Lolliblog

Ghana See Sarah

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 09:20:55 -0500

Today Hannah and Rachael and Sarah’s boyfriend Jeff and I are going to Ghana. I can’t wait to see this country I’ve heard so much about, but most of all, I can’t wait to hug Sarah. My plan is to not let go of her for the entire week.

Sorry, Jeff.

Moving Day

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:45:49 -0500

Yesterday Micah and I settled my father into his new apartment in a retirement community. His worn, familiar personal effects seemed out of place and shabby in his new digs, with its generically neutral cream-colored walls and beige wall-to-wall carpeting.

I was feeling anxious. As I made up my father’s bed, it occurred to me that I’d experienced this feeling before, when we brought our kids to their respective colleges for the first time. I worried for father as I had worried for them; would he make friends? Would he be happy? It’s not easy for the young and flexible to adjust to change, and my father is neither.

I heard a voice in the hallway. It was Mrs. Gilbert, my father’s next-door-neighbor. As I walked over to introduce myself, I heard her telling my father what time dinner was served in the dining hall, and to knock on her door if he had any questions.

My father walked back inside, and Mrs. Gilbert touched my arm. “Don’t you worry, we look out for each other here.” I thanked her, and she added, “Go easy on him tonight. He’s had a hard day. And don’t you worry. It gets better.” Then, she winked.

And there you have it: a senior spin on freshman orientation.

Back when Sam was in law school, we spent a weekend...

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 07:26:39 -0500

Back when Sam was in law school, we spent a weekend hiking in Yosemite. It is interesting to note that the natural splendor is upstaged by Sam’s shorts.

Fox Outted

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 11:41:54 -0500

I was reading the cover article of The New York Times Magazine- The Self-Manufacture of Megan Fox: How America’s Leading Starlet Made Herself Up for the Multi-Media Age. It’s an odd (and completely misleading) title.

According to the article, Ms. Fox impulsively, then calculatedly, spiked her popularity by generating her own possibly true, possibly false, but definitely titillating press, which I guess is the self-manufacture to which the article’s title alludes. Did Fox get it on with a female stripper named Nikita? Did she compare Michael Bay, director of the movie Transformers to Hitler? Does she have her boyfriend’s name tattooed, as she put it, “next to my pie”? At first, inquiring minds wanted to know; now, not so much. Since Fox’s bad girl provocateur persona has not cashed in at the box office, there’s been a change in strategy. What she would really like you to know is that she’s monogamous and loves the cheesy biscuits at Red Lobster.

The article ends with her expressing an unwillingness to do nude scenes. “My body parts are all I have left that are only mine. The world owns everything else.” I suppose it’s good she held on to something, but her soul or her integrity might have been better choices. Self-manufactured? Please. Like the shoreline, she’s got beauty; like Jello, deliciousness, but like both, Ms. Fox owes her existence to external forces.

Moving Right Along

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 10:07:00 -0500

I’ve been feeling old lately, which is reasonable, because technically, I am, and also because this past week, my rapidly advancing age was brought to my attention on two separate, painful occasions.

On Tuesday, I was working at the soup kitchen with some students from school. Before dinner, the manager of the kitchen informed the clients that high school students would be serving them. The first man in line smiled at me, revealing the three or four teeth he still harbored. “Boy, if you’re a student you must have stayed back a whole lot of times,” he said.

Then, yesterday, I was teaching my seventh graders about proper comma insertion when writing dates. I wrote on the board My birthday is December 15, 1909. “I look pretty good for someone who is practically 100,” I joked.

“Actually, you look like you’re around fifty,” said Allen. He paused before earnestly adding, “No offense, but you do.”

Both times I resisted a snappy comeback. I just smiled insincerely and kept doing my job. For one thing, I knew neither Homeless Guy or Allen had intentionally insulted me. They were speaking the truth, unfiltered by politeness or common sense. Also, I wasn’t quite sure how to express the feeling midway between shut up and wah.

