Married But Not a Mrs.

Max Cassidy: Escape from Shadow Island by Paul Adam

2011-08-08T15:45:00.002-04:00

Although they're not my favorite, murder-mystery thriller action movies are, if well done, totally engaging and exciting. I tend not to read the novels on which these movies are based--the Bournes, Hunt for Red October, etc.--but the movies are fast paced and fun. Paul Adam has done that here with the plot of Max Cassidy, except this time the person putting the pieces together and narrowly escaping the police is fourteen year old Max.

Max lives in London with Consuela, his father's former assistant. Two years ago, while traveling to perform his escape-artist act, Alex Cassidy was murdered, and his wife, Max's mom, convicted of the crime and sent to prison. Max, naturally, was devastated, but knew, always, that his mother was innocent and held out hopes, like any kid would, that his father was alive. When a strange man shows up after one of Max's shows--he, too, is an escape artist and is a huge child celebrity--and informs him that yes, his father Alex is alive, Max is set on a path that includes dead bodies, numerical clues, deadbeat lawyers, extreme government corruption, secrets, coverups, a strange island fortress, and, of course, escaping from prison at least once.

This is totally a page-turner, plot based story. We learn a little bit about Max, but less about anyone that matters to him, like his parents or Consuela. But this is an exciting story that has "movie option" written all over it. It doesn't wrap up super neatly at the end--Adam is, smartly, setting himself up for a sequel--but we're left with hope for where Max will find himself after the harrowing events he's experienced over the course of the story. There are, certainly, some formulaic aspects to the plot, but it's ok because of the genre. I read this quickly and would definitely read the next installment to see what happens. Boys (or girls--let's not be sexist) looking for an action-packed read will not be disappointed, and all readers will likely be kept on the edge of their seat.

The Thirteenth Princess by Diane Zahler

2011-08-08T15:27:00.002-04:00

Zita, the 13th daughter born to King Aricin and the late Queen Amara, has not had an easy life. Her father so desperately wanted a son that he and Amara kept trying and trying...and trying and trying for a boy. At first, he was overjoyed with his daughters--all named with the letter 'A' like their beautiful mother with whom he was madly in love--but after the 13th girl was born, his wife passed away and he was so angry at the world that he banished this child, named with a Z, and refused to acknowledge her existence as one of his children.

Zita remained in the castle, working in the kitchen with Cook and Chiara, watching the 12 princesses--her sisters, unbeknownst to her--have this wonderful, royal life. Eventually, of course, she finds out the truth, and is embraced by the brood of blonde haired, blue eyed girls. Yet there is a mystery going on--why can the daughters not speak around potential suitors? Why are they listless, tired and pale despite constant rest, recreation and feasts? Why are the soles of their best shoes being worn through in merely a week? With the help of Breckin, a stable boy, his brother, and a strange old woman they meet on the outskirts of the palace, Zita helps to solve the mystery of what ails her beloved sisters and learns about her mother and father in the process. It's not exactly happily ever after for the family, but it comes quite close.

This is a well-structured quasi-Cinderella story that gets turned somewhat on its formulaic head. There is still a focus on finding true love and marrying off each of the princesses, but Zita's character serves as a decent antithesis to that without bashing the notion over the head. There is magic about--despite the King's banning of its use when his first daughter was born--and a mystery to solve. Zita and Breckin's friendship is the best relationship in the story. For a young reader or parent of a child into princess stories, this is a good addition to the a library. It is written well, but would not be too difficult for an emerging reader to tackle on his/her own. The ending wraps up nicely, though there is a rather large loss that makes "happily ever after" more realistic, which is nice.

The Genius Files: Mission Unstoppable by Dan Gutman

2011-08-02T16:11:00.003-04:00

First, your parents name you Coke and Pepsi. Ok, fine, you can handle that. But then, a week or so before your 13th birthday, people--including your health teacher--try to kill you and you find out you have been selected to be part of a government special spy team especially for genius kids. Then, of course, you have to endure a cross-country RV excursion with your parents--and your mom has a website dedicated to all sorts of oddities, so this isn't just any normal road trip. No, you're off to see Pez museums, large balls of twine, and other wacko pieces of Americana. Oh, and those people who tried to kill you? Yeah, they're following you. Great vacation!

With sarcasm, hilarious moments of fourth-wall breakage, and a knack for the tween voices of twin siblings, Dan Gutman has put together a Spy Kids meets National Lampoon's Family Vacation novel, complete with all sorts of silly facts about places and towns from California to Wisconsin. (The sequel, presumably, takes the McDonald family from Wisconsin to their destination, Washington, DC). Obviously, the premise is ridiculous, but that's ok. This is for middle schoolers, after all. Boys, I think, will especially like this story because most of the action is centered around Coke, the male twin, though Pepsi, his sister, plays a large role, as well. The plot is action packed, and readers will zoom through to find out what zany adventures are in store for these two Geniuses as they motor their way across America.

Inside Out and Back Again by Thanhha Lai

2011-03-06T21:19:00.002-05:00

This book of verse tells the beautiful, heart-breaking story of Kim Ha and her family from the days before South Vietnam erupted into war through a year of living in Alabama where they are sponsored by a Southern Baptist family. Her father has been missing for nine years, captured on a village road on his moped. Her three older brothers try to protect her, but have issues of their own. Her mother still weeps for her husband, and is trying to do the right thing for her family. What is left for Kim Ha?

The language is simple and lyrical, telling this story in poetic, sparse details. Because it is told from a child's point-of-view, issues like the war itself are limited, but her accounts of racism and xenophobia living in Alabama are very real and believable. Lai admits that many of what happens to her main character is autobiographical.

This would be a wonderful literary tie-in for any student spending time in history studying the Vietnam War and America's involvement, especially because it offers a side of the war few are familiar with. (I didn't know that Americans could sponsor a Vietnamese family and got paid by the government to do so.) The free verse structure makes it an easy read, without sugar-coating the difficult subject matter. Lai's style is mature without being an unrealistic voice for the narrator.

Freddy, King of the Flurbs by Peter Hannan

2011-03-06T20:42:00.002-05:00

You're bad at school. Your older sister is wonderful at everything and adored by everyone. You wish everything were different.

And then suddenly--it is.

After another horrific experience on report card day, Freddy wakes up as he and his family are being abducted by aliens. For some reason he cannot explain, Freddy is made King of the Flurbs, and his parents and sister are given Royal Jobs like Royal Crown Polisher and Royal Boot Licker. While Freddy is living it up, his family gets thrown in the dungeon for Anti-Freddy activities. And, of course, the evil Wizbad thinks himself the true heir to the throne and is out to get the newly crowned king...

This was a quick and easy read made up of mostly dialogue. Boys especially will love the often gross antics of the residents of Flurb (slime and antennae and yootleturds, oh my!) and any kid who feels like a loser in his own family will rejoice in Freddy getting to be in charge. The cute illustrations depict the various alien species, each weirder than the next.

What will happen to Freddy and his family in the sequel?

Book review: What Happened on Fox Street by Tricia Springstubb

2010-09-17T15:07:00.002-04:00

I will admit something sort of embarrassing.

From my stack of books from HC to read and review--which, at the moment, seems like a Sisyphean task--I chose Fox Street because the cover made it look...easy. I figured I could read it quickly, bang out a review and move on to whittling down the stack in time for grad classes to start.

The cover doesn't do this story justice.

Inside the rather juvenile looking jacket is a beautiful, touching story full of interesting, complex characters. Fox Street is a dead end street in a seemingly crumbling town full of just the type of neighbors you'd expect, yet who avoid cliche. The crotchety old lady who obsesses over her roses. The tired (single?) mother with a bunch of sons who like skateboarding and bottle rockets. The Italian hairdresser ready to hand out pizzelles. The elderly, diabetic black woman who relies on her church group to take her grocery shopping. And our main character, Mo, a middle school girl with a candy-sticky younger sister, a dad resigned to working for the township water department instead of living out his dreams, and heaps too much sadness and responsibility for a girl her age.

When Mo's best friend. Mercedes, comes up for her annual visit with her grandmother, Da, the aforementioned black woman, Mo is ecstatic. However, the summer plans of sitting around their secret Den--a rather upscale "fort" constructed by the ravine at the end of their street, complete with bean bag chairs--don't go exactly as planned. Mercedes is dealing with a new stepfather who she is trying desperately to hate despite his kind nature and caring demeanor, and who wants this to be her last summer on Fox Street. A real estate developer has sent a letter to Mo's father, hoping to convince him to sell the house and create a domino effect on the neighborhood. And the mean old woman with the roses keeps sending gifts for Mo to give to Mercedes, for reasons she will not explain.

Maybe it's because I grew up on a dead-end street, or maybe because like Mercedes and Mo, I'm "half orphan," but I thoroughly enjoyed this story. Springstubb captures the safe nature of a well-worn neighborhood so well, she makes even the dinged guardrail come to life. Her writing style is almost musical, perfect metaphors and similes lilting off the page. Her language is precise, her dialogue realistic, and it is written in a way that is simultaneously not dumbed down, but not over-reaching. She nearly perfectly captures a young girl's thoughts and feelings on friendship, being a big sister, and the emotional connection to your house and street.

I hope that the almost cartoonish jacket does not turn off readers like it almost did me. Though certainly a story for young adult readers, it is absolutely not childish. It is touching and bittersweet and positively well done.

Book review: Big Nate Strikes Again by Lincoln Peirce

2010-09-15T16:01:00.003-04:00

When I opened one of the many, many packages from HarperCollins and discovered the newest Big Nate book, I was pretty excited. I enjoyed the first one, and laughed like a lunatic in line at Disney World at Nate's antics.

This follow up was good, but not quite as fun as the first one. Nate's interactions with his arch enemy, Gina, are a little predictable, and he doesn't hang out with his wacky friends Teddy and Francis enough. But Peirce still manages to capture what it's like for kids to be in middle school with the made-up intramural games, partner projects, detentions and not being allowed to just "hang out" in the library.

The comics that help to tell the story are so cute, like before, and make me laugh out loud. However my favorites are the ones where Nate sort of goes on a tangent and makes lists like "Things I Can't Stand." (On that list, smudgy erasers, quick to lose its flavor gum, and squishy bananas. I concur.) As an 8 year resident of Philadelphia, I also thoroughly enjoyed Nate's cartoons about Benjamin Franklin that he created for his project.

As a "former" teacher, reading a book from a (fictional) typical kid's perspective always makes me reflect on what we do or don't do in the classroom. Should we randomly pair kids up for projects? Should assignments be due on "big" days outside of the classroom (like the Fleeceball championship)?

On the back cover, Nate exclaims that Book 3 is coming soon, and I look forward to it.

Book review: Freak Magnet by Andrew Auseon

2010-08-20T11:00:00.002-04:00

I read this fantastic novel in one sitting by the pool yesterday and nearly devoured it. To be honest, the title doesn't do it justice--the story is so much more profound than it suggests.

Freak Magnet is told in alternating points of view between Charlie (Freak) and Gloria (Magnet). This allows the reader to really learn to love both main characters and to identify and sympathize with each of them as well as they go along their odd parallel journeys. I liked that each chapter moved the plot forward instead of having Charlie or Gloria just reflecting on what happened previously. Both Charlie and Gloria are going through difficult times (they are teenagers, after all) but manage to connect after a series of fortuitous encounters. The reader is certainly rooting for them by the end.

The secondary characters were also interesting and well developed. Edison, Charlie's best friend, Charlie's dad, Gloria's sister, Maggie, and her mom, are authentic, meaningful additions to the narrative that serve the story well. Charlie's coworkers are a bit annoying at times, but they are also adolescent boys, so...I guess Auseon did a good job!

Auseon's sentences are lyrical and almost musical at times. His language is almost so advanced and well constructed that at times this does not seem like a YA story. His ability to capture the pain and insight into both Charlie and Gloria's personal crisis is believable; he gives each teen a realistic sense of their own suffering and conflict. This story is well done and a great read--don't let the seemingly dumbed down title deter you!

These Three Things are Not Like the Other

2010-08-18T19:46:00.003-04:00

Last year I read an article in what is now "Whole Living" magazine that, like C+C Music Factory would say, made me go "hmmm." (I would love to link to that article, but I haven't been able to find it.)

The general idea of the article is that introversion and extroversion are not the same as being shy or outgoing, but are often confused with one another. As I read this, I sat up like a bolt in my Barnes and Noble chair, and might have even choked on my chai latte. It explained everything.

No one would ever make the mistake of calling me "shy." I talk to people in the grocery store line, can mix and mingle with the best of them, and have no problems speaking to groups (ok, I realize this is somewhat different.) With my recent move to a new city, I've joined several groups on Meetup.com. Though last night's board game outing was, as the kids say, an epic fail, I realized how easy it is to just say "Hi, I'm Hilary. I'm new" and start a conversation. Although I was socially intimidated by the upperclassmen in high school and some of the "cooler" people in college, generally where ever I went--camp, Israel, California, grad school, work--I made friends easily. Me, shy? Not a chance.

However, at least according to the author of this article, I am introverted. You see, this author argues that while shy/outgoing is how easily we encounter and relate to new people, and how comfortable we are doing so, introversion/extroversion is how we recharge. Introverts require alone time in order to recharge their so-called batteries (after a long day of work, say) and extroverts re energize by surrounding themselves with others. Now that describes me. Maybe it's due to being an only child, but I absolutely need alone time to mentally get myself together. (Of course, alone time doesn't have to literally mean alone--I have had high quality "alone" time with my girlfriends from high school and Pete, once we settled into the comfortable stage of our relationship.) But it does mean not talking; it might mean reading, thinking, or just...being. Extroverts can spend a hard day at work and then go out and come home even more alert and relaxed.

I would argue that there is also a third level of this. If shy/outgoing is the comfort level with which you meet new people in new situations, and introversion/extroversion is how you recharge yourself, then I would say that social/asocial is the level to which you enjoy the activities that involve groups of people--parties, outings, etc. Just because I need to recoup after teaching all day (and being "on") by going home, reading and going to the gym solo instead of going to happy hour does not mean that I do not inherently enjoy the activity itself. Some people truly prefer to spend time alone or with a very limited group of people as their social outlet. While I clearly wouldn't trade constantly being around acquaintances for being around my nearest and dearest, I do like things that involve a large number of people, or seeing different groups of friends for different things. Social people enjoy going out and doing things with various people. After two weeks of spending most of my time alone or with one close friend in Columbus, I started itching to go "out" and be social. I am a "social worker", too, in the sense that I get more work done in public at a coffee shop than I do at home.

This is why--among other reasons, of course--that teaching high school became a bad fit for me. Teachers are basically acting and being social all day. So, while talking to my students (or even to my colleagues at faculty meetings) was never an issue (outgoing), I needed to get away from people at the end of the day/week (introversion), which meant that often a group outing on the weekend (social) exhausted me, because I had not been able to recharge from my job. And I didn't like this (and neither did Pete, who is an outgoing social extrovert) because I wanted to do fun things with my friends, but was too emotionally worn out to truly enjoy myself. This summer was a little bizarre for all sorts of reasons, but after school had been out for a week or so, I found myself craving social outings.

I have explained this theory (well, the shy does not equal introverted theory) to many people and I frequently see the proverbial lightbulb go off in their heads. This has typically happened for people like me, who would never be categorized as shy, but who need to be alone after a while. With the third layer, you might call the whole thing "ease, enjoyment, after." I'm not going to trademark this or anything, but it makes sense to me.

Book review: The Frenzy by Francesca Lia Block

2010-07-19T09:15:00.002-04:00

Maybe it's because I recently had a great conversation with a friend about the history of werewolves in literature, but I absolutely adored The Frenzy. It is definitely the best book HarperCollins has sent me in recent weeks and I would love to read more like it.

This is a sexy, modern fantasy novel that grips you from page one, and you can't wait to put all the pieces together as the plot unfolds. What will happen to her mom? What's going on with Pace? Will her parents find out about Corey? The list of questions that Block raises as she writes goes on and on. She sets the stage for suspense, tension, and hold-your-breath moments as Liv goes through "the frenzy" and its repercussions.

Despite being about werewolves, this is also a pretty realistic story about underdogs in a small town. Corey is black. Pace is gay. Liv has no friends because she's embarrassed about the things she cannot figure out about herself. Liv's "perfect" parents warn her to stay away from the town "weirdo" Joe. And yet, like so many small towns, the folklore about the old buildings lead the three teenagers to seek solace there. Block does a great job of seamlessly blending the fantasy werewolf aspect of the story with an authentic portrayal of feeling like an outcast in a small town.

One good vice begets another...

2010-07-18T13:09:00.002-04:00

If you know me well, or have ever lived with me, you'll know that I have a few vices. None of these is a dangerous, scandalous kind of vice; I don't gamble, drink (much), smoke, or watch porn (much). I do, however, like dessert, crime drama television, Facebook (despite my original attempts to avoid it), and a few other innocent mini-obsessions. Yesterday while lying by the pool, I realized that one of my vices is designed to fuel another vice in an insidious cycle that I can't seem to avoid.

First, magazines. I imagine this began when I was 13 and a friend gave me a subscription to Seventeen as a birthday present. My notoriously strict mom was a wee horrified, but she let me keep it, and I didn't quit until I graduated high school. In fact, a few nights before I left for college my closest girlfriends came over and we gorged ourselves on snacks and Diet Coke, and made each other collages from the 5 years of magazines I had stashed. This night remains one of my favorite memories, and I just recently packed that collage for the move to Ohio.

At friends' houses I would pick up the monthly installments of Ladies Home Journal, Better Homes and Gardens, Entertainment, and other glossies that should have held no interest for a high school aged girl. Yet, I sat there, rapt, often ignoring the gossiping and girl talk to read about recipes, decorating, relationship struggles, and the like. I credit the column "Can This Marriage Be Saved?" with inspiring me to want to be a marriage counselor.* During study hall, I would take my "Passport" and go to the library, where I would actively avoid doing homework and instead read every magazine on the shelf, annoyed that I finished them all before the new editions arrived.

Today, I subscribe to nearly 10 publications and read a few others during trips to Barnes and Noble. I have been known to borrow them from the gym if I didn't finish the whole thing on the elliptical during my workout. I actually don't mind waiting rooms, as long as something more than "Highlights" is available. To save money during graduate school, I plan to cancel all but two (O by Oprah and Self) and read the rest at the Border's near my new apartment.

How does this seemingly silly vice beget another? I have one word: advertisements. You see, my other innocent vice is drugstore beauty products. Sample and travel sizes fit under this umbrella as well. I'm not necessarily talking about makeup, per se, though I do tend to try out the new and improved mascara wand and formula. No, I am talking about hair goop, skin products, cleansers and their accompanying doodads. If there is a volumizing shampoo or mousse that I can get at Target, I've tried it. The little vibrating face scrubby thing? Have it (though I want to try a different one). Roc eye cream? Coveted. Olay Regenerist? Yes, please. And the list goes on.

I just packed shoeboxes--yes, plural--full of hotel soaps, shower gels, lotions, and shampoos. I get excited going into a new hotel room just to see what brand they are offering up. During the final "sweep" of the students' rooms at the end of my annual four-day trip to Philadelphia, my friend Jess and I take all of the unopened products, and for this reason, I can probably get through a few months using only Sheraton soap.

These boxes are also full of high-end samples collected during trips to the salon for my monthly brow wax or the occasional celebratory facial. I have teeth whiteners, shine serums, tinted moisturizers, two-step alpha hydroxy peels for face and body. I have a small bottle of hand soap that probably cost as much as my electric bill. I have bubble bath, mouthwash, shower caps, masks for hair and face, Tend Skin.

Why? Why do I have boxes of this stuff? (I would like to point out that since I packed boxes, it also means that I clearly don't go through it at a rapid pace.) Why do I rush out to buy the newest hairspray claiming to give life to my fine hair? Well, maybe it's the novelty of using 'not your usual' shampoo. Maybe it's what little commitment is required for samples; you get to try it before you buy it, so to speak. Maybe, and this is especially true of the high end stuff from the salon, it's a free way of being a little indulgent since most of those products exceed my budget for coiffing and prepping. Maybe it's genetic--my mother's linen closet is full of the same. And what woman doesn't attempt to fix her outward flaws with a little mascara and exfoliating? I'm talking Garnier, here, not Lancome, so it's not like I'm drowning in debt because of this.

Whatever the reason, my magazine obsession intensifies my beauty product desires. It is also generally accepted as fact that reading magazines lowers one's self esteem--who can feel pretty looking at supermodels?--so I'm doubly screwed. Yet I keep on reading, even though the liberal in me knows that all of it--the ads, the conditioner that promises you rebirth--are solely for the sake of consumerism, corporate profit. Don't even mention the ethics involved with using animals to test the formulas and the carcinogens present in everything from the plastic bottle to the ingredients.

I also think age is a factor; now that I am on the other side of thirty, I am worrying about crow's feet, decreasing collagen, wrinkles, cellulite, sun spots. I realize society wants me to feel this way, of course. Is knowing half the battle? Will my self-imposed poverty break the cycle? Or will it only get worse as I approach forty? Sigh.

On that note, I am going to make a mask of baking soda and lemon juice--a natural exfoliator and illuminator. And yes, I got that recipe from a magazine.

*I recently read--somewhere, I can't remember--that this column was started by a bigot who wanted heterosexual couples to work out their issues in order to propagate the species by having hetero babies.

Book review: Wicked Girls by Stephanie Hemphill

2010-07-15T23:05:00.002-04:00

For the past seven years, I have taught The Crucible by Arthur Miller and as such, have become a "fan" of the Salem Witch Trials, if that doesn't sound too creepy. My mom had her famous deer accident in Salem, on a Friday the 13th, no less, which adds to the eeriness of the whole thing for me. I was very excited to read Wicked Girls for all of the intrigue and history surrounding this awful time period in American history, and see a young adult spin on the story.

Well...I didn't realize that it was written in a poetic form, with constant shifting narrators. Eventually it was enjoyable, but it took a while to get used to and keep straight. Also, though I realize both Hemphill and Miller have taken creative license with the historical events, I had trouble with the differences in "fact" concerning the girls, their families and the related details.

Yet, despite this small bothers, Hemphill weaves a very believable tale about the original Mean Girls. Ann worships Mercy and will do anything for her attention; Mercy abuses this. Margaret likes a boy who likes Mercy better, despite the fact that she is an orphaned servant girl. Elizabeth lives with an abusive uncle and needs love and affection, and finds it in the clique. Susannah, a chubby, unpopular girl enjoys the attention she receives from the girls and will go along with their antics to continue being part of the group. Together, the girls wreak havoc on their neighbors and enemies. Sounds a lot like high school to me!

Hemphill manages to capture this timeless girl drama in the language of the late seventeenth century, in the voice of three girls in vastly different circumstances. Though the format was a bit startling at first, it grew on me and made for an interesting, probing yet quick read.

Book review: The Poison Diaries by Maryrose Wood

2010-07-14T12:16:00.002-04:00

I am slowing unearthing myself from the ever growing mountain of books HarperCollins has heaped upon me. I just read the final pages of The Poison Diaries by Maryrose Wood, who turned a concept by the Duchess of Northumberland into a hot and steamy young adult novel about young love and...plants.

Jessamine Luxton is the daughter of the town apothecary who lives alone with her father, taking care of plants, sewing, cooking, cleaning and the like while he tends to the health of the people using the "traditional" methods. A dedicated botanist and gardener, Mr. Luxton's land is full of various plants, flowers, herbs, etc. including those in the gated apothecary garden, which Jessamine is not permitted to enter, much to her chagrin.

One day, the overseer of the local asylum comes to their door and deposits a "monster" for Mr. Luxton to care for. Weed, the maladjusted, seemingly undernourished "crazy boy" soon warms to life with Jessamine and her father. While Weed and Jessamine's attraction for one another grows, so does her father's suspicions of Weed's nature and abilities. In a pretty exciting twist of an ending, love and loyalty become a matter of life and death.

This story hooked me from the beginning with its journal entry style first person narration. I understood Jessamine's increasing loneliness and her desire to connect with her respected father, as well as her frustration with constantly being treated like a child. Once Weed enters the picture, the foreshadowing used to reveal his true nature was very well done, and the connection between Jessamine's emerging sexuality and the seasons was done in a subtle way. At times the story got pretty hot and heavy! The belladonna scene especially--yowza.

I didn't love the structure of the ending, though. It got a little confusing with all sorts of journal entries, subconscious conversations and narration changing. Logistically it makes sense with what is occurring in the plot structure, but to read it sort of gets all muddled. Maryrose Wood did set up the possibility of a sequel, without being overly presumptuous about that fact, which was nice.

Part medieval folklore, part love story, part botany lesson, The Poison Diaries is a twist on the fairy tale archetype that does not disappoint.

Book Review: A Conspiracy of Kings by Megan Walen Turner

2010-07-09T11:12:00.002-04:00

Well, much like The White Horse Trick, I fell into A Conspiracy of Kings near the end of a set of stories. It's not the final installment in a series, but feature many of the same characters, like the Thief of Eddis and Queen of Attolia. However, being unfamiliar with the previously constructed rulers and geography wasn't too much of a burden after a while. That said, I still can't heap glowing praise on this book.

Sophos, who is the philosopher son of the King of Sounis with a dastardly brother eager to take over the throne, is kidnapped in a nefarious plot to ensure the uncle gets his way. He is beaten and sold as a slave. He is able to finally use his ingenuity to get out, alert his father to the plan to assassinate him, and then go on to take control of his kingdom with the help of his friends, who just happen to be the rulers of neighboring lands.

The problem is...that it was pretty boring. My favorite parts were when Sophos was "underground" as a slave, his budding relationship with the Queen of Eddis, and his friendship with Attolis. All of the political wheelings and dealings, travels by horseback into faraway lands, etc. just didn't interest me or keep me wondering what was next. Perhaps it is because I wasn't previously familiar with the lands of Attolia and Eddis and Sounis, but I sort of just glossed over those parts.

Interestingly, though, the narration changes several times. For the first twelve chapters it is in the first person from Sophos' point of view. Then, in chapter 13 when he is visiting Attolia, it switches into the third person, then when he leaves back to the first, and then after a while, it turns into him writing a letter. This was sort of odd and seemed a bit unnecessary.

This might be a good book for boys who are into knights and swords and fighting and political plots and schemes. But this one just wasn't for me.

The White Horse Trick by Kate Thompson

2010-06-26T18:52:00.003-04:00

It has been a while since I've posted--for a ton of reasons it just wasn't happening. But I am glad that I am breaking the silence with this fantastic read by Kate Thompson.

I was a bit hesitant about starting this because it is the final installment of a trilogy and I haven't read the first two. However, like any good author, Thompson eases the possible new reader in. It did take a little bit of mental gymnastics to understand some of the fantasy world lingo Thompson has created--ploddy, puka, time skin, etc.--but I'm a pretty quick study and I caught on.

Set in an Ireland plagued by climate change induced near apocalypse, the war lord Aidan has gotten even more evil and his brother Donal, forced to be a general in his awful army, has a plan to save the poor souls living under Aidan's rule.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the time skin, Donal and Aidan's fairy sister Jenny meets a young boy named Pup and decides to help him on his quest to rescue his kidnapped brother. Her ploddy parents, Aisling and JJ get involved in this plan in their own way and for their own motivations. Her fairy father, Aengus Og, also finds himself in Aidan's castle for a wholly selfish reason, and it causes quite a stir. Add in Mikey's ghost on the hill, the puka, a drinking contest, a white horse, the fairy king creating a ploddy orchestra...needless to say, the story has a lot going on.

I really enjoyed this story despite my initial reticence. Thompson switches narration and scene pretty rapidly and frequently, which in the beginning was a little confusing--I had trouble keeping the characters straight, especially those in T'ir na n'Og--but I think this is probably due to being new to the series. Once all of the characters started interacting with each other more, though, it got a lot easier.

The only two minor complaints I have are this: first, after all of the action transpires, I was a little disappointed with the treatment of the character of Aidan and I thought he got overlooked. Second, and I won't spoil anything, but the ending...hmm. I can see where Thompson was "going" with it, and it was quite clever, I admit, but...I kind of wish she hadn't "gone there."

Nevertheless, even though I know how this series ends, I am interested in reading the first two in the trilogy because I enjoyed it enough. I really like dystopian stories, and Thompson blended reality (climate change looming) and fantasy (the world of T'ir na n'Og) very well. I admire writers who do this--JK Rowling, Cassandra Clare--more than fantasy writers who invent entire lands and worlds that don't coexist with the world as I know it.

Book review: A Nest for Celeste by Henry Cole

2010-04-17T10:17:00.003-04:00

There are few things I like better than animal stories. A Nest for Celeste did not disappoint; in fact, it was a beautiful story, made even more touching by the accompanying pencil sketches.

