you of loved ones you can't see.
Perhaps he will just punch you in the arm and say "you deserve something so much better."
Hopefully he will not bring his favorite date, Punishment, because when they arrive together their idea of a good time is ruining the holiday for the rest of the guests.
You have two options when Regret inevitably arrives. 1) Spray Clorox Cleanup right into his (inviOn Thanksgiving, the official start to the holiday season (which, in my mind, ends around the 4th of July) I get the impression these crazy people want me to cook for them.
I can't cook until the house is bleached down clean, and I don't feel like cleaning because, well, I'm the Mom and I say so. And really, I can't clean this house (why should I?) until I write this story and tell you Happy Thanksgiving.
7 Holiday Guests that Will Visit Everyone Thanksgiving Long Weekend.
Shopping. This might've hit your house three weeks ago, when someone went through recipes and "planned."
Maybe it will hit at noon when you race to that only place which is open to find that one thing you didn't get.
For some people (the crazy ones we read about, the list-making planning people) it hits extra hard in the predawn hours.
To be brutally honest, I was hoping Shopping wouldn't stop by this year, and when she called me at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving my stomach hurt as I drove to Publix expecting it to be a loud bright crowded holiday nightmare.
It was quiet and empty. In less than 20 minutes, I got everything I needed for under $100 and was out the door.
I enjoyed my time with Shopping and I hope she comes back to visit soon.
Cleaning. It's inevitable she's coming by, so you might as well prepare. She can sometimes be a bitch and try to keep you distracted all day, so watch out.
Before she arrives, set a timer for 30 minutes and get ready to work. Spray her favorite perfume around (Clorox Cleanup), clean off a few counters and toss some laundry in the wash. Or at least kick it completely under the sofa. Take clutter off the refrigerator, sweep the Legos into the shoebox science project and put it all in the closet where you keep your board games (the ones with the missing pieces).
To make sure Cleaning doesn't stay all day and drive you crazy, I suggest you turn on some music and introduce her to your family and friends if at all possible. With all that attention, Cleaning gets all shy and slips away. (Then the fun begins).
Regret. He is going to show up, so be ready.
Maybe he will give you a surprise and unwelcome bear hug after you ate that last piece of pie standing up in the kitchen with your back to the chaos.
Maybe he will bring up the grief you hoped wouldn't visit today, reminding you of loved ones you can't see.
Perhaps he will just punch you in the arm and say "you deserve something so much better."
Hopefully he will not bring his favorite date, Punishment, because when they arrive together their idea of a good time is ruining the holiday for the rest of the guests.
Regret is a greedy and selfish guest who pleasures in taking you out of the moment. Unless this sounds like your idea of Holiday Fun, you have two options when Regret inevitably arrives. 1) Spray Clorox Cleanup right into his (invisible) eyes and chant three times "be gone!" or -- and this is the one I'd suggest 2) take a nice deep breath of the air that you actually live in. As you exhale yourself back into reality, Regret should start taking a hint.
Dancing and/or Football: While there is a .001% chance Dancing will bring her friend Romance and visit you under the moonlight, I promise Dancing (and/or Football) will visit you this holiday weekend.
Hopefully no one gets hurt.
Celebration. The Guest of Honor, Celebration rare arrives on cue.
She might come early, at the airport, in a tearful hug.
She could hug you when that awesome dress zips up.
She might show up late, when “they” packup and finally leave.
On a rare lucky occasion, she will show up at the meal intended for her.
If you recognize her and call her by name when you see her, Celebration will make herself a constant companion.
Generosity. Generosity is a shape-shifting guest who likes to disguise himself in gestures of patience and hospitality.
Make sure to leave extra room for him because Generosity’s constant companion is Gratitude.
Silence. The guest few people expect visits everyone, every year, and many of them dread it.
Sometimes she visits everyone at once, covering the table with an awkward stillness.
She may swing by when they all leave and you feel alone. (Please don’t take the wine if she offers).
She might be sitting on your chest when you wake up, alone.
When she comes to visit this year, please don’t be a rude host and shoo Silence away, because she’s just trying to introduce you to her best friend, Peace.
Happy Thanksgiving*
(I better start cooking now)
I can't cook until the house is bleached down clean, and I don't feel like cleaning because, well, I'm the Mom and I say so.
Anyway, I have something more important to do – I have to warn you about the 7 guests that will be visiting you this long Thanksgiving Weekend.
Shopping. She might've hit your house three weeks ago, when someone went through recipes and "planned."
Maybe it will hit at noon when you race to that only place which is open to find that one thing you didn't get. For some people (the crazy ones we read about, the list-making planning people) She is a regular invited guest during the cold predawn hours.
To be brutally honest, I was hoping Shopping wouldn't stop by this year, and when she called me at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving my stomach hurt as I drove to Publix expecting it to be a loud bright crowded holiday nightmare.
It was quiet and empty. In less than 20 minutes, I got everything I needed for under $100 and was out the door. I enjoyed my time with Shopping and I hope she comes back to visit soon.