Zitgeist

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:22:06 -0500

For nearly a week we have been living in the shadow of the pimple on Micah’s nose. This was an epic pimple, so enormous that commanded attention and possibly its own zip (zit?) code. Despite Micah’s ability to meet the situation with a mix of good-natured alarm and pragmatism, the pimple ruled our lives.

Micah brought the pimple home from school on Thursday, and even though we’d never seen anything quite like it, ever, he was optimistic that a night’s sleep would reduce its size. Alas, this was not the case, and on Friday, the pimple had somehow galvanized local blood flow and subcutaneous tissue to its side so that it seemed to be vying with Micah’s nose for spatial dominance. On the up side, for reasons unrelated to the pimple, Micah was grounded over the weekend, and as he was still hosting the pimple, he was content to lay low. The pimple used the weekend to relax and regroup, and by Sunday, had grown even larger. We went to Manhattan for Sam’s birthday dinner and Micah introduced the zit to his siblings. “I know you’re all staring at it, and I figured it’s best just to get it out in the open. Yes, I have a massive pimple on my nose, let’s talk about something else.” He was the recipient of conflicting advice from Hannah, Jake, Rachael, and Eliza- pop it, don’t pop it, dry it out, put hot water on it. When we got home Sunday night, on the advice of a friend from school, Micah put toothpaste on it, which seemed to have no effect other than making the pimple smell like mint. On Monday, things had deteriorated to the point that Sam went out at 10 p.m. for Stridex pads and peroxide, which Micah applied to his personal Mount Vesuvius every fifteen minutes.

On Tuesday, we dared to think there was some improvement, and over the course of the day, we watched the pimple deflate. Today, Wednesday, I am happy to report that Micah’s nose is almost back to normal.

As crazy as it sounds, this took a weird toll on us. For six days, the pimple became such an intense focal point that even now, in its absence, I am writing about it. The molehill may be gone, true, but that isn’t stopping me from adding to the mountain that got made of it.

Reduced

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 13:01:15 -0500

I woke up this morning with my last night’s dream still fresh in my head.

I was raking stuff into a compost heap. Even in the dream, this seemed to be taking a long time. It was also extremely boring.

I mentioned this to Sam. “That’s funny,” he said. “Just the other day, you were telling me you wanted to try composting.”

He was right, only what I meant was I wanted to compost actual organic matter that exists in the real world.

It makes me sad that my subconscious is so mundane- and so literal. If I’m thinking about environmental conservation, why can’t my dream involve flying over glaciers with Al and Tipper Gore? I hate to think my dreams have been reduced to something I could, and should, be doing in my own back yard.

Fall

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 09:29:18 -0500

Two nights ago we had our first true frost. My best friend and I bundled up and took an early morning walk around the neighborhood. As the sun rose, we found ourselves in the midst of that post-first-frost phenomenon where the trees give it up all at once. Suddenly, it’s raining leaves.

It’s a seasonal gold mine in New England, those foliage tours with busloads of people, faces and camera lenses pressed against the windows, documenting the colorful hoopla surrounding nature’s annual losing battle. Yesterday, I got to see the sudden grace of the surrender.

Here it is, my all-time favorite Sesame Street song,...

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 20:41:47 -0500

Here it is, my all-time favorite Sesame Street song, which proved it was possible to smile and cry at the same time.

House v. Home

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 06:43:27 -0500

A few days ago, we went to look at a house. The owner greeted us at the door and requested we put sanitary foot covers, the kind surgeons wear, over our shoes so we wouldn’t scuff the floors.

The house was beyond immaculate. I didn’t even see a stray dust mote. The owner led us proudly room to room, pointing out the “buttery finish” of the oil paint he’d selected for the dining room walls, and the gleaming perfection of the brass wall sconces he’d reclaimed from the basement and painstakingly polished to their original luster. Our real estate agent kept gushing that she couldn’t get over how pristine the place was.

“This house was built in the thirties, and it’s only changed hands three times,” the owner replied. “And, my wife and I are like both sets of previous owners; no dog and” -he looked over at Micah- “no offense, but no kids. Dogs and kids really do a number on a house. This place was in top condition when we bought it, and we’ve kept it that way.”