In many respects, it is the quintessential mouse story--Celeste is constantly foraging for food, a search made more difficult by the presence of the cat--and often finds herself going without. A skilled basket weaver, she does have a system for scrap collection, but then the two rat bullies often eat her store. I was on the edge of my seat at times during this story, wondering if Celeste would make it back to her mousehole before getting swiped by the cat.

It is the arrival of Mr. Audubon and his young assistant, Joseph, that changes Celeste's life forever. She is befriended by Joseph, who is lonely after being away from his home for two years, and who keeps her safe in his pocket and fed with peanuts. From the safety of his shirt, Celeste goes on several journeys, meets a couple of birds, and learns the powerful lesson of friendship.

Despite my not so secret desire to be able to talk with my cat, Morris, I was glad that Cole did not allow Celeste and her human companion to actually talk one another. Many animal stories involve the fantasy element of animal-human communication, which, while lovely in thought, makes for a less authentic story. Yes, Celeste can talk to her friends Cornelius and Lafayette (and her enemies, Trixie and Illiana), but the fact that she and Joseph have a friendship based on a more realistic premise was enjoyable. In fact,

This charming story is also couched in history, a fact I did not realize until the epilogue (I am embarrassed to say). The Mr. Audubon is meant to be John James Audubon, noted wildlife artist and namesake of the Audubon Society, who indeed apprenticed a young man named Joseph. Their methods (illegal today, undoubtedly!) were depicted accurately and based on Audubon's own journals and records of travel. And is it not possible that a little field mouse inserted herself into their story, interacting with their subjects and keeping Joseph company? I'd like to think so.

Book review: Roberto and Me by Dan Gutman

2010-04-13T18:47:00.003-04:00

I was a little hesitant about this one at first, but I ended up liking it, of course. Joey "Stosh" Stoshak has a unique gift of being able to time travel using baseball cards as his portals to and from the past and future. This time, he finds himself traveling back to 1969 in an attempt to save Roberto Clemente's life--as a way to earn extra credit in Spanish class. On his travels, he meets a bunch of hippies, gets in a fight, has his first kiss, and meets up with Clemente. However, upon his return, the story actually gets more interesting as Joey travels somewhere even he's never been.

I am confident that my guy friends would have loved this book and the rest of the series when we were in middle school, and that boys now will love it, too. Because the story unfolds in various ways and certainly does not limit itself to events on the baseball field, girls would like it, too. In fact, I learned more about Clemente from reading this book than I have from watching SportsCenter or other shows of that nature because it was told as a narrative and I could understand him as a person and not just a collection of statistics.

Joey's narrative is a quick, easy read and he's your typical middle school boy. He's funny, kind and thoughtful. This makes me want to read more in the series.

Check out HarperCollins special section on titles specifically for 'tween boys.
http://www.awesomeadventurebooks.com/

Book Review: The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place by Maryrose Wood

2010-04-05T22:06:00.006-04:00

I knew from the moment I read the author's bio on the jacket flap that I would love this book. Maryrose Wood claims that part of her inspiration comes from "living in close proximity to a clever but disobedient dog" and writes facing her garden. Quaint and lovely, she sounds, and her book was the same.

Penelope Lumley, a 15 year old graduate of a prestigious school for girls is employed as a governess to three children who were literally found in the woods and act like animals; they cannot speak, drink their milk from a saucer, and have wild, mangy hair, among other animal-like characteristics. Undaunted, she takes to this assignment with a fervor and becomes as attached to them as they to her. The Lady of the house, Constance, wants to show off her exquisite home and plans a Christmas party. The "Incorrigibles"--newly named Alexander, Beowulf and Cassiopeia--are expected to behave like proper children and Miss Lumley (Lumawoo, as the three call her) has much pressure put upon her to ensure they learn their manners, are appropriately costumed, know the particular dance of the time, and understand all other mores of polite society. Is she up for the task? Are they? What will happen--to them or her--if not?

The premise, though a little wacky, served well as a contrast to the high society of Lady Constance and her husband, Lord Frederick Ashton. Penelope seemed especially wise for her age, but it was convincing. Woods' writing style is blissful to read. Her word choice and sentence structure make for a lovely, quaint cadence. She also "breaks the fourth wall," that is, speaks directly to the reader, which is a technique that often fails or seems desperate, but here it does not. In fact, it added to the experience in my opinion, when it can so easily detract. The characters were all well developed and sympathetic, even bratty Lady Constance. Of course, the three kids were the most adorable, what with their English-laced-with-wolf half-howling and silly antics.

Wood ends the story with a couple of mysteries still left to unravel, and I look forward to reading the next in the series.

Check out HarperCollins special section on titles specifically for 'tween boys.
http://www.awesomeadventurebooks.com/

The Happiest Place on Earth?

2010-04-04T08:26:00.004-04:00

Pete and I just got back from a week's vacation that included 4 nights in Columbus, Ohio, and 4 nights in Orlando, Florida, hitting up the theme parks. The trip to Columbus was to visit my future Alma mater, The Ohio State University (yes, emphasis on the) and it was quite a success! But, as lovely as it is, it's not exactly where one wants to spend all of Spring Break. (Well, my inner nerd did.) We decided on Disney because Florida is warm (me) but does not default to lying by a pool or beach all day (Pete). We had also considered Austin, Texas, having heard it's a super cool city, but as the family Planner, I didn't want to have to worry about what to do and where to go, and Disney has the luxury of built-in, no thought required activities. Four days, four parks. The end.

Much like my real-world and blogging friend, RA, I tend to try and shy away from bullet points when I can, but really, there is no alternative to succinctly (ha!) sum up Disney and our thoughts.

We were chastised by some friends for bringing books to read while waiting in line for rides. Yet all of the people in line with us thought it was a brilliant idea. (Really--has no one considered this before?)
One day, Pete and I both wore khaki shorts, sneakers, Phillies tshirts and black long sleeved shirts in the morning. We matched. But it was ok, because there was always someone who looked more ridiculous. (We saw lots of kids in matching outfits, which is ok because they're kids. And really, it's a pretty smart how-to-easily-find-your-kid-in-a-crowd technique.)
Fastpass, the park's newest idea that allows you to choose one ride at a time that you don't want to wait in line for, is brilliant. Unlike it's predecessor, LineJumper, which you could choose to pay for, FastPass is free and for everyone. Therefore, when Pete and I had to practically run past the people waiting an hour-and-a-half to get into The Tower of Terror, I didn't feel guilty or elitist for avoiding the line. It was just smart planning.
As brilliant as FastPass is, though, I would trade the freedom from waiting for lines that had little moving seats or at least more frequent rest points. I don't care about the wait that much (bring a book!) but man, my feet were killing me with all that standing.
I was horrified by the number of obese children. Pete was more appalled by the number of adults who at least seemed to have no other disability than their obesity (and related complications, of course) and therefore rode around in scooters.
Disney really is a hurry-up-and-wait setting. The line moves a little, hurry! Wait. The ride is 2 minutes long, hurry to get to the next one! Wait for an hour. We were most productive at The Magic Kingdom (6 rides, FastPass for Space Mountain, only 2 long waits) and Hollywood Studios (5 rides, FastPass Tower of Terror, only 1 medium wait) and less productive at Animal Kingdom (4 rides, FastPass Mount Everest, 3 longish waits) and Epcot, which we actually split into two trips (2 rides, no FastPass, 1 super long wait, 1 medium).
Pete hadn't been since he was 6 or so and was mad his favorite, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, is gone. I have now been 4 times (ages 6, 10, 19, 30) and was sad to realize that my childhood favorites, the Haunted Mansion and Pirates of the Caribbean, are pretty lame indeed. We both liked the Muppets at Hollywood Studios, though. Some childhood memories just never get old.
We played the "which job at Disney would you want?" game. All of the mind-numbing ones like being a ticket-taker, were out for me. I chose being one of the non-character dancers in the parades. I think Pete picked the ride operator that has to count and figure out which line you'll be in based on the size of your party. For an inside ride.
We also played the "which outfit would you want?" game, since almost every ride, and certainly every park, comes with different costumes, even for the food stand and custodial workers. This was a tougher call, since they are pretty much all polyester disasters. Maybe the safari outfits in "Africa" at The Animal Kingdom.
The "magic" is clearly for the kids--Pete and I kept laughing and rolling our eyes at the "show" all of the ride operators have to put on by using words and phrases that are part of the act, so you really feel like you are about to go into space or in an old, creaky, hotel. After the ride, when the exit funnels you into a store to buy ride-specific stuff, we zoomed right through, eventually annoyed by the abject consumerism (that's not a shock, I realize, but still. Every ride let's out into a store).
Lastly, Disney reinforced my very mixed feelings about having children. I doubt whether an hour went by that I didn't remark on how adorable this kid or that kid was, either because they were conked out in their stroller, or dressed like a wacko, or just behaving in that cute kid kind of way. But I also saw more Chernobyl level meltdowns, brats, and exhausted parents. On one hand, I got a little of that "I want to experience this through my child's eyes" feeling, but on the other hand, it was all I could do to keep myself well fed, hydrated, rested and entertained, let alone having to consider keeping the kids well fed, hydrated, rested and entertained.

Regardless, we decided that we're pretty much "done" with Disney and don't need to go back for another 15 years. If ever.

Book review: Big Nate by Lincoln Peirce

2010-04-03T16:15:00.003-04:00

It might be that I read this book while waiting in line for two rides at Disney's Animal Kingdom, but Big Nate In a Class by Himself was wonderful! I was smiling the entire time I read, and certainly called attention to myself on more than one occasion by laughing uproariously out loud. Peirce does a great job of making this book a blend of comic and storyline, and each flows well into the other so there is not a feeling of it being disjointed.

Nate is your typical 6th grade boy: he has a crush on the cute girl in class, likes gym class, thinks his cafeteria food is gross and truly believes his Social Studies teacher, Mrs. Godfrey, is out to get him. His two wacky friends, Francis and Teddy, help him get through each grueling day of school; his dad tries hard to connect with him, and his sister manages to show him up at every opportunity. Your typical middle school angst.

However, all isn't lost. After surreptitiously munching a fortune cookie in Mrs. Godfrey's class, Nate reads his fortune--today you will surpass all others--and sets out to make it come true. Of course, as fate would have it, Nate's day doesn't quite go as planned. Does his fortune come true in the end? Not the way he expected!

Nate is wonderfully cynical and sarcastic, and is hilariously irreverent and observant. His quirk of ranking everything (types of days at school, for one) is a believable personality trait, as is his naivete--Peirce doesn't make him larger than life or more reflective than would be expected by a boy that age. The only piece that was missing for me--and it could be because I was not aware of Big Nate prior to this book--is about his mom. Nate only ever mentions his Dad and sister, Ellen, and to me the mother-absence was noticeable and clearly purposeful. But it is entirely possible that I am just missing a large piece of the Big Nate puzzle.

Another great thing about this book is that a reluctant reader--a middle school boy, say, or just a reader who does not feel very fluent--would feel successful reading this book, due to the mix of easy-to-read text and plethora of pictures.

Check out HarperCollins special section on titles specifically for 'tween boys.
http://www.awesomeadventurebooks.com/

What the future holds

2010-03-19T11:53:00.003-04:00

Last fall, I saw a woman at Barnes and Noble (during my monthly chai latte-magazine trip) and thought to myself "I hope to be like her when I'm 60." She was beautiful in her own way. A salt-and-pepper pixie cut. Minimal makeup. A beaded chain holding her funky glasses around her neck. Green Dansko clogs. A simple black top, cardigan and vest. She had a coffee cup in hand and was glancing through a magazine--I couldn't tell which one--and looked to me like the kind of woman who had a happy, peaceful life. I realize it's totally possible she is a serial killer or (worse?) a socially Conservative Republican or something, but she just didn't strike me that way. In my little fantasy world, she left Barnes and Noble, got into her Prius or Forrester, drove to her charming, newly remodeled house, let out her rescued dog, and made a yummy, organic/sustainable dinner for some friends who were coming over to spend the evening talking, laughing and drinking wine with her and her husband. (And of course, during the week, I envisioned her either retired, pursuing meaningful hobbies, or employed in some fulfilling, interesting way.)

Project much?

We all have visions (or delusions) about how our "adult" life will be, and take steps towards making that image a reality. As kids and teenagers, my friends and I had easy access to role models--adult women who lead a life that we could imagine ourselves emulating someday. Maybe it was an English teacher's dreamy, creative focus on studying poetry or Native American philosophy. Or a chemistry teacher who challenged us to be better critical thinkers, never settling for giving up on a problem if the solution wasn't initially obvious. Or a math teacher who was a total nerd, but smart as a whip, and didn't care what other people thought--and made damn sure that her female students had equal access to higher level math (that was the 90s educational focus, after all). Someone else's mother. A grandmother, aunt, neighbor. Not then--when you're sixteen your parents are just so...out of it--but now most of us look to our own mothers, too.This is not to say that any of us want to (or should) become exact replicas of our mothers, but there are certainly some qualities my mom possesses that are traits I hope to continue developing as I move forward in life.

Seeking out role models and mentors as adults can be a bit tricky, as so much focus gets put on the career aspect of one's identity rather than the packaged whole. Sure, I have colleagues who are excellent at and dedicated to what they do, but I don't know them well outside the walls of the building. Maybe as a new hire at a hospital, a tell-it-like-it-is hardworking nurse was assigned to take you under her wing, and it turned into a friendship. But outside of work, when life is full of friends and marriage/dating (and someday parenting), we tend to surround ourselves with people our own age. Obviously, we love our friends for who they are and how they enrich our lives. These people also, we presume, have personalities we appreciate and admire--or they probably wouldn't be our friends. But the dynamic of these interactions isn't quite the same as having an older, wiser, mentor-type friendship.

Luckily, I think I've found mine.

Her name is Ruth, and I met her through the independent study style graduate class we're both taking. We instantly "clicked" during our first class meeting, and it turned out we had actually spoken before this--a conversation about Danskos, actually--because she observed a colleague of mine a couple of weeks prior and unknowingly we ran into each other in the hall. We've emailed each other about our assignments and our flaky but brilliant professor. We've gotten together twice now for "coffee" to talk about her interest in applying to Great Valley as an English teacher (and my interest in no longer working as an English teacher...), and the conversation naturally turns to things like politics, marriage, professional aspirations, being around teenagers, and the like. She has her Ph.D in clinical psychology (a career path I once saw myself taking), started a publishing company, sent her children to the local Waldorf high school, has written a book and been interviewed on NPR (two things on my bucket list). We make each other laugh, see the world in the same way, and get indignant about the same issues. She gave me advice on dealing with a monster of a student. I gave her advice on applying for teaching jobs. She wears comfortable yet stylish clothes, simple jewelry, and has covered up her grey with golden and caramel highlights. She is open and honest (I heard about a surgery near her bikini line) and has told me more than once that she appreciates how candid I am as well.

And...she has asked me to contribute to another book she's written! It's about the female experience post feminism compared to the black experience post desegregation, and is a mix of research and personal vignettes. She has a vision for an accompanying PowerPoint that will go viral on Youtube, and plans to hook us up with her NPR connection again. We joked that Jon Stewart would want to talk to us, and she promised to let me do the Daily Show interview myself since, well, I adore him.* But she wants to do the Colbert show alone in exchange. Fair.

In the rather vapid women's magazines I read, there are frequent articles about how women who have chosen to stay home with their kids or who have relocated due to their husband's job have a hard time making new, lasting female friendships. It's almost like dating "they" say. Well, if that's true, then I have a new girlfriend. I think we might even be going steady.

*My "type" is funny, Jewish guys who are a bit dorky. Jason Segel, Andy Samberg and Jon Stewart are my top three in the completely hypothetical "sex with a celebrity doesn't count as cheating" clause Pete and I have.

Which one are you?

2010-02-17T07:47:00.003-05:00

There is a conversation that is nearly inevitable among female friends. It generally happens when there are 3, 4, or 5 girlfriends hanging out, talking about boys, sex, and things of that nature. (And when you have 3, 4, or 5 girlfriends hanging out, boys, sex, and things of that nature are inevitable topics of conversation. So you see, it's really quite circular.)

What I am talking about? The "Which Sex and the City character are you?" conversation.

We've all had it. We've all discussed the finer nuances of what it means to be "the" Samantha, Carrie, Charlotte, or Miranda of the group.

If you live under a rock and don't know what I'm talking about, here's a quick character sketch:
Samantha: the bold, fearless, sexually free, semi-commitment phobic, confident one
Carrie: often finds herself wavering between the good solid man, and the emotionally distant one whom she is more attracted to and the drama that ensues; she is more of a relationship person than Samantha though not a stranger to the one night stand.
Charlotte: the hopeless romantic who believes in true love, has/had a longing to get married and have children. Her sexuality is more linked to love and commitment and the big picture.
Miranda: the cynic of the group. Not a huge fan of relationships nor one night stands, she wavers in the middle and ultimately either gets hurt or finds something appallingly wrong with the men she dates.

Of course, throughout the run of the show/movie, Samantha has a long term boyfriend she loves, Carrie cheats on her stable boyfriend with the "wrong" guy who she then ends up with, Miranda gets pregnant and marries the baby's daddy who eventually cheats on her, and Charlotte marries the "perfect" New England yuppie only to find out that marriage is not perfect--nor is there "the perfect man"--as she finds herself married to a hairy, sweaty, bald, Jewish guy.

Taking this all into account, every girl of course has identified herself with at least one character. Sometimes, one's HBO alter ego is fixed. For example, among my high school friends, I will NEVER be the Samantha. That role has been cast. However, among my college friends, I will never be the Charlotte, because she, too, is sort of a mainstay. (And, let's be honest. I'll never be the Charlotte, period.)

This conversation came up again on my recent vacation. And I was determined to be Miranda. Miranda is kind of the one that no one "wants" to be cast as. She's a hard woman to like at some points in the show's plot. She's also sort of the least attractive, though as the series went on and the movie came out, her physical appearance improved (like me, her attractiveness really depends on her haircut, in my opinion). Sure, she's professionally successful, but at the expense of her personal happiness sometimes. She is "the voice of reason" for Carrie and tells her the hard truth about all of her Mr. Big drama, but you just want her to get over herself and stop seeing the world of relationships as a series of drawn up contracts. She has a black-and-white outlook on things; for example, when Steve cheats on her in the movie, she instantly breaks it off and does not really consider the possibility of forgiving him until much later. Though not quite as ridiculous as Jerry Seinfeld on his eponymous show, she has a tendency to see the flaws, even though secretly she longs for romance and the rest. She has a hard wall up as a way of protecting herself (Samantha, on the other hand, uses sex as her "wall.")

Hmm.

I admit that I am more cynical than romantic, that's for sure. Though not professionally successful (she's a partner in a prestigious law firm) I am professionally minded and believe in having a career that fulfills me and gives me a little clout. Up until this cruise vacation, my "Samantha" friend referred to me as "the one who has her sh*% together" and also called me the "voice of reason" when helping her deal with the issues her in life. I do tend to approach things from the logical standpoint instead of the emotional one, but this, too, might be a result of previous experience. I have been told that I have "grass is always greener" syndrome and I focus on the flaws in either a situation or a person.

Wow. That makes me sound...awful. Like I said, no one really wants to be cast as the Miranda of the group.

Of course, the entire premise of the show--of all shows?--is that we are supposed to relate to all of the women at one point. Like Carrie, I have been pulled between stable/nice and fun/exciting. Sometimes I leaned toward stable/nice; other times I chose fun/exciting. Like Charlotte, I thought about my wedding and my future married life ad nauseum and tend to pair sex with relationships--or at least emotions. Like Samantha, I was bold and free spirited, sexually speaking. (A note, since my Mom and Aunt read this: I was never, ever as promiscuous as Samantha. EVER. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I just wasn't.) I was just known as the girl who would pick a guy out at the bar or whatever and say "He's cute. I am going to make out with him." And then do it.

The sequel to the movie comes out in May, and groups of girlfriends will flood the theaters wishing we had Cosmos in hand and Manolos on our feet. (Who can afford $300 slingbacks?) We will laugh at their antics, empathize with their relationship struggles. And we will look around to the girls we've come in with and wonder: Which one am I?

Book Review: Cosmic by Frank Cottrell Boyce

2010-02-07T18:50:00.004-05:00

Per resolution #3A, I am "officially" reviewing books for HarperCollins Young Adult division. This is my first posting about a book!

The narrator of Cosmic, Liam Digby is your typical 12 year old boy from Britain, except that he's exceptionally tall--so tall he is constantly mistaken for an adult--and is telling his story from a spacecraft. This is not your typical NASA style spaceship, either. It is solar powered, meant for leisure travel as part of a new theme park in China, and on its maiden voyage. In addition to Liam, who is heading up the voyage as the token "adult," there are four children on board. When things go awry--and things tend to go awry when Liam is involved--the five kids have to work together to get back to Earth.

I got into this book right away, probably due to the first person narrative technique which I always enjoy. Although I can't relate to being abnormally tall or male, Liam is just a misunderstood misfit like we all were at twelve. He'd rather play World of Warcraft than hang out with school friends, because in WoW he feels normal. Better, even. Adults assume he's older than he is because of his height, but never listen when he tries to explain. His parents try to assuage his feelings of oddity, but of course fail miserably. Typical adolescent stuff.

Yet while on the trip with his "daughter," Florida, Liam sort of grows into his presumed age, since he is one of the four fathers and must act "dadly." In a rather tongue-in-cheek manner, Cottrell Boyce has him consult a parenting manual "How to Talk to Your Teen" to figure out how to deal with Florida, and the other three boys on the trip, Sansom Two, Hasan, and Max. He often gets accused of "acting like a kid" but always recovers. In fact, on a couple of occasions, the kids wish that their dads were like Liam.

On the surface this story is about a thrill seeking, super tall kid going into space, but also has a deeper theme of childhood, adulthood, parenting, and growing up. The fathers of the three boys are obsessed with money, discipline, and success, and their children suffer as a result. The dads accuse Liam of not acting like an adult--which of course he can't because he's twelve--but it is precisely this behavior that allows him to bond with the kids. He points out a couple of times that we all wish we were a different age: when you're young, you wish you were old, and vice versa. Liam gets to live in this microcosm where he is both, yet neither, at once.

There are only two minor flaws with Cosmic. First, and this might be a personal problem, the plausibility of a 12 year old truly resembling an adult is a bit of a stretch for me. Though Cottrell Boyce makes it very, very believable that Liam truly experiences this, as a high school teacher I have a hard time thinking of one of my seniors as being adult enough to act like one, let alone a seventh grader. There is more to looking like an adult than being tall and having a newly sprouted beard. The second is that the initial premise of the narration is Liam recording an audio diary from space in order to tell his parents what happened should something disastrous happen to the group. Much like Nick in The Great Gatsby who is presumably telling the story to the reader directly, it sort of loses itself midway through. It doesn't affect the story itself, but it made me wonder if that "dear Dad" aspect of the prologue was really necessary to begin with. There is a piece at the end that ties it together, but I think the story would've been fine without it. But hey--if F. Scott Fitzgerald did it, Frank Cottrell Boyce can get a pass, too.

Liam is a modern kid with a great sense of humor. His celebrity obsessed friend/"daughter" Florida is a great female character, and the two of them together make a believable pair--which is thankfully free from flirting or any sort of dating possibilities. Though the author sort of glosses over what happens when the kids and Liam come back from space, we know that the trip was one of a lifetime. Cottrell Boyce does a wonderful job of describing the view of Earth, the stars, the moon, and making it a profound experience for Liam and the reader. Like most kids, I had the childhood dream of being an astronaut, and Liam is the closest I've ever come to actually going. And he didn't disappoint.

Check out HarperCollins special section on titles specifically for 'tween boys.
http://www.awesomeadventurebooks.com/

No kids, I don't live in my classroom

2010-02-04T18:48:00.003-05:00

I had this conversation today:

Kid 1: Ms. B., Kelsey saw you in Victoria's Secret a couple of weeks ago but ran away because she was embarrassed.

Me: Good. I don't want to see you in there either!

Kid 2: But Ms. B!

Me: Kids. This just in: (whisper) I. Wear. Underwear. (Mock shock face.) And besides, I was probably buying hairspray because theirs is the best. Though yes, Vicki's is an embarrassing place to run into students.

Public viewings are one of the more awkward parts of being a teacher. Depending on the kid(s) and setting, it can be totally cool or absolutely crawl-in-a-hole disastrous. Sometimes I get a loud, boisterous "BREW!!!!!!" from the mall stairwell; other times I duck my head and hope that we don't catch a glimpse of each other. Most times, of course, it's in the middle, which includes "Ms B!" and a wave on my part. Meetings with parents are not necessarily less awkward, though at least we're both adults. Those are complicated by the fact that half the time I can't remember which kid the parent belongs to.

I don't live in my district (how did my high school teachers do that?) though I do live close enough to frequent many of the same establishments. There are some places--one movie theater, a couple of restaurants--that we avoid specifically because we know it will be full of them. Our avoidance is mainly due to the fact that we see these kids more than we see our actual friends, and weekends are supposed to be student-free in an attempt to remain sane.

The students, of course, think it's weird to see us out of the classroom. I guess this stems from the elementary school belief that your teacher slept in a bed that flipped down from inside the closet. Your teacher was always...there. There when you arrived. There when you left. There at night for a choral concert or gym show. Naturally, at six and seven, you're too busy playing in the mud or pretending to be cowboys to notice that few cars are in the parking lot overnight and that your teacher brought her lunch, so she must go to the store.

With teenagers, any mention on your part of some "secret" teen knowledge--like the existence of Facebook or a Lady Gaga lyric--freaks them out. I remind my class at least once a week that I don't live under a rock. Therefore, getting a visual of their teacher acting like a human being--going to the movies, buying underwear--makes their head explode. Yet what's equally odd, is that this information "I saw Ms. Brewster at the mall!" is exciting enough to pass along to their peers as if I were some Branjalina type celebrity.

This is equal parts ego-boosting ("aw, they care") and disturbing ("why do they care?"). Nevertheless, it is part of being a teacher. And, I suppose, a teenager.

You say you want a Resolution...

2010-02-02T19:58:00.004-05:00

Ok, I don't really make New Year''s Resolutions, per se, but I do have a set of goals I'd like to accomplish this year. Some of them are beyond my control, and others are time sensitive, or part of a logic problem (if X, then Y). I don't know if it's because I hit the big 3-0 nearly a year ago or what, but many of these are "big" changes.

1. Get into Ohio State. I put all my eggs in one basket with grad school, and if it doesn't pan out, I'm sunk. Clearly, beyond what I've already done for the application (letter of intent, two extra recommendations, etc.) I have no control over this. (**Update. I found out on February 5th that I got in!!!!**)

2. If I get in, then find stable, nice, kind, responsible long-term renters for our house so I can actually attend grad school. Find a professor who is going on sabbatical and rent his/her house. Get a fellowship, assistantship, and maybe a dog to thank Pete for moving to Columbus.

3. Move forward in my desired career path anyway. This is being accomplished in two ways:
A) By getting hooked up to review Young Adult novels for HarperCollins (thanks RA!).
They will send me YA books; I will read them, and blog about them. The lady at HC
liked my blog name, so that's a start.
B) Actually, yes, for real, sitting my butt down to type, starting my novel. I had a creative
breakthrough last week and figured out the basic plot, characters and narrative voice.
Although I've previously put in 9 hours (result: one chapter) of time for another idea-
to which I may return someday-I am abandoning that concept and moving forward
with this one. No details yet, but it's YA and a series. And I have a title, which is more than I can say for the other novel. I would also like to tweak, finish and market my children's stories.

4. Try to get even "cleaner" and "more natural" with my lifestyle (beauty products, clothing, etc.) and eating. If I weren't married to a steak-and-potatoes guy, I'd probably go full vegetarian again, or at least pescetarian. I'm trying my best here, folks.

5. Try to indulge myself more. I don't necessarily mean with fancy, expensive things. Instead, what I mean is that I often spend money or time on others, yet neglect myself (I'll spend $300 on an XBox for Pete, but scoff at the idea of a monthly $35 mani/pedi). Phillyhalfoff.com has great massage/spa deals. A $3 chai latte and lingering at a bookstore is an acceptable treat. I could use a pair of jeans that fit well, even if they cost $150. Reading, journaling, and working out are things I need to spend my time doing, even if that sometimes includes opting out of others. I also want to watch more movies!

6. Find a spiritual outlet again. Spirituality (and sometimes its cousin, religion) mean a lot to me, and they have both fallen by the way, way side in recent years. I feel the effect in my mind and soul. Whether it's going to Friday night services, or just reading more books of the kind, I need to find a way to reconnect myself with the larger Universe again. I'd even be down for a welcoming, compassionate, judgment free church service.

