The Unbearable Itch

Almost three weeks after getting back from Cuba and I'm miserable with this awful unrelenting invisible itch that is making a bear to be around.

The shape and texture and pacing of next book "No Island is an Island" is bothering me like an unbeatable itch in my mind.

I try to watch Dance Moms in peace and feel guilty so I write a chapter and sketch out two more.

I try to watch all three Army Wives on On Demand but I can't bear sitting still that long and falling into other stories.  I pull out the nearest pen and a scrap piece of paper and outline another chapter but that isn't enough. I can't just sit on the sofa or make small talk or even read a book.

The itch won't let me.


So I'm scratching this nasty itch one chapter at a time, one story at a time, until someone finds a better cure for this writing disease.

More History, Less Garlic

More History, Less Garlic

ALl the talk around here is about pending Legislation that would bring sweeping changes to GenEd curriculum in Florida colleges. 

The "new core" would be 5 classes: one each in Humanities, Science, Math, Communications and Social Science. 

Right now, TCC students need 2 Communications, 2 Math, 2 Science, 2 History,  1 Social Science of their choice and a Constitution class plus electives and any prerequisites for their 4 year major.

While Lisa and I were eating buttery bread in the faculty room looking over a copy of the legislation I suddenly considered that these changes -- going from 2 required History classes to ZERO- would affect our staffing now and in the immediate future. 

I don't want to be voted off this happy college island. I like it here. 

l ask a Dept Chair who wanders into the room to make some copies if he foresaw massive layoffs in the near future and he waves off my crazy thought of impending doom and pink slips and a world without History.

Lisa and I leave the room satisfied and she adds, "This worrying is not like you, Ms. Positive"

I agree, and offer to worry about something more relevant, like skin cancer. 

Lisa shakes that off and then I'm quiet enough to notice the wonderful taste still lingering from the bread and butter in the faculty room.

"Was that garlic butter?" I ask Lisa and she says no, it was the wonderful bread that had garlic cloves baked in.

I go back for another piece and ony worry for a second if I wil smell like Olive Garden during today's lecture. 

Then I don't care, and get back to looking for interesting things to write about.

No Island is an Island: Chapter 3: Machete and No Spaghetti

As we prepared ourselves to leave the small airport I was prepared for the worst.  I was ready to shove down my claustrophobia and endure a tiny tight tincan car crammed with people racing on bumpy roads.

The Universe laughed at my fears and instead sent me a safe ride in an airconditioned KIA minivan, escorted by a driver named Machete.

My Dad met Machete last year when Mom brought him with her to Cienfuegos. On the drive to the airport, back in America this morning, my Dad warned me to tell Machete that I was NOT going to be his wife #8.

I didn't say that to this nice man of course, and not even because my Spanish is Spanglish and it could have come out like a blustering proposal instead, but because I was far too busy  gawking out the window into the strange dark city that looked like Miami's quieter darker sister who never recovered from some devastating tragedy.

Machete slowed the KIA on the smooth narrow road to show me we were going  around a horse drawn carriage in the nearly-empty dark road.  This carriage was not like the ones you'd see tourists on in the French Quarter. This was like 1850. The back of the carriage was lit with a little pot of fire, like sterno. I was delighted. On the short drive to the airport we passed a total of eleven horse drawn carriages before pulling up to the hotel.

The first thing I noticed about the hotel wasn't the hotel but the humongous tourist tourbus we pulled up behind. It was a tall high new airconditioned bus that looked decidedly European to me, which again, was odd since there were no bridges between Cuba and France or Norway (yet).  I guess that bus sailed over on a ship and was exiled in Cuba and the driver was king of these streets, playing chicken with horses and winning.

Seeing bus shook me out of my insultingly low expectations for Cuba.

It's not my fault I expected Cuba to be a hungry, sad, uncomfortable place.

My Dad prepared me for not-great food, warning me that all I'd eat was pizza.

He told me there was no spaghetti in Cuba and the chicken tasted funny to him.

 I passed this by my Cuban friend at the airport and she agreed, adding that Cuba exports all her chicken breasts, so the people only eat dark meat. If they can get meat. And keep it cold. Which is another story entirely.

Before we go further in this story, let me remind you I know my Cuban History and have transcripts and degrees to prove it.  I know the History of the Cuban Revolution and I know (ok, I "believe") that in the fury of her nationalistic revolution that unfolded during the bigger context of Cold War, Cuba made an awful mistake and married the wrong partner, the one that would leave her poor and lonely when he pulled out in the early 1990s.

I knew there would be shortages so I packed peanut butter crackers and a good disposition.

 I was ready for fleabag hotel that had a dripping roof and apoplectic electricity and I'm sure I didn't even hide my shock when we walked into a delightful, open and clean lobby that had computers and happy people.

After checking in, we brought our huge bags upstairs and came down to have dinner with my new family who I was still meeting.   A tuxedoed waiter leads us to a round linen covered table in a high ceilinged dining room. Around the table sat my Abuela's niece, her husband, her grandson and a guy I decide must be her daughter's husband.