Cleaning. It's inevitable she's coming by, so you might as well prepare. She can sometimes be a bitch and try to keep you distracted all day (all week!) so watch out.
Before she arrives, set a timer for 30 minutes and get ready to work. Spray her favorite perfume around (Clorox Cleanup), clean off a few counters and toss some laundry in the wash. Or at least kick it completely under the sofa.
Take clutter off the refrigerator, sweep the Legos into the shoebox science project and put it all in the closet where you keep your board games (the ones with the missing pieces).
To make sure Cleaning doesn't stay all day and drive you crazy, I suggest you turn on some music and introduce her to your family and friends if at all possible. With all that attention, Cleaning gets all shy and slips away. (Then the fun begins).
Regret. He is going to show up, so be ready.
Maybe he will give you a surprise and unwelcome bear hug after you ate that last piece of pie standing up in the kitchen with your back to the chaos.
Maybe he will bring up the grief you hoped wouldn't visit today, reminding you of loved ones you can't see.
Perhaps he will just punch you in the arm and say "you deserve something so much better."
Hopefully he will not bring his favorite date, Punishment, because when they arrive together their idea of a good time is ruining the holiday for the rest of the guests.
You have two options when Regret inevitably arrives. 1) Spray Clorox Cleanup right into his (inviOn Thanksgiving, the official start to the holiday season (which, in my mind, ends around the 4th of July) I get the impression these crazy people want me to cook for them.
I can't cook until the house is bleached down clean, and I don't feel like cleaning because, well, I'm the Mom and I say so. And really, I can't clean this house (why should I?) until I write this story and tell you Happy Thanksgiving.
7 Holiday Guests that Will Visit Everyone Thanksgiving Long Weekend.
Shopping. This might've hit your house three weeks ago, when someone went through recipes and "planned."
Maybe it will hit at noon when you race to that only place which is open to find that one thing you didn't get.
For some people (the crazy ones we read about, the list-making planning people) it hits extra hard in the predawn hours.
To be brutally honest, I was hoping Shopping wouldn't stop by this year, and when she called me at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving my stomach hurt as I drove to Publix expecting it to be a loud bright crowded holiday nightmare.
It was quiet and empty. In less than 20 minutes, I got everything I needed for under $100 and was out the door.
I enjoyed my time with Shopping and I hope she comes back to visit soon.
Cleaning. It's inevitable she's coming by, so you might as well prepare. She can sometimes be a bitch and try to keep you distracted all day, so watch out.
Before she arrives, set a timer for 30 minutes and get ready to work. Spray her favorite perfume around (Clorox Cleanup), clean off a few counters and toss some laundry in the wash. Or at least kick it completely under the sofa. Take clutter off the refrigerator, sweep the Legos into the shoebox science project and put it all in the closet where you keep your board games (the ones with the missing pieces).
To make sure Cleaning doesn't stay all day and drive you crazy, I suggest you turn on some music and introduce her to your family and friends if at all possible. With all that attention, Cleaning gets all shy and slips away. (Then the fun begins).
Regret. He is going to show up, so be ready.
Maybe he will give you a surprise and unwelcome bear hug after you ate that last piece of pie standing up in the kitchen with your back to the chaos.
Maybe he will bring up the grief you hoped wouldn't visit today, reminding you of loved ones you can't see.
Perhaps he will just punch you in the arm and say "you deserve something so much better."
Hopefully he will not bring his favorite date, Punishment, because when they arrive together their idea of a good time is ruining the holiday for the rest of the guests.
Regret is a greedy and selfish guest who pleasures in taking you out of the moment. Unless this sounds like your idea of Holiday Fun, you have two options when Regret inevitably arrives. 1) Spray Clorox Cleanup right into his (invisible) eyes and chant three times "be gone!" or -- and this is the one I'd suggest 2) take a nice deep breath of the air that you actually live in. As you exhale yourself back into reality, Regret should start taking a hint.
Dancing and/or Football: While there is a .001% chance Dancing will bring her friend Romance and visit you under the moonlight, I promise Dancing (and/or Football) will visit you this holiday weekend.
Hopefully no one gets hurt.
Celebration. The Guest of Honor, Celebration rare arrives on cue.
She might come early, at the airport, in a tearful hug.
She could hug you when that awesome dress zips up.
She might show up late, when “they” packup and finally leave.
On a rare lucky occasion, she will show up at the meal intended for her.
If you recognize her and call her by name when you see her, Celebration will make herself a constant companion.
Generosity. Generosity is a shape-shifting guest who likes to disguise himself in gestures of patience and hospitality.
Make sure to leave extra room for him because Generosity’s constant companion is Gratitude.
Silence. The guest few people expect visits everyone, every year, and many of them dread it.
Sometimes she visits everyone at once, covering the table with an awkward stillness.
She may swing by when they all leave and you feel alone. (Please don’t take the wine if she offers).
She might be sitting on your chest when you wake up, alone.
When she comes to visit this year, please don’t be a rude host and shoo Silence away, because she’s just trying to introduce you to her best friend, Peace.
Happy Thanksgiving*
(I better start cooking now)
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