6A. A subcategory of this is my defunct yoga practice. I used to go, ahem, religiously, but my chronic hip pain has prevented me from doing more than 10 minutes for nearly a year. I am going to try to get this situation ameliorated and then go back to the mat.

7. If not Ohio State, then pursue other paths (besides the novel) that will lead me to professional fulfillment. Maybe a change of schools (Pete and I had a great conversation at dinner the other night about how online teaching might me more my speed) or going from full-time to part-time so I can pursue my novel more seriously or even my idea for a side business.

May 2010 bring me, you, and the world more Light and Love!

Namaste.

(Go Buckeyes!)

I am Sick of It!

2010-01-14T10:39:00.003-05:00

Whatever "it" is.

While I may not be a germaphobe, a pill popper or a sickly person immune system wise, I am a wee bit of a hypochondriac. I never seek out the doctor for these invented illnesses, but I worry about them. When it comes to my health, I am an alarmist, and I admit it.

For example, if I have neck pain for a day or two, I instantly assume I have meningitis. An itchy scalp? Of course it's lice! A persistent headache becomes a brain tumor (which is always accompanied by Pete saying, in his best Ah-nold voice, "it's a tumor").

Pete swears he's going to block web MD from my computer, but I don't use it at all. Instead, I read magazine articles about women who had a medical complaint that no one took seriously, until the 8th doctor a year later rushed them to the hospital to undergo immediate surgery to remove X that the other doctors had missed. One of my biggest fears (besides being conscious for surgery because the anesthesiologist screwed up) is exactly that: having some weird thing that no one can identify or treat.

Ironically, I tend to avoid the doctor and medicine. I am a proponent of preventative measures, like sleeping a lot, eating well, exercising and taking vitamins. Feel a cold coming on? Zinc! Battle Seasonal Affective Disorder? Vitamin D! I also believe fully in "alternative" medicine, like my blessed chiropractor and the benefits of massage, acupuncture (not that I would ever go myself), etc.

I get this from my mom, who is, paradoxically, a nurse. As a teenager, I missed school no more than four times in five years. Once, in 8th grade, I was so exhausted from a late-night return from a spelling bee that I sobbed the next morning when I couldn't find a sock. Mom took that as a sign I should stay home because I was borderline dysfunctional. In 11th and 12th grade, I always got sick when soccer season ended--my body was in "fight" mode until then with all I had going on-- and missed both Fall Sports Banquets as a result. The fourth time was Senior Skip Day. Unless I was bleeding from the head, or missing an internal organ, I was going to school.
This was fine with me, because a) I hated my house/stepdad and b) I hated thinking I could miss out on something cool and gossip-worthy.

My mom is the nurse who touts the benefits of zinc, yoga, and other very un-hospital like things, despite working in one. When I broke my toe senior year of soccer, I had to "wait it out" until the next morning when she finally brought me to the hospital. (Yeah, yeah, I know; there's nothing you can do for a broken toe. But still.)

So last year, when I was dealing with awful, excruciating, nearly debihilitating back pain, I shrugged it off as poor posture (I admit to it), high heels, etc. Only when my vertebrae start shifting around and "clicking" did I question that something might be awfully wrong. I was prescribed physical therapy, and when that didn't work after 3 months, I got an MRI. OH! A herniated disk. Well, that explains it. Ten visits to the chiropractor and a reduced sugar diet, and I'm healed.

However--this awful hip/tendon/ligament/arthritis? situation I have going on has not improved, and in the past two days an awful radiating, shooting pain has started accompanying it. Last night I claimed that the weird feeling in my leg was a blood clot that would find its way up to my brain and cause an aneurysm. There I go with that alarmist business again. I do have an appointment with my PC doctor (who is a DO, not an MD) on Monday to get a B12 shot, so I will bring it up, but until then, I'll be worrying that Pete will return home from his ski weekend to find my cat nibbling on my corpse.

Pete's response? "Maybe it's a tumor."

Sing, sing a song...

2009-12-21T11:40:00.005-05:00

Sing out loud
Sing out strong
Sing of good things not bad
Sing of happy not sad.

When I was little, my mom used to listen to this awful "adult easy listening" radio
station on her bedroom radio.
That particular song, by The Carpenters (RIP, Karen, who died of complications due to
anorexia). It's quite terrible, honestly, but a lovely message.
Mostly the bit about just singing.

I absolutely love to sing. I was blessed to inherit a musical ability
--rumored to be from both Kitty and Neil, though of course I have no idea about that--
and while I don't have perfect pitch or anything, I can pretty much hear something
once and sing it back. I'm not going to make a break on Broadway or at The
Metropolitan Opera House, but I've been in a ton of choirs in my life. In second
grade I had a solo for the Winter Concert, and sang "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus."
I sat on a little stool and held a bear. It was cute--until I stuck my tongue out at
my mom (a cute tongue sticking out, not meant to be bratty)
and got in major trouble. I was in musicals, concert choir, jazz choir,
Women's Chorale, All-County, and All-State in high school, and the concert choir and
an all-girl a cappella group in college.

My "public" singing opportunities as of late, however, have been limited to karaoke
in a bar, or Rock Band in someone's living room. Other than that, it's singing along
to the radio or iTunes in the car or shower (or house, or while shoveling...)

Until last week.

The Note Takers, the all-teacher a cappella group at Great Valley, performed for the
first time at the school's Winter Concert. It was awesome to be singing with purpose
again, in front of an audience! We're not going to go professional any time soon,
but we weren't half bad. We sang "Christmas Fa La La" which is a little medley of
traditional holiday tunes with the only words being fa, la, fum, and hallelujah.
As an alto, I barely ever get to sing the melody, but harmonizing is essential as
well (and I think it's trained my ear to harmonize better anyway.)
Of course, there was a bat in the auditorium that flew around scared out of its mind,
swooping down occasionally to scare us out of our minds, but overall, we were well
received. I realize that the novelty of teachers singing is probably a result of most
of the applause, but whatever. It was fun.
We're performing at the Spring Concert, too; hopefully we'll do more than one song
this time!

Lately, too, my love of singing (especially a cappella) that has me glued to the TV.
I watched every episode of "Glee" with a fervor, enjoying even the silly moment of
sitcom nonsense in between the actual singing part. "The Sing-Off" also started last
week, and has its finale tonight. I am rooting for the all-male group from Tufts,
The Beezlebubs, to win it all, though I think that NOTA, an all-guy group from Puerto
Rico might win since they are a little bit more "mainstream." Last winter, while Pete
ventured out into the cold and snow on Friday nights to have a beer, I snuggled up on
the couch with Morris and was a passionate fan of "Don't Forget the Lyrics" hosted by
Wayne Brady. I am not an "Idol" fan, though perhaps with Ellen as the judge I'll
watch some, because I really just don't like how mean Simon can be, and the fact that
"America Votes!" makes it generally not about the actual music, and more about the
marketability of the person.

The holiday season is upon us, which means lots of good (and not so good) music.
Thursday evening I'll be joining my in-laws at church for services, which I love
because of the music. I've never sung in front of them before, and I hope they won't
be freaked out by my harmonizing "Joy to the World." I am going to ask to be the
inner most person in the pew for that reason!

Clackety Clack (don't talk back)

2009-12-02T13:07:00.004-05:00

I don't wear heels often, but when I do, I am super conscious of the click-clack they make down the hallways of school. I sound so...authoritative. And scary. Not to mention loud. I am very aware of how they sound if I am in the only person walking in the hall during my free period or something. Not that I am aiming to be sneaky, but I don't like announcing myself like that either. I sound so...so...so...

Old. And Mom like.

Pete informed me that men have an ingrained response to the sound of heels clacking: fear. He explained that it's because when you're younger, the sound meant one of two things: your mom or your teacher. And either way, you were about to get in trouble.

I thought this was preposterous and too Oedipal for my taste, so I consulted a male faculty member who I trusted to be honest with me. He said it was more "tense" than "fear" but that, essentially, Pete was right on.

This "fear" ingrained through the sound of heels is, of course, contradictory to the fact that most men find heels sexy and attractive. Another colleague likes how they look because they "elongate the leg and emphasize the calf muscle." Centerfolds for Playboy and Maxim typically feature scantily clad (or naked) women making a come-hither pout while wearing high heels. Models, movie stars, pin ups and other va-va-voom women are typically not pictured in flats, sneakers, loafers or fuzzy bunny slippers (high-heeled furry bedroom slippers, yes). And yet, according to Pete, if Heidi or Gisele were to walk down the hall of school, male teachers and students would subconsciously tense up. Well, and then faint. Or at least drool.

Maybe it's a little empowering (in a twisted sense) that my shoe choice can cause a man to tense up and be afraid of me, but really, it's just kind of creepy. I certainly will not wear heels more often--actually, I'd rather wear them less frequently. As I often say, "if heels were good for you, men would still wear them."

Food, Glorious Food...

2009-10-30T13:43:00.004-04:00

I love to eat. I am not a foodie by any means, but man, do I love to eat. Given my subclinical hyperthyroid problem and near-obsessive gym going, I can-and do-eat a lot. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, appetizers, dessert (oh, my, dessert...): you name it, I love it. I like going out, I like staying in, I like buffets, sit downs, even scrounging through the cabinets and standing up at the counter in my kitchen. I eat every two hours, and I swear I am missing that neurotransmitter than sends the "I'm full" message to your brain. I just love food.

However.

Most people have some odd food behaviors, habits or cravings. My grandfather used to eat peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. One friend hates it when her breakfast food touches, but other meals are ok. Another friend craves red sauce. My ex boyfriend hates tomatoes, but loves ketchup and spaghetti sauce. One of my students eats a spoonful of peanut butter every night before she goes to bed, another smells everything before she eats is. My friend's husband always orders last at a restaurant because he will not order the same thing as anyone else at the table, even if that is the thing he wanted most. I've seen people get in screaming matches about whether maple syrup goes in the fridge or not. (Yes, yes it does.)

I have my own quirks about food, too. I tend to eat my food in a clockwise direction on my plate, eating all of item A before eating item B. I avoid things like wings, crab legs, ribs, and fruit that involves lot of pre-activity because they're not worth the effort, but I rip my sandwiches, bagels, etc. into little parts. Sour cream grosses me out, but yogurt and mayo are ok. I can usually taste the dirt on lettuce--thus bagged salad is the only way I go, or romaine hearts--but have eaten things off the floor in a 5 second rule situation.

I would group these things into a category of "weirdness while eating," though, which is not to be confused with "will not eat period." Except for politically uncorrect meat (read: animals that are cute or weren't treated well before they turned into my food), and super spicy foods, I eat it. And probably even like it.

Pete, well, not so much. He has a very austere "no white food" statute, which rules out things like bleu cheese and ranch dressing, cream cheese, yogurt, mayo, and sour cream, but somehow ignores alfredo sauce. He claims he can taste the chlorophyll in green vegetables, and loathes eggs. I mean, can't be in the house if I'm eating them loathes. He gets more quickly irritataed with lack of variety and is really a meat and potato chip kind of guy. With food aggression.

Yes, that's right. Food aggression. Like "Joey doesn't share food!" on Friends.

One of my favorite stories to tell is when a bunch of us went to dinner at a now defunct pub in Wayne. I am a food sharer/taster, and reached over to try a bite of Pete's chicken pot pie. He stabbed my hand with his fork before I could get any! He defends this with "I was HUNGRY." Just the other night I got another "taste" of his food aggression.

We were eating a mishmash dinner to use up leftovers. I had salmon florentine, broccoli and salad, but was craving something more savory/carb-loaded, snacky. Pete suggested that we make some chips with melted cheese to watch during the game, and I agreed that would be yummy.

"Yeah, I made some the other day. They were deeeeelicious!" he says mid-chew.

"You did? Yum! Where was I?"

"You were at the gym, or running errands, or something. I made sure to eat them all before you came home."

"You purposefully ate them all so I couldn't have any?!?!?!?!?!"

"Yeah...is that bad?" he asks.

So there you have it. My loving husband made sure to scarf all of the faux nachos so he wouldn't have to share with his wife. For better or for worse? Well, as long as it's not about food.

Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend...

2009-10-28T07:19:00.010-04:00

Pete and I barely spoke to each other last night. We went to bed at different times, slept in separate beds. We're not fighting. We're not mad at each other.

We were reading.

The12th installment of the Wheel of Time series was finally released yesterday, after years and years of waiting. The author Robert Jordan (nom de plume) died unexpectedly before finalizing the series, and another reputable writer, Brandon Sanderson, was asked to finish it based on Jordan's outline and notes. Although intended to be one last book, it is being split into three different volumes.

Wheel of Time is Pete's favorite book series of all time. The first was released in 1990 when Pete was 11, and the next six came out in pretty rapid succession until about 2000 when it slowed down a bit. Prior to yesterday, the most recent was released in 2005--that's a pretty long wait. To prepare for this momentous occasion, Pete spent almost a solid week reading summaries of every chapter of every book online. Yesterday, he rushed out of school to Barnes and Noble and did nothing but read--pausing slightly to eat dinner--until midnight or so when he claims he went to bed. This will repeat tonight until 8 pm when the World Series starts. (Go Phils!)

Although Pete is a frat boy on the outside--baseball and football and beer oh my!--deep down he's a total nerd. My nerdiness is, of course, not quite as veiled as his. It is common knowledge that I would rather stay home and read with Morris than go out to a party. We have vastly different preferred genres, but we are voracious readers nonetheless. Pete loves mythopoeic fantasy, like Wheel of Time, Eearthsea and Lord of the Rings. He also dabbles in histories and non fiction stuff. I like "good" novels, memoirs, young adult science fiction like Hunger Games and admittedly left-leaning non fiction, though I tend to read almost anything if someone "sells" me on it. The one series we both adore is Harry Potter; we literally raced to see who could finish it first (um, me). Last night while Pete was absorbed in one room, I was getting into Dan Brown's new thriller The Lost Symbol on the other couch. Formulaic? Yes, but I still had to stop reading about an hour before I wanted to go to bed because things like that make me unable to shut off my brain to fall asleep. I have three books waiting in the wings, too, not to mention the books/articles for my grad class. Sigh--so many books, so little time.

Even though his fantasy sports and computer games obsessions produce the same "can't-talk-now-honey-busy" Homeresque response from the body in the room as reading does, it's different somehow. I don't mind being put on the backburner for a book, even on our honeymoon. Why? Because reading is intellectual, and intellectual is sexy. Even though I make Pete store his horrid high fantasy stuff in our hidden loft bookcase, knowing that he enjoys reading is one of the traits I love about him. He has said that listening to me read--not aloud, but all of the audible reactions I have while reading--is one of my cutest attributes. He tells anyone who will listen the endearing story of the time that I finished Marley and Me on vacation in Ocean City, Maryland, and the group had to delay our bar hopping shenanigans because I was crying. These are things that only readers would say about other readers.

So, tonight, I will come home from the gym. A mishmash dinner might be ready. Pete and I will curl ourselves up on opposite ends of the couch, with our noses in books, hoping to get in just one more page! before the game starts.

Bi-Annual Ritual

2009-10-23T11:11:00.006-04:00

I loathe winter. I mean, really loathe it. This is unfortunate, because Pete loves it, but I just can't share in his cold-induced joy. He loves jackets, sweaters, skiing, and how red my nose gets from being outside even for a brief moment. I hate jackets, sweaters, skiing, and how red my nose gets. I never feel warm--ever!--and have the cyanotic digits to prove it.* Lastly, and more importantly, I get Seasonal Affective Disorder quite intensely and it's unbearable (for both me and He Who Lives in my House).

Yet, fall is ok. Pleasant, even. Dare I say, enjoyable. I like the colors of the leaves, the first time that it is necessary to wear jeans, a hoodie and Uggs, all things pumpkin. Halloween and Thanksgiving are two of my favorite holidays. New seasons of TV shows, the smell of apples and a 5 month craving for chai lattes round out the list of thingsI like about the changing of the seasons.

It is also around October that I participate in a ritual I like to call "Flipping the Closet." It is at this time that the clothes from half the year get yanked down from their in-the-closet-on-a-hanger status, evaluated, given away if necessary, folded up and stored if not. The clothes from the other half of the year get rescued from storage, evaluated, given away if necessary, ironed and hung up on the newly naked hangers.

It's almost like shopping in your own house. In the six months without wear, I inevitably forget about certain items I own. This time it was the faux tweed trouser capris and the wool blend black and white pants. And next spring I am sure I will have forgotten about some of the skirts and tops that are now neatly tucked away in a plastic under-the-bed box.

I also get a strange satisfaction from knowing that I must set aside a couple of hours to organizing the closet and the subsequent dresser redistribution that come with the job. I have twenty--yes, twenty--drawers (divided among four dressers in three rooms) at my disposal and I take a sick pleasure in figuring out the best location for all sub categories of clothing: long sleeved tshirts, gym clothes, pajama/schlumfy pants and shirts, socks, etc. In doing this, I refold casual tees, make the bra/panty dividing lines (read: shoeboxes) clean again.

Of course, it's a chance to take stock of what I own (two black turtleneck sweaters; three pairs of black slacks. Apparently I like black) and plan out what I might "need" to buy. On our new budget, my shopping has been limited and I must keep track of my purchases with a bit more vigor than in the past.

Winter came a little late this year, but now I think it's safe to say that it's here to stay. The days of light pants or jackets are over and I am bundled up in one of the aforementioned black turtleneck sweaters. After school I will come home and hunker down in sweats for the weekend, waiting until the day when I can flip my closet back, and send these bulky clothes back where they belong.

Don't Ask

2009-10-18T15:32:00.005-04:00

In an attempt to start polite conversation, well meaning people irritate the hell out of me when they ask "how's married life treating you?" I beg you: please do no ask this question. To anyone. Ever.

First, it presumes the response will be positive. If I replied "well, he's started to get violent, I've developed a meth problem as a result, we fight all the time, but then when we make up the sex sucks," the person would walk away, mumbling something about having to wash their hair. Sure, the natural assumption is that with less than a year in to legally bound status, things are good; but hey, you never know.

Next, I am not the mushy-gushy, girly, squealy I-so-love-being-married type, at least in public. (Who are we kidding? I'm not really that way at all, though I do have my moments.) I am not going to go on and on about how fantastic it is to be together all the time, how we strategically placed our wedding pictures throughout our house, how I have suddenly seen the proverbial light and become a domestic diva who dons an apron and makes pot roast in heels, or that my wedding day was the greatest day of my life. It was fun, yes, and I do like being married, but I'm not going to get all ooey-gooey about it.

Depending on how well I know you and other social cues like the setting, perceived length of required conversation, etc. I might reply--like I did Saturday night to a friend-of-a-friend--"yeah, great; I'm stuck with this clown for the rest of my life." This response has an added effect of accuracy if Pete is, at the moment, doing something clownish. Of course, that snarky comment is always followed with a smile because it's funny 'cause it's true. And endearing.

Pete has a stock reply for this question: "it's about the same as being mortgaged." Which is true. We bought a house 6 months prior to our wedding, and quite frankly, getting out of that would be a larger financial and legal burden than getting a civil divorce. Is it romantic? No. But true.

My usual response is something like "you know, the usual...we lived together for over a year before we were married, so the adjustment hasn't been too bad." Which is also true. The day to day stuff has, for the most part, gone unaltered after we settled into the living together situation in the summer of 2007. The slight nuances of dealing with a house we own instead of rent, and having a joint checking account and filing our taxes differently aside, our time is pretty much spent the way it was then.

Therefore, the only main difference between "living together and/or mortgaged" and being married is a knock you on your ass, make your head spin philosophical one: this is it. He's it. I'm in. Good freakin' grief.

Now, that is a huge difference. I know this. Provided you want to avoid getting a divorce and don't foresee the unforeseeable like an untimely demise on either end, for the next, oh, 55 years I am going to live with Pete. Eat dinner with Pete. Divide chores, drive around, attend events, talk to, cry, laugh, nap, snack, fight, sleep and have sex with Pete. Throw in buying and selling a house a time or two, changing jobs, adopting and losing pets, having and raising children (someday), grieving for and burying our parents (someday), and you've got yourself a recipe for a married life. Hopefully one that treats you well.

But it's not all peachy keen. Sustaining a passion for one single person for the next half century aside, any enterprise that is an equal partnership is never going to be easy. It involves putting "we" ahead of "me" which, although so far we tend to compromise and communicate pretty well, is not ideal 100% of the time. (I'm an only child and Pete's the youngest, both which yield naturally selfish people. And, in our own ways, we are.) We love each other every day, but we don't like each other every day. We don't even see each other every day. It's not always fun, is sometimes boring, sometimes annoying (like today; I was responsible for The Giant Detergent Spill of 09, which wouldn't have been quite as Giant had Pete gotten the laundry like I asked him to.). It is great a lot of the time, but really, it's just like Single Life, but with less dating and more joint TV watching.

And, you know, that whole forever thing.

We got Spirit! (What?)

2009-10-12T07:42:00.005-04:00

We got spirit! (what?)
We got spirit! (what?)
We got what what what what what what what-
We got spirit!

Ok, that is a flashback to my (ugh) one year of cheerleading followed by three years of making fun of it. (Ok, that's not really true. But my HS friends and I occasionally pretend we are cheerleaders and throw down a cheer or two. This is one of them.)

It's spirit week at good ol' GVHS. Homecoming is Saturday, and, I must say, GV does it up right during the week.
Monday: Pajama Day, and all of the classes made/hung their murals over the weekend. This year's theme is Music, and each class is a genre (rap, techno, rock, country) and made posters.
Tuesday: 80s day
Wednesday: Reverse Day--the teachers dress like kids and vice versa. It is also the Powder Puff football game at night under the lights.
Thursday: oddly, we have an in-service that day. Terribly placed.
Friday: Blue and White day and the Pep Rally during 7th period.
Saturday: all day fair with vendors, food, etc., plus the parade, football game and dance at night.

I love Spirit Week and take advantage of it to its fullest. I am currently wearing PJ bottoms and my leopard slippers; tomorrow I am wearing 80s gear; Wednesday I am borrowing a Jonas Brothers tshirt and Holister hoodie, wearing Uggs with a skirt and keeping an earbud in all day. It's a week when I don't have to think about what to wear, other than preparing the ensemble, which is fun.

This year I can't go to the dance--which I am kinda bummed about, because I like seeing my kids all dressed up--and thus will be exempt from what we call Grind Patrol. However, I am participating in the pep rally skit and on Friday you will find me dressed as a beekeeper having a dance off with a hornet in the school gym in front of 1500 people. Yowza.

My alma mater (yes Blue and Gold is the flag we love...), though a big football school, was no where near as fun for Homecoming. The Thursday before the game we'd have a pep rally at night. The fall sports teams got announced and then the head football coach would make some sort of grunting plea to beat the other team, and we'd burn a fake mascot in effigy. During the week we'd vote for King and Queen, and then Friday night during homecoming all of the seniors and their escorts would take a trolley ride onto the football field, get announced, and then watch the popular kids get crowned. Hopefully we'd win our game--our football team was decent most of the time, so we usually did--and then the dance was Saturday night. We'd get our hair done, meet up at a friends' house for pictures and corsage exchanges and go out to dinner before the dance. Then we'd go to a party afterwards.

It is precisely this that lead to major drama my senior year. My class, despite being tiny (I graduated with 85 other people) was quite cliquey. Some of us were neither allowed nor necessarily interested in getting wasted in a field. Others were. Andrea's dad had told her that the party could be at their house. He changed his mind the night of the girls soccer night-game. Andrea showed up to the game and told us her dad changed his mind. At the game, her dad sat next to my mom, and apparently the topic of the party came up. My mom was/is known as being one of the stricter moms, and somehow the rumor got started that she had convinced him not to have a party despite all of the evidence that suggests otherwise.

So the next day at lunch, my rival/arch enemy Jaime decided to unleash upon me her misguided fury at a world in which her cousin Andrea was no longer allowed to have a party as a result of my mom's cunning. We screamed at each other in the cafeteria--she informing me how my mom had "ruined everyone's lives" and me pointing out the obvious fact that Andrea's dad had made up his mind prior to ever seeing my mom; therefore, this was not her nor my doing. At one point I screamed, "are you incompetent?" and she had no idea what I meant. The irony was lost on her, of course.*

The result was that "for the first time ever" there were-gasp!-two Homecoming parties. One attended by the "cool crowd" in a field where they got drunk and did drugs, and the other at my house where we had food, a bonfire, and slept over--girls upstairs, boys down. Was it the greatest party ever? No. Was it worth all of the aforementioned drama? Nope. But that is what I remember about Homecoming 1996.

GO TEAM!

*This person is now employed at a one-star Chinese restaurant in our hometown, rumored to be a coke head. Oh, to be popular.

In the immortal words of Salt N Pepa...

2009-10-07T20:21:00.003-04:00

Let's talk about sex.

In the fourth episode of my new favorite show, Glee, Quinn convinced Finn that she's pregnant with his child despite the fact that they've never had sex. Wha? Well, he believes that the temperature of the hot tub water they were in was perfect for his sperm to swim through his bathing suit, through the water, through her bathing suit and up into her. (What she did not mention, of course, is that, although she is the president of the celibacy club, she got drunk on wine coolers and had sex with Finn's best friend, Puck. Oops!)

Ok, enough tv recap. But seriously, often life imitates art.

Luckily, no teenager I know is pregnant (it probably just means I don't know about it.) But last week I had a very disturbing conversation with some of my volleyball players about the female reproductive system. One girl was complaining of cramps, and that led naturally to a discussion about periods and all of that.

But then...
One girl thought that you get your period because the egg is leaving (which is sort of true, but it's a bit more complicated than that.)
One girl thought that the egg cuts you on the way down and that's why you bleed.
None of them really understood that menstrual blood is not the same as say, cutting your arm, and that it's not really blood but the uterine lining being shed.
None of them understood that after you ovulate and the egg is not fertilized that it leaves your body. "Can I see it?" "Um, no. It's microscopic."
None of them knew that when you ovulate, you tend to release one egg a month, typically alternating ovaries.
Very few knew that women are born with all the eggs we will ever have.
One girl asked me if you can die from anal sex! I responded "NO! But it's an out hole only." (Ok, ok, I know; for many women anal sex is quite pleasurable and can be a natural extension to one's healthy sex life. But my girls can learn that later. And not in the middle of a volleyball drill.)

"What are your health teachers teaching you?"*

Apparently, nothing. I am totally comfortable talking with them about this and would love to be a health teacher (I am certified in the state of Pennsylvania!) for that reason. My girls come to me for questions about sex, body stuff, nutrition, etc. and it's kind of a big sister/wise advisor role I fill for them. I do not mince words, and do not shy away from any topic other than personal experiences which they are respectful enough to not ask me about, anyway.

This generation--ugh, I always feel so old when I say that, and feel like I should follow it up with some sort of remark about how I walked uphill both ways to school--is oversexed yet under informed. The juxtaposition of Brittney and Beyonce with the girls' inability to discuss periods is prime example of how our culture has made lust and sexiness the focus while simultaneously keeping them in the dark. The Jonas Brothers are in the waiting til marriage club, yet spray down their crowds of screaming teen girls with hoses is another, and the list could go on.

Is it a result of abstinence only education? Maybe. Statistic after statistic has shown that it, like all programs that paint grey areas (sex, drugs) as black and white (DARE, anyone?) doesn't work. Kids are curious. They want to know, and want to know the truth from people who they trust to tell them the truth. Despite the fact that some believe this should only be their parents, often that is not where kids want to get their information from, or want to but don't. Many parents find it too awkward to discuss, or feel that because they made poor choices (having sex in high school, doing drugs) that they aren't capable of instilling these values in their children.

And, naturally, some kids just feel weird asking their parents. I was one of those. In fourth grade I had no idea why my friends laughed at the word "hump," and I sure as hell didn't ask my mom. In high school, I thought that "doggy style" meant anal, and was made fun of in the locker room after I released this information. I did not go home and say "hey, Mom, let's talk about rear-entry sex." My mom's goal in life it seemed was to make sure I was scared enough of sex to not even have the chance of getting pregnant in high school. It worked, granted, but to what end? Her stressing the "waiting until you're married" business blew up in her face. Before she married my now-ex stepdad, they went "away for the weekend." In the parking lot of Dunkin Donuts--I remember this clearly--I asked her how the sleeping arrangements would work. She informed me that they would be sharing a bed; they were adults, could make that decision, etc. The hypocrisy was not lost on me, I assure you. Teenagers are by nature quite sanctimonious and I was no different. Though I did not have sex in high school (I was sort of a make out whore however. Oops.), I no longer felt the need to wait until marriage. Was she right? Of course. Was I right? Of course.

And this is precisely why teenagers need another adult with whom they can discuss such matters. Sure, it'd be great if it's a parent, but often it's not, or can't be. Keeping sex ed out of schools is a recipe for disaster.