None of them speak English so I do my best smalltalk in Spanish and let my Mom help me through the more complicated thoughts. The waiter brings menus that are in Spanish and English, as though they'd been expecting me.


There is paella, seafood dinners, steak dinners and pasta dishes.

My Cuban family each ordered paella, and when it was my turn, I asked for a bowl of pasta.

The tuxedoed waiter shrugs helplessly. No spaghetti today.

My dad warned me about this, so I look for pizza on the menu.

Nope.  Mom and I order a  tuna sandwich to split between us. We nibble at the fries and drink cold wine and let our guests feast.

After that, when I thought it was time to go to bed, to finally think about all that I saw and maybe write it down, my Mom announced she was taking us all to the 4th floor to the roof so I could finally see Cienfuegos.

Spring Break

 Within a week of my return from Cuba the kids are sick of me speaking Spanish, sick of my inability to talk without using my hands, and above all, they are sick and tired and tired and sick of hearing about how good they have it here in the land of Target, Chikfila, tampons and car insurance.

I went to Cuba during *my* Spring Break (yes, Mommy has Spring Break, and my kids think this is normal) and now that my kids are on their Spring Break, I have to teach all week.

This is not awful work but it means no extended visit to the beach or to wherever.

No big deal, right?

Instead of paying $250 in hotel, $100 in gas, $300 in food (

No Island is An Island* Chapter 2: Miss Cienfuegos

Thanks to years of practicing our line-maneuvering skills at Walt Disney World, my Mom and I are among the first to leave the airport.

We open a small, opaque door and on the other side find ourselves facing a large, restrained, tame mob.

 I follow my Mom into the crowd keeping my eyes down a little because I didn't exactly know who to look for. The faces look familiar, not because I know them, but because they could be anywhere I've been.

A woman with warm brown eyes hugs me.

She feels like my Abuela, and I realize this is Abuela's niece. 

I hug and kiss her and the men she brings me to meet and I say the right things, the same things I would say if introduced in the US, except I have to speak Spanish and I'm wearing flat shoes.

Hola! (hug, turn to kiss, kiss other cheek) Mucho gusto! Encantada!

A beautiful woman presses wrapped flowers into my arms and I can't help myself but laugh with delight over being so welcomed and proclaim that Abuelo always wanted me to be "Miss Cienfuegos" and here I am. We laugh and quickly I  feel at home.

Except at home I wouldn't get flowers and of course at home there aren't names with all these "Y's" everywhere.

 When the Soviet influence arrived in Cuba in 1960, the Soviets spelled Cuba "KYBA," introducing the awesome letter "y" to Cuba, where it then popped up in a generation of names including but not limited to Yamila, Yaisy, Ygor, Yvan, Yasser, Yoana, Joelvys, Yesidria, Mayulis and Mariselysis.

In the quiet that comes as we join the crowd to wait patiently for the gifts and people coming off the plane from Miami, I take a deep breath.

The heavy wet Caribbean air feels the same in Cuba as it does in South Florida.

I look up at the inky night. Same stars, same clouds.

Maybe Cuba isn't that different, not anymore, I wonder for a second and that thought stays with me until I turn and look around me some more and see a fat roll of sharp shiny barbed wire lines menacingly tangled on and around the roof of the airport.  

Chapter #1: Welcome to Cienfuegos, Cuba. Now LEAVE.

I thought I would write and write while I was in Cuba, but instead I took a thousand pictures and found answers to questions I would never have thought to ask. In those pictures  I found a clue and a hint to a piece of history that tracked down mercilessly like the Da Vinci code, and until  found the answer -- or  rather, the answer found me.

Now that I know the answer and can promise you this story makes a perfect circle (which maybe translates to “round trip” - “ida y vuelta”) I can tuck your arm under mine and pull you close so I can escort you Cuban style down through my recollection of three short days there. 

*****

On the day that my Mom and I leave for Cienfuegos, the flight is delayed enough that we make long tales of small talk with other travellers.

The conversation started at Cafe Versailles, where I shamelessly told on my father for trying to order the dessert “cascas (shells) de guayaba” and instead ordering “cacas (yes, that’s right, turds) de guayaba.” 

My new friend offers that when she first came the US from Spain she tried to order something at a drive-thru, and when they asked what she’d like to drink, my friend answered, “Please give me a Coke.”  

They asked her to repeat herself, so she did.

And they laughed at her, and she didn’t know why, but she was hungry and thirsty and she wanted her freaking drink so she said it again and again, “GIVE ME A COKE. I WANT A COKE!”

Only, the way she was saying “Coke” didn’t sound very American because the word coming from her mouth rhymed perfectly with “rock” and “dock.” 

 I have no story about myself to offer, but still we fill the time with stories in and about Spanglish, waiting for our flight to Cienfuegos. 

The flight itself on a chartered 737 was unremarkable. 

Finally when we arrived in Cienfuegos my Mom guarded me closely, making sure I had my papers out and ready.  The nice man stamped my papers and buzzer went off and I pushed a door and it was official. I was in Cuba. 

 I stand mute and still transfixed by the site of the staff at the Cienfuegos airport. The female wand-waving security attendants wore khaki uniforms that included short skirts and rose-patterned black fishnet stockings and heels. 

