When heading out the door for errands, etc, do not -- DO NOT -- grab a handful of candy and toss it in your purse to pass out to the kids and bribe them to pretend to be temporarily perfect in public.
Please, take my advice.
Put the candy in a clear ziploc baggy.
You'll find it quicker.
PS - You're welcome *
Monday, June 30, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
First Week of Class, Again
Again, it is the first week of school, and again, I have new students, and again, I must teach them the rules of my classroom.
On Tuesday, the second day of classes (which too many students think is really the first day, because they confuse me with professors who read their syllabus the first day), four people walked in late to my first class, seven walked in late to my second class.
Among them was a man who sauntered in holding a Styrofoam container with his lunch.
Is that your lunch? I asked.
He nodded.
You're late to my class AND you brought your lunch? I asked.
He nodded.
I pointed at the back of the room, where three empty seats remained, then told him what I said to every single one of the rest of the late people. "This is the latest you'll ever arrive to my class. Starting tomorrow, it'll cost you to enter late. The protocol is posted on blackboard, the syllabus and sent through email. Check it."
Maybe other professors handle this differently.
Maybe that's why students are so shocked.
Perhaps some students think I'll stop lecture, shake hands and greet them.
Hi! I'm Dr. Soldani.
What's your name?
So nice to meet you!
Better late than never, right?
The class and I are concerned that you're late.
Is everything alright?
Yes?
They just took too long at the drive through at Whataburger?
They messed your order and you had to go BACK?
I'm so sorry!
Well at least you have it now.
Sure, go ahead, eat during class!
I hope you'll like this class.
Oh, there's seat over there for you.
Do you need a pen?
Paper?
No?
OK, well, now back to... where was I....?
Back to reality.
On Wednesday, the third day of the semester, I posted a sign outside my classroom door at exactly the time lecture began (10:30am, 12:00pm) which warned students not to enter late unless they understand the protocol.
No entered either class late.
On Thursday, the fourth day of class, just as I was walking to the door to post the tardiness warning sign that lecture had begun, a student raised her hand to ask a question.
I answered it, then she raised her hand again.
"And one more thing, I just want everyone in here to have a blessed day."
I smiled, sign still in my hand, and added, "Yes, and f* the late people!"
The class laughed, I posted the sign, and went on with lecture, uninterrupted by a single tardy lunch-bearing student.
On Tuesday, the second day of classes (which too many students think is really the first day, because they confuse me with professors who read their syllabus the first day), four people walked in late to my first class, seven walked in late to my second class.
Among them was a man who sauntered in holding a Styrofoam container with his lunch.
Is that your lunch? I asked.
He nodded.
You're late to my class AND you brought your lunch? I asked.
He nodded.
I pointed at the back of the room, where three empty seats remained, then told him what I said to every single one of the rest of the late people. "This is the latest you'll ever arrive to my class. Starting tomorrow, it'll cost you to enter late. The protocol is posted on blackboard, the syllabus and sent through email. Check it."
Maybe other professors handle this differently.
Maybe that's why students are so shocked.
Perhaps some students think I'll stop lecture, shake hands and greet them.
Hi! I'm Dr. Soldani.
What's your name?
So nice to meet you!
Better late than never, right?
The class and I are concerned that you're late.
Is everything alright?
Yes?
They just took too long at the drive through at Whataburger?
They messed your order and you had to go BACK?
I'm so sorry!
Well at least you have it now.
Sure, go ahead, eat during class!
I hope you'll like this class.
Oh, there's seat over there for you.
Do you need a pen?
Paper?
No?
OK, well, now back to... where was I....?
Back to reality.
On Wednesday, the third day of the semester, I posted a sign outside my classroom door at exactly the time lecture began (10:30am, 12:00pm) which warned students not to enter late unless they understand the protocol.
No entered either class late.
On Thursday, the fourth day of class, just as I was walking to the door to post the tardiness warning sign that lecture had begun, a student raised her hand to ask a question.
I answered it, then she raised her hand again.
"And one more thing, I just want everyone in here to have a blessed day."
I smiled, sign still in my hand, and added, "Yes, and f* the late people!"
The class laughed, I posted the sign, and went on with lecture, uninterrupted by a single tardy lunch-bearing student.
Labels:
Laughing,
Professor Diaries
Friday, June 20, 2008
Home
I wake up at the ungodly late hour of 8:46am. More out of habit than desire, I check my phone for time and tasks. Four missed calls, three texts.
Good thing I turned it on silent, smiling that parts of the world can and will go on without me for a few days.