So, Salt, Pepa, let's. Let's talk about sex. Let's talk about sex in a frank and honest way and make sure kids go on to college or "the real world" informed with accurate information so they can make informed decisions about their sexual health.

*I do not think it's only health teachers who should teach this, much like it cannot fall solely on English teachers to teach writing and the joy of reading.

I had a dollar and a dream

2009-10-03T17:52:00.004-04:00

For the second time in my life, I bought a Lottery ticket.

(The first time was on my 18th birthday because I could. I also rented porn (weird, awkward, never again) and drove after 9 pm.)

Two days ago, I had a dream about picking Lotto numbers. In my dream, I only won $650 and then was chased around a hostel by a blonde maniac, but still. So today I bought a ticket.

It took me two tries because the first time I pulled into the parking lot, I realized I was out of cash due to paying my hairdresser. Talk about irony and poor financial planning! After going to the mall to grab lunch. return a sweater, and hit the ATM, I pulled back in and went inside. I had no idea what to do! I thought I had to fill out the little form with a pencil, and had no idea that I would have to reveal my Dreamed Up Numbers to the guy. He couldn't have cared less about my dream story, but dealt with me patiently nonetheless. I gave him my dollar and walked away with nothing but a dream in my pocket (well, and the other $52 in my wallet.)

I realize that the chances of winning are less than my shot at getting struck by lightning. Twice. But who hasn't spent a little time wondering "what if..." I certainly have. What would I do if I won some ridiculous amount, like $193 million? (That is the current estimated annuity for the Powerball.)

First, you make the decision whether you take the annuity or one time cash prize (now at $99 million or so.) Clearly, you lose half to taxes, but that would still leave about $50 million with the one time cash prize. What to do, what to do...

After I hired a financial planner and put in my notice at work, the first thing I would do would be to buy my mom a house and a Prius and let her retire if she wanted to. With Kitty situated, we'd move on to paying off student loans and then the fun would begin!

For the time being, we'd probably stay in this house just to figure out what to do with all of this money and freedom, but I know I would go back to school (renting a place in Phoenix to do so, but then really, I'd be a perpetual student. I love school) and eventually we'd purchase a condo/townhouse in Vermont for ski season and a fixer-upper beach house somewhere on the Atlantic (Carolinas? New England?). I would decorate the former in American Country (there are some great, kitchy rooster plates at Williams-Sonomoa) and the latter in neutrals, blues and greens (all eco-friendly of course!) I would buy lots of art and things from local artists, too.

For our "main" place to live, I do think we'd actually stay in the area, but move farther south into the Brandywine River region onto a beautiful stone house with tons of land. I'd rescue a bunch of dogs, get a goat, a rabbit and some chickens, and hire a landscaper/gardener to plant all sorts of symbiotic plants and trees and organic fruits and veggies. I would hire a housekeeper. And there would be a Tempurpedic king-sized mattress in each house.

I wouldn't suddenly bedeck myself in jewels, but I would buy some new clothes: jeans that fit, some nice workout clothes (I would have tons of time to spend at the gym, and would hire a personal trainer), and, well, pretty much any outfit I wanted. I wouldn't become newly obsessed with couture. With the whole no working for the time being thing, I would probably mostly invest in casual stuff that I liked--shopping at stores like J.Crew, Banana, Anthropologie and others that are too expensive for me now, but that are not "designer." I would go back to my $50 haircuts, and throw in a monthly facial and massage, too, as well as manis/pedis. I'd treat my friends, too, of course.

I think our biggest splurge would be traveling. Many US destinations are on the top of our list, like Alaska, Hawaii, Yosemite, Austin, Seattle, Portland, Jackson Hole, Boulder, etc. and maybe we'd rent an RV to do that, though it's more likely we'd rent a hybrid SUV and stay in nice hotels. My mom and I want to go to the Galapagos, and Pete and I have an inkling to hit up Europe, South Africa, New Zealand and Australia.

And, of course, we'd give a bunch away. Maybe we'd start a Foundation to formally donate, or maybe we'd just write a couple of big checks: ASPCA, the Chester County Library, Muhlenberg's Hillel and FIJI to name a few. I'd want to set up an endowed scholarship at Great Valley, and maybe Pete would want to do the same at Malvern Prep or Benchmark. Having seemingly unlimited money would also let me live even more according to my values. I would do all the grocery shopping at farmer's markets, Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and health food stores, and would only buy beauty products from eco-friendly retailers like Aveda, Origins and The Body Shop that are currently a bit out of my comfortable price range (nowadays, I do what I can, of course.)

A question many people ask themselves is "would I quit my job or quit working all together?" My answers are yes, no. I do like my kids and my colleagues and all, but there is no way that I would continue to grade all day on Sundays and get up at 5:45 am if I didn't have to. However, after the first year of going on a "bender," I'd want some sort of purpose. Pete claims he would go back to substituting. I would rather become sort of a professional volunteer, splitting my time between schools, kennels, the library, and other charities that save animals and deal with reading.

Anyway, back to reality. Even though I know the odds are stacked against us like nobody's business, it's fun to dream. But, like the NY Lottery slogan states: "hey, you never know."

Target Fashionista

2009-09-30T12:34:00.003-04:00

I have gotten many compliments on my outfits this week. (Yeah, yeah, it's only Wednesday of a 4 day work-week...) Kids and teachers alike have remarked that I look nice, put together, well-accessorized, cute, or, as one kid puts it, "like a fashionista." I can only assume that she means "trendy, stylish, magazine-worthy."

I wouldn't go quite that far, but I have felt pretty stylish, especially yesterday. More importantly, I was comfortable, too. And my outfits were relatively inexpensive, since everything I had on came from Target.

(Ok, not the shoes. )

Target has become my go-to store for clothes. It has always been my go-to for sundries--face lotion, cat litter, a new lunchbox--but lately, I have had clothing success there as well. Once instance that comes to mind is the day that I set out For a Day of Shopping. It gets capital letters because I was on a mission to find work clothes that fit and that I liked, regardless of price. I went to my usual--Ny & Co--but also hit up The Limited, Gap, Express, and J.Jill. I had money in the bank and time on my hands.

And got nothing. I either didn't like it, it didn't fit, or the store was out in the color/size I needed.

Utterly dejected, I made the choice to hit Target ("tar-jhay") as a last resort. Well! Within moments of arriving, I had already piled my arms full of stuff to try: pants, skirts, tops, shells, cardigans, shrugs, jeans. Forced to abide their "6 items at a time" rule, I left my collection on a cart outside the dressing room and rotated the items in and out as necessary. Success! I came home with two pairs of shorts, a pair of jean capris, 2 shells, 2 cardigans, and a necklace/earring set that matched both. Throw in a couple of beauty product items and school supplies, and my bill came to $140 at the most. Score!

Neither what I wore yesterday nor today is from that particular day of shopping, though. Both of these dresses (a grey shift and a black Empire waist dress with red flowers) are "so last season"--though the ribbed tights are new.* My favorite pair of pants are from there, too, which is a near miracle in and of itself, since pants never fit me well. It is clear that on my next shopping spree, I should hit up Target first, instead of waiting until I'm tired and hungry at the end of my trip.

A good friend of mine (who I miss terribly!) is a stay-at-home mom in Tennessee, and was bemoaning the image presented on shows like "Real Housewives of..." because she spends her days "t-shirts and jeans from Target." Sign me up! They have super cute t-shirts for less than $10 and I am sure if I had the patience, I could find jeans that fit, too. Jeans, a cute tshirt, a cardigan and flip flops is my dream uniform!

My point is, that, although I am not worthy of working at Runway magazine (I am way more Anne Hathaway than Emily Blunt, who is engaged to John Krasinski. Swoon.) those of us who don't make millions a year and can barely afford a ticket to The September Issue let alone any clothes featured in it, can still look decent. Good, even.

Don't get me wrong, there are many days that I look and feel like a total schlub with bad hair and no style. On those days I put on my comfy pants. From Target.

*I am embarrassed to say that it took me no fewer than five tries to get my tights on correctly. I was convinced-convinced!--that each time I had them on backwards. The one way made the waist feel wrong; the other way was clearly incorrect because the little indentation for the heel was facing front. Thinking I had the situation solved from yesterday's poor performance, I put my right leg in "correctly" this morning and, voila, the left leg was dangling off to the side. Backwards again.

Sleepless in the Suburbs

2009-09-13T10:04:00.005-04:00

I have a confession to make.

Pete and I sleep in separate beds (most of the time.)

A lot of people know this, but whenever I tell someone, I fear judgment. I wonder if that person is thinking "well, their marriage is doomed," or "my marriage is better than theirs," or "I love sleeping with my spouse--what's wrong with them?"

What's "wrong" with us is that Pete snores, I have back issues, and we both like the same side of the bed. Throw in a cat who sleeps on a pillow, varying levels of tiredness, different bed times, and one person who likes to watch TV before bed, and you have a recipe for anti-cosleeping.

There are times, of course, when we do sleep together all night in the same bed. And we almost always start off together, but mid-way through the evening I slide my pillow out from underneath part of the cat, and shuffle down the hallway to the back bedroom with the futon mattress. It's harder than our mattress and it feels better on my back. My back also feels better in certain positions that are only attainable if I have full use of the bed.

Pete is also a pretty light sleeper and wakes easily.* When this happens, he complains the next day how tired he is (like anyone would who did not sleep well and is exhausted). So on the rare occasion when I am not quite tired enough to fall asleep instantly, I feel guilty if I am moving around because I am keeping him from sleeping soundly. I can't say that I am heartbroken.

The truth is that I've never really liked sleeping with someone else. In college, sharing a twin bed like so many of us did was tortuous for me, and I often kicked out my then-boyfriend at 2 a.m. so I could actually sleep (he, too, snored.) After I graduated grad school and had a real apartment with a queen bed (and was dating a guy with a double), I loathed the fact that we had vastly different to-bed and get-up times because one of us (usually me) was "forced" to alter a schedule for the sake of sleeping together.

Pete and I fare much better in a king size, which we keep thinking about getting. Unfortunately, we just inherited a queen which, prior to our use, had been slept on fewer than 50 times and is practically brand new. I salivate at the idea of a Tempurpedic mattress because they are heavenly. Sometimes I think it'd be worth the money, other times I catch myself being ridiculous.

I don't think our situation is as rare as we think, despite my fear of being judged. I remember hearing on the radio two years ago that the newest trend in home design/building is a double master bedroom, so each spouse not only has his/her own bedroom, but also bathroom. One host of my morning radio program freely admits that during the week he and his wife sleep in separate rooms because he gets up at 4:30 and she doesn't. Then, when they do share a bed on Friday and Saturday nights, it's kind of like "date night" and makes it a little special. A colleague of mine swears that the secret to his marriage is that his wife stays in New Jersey three nights a week for work.

Pete and I pride ourselves on being committed to allowing each other freedom and independence. It is what makes our relationship thrive, though at times the not togetherness gets to be a bit much (like this weekend--I was away all day yesterday, came home and collapsed, then he left, and by the time he returned I was practically asleep. Today, he is leaving for a Phillies double-header and will be gone for 12 hours) but when those times arise, we make extra effort to pull ourselves together, even just to watch a movie on the couch.

There is no "right way" to be married, and if sleeping in separate beds allow us each to be more well-rested and functional during the day and the result is that we are both happier people to be around, so be it.

Though, that king-sized Tempurpedic would be nice...

*Pete is actually going in this week for a sleep study. We fear that he has apnea, and his initial consult with the doctor suggested the same.

Blogging is weird

2009-09-03T11:43:00.003-04:00

I just found out that a friend has a blog. And last night, Pete and I read a lot of it and we felt...weird.

Weird because we know both the blogger and her husband quite well. And her blog, which is way better than mine or most of the others I read, is a thoughtful insight into her marriage (among other things) and we feel like stalkers. There is a lovely post about our wedding last fall (I admit I searched the archives to see if it was blog-worthy. It was! Hooray!). But what if the post had discussed how bad the food was or that the music was lame? She is entitled to her opinion, of course, but since her blog was kept somewhat secret, she could have presumed I would never read it.

And now I have this vision of the insides of their marriage. They are vomit-worthy cute and now I have to see the male counterpart in this new light. My fault, of course, since I sought out her blog and didn't have to, but I am curious like a cat. That's why my friends call me "Whiskers."*

Her blog has generated some cool happenings. First, the kind people at Gap discovered that she is a Gap fan, and she hosted a Gap Jeans party, complete with give-aways, Gap M&Ms and napkins, etc. Before this soiree, a nice lady from Gap took her out to lunch and shopping. Score! Subaru also found a post that included a picture of the husband's old Outback station wagon with "Just Married" written out of the dust on the windshield and streamers flying out the window. That picture is now going to be in a print ad campaign. No, they are not getting paid since it's a "testimonial." Too bad, but still cool. Way cooler than my blogging has gotten me, that's for sure.

She of course takes it far more seriously than I do, and is a better writer (sigh). Admittedly, she has a "desk" job so perhaps she has more time than I do during the day (my kids are taking a test at the moment...) Her blog is also about three and a half years old and those two cool happenings are quite recent, so time is a factor. I am also admittedly somewhat technologically impaired, and my posts don't have the fancy pictures that hers do since I tend to avoid using a digital camera. (And that's not for lack of access, either. Pete has 3.)

But we both are willing to discuss parts of our lives in the public forum. I know that I have about 4 people who read this, one of whom lives in my house. She has a quite a few more, which is a bit enviable. Both of us has to deal with the public teacher conundrum since between the two couples there are three public school employees and all sorts of privacy issues can arise. There are topics Pete has nicely told me are "off limits" and I oblige. I am sure her husband has told her the same. We are still both letting friends and family (and the occasional stranger) into a private world on many occasions. On purpose. Like I said, blogging is weird.

We both also suffer from contradictory anti-narcissism. If we are willing to put my marriage, life and thoughts into the public forum, then we am narcissistic enough to think that someone wants or should read about them, which we do, since otherwise we might not have a blog. However, she and I have been decent friends for a couple of years now, and I found out about her blog yesterday. Neither one of us readily admits we have one, doesn't go clamoring for readers. Heck, I'm even on Twitter and only have 2 followers. (Sigh--neither one is my celeb crush who I "tweeted.")

Nevertheless, her blog has inspired me to try to post more frequently, work on my vocabulary, syntax and style, and try to throw in some pictures. Also, I need to remember that the every day musings of a simple suburban life are just as good fodder as the rather astute (if I do say so myself) observations I have about the world.

Thanks, RA.

*This is a quote from a Will Ferrell sketch on SNL. I watch this in my pop culture class, so I've seen it approximately 8 times. I referenced it the other day and Pete didn't get it.

Vick makes me Sick

2009-08-18T17:57:00.003-04:00

It's amazing many t-shirts I found about Michael Vick. And I want to buy all of them.

When I found out that the Eagles signed Vick to a two year contract, I freaked out. He disgusts me as a human being and find him to be the lowest of the low. Perhaps lower are child molesters/true sex offenders (not the people who have to register because when they were 19 they banged a 16 year old. I mean the real, disgusting, true, sex offenders.) And yet, cleared by the NFL to play, the Eagles got him. Ugh ugh ugh.

Obviously, there has been tons of media coverage about this (though with Favre returning, after once again faking his retirement, it might take a back burner for a while) and people have a variety of opinions about this. Andy Reid said that he believes in second chances, a thinly veiled reference to his sons' problems with drug addiction. There is a gigantic difference between addiction and downright cruelty.

Others argue that the NFL already employs other felons, and that it's not fair to put Vick into a category separate from the other felons. Again, (ok, admittedly I can't cite any specific players or their stories) there is a difference, to me, with robbery, larceny, and dogfighting. If a particular player committed something as terrible as rape or murder and was convicted, he would be in prison serving time. If he was either charged and not indicted, or found guilty of something small enough to allow him to carry on with life, that is certainly not the same.

Still others maintain that since the NFL cleared him to play, people should be ok with it. Ok, just because the NFL cleared him, doesn't mean any team had to sign him. As a teacher, if I were convicted of a felony, I would never work again, period. Same with attorneys. Same with lots of other professions. Why are we glorifying illegal activity at all, let alone one that is positively reprehensible? It's bad enough that the hip-hop community embraces this kind of behavior (drugs, prostitution, theft, guns, etc. I mean, hello, several rappers--Akon for one--base their entire careers and schtick on having served time of some kind.) Just because he has talent doesn't mean the NFL should have cleared him.

This is a huge case of NIMBY, I do realize. If it were not the Eagles who signed him, would I be as riled up about it? I'd like to hope so, but maybe I wouldn't. But it has completely sucked the air out of my proverbial sails regarding watching football this fall. I know that he's not going play very much, let alone start. Fine. I realize that if, at any time, the Eagles are unsatisfied with him, they can release him and that the money is a pro-rated amount, so he might not see much of the $1.6 million anyway. I realize that in football money, $1.6 is couch change. (must be nice.) But that is not the point. How can I root for a team, coach and franchise that so egregiously condones a behavior I find deplorable? Vick has apparently apologized, etc. but quite frankly, the words I heard were regret for getting caught and/or making a silly decision at that point in a career, not necessarily that he believes what he did was wrong. (yes, the CEO of the HSUS has released a statement indicating that Vick is remorseful and working toward educating the community, including Philly which has a dogfighting problem).

And sure, you can throw the "but he grew up in a culture that accepts dogfighting!" my way, and I say this: so, then, Bin Laden is ok? He great up in a culture that abhors Ameircan values and embraces violence, so we should just understand and accept jihad and its effects? Of course not. (no, I am not directly comparing dog fighting with 9-11.) At some point, the difference between right and wrong, kindness and cruelty has got to be a choice and not an easy byproduct of one's culture.*

So what to do? Do I watch the games, or not? Can I watch and cheer, as long as Vick's not on the field? Can I watch and cheer, as long as I don't buy any products/services that are advertised during commerical breaks? Do I head down to The Link to protest? Buy an anti-Vick shirt and wear it to the bars during the game? Or do I have to give up everything, and no longer consider myself a fan? Do I find a new team? If so, who? Pittsburgh is in PA, but I'm originally from NY, so I could also pick the Giants, Jets or Bills. I like Peyton Manning. Maybe I'll become a Colts fan. Or, what's more likely, I'll just not watch or cheer or root for anyone or anything.

Only a couple of weeks ago, I expressed my excitement for the start of football season. Sigh.

*Pete is shocked that I feel this way about the whole cultural thing because I am usually on the side of the underdog and make arguments defending the difficulty of breaking cycles such as poverty or abuse. But in no way did Vick need to run dogfight rings, like say, a gang member feels like he "has" to join or kill to stay in. This was not a matter of survival. Moreover, breaking out of a cycle that is in place due to the system is not the same as recognizing that a piece of your "culture" is evil, or at least something with which you personally disagree and choose to avoid participating. There are lots of Southerners who don't dogfight. Contrastly, slavery used to be part of the Southern culture, and my guess is that Vick is glad for the Emancipation Proclamation and not pro slavery.

For Love or Money

2009-08-11T09:31:00.005-04:00

"They" say that the main issues that arise in a marriage surround children, sex, religion and money. A new study confirms that part of this may be on purpose--researchers have found that when it comes to views on money, opposites attract: "savers" will be attracted to "spenders" and vice versa.

I emailed this to Pete with the subject line of "another reason why we are together!" or something equally as cloying. We talked about how this opposites attract thing was true for us, as well as other couples we know. I guess it makes sense somewhat: if two savers were together, they would never go on vacation, never buy a new couch, etc. If two spenders were together, they would have no savings and massive credit car debt.

In this house, I am the saver, Pete is the spender. So far, this hasn't caused too much angst, except for the couch incident at The Dump (sidebar: what an awful name for a store, no?) which had more to do with the time it takes to make decisions rather than the money itself. Though, as other studies have found, people experience different levels of pain when it comes to letting go of money. I experience buyer's remorse over a $7 pair of pants, where as Pete will buy new this or new that with very little concern. Since he is using "his" money to do this, it doesn't bug me too much, I suppose.

How we handle "our" money has been an evolving process. When we were first dating, Pete was only semi-employed as a substitute/REI worker/construction peon. As many women are quick to do (claims Suze Orman, who I worship), I shelled out quite a bit of dough during our courting stage because, well, I made quite a bit more money. I convinced both myself and him that I was ok with this, but truthfully, it got annoying. That might sound terrible, but it's true. But I knew he was working to get a "real" job, and eventually did. This job came when we moved in together, and we established the "proportions" system: based on our salaries, we each paid a different proportion of the common household expenses. Because I am intuitively better at it, I handled the joint money and payments, and would essentially "bill" Pete for his 44% of the rent, utilities and joint credit card bill, which covered things like groceries, things for the house and common entertainment, like dinners out or movies.

This system went on for about a year and a half, and when you add in a mortgage and our HOA fee, and more utilities, it got quite bothersome because some of the calculations changed every month and we now had a joint checking account (set up the Monday after our wedding to deposit all those checks!). I plead for an easier way to deal with this monthly task and we came up with the 50-50 system, which I stole from a friend. Each partner puts in half of his/her paycheck to the joint checking account and keeps the other in his/her individual account. This has saved my life and made bill paying so much easier.

Why not just go 100-100 you ask? Well, I am sure it's mostly because of me. I have issues with money; I admit it freely. Part of this may come from watching (though not fully understanding) my mom struggle when I was little, and being raised to believe strongly in financial independence. The "proportions" system was set up out of fairness: even with his "real" job, Pete didn't make as much as I did, and I didn't think it was fair for him to contribute half of the expenses (again, a Suze Orman notion). Our take home pay is getting closer and closer to equal, now, though, and the 50-50 contributions differ by about $100/month. However, I still like the idea of having "my" money and "his" money.* Why should Pete pay for my clothes, car and student loan--which I acquired before I even knew he was alive? Why should I fund drinking with the boys, golf, and his previously accrued credit card debt?

The money thing is one of the huge concerns I have about going back to school and/or staying home with the wee ones. During yet another "life plan" conversation on Thursday night, I confessed to Pete that being pregnant while not employed (ie in grad school) made me nervous, because I know I will want maternity clothes, pregnancy books, etc. and will be financially dependent on him. What he said in response really hit home: "Honey, one of these days you'll have to realize that we're married, and that if you need something, we need it. You will need maternity clothes and we will buy them." So that's what it's like being married to a spender!

*At my $10 out-of-her-house haircut yesterday, the hairdresser was aghast that Pete's construction money is all his, whereas my volleyball/SAT money is all mine, and that we don't have a joint 100% account. She couldn't understand it, but then tried to cover it up with a "well, whatever works for you..." The haircut is pretty good-yay! $15 with tip-but man can this woman talk. Good grief.

1407 Wisteria Lane

2009-08-05T21:14:00.002-04:00

Before I start this post, I want to make one thing clear: I am not complaining.

Moving on.

For most of the summer, I have felt somewhat Desperate Housewives-ish. Easily done, since my husband is currently working his tail off, and I am staying home, watching over the domestic realm. Sure, there have been days I've been a little bored, but overall, I have relished my non-working lifestyle. I could sleep late (but don't), read, watch a bit too much NCIS (not as much lately since I have seen most of the rerun episodes as this point), run almost all of our errands, do almost all of the dishes, laundry and cleaning, as well as far more of the cooking than I normally would do, and go to the gym. An easy life. Not quite a lady-who-lunches, but there have been days spent by the pool.

But yesterday and today made me feel like my inner Lynette-Susan-Bree-Gabrielle was emerging a bit more (I do not, nor have I ever, watched the show, so I can't really comment on which character I most resemble.) Here's why:

I helped a friend buy a surprise anniversary present for her husband
I helped same friend make a decision about the drapes for her living room. With a decorator.Excuse me-a consultant. With one of those crazy fabric flippy books.
I called a decorator to inquire about redoing my windowseat covering
I bought fabric to redo our dining room chairs
I returned an unused wedding gift and was genuinely excited to get a new spatula
I made dinner, twice, and did almost all of both sets of dishes
I futzed around this morning waiting for UPS to bring back Pete's Xbox, doing things like unloading the dishwasher and wiping down various surfaces
I sent aforementioned friend/husband an anniversary gift

Basically, I have felt more Domestic Diva lately than I have perhaps in my entire life.

How do women do this always and forever? I like my current situation primarily because I know it is temporary. I am also sure that by November, I will be remembering my homemaker summer fondly while I grumble and grade (it does not help that last year I did not like my job). But even in these two months of unscheduled bliss, I don't feel fulfilled. Relaxed, yes. Helpful, yes. Productive, yes, but not fulfilled. It is a classic case of The Feminine Mystique. Now, obviously, I do not have children for whom I must care and after whom I must chase. Nor did I choose to take up a volunteer activity of any nature. (That was part of my larger plan--to have absolutely no obligations or schedule to follow.) But I can see why housewives have affairs with the mailman. (At least I keep my fantasies to TV characters...) Sheer boredom.

Sometimes I think that, if we could afford it, I would enjoy staying home with the hypothetical wee ones. Library. Park. Naps. Not having to get dressed up--ever. Maybe I would like it. This is a huge step, since I used to a) not want kids at all and b) could never imagine staying home in a million years. However, I do function better on a schedule, with deadlines and due dates and things of that nature, so if there is any "staying home" later in life, it will most likely be part-time.

Yet many women--and an increasing number of men, of course--thrive on staying home. My friends Emily and Katie couldn't see themselves leaving their children with another human to go off and work, even at something they value. My friend Erin's greatest wish is that she and her husband could afford for her to stay home because leaving her son to go to work pains her daily.

The real issue that plagues us is the unconscious, or perhaps not so much, belief that what we have chosen personally--to stay home or not--is the better way. Many women who work think they are being good role models, showing that women have a voice outside the home, that their children are being better socialized by being in daycare. Other women who stay home think that their working counterparts are missing out on joyous years, or placing value on money/work that is above the work done to raise a child. My mom (who had to work so we could eat) was pretty outwardly berated by a friend's mom throughout middle school; this woman thought she was the better parent for choosing to stay home. The fact that my mom didn't have a choice didn't seem to matter.

Of course, neither way is right for anyone, and what is right may change for a woman based on circumstances. My colleague is expecting her second child in September, and the day-to-day shuffling of having two kids in day care (a toddler and the infant) and working full time wasn't worth it, so she's taking a year off from teaching. Another colleague with two daughters has to work--even though her entire paycheck goes to daycare--because they need her health insurance.*

In this house, the children/stay home/work/day care/health insurance debate is a long ways off (much to my mother's chagrin). And my domestic goddess rein is coming to a close quickly. What have I learned? That I eat less when I'm stressed, can waste hours watching TV, and really, really, like taking one shower a day after I've gone to the gym, among other things.

Long live summer.

*Being a teacher complicates the situation--we leave our kids with other people to spend time with...other people's children. (Not that I advocate home schooling, mind you.) But it's not quite the same as leaving them to be in Congress or work on Wall Street or star in movies.

All I really need to know...I learned in step aerobics

2009-07-28T11:21:00.002-04:00

Remember the book "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten"? It's a nice testimonial about the real lessons in life and how the world would be better with a nap and chocolate chip cookies every day at 2 (Amen to that!). I had the poster in my college dorm, actually. With my back problem in check (mostly) thanks to the best doctor on the entire planet, I have resumed my new love for step aerobics and/or body bar weight classes. During which I can't help but reflect on the educational applications of what I am doing.

Don't scoff. There are many pedagogical issues that arise during 55 minutes of step aerobics that can easily translate to the traditional classroom. The fact that I spend more time in step aerobics than my students do in English/math/science on a given day, well, that's a different story.

There will always be "that kid" who comments loudly, shouts out of turn, etc. In step aerobics, it's this black dude. Constantly whooping, mostly for self encouragement, I would guess. Yesterday though, he was counting down "eight, seven, six..." and he was a beat off and it was annoying. In class, it can be any kid, though I must say is normally a boy.

There will always be cliques.

Even if there are not assigned seats, people tend to gravitate toward the same locale each time. For step, I like third row, over to the left. For actual grad class, I like second row, close to center. Kids often get territorial over "their" seat, even when they aren't assigned.

People will always come in late and talk during class, often ignoring what is going on. Last week, these two women chatted for most of the class, and the teacher was giving them "the look" that I give my kids hoping they will shut up.

No matter how much a teacher tries, there will be some people who just don't get it. Is it bad that I was sort of, well, not happy exactly, but glad maybe? that these two high school totally cool girls could not get the routine last night? Yeah, that's bad. Or at least petty.

Some people need modifications: fewer risers, more risers, the option not to do jumping jacks (me). Some people will always do the extra or harder technique/lesson, some people will choose to take the normal or "easier" route.This might change daily. Last night, I was in "regular" step, (not advanced as usual) and did not do a single "option" to make the routine harder, even though they weren't actually difficult for me skill wise. It was one of my first times back, and I was trying to keep it medium impact instead of high impact, just because I'm still testing out my spine. I was also being quite conscious of my posture and abs, and therefore was exerting more energy doing that.

