Lolliblog

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.

Noblesse Oblige

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 14:27:49 -0400

There was a point in our not-so-distant past that people lucky enough to live free of financial travail felt it was their birthright and duty to help those less fortunate. This was known as noblesse oblige, “the inferred obligation of people of high rank or social position to behave nobly or kindly toward others.”

Admittedly, noblesse oblige was overtly patronizing. After all, it required one to first acknowledge social superiority as a springboard to action. This was kind of a shame, because why couldn’t a person, regardless of his or her background, who truly desires to embrace sacrifice and chooses a life of service to others, be motivated purely by altruism? Even now, suspicion lingers, and people who try to make a difference are targets for charges of egotism and elitism.

Maybe detractors haven’t gotten the word that noblesse oblige is history, and there are idealistic souls out there whose motivation comes not from thinking they are better, but from hoping to do good.

Back to Nature

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 15:53:23 -0400

Yesterday afternoon Micah, who had been sitting at the kitchen table doing homework most of the day, asked if I wanted to go with him to the top of East Rock. East Rock is the closest thing we’ve got to a mountain here, a modest outcropping with a rock face, set on the eastern edge of New Haven. From the top, there’s an impressive view of the city and environs, including Long Island Sound. I have to admit I was less than enthusiastic (the day was cold and gray, it was getting late, I had work to do) but I decided to be a good sport because Micah and I rarely spend time together.

Micah took a path he knew and I followed behind. The path ended with frightening abruptness on a rocky ledge. Micah stood there, way too close to the edge for my comfort. I stood behind him, heart racing, because I was logically nervous about standing so close to a sheer 300-foot drop. I realized, after a moment or two of gazing out across the landscape below, that another reason my heart was racing had nothing to do with fear. Between work and family obligations, my life of late has been reduced to going through the motions. Standing at the edge of a cliff was anything but mechanical; it was absolutely counter-intuitive and crazy. As any kid will tell you, danger is a kick in the pants. Throw in some natural beauty and you have a major sensory collision. Standing on a rock ledge high above New Haven, caught between my anxiety and the world below, I felt more alive than I have in months. It was terrifying. It was wonderful.

Thinsulted

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 09:57:00 -0400

I once read something analogizing people, both psychologically and physiologically, to apples. Some let go and fall to the ground, where they promptly soften and bloat, while others cling and wither on the tree.

I’m in the latter category, which I guess is a tribute to my psychological stamina. But, and this brings me to the point of this post, physiologically, explain to me why it’s considered rude to tell a person that he/she has gotten fat, yet it’s perfectly fine to tell a person that he/she is too thin?

I am thin. This is nothing new. The fact is, I have trouble eating when I’m stressed or sad or nervous or even excited about something. This is something I can’t help. I wish I could, because I’m quite aware, as a colleague told me the other day, that I look like I could use a sandwich.

I am astonished at friends, acquaintances, and even strangers who feel free to inform me that I’m too skinny. I know being underweight doesn’t carry the same social stigma as being overweight, but when people tell me I need to put on a few pounds, it’s insulting, like being told I look tired, which is another freely stated opinion I despise.

I guess my point is, whether I am of the bloating or shriveling variety is my business, and actually, in many ways, beyond my control. All I’m asking is that I will politely continue to keep my comments off other people’s bodies, if they keep theirs off mine.

Imitation: The Sincerest Form of Survival

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 09:29:05 -0400

The current trend in television programming is to stick to what’s been tried and found even modestly successful. On network television, originality is, for the most part, a thing of the past.

It wasn’t so long ago that producers actively sought the innovative and dismissed the derivative, in polar opposition to today, when every show seems to be tied to precedent. An even more disturbing trend is television shows that take this one step further, drafting directly behind (or even blatantly alongside) a show that is still running. For instance, there’s Medium, a show about a crime-solving psychic, and The Ghost Whisperer, a show about a crime-solving psychic. Three nights a week, on CSI, you can get the same blend of crime lab schtick; only the location (New York, Las Vegas, or Miami) changes. When I was a kid, copycatting was considered a sign of insecurity, not an effective marketing strategy, and while people may have enjoyed Gilligan’s Island, they would have rejected Flannery’s Atoll as a shameless rip-off.