I can’t stop staring, I think I might be in a bad movie. 

My mom nudges me and without my asking she says, “That’s their uniforms, now put your bag here....”

 I follow my mom through the metal-detector thing and am pulled to the side by an authoritative figure despite her rose-patterned-fishnet-stocking. 

She runs the wand over me and tells me something about a “vuelta” which brings tears to my eyes as words race through my less-than-bilingual mind. 

“Ida y Vuelta” means round-trip.

“Vuelta” means return.  

She’s telling me to get back on my plane and leave for America.

I'm sure I've been rejected by the Cubans in record time and a little bit if me wonders if I shouldn't have worn a cute dress and strappy heels instead of the plain jeans and flats my mom encouraged me to wear.

I step back and look for where to exit Cuba, the country I hardly got to see. 

Three sets of hands seize me and now I’m scared.

I realize I’m not leaving Cuba, I’m going to jail in Cuba.

 My great-uncle spent 17 years in Cuban jails. 

He told me they beat him all the time and all they had to eat was egg shells. 

Egg shells and beatings and wearing flat shoes. This sucks. 

I hear a thousand political voices in my head popping  saying, “I told you so! I told you not to go to Cuba! I knew something would happen! You're not in the US so you're not safe!”

Then my Mom says loudly and in plain English, “Turn around so the lady can wand you and we can get out of of this airport!”

Oh. I guess “vuelta” means “turn around.”   

Yes, yes of course it does. 

And if I hadn’t been listening and had just done what I do in the US -- and what everyone else was doing in Cuba -- my mascara wouldn’t be running. 

Nevermind,  I act all cool and let her wand me and then off I go, into Cuba, a little turned around, and with the first of a hundred new stories to tell. 

Mouths Wide Shut

 Subtitle: Hamster's Big Night Out

In the dream I was a passenger riding in the front seat of an unfamiliar dark small low car.

The driver was angry at something and we were going fast, too fast.

After taking a turn almost-too-fast, he plowed us into the back of a car which then hit another car and another car like dominoes.  As the crash unfolded, the  dashboard pushed onto me impossibly slowly but so fast I couldn’t beat it. 

Then it was completely covering me, unseparate from me.

I didn’t scream.

I felt no pain.

Don’t ask me where the dream went from there because something was tugging at the back of my neck.

 That should not be happening, I thought and tried to fall back asleep.

 Then felt it again, something small burrowing though and into my hair, having some sort of happy kicking twisting festival right next to my neck.

Still  dream-numb I reached up and grabbed it and threw it down.

Having done that I realized that OH MY GOD I JUST GRABBED SOMETHING FROM MY HAIR AND THREW IT DOWN.

 But I don’t scream. I’m not a screamer. I grab my phone and use it like a flashlight, searching under be bed.

There, next to two of Zack’s rolled up socks (ah ha! found some!)  two beady eyes stared up at me. Relieved that it really was “something” I sit back on the bed and scrunch my eyes up trying to remember my dream and I can’t.

The light on my phone turns off.  I wake up a little more and realize I’m the Mom. I can’t just sit here and let hair partying rodents roam this house.

The universe sends me the courage to look the beast in the eye again, or at least, look to see if it has a tail before grabbing for it.

If it has a tail, it’s a rat or a mouse or some other rabid stranger. If it doesn’t, it must be our hamster having a fantastic adventure that will be cut short due to his bad judgement.

The light flash under the bed confirms the offender is our the renegade hamster.
 I pick it up and wrap it in the bottom of my shirt.

 It kicks hard and I soothe it, now laughing at it’s audacity at breaking out of his home, descending from a high perch, and -- out of every room in this awesome house -- picking my hair as his destination.  

As I tiptoe across the living room I hear, “You carried me out here?” and drop the hamster from my shirt.

Am I asleep?

Did the hamster talk?

 Please tell me this isn’t how Alvin started.

The mute hamster stares up at me, startled and tired.

 I reach down for him and look to the sofa where Zoe is buried under a pile of comforters.

"No," I tell her. "You fell asleep there watching Dance Moms and I left you."

Oh, she exhales and gets up to walk to her room.

I recount the hamster’s audacious hair attack while tucking her in.

As she falls asleep in her bed Zoe mumbles, “That tiny little guy really crossed this whole house and found you on your pillow. I’m glad he went into your hair and not.... somewhere else.  I hope you learn to sleep with your mouth shut....”

In the silence after that, I shiver a little, then get up and re-check the hamster’s cage before I can fall back asleep and into a gentler dream.


____________________________


 Remember this one? http://www.melissalaughing.com/2006/06/click-click-scratch.html

Potatoes Past the Hour

She feels better, I think.

After 8 days of fever and couch-laying and moaning Zoe seemed almost herself tonight.

I wanted to be gentle on her stomach so I baked potatoes for dinner.

I made the first potato for her, peeling it and smashing it and butter-salt-stirring it just right in a shallow wide red bowl.

 She ate it happily and neatly, and then got up to prepare herself a second potato.

She tried smashing her potato with a spoon, which just won't work.