Warming up and cooling down help. As does the occasional if not frequent words of encouragement from the teacher "And go! Go! Beautiful! And step! step! good job!" I swear, they must chant this stuff in their sleep.

Female and male teachers are different. Today at BodyBar, it was a (yes, hot) male teacher for a class full of women. Last week, it was the regular teacher, a female, with many of the same students. Quite a different feel.

Even the pedagogy of teaching a step routine is grounded in sound practice. Ok, you have the full routine that, by the end of class, you will get the students to know. It gets taught in small pieces, then larger pieces, continually adding on in bite-size segments. The buzz word for this is called "backwards design." If the teacher taught the entire routine in one fell swoop, very few people would remember the beginning portion by the time the end came up. But with small chunks and mass reptition, we all got it by the end. (Could I do it today? Probably not, so it's not something fully ingrained in my memory. But, if we did the same routine tomorrow, my muscles and brain would remember quickly.)

Even the seemingly impossible is doable if broken down properly. I did 100 push ups today. In descending sets of 12, 11, 10, 9, etc. with mini breaks in between and then 2 sets of 10 at the end, mainly because our hot teacher got us jazzed about the idea of doing 100 push ups. Is it the same as doing 100 at once? Absolutely not, but for me, that would never happen. 100 is a 100.

Regardless of the lessons learned on the pedagogy forefront, I am glad that I am not in pain today and am no longer confined to the damn elliptical.

In your dreams

2009-07-11T10:21:00.002-04:00

I had a sex dream last night.

About a TV character.

Not the actor himself, the character.

Um, obsess much?

Before I told Pete this, I asked him "Um...can I tell you something without you getting mad?" "Sure," he says. "I had a sex dream about McGee." He just laughed, and laughed, and made sure it was ok that he tells other people this story. Sure, why not.

I have a new found obsession with NCIS. I don't know how I missed 6 seasons of this show, but I am doing my best to catch up. I DVR every episode on all the syndication channels and have been generally watching a couple (ok, sometimes more than a couple) a day.

I like crime dramas. Law and Order SVU has long been a favorite, and Criminal Minds is a new one, even though I'm not "as" into it as SVU and NCIS. CSI and the other Law and Orders, not as much.

I have to like the people solving the crimes to really get into it. Olivia, Elliot, Munsch and Finn on SVU have a great chemistry and their back story-how this affects my job issues are interesting and believable. I am not super familiar with the characters on Criminal Minds yet, but the long haired total nerd guy is my favorite, with Garcia, the tech-lady second.

Pete was surprised to hear that McGee (played by Sean Murray) is, apparently, my favorite on NCIS. He thought it would be Jethro Gibbs, the tough talking, suffering on the inside, everyone wants his approval silver fox (played by People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive 1986, Mark Harmon). Nah. He's hot for an older guy, but I like him in more of a dad way. Tony DiNozzo (played by Michael Weatherly, of Dark Angel fame) is the goofy, self-absorbed, commitment-phobic hot one, who, despite being a total pain in the ass, is deeply loyal when all is said and done. No way, not my type. I mean, he's hot, but I like the tech-nerd, MIT-grad, published mystery writer, doughy, low man on the totem pole, Tim McGee. (I also like Ziva David, and Abby Sciuto, but, well, I tend to have sex dreams about men.)

But, again I stress, that my dream was about his character, not the actor himself, like one might lust after Brad or George or Matt or Ben or Shia or Zach or insert name here hot actor (or actress.) And this is why being married to an actor would be almost as difficult as being married to an athlete. Sean Murray spends almost all of his time pretending to be Tim McGee. That is weird. I can see how co-stars end up falling for each other and why Hollywood romances are so notoriously terrible/short, etc. At some point, the line must get blurry and boundaries crossed.

As predicted, NCIS Summer of 09 is mimicking the Gilmore Girls Summer of 03 and I have gotten too involved with a TV show, to the point where I miss the characters as people. Sigh. Once school starts, I'll only be able to record the new episodes, so...

Oh honey, it's just a game

2009-07-08T08:34:00.002-04:00

Last night, we're watching Baseball Tonight and all its glory. Of course, this show focuses on highlights of all the four million baseball games that are played each day. One of the moments involved this particular player (who? no idea) about to catch a ball way in the outfield. Of course, he drops it, and the hitter got to one base or another.

I always feel bad for these guys, because this silly, embarassing error is televised over and over. Pete and Piro argue that this is his job, and a) he should be better than that and b) it's going to be on TV. I still feel bad for him.

On Sunday, my heart broke for Andy Roddick, and I actually had a spontaneous tear when he lost. And all I did was watch him for about an hour, with only a vague understanding of the rules of his game, rooting for him primarily because he was the underdog, American and absolutely gorgeous.

For this reason, I don't think I could be married to a professional athlete. I mean, what did Brooklyn Decker (Andy's wife) do when he lost?

Sure, Pete has come home on several occasions having lost a softball game, or maybe not having played golf as well as he would've wanted, or not beating Piro in ping-pong, and I have to "console" him. His ego is a little bruised, perhaps, or he's angry with himself for that error or something, but the next day, or even later that night, he's over it--watching TV, drinking a beer, conquering the world on his computer game. And I can say, "Oh, honey..it's just a game."

Somehow I doubt that Andy Roddick, or Kurt Warner after the Super Bowl, or insert-name-here-ad-nauseum, relaxed about his or her particular loss that quickly. And obviously, the regular season is what gets a team to the big, final game, so that's a football game every Sunday for the fall, or a whole crapload of baseball games from April to October, or hockey from like September til June. But their wives (or, obviously, a female athlete's husband/boyfriend) cannot say "Oh honey, it's just a game." Because it's their job. And their love/passion/reason for breathing. And their teammates/coaches/managers/owners/fans are counting on them.

Money aside (that I would not mind...) I just don't think I could do it. The pressure, the obvious importance of quality of play, the publicity, his job being a sport. I assume you get used to it. And the big, celebratory moments are probably worth it (Heidi Hamels and Jennifer Utley had a good fall...). And, I suppose, you generally know what you're getting into, since you met the person at some point in his athletic career. I'm a moderate fan of sports--though I don't really like pro-basketball--but to "have" to be a HUGE fan? I don't know.

As a sidebar: we had a conversation the other day regarding Shaq. He just got traded to the Cavs, to "get the King a ring," and was all over TV. My question: HOW DOES ANYONE HAVE SEX WITH HIM? I mean, his penis is presumably the length of my forearm! Not to mention the 340 pounds lying on top of you. Yowza.

Tomayto, Tomahto

2009-07-05T10:11:00.002-04:00

It is not surprising that various regions have dialects. The ever popular "pop" versus "soda" debate can have people arguing for hours. Hoagies versus heroes versus subs can, too. Mere pronunciations of words can vary within a 30 mile radius--South Philadelphians, for example, only give one syllable to towel ("towl") and crayon ("cran") yet make "you" plural ("yous guys"). The number of syllables in the word "interesting" can also vary--some give it 2 ("intresting") and others 3--and near the end of school, some colleagues and I got into a little debate over the overt "a-o" portion of mayonnaise ("man-aise" versus "may-oh-naise"). To me, this is fascinating because I like words.

I also like games, and it is also fascinating that, depending on where you are from, the rules can change. It can be quite frustrating--and it happened, yet again, last night.

In high school, my group of girl friends (quite frankly, the best ever) spent quite a bit of time playing drinking games. We mainly did this during long weekends house-sitting for a friend's Aunt and Uncle while they took their camper and/or kids and/or dogs off for a change of pace and scenery. (Why they let a 16 year old invite friends to watch their house is beyond me, although we were relatively responsible about it. Except for that whole underage drinking part.) Anyway, we would arrive on a Thursday and stay until Sunday, entertaining ourselves by sleeping in, lounging by the pool, ordering dinner, playing cards and getting into the hot tub. The house was protected, we got a little "staycation" out of it, life was good.

Some of my fondest memories of that hideous time period (not a fan of high school, remember?) are from these long girls weekends. Our card game of choice was Asshole, and our "tournaments" were legendary. My GaGa taught me tons of card games (she and her friends were a cigarette smoking, booze swilling, card playing bunch) but to date, Asshole might be the only one where I can jump right in, not needing a refresher on strategy, rules, etc. I love it, and I must admit, I am quite good (rivaled only by the girls from high school and perhaps AD).

Except my friends and I apparently play by different rules.

This came up a couple of times during college, when, in an attempt to pre-game, we might play a couple of rounds before heading down to our frat house of choice. I used to bicker and argue about it, but eventually realized that I was in the minority and relinquished my control freak ways and just played by the "wrong" rules instead.

This ugly head reared itself last night at a barbeque. While our male counterparts were playing Wing Ding on the lawn, the ladies decided to play Asshole. One girl out of the 5 had never played (WHAT?) so we took a round slow to explain the rules, purpose, and some strategy (you don't want to give away all of your secrets!). Once again, there was a slight variation in the ways we play. This particular group indeed allowed "jump ins" (if someone plays double 9s, and it's not your turn but you have the other 2, you can "jump in") which is the rule most hotly contested by my college friends. Another "Hudson Only" rule is that 2s clear, but 4s do, too, with a social. This was not acceptable last night, as 4s only called for a social. I was taught another variation as well: as you call "last card" apparently you are supposed to hold it up (assuming it is a 2 or a 4) and the other player who is the quickest can grab it out of your hand. That is weird--even if it's a practical non-entity, why would you want to add a card to your hand when the sole purpose of the game is to get rid of all your cards? *

We only played about 3 rounds before we were interrupted by the boys, who then headed down into the basement to play beer pong (another game whose rules may vary) and the ladies sat around talking lady things (boys, babies, weddings, engagements, etc.) We play half heartedly, too, since we didn't change our seating order after each game, didn't exchange best-worst cards, and most certainly did not make the Asshole perform all inherent functions of the role. My high school friends and I would've eaten them for breakfast.

How is it that the rules of games can vary so much? Is it that drinking games are sort of "off the record" and don't come with a Milton Bradley box and rules sheet? The rules of Poker are the same in Atlantic City as they are in Vegas, right? Bridge is Bridge in Maine or Arizona. Do all frat brothers and other drinking afficianados abide by the same rules for Golf, Quarters, Circle of Death, and Drunk Driver, or will there be differences?

Now there's a Ph.D thesis waiting: The Regional Variations of Drinking Games.

*According to this site, none of us is right, as fours are only mentioned as starting the round, and threes can take on almost any cards' identity if necessary. Who gave this person the job?

Real life Samson and Delilah

2009-06-30T15:21:00.007-04:00

Ok, so I haven't slain a lion with my bare hands, but almost every time I get my hair cut, I feel like Samson, betrayed by Delilah. Clearly, I do not get my physical strength from my hair, but I do get a lot (not all) of my physical self esteem strength from my hair. And, once again, it has been chopped off, leaving me emotionally vulnerable, like our Biblical friend was once his hair--and subsequently, God's oath of protection--was gone.

Everyone has that thing, that physical piece of them, that can make her feel better or worse about how she looks. Many men, of course, find themselves wishing for a bigger penis, or wishing they were taller, or perhaps had bigger pecs or biceps or some other feature that our culture has deemed necessary for utmost masculine accomplishments. To compensate, sports cars, Hair Club for Men, and accumulating power (Napolean Complex, anyone?) are unconscious--or not so--ways that men make themselves feel better about their perceived, um, shortcomings.

Women do this too, of course. Almost every woman I know has something that, as my dear friend once said, can make her self-esteem go from "here" (hand way up) to "here" (hand way down) in a matter of seconds. This particular friend is at the mercy of her skin. These days, you can hardly tell because she's treating it, and with or without this skin trouble, she is gorgeous, inside and out. Petite, long, thick hair, a stylish dresser, a D2 athlete, #3 in her class, accomplished singer, the list goes on (yes, I am a wee jealous of her sometimes...) but the second her skin breaks out, WHAM! All confidence gone. For others it is weight, thigh size, breast size (put me in that box, too), teeth, the need for glasses, dark arm hair, freckles, weird feet.

For me it is mostly my hair. If I get what I consider a bad haircut, I feel ugly (not that I feel anything resembling "hot" or "gorgeous" even with a good hair cut, mind you).

This most likely stems from my childhood hair abuse.

As a single parent who worked the 7a-3p shift as a nurse, one of my mother's main goals in my earlier years was to ensure that our mornings went smoothly, so that neither of us was getting up any earlier than we already had to. Some of this schedule has benefited me in my current life: I generally pick out my outfit the night before, and almost always make lunch then, too. However, another important piece was grooming--and at 5, 6, 7 years old, when kids would rather roll in mud than bathe, this lovely task falls to the parent. And it involves all aspects of hair care, from washing to brushing to "styling." In order to make these aforementioned processes simpler, my mother simply kept my hair short. Very short. So short that in second grade, I got cast as a boy in a play at a playhouse that is a Broadway feeder. Needless to say, when you're 8, you don't think about voice range, Mary Martin as Peter Pan, the general non-interest of 8 year old boys to audition for musical theater. You think "Oh my word, someone thinks I look like a boy. That means I don't look like a girl and will forever be ugly and undesireable, even if at this specific moment I think that boys have cooties."

The minute I was released from my mother's hair care regime, I grew my hair out as a sort of protest. It ended up being long, about elbow length at it's longest, and for some defying of physics reason, it actually got curlier. I had cascading ringlets and some pretty heavy duty bangs. Of course, although the hair itself was quite pretty (well, not the bangs) it certainly wasn't flattering and as a pseudo-hippy, I refused to do much to it except wash/condition with Bath and Body Works Country Apple scent. No products, no blow dry. Once my friend straightened it, and I looked nothing like myself. As my mom says, "you have the personality for curly hair." Whatever that means.

In college, I cut it shorter and shorter, again in protest (this time for a boyfriend who liked my hair long). The shortest was this horribly unflattering "pixie" cut, that, once again, without the use of styling products, looked dumb. Eventually, it grew out to chin length, maybe almost shoulder length, and I kept it there, or a little shorter, since then.

Until now. Now I have triangle head too short bob. A friend's mom once told me that boys like girls with long hair. Great.

It is a good shape, and I do like what she did with the bangs/front, but it is too short and hopefully will grow out without too much trouble. Until then, file me in the I don't feel pretty category.

Sigh.

A jar of honey for a month

2009-06-29T08:29:00.007-04:00

Or something. Is it even a honeymoon if you've been married for 7 months prior to leaving? Sure, why not. Though I can see why people find this appealing right after the wedding, I can also see why people wait. Since I was the primary planner for both events, that would've been too much planning for even me, lover of plans.

We just returned from Costa Rica. A wonderful time was had by all. Our time was split between an eco-friendly cabin bed-and-breakfast near a volcano in central CR, and a formerly all-inclusive Hilton resort on the Pacific. Each had its perks, each had its problems.

Our adventures included hiking a volcano, taking a boat tour through a rainforest, watching lava, swimming in natural hot springs, zipping down steel cables millions of miles in the air for a canopy tour, shaking hands with a monkey at a wildlife refuge, snorkeling and getting a massage. Some of these were terrifying, some difficult, some relaxing. All fun. Well, maybe not the canopy tour. I was scared out of my mind. And Pete was annoyed that the guides weren't treating him as an experience zip-line connoisseur. Harumph.

We had such a great time that it's hard to name a favorite activity. It would not be the 5 hour drive to and from each place; it might be my 7 years of Spanish getting us out of a speeding ticket (eh, he was just looking for a bribe...) Costa Rica is an interesting place: technically, I suppose, it's "third world" or "developing" and yet it has so many cultural philosophies that we as "developed" Americans--ok, or at least, many, myself included--value: over 80% of their energy comes from solar, wind and water powers. There is no army, and a 98% literacy rate. College and health care are free (their sales tax is high, at 13% however). The people were genuine and kind. Unlike in other countries where attempting to speak the native language is met with grunts and sighs of frustration (France, Israel), I was encouraged to speak Spanish as much as possible, and was dealt with patiently when I flubbed or couldn't listen fast enough to their response. Would I want to live there, not necessarily, but it was a wonderful place to visit. Pete is glad we got out when we did, though, since the President of Honduras is now seeking refuge in San Jose after an attempted coup. Yikes.

Traveling, of course, lends itself to many observations about people and life. Here is a short list of things I thought about while on our journey:

I am not sure why the Skymall exists, but there are some cool things I'd want from it if I were ever in a financial place that I had "everything."Like the chair that hangs you upside down to stretch out your spine. And cool scoop-free litterboxes.
Some people can fall asleep on the plane. Others cannot.
Some people are unpackers once they arrive at their destination. Others are not. Luckily, both Pete and I like unpacking in an attempt to feel more home-like.
There are some women who look more put together and classy for the airport/plane than I do for my job. Part of me is envious, part of me thinks it's ridiculous.
Some people dress in accordance for the temperature upon arrival, others dress for the tempurature upon departure.
I may be the more boring of the two of us when we're home, but Pete is the one who wants to "sit and read" on vacation.
When not in the presence of a TV or the internet, Pete transfers his obsession to reading. And he gets very bothered when you disturb him.
Pete felt "trapped" at the Hilton resort (we didn't have a car, all restaurants were on base, etc.) whereas I liked having everything in one place (though the food got pretty old...)
I do not like bugs. And I really do not like snakes. I think I like nature from afar, not on me. This was evidenced by my annoyance/fear of the 8 million insects flocking the light inside our cabin, using the entire window-wall as their personal tanning bed. And the cicada the size of a golf ball that landed on my shoulder during dinner one night and caused me to freak out, much to Pete's and the other patrons' amusement.

Truly, the best part of the vacation for me was the fact that, for once in a long, long time, I didn't worry. Didn't worry about money (too much...) since we had previously decided to use our tax refund for the trip and had a pretty high budget. Didn't worry about calories, fat, what I ate, how much I ate, etc. (I even drank! Though tried to stay away from cream based drinks like pina coladas) like I do the rest of the time. Didn't worry about getting exercise (the hike up the mountain is all you need for a week). I was just able to relax and enjoy myself.

Well, except on the canopy tour.

An abbreviated group of pictures can be found here:

http://picasaweb.google.com/pdiederich/Honeymoon#

Can't live with 'em...

2009-06-17T08:04:00.004-04:00

I have two "bffs" at work. This morning, one of them and I made a beeline for each other. Our sentiment? MEN ARE IDIOTS. "You go first," she said.

I don't understand how men can compartmentalize their anger and overall moodiness. Pete and I are having a situation: our basement "flooded" (ok, not like 3 feet of water flooded, but a significant amount of water came in) and the rugs, dampness, consistently rainy weather, etc. has caused Pete a lot of angst. There isn't much we can do about it, unfortunately, and the fact that we're leaving for Costa Rica Saturday doesn't help our ability to fix it.

I am trying to be helpful. I didn't discover the water, can't really carry the rugs upstairs, but I can do something. Email the Home Owner's Association member to see how the external damage can be repaired on their dime. Take pictures of the damage to prove it. Email our realtor about whether the previous owners disclosed it. Something.

Yet, any time I bring it, or the weather, up, I get snapped at. This makes things unpleasant, to say the least. HOWEVER, this morning as I am getting dressed, he was able to grope/jiggle my boob and make what I thought was a joke about lunch. But the minute I mentioned the basement, back to Pissyville.

Women are generally not like this. Or, to be less stereotypical, I am not like this. If I am moody/ grumpy, I will be entirely moody and grumpy until I am over it. I will not be moody/grumpy regarding one issue and then jokey/happy regarding another. Another difference between us right now is that when I am moody, I go out of my way to avoid Pete. When Pete is moody, I go out of my way to avoid Pete. Luckily for both of us, last night I had dinner plans without him. He was able to expend some of his angry energy climbing.

My friend's issue has to do with the perception of effort. Her boyfriend recently moved here from Florida, and they are both currently living with their parents. She went out of her way (borrowing clothes, etc.) to stay at his place last night per his request, and got annoyed that he hadn't showered. In three days. So, having gotten fewer than 3 hours of sleep the previous night, and being generally annoyed that he had promised to do so, she made a snide remark. She soon apologized for "flipping out." "Well, that's what you do," was his response.

OUCH.

This cut-to-the-jugular reply is only mitigated by her knowing that no, that is not "what she does," and she is not a flipper-outer, so it wasn't actually commentary about her personality that she will forever question.

How can guys go 3 days without showering? Pete's hygiene (ahem, general lack thereof) is something that comes up in our house, too. How can you "just not get to it?" A girl would never not shower for more than one day if her boyfriend was coming over. NEVER. Ok, perhaps someday post-birth, up all night with a nursing, colicky baby, maybe. But she'd feel bad about it.

Argh.

Anyway, as I've mentioned before, female friendships are essential. After venting to each other in the planning room, we both felt better. And I am sure we'll resolve our issues with our respective male counterparts. If not, our honeymoon won't be much fun.

No more pencils, no more books...

2009-06-16T07:54:00.004-04:00

No more students' dirty looks!

In the immortal words of Alice Cooper...School's out for the summer!

Well, that's only somewhat accurate. I am in my classroom now while I type, and must show up tomorrow as well. However, with the kids gone and my grades complete (except for two girls who have a medical incomplete at the moment and must turn in one large assignment each) I am finished. Today I have to count books and clean my room. Tomorrow is the last faculty meeting, staff picture, and end-of-the-year barbecue, which I usually plan but delegated this year. I still have to set up and break down, but at least I don't have to go to Sams' Club and shop for it. Woo!

I am more than looking forward to this summer. Last year we had about a million weddings, not to mention our own to plan/save for, and most of our weekends were taken with traveling for them. It was fun, but exhausting. This summer, between our honeymoon (more on that later) and pre-season for Volleyball, we only have 2 weekends scheduled. The entire month of July is open. I am sure as time gets closer it will be filled--the 4th of July, maybe a trip to Virginia Beach to see my friend Jennie--but it's nice knowing that unless I want to add something to the calendar, I don't have plans.

I am taking one class, which meets three evenings a week for the entire month of July, but that doesn't rattle me. We all know I like school. I am not working, which I sort of feel guilty about, since Pete does. My thoughts are that during the school year, I take on two extra jobs--coaching and SAT prep--as well as doing tons of stuff at school that I don't get paid for, so I can take the summer off. Besides--other than working at a camp, or tutoring (ok, I am entertaining the idea of tutoring...) the only other job skill set I have is being a waitress, and I can't carry a tray because of my back. There is no way my physical therapist would sign off on that, and my health/well-being is not worth $75 in tips to me.

Other than not having set plans, I am looking forward to doing a couple of things:

I need to organize and clean our two back bedrooms. Yes, I am excited about this. They are a mess.
I want to finish my children's stories and try to get them published.
I want to work on my novel.
I plan to read books I want to read by the pool--either at the gym or Jess's complex.
I have a newfound obsession with step aerobics and want to go to classes as much as possible at the gym.
I plan on taking several days to sit on the couch, with Morris and snacks, watching the older seasons of Criminal Minds on DVD*

With summer approaching, it is nice to know that my house will be mostly clean most of the time, I will be well rested and generally more pleasant to be around. I might even make dinner a couple of times! Sure, there are some things that "have" to get done--reading new summer reading books, planning out some lessons for the fall since I am teaching 9th grade again and am making an effort to have a better year next year--but for two months I am free.

Anyone who wants to bitch about teachers getting "three months off during the summer" is more than welcome to challenge me to a verbal dual about what my job is like. : )

Out for summer
Out till Fall
We might not go back at all!
(ok, that's a lie...)

*The first summer I lived alone (2003), I watched EVERY episode of The Gilmore Girls that existed to catch up to the then-current season. We had one straight week of rain, and I swear I don't think I left my house. When the DVD sets were done, I actually missed them as people.

An open letter...

2009-06-10T18:43:00.003-04:00

Dear Crazy Psycho Mom,

The next time you decide to call your son's teacher and leave a screaming, tear-filled voice mail, you should take a moment, hang up the phone, and count to ten. Ask yourself: is what I am about to say logical? Based on truths? Or is it possible that I am missing part of the story? You should also think this before you leave a sobbing voice mail with you son's guidance counselor, in which you rant and rave about said teacher. You could also take a moment before writing a scathing email to the same guidance counselor, blaming said teacher for all of your son's and subsequently family's, problems.

You should take this moment and count to ten for several reasons. First, it is possible, just possible, that a teenager lied. Therefore, the information that he presented to you during the awful fight you had which resulted in him "leaving" may have been false. Or, in the event that he was telling the truth, you admit yourself that he only hears 25% of what is said to him (due to his ADD, hmm.) Lastly, before making false accusations and placing blame for the sole sake of making yourself feel better, perhaps you could get the other side of the story.

I understand that you were already a tad annoyed with me, which was evidenced by you having questioned my ability to perform my job (mainly due to my age, of course) earlier in the day, so I was an easy scapegoat. What you fail to understand--probably because it would be completely unprofessional of me to tell you--is that your son has told me, and his entire class, how much he hates you. How crazy you are; I believe the words "controlling bitch" were used once. So, because I happen to actually sort of like your kid, and know how much you drive him nuts, I neglected to mention the rather typical teenage behavior (texting in class, trips to the bathroom to rendezvous with a girlfriend) that made you so incensed yesterday.

Maybe you want to take a moment of self reflection before accusing me of being the reason your son moved out of the house. This is the second child you've had major issues with (drugs, behavior, etc.) and maybe it's not my fault. Try counseling.

Yours truly,
The Teacher Accused of Ruining your Life

PS: thanks for your apology email. You'll understand if I don't respond.

Glory Days

2009-06-03T20:06:00.004-04:00

As a high school teacher, I sometimes feel like I never left the place--in the metaphorical sense, anyway. For reasons unknown, I am privy to lots of gossip and rumors--maybe my kids think I'm hip and cool and want to know (they are wrong--kinda) or, just as I am sure we all did in our younger, more naive years, it is possible that teenagers have no concept that others can hear their conversations even while in the same room. So, I tend to hear about who broke up, who cheated with whom, the fight at the party, etc. I usually just store this in the part of my brain that doesn't need much using, and go on my way. Part of the job.

So, because I am still sort of in the high school mindset, I also get kind of excited when the yearbook comes out. It is an absolutely gorgeous creation. Award winning. Like everyone, of course I like looking at the pictures of me. This year there are four: standard faculty shot, "most of the most," next to my response about hobbies (baking while listening to NPR) and my volleyball team picture. After I seek out my own pictures, I like to look at the senior most of the mosts, mainly to check to see what my favorite kids got voted, if anything.

Why it took me so long I don't know, but this year I finally realized that this section of the yearbook in particular glorifies negative, deviant behavior. Categories like life of the party, most likely to get out of trouble, most likely to be in detention, late to class, and class clown put those behaviors on a pedestal. Some of the others are superficial and shallow: best eyes, best smile, best dressed, etc. Sure, a couple of them are traits one should be proud of: friendliest, most likely to win a Nobel prize, smartest. In 20 or so years when my kid is a senior in high school and I sneak a peak at his yearbook, I hope he doesn't get voted "class partier" or something (if he does, I'm blaming Pete) especially if that denotation comes at a total surprise, as I am sure it does to some poor, unsuspecting parents.

(Sidebar: while flipping through the yearbook, some of my junior boys were looking over my shoulder. When we got to "life of the party" they pointed and remarked in near unison "Poop Girl!" I now have the face to the name of the girl who, earlier in the fall, got so wasted she crapped herself at a party. Her parents must be proud.)

Of course, hardly any of this matters in the years to come. Sure, I can remember some of who- won-what in my senior year: Jennie was friendliest, Claire was most likely to succeed, I was most uniquely dressed (I erred on the side of grunge-hippie, while everyone else was sporting sort of a grunge-preppy look. It was the 90s after all--we loved our flannel shirts) and my nemesis, Jaime Sandagato won the equivalent of class troublemaker or something. But, as a VH1 show would ask, "where are they now?" Jennie is a self-proclaimed misanthrope (ok, ok, she really just hates stupid people, not all people); Claire doesn't love the fact that she's single with health issues, I no longer rock the Birkenstocks and Phish tees (I would in a heartbeat though, to be honest!) and Jaime? Well, she's a cokehead who waitresses at a 1-star Chinese restaurant. Or so I hear.

Yet, at the time, things like choosing your senior quote (yes, I still remember mine) seems like the most important task on Earth. Couples dating in the fall profess their love on the pages, thereby immortalizing each other--even though they have probably broken up by the time the yearbook comes out (much like the kid who I caught drunk at Homecoming and who later threatened me*--he found out after Homecoming that his girlfriend, who he claims he will love forever right next to his senior picture, had been banging some other guy.) It was almost guaranteed that the two voted "class couple" would break up before graduation, and the like.