Maybe we can lay the blame for creative stagnation at the feet of the struggling economy. Even worse, the recycling of what’s reliable has not been limited to television, but includes recent and emerging movies, books, and music. The fact is, the only way to break new artistic ground is to dare to tread upon it, and frankly, those who drive these industries are afraid. That’s why the networks and their sponsors will continue to sift through the chaff of reality shows, talent competitions, and the formulaic crime shows and sitcoms. They’ve been running the numbers, and now is not the time to risk dazzling the folks out there with a creative breakaway. The prevailing strategy is to look for something that’s already floating and hang on for dear life.

Idealism

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 19:38:55 -0400

After a day of school meetings, it occurred to me that people- including those I like and respect-are quick to come up with reasons why not. Even the most positive changes fall victim to so-called careful consideration.

Reality is a difficult and pervasive thing to disregard, but today, I decided that pretty much every significant social change teeters on one’s heedless commitment to forward motion. Impulsive? Yes. Reckless? Maybe. Hopeful? You bet.

Hannah and Pooh, at home in Palo Alto, California, 1983. 27...

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 22:14:52 -0400

Hannah and Pooh, at home in Palo Alto, California, 1983.

27 years ago on this very day, love took on a whole new meaning.

Happy birthday, Bud.

The Truth

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 19:02:09 -0400

Last night, we got word that Ben, a kid from our neighborhood, was killed in Afghanistan this past week.

Perhaps, at 32, he was not technically a kid, but knowing him in the context of the neighborhood, in the context of his family, somehow lends him kid status, as does- heartbreakingly- the fact he still had his whole life ahead of him.

Ben’s death forced me to take a good hard look at my own assumptions about those who serve. Unlike the Vietnam years, when family members and friends were drafted according to their lottery number, having an all-volunteer military has changed the face of the typical serviceman/woman. I was guilty of assuming that soldiers came from military or disadvantaged backgrounds, with internally or externally limited options. I was guilty of assuming soldiers didn’t come from places like our tree-lined neighborhood. Unlike Ben, with his master’s degree from Tufts, I was guilty of assuming soldiers aren’t highly educated, nor avid humanitarians like Ben, who’d founded Clearwater Initiative, a non-profit agency dedicated to providing clean water to refugees and other at-risk populations. But all of these ways in which Ben did not fit my woefully narrow preconceptions doesn’t matter at all, because when he was on the ground in Afghanistan, he was not an anomaly. He was a soldier.

Ben’s death, for me, stripped away the comfortable emotional distance I’d created. When a combat death occurred, I felt my sorrow in the abstract, as it involved a stranger’s son or daughter, in some other neighborhood far away. It has come as a terrible shock to realize the truth-that the face of this war is our own.

Material Girl

Sun, 04 Oct 2009 14:18:51 -0400

Now that Eliza is working at Saturday Night Live, I’ve been making an effort to stay awake to watch the show. Last night, Madonna was in a skit, which struck me as interesting because it took me almost the entire skit to figure out that the person playing Madonna actually was Madonna. Initially, I thought she was another Saturday Night Live cast member whose resemblance to Madonna was virtually nonexistent.

Generally speaking, I am not critical of plastic surgery. I, too, look for ways to stave off the inevitable. But it’s one thing to turn back the hands of time, and quite another to lose one’s identity in the process. Madonna’s success has relied heavily on her notoriety, which has, in my opinion, far eclipsed her talent. She has made a career of putting herself out there, often reinvented. But someone should clue her in that reinvention is impossible if you’ve thrown out the original.