She doesn't ask for help, but I can't help myself.

Standing next to her I notice (and then try to forget) that she is almost as tall as I am, and any minute any breath she will tower over me.

"You need a fork for smashing the potatoes just right....  and then you need to get a thin thin thin slick of butter so it melts quickly and after that you add two shakes of salt and....."

My daughter interrupts me to proclaim, "This is wonderful! This is art! You are a potato artist!; You should have your own cooking show on HGTV! Potatoes Past the Hour with Melissa... or Cooking with the Potato Dr... or...." she stops and thinks of something else, and I interrupt her for a reality intervention.

"I will not cook on TV, never never never, not on your life," I snap (gently?) but she ignores my protest and gets her brother to join her on a tangent inventing catchy potato show titles.

It seems like she feels better, like she conquered the virus and she's back.

Boundaries

Zack stopped me from grading to ask if I wanted to see his "boundaries.

I laid the stack if papers aside and followed him to his cookie cake.

"I marked my boundaries. All the cake inside the candles is mine. The rest is for anyone else."

My Night in Paris.

I dreamed it was dark cold drizzly night in Paris and I was in a hotel suite looking out the window enjoying the city lights and peopLe.
I do not answer the phone.

I ignore the knocks.

Soon enough the quiet returned.

I stay by the chilly window peacefully enjoying the view and trying to remember something.
Something.
What?
I wake up enough to remember what it was.
I still don't have a passport and also apparently I don't have a secretary who will help me with it.
For less than a minute I focus on reasons I'm sure I totally can have a successful happy complete life without ever leaving the US, but I was too tired to lie to myself very creatively so I let it go.
After that, I stayed awake, unable to slip back legally into my own quiet Paris night.

Catch 22

And then last night she blurted it out, trying to make me understand.

"Daddy feeds us much better because he feeds us what we LIKE, not what we ask for...."

Having explained that, she walked away, unburdened, unaware she'd give me a great excuse to never spend a half hour hunting for spare change from my car and the bottom of my purse to buy her a frappaccino again, no matter how much she begs.

Caribbean Escape

Today after school I turned my back for one minute, noticed "it was too quiet" and found Zack sitting outside pounding an aerosol can with a hammer and a screwdriver trying to find out what was inside and how it emitted that wonderful chemical cocktail room spray "Caribbean Escape."

Squatted down right outside the door and laser focused on his task, he reminded me of my brother and I using a similar tactic to crack open orphan coconuts. 

There may or may not have been a machete involved.

I'd like to think my parents were too on top of things to leave us with a machete.

I stopped Zack before what I imagine was going to be mid-scale chemical explosion and redirected his attention to something super special that he loves more than science -- I brought him to the kitchen and wordlessly pointed at the floor.  

His eyes lit up, and I nodded. 

Yes, yes you can swiffer, I told him, and hugged myself with realization that in this one single day I both saved my son's life and I would have a clean floor.  

Before I could get too smug I tiptoed over the wet floor and hid Zack's hammer and screwdriver above the refrigerator, behind the leftover Christmas candy, saying a silent prayer that I might remember -- for once -- where I put them.

That Awkward Pause

We are at Chickfila for our Friday treat.  Last week it was Zoe's turn to choose - Zack wanted Chickfila, Zoe wanted Subway, we ended up at Wendy's.

It was a fiasco.

This time things were going well.

We settle down and while I'm drawing a line of ketchup on my beautiful golden waffle fry, Zack punches the peace with an accusation towards his sister, "I thought you HATED this place...."

She exhales, squares her shoulders and (I can tell) is ready to fight back.

 I stop her and him from going any further with a wave of my lemonade.

"That's how she felt last Friday. And this is how she feels today. People are always changing, and the things they like change too. That's life, you have to let people change and grow, you have to expect them to have new feelings and want new things....."

Both kids stare at me in an extended awkward silence.

"It sounds like I'm breaking up with you both, doesn't it?"

Zoe nods.

 I pop my perfectly ketchuped waffle fry into my mouth and tell them not worry about me breaking up with them, not today at least.

Mall Mom

We are home in a quiet house after a 24 hour romp of pizza, sleepover and a trip to the mall where Zoe wanted me to let her roam the mall with her friend and be given a large fat wad of cash from some stash she imagines I have access to.

At the mall I ignore their request to "pretend I didn't know them" and stuck to them like glue, trailing them quietly (it killed me), standing at the back of awkwardly dark, loud stores cheered on silently by my facebook friends.

I was on my Best Behavior.

For an Entire Day.

Now, home and back to normal, I feel rested up enough to torture her like a good mother should, especially now that she has no witnesses or allies.

"Zoe! You forgot to put sweetner in my coffee!"

I get up off the sofa's warm hug and walk to the kitchen where she says (after a sensible pause) "I didn't make you coffee, Mom..."

I shake two packets into my hot coffee with my back to her and remind her sweetly, "You're right. You didn't even offer to make your sweet mother coffee. And now you feel AWFUL for not doing more for me after ALL I've done for you. I *forgive* you."

She rolls her eyes and I kiss her on the forehead before returning to the warm deep sofa, planning my next move.

