Are There No Consequences?

These last few months have been rough. If I could drink, I’d be a few phone calls away from an AA sponsor. Last year, I was spoiled. I loved my students, they loved me. This year, the tables have literally turned. While I do like most of them, I feel badly because they have seen me at my worst. Don’t blame the hormones; their classmates are non caring, inconsiderate spoiled brats who have their parents believing that they have been wrongfully accused. If they were on death row, there would be 9th hour appeals; they are that good at playing the victim card. They are just as good as single handedly destroying the flow of a class and literally tearing away at the education of others.

Now, now, teacher haters. You might want to say that perhaps my classroom management needs some tweaking. I have been teaching for 13 years. Combine those years with those of my teammates and you will see, after just a morning of observations, that we are SO NOT TO BLAME. This is year has been so bad that we placed a group of kids on a behavior intervention plan and while it has helped curb one of the animals, two of the other heavy hitters just don’t give a crap. If this were a zoo, I’d throw my own crap at them. To top it off, when you acknowledge these kids for any wrongdoing, they don’t look you in the eye. Is this behavior the new black? Does this take the place of putting your hands over your ears while screaming “I can’t hear you”? I don’t get it. Apparently, this is rampant behavior amongst this year’s seventh grade. It is as though families are now raising kids that do not have to LITERALLY face consequences.

The parents are just as ineffective, so that is all of the time I am going to spend discussing them.

Now how about this. Josh’s debit card was jacked last week. Someone treated themselves to $1400 worth of mental health care at a facility in Massachusetts, and then hit up some retail therapy (or holiday shopping) at Anthropologie. As a way to test out the card, this person has been charging small amounts ranging from $.17 to $1.00. After numerous calls to the bank, they have finally canceled the card, yet where are the consequences for the customer service rep who neglected to do this the first time? The person getting mental and retail therapy now has received mental help and new clothes and/or accessories and/or house wares. What consequences do they suffer? All the while, it is us who have to bear the brunt of aggravation and a frozen bank account for the time being. I bet the person charging it up wont ever have to look my husband in the eye while he lets them know what a dishonest ass he thinks they are.

I clearly have no holiday spirit. With a baby on the way, it frightens me to think that if people are running around doing what they want now, what will she think of me when I actually provide and deliver on consequences? Who will be the bad guy then?

Thirty-Something or Tween Nightmare?

Caution (especially men and never been preg. women: read at your own risk.

Being pregnant is the closest thing I can equate to what it must be like at your peak of horrific-ness in middle school. More than ever, I can relate to my students, only I would never share this information with them as it definitely falls under Section XVI of TMI. In laymen’s terms, it would cross some serious lines. Instead, I will just share with you. Some of you asked for the bitter truth, and you know I have a penchant for being brutally, stripped down, honest. So, just in time for Halloween, here is my own laundry list of horrors.

1. I have zits. Like a tween, my skin is unpredictable. One day I am clear, the next day it looks like someone wiped their sweaty foot infested with athlete’s foot across the right side of chin. I even went to a dermatologist JUST to make sure my skin was reacting to my raging, baby making hormones and he said; “Get used to it. This could get worse.” Great. He unfortunately could not prescribe me “the good stuff”, and the smelly, clear fluid that I have been applying to my face is merely just smelly, clear fluid with one refill available.
I don’t think I need to explain how zits relate to middle schoolers.
** I HAD DECENT SKIN IN MIDDLE SCHOOL. It balanced out my fat.

2. My boobs. I go to bed one size and wake up another. Today my bra was so damn tight I felt like I needed CPR, a nebulizer and an inhaler all at once. I have had to purchase 38’s which really pissed me off; no matter what my weight has been, I have always been a 36 MAX, but I have to remember, my body is just spewing the hormone relaxin, so every freaking joint and muscle is literally relaxing in an effort to make room for my growing fetus. This topic will throw me into somewhat of a tangent, as I do not understand why my legs, especially my ankles, need to be more relaxed when this baby is coming out of my vaj. God is definitely a man. Imagine if relaxin flowed through a man’s body, causing his penis to not only expand but lie flaccid, a little to the left?

So how do boobs relate to middle schoolers? When the girls come back from the summer between 7th and 8th grade, you might think they visited a plastic surgeon...

3. My ass. The smell that I release from my body is strong enough to put a small animal to sleep and knock an average size one out for a couple of hours. I am a walking cesspool of filth. My gas rivals a tween boy, and even a good friend of mine who I prefer to use the litter box when he stays over as I fear he will overflow my toilet. Yet, look who’s talking; I think I raped my own toilet bowl the other night as a result of eating fro yo (I am living on the edge as many shun the soft serve style machines while pregnant to avoid listeria. I say eff that….i haven’t had sushi or more importantly alcohol since July. I am eating frozen yogurt.) AND broccoli. Yet luckily for me and those around me, I manage to control myself while at work. It is only when I exit my workplace that the floodgates open. This would be a good time to apologize to the woman in the t-shirt section of Old Navy the other day: I am sorry if you felt faint as a result of being caught in my wake.
So how does my ass relate to middle schoolers? These kids let ‘em rip all of the time!
4. My moods. I am a freakin’ moody bitch. Then, I am sooooo nice. Then, I cry. Then, I imagine punching your face /kneeing you in your balls/ spitting in your face/running you over with my car and I cry again because I cannot believe how off the wall I am. Upon delivery, I have requested a glass of Prosecco to wash down my Effexor.
So how do moods relate to middle schoolers? Have you met one? Were you not once one?

5. My weight. I don’t know what I weigh and unless the doctor gives me a ten pound warning, I am assuming I’m all good. I am an avid reader, yet the one thing I have not purchased books about is pregnancy. A friend of mine gave me a few anyway; I had a terrible dream after reading one, a dream that honed in on one of my fears (faulty feeding-boobs) and I then vowed to stop reading. However, one of the things I read that really pissed me off was regarding exercise. Apparently, t his author believed there was no point in exercising during pregnancy. I would love to see what this chick’s ass looked like when she was knocked up. Listen, I know I am eating more and probably better than I have in a while. I know my ass will probably widen simply because Mother Nature is really a tranny dude, but I am a gym rat. I like to sweat. My psyche needs the workout and no matter what anyone says, EXERCISE IS GOOD FOR YOU ALWAYS as long as you don’t overdue it. The catch with exercise for a prego is that you are not supposed to go above 140 BPMs. Please humor yourself if you are a fellow worker-outer. Put on a heart rate monitor and see how fast you reach 140 BPMs. If you are conditioned, it will take about 3 seconds. I have to believe that when I can go back to my control-freak diet that includes few carbs, little pizza and zone bars, I will lose the weight I have put one when combined with the ability to sweat again. This former fat girl still struggles with the day to day, but I definitely prefer being out of breath from a good cardio session over walking up a flight of stairs with the most resistance coming from fat rolls.
So how does weight relate to middle school? Fat girls getting made fun of, low self esteem, eating disorders….I look in the mirror everyday and remind myself that I am not fat, I am pregnant. Those girls look in the mirror everyday and hopefully don’t remind themselves they are fat because they are pregnant.

6. I just want to get drunk. Seriously. Tweens drink and if they aren’t yet, they want to. Just a little. Research shows that pregnant woman can have a glass of wine here and there without causing harm to the fetus, yet I would have to err on the side of caution and say just put the juice on hold. But I have to tell you, it is hard. This year, my kids are a handful at work. A glass of wine or a gin and tonic (or 6) at the end of the day (3:00) would really make things more bearable. It’s funny. Someone asked me if I have weird cravings and aside from the Chinese sliced pork, it has been wine, not pickles and ice cream.
What’s the relationship between alcohol and middle schoolers? The kids are getting drunk and I am not.

All kidding aside, I cannot complain. Knock on wood, the remainder of my pregnancy (22 weeks) will go smoothly and I will deliver a healthy, happy baby who hopefully will not be as bitchy/dicky as me. If bad gas and the craving for alcohol are my biggest problems, then I consider myself lucky.

Does the Tip Count?

Does the Tip Count?
After a botched attempt at a visit to Long Island’s wine country, the girls and I still managed to drink (I observed) and discuss and one of our favorite topics; If it’s just the tip, then does it count as sex?
The demographics of the women debating the tip encompasses an age range of just under 3o through mid 60’s. Bottom line, most of us agreed that just the tip does not count. This decision was not reached until after we had to explain exactly what the tip was…
Let’s sweeten the deal…What if there is just one thrust? In….Out….to the tune of; “No, I can’t do this!!!”
The jury was split on this. According to some, I didn’t even technically lose my virginity since that is essentially how that session went down, only the soundtrack was Pink Floyd’s record released in 1994. FYI: OPENING NIGHT NERVES!!!
But is that cheating? Just the tip? Just one thrust? YES
What If your husband/boyfriend received a happy ending? The jury was all over the place on this one. I leave this for you to ponder.

Baby Josh Visits the Doctor

So, the entire nature of a gyno visit changes when you are pregnant. For 9 months, he or she is no longer a gyno, but an ob. For 9 months, your husband also comes to the doctor with you. I actually put off Josh coming with me for about 3 visits. It just felt strange bringing someone along to what has always been a solo visit of a very personal nature.

I have heard things like; “I am not comfortable with you having a male doctor touch you down there” from Josh. After witnessing the “magic wand” with it’s special eye getting stuck up my nether-region, Josh now realizes that there is nothing sexual, nor glamorous about a visit to the ob-gyn WHATSOEVER!

But enough about my chooch. Let’s get down to the real nitty gritty of this entry. Taking Josh to the doctor is like a field trip. It is very stressful. In fact, I wonder if I am going to receive a bill in the mail for damages caused by our last visit there. I ran out of the room to use the ladies room for 2 minutes and Josh informed me that he thought he broke a lamp in the examination room. NO, it was not a desk lamp, rather, it was a lamp with a very long, flexible neck, about vaj-high used to get a closer look…

No, Josh, it is not additional room lighting.