You couldn't pay me enough to go back to high school.

*This lovely young man threatened yet another teacher--another woman, but this one could probably beat him up-- and is spending his final day as a senior at home, suspended. Though I am normally a pacifist, I hope that during his first weekend of college he hits on some big frat boy's girlfriend and gets the crap beat out of him.

Memory, all alone in the moonlight...

2009-05-31T16:40:00.006-04:00

They say that memory is the first thing to go. Well, if that's the case, I am screwed.

Yesterday after my workout, I walked over to the specific phone used to login to my health insurance "we will pay you for working out" hotline. I dialed the number. I entered my user ID number. And I entered my pin. Or at least I thought.

Nothin' doin. I tried again. Nope. For the life of me, I could not remember my four digit pin. Or, I suppose, it's possible I had forgotten my user ID. Either way, I forgot one of them. I have been logging into this system for three years now? And poof, the information was no where to be found in my "pea sized brain" as my mother would call it. I stood there, staring at the phone, running through the numbers in my head, fake dialing (hoping my muscle memory would kick in) and still nothing.

I walked out to the parking lot mad at myself, which only helped me not remember where I had parked my car. This is something I do quite often, especially at places I go frequently like the gym or the grocery store.

So later last evening, while sitting around enjoying a post dinner cannoli and watching the Magic-Cavs game with friends, I told the story of how I had seen a famous player for the Magic up close when I was in Israel and I went to a Maccabbees v. Magic game in Tel Aviv. Matt, my sports-addicted friend, inquired about the player's name. I thought, and I thought. And nothing. Had no idea.

Matt rattled off practically every member of the Magic in history, highlighting the more famous players. Nope. In at attempt to jog my memory, I Googled things like "Orlando Magic 1999" hoping that a roster would remind me. Nope. Nothing. Finally, I typed in "famous basketball players 1999" and voila--there he was.

The problem? This player--Alonzo Mourning--had played for the Miami Heat, not Orlando Magic. I thought this what an innocent enough mistake, but was informed "that's like getting the Eagles and the Steeler's confused." Touche.

So, not even 30 for two months, and I've lost my mind. Is it due to stress? Maybe, though one would think that post-workout with those endorphins surging and relaxing on a lovely Saturday evening wouldn't induce memory-loss stress. Hormones? I doubt it. Like many women, I do get a little nutty/clumsy around my period, but that is at least a week off.* Lord help me someday if I'm prego. My brilliant friend Meredith totally lost it when she was pregnant. She told me once "I have two brain cells. And one is reserved for remembering where I parked my car."

*I read about a website in Maxim that helps a guy track the menstrual cycle of his wife/girlfriend. The name is quite awful, as is the premise (to avoid her), but honestly it's not a bad idea.

Pure venting

2009-05-27T14:30:00.002-04:00

I do not want to make this an outlet for my pent up anger with my job or my students, but today I can't hold it in. Today, I really hate my students.

I had a student go to the bathroom during 7th period today. For 25 minutes. Now, don't get me wrong, when I have to go, I have to go, and I enjoy a good poop like the next person. However, I had an informant check out the lav, and he was not there. When he came back in to the classroom, he was aghast at the idea that I could possibly see something a little shifty in the situation.

Yesterday, I had a kid ask to go to bathroom during 4th. He came back within a reasonable time limit, but then I got an email from a colleague who had encountered him at the cafeteria, not the bathroom. When I confronted him about this, he said that he hadn't lied, he had gone to the bathroom, and "didn't actually get anything to eat" so I shouldn't be mad about the cafeteria. Um, really?

I had a girl lie to me about why she was so late to class yesterday, stating that she had been with another teacher. I emailed that teacher, and she had not. Idiots!

After reading part of Act 3 of The Crucible (the part where Giles Corey won't give up his informant's name; he sort of stands for the journalists during The Red Scare who were calling McCarthy and others out on their crap and then refusing to give up their sources), I had a student tell me that the world would be better off without journalists because "they dig too deep and get people in trouble." Um...sure, we could get into a "liberal media elite" versus "Fox News" type of debate about the nature of the media, but no journalism at all? Is he crazy? It is a journalist's job to dig deep to reveal the truth (and the the "liberal" and "conservative" sources are the ones who muck it up.)

Also, though this is too long winded to discuss here due to all of the situations that occur in The Crucible, it is disgusting to me how the "no snitch" philosophy has pervaded our culture. These days, telling the truth (even if it involves hurting a friend or gang member) has become the evil, instead of the illegal activity in the first place. Don't get me wrong, I would not happily testify against a friend (and am legally pardoned from having to testify against Pete) but if I were on the stand, under oath, I would tell the truth. Would I actively seek out the cops to give this information, no. But if I had a friend who raped a woman, molested a child, embezzled company money or murdered a store owner, and I knew it, I would come forward. I know that I've said in the past that I have friends that I would "help bury a body," but I am quite certain it would never come to that. Anyway, my students can empathize with the peer pressure put on Mary Warren to do the right thing in the play, and some said they wouldn't do it. Sad.

Then of course, there is the student who did not turn in a 15 point assignment, and of course it's because I lost it. I am not saying I've never lost anything, but this kid is a notorious liar, habitual non-doer of work, and I am sure just didn't turn it in. Especially because I already handed that back, and he doesn't have it. Of course, as with all things in school, it is my fault.

Lastly, in all of the workshops English teachers go to, we are instructed in various strategies that will assist students with their reading comprehension. One such strategy is called "visualization," or, quite frankly, the ability to picture what is happening in the story as you read it. This might be the reason why "the movie of the book" is never as good as the book itself: because in your mind, you pictured it one way, imagining what a character looks like, or whatever, and then the movie makes concrete this image, and it might not match up. Anyway, I swear that my students cannot visualize. I understand that high schoolers are perhaps less abstract in their thinking, and therefore have difficulty with symbolism, etc. but the ability to read something, and picture it in your head is a skill that develops as you learn to read. It's called "an imagination." Sadly, kids of this generation have had so much technological stuff shoved at them from birth that reading and developing an imagination (like, playing outside with sticks and pretending you're a pirate) have been lost. Not to mention the instant-gratification nature of it all. I fully understand that my mom probably thought the same thing about me and my friends. And I think there is going to be a backlash when "we all" start having children* because it makes us all mad that kids are so overstructured, and have no plain old kid time to be outside and just play, and don't read, and etc. Remember all the times you've said "I didn't read one book in high school?" Yeah, that's my job you ruined.

Anyway, I hate my job today and thought you all should know why.

*I am also fighting either a cold or allergies and have a snarfy nose, sore throat, etc. so I got no work done this morning (or now...) and instead read a blog for an hour. It's the blog of a daddy-to-be. She was due last weekend, actually, but as of the 22nd (the last posting) has not delivered.

Is ignorance bliss?

2009-05-25T18:57:00.005-04:00

A while back I came across a study that found that there are two types of curiosity. There is one type, which needs to experience new things (skydiving, new sexual partners, weird food) and the other is the type that wants to learn about new things, generally by reading, interacting with people, etc. Pete is the first kind. I am the second kind.

It is partly because of this curiosity, or desire to learn, that I read a lot. Of course, I enjoy a good story with interesting characters, but for many reasons, I have enjoyed non-fiction a lot more lately. (This may also have to do with my job. Because I spend my professional life talking about symbolism and theme and indirect characterization and the like, when I read for myself, I don't want to get bogged down in that stuff.) Anyway, everyone who knows me at all knows I subscribe to several magazines, ranging from the yuppie "Real Simple" to "Time" to "Self." Additionally, I read memoirs and what I call high interest non fiction. It is this genre that is getting me in trouble lately.*

Earlier this year I read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. Known for her nature-inspired fiction, this memoir is of the famous author, her husband, and their two children moving from Arizona to a family farm/land in West Virginia with one goal in mind: to live, for one year, eating only things they grew themselves or could get from a farmer within 10 miles. Each family member could pick one thing that didn't fit the bill (the husband picked coffee, the youngest daughter some form of candy, the other daughter dried fruit/nuts and Barbara picked spices to cook with.) Anyway, they all worked the land, raised chickens and turkeys, bought any fruits or veggies they couldn't or didn't want to raise themselves from the local farmer's market, and grew, harvested, canned, etc. everything else themselves. Interspersed with chapters about their antics of making their own cheese or slaughtering their chickens, Barbara, her husband and the older daughter included commentary about our current food supply system and how it's broken.

It changed the way I eat.

Then, as part of a weird seminar course I'm teaching, I read Paul Roberts' The End of Food. Although not nearly as interesting as the aforementioned, it, too, details how the food manufacturing, supply, marketing, basically the entire shebang of the way we buy our food and where it's from is all terrible and based on things that have zero to do with growing actual food, or eating actual food. This only made the "what I will/will not eat" situation more complicated.

Yesterday, while lounging around with my friend Jennie, I started Overtreated. Far better written than The End of Food, this author argues that, due to myriad causes and reasons, Americans are being far too medical-ized, whether it's procedures we don't need, drugs we don't need, hospital stays that are too long or unnecessary (or a result of the F-ing up of the tests and drugs) etc. and the end result (other than potential death in the worst case) is that all of us who pay taxes and use private health insurance, are paying for all of this extraneous stuff.

Now, I must admit, I have always been a little leery of doctors and the overall health care system. I was raised by a nurse who also feels this way. That's akin to a teacher (um, me) being skeptical of the public school system (um, I am.) I am not implying that all doctors are greedy; however, in a system that rewards doctors financially for treating as many patients as possible and doing particular procedures (ultrasounds come to mind), I wonder. I have a friend who is convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that her grandmother's hospital stay is precisely what killed her (Overtreated would agree.) So, having read most of this book, now I am also even more skeptical of doctors, specialists, hospitals, etc.

So, is ignorance bliss? Should I quit this persistent biblio habit? Is my information making me cynical? Or crazy? Or am I better informed and now able to make better decisions about the things that matter to me and someday my family (my ob-gyn better NOT try to give me extraneous ultrasounds, I'll say that. S/he will get shot down.) Pete is probably pretty sick of all of this, because it affects him in ways that he does not want to be affected (I've stopped eating non grass-fed beef, much to his steak loving chagrin.) I try not to preach, but with some of it (and my innate personality...) I can't help it sometimes.

I have another "food" text in the wings (The Omnivore's Dilemma--a gift from my mom) and another "health" book waiting for me as well (Sick). Lord help me once I'm prego and reading all of those books...

*Another semi insidious reason I read some of this stuff, I admit, is so that I have fodder to throw back in my crazy conservative brother-in-law's face the next time he spouts off about how government (especially one run by Democrats) is getting this wrong and that wrong.

Read it before you see it

2009-05-17T19:23:00.003-04:00

I believe strongly in reading the book before seeing the movie. I realize not everyone feels this way for a variety of reasons. My students, the instant-gratification seekers that they are, don't see the point in spending 9 or so hours reading when one could spend 2 watching. What they have not realized (and hopefully will someday), is that the book is always better. I cannot think of one instance in which this was not true. And I proved myself correct again today.

My friends Jess and Miranda wanted to see "Angels and Demons" on Friday night. I (nicely) refused, due to the aforementioned "read it before" rule. Jess gave me the book, and I assured her that I would be ready to see the movie Sunday. I was right. It took me a little over 7 hours to read the whole thing. I've always been a fast reader, especially when the book is so plot oriented and exciting. Morris and I had a lovely little Saturday.

So today the three of us went to the movies. At 11:40 am, which I have never done. I can't believe that a matinee costs $8.50 around here. We used to go at night for $5. Anyway, I digress. Miranda had only read part of the book, and Jess had read it quite a while ago, so clearly, the story was freshest in my mind. Although as a movie it was better than "The DaVinci Code," they still butchered the plot.

I won't go into the details here, in case the 5 of you who read this blog want to read it and/or see it without me ruining the ending for you. But it was hardly just the ending that they altered significantly. Now, I am not an idiot. I understand that not every detail of a book can be incorporated easily into a movie because of time constraints. I get that, I really do. It does not bother me, for example that the whole BBC film crew aspect of the plot was eliminated. It was a little superfluous to begin with, and losing that piece did not destroy the authenticity of the plot. I even think that the movie improved upon the helicopter scene at the end, because they way they did it was far more realistic. However, that is where my compliments stop in terms of the recreation of the story (the acting was quite good--the lead female was better than DaVinci's, Tom Hanks was even better this time, the supporting cast was goodt, the music was good, the camera work was good and captured the essence of the panic and fear, etc.)

My point here is that, as a movie in and of itself, it was good. Better than the previous Dan Brown and Ron Howard cooperative, which you can't help but compare it against. But as a movie-of-a-book, it was awful.

This is the second time this has happened recently. "The Soloist," starring Robert Downey, Jr. and Jamie Foxx, was also a movie-of-a-book. And not a work of fiction, either, a memoir. A true story. And still, Hollywood felt it necessary to change pieces of the story. Was I bawling by the end of both? Yes. Was it the best they could do in terms of recreating the story? Doubtful.

Jess (and I think, Miranda) has decreed that she will stop going to movies based on books with me. Which is sad, because Jess might be my favorite movie date--she gets coupons, we both sneak food in, and we both talk through the whole thing. Today, I even graduated to smacking my fist on my head and threatening to kill Ron Howard.

Maybe I should stop reading the book first? No way. Because to me, the joy of the discovery of what happens is the essence of reading for pleasure. And to either not read it, or read it after the movie has come out, steals that joy. Maybe I should stop seeing the movie of the book? Again, I disagree. Because, generally speaking, it's the good books that get turned into movies, anyway, so I want to see them. And I do enjoy seeing what the director has done to turn it from page to screen--even if I am cursing the director from my seat.

So, if Jess holds fast to her decree, I will be seeing "Julie and Julia" alone this summer, and "Water for Elephants" alone next spring. If they ruin that plot, I don't know what I'll do.

Oprah says live your best life

2009-05-14T20:13:00.005-04:00

In speech class we've been watching/listening to/reading commencement speeches lately because the final assessment for the class is the "inspirational" speech. Bono, Oprah, JK Rowling, Baz Luhrmann (wear sunscreen--remember that?), Jon Stewart, Steve Jobs, etc. We also watched the late Dr. Randy Pausch's "Last Lecture," which he delivered assuming he had no more than 6 months to live (it ended up being more like 11, but the final 5 were rumored to be quite awful).

So, there's been lots of "follow your dreams" and "define your own success" and "dream big" and "I didn't graduate college, look how successful I am!" and "follow your heart" and the like. Bono talked about how this generation can save Africa from "stupid poverty." JK Rowling highlighted the importance of both failure and imagination. Steve Jobs talked about how doing what you want/love can be far more productive than doing what you think you're supposed to do. Etc. After each, especially the "Last Lecture" I felt imspired, motivated, and convinced that my ridiculous grad school in Illinois plan is right on the money.

And then.

One of my least favorite, yet insurmountable, personality traits is my undeniable pragmatism. In high school I dreamt of a nomadic, hippy life style. I carried this through college, and even afterward, living on an air mattress for 6 months while I bummed around Southern California. Yet, whether due to age, finances, or whatever, in the past few years I have become a big fan of being settled, having a schedule, being frugal, etc. I am a notable planner, generally don't spend money on frivolous things for myself, clip coupons, am hailed in my circle of friends for being arguably boringly responsible. I can't help it. I know that I tend not to live in the here-and-now and am always worrying about the next step. I even have a practical job.

It is precisely this that scares me from that whole follow your dreams bit. Am I living my ideal life? No. Will I be if I continue with my current vocation? Probably not, unless something drastically changes. But hauling myself and/or my husband off to Illinois to pursue more education (didn't I just pay UPenn a ton of money for the degree I have now?) leaving friends and family behind for two years or so is just so...unpractical.

We all have our visions about our idyllic future life. Mine involves a house somewhere that feels rural but is actually in a lovely, liberal, funky kind of town, sending my kids (one son, one daughter) to Montessori and Waldorf schools, having a job that gives me the freedom of money and time to be a happy, involved parent, filling our house and backyard with animals (I want a goat, dammit) and then retiring to a cottage near the beach to read and do old lady yoga and host grandchildren until I die peacefully in my sleep. Some problems with this: private school is expensive, that plot of land probably does not exist, and my husband hates the beach.* Oh well.

When I think about the fact that most likely I will work until I'm in my mid-sixties, which is more than thirty years from now, I shudder at the idea of not doing what I truly love, whatever that is (maybe I'll hate the results of the Illinois plan, too.) To help alleviate some of my recent job stress, my mother in law gave me advice that her friend bestowed upon her years ago: work is rote; it's the rest of your life where the creativity and "interesting" comes in. I am not sure I am comfortable with that notion.

As graduation season continues (did you hear? ASU won't be giving Obama an honorary doctorate; and Notre Dame is in a tizzy about having him) more celebrities will be giving soon-to-be-in-the-real-world graduates advice about living their best lives. Hopefully it is solid, hopefully they listen, and I will try to do the same.

*Though morbid, statistically Pete is likely to pass away before I do. Jennie and I are prepared to be the old biddies drinking on the porch Golden Girls style. RIP Bea Arthur.

Lil' bit of this, lil' bit of that

2009-05-04T15:46:00.003-04:00

At a friend's marriage celebration this weekend (not a wedding--smart choice!) I was "instructed" to update my blog. My response was that I feel like lately I have nothing but complaints, so I don't want to infuse the internet with more negativity. This is not entirely true, of course (the complaints, not the nature of the internet), and it has been a while, so I will use the easy way out and create some sort of comprehensive bullet list of the goings-on and thoughts that I've had lately.

I was physically threatened by a student. A 6'4" big football guy screaming in my face with a red face, clenched fists and towering, aggressive posture. Now he is trying to drop my class, despite only having 3.5 weeks left. I am arguing against this, even though it would make my life easier to have him gone.
Since this has not been a great year, I have been entertaining a full time graduate program. In Illinois. This would involve one of the following: selling a house too early, renting it out, getting my husband a roommate and/or living apart for the better part of 2 years.
This weekend I went to the aforementioned marriage celebration (in DC) and a baby shower (in NJ). My friend is due June 6th, but is "fully engaged" and will probably "pop" early. She is having a boy, is totally huge (as one would expect at 8 months) and looks great.Not only that, she is excited about going through labor, as it's something she's never experience before. Good for her, since it scares me to death.
Despite being very anti-baby/having kids for quite some time, after a big dinner time debate in which my husband firmly told me that not having kids was not an option, I've actually had baby fever. I read "Fit Pregnancy" magazine while drinking a chai latte the other day. I figure, hey, I read wedding magazines for a year before I got engaged, what's the difference? Though I am kind of more "into" the idea of being pregnant than actually having a baby. They freak me out.
I've also verbalized why that whole notion scares me (other than the complete and utter responsibility for another human): I am a control freak, really, really, want a boy (at least for #1) and have no control over that one bit. Is that pathetic? It's pathetic.
PS: No, I'm not pregnant, nor trying to be. Just ok with the idea for once.
I have been going to physical therapy. I have a) tendinosis of the hip b) lumbar segmental instability c) a pronated foot d) all of the above. Ding Ding! The first 25 minutes involves electro-stim (which feels like little zaps; not painful) while lying on a heated blanket and taking a nap. Then I wake up and get a 10 minute lumbar massage to jiggle the connective tissue. Then I do these weird exercises.
I stayed at probably the nicest hotel I've ever been to this weekend. 50% discount courtesy of my ex-boyfriend's current girlfriend (via another friend.) The room (great bath products, and a bathrobe!), valet parking and room service (two of us had to leave at 7:30 the next morning. We figured that warranted room service) all came to $85. It was lovely. Thanks Heather!
The rain is getting really old. I like it when it's 88 out.
Only 33 or so days left of school. Bless the Lord.

That's kind of all that's "going on." Hopefully that wasn't too negative for anyone.

Oh-does anyone know a book publisher or agent? I wrote my third children's story.

I'm too old for this...stuff

2009-04-08T16:38:00.003-04:00

Well, it's official. I am part of the "Dirty Thirty" club. The big 3-0 came with little fanfare or freakout. Lots of emails and phone calls, a massage for myself. Kitty was here, so she "took me shopping" (it consisted of a single purchase of one cardigan, which I have subsequently exchanged) and the three of us went out to dinner to what be my new favorite restaurant. I bought myself a couple of new things (I also have since returned some of it...ah, shopping guilt...) and Pete and I went out to dinner together on our way home from the outlets. The restaurant, Texas Roadhouse, was more of a "him" pick, but we go to Lancaster at best 4 times a year, so it was ok with me. Luckily, he did not surreptitiously inform our server that it was indeed my special day. Apparently they make you sit on a saddle and wear a cactus hat.

At a surprise party (that went hilariously awry prior to the honoree's arrival) this weekend, friends and I discussed the notion that any public celebration of one's birthday ceases after 30, and is only celebrated at the 10 year milestones henceforth. Family only affairs for the next nine years it is! This is fine with me. As the cast of "How I Met Your Mother" pontificated two weeks ago, there are some things that one becomes too old to do. Ted calls this "The Murtaugh List" after Danny Glover's character in Lethal Weapon who frequently points out that he is "too old for this shit."

Ted's list includes crashing on a futon at a friend's apartment instead of paying for a hotel room, going to a rave, hanging posters without frames, piercing your ear, pulling an all nighter, eating a whole pizza in one sitting, helping a friend move in exchange for pizza and/or beer, doing laundry at your mother's house, and leaving an annoying two-person outgoing answering machine message.

I concur, with the possible exception of sleeping for free on a friend's futon and helping a friend move. Who has an answering machine these days (other than my technologically impaired mother)? And "all nighters" probably don't include those that accompany the arrival of a baby. Rumor has it, you don't get a lot of sleep with an infant in the house. Hooray, that sounds fun.

In contrast, Barney had a list of things that signify you are officially old. They include yelling at neighborhood kids, taking forever to answer the phone, eating dinner early, and putting on reading glasses. So far, I am safe.

Interestingly, at this very friend's party, a group of us agreed that starting a party around 10 pm is also something we're all too old for. I mean, the birthday boy didn't arrive until after my bed time!

Pete and I often joke that our 22 year old selves are SO angry with our 30 year old selves. It is true. We go to bed when we used to go out, we turn down sex which EVERY 22 year old claims s/he will not do when they are married, we compute our gas mileage, buy high fiber and low sodium, and are generally responsible adults (Some of us more than others.)

In The Great Gatsby, Nick Carraway, the narrator, turns thirty in chapter seven. He notes that "before me stretched a portent menacing road of a new decade" and later tells Jordan Baker that he's thirty, which means he's "five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor." Basically, it's time to grow up if you haven't already.

So, on that note, Happy Birthday to Me!

Each day as your last

2009-04-02T19:37:00.003-04:00

While taking my post-workout shower, I heard the new Nickelback song. (I admit, I sort of like Nickelback. Not enough to go to a concert or buy their music, but enough that I don't want to jump in front of a train if a song is on the radio. I even sing along to"Photograph" and think that someday I'll use it as a creative writing assignment.) This new song is all about the best advice he got from his friend about living each day as if it were his last.

I think this is a load of crap.

Perhaps I am cynical (I have been accused as such...) but if we all, honestly, lived each day as if it were our last, the world would be in chaos. Perhaps this cliche is more about being present in the moment--enjoying whatever it is you're doing right now. And now. You get the idea. And that is valid and a nice goal. Savor each bite of dinner, whether it's a gourmet filet mignon, or a bucket of KFC. Listen, really listen, to what someone is saying to you. Let your dog sniff at every tree if he wants, instead of rushing him to pee so you can go back inside. All of this sounds lovely.

But, if all of us truly lived as though at midnight we might evaporate and/or die or something, it would not be pretty. Talk about the stock market crashing! The world would not survive this way, because generally speaking, hedonism doesn't get much done. And, if we were all scheduled to die on the same day, the world would just be ending, so none of it would really matter. Unless we were absolutely certain that today (and not tomorrow, or Sunday, or next month...) were actually our last day, this philosophy would not pan out. Especially if we got any sort of notice! If I found out my exact date of death (ugh, creepy. And no, I wouldn't want to know) and let's say, it's, oh, June. Guess what: I am going to work for one more day, mainly to pick up my stuff and say goodbye to some people I know and love. I quit. Mortgage, schmortgage (well, it would make Pete's credit bad if we were late, but you know what I mean.) And so on. So basically, this Nickelback lyric works only if you have notice that you have truly 24 hours left, and you are the only one being notified that day. Unlikely.

But, with this lofty thought in mind, what would you do if it were your last day (assuming perfect health, etc.) Hmm. Just one day? For starters, I would eat. I would eat everything that I love and often don't have, or feel guilty if I have too much of: cheesecake, spinach artichoke dip, pasta with loads of cheese on it, Nacho Cheese Doritos (we have some in the house--bad news). I would go outside. Have sex with Pete. Pretty normal, every day stuff, I guess. I bet there would be crying--is that part of Nickelback's plan? That we're all just walking around sobbing? Doubtful.

Ideally I guess I would fly to South Africa and go on a quick safari, but that's the problem with this situation because that is close to impossible. Nickelback probably means that I shouldn't wait until I am almost dead to go on a safari, but, well, today isn't my last day to live (knock knock knock) so I wouldn't do that now, because I would have to pay for the trip later, which I wouldn't be worried about if I were about to evaporate. Same thing with food, as dumb as that sounds. Sure, I could (really, really easily) go eat a whole bag of Doritos today. And if it were my last day alive, I would. But if I went around acting as though every day were my last day, then I would be eating a lot of Doritos (and donuts, and...) and not going to the gym, because who the hell wants to go to the gym on their last day on Earth? I like yoga, but not that much.

See the flaws here?

But appreciating each moment is surely something we, I, should try to do more. For me, Spring is a natural mood booster, and I can emerge from the depths of winter hell and enjoy things again. But, while "seizing each moment" is a lovely notion for some, I hope that there are more tomorrows, more Springs and that my last day isn't quite ready to drop in on me.

Let me tell you though: starting at age 80, maybe 75, I am eating a piece of cheesecake a day.

I've got all my sistas with me...

2009-03-30T19:50:00.005-04:00

On last week's episode of one of my favorite shows, 30 Rock, Tina Fey's lead character, Liz Lemon, found out that her good friend, Jenna, had slept with her ex-boyfriend. In Liz's house. In Liz's bed. Determined not to let this loser (and really, he totally is) have any sort of negative impact on their friendship, Liz and Jenna made a pact to inform him how truly insignificant he is. They gave each other a fist-bump in the name of sisterhood. Well, then Liz neglected to tell Jenna she wasn't fully strapped into a harness for a sketch* and then Jenna outed Liz's old sex line commercial, but I digress.

No doubt, this "sisterhood" exists among female friends. There are a few, very special people for whom I would jump in front of a train, fly across the country on a moment's notice, help bury a dead body, etc. I would not do this for every one of my female friends, but there are a few girls who I consider part of my soul that meet this category. By contrast, there is only one male. Big guess who that is, and quite frankly, I'd probably make him explain precisely why it is I need to do all of the above, whereas the girls, well, they can explain after the fact when we're in our pjs eating junk.

But does this sisterhood exist among females in general? I think it should. For example, on our way "out" this weekend, it was established that Pete had to vouch for one of the guys we were meeting (a friend of a friend of a friend) should his girlfriend inquire about a particular evening several months prior. Although I had never met this girl in my life (and still haven't; we weren't introduced) I was decidedly uncomfortable with the notion that I was somehow complicit in the knowledge that her boyfriend had cheated on her (that was very clearly the implication). I am not ok with this. It didn't come up, thankfully, or I might've created a scene.

I would want to be informed if this had happened to me--many girls make pacts of this very nature, that we would always tell our friends if we had information regarding a wandering schlong--and not go the rest of the relationship--no matter how long--being the only one who wasn't in on that little fact. That is insulting and humiliating. And, although a male could just as easily pass along this juicy tidbit of information, I wouldn't expect him to, but I would expect a girl to tell me, just like a girl should tell me if I look fat in an outfit, have lipstick on my teeth, am a sloppy drunk, etc. In short, my female friends, and by extension, all females, have an obligation to each other.

I'm not trying to get all "Ya Ya Sisterhood of the Traveling Pantsuits" on you. I just believe in the power, importance, and sacred nature of female friendships. This is not to say that our penis wielding, beer drinking, sports obsessed counterparts have friendships that are inferior, just wildly different in their motivations, manifestations, codes and conduct.

I came across this quote in my BoBo magazine last month, cut it out, and sent it to a girlfriend, congratulating her on her new job.

"What I expect from my male friends is that they are polite and clean. What I expect from my female friends is unconditional love, the ability to finish my sentences for me when I am sobbing, a complete and total willingness to pour their hearts out to me, and the ability to tell me why the meat thermometer isn't supposed to touch the bone." --Anna Quindlen

Pretty much sums it up.