Cupcakes and Tequila

Before it gets darker and I (again) don't stay up until midnight, while I sit here with my good friends (cupcakes and tequila) I'm working on my 2012 resolutions.

This is what I have so far:

More air, more sunshine.

Less cupcakes, less tequila.

More travel, less shyness.

More kindness, more salads.

More sunscreen, more walks.

More calls and letters to my 91 year old Abuelo.

Less TV (except for Jersey Shore, which starts January 5*)

More laughter, more stories.

A Rock Waits in Cuba

Today I applied for my first passport so that I can go to Cuba with my Mom, just like I promised at the end of Marvin's Book. Its in writing,  it is published.  I absolutely have to do it. 

 In the past two years I have seen the invisible wall separating us from Cuba crumble, and the scholar and historian and storyteller in me should be drooling over the opportunity to take part in and write about this moment in history but I'm not entirely ready.

The idea of being So Far Away makes my stomach hurt.

Except for my two year exile in the Great Mountains of Far Far Away Colorado and maybe a few trips across the border to Georgia, I'm not much of a traveler. When I do travel, it to places where there are fireworks, ChikFilA, Princesses and Monorails. 

I can't expect that in Cuba. I'm not sure if my blowdryer will work (if not, can I use my straightener? is there a Plan C for hair?) and  I don't think my iPhone will be able to generate my soothing Pandora nighttime channel.

 I'm scared.

But I'm going to go to Cuba, anyway.

I have a story to tell for my Abuela (and for you) and although I already know most of what I want and need to say, there is something I need to see.  There is a rock, a magic rock in Cuba and I know where it is.

I have to see it, it calls to me, laughingly. 


So today after stalling hour hours by sinking into episodes of Pawn Stars and Storage Wars, I turned on my computer and applied for my passport online.

At least, I filled out the form online.


Now I have to print it out, and in order to do that I have to set up the still-in-the-box wireless printer that Psychic Santa sent me, along with a pack of white paper.

And in order of set up the new printer I need to clear a great space for it, and to do that I have to tackle cleaning this post-Christmas house, do a few loads of  laundry, and while the laundry is rolling I should drag the kids to the grocery, then when I get home, cook and then clean some more.

But after all that, I'll set up the printer and print it out my passport application.

And then, I'll have to take a passport picture.

And actually go somewhere to hand this form in.

Maybe I haven't actually applied for my passport YET but I've taken the first step - I've started on my start to see the rock that waits patiently for me in Cuba. 

Now Can I Open a "Real" Present?

Zack hugged himself on the sofa, rolling and moaning. "I don't feel gooooood," he whined, making sure he had my attention.

It's hard to stop my pre-Christmas momentum -- it's Christmas Eve, I have to clean everything up so that we can mess it all up tomorrow -- but it's the holidays so I find a way to roll myself into park and settle next to my little guy on the kitchen sofa.

Poor guy, of course he's feeling  sick.

He was up half the night asking if it was Christmas Eve YET.  Around 6:15 he finally got out of bed (and got me out of bed) egging himself on by this inflated expectation of getting a gush of joy from  opening a gift ANY GIFT today.

 I stalled him until about 7am, but but soon enough he ripped into a present and  for about three minutes it was enough for him to parade around in his awesome new pirate socks.

After that wore off (and while my first cup of coffee was still mostly full, and also still very warm) he looked up at me and asked if he could please now open a REAL present.

Right. I knew that would happen.

Before "Just one present?" became "just one more?"  I packed both kids off for a romp to the mall.

In case you were ever afraid of going to the mall on Christmas Eve, let me tell you, it was tranquil and empty. As late as 10am there were only tiny threads of quiet people wandering among the shops. outnumbered by with bright eyed employees.

The entire trip was uneventful except for the part where Zack set an alarm off on a display while playing with a smartphone. The staff pulled out keys and cheerfully turned the horrendous beeeeeep off and consoled my sobbing red-faced son that this happens "all the time, in fact he was the third guy today!" but I knew that alarm hit his stomach, hard.

That's probably why my little guy is such a wreck, I tell myself, stroking Zack's hair as he sat next to me on the sofa looking sick and slightly moaning.

"You've had a tough day, little guy," I tell him.

Then I ask, "What can I do to make you feel better? Apple juice? Crackers? Want me to put something on tv?"

He rolls over and with suddenly bright green eyes, sits up a little bit and faintly pleaded, "Opening a present would help....."

I pushed him backdown and left him to his misery.

It's Christmas Eve, I have to clean the whole house today so we can spend tomorrow messing it up again

The Santa Tax

Ho, ho, hum, I thought I was almost done.

Last night, fortressed behind three locked doors, bopping to happy (not holiday) music,  I wrapped three bags of gifts and wrote names across each one in large scrolling letters (clearly mine) so there would be doubt who these gifts would be from.

After I finished wrapping the gifts (all of them! hooray!)  I carry them to the tree and scatter them in between and among the other gifts,  The kids watch silently, pretending to be transfixed by an episode of the Amanda Show.