Of course, Josh has to try on the rubber gloves (his father is a doctor for God’s sake) and sit on the rolly chair used by the doctor and say “spread ‘em”, a line NEVER used by my doctor…FYI.

Josh has to open every drawer and question the size of cotton swabs and ask why there are pipe cleaners in a gyno’s office.

JOSH: “Why are there pipe cleaners in a gyno’s office?”
ME: “Those are not pipe cleaners. They are inserted into your
vagina as an avenue to swab the innards of my lady parts as
per a PAP smear.”
JOSH: “I think I might vomit.”

Quickly, the drawer is slammed closed. I expect a bill for broken hinges.

Despite Josh’s introduction to the PAP stick, he still has to push it and open the next drawer. He is like a kid on Christmas, eagerly ripping away the wrapping paper to see what is next.

But much to Josh’s surprise, the next drawer is LOADED with tampons and maxi pads.

JOSH: “EWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
ME: “What did you expect? We are at a gyno’s office???.”
JOSH: “I think I might vomit.”
ME: “Next time, wait in the waiting room . When the fetus
is being shown on the sono, we can call you in. You are
worse than a child. "


This is a temporary situation. Soon, my privates will have their privacy back.

The 3000 Pound Elephant in the Room

Crickets. Giggles. Stares. Awkward. Those are the sounds and feelings you find yourself simmering in after telling 11 and 12 year olds that you are pregnant. Why? Because they are old enough to know that a stork doesn’t just deliver babies to mommies and daddies. Mommies and daddies have sex. My students know that I DID IT!!!!
I suppose that when I told my students my news, I didn’t expect them to jump up and down and weep with joy over this new life being brought into the world coupled with my subsequent 6 week absence. I didn’t expect to blush either, nor did I expect to be shocked at how few kids said congratulations. The whole congrats notion is simply a matter of manners, one of my favorite topics when discussing the ills of our culture.
I think my news made me the 3000 pound pink elephant in the room. However, I don’t really care. I spend so much of my time feeling guilty about taking a mental health day off or even getting sick and having to stay home. I’m finally seeing another side of teaching which is I can still be dedicated to my students and their families, but I don’t have to take my job home with me. So what if my students know that I had S-E-X; they are old enough not to completely live in a bubble. So what if they rejoice when I leave because my hormones are literally eating all of us up alive? I’m moving on in my life and that is a good thing. And now, more than ever, I can really relate to my students considering I have the sense of humor of a 12 year old and I am literally as hormonally chaotic as my students; like the girls, even my chest size is changing. And what is this mysterious break out on my chin??
Crickets. Giggles. Stares. Awkward. Pregnancy or middle school?

Our Day on the B-List

This past Saturday, Robyn and I attended a Bat Mitzvah of a former student from last year. We definitely got a little slack for going; however, we felt that this student was an exception. Somehow, we really connected with her and her family. So, we RSVP’ d YES. Had we not done this, we would not have experienced life on the B list.
The day began with a temple service. Robyn and I decided that we would like to become Reformed Jews. Despite the same amount of up and down standing as our fellow Conservative tribesmen, there was a ton of English and the beloved organ. Oh—and the service was less than 2 hours door to door. When we arrived, our host, noticing our entrance from her throne on the bema, pointed us out to her parents seated in the front row. They turned around and waved. Soon some tween girls we knew began shuffling in behind our row, all giggles, stage whispers and hair-did.
At noon, the service was over and with an hour to spare before the party, Robyn and I saw the time as a shop-ortunity. We power spent our way through Express (brushed gold hoops on sale for me, shirt and scarves for her) and Victoria’s Secret (PINK sweats for me and 2 new bras to accommodate my expanding maternal bosom).
We arrived fashionably late and secured our spots at the bar. Seltzer, Diet Coke, cheese and veggies accompanied our people watching and by people watching we were scoping out our students’ outfits. There was definitely an assortment of appropriate, to prom circa ’84 to slutty. Basically, the kids were dressed consistently with the way the dress for school. From time to time, kids would approach and say hello, but they drew the line at when we were sitting to eat. We were literally social pariahs at that moment. However, it was not until the candle lighting ceremony that Robyn and I reached B-list celebrity status, even higher than Kathy Griffin!
It was candle number 7 that changed the tide. After a brief intro, the Shapiro-Levys were called to the center of the room. We nervously helped light the candle and smiled for the camera. Suddenly, adults wanted to speak to us. They took an interest in what we taught and even gave us tips on where to find the “best pour” in alcoholic beverages for after work! Kids began initiating even more conversation, even requesting that we pose with them in those pictures where you choose your background, such as the sunset beach scene we beamed proudly in.
The whole Shapiro-Levy comment was not lost on either one of us, however. When we said our good byes, posing again with the parental hosts for a professional photog shot, we even told them how we wondered if people thought we were not just teachers, but a couple expecting their first baby together. Laughter and Mazel Tovs all around.
Overall, Robyn and I felt honored to be a part of this milestone day; having had our Bat Mitzvahs, we know that it is a day that we still remember. How great it was for us, B-List and all, to be part of this. In a thankless job, this was a huge thank you. Shalom.

Does the HOFF Make Anyone Else Want to Vomit?

I swore I would be boycotting Dancing With the Stars this season. Fighting words for a girl who doesn't even watch the show. I just felt, and still feel, that Bristol Palin is not even a D list star, let alone a star. She is Sara's daughter and the world knew she had S-E-X. The bump she was sporting was proof enough. While she is now the face of why teen pregnancy is not cool (hindsight is 20/20), I still do not agree with ABC's decision to display her shakin' what her mama gave her. I do agree with her preaching abstinence.

But, there I was, watching away. I really was hoping that The Situation would be dancing shirtless, but considering he brings Guidos to the viewership of the show, I believe he will be around for a while, hence, there will be a shirtless dance at some point. I am hoping that the women, with the exception of Margaret Cho, will remain too; I love the way those men move. It is like prime-time, rated G porn***, if there is such a thing.

After Cho made a mockery of the Viennese Waltz, DWTS began its moguls spiral. What is this she means by "moguls spiral"? Without explaining what a mogul is (get a dictionary), downhill we went when Michael Bolton was introduced as a "living musical legend." The only saving grace for him was that he did not bring back his "sexy"; his mullet. Said mullet has been rated as a "Top 25 Mullets in Music" in certain circles.

BUT WAIT!!!! Here comes a little bit of uphill: Jennifer Grey!!! She was awesome. I felt my longtime chldhood man crush, Patrick Swayze, was right there, whispering into her ear; "It's like a heartbeat, Ga-Gong." For all I know, Grey really sucked, but I have her on such a pedestal from being the star of one of my all time favorite movies that I don't even care.

And now for the part that nightmares are made of. It was the Hoff's turn. I understand that he is a big star, a sex symbol even, in Germany. What I want to know, is what the hell else do they watch there????? Definitely not Andy Whitmore in Spartacus.....
So this big dufus is dancing and then, he rips his shirt open. EEEEWWWWW!!!! To the words "SEX BOMB" no less. He is a sex grenade. I didn’t even wait to see his scores, but you know that if there are any German tourists in town, the Hoff has their vote.

***David Hasselhoff: If you read this, it is just my opinion. I loved you in Bay Watch.

I Apologize

Remember when I vowed to update this blog at least once a week? Well, I have clearly broken that promise. I apologize. I mean it. Cross my heart. But I will not promise to update once a week anymore; i just cannot disappoint you like that.

Now do not think for a second that Raves....Rants… has not been on my mind or in my heart; it is always with me, wherever I go. I have just been busy. Doing what you ask? Tanning on the beach, reading on the beach and napping on the beach. Or napping on my couch. This summer, I worked like a dog; the life skills program from 7:45-1:15 followed by four additional tutoring hours a week. I was driving back and forth to the town I work and tutor in twice a day, twice a week. Cry me a river!! Bust out the cheese for my WHINE!! Set it to a sad song, sort of like a dirge, on a violin!! I do not expect any sympathy, considering I lived it up this summer, but the money I spent on gas and time I spent in the car added up. So I had no choice but to drink copious amounts of wine, often consumed just feet from my abode, at my friend Csjako's place. Or I was attending Jersey Shore parties at Robyn’s. Or "hosting" a bbq at Mac's, who kindly cooked for me, miscellaneous friends, but for Josh too. (FYI: She cooked Josh's sausage to perfection, only for him not to be hungry for sausage at all that night or the night the followed. But I do appreciate her agreeing to having the Q I suggested she have at her home.) I had dinners to attend, lots of DVR to watch and more naps to take. SOR-RY!

But the reason I have finally decided to sit my can down and blog away tonight is because I was actually reminded by a superior, unbeknownst to her, that I have been lacking in the written expression area. I had the pleasure of attending an English department meeting today and the "motivation" for the attendees was to share with a neighbor any books we had read this summer or any writing we had done. Clearly, this was not going to be a serious exercise at all considering we were all sitting next to friends who we spoke to (by speak I mean texted or bbm-ed every day). Of course, the joke was that I had written an epic poem, my friend Cheryl wrote Haiku along the shores of Jones Beach, and Ro-Diddy wrote a comedic screenplay in the spirit of "Wedding Crashers". Yet, this was not a waste of time. I realized I was a bit disappointed that I had not written squat all summer. Don’t get me wrong. I do not consider this writing a work of art by any means. It’s just a way of expressing myself without censor. I can be me without having to worry that a publisher won’t pick up my work or an editor will rip it apart. This is a no pressure way for me to be the writer I thought I once wanted to be.
My true fans know that I posted two items this summer. But does a posted piece of writing I had done five years ago count? They entry about Mad Libs was pretty weak. So I am here to tell you, I am back. I am not sure you are ready for me, though. I have an arsenal of backlogged ideas/observations/rants for you. But be patient. Wait. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Why I Love Mad Libs

Do you remember Mad Libs? I still do them. They are a fabulous tool to reinforce parts of speech. Seriously. Knowing that kids think like perverts (QUICK LOGIC: If I know that kids think like perverts, than I am a pervert.)I do allow for them to use "urine" when a liquid is called for. Additionally, "poop, pooped, or pooping" are cool to use for past, present and future verbs. I draw the line at "69" when a number is needed; someone ALWAYS shouts that out. This summer, I tutored a student whose parent was very intent on my getting grammar ingrained into her head. The best way for me to assess whether or not she could apply what was learned was through Mad Libs. A highlight for me was when she chose BLACK as an adjective and BROTHER as a noun consecutively. She did not understand why the phrase "black brother" was so funny to me. Anyway, here is a sample of my own Mad Libs. It is not that funny, but it features some of my favorite adjectives.

skanky
hairy
NY
dusty
gorilla
Mexican
Mall
Seraphina
cat
tree
slutty
sweaty
hot dog
swollen
chitland
brother
ginormous
finger
bloody
petite
goulash
multiple
fuck
harsh


The Restaurant

One day, Megan and Andrew went to a skanky (ADJECTIVE) restaurant up in the hairy(ADJECTIVE) Mountains of NY(STATE) with their mommy and daddy. The restaurant was called THE Dusty(ADJECTIVE) Gorilla(ANIMAL). It was known for having the best Mexican (KIND OF FOOD) this side of mall(PLACE).