*This totally reminded me of our high school's production of Peter Pan, and how one "star" was flown through the air via harness-and-cable hired by some outfit called Flying by Foy. I admit that I have giggled the few times they sort of let her crash into the side curtains. Sound anti-"sisterhood"? Well, high school girls don't know any better. They'll learn.

I wish, that, I knew what I know now...

2009-03-23T11:36:00.006-04:00

when I was younger.

What would you do differently? I don't mean the little things, but how would your life be different if you did it all over again? I've been thinking about this lately, mostly as a result of job dissatisfaction. If I had known that teaching English would turn out the way it has, how could I have prepared for doing something else that I at least claim I would enjoy?

Here are some things I would change, if I could:

maybe go to private school like my (jerk) step-dad wanted me to. My high school sucked. and I don't mean socially/personally--though that did, too--I mean academically. A consistent rank of 63/65 of the area schools? Hmm. Not so hot.
probably go to a different college for undergrad. UPitt has a great Children's Lit program, West Chester has a great health ed program, maybe somewhere for journalism...
(do not confuse these with wanting to change my friends from both high school and college. They are some--most--of my favorite people on Earth.)
Not go to UPenn for grad school--it wasn't worth the money, though it was a quick program. Florida has a cool grad program I'd like to investigate, as does Pitt
Maybe a place that has a hospitality program? I dream of running an inn...
Traveling more, doing a teach English abroad thing, something...

I now find myself qualified to do one thing, and one thing only, and that one thing is something I no longer enjoy. I realize that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts and that if I hadn't done the things I did, I wouldn't be who I am, and blah blah.

To quote Cher: If I could turn back time...

I also might not have bought a house. Pete informs me (every time I mention this) that I was the one who was more pro buying a house than he was because I hate moving. Which I do. I am bad at it, and do not enjoy it. However, had we not bought our house, we could be more free to move somewhere else. I'd love a warmer climate, a slower, not-so-suburban/middle class pace, water.

Also, if we didn't own this house (and rented instead) money wouldn't be quite the issue as it is at the moment. Don't get me wrong: in this economy, I am glad I have a job, period, especially one that pays well and that I am practically guaranteed for life* provided I don't do anything stupid. But, if we didn't have our relatively huge mortgage payment, I could take another job that I interviewed for that pays less. Alas, I cannot.

I am trying really hard not to wallow in regret and self pity. I am actually in quite a good mood today, and was yesterday, too (I went shopping again.) I am trying to be proactive in changing my life, instead of just being upset about it. Dr. Phil would be proud.

*I can actually retire with a full pension when I'm 50. You need 25 years in the state of PA, 15 in my district. Since I started when I was 24, that means at 49 I can be done. Of course, in between now and then I will a) take a sabbatical and b) put in some part time years working 3/5ths while the offspring are younger, but 50 sounds good for retirement. Only 20 more years!

...when you're a stranger

2009-03-13T08:42:00.003-04:00

I took the train home from the city yesterday, and overheard a conversation between two people a little behind me in the car. After listening for a bit, I decided to surreptitiously turn around to get a look at who was talking. What I saw made me smile.

The conversation was about a crossword puzzle. A man was doing it, and a woman had suggested a particular answer. She had to repeat herself several times, define the word she had suggested for the answer ("pact") and sort of had to show him exactly where he should write the letters. Knowing this, I had a preconceived notion in my mind about what kind of people each was, and I was right. The woman was older, well dressed in a college professor type of way (not super stylish and trendy, but nerdily elegant) with short greying hair, glasses, etc. The guy was scruffy, long hair, backwards dirty hat and clothes, etc.

I listened for a while and the woman continued to help him, suggesting clues, helping him spell, defining words, encouraging him to keep trying the puzzle. She was never condescending, always patient, even when he was certain that a particular answer was "Gaelic" (I think it was probably Celtic) and it didn't fit, she helped him do the cross-clues to try to figure it out. As he was getting off the train, he continued to say how much he liked them and they talked about it more. She encouraged him to keep doing them because they're good for your brain.

It was one of the nicest things I had seen/heard. Two totally different people talking, working toward a common goal. I was already kind of on a high from my interview, and this just made it even better.

What does "me" mean?

2009-03-12T09:20:00.004-04:00

I was in the mood to go Shopping last weekend. Capital "S" shopping means a trip to the King of Prussia Mall, the largest mall east of the Mississippi. Despite it's size, I still usually stick to one or two stores, but these are bigger than their counterparts at other malls, and usually offer more selection. (This mall is also very high end, lots of big couture designers, which I don't care about nor desire to afford.)

On my list of places to hit up: DSW for sneakers and little "play" fake sneakers (mine have no arch left), NY & Co, Gap, The Limited and Old Navy for spring clothes. I also went to H&M.

I came home without as much stuff as I was hoping to purchase. Like I said, I was in the mood to shop. H&M has apparently split (at least at this mall) into "punk/emo" stuff (skinny jeans, hoodies, etc.) and more business/nice/feminine like stuff. That was weird, but I liked it since it can get a little too punk for me. NY & Co didn't have as much as I was hoping, and neither did Old Navy. I didn't actually make it to Gap, and I avoided The Limited because it's a little pricey.

While at H&M (the pretty section--I don't wear graphic hoodies) I came across a dress that I kind of liked. Dark purple, tiny white polka dots, short sleeved, chiffon, little tie-belt and a ruffly neck. I obviously liked it enough to pick it up off of the rack* but once I held it up, I said "Oh, that's not me."

What does THAT mean? I was specifically referencing the ruffle, but the dress as a whole was not "me." But who is to say that it's not me, except me? If I bought it, and wore it, wouldn't it be "me"? Or would I look like some cartoon version of myself? I didn't buy it, mainly because the cut was a little straighter than I would like, especially in the hips/thighs and in chiffon, but the idea that I thought a dress wasn't "me" made me think about it the rest of the day. Couldn't I just start embracing ruffles, embellishments, floral, prints, etc? I bought a dark teal twin set that I've worn twice now and have gotten tons of compliments on--is a 'twin set' me? I wouldn't think so, since it screams Suburban Soccer Mom or Stepford Wife, but I like it, it's comfortable, etc. This has me perplexed.

I am going shopping again this weekend. I have a bunch of coupons for various stores and am going to try a different mall. Maybe I'll be in the mood to try on that purple chiffony dress.

*I am a very tactile shopper. I touch everything. I am sure this drove my mom nuts when I was younger and had the potential to cost her money by breaking things.

It pays to be nice

2009-03-08T10:25:00.003-04:00

Last night, a bunch of friends and I went out to dinner before heading to the Banff Mountain Film Festival. This is something we started last year and will probably remain a tradition until, well, until it doesn't.

Anyway, we chose a casual place to get dinner beforehand, but, knowing we had to be out of there to get seven seats at the movie theater, I made reservations for 5:45.

We didn't get seated until 6:10.

To add insult to injury, there were lots of large, empty tables set up, seemingly for other reserved groups (after a while, we sort of started bugging the host.) Now, I've worked "in the industry" on several occasions, and, while it's probably a little bit more difficult than people think to run a restaurant, it's not rocket science. Here's a table that's reserved for another group, who isn't here yet. Here's a group who is here, whose table isn't quite ready. It doesn't take a PhD to figure out that we should get their table, and them ours. Right?

Wrong. Finally, at 6:10 we got seated, and immediately figured out what we wanted so that we could place our order with the server right when she got there. Well, that didn't happen (she looked a little busy. "In the weeds" as they say.) Finally we ordered, and our food took forever.

When it finally arrived, all conversation came to a screeching halt (as it often does when people are hungry) and we ate like we were on a mission and might never see food again. I asked for the check when the server came back to check on drinks.

And then, part way through my spinach salad, I decided to talk to the manager. We weren't even going to be able to leave together, since we decided that some would head over to the theater to get our seats while the rest of us settled up the check.

I spotted the manager and very nicely asked if I could speak with him. I very nicely told him that we had reservations, but weren't seated; didn't have time to order appetizers, were inhaling our food and not enjoying it, and, the kicker, we now didn't have time to enjoy the cake I had made Pete for his birthday.* He was very understanding and told me he would take care of things.

They took $25 off of our bill and offered to hold the cake in the fridge while we went out, so we could come back and enjoy it.

I could've gone up all in his face, bitching and moaning and demanding retribution, but no one likes a scene. I basically made it clear to him that his poor service (the host, mainly, not the server) had cost them money (no appetizers, no more drinks, etc.) He responded in kind, and everything got sorted out. We came back after the movie, went upstairs, enjoyed cake and some more drinks and it was fine.

The moral of the story is that, most of the time, it does just as much good to be nice .

The cat came back! (the very next day...)

2009-03-04T21:13:00.005-05:00

I picked up Morris today from the vet and all is well. He couldn't come home last night because he was still too loopy on the anesthesia for us to have him, so he had a sleepover. (And I slept great without him, since he was waking me up almost hourly attacking his tail.)

They amputated about 3 inches of his tail, the remainder of which is now covered in gauze/bandages. Next week we go in to change the dressing, in 2 weeks we get the stitches out. I am sure that underneath it's a rat-tail, shaved, hairless mess. Maybe the MIL will knit him a tail-sock. Ha!

My mother (from whom I inherited my cat-lady genes) sent him a card (with an orange cat on the cover--seriously, what are the chances!) and wrote him a poem. Enjoy!

Here's a whale of a tail--
I chewed mine off!
now it's gone for good
how will I wag and swish it about?
Is this due to my childhood?
My mommy and dad--they've tried so hard;
shots, that collar and such-
but with or without (my tail, that is!)
they love me just as much!

Oh, and his vet bill was so low that I actually almost fell over! His food (prescription, of course, or he stops being able to pee) costs a third of his surgery! Granted, that lasts 6 months, but still.

We are glad to have our furry friend home.

Just call me Martha

2009-03-02T10:20:00.003-05:00

I enjoy baking. I am not fantastic at it, but I'm not horrible, either. I have friends like JD and Ruth Ann, who are far better at it, and I tend to make the same things over and over again (my banana bread is quite good.) I still enjoy it, even though I don't excel, which I think is a very adult way of thinking. Put on some comfy pants and slippers, turn on NPR, and I will happily mix away.

I enjoy baking more than cooking because there is very little thought involved. Baking is more exact, whereas I believe that a good chef should be able to come up with a recipe even with limited ingredients. I would be a terrible contestant on Chopped, say, or Iron Chef. Clearly, someone has to come up with the original baking recipes, proportions, etc. but once they do, I follow them and usually it works out.

This weekend I had dinner with Tara and Andrew, friends from college who married each other. Pete was skiing and they invited me over so I could hang out with them and their 16 week old Cairn terrier puppy. OK! The menu for the evening was chicken enchiladas. Wanting to keep with the theme, I searched around the internet until I found some Mexican (style at least) desserts.

The one that caught my eye was a Margarita Cheesecake, a recipe the JD had made before and enjoyed. Making a full-sized cheesecake sounded quite daunting, having only made those little mini ones with vanilla wafers as the crust before.* I bought the required ingredients while waiting for a prescription at Target, and on Friday night, JBino came over after a school event (we went bowling! I was terrible!) and watched/helped.

I must say, my KitchenAid stand mixer certainly helps. Mixing cream cheese, even when it's super soft, has got to be one of the most annoying things one can attempt to do. Using a stand mixer, though, makes it a snap. Also, Alton Brown had given me a tip--put the sour cream in the bowl and mix it, alone, for a few seconds, to lube up the paddle so that the cream cheese doesn't stick. Great idea!

Anyway, after making the batter, assembling the water bath, going through a three stage cooling process, and decorating it with lime whipped cream, lime zest and slices of lime, it looked great. And later that evening, I found out it tasted great, too! Hoorah!

Cost of Beauty

2009-02-25T20:33:00.005-05:00

After the financial fiasco of '09, I have been trying to save money. I am still in the hole to my mom for the wedding, and am now down even more moola. However, I needed a hair cut. And a brow wax.

My mother, of course, the frugalest of the frugal, finds "salon" visits to be too indulgent. (She who recently started getting her hair "low-lighted.") A $15 brow wax? Preposterous. A $45 hair cut? Absurd. Admittedly, my brow waxes were $9 for about 3 years, though for the last two of that stint, they involved driving into Philadelphia to see my waxer, Jane. Then, she moved to a different salon, and the charges were $25. Ridiculous, I know. But she is so good. I tried another waxer once, before my friends' wedding, and broke out like nobody's business. So, with tip, I continued to pay $30. And for a while, I was getting $60 Brazilians, too. Good grief. That was a bit much to pay every month or so, so I gave those up, and when we moved, I found a new salon right near my house. I love it. The brow waxes are super good--trimming, waxing and plucking--and, to top it off, I found a great hairdresser.

I am sure that every woman out there has a haircut disaster story. These could be self-inflicted (try getting a Pixie cut with flat, fine, wavy hair that you were unwilling to use product in) or miscommunication, or just incompetence. The haircut I got 3 weeks before my wedding was TERRIBLE and I walked out of that salon crying. I called about a week later and got it corrected for a reduced cost, but still. (It being 3 weeks before the wedding probably added to the insanity. In fact, I was on my way to pick up my dress. I cried all the way to Wilmington.)

My relationship with my hair, again, like most women, is one that involves lots of scars, wounds and traumatic memories. My mother, single for most of my life, and certainly all of my childhood, kept my hair short--very short--for all of my elementary years, and many of my middle school ones. She did this for purposes of ease, so that she wouldn't have to take time out of an already early and busy morning to brush, braid, or otherwise style my little girl tresses. I resembled Little Orphan Annie, if she hadn't been so sing-songy cute and persnickety. In fact, in second grade, I got cast in a play at a very well-known and respected summer stock theatre. AS A BOY. I was to play George M. Cohan as a young child. I would've had a solo ("I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy") and had a great start to my musical theater career. Of course, when you're 8, and a girl, being told that you could play a boy is the biggest insult of your life. I turned down the part, and remember there being lots of crying.

So, as a result of my mother's control over my locks for the first 12 years of my life or so, upon being given the freedom to decide about my locks myself, I let them grown as long as they would go. I had big bangs and hair past my shoulders. For some odd, antithetical to gravity reason, the longer my hair got, the curlier it got (it usually goes the opposite way since the weight of the hair pulls down on the curls, making them straighter.) So I had a head of ringlets. My hair itself was quite pretty, I think, though my silly, high school, faux-hippy self refused to use "product" in it. Sigh.

But that hair did not make me look pretty. It's the hairstyle equivalent of wearing a pretty outfit that doesn't flatter your particular body type. So, throughout college, I cut it shorter and shorter until finally, with the break-up of my college boyfriend as the impetus, I got the aforementioned Pixie cut. It, too, was hideous. I began the painful practice of growing it out.

For the next 5 years or so, I tried out different hair styles and hair stylists. I found one woman, Jen, whose salon was within walking distance of my apartment, and whose daughter goes to Great Valley, and, in the fall of '06 I got The Greatest Haircut Of My Life. I felt absolutely gorgeous, even as it grew out. And then, after the 6-8 weeks it takes for short hair to start looking a little nutty, I went back, hoping she could replicate it. She could not. Or, more accurately, she did not.

So the cycle continued. Thinking that if $50 haircuts weren't fantastic, I could save money by going to a "chop shop" that charges $10. Oh no, my friend. I got one awful haircut, which took forever to grow out nicely, and the cycle continued.

So, despite the fact that I am in desperate need to save money these days (yeah, yeah, not what the economy needs...) I will spend $45 plus tip on a haircut, since I know that Jen, my stylist, knows what she's doing. She told me today that she keeps notes on her clients, and we discovered today that perhaps using the razor around my ears will lighten up the bulk that bothers me so much. We'll see. I of course have to see what I can do with it tomorrow, without her fancy salon products and able-handed blow-dryer skills. But having spent the majority of my life feeling like an ugly duckling, I will take a chance on any possible swan that is out there.

Off with his tail!

2009-02-23T19:17:00.002-05:00

My adorable, deaf cat has to have part of his tail amputated. This has made for a fun evening.

Actually, I am ok. In the book I'm reading, one of the character's dog just died, and I teared up.* Upon the news of Morris needing surgery, I remained quite calm, actually. More calm than I did when I came home to find a kitchen chair covered in dried blood.

Of course, after my recent financial fiasco, paying for veterinary surgery is low on my list of things I want to do, but alas, most of us would do most anything for our beloved pets. So, to the vet we go to get three "knuckles" of his tail cut off. There is some sort of bump situation going on--what the bump is could be determined by autopsy, but, quite frankly, I don't care enough about the origin of his bump to pay for that as long as cutting off the bump will stop the cannibalism--and this will hopefully quell the behavior and blood. It will leave him with most of his tail--no stump--but I think all of the cute white fur at the end will be gone and his tail will be all orange now.

On our way out of the exam room, we met an English Mastiff. I stopped dead in my tracks and said "holy crap, that's the biggest dog I've ever seen." My friend, JD, met two Irish Wolfhounds last week and said they were big. This thing came up to my hip, easily, had a huge, drool-y head, and was only a puppy. Good grief. Upon seeing Morris in his crate, his owners mentioned that they have an orange cat at home and the Mastiff "bathes" it by licking it all the time. What a sight that must be.

*Any time there is any sort of animal anything in a book, I cry. ASPCA commercials? Cry. I could never be a vet, though I think I would like working with animals, just not in a vet setting.

Vindicated, and it feels so good...

2009-02-16T19:49:00.004-05:00

Lev Grossman, the "Nerd World" columnist for Time magazine has vindicated me.

In his article "Facebook is for Old People" (2/23/09), he argues the 10 reasons "why Facebook is for old fogies." Reason #10: "We (old people) are not cool, and we don't care." He goes on to say that once, being on Facebook was cool, but that time has passed, and "[a]t this point, it's way cooler not to be on Facebook" (94).

YES!

I have always been slow to trends. I blame this on my mother. We had a record player until I was 10, at which point we got a single cassette player. I got a single CD player for my 16th birthday, at least 3 years after they became mass market items. My mom still doesn't have cable (and had to get one of those digital converter boxes for her rabbit-eared TV), nor does she have the Internet. It took me far longer than most to get a cell phone, and as my Verizon plan kept getting renewed every two years, it also took me a while to get onto the text messaging bandwagon. I am now very much on that wagon, though I still text old school style, tapping out the numbers instead of having a QUERTY keyboard. I barely use my iPod (a Hanukkah present from Pete 2 years ago) and...I DO NOT FACEBOOK.

First, it disgusts me that "Facebook" is a verb. I realize that "Google" is also a verb, though it was once solely a proper noun. My husband and most of my friends are on Facebook, as are most of my students, and many of their parents. These the people I mainly want to avoid; however, this is not the only reason I do not Facebook.

I don't want to share the same thing (which sometimes amounts to everything) with the same people. This is not to say I keep secrets, per se, but I tell some people some things, and other people other things. There are a few who hear it all (Pete and JD are, quite frankly, the only two that come to mind...) but I want control over who hears what.

Also, I do not want to be "friends" with people I graduated high school with and haven't spoken to since. I do know that you can turn that feature off, or decline requests or whatever, but then I would just feel guilty and/or snobby. Which, perhaps I am.

Lastly, the poking, status updating, commenting on comments, tagging, etc. are just not my style. The pictures I enjoy, yes. I wish somebody wanted to know "25 things about me." But the whole obsessive, immediacy, let's annotate every moment of my life part of it: blech. For example: I got married in November. People who are close to me know this, and my closest friends were invited to the ceremony and reception. Afterward, many of my wedding photos were posted on various Facebook pages, and the 'tagging' extravaganza began. Well--what if I didn't WANT the world to see my wedding pictures? Too bad for me, I guess, because they are up there.*

I also resent those who assume that everyone is on Facebook, and thus choose to not utilize any other form of communication. One friend wouldn't email me pictures of herself "with child" because they are on Facebook (she did, however, Pix message me her ultrasound.) Another friend changed his relationship status to "engaged" several months back, and didn't pass along this information in another medium.

I have also never seen any of the Star Wars movies, original, pre-quel or otherwise. And at this point, it's a point of pride. Just like not being on Facebook.

*I don't care that people put up my wedding photos. But it's the principle of the thing. If I did care, it wouldn't matter anyway, because they've already been posted.

Call me a fuddy duddy, but dammit, Lev Grossman made my day.

Ah, guilt

2009-02-16T19:19:00.005-05:00

I tried to go to the gym today. Pete went climbing, so I donned my workout apparel, filled my water bottle, got in my car and went. I checked in. I called the 1-800 number that lets me keep track of my attendance for my health insurance so I can get $150 back at the end of the year. I found an elliptical with a TV that was free, climbed on and began a workout intended to be 30 minutes long. After about, oh, 4, I got off. I half-heartedly walked over to the weights area, only to take a lap looking at the machines and turn around and go home.

And I feel guilty.

Let's not forget that I am technically still fighting a kidney infection, and only today recovered from a chest cold that prevented me from breathing through my nose and that gave me horrid coughing fits that left me worn out. I slept most of Saturday. When I wasn't at work on Thursday and Friday, I was asleep.

But I can't go tomorrow because of the SAT prep class I teach, so the gym will have to wait until Wednesday. I still feel guilty.

I wasn't raised Catholic or Jewish, the two cultures most stereotypically associated with guilt, but I feel guilty about so many things, it kinda freaks me out sometimes. Here is a list of some things that I feel guilty about.

Not going to the gym. But you knew that.
Paying $90 for the gym, period.
Paying $90 for the gym, and not going. Double guilt.
Eating junk food
Eating meat that isn't free range, local or organic
Eating fruits and veggies that were flown in from Chile, California or another far off location, thus burning tons of fossil fuel and probably rewarding mass-producing farms
Leaving Morris alone for too long
Watching TV when I could be reading
Shopping, dining or otherwise frequenting chains instead of a mom-and-pop
Not going to religious services
Not liking my job when so many people are out of one
Not being heartbroken if Pete and I don't have sex
Having the Pill kill my sex drive
Having spent SO much money on our wedding (and relatively, it wasn't even that much.)
Having temporarily dropped out of grad school. My mom is disappointed.
Not being able to adopt every animal in the shelter
Not giving more money to WHYY, my local NPR station, even though I listen every day
Not going to a wedding that I could easily go to. I just kinda don't want to go
Getting $45 haircuts, $15 eye brow waxes and the occasional $12 manicure
Not drinking because I generally think it makes me a little un-fun, and I did drink when I started dating Pete, so now I feel like I duped him (I'm pretty boring.)
Subscribing to so many magazines, even though I love them, because they create so much glossy paper waste.
Walking past the homeless or otherwise poverty-stricken and not offering assistance because of the stereotype that any money would be spent on liquor or drugs
Not having bought a Prius

And the list goes on.

How do I alleviate this guilt? No idea. Pete, who is generally ruled by his id instead of his superego like I am, tells me I'm ridiculous, and I try to agree. But I am still plagued with guilt for the above, and probably many more things. Many of these things I continue to do, so one might argue that I don't feel that guilty, otherwise I would stop. And perhaps that's true.

Anyway, I guess I've dealt with tonight's bout of guilt. I came home, ate some leftover stir-fry and am now snuggling with Morris. But, if I know me, which I do, something else will cause me guilt tomorrow.

Great.

Happy Valentine's Day, Honey! See you later!

2009-02-14T20:56:00.004-05:00

Neither one of us find Valentine's Day especially important. This is good, since we're not together.

Cupid's arrow shot me right in the kidney. Both kidneys I assume. For this reason, and the chest cold that accompanied this kidney problem, I am home alone. Well, I have the cat.

Funny how now that I'm married I sound more like a crazy cat lady, no?

Pete is out with two of his single guy friends at a bar called Fuji something-or-other for Single's Awareness Day. His friends Janae and her sister Colleen, perpetually single (though I don't know why--they are both pretty, smart, interesting, employed...), always rent out the top of this Chinese restaurant for karaoke and cocktails for their single friends. A great idea. I was going to go, prior to the Kidney Incident of '09, and the rule is that if couples go, there can be no PDA. A fair idea.

Instead, Pete went and I am home, on the couch for the, oh, 11th hour? No...I took an hour to run an errand. So 10 hours. Morris and I are snuggling, I have my water with a straw (easier for drinking while lying down) and I've been watching the Blue Collar tour on Comedy Central. (I like everyone except Ron White.*)

We did have dinner together, and we each got a card. Mine had kittens. His had to do with farting. And I got pretty pink and white flowers. We're going out to a fancy dinner tomorrow with a gift card I got from my volleyball girls at the end of the season. We don't have school on Monday, so a nice Sunday night dinner is nbd, really. Assuming I feel better. You have to get really dressed up! Being sick and getting all dressed up, yuck.

Some might think that, because I am lying on the couch watching guys in flannel tell redneck jokes that Pete is a bad husband. Let's be real: Valentine's Day is a racket. Restaurants jack up their prices while limiting their menu, the price of most flowers, roses especially, get sky high, and somehow marketers think that women want teddy bears in February. I do not.

Last year, Pete got me a card, and flowers I am sure, but best of all, he got me a Slanket. You can all laugh, because lately the infomerical for Slanket's lower-priced counterpart, The Snuggie, has been on constantly, poked fun at on SNL, etc. But I am telling you, it might be the greatest gift I've ever gotten, and certainly no Valentine's Day present like a bracelet or gold-dipped rose is going to top it. Seriously.

So, I hope everyone out there is enjoying their Russell Stover chocolates, or being wined-and-dined, or slipping into something more comfortable from Victoria's Secret. Other than sort of feeling like death warmed over, I am having a great night with Morris and the Slanket while Pete drinks beer with his friends in an attempt to get them both a date. Maybe he'll do his rendition of The Humpty Dance, his go to karaoke song.

Like Ella and Frank crooned, each day is Valentine's Day, right?

*I do like his bit "You can't fix stupid." It's funny 'cause it's true.

Kids do the darndest things

2009-02-13T18:26:00.003-05:00

Teenagers are such weird people.

My one class, ahead of their 6th period counterpart and having spent a week taking state tests, thoroughly enjoyed watching "A Bug's Life" that I had brought in for them as sort of a combo reward/crap I have nothing for you to do lesson plan. Don't get me wrong. I love animated movies and admit it freely. Tonight is a school dance, though, and they will act like twentysomethings dressed all slutty and grinding til the administrators break it up. Then they will complain that they're not allowed to grind, that some adult is restricting their very natural behavior.

Being a teenager does suck, I recall clearly, as you are smack dab in the middle of wanting an adult to take care of you, and wanting to be left alone, depending on the situation.

Today in Speech class, my student, Mike, gave his impromptu speech on his experience of being caught drunk at Homecoming and spending 10 days out of school. He told us that this time allowed him to reflect and decide what makes him truly happy, what he wants out of life, how to go about accomplishing his goals, etc. I am the teacher that busted Mike at Homecoming. So--does he know that, thus giving the speech on purpose in some sort of act of attrition? Or is he oblivious, and the situation is totally ironic?

Lastly, I got sick at school today. I have only thrown up twice in as long as I can remember, and both times were at work. At the start of 6th period, some students saw me walking in the hallway, looking green. I made it back to class without puking, gave them their vocab quiz, and sat in my chair, half looking around the room for cheaters, half having my head in my hands. Then I got the run-out-of-the-room feeling, and went into the hallway to hug the trashcan I had put out there earlier. As I sat in the hall, two kids opened the door to check on me, and mid-response I yakked. All of my kids heard me, of course, and I am sure moments later the entire school knew via text. Eh, at least I gave them something to talk about.

Earlier in the period, one of the two kids who checked on me was super angry that I had called home the other night about his behavior and slammed a (forced) letter of apology down on my desk. Yet he checked on me in the hallway. Once they knew I was sick, they ran back into the room, furiously searching for the right number to call the main office. One of my colleagues came by soon thereafter and took care of it, much to their relief. So they can't deal with an adult throwing up, but get mad when their parent is informed of their poor behavior.

What a middle of the road time of life. Wanting desperately to be an adult, not quite knowing how to do it. I wouldn't go back to being a teenager if you paid me a million dollars. Ok, maybe for a million if I was also allowed to bring the knowledge and wisdom of quasi adulthood with me. But not a cent less.

I'll scratch your back...

2009-02-12T18:26:00.003-05:00

If you clean the bathroom.

What?

Every couple has its own barter system. This system is primarily used for divvying up those activities which are deemed un-fun, boring, or intolerable by one member or the other. Pete really cannot stand to do the laundry. I really don't mind doing the laundry, so it's natural that I do most of it. I clean the bathrooms; he cleans the kitchen. I am certainly not the greatest cook, and while Pete is neither Emeril nor Bobby Flay, he is far better at throwing together ingredients to create a meal, so he cooks dinner. Because he cooks dinner, I do the dishes and make lunch.