 When I finish I head back to clean up the tape, the paper, the scissors, but before I can get out of earshot I hear Zack  announce "16 for each of us!" like it would be a Christmas miracle that I would remember to bundle and separate and wrap gifts so they would balance in their inevitable pre-Christmas ritual of counting and re-counting the gifts under the tree. He continued, "I wonder how many more Santa is going to bring?"

Santa? SANTA?'

I forgot about the Santa tax.

I will pay that tax, of course I will,  but dear powerful and mystical St. Nicholas, forgive me now for what I am sure will be meager efforts in your name, but my enthusiasm and budget expired hours ago.

Order Marvin's Book!

Print Copy:https://www.createspace.com/3748734

Ebook:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/103885

Motherhood Chronicles: Porcelain Boundary

Today my son asked me sweetly and convincingly to sit on the cold hard toilet seat and warm it up for him.

I almost did it, I almost fell under his spell, then I balked.

I do enough, already.

I will not be his potty warmer.

Walk of Shame

I spent the first hour of my office hours rearranging images for a lecture on Vietnam and answering email. After that, it was time to proofread the actual pages of the print edition of Marvin's Book.

It was real. 167 pages of real, with just the right font and perfect footnotes on the right pages. I didn't swoon, I didn't gloat. I got out a pen (red) and hunted for my own bloopers.

Because Marvin's Book is partly a book of grief and loss, I'm kinda drained from writing it. So there, I said it. It was hard to write about losing students and a friend, and re-reading the stories doesn't take a bit of the sting of grief away.

But today I have to read it, it is time. This book will be in airports. It will be available in at least 31 countries. I can't have my own bloopers.

So I read. And my eyes danced on a few funny things I forgot, then stuck on something new. I write about chocolate eclairs and carrot cake in one chapter.  Chocolate fudge Pop Tarts play a big role in a different chapter. Oh my gosh, I skim the pages. I wonder whether to be ashamed or not, then decide I'm hungry and continue to lament nobody feeds me.

This is a problem that one day will solve itself, I am sure. Until then, there is the Student Union. So I gather myself and stroll off to Subway for breakfast and forget myself and order lunch (why?).   After the awesome guy goes to the back and finds me a pack of the sacred jalapeno chips, I tuck my money in my pocket and march back to my office, stomach rumbling, and mildly confused on why I wasn't holding grits and eggs.

After I eat my lunch (happily) I realize there is cash in my back pocket, which is strange because I know I brought my wallet to the Student Union.

I hunt in my purse, in my computer case and I even open my office windows to see if it could have fallen out the window and onto the hedges below. Nothing.

I call Subway.

Its there.  Sigh. I ready myself to march back.

Dr. V is now in his office across from mine and he sees me rush out.

I stop myself and collapse a little with humility as I admit to him I was  about to do "the walk of shame" to go pick up my wallet. I shrug, salute him, and head out.

He sees I'm frustrated and calls after me,  "Melissa, you can't do the walk of shame. You're Cuban!"

That makes me perk up a bit.

I've already turned the corner and done a little three step salsa to cheer myself up and call back cheerfully, "That's RIGHT! I'm CUBAN! VIVA!"

His deep laugh fills the hallway behind me, "No! I said HUMAN! I said YOU'RE HUMAN! It's HUMAN to make mistakes"

I heard him and giggled, thankful for the timely reminder.

Solidarity

It's Really Real

In the last day I've gone from writer to author and I'm happy to report so far, so good.  I've stayed on top of the dishes and done three loads of laundry.  I steadfastly refuse to sweep or vacuum or do the toilets. 

I spent  a great deal  of first day as an author getting facebook messages from students who were in the book.  I learned  I misspelled Zac's name.  The student code-named "Joy" finished the book and was ready to celebrate with me. So was David Lowe.

I'm happy to report Morgan has read about herself in the book and even though it made her cry she loved it. Which is a huge relief. Also, her mom wants to know what's this whole thing about "LYSOL" and I guess Morgan's going to have to explain that part (good luck, sunshine).

As much of a celebration as it is to finish and publish a book, it  didn't seem quite right to have a party to celebrate a book whose roots  are so deeply planted in grief.  If you didn't know that, here is the long description that will be on the book jacket. 

I swear to you, I worked harder on this than I did on most of the book.  I didn't know how much of the story to give away, but then again, I wanted someone who picks it up at an airport (OMG MY BOOK IS GOING TO BE AT AIRPORTS OMG OMG OMG)  to  pick it up and take it with them, wherever. 

MARVIN'S BOOK: THE STORY OF A PROFESSOR AND A PROMISE
 https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/103885

Have you ever made a promise that dogged you through years, nagging you silently?  Melissa Soldani Lemon did in 2000 when her student, Marvin Mark Scott, died in a single-car accident on the way to school. In her grief, she reached out to the young man's family and promised to write a book for Marvin and start a scholarship in his honor.

Ten years, two children and many semesters of teaching college history later, Soldani Lemon had amassed a growing following of readers for the hilarious stories on her blog, but no book had yet emerged. She finally sat down to fulfill her promise—only to find herself facing new raw grief in the unexpected deaths of a colleague and another student, both of whom had encouraged her to fulfill her promise. 