The waitress came over and introduced herself as Seraphina (NAME). She got Megan and Andrew some water to drink and some crayons. Megan drew a picture of a(n) cat (NOUN); Andrew drew a picture of a(n) tree (NOUN).� The waitress thought these pictures were very slutty (ADJECTIVE).

In a little while, the waitress asked everyone what they wanted to eat. After Mommy and Daddy ordered their food, Megan said that she wanted a big plate of sweaty (ADJECTIVE) hot dog(FOOD). Andrew said he wanted some swollen (ADJECTIVE) chitland (FOOD). The waitress brought the order to the kitchen.

Before the food came, Megan and Andrew decided to go to the potty. The Potty in this restaurant smelled like a(n) brother (NOUN). In any event, they went potty and then washed their hands. The soap was very ginormous(ADJECTIVE) and the sink was hard to reach. Megan decided they needed to stand on a finger(NOUN) so they could wash their hands, so she and Andrew moved one right next to the sink.

When they came back from the potty, their food was ready. Megan thought that hers was bloody(ADJECTIVE). Andrew’s was very petite(ADJECTIVE). After dinner, they both had some goulash (FOOD) for dessert. They thought it was multiple (ADJECTIVE). When they were done, Megan decided that they should go back to the hotel and fuck(VERB). Everyone thought that was very harsh (ADJECTIVE).

****The end could not have worked out better and I did not plan it!!

Story of My Life

This was written a few years ago, when I was clearly at a different place in my life. While procrastinating at work, rather than typing up an educational report based on the RICHARD WOODCOCK JOHNSON Test of Achievement, I opted to instead thumb through about 100 docs and came across this. It is unfinished. I suppose this is symbolic of the fact that I have let this piece of my life go.

“If I had known Elle would have found out, I never would have cheated on her.” I had been looking for signs from God for months, and despite the fact that I had received hundreds already and the truth was staring me in the face for years, those words were the sign. Looking back, I can recall this feeling of watching this scene unfold as though I were a fly on the wall. While the beginning of the end came many months before, this was it for me. Jack’s words gave me the kick in the ass that I needed to get to steppn’.
The summer before my senior year of college was great. At that point, I had been living full time in Maryland, but had come home for a few weeks before my final fall semester was to begin. I had gone to Huntington, a town I ordinarily did not spend time in, with some friends from college. We found ourselves out the Artful Dodger, laughing and talking excitedly about the year that was to come and the years we had already shared. My friend Kristina suggested we do a ‘walk through’ of the bar, so we headed towards the back, all in a row. As one brunette followed the other like baby chicks following their mother during the imprinting process, I was stopped by “You have beautiful eyes.” The dark haired, green eyed man, who was actually never anything more than a child, caught my attention and then held it for nearly eight years. It’s amazing what one liners can do to a person. For, me, Jack’s lines are what unraveled me.
Time was limited, as I was to return to school to student teach, but jack and I instantly became inseparable. We would talk late into the night about our pasts and our hopes for the future. Things were too good to be true. I was sad to leave, but on the same hand, I loved my college life. While it appeared as though I was engaged in a full on relationship, Jack and I left off on the terms that we would see other people. Despite this, we spoke nearly everyday, and frequent visits were made between New York and Maryland. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but I was positive that by the time graduation rolled around and it was time for me to pack my bags and return home to the safe haven of my parents house, we would stop the whole “seeing other people” bit and get more serious. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The summer after graduation was riddled with ups and downs, excitement and insecurity. My future was wide open, the world was my oyster yet I was petrified that I would be jobless and alone. Jack kept me hanging on a string—we were together, not together. This went on for two years. Now, I consider myself to be somewhat superstitious. I believe in knocking on wood, sneezing on the truth, and have no qualms about an occasional visit to a psychic. As I search for signs time and time again, an early indicator should have been that Jack didn’t have the decency to show up to my college graduation party, let alone call me at all that day (or the next). But what you also need to know about me is that up until very recently, my self esteem was so low. While others thought the world of me, I never did of myself. For much of my life my weight has been up and down, yet when it was down, it wasn’t enough. Jack understood this, he fed off of this. He too was not the king of self esteem, although if given the opportunity to debate this point (not that there will be), he would disagree. Jack had a volatile family life and a very difficult time maintaining peer relationships. The fact that he was constantly self medicating with marijuana most of the time did not help, and neither do a previous diagnosis of bi-polar disorder (undedicated) and narcissism. Jack reinforced anything negative I thought of myself. During our last year together, I lost a dramatic 30 pounds within a month. I could not eat, smoked like a chimney and was functioning on a bag of nerves and a large cup of coffee. He told me I looked good, but could stand to lose another 15. Funny, seeing as I looked skeletal and friends, family and coworkers were convinced I had also developed an eating disorder. I suppose I did, but I like to refer to it as the divorce diet.
Eventually Jack declared his love for me and it was agreed that we had been together long enough…we were in a committed relationship. We moved in together and began fighting like cats and dogs. When people asked me how things were I would admit that they were difficulty, but that it was the right decision. I knew I was lying to myself, but deep down, I believed that things would be okay, especially if I willed them to be. There were so many outside factors that inflicted stress upon the relationship; Jack’s ailing father and eventually his death, attempts at new jobs, a tumultuous relationship between Jack and his mother…You name it, it happened. Notice that the stress was provided from his end. Oh—it is necessary to include that Jacks pot smoking was no longer just a hobby, but a part of life. Everywhere we went required a stop around the block from our final location so that Jack could get high. At first I would smoke too, but I soon tired of the munchies and the paranoia. That caused friction between the two of us too. Jack no longer considered me any fun. We would arrive late to functions and would have to leave early so that more pt could be smoked. Jacks mood would change on the dime and it would often be embarrassing. One night we went out to dinner with our families for his birthday and like most people who are full after a large meal, everyone but him declined dessert. As soon as his large piece of tiramisu arrived (with 8 extra forks), some people started asking for bites. He flipped out and screamed “Why don’t you get your own dessert!” This situation could have easily been fixed by ordering another piece of cake, yet while it might have been irritating for him, Jack did not have to respond in that manner. My parents later told me that that night was what began their feelings to change for him.
By year six, most of my friends were married or engaged. I had had enough and told Jack that I did not want to live with someone forever, I wanted the ring. I felt like it was the logical next step in our relationship. I was so focused on my own insecurity and fear of being alone that it never really occurred to me that pushing an engagement was a huge mistake. I again believed that everything would be okay. That was me…just bury your head in the sand and pretend everything is okay. So we got engaged. It was a surprise and very romantic. We had a beautiful wedding. It never should have happened. My parents and friends never loved Jack. I knew they thought I could do better. I knew I could do better and that I deserved better. I deserved to be treated with respect and to not be called a “stupid bitch.” I deserved someone who wouldn’t be angry with me for spending hours away from home or working on a thesis paper while attempting to obtain a master’s degree. I deserved someone who didn’t refer to my parents as trash because of their jobs or the fact that they didn’t complete college. I deserved someone who would appreciate me for me. I deserved someone who didn’t have a girlfriend on the side, who was taking pictures of her engaging in sexual behavior on his camera phone in her bedroom in the house where she lived just blocks away from the school where I worked.
Call it a sixth sense, but when I saw Jack sitting in the limo that was to take us to the site for our wedding pictures, he had this expression on his face that was more than just nervous. I shook it off. I walked down the aisle, he broke the glass and kissed the bride. I felt as though we had nothing to talk about during our honeymoon. I couldn’t wait to get home, although this is the first time I have admitted that. Then it was time for me to return to work and Jack was once again looking for a job. I guess he must have gotten sidetracked by the hot sex he was getting from his girlfriend, Vanessa, yet miraculously I had no clue and soon went back to work for his mom who owned her own business. It was my tenure year at school and anyone who is a teacher or who knows one would have to agree that that year is filled with stress. I was preoccupied with work and the additional 5 hours of tutoring, clubs and mandatory work events I participated in. I was grateful that Jack demanded little of me. He would stay out late and not answer his phone, telling me he couldn’t hear it or that he left it in his car. Again, something felt off and when he told me he wanted a divorce because I had let myself go, he wasn’t attracted to me and that he was not in love with me, I truly believed it was my entire fault. He painted this perfect picture of a huge let down. He explained that we were too different, and while this was true, I didn’t think his reasons were valid: we like different music and I like carpets with floral designs on them. Give me a break. Jack was nice enough to tell me all of this after my tenure observations were over, but each day was unpredictable. We would work things out, we wouldn’t. My moods were based on what he would say to me and how late he would come home. I was alone all of the time. I was scared. I feel today that my insecurity held be back and suffocated me for years. I blame myself not for his actions because we are the only ones responsible for our actions, but for keeping myself in a terrible place. I was my own captor. But I was also the one who freed myself and enabled myself to discover who I am and to find true happiness.
It was Passover of 2005. I hated the way Jack was acting at his family’s Seder. I went home, he went out. That’s how we lived. I guess things were “good” with us since we were together that night. The next Seder was to be spent at my parents house. Jack was 15 minutes late and when he pulled up to the house, remained in the car on his phone. I went outside and he told me he was on the phone with his friend Dan. I told him he was being rude. During the Seder, he was quiet, reserved. Dinner was over and he went out and I returned home feeling unsettled. Gnawing at the back of my mind was the knowledge that there was something more going on. Where the hell was Jack until 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning? I had asked him on numerous occasions if he was seeing someone and he firmly denied it---our problems were the result of me.