This is where the equality sometimes falls by the wayside. What if Pete didn't cook because we had leftovers? Or ordered in like we are tonight? Or he had class and I had some school event, and we each got WaWa? Then what? Then, I still do the dishes and make lunch.

Pete really hates making lunch.

This was made very clear to me Tuesday night. During the winter, I teach an SAT prep class and this year it's so popular that I teach two. That does not get me home from school until 8 p.m., having worked a 12 hour day. Pete typically goes climbing on Tuesdays--thus coordinating our time out of the house--but comes home from work before going.

We like to plan out our week on Sunday before I go grocery shopping to figure out who will be home for dinner when because of SATs, climbing, grad class, etc. Therefore, we are smart enough to make a dinner on Mondays that will give us leftovers for Tuesday. Thus, Pete did not make dinner on Tuesday. And we each did our own dishes. Though he was home later than I was, his was an "optional" outing and had not kept him out of the house for the entire day. I thought that, perhaps, he should make lunch.

Pete came home from climbing and, after chatting and prying him off of Facebook, I said "Honey? Will you make lunch?" After pondering the offer for a moment, he said "How about you make lunch and I'll rub your back?"

I accepted. Because I really, really like having my back rubbed.

I am not complaining. I am not trying to use the typical (and, often, deservedly so) my-husband-doesn't-help-out-enough- around-the-house line. I merely want to point out the strange exchange system that works within my, and probably all, marriages and relationships. Mary Wollstonecraft argues in her essay A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792) that all marriages are based on an inherent barter system: that in exchange for sex, women receive housing, food, clothing, and other basic needs, since at the time, it was difficult for women to earn these things without the help of a mate.

By the way, if this were my and Pete's arrangement, I would be homeless, hungry and naked.

Can we have a sleepover? Huh? Huh? Can we?

2009-02-09T09:22:00.002-05:00

This was the weekend of sleepovers: Friday night, Saturday night, even-gasp!-Sunday night, a school night. Each very different: dinner and a movie with an out of town friend, dinner with the in laws, but Friday. Oh, Friday.

Friday brought another field trip: 15 kids to Bear Creek resort in the Poconos Mountains. We helped out a friend who was double booked with school-related events by going up Friday night and staying until Saturday. I was happy to go, I was just glad that I wasn't in charge.

The place was pretty nice: two rooms of bunk beds, two bathrooms with showers, and a small eating area upstairs, a well-equipped kitchen, large eating area, two seating areas and two bathrooms downstairs. We arrived, everyone with WaWa dinner in tow, and after picking beds, the kids headed out sledding. The adults stayed back, read, did crossword puzzles, and then yours truly fell asleep on the couch around 9:30.

Well, at some point I had to go back to my bunk, and in it I found several girls in total sleepover mode. When I walked in, they were half embarrassed about the content of their discussion, but not so much that it didn't continue after I was in my sleeping bag and able to hear. I even offered some advice. Topics included, but were not limited to:

Abnormal boobs and what to do about them
the fear of asking one's mother to go to the gyno to inspect said abnormal boobs
the moral dilemma of loaning out one's iPod and the borrower breaking it
boys in general
the cutest boys in the school specifically
their boyfriend's even more specifically
fat rolls

I offered them some advice: all boobs are abnormal, high school boyfriends are pretty useless, and that their bodies now will look amazing to them when they are, oh, almost thirty like some people I know. Maybe they took it to heart, maybe not. At least I offered.

I am glad to see that very little has changed, except for the iPods. Twelve years ago, my friends and I certainly talked about our boobs (too small, me; too big, others), the cutest boys in school, boys in general, our boyfriends in particular and being "fat." We never did this in front of a teacher (though I'm sure they heard us) but in someone's living room or basement, surrounded by junk food, soda, MTV, Seventeen, and the ubiquitous parental unit lurking around the door, or "yoo-hooing" their way up or down the stairs. These conversations about boobs and boys, gynos and fat rolls were held furtively, in hushed whispers punctuated with outbursts of uncontrollable laughter, for the precise reason that we didn't want an adult to hear us. These were special, you-could-never-understand-anyway girl conversations.

These girls either:
a) don't care that I hear--there's worse on TV, and I've heard that
b) want me to hear in that secret 'help me' kind of way
c) don't consider me an adult
d) believe that a teacher-chaperone isn't the same as a parent, so all bets are off about secrecy
e) all of the above

Clearly, the topics of girl-talk will remain the same forever. The pressures and technology might be different (MTV doesn't even play music most of the time anymore), but junk food, Seventeen and questions about boobs and boys will last.

Were those the days?

To Ms. B with love...

2009-02-05T20:14:00.005-05:00

Being a teacher is sometimes a weird profession. I spend 47 minutes a day, 180 days a year, with 17 year olds. That is 8,460 minutes. I probably don't see my husband that often-at least not during the week--and I certainly don't see my friends that much.

We're supposed to make connections with kids: the more adults a kid feels that are "on his side," the better he will do in school. Yet these connections are also weird. We're supposed to get to know them personally, but still be an authority figure. Get to know them, without them getting to know us--but still be approachable and able to connect on "their" level.

As an English teacher, I get to know my students in a way that other teachers might not, because they keep a daily journal, sometimes write essays that evince personal information, etc. (Please do not mistake this for being their favorite, or best, or more inspirational. I am not). I know their dream jobs, family problems, favorite colors, best memories. And, because I tend to be open and a "human being" in addition to their teacher, they can probably tell you a lot about me as well. Nothing inappropriate, but I have kids who know I love Jeopardy, got ditched at the senior prom* and am in love with my cat.

Which is why I was FLOORED today when I learned about my "faculty most of the most" win in the yearbook. Last year, my good friend Greg and I won "Most likely to be uber-competitive at Scrabble." This is true. I am competitive at most games, especially those that use brain over brawn. I happen to be terrible at Scrabble (it's far more visual than verbal, and this frustrates me to no end), but that's hardly the point. For our yearbook picture, Greg's super crafty wife, Ruth Ann, puffy-painted us matching t-shirts with the Scrabble letters "GV" on them, complete with point values. For our shot, we fake fought over a board. It was awesome.

This year, I won "Most likely to stay home and play video games." WHAT? Except for a couple of games of "Bond" in college (I used to end up oriented on the ceiling), and very few attempts at Wii bowling or snowboarding, I have never played video games. I hate video games. My husband loves video games, but I loathe them. I can't get past the first level of Mario Brothers, get eaten at PacMan, and employ the "mash all the keys at once" method of playing Streetfighter. I think they are mind numbing, not to mention ruining today's youth.

I consider myself pretty close with this senior class, and have no idea how enough of them picked me for this to have won it. Maybe the "stay home" part is what swayed them. They do know that I am a homebody. One student tells me, lovingly, I am sure, that I am boring. But video games? Really? My male counterpart is an out-and-proud Star Wars loving geek: not that there's anything wrong with that. But word-nerd is not the same as techy gamer. Is it?

I'll accept and have my picture taken (I admit that I do love getting my picture in the yearbook...ah, it's like I never left high school...) and I am planning on holding my laptop with the Jeopardy logo on the screen. But now I utterly question how well I know my kids, and them me.

On a related note, today's activity period for a fundraiser involved a "who's who?" faculty baby picture contest. Every kid I spoke to had picked me out as Baby #5--a super cute shot of me giggling in the bathtub. So they can pick me out at age 2, but don't know my hobbies?

*I found out today that my senior prom date is going to be a baby-daddy. Oh my.

This is the fight that never ends...

2009-02-03T14:48:00.003-05:00

It just goes on and on my friend...

My husband and I, like all couples, disagree--heatedly--from time to time. We vote for opposing political parties, which, if nothing else, would give us enough fodder to debate and argue til death do us part. However, we've had very few actual fights. We give them names afterward: The Flight to Florida, The Couch, The Audition, The Brunch (ok, that was more of a meltdown than a fight.) These could all be episodes of Seinfeld. Those were one time arguments. Sure, there will be disagreements about who fed the cat last (me!) who did the dishes last (him!) and so on, but what's more frustrating is that we also have Continual Fights.

We had one again on Saturday night.

There are two issues that we consistently fight about. It doesn't matter what those issues are, it matters that they continue to creep up. When will it end?

Some might say that I know what I married. And I do. And so does he. I have made it clear that these two things in particular bug me; he has made it clear that, despite the fact that they bug me and I get mad every time, they will continue to happen.

But shouldn't we try for them to not being Continual Fights? For example, I know that I interrupt him when we get into conversations about "hot button" issues that I am passionate about, and I know that it drives him crazy, and shuts him down. I try to work on this, and might be slowly getting better. We had a good conversation on Friday about how I misinterpret his "long pause" as a chance to speak. Apparently I married a long pauser, and now I will try harder to make sure I know the difference between a long pause and the end of a thought.

Maybe I overreact. After Issue #2 came up again on Saturday, I gave him the silent treatment and sort of rebuffed his apology. There was certainly no hotel sex. We worked it out eventually, but also slept on very opposite sides of the king bed.*

Should I stop being mad, or should he stop doing those two things (both controllable, btw) that anger me in the first place? All of the pop psychologists (Dr. Phil, Oprah and the like) would probably say that my feelings are my responsibility, and if I don't want to get mad at him, then I don't have to get mad at him: my reaction is a choice. But isn't his behavior also a choice? And isn't his behavior made worse by the fact that he knows that it will make me really upset?

Don't get me wrong: I love my doofy, goofy, sports-addicted, semi-conservative, badly-needs-a- haircut, hilarious husband, and these issues aren't deal breakers like, say, abuse or infidelity.

But when does "it's not you, it's me" turn into "no, actually, it is you"?

*It is so much easier to be mad in a king bed. They are huge and we totally want one.

He. Could. Go. All. The. Way.

2009-02-02T15:55:00.003-05:00

Ah, the Superbowl. A sporting event that brings us almost as much pre-game coverage as actual game, whose reward involves confetti and a diamond encrusted ring, as well as glory that lasts about a year, until the next team wins and the cycle repeats. Oh, and commercials that cost $100,000 per second. By the way, PespiGruber freaks me out.

Now that I understand many--certainly not all--of the rules, I enjoy watching football. Having grown up with a single mother* and no brothers, I never really "got" football, nor did I care. I didn't even know what a "down" was until graduate school, and in no way fathomed why a team would punt or how they earned a safety. Let me be clear: I still ask about a million questions per game, and my patient husband very nicely reminds me what a fair catch is, explains a touchback, and tells me why sometimes the guy will run right into a group of opposing players, even though logic would point to the contrary. (Seriously--don't they see that they can't get through?) I am still unclear about the difference between "holding' and "roughing the passer" and "pass interference" because to me they all look the same. I get "facemask" and "false start" but the nuances of the game, like running a screen play, evade me. Hail Mary: now that I get.

Despite the fact that I wore my jersey during the playoffs, Donavan, Westbrook and the rest of the "Iggles" did not fly to Tampa and instead Kurt Warner and Larry Fitzgerald took on "Big Ben" and the Steelers. In case you live under a rock, Pennsylvania brought home another win. We can also add the "longest play in Superbowl history" to the books, as some Steeler guy intercepted a pass in the Cardinals end zone and ran the entire length of the field as time ran out. Yay, more football stats.

In this region of the state, there was much contention regarding the Steelers and the Eagles. Prior to their loss to the Cardinals, many were hoping for a loss so that Phillies fans wouldn't be thrown over. Many did not want the Steelers to win so that there would not be some sort of Pennsylvanian divide (um, there already is. Around here we call it 'Pennsyltucky.') Once we did lose, some wanted the Cardinals to win, so that at least the Eagles would've lost to the eventual champion. And still others rooted for a Pennsylvania domination. And the debate reigned on.

I found myself rooting for the Cardinals. I had read a little biopic about Warner that made him endearing, even after I learned that some of it was wrong. And he is handsome. Even though I don't really care in the grand scheme of things, I felt bad for him and his family that he lost. I would've felt bad for the Steelers had they lost, but probably not as much. And now, football season (ok, ok, the Pro Bowl is next weekend, but who really cares?) is over until August--oh, excuse me, the draft comes first--when we will resume spending entire Sundays, plus Monday nights, some Thursdays, and a couple of Saturdays watching grown men grunt and smash into each other on a lined field chasing an oval ball covered in leather. And I, once again, will be a Fantasy Football widow**

*My single mother did watch the game last night, though I imagine many of the effects were lost on her since her television is 12" and comes with rabbit ears.
**Fantasy baseball season is actually worse.

One weekend with teenagers down, one to go...

2009-02-01T14:42:00.004-05:00

Whew! Survived the field trip. 54 kids, 14 hotel rooms, 4 days, 3 (exhausted) chaperones and we're all home safe. One kid left due to a dying aunt, another due to a dying grandmother; one got sick (and threw up in the bathtub-why?) but the rest of us got out relatively unscathed. There is always That Kid whose parents are half an hour late picking him up and who has to wait, awkwardly, with me until a parental unit arrives. We are back home, the cat is thrilled to see us and be free from his cone, we're watching TV and doing work. A normal Sunday.

One of the glorious aspects of this trip is that the staff of the conference itself polices the floors of the hotel from curfew (12:30) until morning. This allows the chaperones to sleep in relative peace. Additionally, since this is an academic based conference, it naturally attracts decent, well-behaved kids (unlike, say, the ski trip.) It's difficult enough to stay up past midnight in order to check them in, but at least I don't worry about the overnight sneaking out based shenanigans.

On that note: at lunch last week, other teachers and I were talking about perils of taking high school kids on a field trip. One teacher relayed the story of a neighboring school's trip to some European country. Apparently on that trip, the teacher checked the kids in at curfew, went to bed, and was awakened by a call from the hotel staff informing her that two of her female students were drunk and dancing on the bar. They were, of course, sent home. The parents of the drunk girls SUED THE SCHOOL for negligence. I don't know the result of the lawsuit, but I do know that there are no more overnight field trips allowed in that district.

I told my mom this story, and she sided with the parents! She claimed that the chaperones act as parents while on the trip, and just like any parent should be aware of the location of his children, so should the chaperone. I was aghast! I countered with the what-if-your-child-sneaks-out-of- the-house-and-gets-arrested scenario: is that arrest the parents' fault? She tried to say yes. I vehemently pointed out that, had I been stupid enough to pull a similar stunt* that in no way shape or form would she have taken any--much less all--of the responsibility for my actions. She agreed, and I believe I won the debate on whether a 17 year old should be accountable for her actions debate.

I guess our society has just gotten too litigious for its own good. A blemish on the record of a teenager is unthinkable, so let's sue them to get out of it. What is that teaching your children?

*I did help my one friend sneak in and out of her house our Junior year. It resulted in an embarrassing parent meeting, multiple groundings (no phone, TV, Internet, socializing, etc. for a very, very long time...) but we did not get arrested. And her parents didn't sue my parents.

Snow day hope!

2009-01-27T18:07:00.000-05:00

Ah, it's that time again, when children and teachers alike spend all of their excess time and energy hoping for that phone call in the early morning. The weather channel becomes our obsession; everyone stops for the local forecast on the news. The age old questions abound: will it start late enough? Will it keet up long enough? When is it supposed to be turn to rain, morning or afternoon? Are we "north and west" of the city enough to count on a late morning? Will we merely sleep in, or have the whole day off?

So far this year, we've got nothin'. Mother Nature's children must've graduated. Maybe she finally has school aged children and, like most parents want them in that special place: Out Of The House. All of the snow or otherwise debilitating precipitation has fallen in the early evening (read: finished too early) or started too late (read: already in the building and no, the lunch ladies did NOT go home...) or have been on the weekend (read: just annoying. Ok, annoying and pretty.) They are calling for another Winter Storm Watch for tonight=into-tomorrow for my area. The cute little metereologist in his famous bow tie has my hopes up.

Granted, a day off is really more like a postponement; students and teachers are legally bound to work a specific number of days (190 for me) so it's not like the day disappears. Right now we're scheduled to be done with school on Friday, June 12th (no, I am not complaining) and if we have the day off tomorrow that is one more weekend, one more Monday to endure. The seniors, of course, want as many as possible since they are done on June 12th no matter what. Lucky.

Normally, I would wish for a delay since it doesn't come equipped with that make up day at the end. However, in this particular case, my life would be made infinitely easier and more manageable with a whole day off. I gave my midterm today, and have 78 essays to grade, in addition to some projects, journals and paper rewrites I had waiting for me. Additionally, I am taking 54 students on a 4 day field trip and would love to actually enjoy myself in the hotel this time instead of grading my exams like I do every year. (My husband is chaperoning with me because my usual teacher friends couldn't make it this year. Hotel sex anyone?) And, because there are more exams tomorrow, the normal schedule would have us "free" at 11:30 to grade in peace, but with the timing of the delay, they are legally required to serve lunch, so the schedule gets all messed up and we lose our precious grading time. Oh! And the new semester starts Thursday, and I am teaching a class I have never taught before and would love an extra day or two to prepare. Did I mention I would love the day off?

There is, of course, the possibility of disappointment. The weather system, as they call it, could move away, or be weaker than anticipated by the cute man in the bow tie. We could get nothing except rain. Our alarm might go off at the usual time. The phone might not ring at an ungodly (but welcome!) hour. This is always sad.

So, do your dances, your I'm-wishing-for-a-snow-day rituals, whatever you think will be certain to bring it. Two of my girlfriends from high school SWORE that if the one was planning on sleeping at the other's house (on a school night?) we would have the day off. Whatever it is that you do to bring on the fluffy, white, unsafe-for-busses stuff, go for it!

And then, of course, break out the sled and hot cocoa! I, um, will be grading.

What not to wear?

2009-01-26T19:52:00.001-05:00

Don't get me wrong. I am certainly not a fashionista. My preferred outfit of choice is comfy pants and a long sleeved tshirt. Ok, or a tank top and a long skirt in the summer. I do not claim to be trendy (my dear friend almost fainted once when I told her I had on black capri pants and a denim jacket...) I pick comfort over style 100% of the time. I refuse to spend $500 on a handbag, $100 on jeans, or any money at all on costume jewelry pieces or anything labeled "resort" in the stores. But I read enough magazines and watch enough TV to at least understand what is style and what things to avoid.

I watch Stacy and Clinton on their show almost every time I am at the gym (it always seems to be on, no matter what time I go) and, while I am not runway material by any means, I will say that I dress better than everyone who appears on it, so I have that going for me. But I wonder what they would say to me?

I am quite sure they would tell me I am a boring dresser. This is true. I do not like prints for some reason. I generally don't wear accessories, hate heels, and, although it pains me to say it, I probably don't emphasize my relatively decent figure enough either. This is because, while on some rational level I know that my tags read "small" or "2" I just can't see myself that way.

I have chunky legs, fat knees, ugly calves, super tiny boobs, a funny, bulbous nose, and arguably the palest skin this side of an albino (my father in law calls it "butt white.") I have been diagnosed with mild body dysmorphic disorder, which doesn't help when I'm shopping. That, and it seems like most clothes are for 40 year old moms or 22 year old college coeds.

That being said, here ARE some things they would say to the kids-girls-in my high school:

Bra straps should be HIDDEN; they are not part of your outfit
Most of you need a bra, so pick ones that aren't visible even under your clothes
Uggs and mini skirts do NOT look good
Flip flops in January look stupid
If it looks like a shirt, it's not a dress
Keep your thong whale-tails to yourself and hide your panties
leggings are not pants; they go under other items.

And the list would go on. I WISH that Stacy and Clinton would come to school dances to see the fashion atrocities that go on. (And the drunken-ness. Eleven students were suspended after the dance on Friday.) Alas, the law suits that would ensue...

The time of my life?

2009-01-25T12:14:00.000-05:00

I am going to say something that will make 51% of the population angry with me.

Sometimes--most of the time--I wish we had skipped the wedding.

Do not confuse this with I wish I weren't married. That part is aok. It's the pomp and circumstance and, mostly, money, that went into the big to-do that I often regret.

I realized this, too, about 3 months into wedding planning and had a mental breakdown about it. I just feel like I got caught in the trap of "supposed to do" and never got out. $750 for a dress? $100+ a person for a meal and alcohol? $500 on flowers? Upwards of $3K on brunch? When on Earth does that make sense?

I realize that "you only get married once" (that is the plan anyway), and that friends and family want to be there to celebrate. But all of the pre-wedding anticipation of "it's going to be the best day of your life!" really fell short. Sure, it was fun to dance to music that I liked. Sure the cake was FANtastic. As the bride, I didn't get a chance to eat hors d'ouevres, which are my favorites, but I heard they were quite tasty. The evening was good, but was it the best night of my life?

We had some financial assistance from our families. I am still in the red to my mom, a thought which plagues me constantly. Friends of ours, knowing the entire fiscal burden would fall on them, had to decide between a traditional wedding reception, and a really nice honeymoon. They went to Hawaii, got married on the beach, and spent 2 weeks vacationing in paradise. They do not regret their choice one bit. I am quite jealous.

For 5 hours--plus a rehearsal the night before and brunch the morning after--was it worth my entire savings account? We haven't gone on a honeymoon yet (mainly because of our jobs) but can't really afford to, either. Traveling is one thing I wish I could do more of, but can't because I had a really big party back in November.

The bridal industry is a total trap and I got caught. Maybe others will free themselves from it, especially in our economical situation and new found trendiness of saving money instead of splurging. Break free, I say!

On that note, I have a gorgeous Demetrios wedding gown for sale, with a matching veil and shawl. Worn once. $500 for all three! What a bargain!

Houseguests? Nah...

2009-01-24T10:58:00.001-05:00

Last night, after scrubbing the first floor of the house in preparation for family dinner, the H. and I settled in for a night on the couch--TV for him, a magazine for me (I subscribe to 8. My name is Hilary and I am a magazine addict.) He called our friends Matt and Jess who live less than a mile away, and with whom he used to live before everyone dispersed to live with significant others.

So after finishing Redbook and SNL's "Presidential Bash" they arrived, in their PJs, carrying wine. The movie of choice (not MY choice...) was "Iron Man" starring Robert Downey Jr. I had no interest, and within five minutes, Jess had no interest, either. She promptly fell asleep on the couch--making no bones about the fact, either, since she got up to get a blanket. (She's a nurse and works wonky hours sometimes, so she has this great ability to fall asleep whereever, whenever.) I got our some brainless school work and graded my students' daily journals, occasionally peeking up to see Gwenyth cry out "But you'll die!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" or something lame. When the movie was over, Jess woke up, and they left.

Friendships like these are beautiful things. We didn't have to entertain them. They brought their own beverages, having uncorked the bottle at dinner. I didn't feel bad for taking up the big couch while Matt sat on the floor, and Pete, in jeans, was overdressed. We chatted at times during non-dialogue scenes, but mostly the four of us were in a room together, but alone.

This kind of friendship doesn't exist with everyone. Maybe it's the longevity (Pete and Matt have known each other since college) or maybe it's because they once lived together. Or maybe it's just that we're all low key people who don't need excitement. But this kind of comfort is a rare, this-is-something-I-am-grateful-for kind of thing.

Long live Friday nights on the couch!

No animals were harmed in making these sneakers

2009-01-19T16:46:00.000-05:00

I was once a quasi hippie. I listened to Phish, ate only vegetarian, mildly protested things like fur, animal testing and the like. I wore "Fake"nstocks, long skirts and long hair. On a dare once I didn't shave my legs for two months--in the middle of summer.

As the real world approached I became less of a hippie and more "main stream" I suppose, though I never gave up my hippie beliefs. These are what I like to call "conscientious common sense." I try not to photocopy a lot of paper for my students, thus reducing my waste. I bring reusable shopping bags to the grocery store, etc.

Today, my Earth brand shoes came in. I bought two pairs (free shipping, free returns): sneakers and sandals. The main attraction was the "negative heel technology" which claims to help your spine stay aligned (I suffer from mild to moderate back pain on a daily basis, with some knee and hip pain thrown in.) However, these shoes are also vegan certified and contain no animal product or byproduct. They were, unfortunately, made in China however.

So far, I love them. ("So far" is walking around the house.) The sandals (sort of a cloth flip flop thing) are a wee ugly, but comfy and hopefully I could last wearing these on, oh, a trip to Spain this June. The sneakers may be a bit big--both width wise and length wise--but I felt the difference immediately. Great arch support, cute, etc.

Now the question is: do I try to find a store to try on a 7 instead of a 7.5, or order the smaller pair? Or what? (On a side note: last week I also ordered, received and returned a pair of MBT 'anti-shoes' which were so hideous I knew I could never have actually worn them. They, too, claim to work with your body's natural design.)

Check them out at http://earthshare.earth.us

Sports Superstitions

2009-01-18T11:04:00.001-05:00

I consider myself a reasonable human being. But, like many, I also fall victim to sports superstitions.

In case you don't know, the Philadelphia Eagles are playing for the NFC championship today. And I MUST wear my McNabb jersey. They win when I wear it. I am not kidding. (Please collectively knock on wood.)

However, my Shane Victorino t-shirt, which I bought during the Phillies post-season, is bad luck. The first night I wore it to watch a game, they lost. I could never wear it again during a game. In fact, to show my support, I used to wear it during the DAY of a game, but then take it off for the game itself.

This seems ridiculous, I know. Clearly, my clothing makes ZERO difference in the outcome of a game. However, I am certain that I am not alone. Pre-game rituals, among fans and players alike, are ubiquitous and notorious: unwashed socks, actions in certain orders, etc.

My best wishes to the Eagles who are in sunny Arizona (lucky!) This game is being called "Destiny in the Desert" which I find a bit ludicrous, but going to the Superbowl would be an event to culminate a wonderful Philadelphia sports season. E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!

Cannibalism

2009-01-17T17:47:00.000-05:00

My cat is eating his tail. That's right. Attacking, growling at, and chomping on his own flesh and blood.

He does this more when we're not home, so during the workday, he has to wear a cone/lampshade thing (it's fabric though, not plastic) which breaks my heart. He looks, and acts, so sad. However, it does prevent the munching.

So this weekend (I'm alone, remember?) I figure--I won't be gone for more than a couple of hours at a time, max, so no cone.

Having just come home from the gym and a quick errand for new deodorant, his tail fur is matted with blood. Crap. I was going to maybe head to the movies tonight, but I'll have to put on his "hat" as we call it. Ugh. So maybe I'll stay home instead. But that is pathetic.

House to myself!

2009-01-17T15:11:00.000-05:00

My husband is away for the weekend. I am overjoyed. Colleagues keep joking that it's too soon (2 months) to be excited to be away from my husband. I disagree. We've lived together for a year and a half now, and my alone-in-the-house time has been limited. (Also-in our old place, I got a little freaked out being there at night alone because it was a single family home. In our townhouse, I feel safer and therefore sleep better.)

It's not that I don't miss him. I do. Kind of. But it's nice to have no one to be accountable to except myself. So far I have:
-eaten what I wanted to eat for dinner. Maybe tonight I'll have cereal!
-watched an artsy, character based movie that he would never watch.
-fallen asleep to the Food Network, not SportsCenter
-slept until I wanted to--diagonally, no less--without feeling pressure to get up.
-listened to NPR all day.
-run errands (including a new haircut, woohoo!) without worrying that I was supposed to be home
-had the entire couch to myself. No scrunched up legs to read with.

My students, of course, can't understand why I don't want to be around him all the time. Maybe it's my only-child loner setting in. I enjoy spending time alone. My girlfriend, who, bless her soul, is a very devoted wife, can't understand why I didn't join everyone on their annual ski trip to Killington. I do not ski. I do not like the cold. I don't really drink (the second most popular activity at these weekends). And I would rather have the house to myself, go to the gym, etc.

Does this make me a bad wife? Maybe.

Groceries

2008-07-17T20:55:00.000-04:00

I am the lone grocery shopper in my house. I don't mind this (I actually find solace in the produce aisle, but that is for another time...) but it always makes me laugh when I check out. There is a very distinct his and hers breakdown of the items. On the most recent trip I bought:
whole milk, steak, Gatorade, chips, pretzels, donuts, deli ham...

and

organic soy milk, organic baby carrots, organic cereal, NJ blueberries, nectarines, Stonyfield yogurt, wild Salmon...

Care to take a guess as to which is "his" and which is "hers"? There are even halves to our fridge shelves. Beer, whole milk and root beer on one side, all things soy, fruity and light/fat free on the other.

I can only assume that when kids play into the mix (ah, also for another time. THAT was a fun conversation last night...) the his/her/their combo gets even more convoluted. Although my "his" would probably eat more like the kids...

I am sure I am not the only one with a food divide in their fridge. Thoughts?

PS: although my blog name is "married..." I am not quite hitched yet. Less than four months though...cake tasting tomorrow!