We saw the rest of the house- the carefully color-coded clothing in the closets, the strategically placed pillows on the sofas- and after thanking the owner, walked outside.

“Wow, “ I said. “That house is beautiful.”

Micah nodded. “Yeah. But you know what it could really use?”

“What?”

“A dog and some kids,” Micah said, and we got back in the car and drove home.

Buy my...BOOBIES!

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 20:16:15 -0500

Last night, Mariah Carey was a guest on Jay Leno’s show, which was only remarkable in that I can’t remember ninety-nine percent of what she said. I recall that she seemed mildly addled, and I think she was trying to promote her latest CD, movie, and fragrance, but in terms of relative importance, her sales pitch ran a distant second to her breasts.

Ms. Carey’s breasts were remarkable in their spatial mass and globularity. The dramatic tension they created as they threatened to topple the inadequate confines of her low-cut dress was almost unbearable. The truth is, Ms. Carey’s breasts did not merely upstage her; if they had not been attached to her chest wall, it would have been entirely possible for her to leave the stage without anyone even noticing.

I feel bad saying this, because Ms. Carey seemed rather sweet and surprisingly awkward. I suspect she didn’t realize that her breasts were undermining her marketing strategy. I bet she trotted those babies out front and center, like they were her best friends, not realizing that two fleshy protuberances that can’t sing or act might actually prove more interesting than she.

It’s no reflection on Ms. Carey; I sincerely doubt Meryl Streep could’ve outperformed those breasts. But my advice would be, if you want people to buy your CD, see your movie, or wear your fragrance, don’t enlist your boobs to run interference.

The Truth, for What It's Worth

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 11:59:51 -0500

Yesterday, I was in Stop and Shop. I was in a hurry so instead of going to a regular check-out lane with a cashier, I went to the self-checkout.

I’d already scanned a bunch of stuff when I figured that maybe I should put a couple of items in a bag on the shelf at the end of the counter, so the loading area didn’t get too full. I’d no sooner done this when a store clerk came over to help me bag. I thanked him and kept scanning when suddenly, I saw him make a lunging movement. He looked at me, his expression impossible to read. “Ma’m, your soda is okay, but your tomato sauce isn’t,” he announced. I looked past the end of the counter and saw a bottle of soda rolling around on the linoleum and a jumbo jar of Ragu, which had crashed to the floor and exploded into a widely splattered pool of sauce.

“Oh, man,” I said to the clerk. “How did that even happen?” He hesitated, which made me immediately think I might be to blame. After all, I hadn’t seen what actually transpired. “Did I do that?” I asked, just as the manager came over.

“Kyle!” barked the manager. “What did you do this time?”

This time? Now I knew that for Kyle, this type of event was not unprecedented, pertinent information I could really have used ten seconds earlier. I saw a look wash over Kyle’s face. Calculation? Relief? “The lady had a little accident with her sauce,” he told the supervisor. “Looks like a crime scene, doesn’t it?” he chuckled softly, at the same time furtively glancing around for witnesses.

Now I was on to him. I looked at the ledge where the sauce and the soda had been placed, which was deep and perfectly capable of holding them, but by now, Kyle had taken my moment of self-blame and was sprinting with it. Plus, Kyle wasted no time in telling everyone- the guy who came to mop up the mess, the sour People’s Bank Manager at the front of the store, the little brat who kept trying to step in the sauce- that it was my fault. Kyle, a guy whose job security rested on finding a ready and willing scapegoat, had lucked out.

I let the whole thing play out, because the story had built up a momentum that felt unstoppable but essentially harmless. After all, I had far less to lose than Kyle. I fought off the urge to expose Kyle’s deception and instead, apologized to the guy mopping up the floor. He looked up at me, and in that moment, I knew the truth: not only was I innocent, but my innocence was less important than cleaning the tomato sauce off the floor.