The Ties That Bind

I don't mean to brag, but I consider myself rich in the friends area. I have amazing friends who I not only work with, but with who I laugh a lot with, cry a lot with, and just can be myself around. We exist in the day to day of our lives. These are the people who know every minute detail of my life but who also see the adult version and the professional version of Lisa. I also have my childhood friends, whom I have know as early as four when the Wassermans moved on up to Rockville Centre from Far Rockaway. Around them, I am Snuffy, Snufs, Soo Soo Nee Uh Fee. These girls have known me for a long ass time. Together, we have endured Z. Cavariccis, pouffy bangs, our first zits, our first -----whisper----periods, first loves and breakups....I could go on all day here. And while our friendships have ebbed and flowed as a result of geography, changes in ourselves, and just life in general, when I am see them, it feels like home.

This week, one of the moms of "just the ten of us" (a silly nickname that I believe Pete Shimkin made up for the girls loosely based on a tv show that was popular for ten minutes in the early 90's) passed away. I have no words to console my old, sweet friend and really, what could I possible say to make this hurt go away? As a unit, this is the first parent to pass, and the pain we are all feeling for a mom who we borrowed from time to time when we needed her, whose home and heart were always open to us, is just so deep.

There is something to be said for not seeing someone for a while, yet being able to pick up the phone and jump right in as if not a day has passed. There is something to be said for when a tragedy strikes, and you have instant backup ready to help you and protect you from this cruel world. There is something to be said for when, awkwardly waiting for a funeral to begin, Nicole says just the thing, more out of nervousness than a desire to be comical, but nonetheless lightens the moods and reminds you that you are with family.
There is something to be said when your own children (not mine) are playing with your childhood friend's children and the get along as famously as we once all did. I actually went to Gino's last night with my parents (I was really kickin' it old school this weekend), and across from us was a booth of girls, skinny, chubby, blond, brunette, who were "out to dinner." "Just the ten of us" loved going out to dinner, either to some now defunct Chinese place on Sunrise Hiqhway or to Gino's. I believe our sophisticated taste also resulted in an order of Rigatoni Marinara or 2 Grandma slices.* I looked across at these girls who probably thought I was a creeper staring at them and whipped out my Berry for a mass text. It is important to note than in the 90's, there was no texting, so of course I got scolded at the table for this in 2010. I was just letting the girls know what I saw and how it reminded me of us.

These days, as I have said, our relationships vary in the degree of closeness. But that is life. I have been saddened by this at times, but I am to blame as much as anyone else is. Life is just so damn complicated, however, what we should take consolation in, is the fact that at a moment's notice, we will be there for each other.

Those are the ties that bind.

WOAH BABY!

I think that my Aunt Joyce is conspiring with Hallmark. Just the other day, I was faced with yet another form of the “baby” pressure. I had to pick up a wedding card (money holder, of course) for Kim G. Much to my shock, awe and utter dismay, I notice that the wedding card section is spooning the new baby section. “Are you effing kidding me? “, I exclaimed to myself, while standing in the cards/baking/spices aisle. As if it is not enough, hearing my aunt, my father, my students, my nieces, and my cleaning guy Walter asking when I plan to procreate; now I have the card companies adding the pressure? What kind of message is that? Get married…..have babies…..Umm, Hallmark, American Greeting, Carlton Cards….LAY OFF. The expectations of where you are supposed to be as compared to where you are in your 30’s are tough enough to deal with without you reminding us of why we should be gettin’ it on. Not to mention, but depending on the direction you are traveling down the cards/baking/spices aisle, in this case, due West, it would appear as though the baby cards come BEFORE the wedding cards. Chew on that, Associated Press and all of the mothers and do-gooders of America who have been protesting the maternity section of Forever 21! FYI--many women, woman upwards of 18, shop at "THE F", so move on!!! As my cousin Valerie suggested, perhaps the new baby cards should be in the birthday section. I think her idea is great (so don't steal it).

If you have a birthday, wedding, anniversary, etcetera event coming up, expect a hand made card from me.

Say It Ain't So

As the saying goes, things happen in threes. Why three? Perhaps the number three feels better in our brain than four. Three is the first prime number. There is the triangle and the Trinity. I personally have never heard anyone reference the “threes” when good things happen; only bad. I am mourning the death of a new trio: Mel Gibson’s career, Bob Sheppard, and George Steinbrenner. Mel has been dead to me for quite some time. Despite the Australian accent*, Anti-Semitic, anti-women, ethnic, and racial slurs just don’t make me want to hear what he has to say. However, the death of Bob Sheppard*, “the voice of the Yankees”, really choked me up. I love when I hear his voice introduce my favorite shortstop, Derek Jeter. There is just something about his voice that really gets me. I can’t describe it. I guess you just have to be there, in the stadium, to hear it booming over the speakers. That is, if you can hear it over my screaming “MARRY ME DEREK”. Now, Steinbrenner also had a notable voice which was parodied a la Larry David during the time when George Costanza worked for the Yankees on Seinfeld. Perhaps I am shallow to mention that above the business savvy of Mr. Steinbrenner, who believed paying multi-million salaries to ball players and who essentially built the Yankees who I personally wish I knew, but love.

*MEL GIBSON was actually born in PEAKSKILL, NY.
*BOB SHEPPARD lived just a town over from my family in BALDWIN, NY.

Fact or Fiction

"Women Are Smarter"
Grateful Dead

Let us put men and women together
See which one is smarter
Some say men, but I say no
Women run the men like a puppet show

It ain't me
It's the people that say
Men are leading the women astray
But I say, it's the women today
Smarter than the man in every way

Chorus:
That's right
The women are smarter
That's right
The women are smarter
That's right
The women are smarter
The women are smarter
That's right

Little boy sit on the corner and cry
Big man come and he asked him why
He said, "I can't do what the big boys do"
The man sat down and he cried too

It ain't me
It's the people that say
Men are leading the women astray
But I say, it's the women today
Smarter than the man in every way

Chorus:
That's right
The women are smarter
That's right
The women are smarter
That's right
The women are smarter
The women are smarter
That's right, that's right

Ever since the world began
Women been banned from the ways of man
Listen boy cuz I've got a plan
Give it up, don't try and understand

It ain't me
It's the people that say
Men are leading the women astray
But I say, it's the women today
Smarter than the man in every way

Chorus:
That's right
The women are smarter
That's right
The women are smarter
That's right
The women are smarter
The women are smarter
That's right

Let us put men and women together
See which one is smarter
Some say men, but I say no
Women run the men like a puppet show

It ain't me
It's the people that say
Men are leading the women astray
But I say, it's the women today
Smarter than the man in every way

Chorus:
That's right
The women are smarter
That's right
The women are smarter
That's right
The women are smarter
The women are smarter
That's right, that's right

Perhaps the Dead were ahead of their time or maybe they were just realistic. I do believe that if women have to squeeze a baby-- a freakn human--out of their you know what, then they must be the superior gender. We put up with pms, periods, sore boobs, pregnancy, and MEN. Men who thank god at night that they are men, men who have a brain but often think with their "guy", men who either leave the seat down but pee on the rim or who leave it up so that women suddenly wonder where the hell the bidet came from in the middle of the night.

Now, now. Settle down. I am not a man hater, although I do hate some men. Overall, women get a bad rap because we are so emotional. We cry one minute, laugh the next. I admit it; I am a certifiable train wreck/bitch/psycho at certain times. Yet, why is it men don't get the rap when they are having their own form of "that time of the month"? This rant is not even what the core of this entry is about. This rant is trying to move the focus from what I have heard to be as fact; that men age better than women. If that were true, then why do men generally pay higher life insurance premiums than women? Perhaps men have been known to be more risky in their driving or their ego's tend to push them to complete the dare presented to them despite the rational little angel on the shoulder that is telling them to just walk away. But i must mention again, that women squeeze humans out of their va-jj's!!! I would like to blow this "fact" up. This past weekend, I saw firsthand what has happened to some of the men I used to ogle when they were wee lads. And none of it is good. Cosmetically, women are at an advantage; makeup does a world of wonder. Have you ever seen a woman without her "face" on? If the sight was more of a scream than Paranormal Activity, then perhaps she should look into permanent makeup application. Or flip it. If a woman looks better without makeup, then great; another option. Let's talk hair. When a woman goes gray, she can dye her hair. Roots never have to be an issue if one is vigilant and has an excellent colorist. Hair can also be crafted so that parts are manipulated this way and that. Men on the other hand, normally don't wear makeup. It is cool if they do, but I'm just saying. Sometimes all a gal needs is slap of lip gloss and a quick coat of mascara. What can a man do?? Chapstick? When a man dyes his hair, it is sooooooooooo obvious. When a man wears a piece, it is soooooooooooo obvious. Rogaine, plugs....GO FOR IT!!! Just don't pretend that the one piece of hair stretched over from the opposite side of your head is the cure all for baldness. It is not.
Now, weight. Women take a lot of crap when they put on a few pounds, yet with a man, it is a different story. I do not believe they get accused of being pregnant when there is a belly bulge and fashions do not dictate the A-line/empire style displayed in many a storefront window. The paunch seems to take a backseat to the pouch women have for no other reason than they are a women. BOOBS--they are for women, not for men. If I knew you back in the day and I see you now, at a pool, for instance, and it looks like you are topless, then yes, you have man boobs. Nature is not always kind to men with this aspect, but I do believe that if I knew you then, we all would have noticed your girls. So when I walk passed some guys who perhaps I might have panted over, even stalked a bit, and see that their hairs are now a hair, they have breasts, a gut and two to three chins, then I look at myself and my girls from back in the day, is it so insane to think that maybe there is something to be said for how the genders age?
Could it be that these guys would look better if they took better care of themselves? Is it them who have let themselves go now that domestic life has taken over? Why are women the ones who are supposed to keep up their appearance and not the men? Check out this Excerpt from “Housekeeping Monthly”, 13 May, 1955

· “Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.

· Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

· Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

· Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.

· Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc and then run a dust cloth over the tables.

· Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you immense personal satisfaction.

· Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and face (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.

· Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
· Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his return is not the time. Let him talk first-remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

· Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, and his very real need to be at home and relax.

· Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

· Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

· Don’t complain if he’s late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day.

· Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

· Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

· Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

· A good wife always knows her place.”

Re-direct your attention to the second bullet. REALLY? If i am busy arranging pillows, focusing on the tone and volume of my voice, pushing all of my emotions down into the pit of my stomach, cleaning up toys, etc, preparing a meal, then the least you can do, honey, is trim your toe nails, camo your gut and keep a shirt on. If you wear the pants, then let me flaunt my boobs.

NAILGASM

I am a picker. Of my nails. However, in fourth grade, my friend Jill caught me with my index finger digging for gold. From across the room, Jill mouthed; "You pick your nose?" I mouthed back; "No!!!" Meanwhile, I had a finger up my nose and Jill had what we now refer to as the "wings" hair cut, which was probably a modified mullet of sorts, but apparently popular for 1984. I digress....

I LOVE a good mani pedi. BUT, the kiss of death, even for the best manicure, is a major chip that provides the opportunity for me to pick of the polish. But this girl cannot stop at one nail. I must proceed to pick of the polish of my nine remaining nails. My friend Cheryl does the same thing. In fact, a couple of years ago I purchased a "desk" supply of cotton balls and polish remover for us just so we could scrape off the stubborn streaks of lacquer that were clinging to life on our ghetto nails.

So then, what is a NAILGASM? It is a clean peel of the polish off of the nail. It leaves nothing behind. It is a triumph. A few weeks ago, I decided to try the new color gel manicure by O.P.I. I went with "Linkin Park After Dark" since I knew how the color was supposed to turn out (a very dark purple, perhaps closer to black). I did not want to risk an unknown color on a twenty five dollar manicure. I suppose I am cheap BUT, Andy, my manicurist boyfriend guaranteed the color would last for two weeks. "Lisa...two weeks...no chip!!!" He had me at "no chip", but I figured I should at least commit fourteen days to a color I was familiar with. I freakin' loved how my nails looked; shiny and new day after day for about five days. There I am, Omaha bound, strapped into the seat of Boeing when I notice it. Thand GOD I had a Xanax in me!!! There, on my ring finger of my right had was a BUBBLE!!!! I was faced with a decision: do I let it go, wait until I get to Omaha and a Walgreens so that I could pick and remove the GUARANTEED TO LAST TWO WEEKS POLISH, or do I start to pick? The dilemma was solved rather quickly. Because I was sitting in the middle seat of the plane, I decided not to gross out my neighbors as I flicked Linkin Park After Dark through the air. About four hours later (YES, I held out THAT LONG), I was finally settled in my bed at the Doubletree, four cookies to the wind, when I began to peel. Talk about worth the wait. I had one of the best NAILGASMS of my life. The polish came off my nails in one fell swoop. I nailgasmed TEN TIMES (ten fingers). It was A. MAY. ZING*. There was a neat pile of ten former "nails" on the night table.

I actually entertained the idea of investing another twenty five bucks just to experience the nailgasm again, but I got a grip and instead relived the moment with Cheryl upon my return to New York.

* A. MAY. ZING is a phrase coined by Robyn. It is also her Jersey Shore alias.

AL'S WOOD

A friend of mine, Al Williams, recently resigned from his position as a writing teacher. Why, during uncertain economic times where jobs are few and far between, especially jobs for English teachers, would he pick up and leave a job that was his so long as he did not royally screw up? Love. Oregon. Yes, love and Oregon. You have to give Al props. He is taking a chance on a girl who lives in Oregon. Granted, he will be living it up in Portland, but regardless, Al has left what he has known as the familiar (VERY Eastern LI) and is currently venturing toward what I hope will be a fulfilling leg on this next journey of his life.
Enough of the mushy stuff. Al and I have had our own bonding experience by the way of Project Runway. Despite the declining drama and lackluster designers, Al has pushed me to continue my viewing of the show. Our conversations had forged a bond that enabled me to feel comfortable enough to acknowledge a serious issue I had with Al; the driftwood displayed in the rear windshield of his Saturn. I am a firm believer that a rear windshield is not a shelving opportunity. People with stuffed animals in their “rears” really freak me out. Are these animals extras that do not fit on their bed? Are they winnings from one of those claw machines in the game room at Nathan’s? WTF? Even a box of tissues; what good will that box of tissues proudly displayed in the rear windshield of a car do you when you are driving and have to clear out a snot rocket? So, when I my eyes locked with Al’s wood, I wondered why the hell did he choose to display it in his car? Did he stumble upon this idea on Bravotv.com while checking out the Runway blog? Did he see this in Car and Driver? Basically, Al’s reason was as unsatisfying as a piece of dry toast. He just liked it there.
So it was fitting, that upon checking my mailbox at school, I noticed a familiar piece of lumber nestled amongst random crap that I had yet to thumb through. Yes, you guessed it. In my box, was Al’s wood. I was touched. Walking through the hall with this smooth souvenir of marine debris, colleagues questioned what I was doing. My response: “I’m looking for Al to thank him for giving me his wood.”
Al’s wood is packed up in my metal cabinet, but it will make its debut this fall amongst my display of pictures and various glass paper weights which I collect. I truly appreciate the token Al has bestowed upon me and hope that he finds happiness wherever he ends up. In some ways this is a bit poetic. Driftwood washes up on a shore, weathered and worn, perhaps traveling hundreds or thousands of miles. The wood could have been part of a boat, or served as home to some sort of sea life, yet if it washes up the shore and someone stumbles upon it. That someone picks it up and then displays it in their windshield; a new sea. Then, it is passed on to another and for as long as some will remember, it will be known as “Al’s Wood”.

Seriously, I Don't Mean to Brag...

Every year, we encounter not only new students, but their parents. Often the students tend to be the more realistic ones; parents want their kids to be who they want them to be. They don’t want to hear their child cannot do something at their grade level, let alone unable to do that something at all. There is a poem written by a parent of a student with a disability and of course the title and author escapes me right now. The poem is an extended metaphor comparing the child to a trip to Europe. You plan to have a baby that will be x,y, and z, only to discover they are a,b,c. Similarly, you plan a fantastic trip to Paris, only to land in Berlin. The point was, your expectations have to change.
The expectations I have for my students vary in degree. I do expect all of them to be kind one another and to become citizens of the world who make a positive contribution to society. Some of students will contribute by becoming teachers themselves, others will be working someplace where they practice a rote skill. But in the scheme of things, who really cares? They will have beaten the odds that someone has stacked against them at some point in their lives and hopefully proven a few people wrong along the way.
Now, we have had a very tense situation all year with a particular parent whose daughter is significantly impaired. She is as sweet as can be and she laughs at all of my jokes. This student also has a great sense of humor herself. She lacks the inhibitions that would make another person self conscious, and I believe this protects her from really seeing how cruel other kids are. Ironically, my “coolest” boys who “do not need any help” are very kind to her. A lot of my students are exempt from taking a foreign language due to severe receptive language disabilities, so they were discussing who takes a language and who does not. One of the cool boys asked this student if she took a foreign language and she firmly replied “YES”. “What language?”, he asked. “ENGLISH”, she proudly responded. The irony was not lost on me folks; English is definitely a foreign language to some. The point is, she did not realize that she was not taking a foreign language, but the kids did not needle or bash her in the same way they would have done to someone else. They just ‘get it’ when it comes to her. Anyway, the parents are under the impression that their daughter is going to be able to do x,y, and z. For now, she is making progress and the achievement of those goals remains to be seen. About 4 months ago, this student was brought to my inclusion class after being in a self contained social studies for at least 5 years. I modify work to the extent a child needs it, so for this student, I figured I had my work cut out for me. I was not worried about the kid so much as the parents who have historically picked apart every letter of every paper sent home. I almost had a heart attack when Isent home a failing grade but instead I was told that they were impressed she did that well. WOW! Quite a compliment. So now, as I begin to write a final just for this student, I figured I would let the parents know that I would be cluing them in on what to study and to alleviate any worry that I expected their daughter to have to know the final review packet inside and out. Knowing who they are and what they so desire, I waited for their response. Here is what I received (a bit edited so as not to bore you)

Hi Ms. Shapiro,
Thanks so much for writing to us. …….

My husband and I truly appreciate the dedication, insight and expertise you have brought to our daughter's seventh grade experience. (We so wish you taught eighth grade!) At some point I would like to talk to you a bit more about_____________.

Thanks again,
___________________

So I planned a trip to visit Alcatraz, and instead I ended up in Bora Bora. Seriously, life is full of surprises.