Now she was really stuck. How could she write Marvin's book when she only wrote stories with happy endings?  Melissa’s journey to answer that question takes us a roller coaster ride through a year of new students, service projects honoring United States veterans, office hours, exams and graduations as she interweaves inspirational stories with outrageously funny bloopers taken from real student exams. In the end, it is a student veteran "exiled" in a VA nursing home who leads her to find a bright and hopeful ending to this story.

You will laugh, cry and rekindle your belief in the power of intention as Melissa turns the promise of a book for Marvin into Marvin's Book: The Story of a Professor and a Promise.

One thing. If I could do yesterday again, maybe I would have had a party or at least forced my kids to go to Chikfila, at least, just because I love those ketchup packets so much. 

Peace.

Happy Veteran's Day* (From 11/11/2010)

In One Week*

Marvin's Book

Dried Up

It’s after my class and I take my time going up the stairs and into my office, where I often disappear for too long.  I meander through the faculty lounge and find some fun.

Professor Dribbles, one of most favorite people, walks in right behind me and says, “Ask me why I’m tired. Why? Because I was at the clinic last night with a UTI”

The idea of a bladder infection makes me wince. Professor Dribbles continues, “Why? Because I’m dehydrated. Why? Because the water fountain is broken.”

I laugh – I think she’s kidding – and tell her she could have gone to any other water fountain in the building, or on campus. We are not in Ethiopia during the famine, we don't have to walk miles in danger in hopes of water.

 This answer doesn’t suit her. I understand. 

We faculty get used to teaching the same subjects year after year, sitting in the same office year after year, and stopping on the way to class to  drink at the same fountain between classes year after year.

One small change in that routine and the foundation of sanity cracks a little.

Yes there are other water fountains but this one is on the FACULTY side, not the student side. It is in a place we can bend, slurp, dribble and adjust without being in the public eye.

 I understand my friend and I want to help her so I  offer Professor D a diet coke, which she politely declinesAnother professor overhear my offer and sticks his head out of his office – “I’ll take it!” forcing me to play deaf rather than fork over my precious 1-liter bottle to anyone but my beloved Professor friend.

The Dean joins our conversation because he isn’t sure the water fountain is actually broken. 

We form a pack (if we had an agenda, it’d be a committee) and  head down the hall to investigate.

When we arrive at the water fountain, the Dean pushes the bar and a trickle of water rises up.

Professor Dribbles shakes her head. “It wasn’t like that yesterday.”

He pushes the bar again. Again a little dribble roles out. 

To drink from so low a fountain with such a small dribble requires acrobatic talents of bending and twisting, which I impulsively demonstrate to the Dean and the thirsty Professor. I ask her was she trying the water fountain like this? Like this? Or with deep knee bends like this?

More people join our pack mostly to laugh but also to give grave consideration to the water dribble situation.  The Dean says he will put in a work order. And with that, quickly enough, we disband, shaking our heads at apparent frailty of this world and all  things in it.

After spending hours these past six weeks tossing and turning around the house looking for my writing spot, I finally found one - standing up at the kitchen bar.  Maybe it's the freedom of being able to literally step back, pack and come back, or maybe just the view of a clean kitchen, but I've been hard at work and the manuscript is dead-on deadline and will be ready on time.

Today as I plugged my laptop in and unpacked my wireleass mouse and moved cords to set things up, I made sure to look around for anything I could spill.

Nothing on the counter.

I keep looking and see

Its been six weeks since moving into this house and I've decided that if I haven

Knowing Glance*

Five minutes before the bell rings, Zack and I are standing outside his classroom.  A father and son walk up the sparsely populated hall carrying cupcakes and some sort of round holder.

Zack lights up and proclaims, "Hooray, you brought the frog back!"

Under my breath I ask the father as he slips by while I hold the door open for him, "Yes but is it the SAME frog?"

Coming 11-11-11* READY?

What I Wrote 9/11/01

http://laughingmelissa.blogspot.com/2006/12/today-we-became-generation.html

Hanging Up on World War 3: My 9/11 Story

Here is my 9/11 story.


9/11/01 was a Tuesday.


I was home with baby Zoe pretty much all the time except the few hours I taught one History class that met at night on Tuesdays and Thursdays. 


On this particular Tuesday morning I took Zoe to the pediatrician for her 9 month check up. 


Everything went beautifully and as I pulled out of the parking lot, I called Chuck let him know appointment went well.


He answered the phone, "World War 3" -- so I hung up on him because I hate it when he answers the phone in fake voices or saying crazy things.  


A minute later, when he didn't call back, I called him again, and again he answered, "World War 3!" 


I hung up on him again, annoyed at him and also at trying to take a particularly tight left onto Betten.


A few minutes later, he called me back. 


I told him Zoe had a great check up and he asked if I'd seen the news.


No? You're kidding he said, you have to see this, YOU of all people. America is under attack! 


America is under attack? I asked, say, repeating his words while looking into the backseat at happy quiet Zoe. 


I don't remember asking who was attacking us or why, and I didn't think at all to panic on the drive home.


I didn't turn on the car radio because I wasn't ready to hear what was going on (yet).