The Dark Side

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 12:05:46 -0400

Around ten years ago, there was scandal in our town involving the Superintendent of Schools. He was stopped under suspicion of DUI and when he stepped out of his car, he was dressed in women’s clothing. The local newspaper had a field day describing his outfit: a gold lamé blouse, ripped pantyhose, a tight black skirt, blue eyeshadow, smeared red lipstick, and a string of fake pearls. His mug shot in this outfit was released and circulated. The initial shock was swiftly followed by angry calls for him to step down from his post. At first, he didn’t want to leave, but the sentiment against him was so strong that he finally agreed on the condition he could still receive his pension and a cash settlement, citing alcoholism as a disability. Needless to say, this created an uproar in town.

The story unfolded over October and by October 31^st had climaxed into a homemade costume bonanza. Sam and I went to a Halloween party that year with over a dozen guys from the neighborhood in gold lamé blouses, blue eyeshadow, and pearls. We all thought this was marvelously clever; nasty and amusing all at once. If one could overlook how tortured this man was, and ignore his humiliation and despair, it was easy to cast him as a pathetic pariah, deserving of our collective scorn and ridicule. He was a man we trusted with our kids’ welfare, and our tax dollars! He had a wife and children of his own. What was he thinking?

It was a few years later, after he had died of health problems related to his alcoholism, that I started thinking back on that Halloween, and realized that the dark side of Halloween isn’t about goblins and witches. The dark side is what lurks beneath the callousness that inspires us to take a tormented soul and turn him into a costume party joke. He was a man, with a wife and children of his own. What were we thinking?

Shop Talk

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 11:28:00 -0400

We had an author come visit our classroom today. He writes fantasy books, a genre wildly popular with middle school students, and he was able to converse freely about trolls, wizards, and dark magic. It made me happy to see the kids so enthusiastic, but it was as if they were speaking some foreign language. I stood there, nodding politely, but utterly clueless.

Then one of my students told the visiting author that I was a writer, too. After he finished his presentation to the class, he started talking to me in Writerese, a language I hadn’t used in over a year, but it came back to me instantly, and in no time, words like “literary agent” and “royalties” were rolling off my tongue.

We’d only been talking for a couple of minutes when he left for another presentation in another classroom. I felt a fleeting impulse to grab his tweed jacket and plead, take me with you, can’t you see, I am one of you. I could taste the luxury of mornings in front of my computer, reflecting, writing, editing. But then two students came up to me and started describing their Halloween costumes and I slid back into place, my regret fading faster than the visiting author’s tweed jacket retreating down the hall. I’m not sure if this is progress, or resignation.

Kali is an ancient, multi-armed Hindu goddess of time...

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 20:42:46 -0400

Kali is an ancient, multi-armed Hindu goddess of time and change. She is also revered as Bhavatarini, or Redeemer of the Universe.

Looking at this flier, it appears that the marketing folks at Bed, Bath & Beyond were acting on an inspiration to bring Kali into the 21^st century, replacing her aforementioned powers with the ability to simultaneously operate multiple kitchen gadgets.

Karaoke

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 09:29:24 -0400

I can’t tell you the precise length of time a human being can endure karaoke, but I can tell you this: it is less than two hours. Way less. I can also tell you that the time limit is even shorter for seventh graders who aren’t on stage pretending to be Miley Cyrus. I can also tell you that if you thought the lyrics to The Thong Song were egregious and disgusting when you were singing along to it alone in your car several years ago because it was catchy, they are far worse when printed out and displayed on a massive movie screen. I can tell you that no adult should ever be asked by a twelve-year-old what, exactly, are dumps like a truck, anyway? I can also tell you that the next time someone suggests a karaoke night, I will not respond, hey, great idea, that sounds like fun.

Human

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 06:49:55 -0400

This week was pretty proud of myself. I was handling everything at school so well! I was lending a hand when asked, grading my quizzes and tests in a timely manner, operating, in general, like a well-oiled machine.