Seriously, AC

So, I have been mega busy. Not a very good excuse for the lack of writing, but if it is any consolation, I am constantly observing and noting good topics to blog about. “Seriously” is always in my heart. I really need some time to play around on here and spruce of the page. You know, make it more personal. But since that is not going to happen for a bit, let me update you on my wild weekend in Atlantic City. For the sake of keeping things fluid, I am going to just number my topics; too many disconnected incidents occurred and will probably not be as funny to those of you who were not there.
What: Kim Grossman’s Bachelorette Party
Where: Water Club/Borgata in Atlantic City
Who: MAMS RAMS and Kim’s other friends, cousin, sister in law
1. The car ride. Lisa, Robyn, Rita, Amanda. Rita was the driver. Apparently, we should have left around 11:40, but finally got on the road about 2 hours later. Robyn had a spa appointment and an emergency CVS run. Not a big deal, I suppose, if we had planned to leave at that time and clued Robyn in on the need to change her hair appointment (spa makes it more dramatic). Rita was not happy, so I suggested I take over the wheel so she could start drinking gin. It would have been a good idea, since once we hit Mur Mur, all Rita drank was TONIC and gin, not GIN and tonic. Amanda busted out a mix CD, which was mucho fun to sing along to. At the rest stop, all four of us purchased fake teeth with the hopes that one of us would get the coveted golden grillz, but to no avail. We had so much at the rest stop that we almost came back to NY. But, we proceeded to our destination while Rita drank coffee that tasted like the rest stop. The car ride back was just as much fun, but funnier because we were starving and exhausted. Robyn’s GPS, who sounds like a 1-900 phone sex operator FINALLY found us a “restaurant”. WAWA. Talk about WAHWAH!! I do not suggest the mozzarella sticks. However, this week there is a hoagie special, so come one, come all. A
2. PWT. The fake teeth were busted out at The Old Homestead. It was probably not the classiest move, but as Countess Luann always says, “Money Can’t Buy You Class.” We have no money, so no worries there. I actually wore the fake teeth today at work for a bit. The kids loved them.
3. Speaking of the Countess (RHONY). I admired how she wore a fancy nightgown when she slept over Jill and Bobby Zarin’s one night, so I convinced my mother to bust out a nightgown from 1974 because I was too cheap to buy a silky number. It was literally from 1974. No exaggeration. It is somewhat of a tropical design featuring pinks and yellows. I could not fill in the chest area, but nonetheless, I reenacted the scene wear Jill Zarin happens upon Luann just casually reading in bed. I know what you are thinking: How mature (immature) is this girl? Seriously, the only way I can cope with daily life is to pull silly stunts such as these. People like it, we laugh, it is fun. Don’t come along if you are unwilling to play. Marmol actually owns the book Class with the Countess and she caught up on some reading while in AC as well. For about 28 hours, we all hummed/busted out her song which can be downloaded on ITUNES. Thank you Countess for providing us with material.
4. Jungle Cat in the Bathroom. Last week at a happy hour, a bunch of us decided to reenact scenes from the Hangover. The next day, we all had hangovers. I had planned to borrow a baby Bjorn from someone and wear it out. My mother was not a fan of this idea. I reminded her that hillbillies are in AC, as well as elderly males and females scooting around in wheelchairs while connected to Oxygen tanks. While smoking butts. And she is worried about how I would look with a baby bjorn? Instead, I bought a tiger mask and posed as a jungle cat in the bathroom. I also ironed. The jungle cat mask will coming along on the next venture with the ladies to Cape May. Again, immature, but fun. We are women in our 30’s who work in a middle school. We are young at heart. I love us.
5. Shakira Vid. There might be a video surfacing of me somewhere dancing as Shakira behind curtains.
6. The stripper. There wasn’t one. But, when a security guard approached our table at dinner inquiring about someone who fell down the stairs earlier in the evening, Amanda did not hesitate to ask if he was the stripper. He was not amused. However, many were amused when Amanda changed into her Tuxedo Stripper T and acted as our gentleman escort for the remainder of the night. SIDENOTE: I am wearing a Tuxedo T to our end of the year party. I plan to bedazzle it because I am just that kind of girl. These shirts are festive, appropriate and simple. I am pleased to already have the outfit planned out, but if you know me well enough, you know I already had something else lined up months ago!
7. The Bone. Rachel ML, the librarian at our school, has a dog that she always brings her leftovers to. Stop it!!! Not her husband, a four legged canine!!! So, true to her style, Rachel requested her bone from the porterhouse for two be wrapped up. There is Rachel waiting on line at Mur Mur with a gold tone carry out bag holding a bone. The people manning the line at the club instructed Rachel to leave the bag outside of the club. Sadly, the bone went into the garbage. But how often does one carry a bone around a casino with the intention of carrying it around a club?
8. SAMANTHA RONSON!! LOVE HER. She really gained fame as Lindsay Lohan’s gf, but beyond that, Sam, as I like to refer to her, is a sick DJ. She is in her early 30’s so she spins what we all know but mixes it in a way that makes someone want to stalk her every appearance within an hour radius of Long Beach. She is tiny and has a body like a pre-pubescent boy. She had on a flannel shirt (chap-stick).
9. SLASH! So, we are trying to get our groove on the dancefloor, but it is so packed that we are sweating and sort of swaying. Rita is asked to move over so that the velvet rope can provide entrance to an ugly man in a hat, silver hoop earring, and weird ass black curly hair pulled back in a pony tail. Said man brushes against Rita. Said man is GNR’s Slash, who is leading his own band and had performed earlier somewhere in the hotel. He is practically unrecognizable without his big sunglasses, hat and pouffed out coiffe. But, it was him and we were all a little star struck. (pics are on FB if you are my friend)
10. Bathroom Cell Phone Stalker. So, around 1:30 AM, I leave Rita and Robyn at the Black Jack Table. Rumble Rumble…. I hear a woman telling the bathroom attendant that she believes she has lost her cell phone in the bathroom. The duo begins to investigate the scene. I am doing what I gots to do and have the sneaking suspicion that someone is waiting for me to hurry up. About 40 minutes later, (just kidding)….A bit later, I exit the stall and realize my instincts were dead on. Missing cell phone woman was waiting for me to get out RIGHT BEHIND THE DOOR. Couldn’t her time have been used more productively? She could have asked if I had seen a cell phone in the toilet!!! But her ineffective use of time management was not rewarded in a good way when she pursued her cell phone search in the stall that I had just left….Let’s just leave it at that. (TMI??? Everybody poops!! It is a book!!)

11. 2 new phrases/terms from the weekend:
1. Mojito is apparently not just a drink. It is a work referring to a woman getting turned on. USE: “OOH!!! That just made me mojito!” (Hint: If you are not able to dissect this vague clue, it has to do with a response one might get in their girl-shirts).
2. ANNA (changed the original ‘A’ name to protect the innocent). A student’s mother thought it was a great idea to feed her daughter Ex-Lax due to some clogged plumbing. Said student had an explosion at school (are you shocked?) and was subsequently sent home. After more explosives at home, an email was sent to her teacher indicating that the “B.M. was so bad it was even in her vagina.” UUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!! Parents really share this info with us folks!
So, if I ever call you an “Anna”, I mean you are a va-j-j with crap in it.
Yes, I am SERIOUSLY disgusting and vulgar at times, but these are not even things that I made up!!!

All in all, this was a fun weekend. I laughed hard enough that I cried and even seem to think I spy a 1-pack forming on my stomach.

Seriously, I AM LOSING MY MIND!!!!!!!!!!!!! ( a rant from a few nights ago)

Wait! It might even be lost. I am literally sitting here about to explode. And, I am starving. You see, I am supposed to be receiving a physical from a paramedical. Perhaps I waited 10-15 years too long, but I am finally purchasing life insurance. Apparently, it is a sm art financial move, a great way to plan for life (death) and a sign of growing up. Or that is what I thought until I learned that had I done this 3, 4, 9 years ago, I would have bought in at a much lower rate. Here I am, silly moi, thinking I needed to wait until I popped out a baby to purchase this "peace of mind." I wonder if Bethenny Frankel thought of this? She is older than me, after all.

So, where the hell is this chick? She was supposed to be here an hour ago, no dice. Modern technology has provided us with phones: SERIOUSLY??? I tend to be unable to drop a urine on demand and have terrible veins. I could never shoot up drugs, not that I have ever had the desire to, but the point is between a pending urine sample and the necessity to access a vein in my arm, I have been downing water like its 1996 and its a melon ball shot. Oh--did I mention I went to spin class? Oh--did I mention I have not been able to eat anything since 5, which ordinarily is no problem, yet today of all days, the suggestion of the limitation has had my stomach in an uproar?? Oh--did I mention spin class? I have not eaten since 1:00. My blood pressure is probably sky high now due to the unprofessionalism of a faceless woman who I decided has a sparse moustache; a woman who has controlled my every move tonight. Cleary,my blood pressure is not the 120 over 80 that I can usually boast of. So you know what? You cannot see me, but I just threw back a class of wine and ate a handful of raspberries. I used the ladies room, but not at the same time as I was eating. I do have class! TIME: 9:20. Looks like Josh can't off me just yet.

IS THAT SERIOUSLY YOUR NAME?

Hamburger
Chin
Paradise
Knee
Dickes
Vagiones (yes, this is real)
Seaman
Cockfield (my mom gave that one)
Mr. Doody (thanks again mom!)