The rest of that day I was glued to the TV and the phone and email because students were tracking me down to ask if there would still be a quiz that night. 


I didn't have a quick answer for them - I guessed there would be because I hate moving quizzes and changing published dates. 


Students said they couldn't study, they were afraid to come to campus, that they were  too distracted by trying to find brothers and cousins and best friends in New York.


I didn't know what to do - I'd never even imagined a day like this. I grew up during the Cold War -- the best I could do was sing a little "Duck and Cover" which, it turned out, didn't help us much during this particular attack.


TCC's campus closed that afternoon, so my quiz was postponed.


But those hijackers didn't hijack my semester; we dove into American history deeper and harder than any semester before.   


Since 9/11 there have been more opportunities to show kindness and neighborliness; since 9/11 there are more flags, and more parades.

Best of all,  9/11 I've had the pleasure of seeing more Veterans in my classroom than before -- prouder, younger, and more visible  than any group of Veterans to roll out of war and into college since WW2. 

The only time fear has crossed into my life since 9/11 was a few weeks after 9/11 when I was flying with Zoe.

She was almost a year old and barely able to stand, so I carried Zoe with me through the airport electronic screening.  The metal zipper on her footed jammies set off the beeper and so they needed to go over her body with that beeping hand-held wand thingy.

The whole beeping ordeal was starting to freak Zoe out, so she was crying hysterically and clinging to me.

 A stern voice barked at me to put her down so they could wand her, telling me to take my hands off of her and step away.

I remember blank faces staring helplessly as I pulled Zoe's grabbing hands off me, making her cry even more hysterically.  

It was all over in less than five minutes, but while it was unfolding,  I didn't feel like I was in a free country -- for a few minutes I didn't *like* what I thought America could become.

When we boarded that plane I let all my fear and anger go, because I love this country. I study US history and foreign policy professionally and tell stories about her compulsively and passionately -- including one where I hang up on World War 3.

A Positive Note

This semester I added a new question to my Unit #1 Pretest.

After asking “Who is the Commander in Chief”[1] and “Name 5 countries in Asia”[2] I asked the students something they weren’t ready for.

“#24: Tell me what you’re great at*

When a roomful of fearful eyes darted up from the page, I explained I wanted them to imagine me calling people who know them and asking that question. 

A few students winced, so I continued, “For example, if you won the lottery what would you DO for fun that you’re already great at?” 

A student blurted out, “Well I wouldn’t be HERE!” and a few others laughed along.

I didn’t laugh. I stopped cold and lost all my bouncing Tigger energy. “Oh no! I don’t wish that for you! I want you to be happy, now and always, like I am!”  I told them I taught my heart out as a graduate student for $1000 a class just as hard as I teach full time now.  And if I won the lottery tomorrow, I’d STILL be teaching here, same classes, same students, same attitude (cuter earrings), because every single day at my job is fun.

The class stops and everyone looks up, because this whole “life thing” sounds serious.

 I remind them that life is supposed to be fun. FUN FUN FUN.  Too many of them look at me like I’m crazy which is a problem because it’s early in the semester and I’m still doing my best to not look crazy.  I have to concentrate on “composure” more at the beginning of the semester than later, with a CNN-crawl through my head saying HEY! don’t throw pens HEY don’t trip over your feet, HEY! don’t wear the same outfit twice in a row, HEY! don’t lose the wireless mouse.

While I have their attention (and also because they’re taking a test and they don’t know the next question so they’re literally hostages) I tell them about H* from last semester who came to my office for advising.

While we discussed his major, H* told me he knew he could find a job after graduation with the state, and it would be steady work.

I asked H* if he’d LOVE that job and he laughed at the question, shooting back, “Dr. Soldani, not everyone can LOVE their job like you do!”

When the shock of his statement rolled past me I told him I wished better for him, I wished for him a life that brings fulfillment and joy.

Their answers to question #24 by the way, were beautiful. Across three classes my students candidly shared they can (among other talents, I’m sure) hunt, fish, sing, do hair, fix cars, build computers and make other people feel included.[3]

The fact I think I have the dream job, and get giddy at work sometimes bothers people.

The other day I got to class 10 minutes early, ready to set up.  Another professor was still there, having a serious talk with a concerned student.  I erase the board and find a place to put my stuff. 

Then, I guess I swirled around like Snow White because she stopped talking to her students and said, “Did you just swirl?”

I caught myself and felt my hand against my long favorite peach silky dress.

It was possible I just swirled, but just in case, I did a nice twirl and told her I was so happy to teach Reconstruction I couldn’t contain myself. 

She told me to get my head checked, which was funny, so I swirled and twirled again and soon enough I was off telling stories to another class, positive I have the dream job and wishing the same for all of them.

---

[1] About half the students answered it correctly;  guesses included Condoleesa Rice,  “some General” and “Donald Rumsfelt”

[2] My favorite was a student who wrote “Persia, Persia, Persia, Persia, Persia”

[3] My favorite was the student who wrote (in purple pen, with round deliberate handwriting)  “People come to me for advice” then inserted another word so it read “People come to me for GOOD advice.”