Yesterday I walked into school, feeling supremely confident I was taking on, and would continue to take on, every challenge that came my way. I taught my seniors in the library tech center, which went well; next came my free period, so I made myself a cup of tea and went to the teacher’s lounge to prepare for the next class. It wasn’t long after that that the middle school dean came looking for me because I’d totally messed up my schedule. It was Thursday, not Wednesday, and I had a roomful of impatient seventh graders waiting for me, for whom I was ten minutes late.

Just like that, the climate changed. I’d been deluding myself. I was not a good teacher, in fact, I was a crappy teacher, quite possibly the worst teacher ever. As elevated as my opinion about myself had been earlier, that’s how low it had fallen now.

A bit later, I went to study hall- which I knew I was not proctoring because I was now obsessively checking the schedule posted above my desk every few minutes-and I saw the kids were there unsupervised. The teacher who was supposed to proctor was nowhere in sight. I covered for him, and when he came running in, apologizing for his mistake, I told him not to worry. The truth is, I was grateful for the opportunity to attempt to even slightly redeem myself.

So, yesterday was a reminder that I’m not a well-oiled machine; far from it. I am light years away from perfect, but the good news is I am human, and even better, I’m not alone.

Good Humor

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 15:57:18 -0400

Yesterday, I went to the soup kitchen with four kids from school, including Micah. My job was to chop vegetables for a salad while the boys were given sixty pounds of green beans to wash, de-stem and slice.

After around fifteen minutes, they formed pairs to see who could slice the beans fastest. There were flying stems and the rapid-fire staccato of blades against cutting boards, plus a whole lot of hurled insults and cheers of triumph. I told the boys to keep it down. One of the full-time cooks just smiled. “They’re just having fun.” He had a point, which was that fun and service aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. And in the end, the important part was that that night, people would be enjoying my good and earnest salad along with a side of green beans, heavy on the laughter.

Keep Driving

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 15:42:59 -0400

I’m not going to lie; this has been a miserable weekend. I helped my sister and brother clean out our parents’ house, which required sifting through decades of accumulation. My mother was a saver. There were closets and drawers full of artifacts to excavate. The toughest thing, for me, was when I put the worn corduroys and cotton turtlenecks that still smelled like my mother into plastic bags to bring to Goodwill. I cried, because it all felt so final.

But then, I started thinking about how her attributes have surfaced in my children.

There’s her wildly dramatic romantic streak in Hannah, and her loyalty to family in Jake. There’s her gentleness and kindness, as well as her fretfulness, in Rachael, and her ability to always put others ahead of herself in Sarah. I see her sensitivity and love of routine in Eliza, and her fairness and gratitude for everything good in Micah.

It’s funny; when my mother died, I wanted to be firmly resolute. I wanted to take grief on the chin. To that end, I deliberately spoke of her death without softening it with polite euphemisms. But what if we don’t actually die? What if we do pass on? Maybe it’s more accurate than idealistic to think of death as not the end of the road, but as an intersection. That way, anything’s possible.

Lesson Learned

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 11:43:51 -0400

The book I’m teaching in 7^th grade English is The Primrose Way. It’s about a Puritan girl named Rebekah who goes against her faith by befriending members of the native American tribe living nearby.

Yesterday, we reached a part in the narrative where Qunnequawese, the girl who becomes Rebekah’s best friend, leaves the tribal village during her “woman time.” She tells Rebekah she will return in four or five days. Several of the boys in class seemed confused. What was this mysterious woman time, they asked, and why four or five days?

I suddenly felt a surge of what can best be described as schoolmarmish modesty. Where to begin? I don’t want to pussyfoot around, but… pussyfoot? I don’t think so. I’m not going to beat around the bush…oh, my God! How was I supposed to frame an explanation when even the most namby-pamby phraseology was booby-trapped (booby!) with double-entendres far more salacious than the subject in question?

Charles, one of my more mature students, raised his hand.

“Yes, Charles?” I think he sensed my quandary.

“Qunnequawese is referring to her menstrual cycle,” he said, matter-of-factly. He turned to his classmates. “Remember, guys? We learned about it in science last year.” I heard murmurs of oh, right.

That’s when it hit me that teaching is kind of like landing a plane; the best approach is usually the one that is most direct.