What do all of these words have in common? They are last names; seriously odd ones if you really want my opinion. I came across these names while grading the New York state English Language Arts Assessment. Vagiones happens to be the last name of a colleague’s cousin; the family is Greek. During my days grading, I learned the story of this first name: Le-A. Apparently, the mother of the child bearing this name was upset that no one was ever able to correctly pronounce Le-A’s name. The reason: it was pronounced Le DASH a. Apparently Le-A’s mom was not a very good speller, since it really said Le HYPEN a.
All of this name talk got me to thinking about my own collection of last names. At work, I am known as the law firm of Wasserman, Hershkowitz, Wasserman, Shapiro. I can determine which years I have had certain students based upon what they call me when I am spotted about town. Just the other day I ran into a student from 6 years ago. She recalled me as Mrs. Hershkowitz had blonde hair. A lot has changed since that year. Another student I currently have informed me that his brother has a yearbook with me as Wasserman, his sister with me as Hershkowitz. This student will be the proud owner of the Shapiro version of me, which will complete the anthology of my names. The kids of course wanted to know why I have had so many names, so when I tell them I killed my first husband, they don’t look shocked, considering at this point in the year they are very well acquainted with my sense of humor. They say, “No, really. What happened?” I tell them I collect husbands. They are a savvy group of 7th graders and they know that New York is not a state that supports polygamy so I simply say that Mr. Hershkowitz was a douchebag. Just kidding. I am honest and tell them we did not get along. My students press me for details, but it is definitely crossing a line to share with them that a marriage simply cannot work when the husband has a girlfriend and a harem of hook ups that he prefers spending time with. Ho hum…
Whenever anyone I know gets married (or divorced), they come to me for procedural information. I am an expert. I should hang a sign with tear off phone numbers on bulletin boards in supermarkets and dry cleaners advertising how, when, and what to do when faced with the change of name. I certainly have done it enough; 3 times to be exact. (Does that make me “Lisa 3 times”?**) The easiest name change is the credit card. They automatically congratulate you, assuming it is a change due to marriage. When I was getting divorced, I informed the kind woman it was due to divorce and she quickly apologized. I told her to take the apology back; Wasserman is a way better than Hershkowitz (Hershey Squirts) and my dignity was still intact! DMV, Social Security; kind of annoying. You need divorce papers in hand and you need to know the best times to show up. The W-2 or W-4 at work and health insurance information can be a bit annoying too. Believe it or not, Cablevision refused to change anything until I sent them a copy of my freedom papers. I was even dropped in the online IEP system we use at work because someone in the admin. Office of my school district neglected to ever change my name , despite multiple requests. Apparently, they thought Lisa Wasserman had left the district. You would think that after the pain in the ass of phone calls, faxes, mailings, and waiting for my number to be called I would have learned my lesson, but no, I honored Josh’s wish to become a real deal Shapiro, so I traded in Wasserman one last time and became a Shapiro (Shappy, Shaps).
The multiple name changes have made my mail situation interesting. Just the other day, Lisa Wasserman and Lisa Shapiro received a reminder of where to vote for the school budget. Lisa Wasserman, Lisa Hershkowitz and Lisa Shapiro all received mailings to vote for one candidate or another during the local election season. It was especially interesting when Lisa Wasserman was summoned to jury duty, went and was dismissed. About a week later, Lisa Hershkowitz, of the same social security number, address and phone number was summoned. Despite my written response, I was issues another summons threatening some very bad thing s would happen if I did not step up and serve my civic duty. I responded with a very strongly worded letter, informing whoever works there to pay attention to what I wrote and to get their facts straight. LISA WASSERMAN IS LISA HERSHKOWITZ AND SHE ALREADY SERVED JURY DUTY!!!! Telemarketers call here looking for all three of me, and when they do not ask for Shapiro, I tell them she does not live here. I tell them that Shapiro does not live here either, but at least the latter has the records up to date. I still receive mail with all three last names and I suppose I will for a while. The “wrong” names are junk mail anyway.
But what’s in a name? I used to believe that changing your last name meant changing your identity and while it technically does on paper, a name does not make a person who they are. We are who we are regardless of a surname. This does not mean that if you meet someone whose last name is ‘Gambino’ you won’t wonder if they are of those ‘Gambinos’ , or if their last name is ‘Clinton’ as in DeWitt Clinton, are they related to Bill Clinton (this happened at school the other day). Dr. Hymen was the principal of my Hebrew school and of course, that name still makes me laugh. But his name didn’t make him a virgin.
Names are funny. I used to wonder if I would have had a different life if I had a different first name. The only thing I have to go on is that it could have been a possibility. I had a very different life as a Hershkowitz, and it was not a good one. So to the test taker whose last name is Dickes: it could always be worse. I would much rather have been a Dickes than a Hershkowitz.
**refers to a wild night in college that included grain alchohol

Seriously, Which One First?

Apparently a bunch of my friends and I love discussing IT…you know…s-e-x. So it should come as no surprise that this was a topic that was discussed at length. Any female within an arm’s length was subject to being polled. The question of the week basically was, if you were currently dating, what would you do first: b.j. or sex? The overwhelming response: sex. Are we sluts? No. But, we are tired. We work hard all week and frankly, sex is less of an effort. Those of us who voted for sex believed one or all of the following in no particular order:
1. A b.j. is WORK. That go to trick you do, might not work on him tonight, tomorrow or ever.
2. Oral sex is more intimate than sex. Why? You are face to crotch with someone’s business…Sex is made to appear as routine as brushing your teeth between tv, movies, and books. Oral sex just brings a different level of intimacy to the table.
3. When one of us wants our husband/boyfriend to do something or allow us to do something, what is the sure-fire go to that will seal the deal? The offer of a blow job. Find me a man that doesn’t fall for this and I will publically declare that I saw a pig fly.
My friends who believed that sex should come second believed that was the more intimate act. But, no matter what we felt today as 24-40 year olds, we were unanimous that our high school selves would have gone the oral sex route first. Today, tweens and teens tend to shy away from that and opt for a different kind of sex altogether; the kind that most women are not asking for; the kind that these girls don’t consider sex because you cannot get pregnant doing it. Scary, right? And this is even with health classes that discuss it and provocative magazines that address it too. EWWWWWWWWWW!!
Let’s get back to oral sex though. Without mentioning names, one of my friends was a staunch supporter of saving that for a relationship not only because of the intimacy of the act but because of the END of the act. If you are just hooking up for the night, why would you want to have to make the decision of whether or not to spit or swallow? (Sorry, Aunt Sherry…I am blushing a bit right now). Bring one too many alcoholic beverages into the equation and an unstable gag reflex and you can wind up in a rather uncomfortable situation. Some people have their own strategies for dealing with the final scene of the blow job; gulp it down, imitate a squirrel prepping for winter and race to the bathroom, or a sort of catch and release only without the catch. The release is on him, on her, or caught in a tissue, towel, t-shirt or a baby wipe. Yes. A baby wipe. Aren't baby wipes cold? I seriously cannot make this stuff up….

Seriously, Some Sights and Sounds of This Week

I seriously always catch a glimpse of things or hear things that others might miss. But of course, I share them with you and others who dig my sense of humor and understand my sarcasm. Here are some observations and interactions of my week....and it is only Wednesday!

1. Driving home from the gym, I wonder if my eyes are playing tricks on me, but I do in fact see a female with her thumb out. SERIOUSLY? Who the hell hitches a ride these days? For those of you not familiar with my part of town, she was standing on Long Beach Road, a main artery that runs through north/south through a bunch of towns. This woman was stranded in Oceanside, a town which is safe, especially at 7:20 at night when it is barely dusk. Who the hell doesn't have a cell phone? Couldn't she call someone, anyone? Was this a dare to see if someone on Long Island in 2010 would give her a lift? So many questions!!!!!

2. Before I tutor, I like to grab a cup of Dunkin Donuts to help get me through. So today was just like any other day, except for the woman who did the following:

a. When it was her turn to order, she prefaced it by saying that she knew what she wanted until the blueberry muffin supply was reloaded. She had her eye on a particular muffin, so she requested to examine the batch more closely so that she could find the one she wanted. The girl who had the fortunate experience of assisting this woman grabbed the tray, no questions asked. Then, the two girls behind the counter and I shared a moment of unspoken words that if spoken would have sounded like this; "WHAT THE F IS THIS WOMAN DOING?????"
b. With the muffin selection concluded, it was now time to pay. As if the Dunkin Donuts worker wasn't patient enough, she waited until the woman counted out the 76 cents that was needed to wrap up the $1.76 total. One coin at a time, very slowly....Muffin Chick was literally moving at a negative speed. Again, the two girls behind the counter and I shared yet another moment, all conveyed through eye contact. If our eyes could speak they would have said; "HURRY THE HELL UP!!!!!!!!"

SIDENOTE: Because the girl who was assisting me was a bit distracted by the goings on of Muffin Chick, understandably so, I had time to see how much change was counted out. She was a penny short, but the cashier just grabbed the money and threw it into the register.

c. So, the muffin was selected and paid for. DONE! Not so fast. Muffin Chick then amazed me once again. She opened her paper Dunkin Donuts bag and removed the muffin. She sniffed it. She inspected it. She sniffed it again. She then removed napkins from her purse, white napkins, not D&D napkins, and wrapped the muffin in them. FINALLY, her ritual was complete. I shared one last moment with the D&D girls. This moment was all eyes and puzzled smiles. If our eyes and smiles could have spoken, they would have said; "SHE SNIFFED HER MUFFIN!!!!!"

3. The topic of the week in health class is the male reproductive system. There is talk about scrotum, wet dreams, boners and semen. No holds barred. Which is cool. I mean, it takes a certain kind of person to be able to project a diagram of the male reproductive system, in color, on the SMARTBOARD and speak about the vas deferens with a straight face. While I can banter about such things and make statements such as; "Hmmm. I wonder who drew these male genitalia on the desk...” I simply could not teach the reality of it all. I laugh when they call students with the last name of "Weiner" over the P.A. system. One thing I don't do is pass out while listening to the scientific reason why a wiener is able to stand at attention. I definitely don't have to leave the room because it is making me sick. My friend Rich was blessed with the one student who passes out when he hears the word blood. I might have thought this was an exaggeration until the other day. I was having a very important conversation in the hallway with Rita and Roland when Rich's classroom door opens and two boys emerge, one of which was a shade of pea soup green. Having escorted one of my students to Rich's class about ten minutes prior, I knew that he was discussing the contents of semen that particular day. I asked the green boy what was wrong and he responded; "We are learning about the male reproductive system and it is making me sick." Rich, the caring soul he is, asked another boy to walk the student to the nurse in the event he passed out. What to Rita, Roland and I do? We tell the boy to feel better, of course. We have souls! And yes, we ran to Rich's room, ducked so that the kids could not see us by the door through the window and beckoned Rich into the hall. We then began to laugh that silent and contagious laugh that gives you sore abs and makes you cry.

This situation makes me wonder about whether there is a real diagnosis for people, really men, who are afraid of their penis. I am going to look into this. This poor kid will forever be known as the boy who had to be escorted to the nurse during male reproductive lesson day in health class. I can just picture his senior yearbook: "Dear_________________, Remember when you almost puked in 7th grade when Mr. W said that sperm swim in semen? Have a great summer! Love, ______________"

4. And finally, I believe it is important to be able to laugh at yourself, so if you would have seen me today, you would have definitely loved my earrings and might have thought I looked cute. I was wearing a tan shirt dress with leggings and boots. I rarely where a light color, let alone leggings. So of course, when a colleague pointed out there was something brown near my butt, I nearly crapped my pants for real. I ran to the library bathroom. I examined the brown stain and then I SMELLED IT. It did not look like crap, so I assessed the risk factor and determined it was low. I am like a Bloodhound when it comes to smells and in no time, I knew the offender on my dress was chocolate. I believe that I picked this up while sitting on the window sill during my first period class. Needless to say, Joe, who I ran out on during our class to check out my butt, looked at me quizzically upon my return. I whispered to him that something terrible had happened. I told Joe and he wanted to see the spot which was now a lighter shade of brown and wet from my scrubbing in the bathroom. A couple of the kids saw me slowly turn for Joe, who was, as it appeared, checking out my ass. So NOT the case, but of course, I needed to extinguish ANY possibility that the 7th grade rumor mill would get going and I told the kids what had happened. I assured them that I did not poop my pants and if that were truly the case, I certainly would not be flaunting it. We all had a seriously, good laugh.

Seriously, Is Throw Up a Deal Breaker?

This was the question of the day, yesterday, April 26th, 2010. The question was posed during lunch. I mean, who doesn’t discuss throw up, laden with cheese, crackers and red wine during lunch? But what path was taken that led to this question?
To make a long story short, my friend Ryan went to the vineyards this past Saturday with a girl he had been hanging out with for about a month and some miscellaneous others. They are not important, but apparently, to the males out there, it is necessary to note that “about a month” is less than 30 days but more than 5 days. Anyway, the ride out East on the party bus caused my friend Ryan to feel a bit car sick, but he held it together and then it was, in his words, “Game On.” The crew was having so much fun that they cut their tri-fecta visit down to two. Ryan, the gentleman that he is, purchased a boatload of cheese and crackers for the ladies to eat, as they neglected to eat prior to their trip to the wineries. (I need to chime in: a bagel, prior to day drinking, was definitely in order). So, they day goes on, as does the “game” and as all good things must come to an end, so did the visit to the vineyards. Everyone gets back on the bus, a little more festive than when they boarded earlier in the day. Ryan is wasted, his lady friend buzzed, but her appetite has been sated by red wine, cheese and crackers. Remember I mentioned earlier that Ryan felt a bit car sick on the way to the vineyards? Well, he was feeling nothing but good vibes now. Closing her eyes and resting her head on his shoulder, Ryan believed that his date was feeling affectionate, but she was most likely trying to stop the spinning in her head. One moment, the two were canoodling, the next minute; Ryan was covered in red wine, cheese and crackers. Yes, this girl puked up her visit to the vineyards all over Ryan. What is a boy to do? Naturally, drop his shorts, peel off his shirt and dance down the length of the party bus in his boxers to some old school Michael Jackson.
After all was said and done, Ryan stayed over the girl’s place, but nothing happened and by nothing, I mean nothing. She was not very apologetic for her throwing up all over him, neither in words nor favors. As Ryan re-told this story to us Monday morning, the majority of us felt that this girl owed him something. I mean, vomit happens, but these two were in the early stages of a what could have been a blossoming relationship. The fact that she was not very embarrassed or offered to clean his clothes for him was indicative of the fact that she is most likely not a very giving person in the bedroom (or kitchen, or living room, etc.). The fact that our friends at work believed that this girl should have at least offered Ryan some sort of “pleasure” is indicative that none of the women I hang with are feminists, but we do understand that sometimes there are just certain things we must do for our men. If you are wondering what those things are, I will mention one: the B.J. As Sex and the City’s Samantha once said in reference to this task; “They don’t call it a job for nothing.” If I were the girl who puked on my guy, I would probably be wary of my gag reflex for the remainder of the evening, but still. YOU PUKED ON THE GUY YOU ARE DATING!!!! Not for nothing, I would bet that it would be rare to find a man who would turn down such an offer, and if he does, he is simply just not that into you.
This topic leads to another BLOG topic, so I will end this portion here, however, is throw up a deal breaker? In this case, yes. Ryan has yet to call this girl, last seen on Sunday morning. Now, this guy is my friend and while he is a guy, he does not send out that douche vibe. We have deduced that the vomit was not the issue; it was the lack of genuine apology and that fact that this showed she was just not THE girl. But as the be all, end all, throw up most likely is not a death sentence for a blossoming relationship.

LICE, the UNTOLD STORY

Nary can a girl with long hair or curly hair or curly, long hair deny that during their stay in elementary school that they did not undergo the inspection with chop sticks in the nurse’s office only to be told that you had a case of lice. A parent was called. A trip to the pharmacy was made for the requisite metal comb to brush as well as its companion, RID. 47 loads of laundry later, 13 thorough washes of the hair and VERY painful comb-thrus resulted in yet another case of lice just a few weeks later because the one person in your class’s mother neglected to wash every pillowcase, sheet or blanket her body came in contact with. (That is my memory, possibly yours too).

UGH! The epidemic of LICE is worse than chicken pox or even a stomach virus, if you ask me. I mean, the “cure” is so time- consuming and the thought of bugs crawling around in your scalp is enough to suggest an itch. I have always worked with kids, whether at a day camp or a day care center. I managed to avoid lice as an adult until I worked at nursery school. Here is my untold story.

Picture it: A Friday, during the summer of 1999. I am excited for the day to end so that I can head down to the village to some restaurant or another with my then boyfriend. A birthday party is planned for one of the four year olds, complete with balloons and cupcakes. A festive feeling is in the air.

END OF FESTIVE FEELINGS

The four year old teacher noticed one of the boys furiously scratching his head much of the day. I cannot recall his name, but he wore glasses and had shaggy, blonde hair. His single mother owned and worked a dirty water dog push cart. She was a hot mess but not because she sold hot dogs on the city streets. She was just a hot mess. Our school did not have a nurse, so Drusilla, the infant “teacher”, was in charge of lice checks. Out came the wooden chop sticks, rubber gloves, and magnifying glass. Out came the shrieks. “OH MY GOD! HIS HAIR IS MOVING!!!”; said Manny, Drusilla’s son, who happened to be assisting that day. Sure enough, this boy was having an open house for lice only on his scalp. There were nits (eggs) and live ones dancing around his head. According to Google health, treatment for lice is needed even if only one egg is found, which clearly makes sense as eggs hatch. Seeing as this kid was sporting an epidemic proportion case of lice, the entire school was beckoned to Drusilla for further inspection. At this point, I decided I might as well get checked out too. Good call, because who else had lice??? Yup. Upon hearing my prognosis, I start bawling. I am so disgusted and I have plans to go out. How does one tell their boyfriend they have bugs living on their head??? Since NYC has a Starbucks and a Duane Reade on every corner, I marched myself over and purchased the scary comb and RID. The level of embarrassment and discomfort I experienced during the purchase is best equated to buying any number of other “embarrassing” products for the first time; tampons, condoms, pregnancy tests…. I felt as though everyone in Duane Reade was staring at me as though I were the carrier of the next Bubonic Plague. Fortunately for me, there as a small shower in my classroom. Why, I do not know, but thank the lord! So, I showered and washed and combed my hair 37 times and dried off with paper towels (It was a school, not the Four Seasons). I was Lice free!!! I called my mother to tell her to wash my sheets, etc, as I was still living at home.

This story was one that was repeated throughout my tenure at this nursery school. My favorite version was told by Jordan, who said; “Remember that time you was crying when you had bugs in your hair?”

But this story was retold years later, only on a rooftop bar on a warm summer night in Manhattan. This time, I was with a new boyfriend (now husband) and meeting some of his friends for the first time. Everyone was gathered for his buddy Felber’s birthday. Felber is awesome; like a good shot of tequila, he immediately put my nerves at ease. I felt like I had known him forever and he treated me as such. Perhaps my comfort level was a bit too high, or perhaps I had consumed too many Sapphire’ and Seven, but I proceed to recount this tale of nursery school woe to him. Felber is so entertained by this story, that he screams out “LICE!” Remember, we are on a NYC rooftop. Felber is 6’5 with a booming baritone voice so it sounds more like “LLLLLLLLLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIICCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEE! LLLLLLLLIIIIIIIICCCCCCCCCCEEEEEEE! LLLLLLLIIIIIICCCCCCEEE!LLLLLLIIIIICCCCCCCEEEEEEE!...... You get the point. And guess what Felber calls me now? LICE-A.

Why this story, NOW? The other day, as I am chatting up my friend Al at work, he picked something out of my hair. When I asked what it was, he said “some lice.” Seriously, Al, you will understand why I did not think you were very funny.

Some Seriously Funny Parts of My Yesterday

Here are some things that I got a seriously delayed laugh out of. Why delayed? Because so much goes on during the day that my real reflection time often takes place between the hours of 2-3.30 A.M.

1. A concerned colleague came to me yesterday. One of my boys was uncharacteristically anxious and figity in her class. As part of my Q and A with her I asked; "Does he have a boner?" Her very serious response; "No."

(For those of you who don't know, or have not learned from a previous entry here, some of the boys get a little trippy when there is movement in their pants.)

2. While looking at the latest issue of Women's Health featuring Jillian Michaels on the cover, it was mentioned that she is supposedly a sister (as in likes girls). It seemed that most of us were on the same page with this discussion, until it was revealed that one member of the group was curious as to who in JM's bloodline was black, specifically 1/4 black. Our friend Steph, who is African American explained it. A little awkward, but more funny. So I wonder how many people thought my friend Lauren was looking for an African American sister as opposed to a lady sister this past Friday night while wearing her "Got a sister?" t-shirt.

3. While tutoring, one of my students was amazed by my shear ability to discuss and take copius notes for him about WW II. This is funny to me because earlier in the day he discovered I had a serious mental gap in my ability to help with contour maps. He totally called me out on it, yet I redeemed myself later on with my tales of my family's past during the war and my ability to really get him to understand the contour map. Who says kids are not easy to impress?