I cross the fence from Abuelo's to my parents, spending the morning on their sofa, drinking coffee, listening to the two of them work. He takes orders for hibiscus, explains to people why their buds are dropping, and why the plants cost so much. Her work is a little more confidential., a bit quieter.
She works out of the room that I spent my tween and teen years, the room that -- when I left -- they simply turned the light on, closed the door, and pretended I was still there.
Later, I am at lunch with my father. We're at Maggiano's in Palm Beach.
As we get off I-95, a huge bright green marine Iguana crosses in front of traffic.
It walks by regally, tail curled, eyeing traffic suspiciously, staying within the white striped boundaries of the pedestrian crossing, completely legally because the orange pedestrian-crossing signal hand is still blinking.
No one but me seems to care, and I convince my dad to take pictures. He holds his blackberry out the window. "Take a whole bunch, I can't BELIEVE how great this is!" I command, so grateful for these little Dave Barry moments.
At Maggianos -- you know, the one way up North, all the way up there by Boca Towncenter Mall? -- we settle into a booth, happy to be alone together.
We order fried zucinni, calamari, and several other things that taste good a bite of a time.
He leaves me for a few minutes, then on his return from the bathroom, my dad shakes his head. "What are tits for? They don't let us touch them..." And I ask what happened in the bathroom, then we laugh our way through stories about Bosnia, about money and about reincarnation.
The conversation is better than any food. We bring home three brown bags each carrying two boxes of leftover pasta, eggplant, salad, Tiramisu and cheesecake.
The rain is pouring so hard on our drive home I fell compelled to check on my mom, who had a 1pm appointmnet. "You're driving in this stuff? Be careful!"
No, she answers, she's still at home.
We bring her the boxes of food, and because she's the house organizer (some families call this "wife" or "mother" but I'm still advertising the position in my home...) she gets out a Sharpie and marks the cover of each box with it's contents so we won't open, re-open, and then open again each box, sloppily closing it in disappointment.
I follow her back to her office where she does her work while eating a tiny bowl of our leftovers.
I'm still in my dress and pearls, sitting on the floor now, by her feet, leaning against files.
Before I know it, I'm telling her stories of Supreme Court rulings, the cases and the crazy decisions.
Huge pictures of my Abuela -- even the one from her funeral -- line the walls, smiling at me.
Yes, I am home.
Good thing I turned it on silent, smiling that parts of the world can and will go on without me for a few days.
I cross the fence from Abuelo's to my parents, spending the morning on their sofa, drinking coffee, listening to the two of them work. He takes orders for hibiscus, explains to people why their buds are dropping, and why the plants cost so much. Her work is a little more confidential., a bit quieter.
She works out of the room that I spent my tween and teen years, the room that -- when I left -- they simply turned the light on, closed the door, and pretended I was still there.
Later, I am at lunch with my father. We're at Maggiano's in Palm Beach.
As we get off I-95, a huge bright green marine Iguana crosses in front of traffic.
It walks by regally, tail curled, eyeing traffic suspiciously, staying within the white striped boundaries of the pedestrian crossing, completely legally because the orange pedestrian-crossing signal hand is still blinking.
No one but me seems to care, and I convince my dad to take pictures. He holds his blackberry out the window. "Take a whole bunch, I can't BELIEVE how great this is!" I command, so grateful for these little Dave Barry moments.
At Maggianos -- you know, the one way up North, all the way up there by Boca Towncenter Mall? -- we settle into a booth, happy to be alone together.
We order fried zucinni, calamari, and several other things that taste good a bite of a time.
He leaves me for a few minutes, then on his return from the bathroom, my dad shakes his head. "What are tits for? They don't let us touch them..." And I ask what happened in the bathroom, then we laugh our way through stories about Bosnia, about money and about reincarnation.
The conversation is better than any food. We bring home three brown bags each carrying two boxes of leftover pasta, eggplant, salad, Tiramisu and cheesecake.
The rain is pouring so hard on our drive home I fell compelled to check on my mom, who had a 1pm appointmnet. "You're driving in this stuff? Be careful!"
No, she answers, she's still at home.
We bring her the boxes of food, and because she's the house organizer (some families call this "wife" or "mother" but I'm still advertising the position in my home...) she gets out a Sharpie and marks the cover of each box with it's contents so we won't open, re-open, and then open again each box, sloppily closing it in disappointment.
I follow her back to her office where she does her work while eating a tiny bowl of our leftovers.
I'm still in my dress and pearls, sitting on the floor now, by her feet, leaning against files.
Before I know it, I'm telling her stories of Supreme Court rulings, the cases and the crazy decisions.
Huge pictures of my Abuela -- even the one from her funeral -- line the walls, smiling at me.
Yes, I am home.
Labels:
*My Favorites,
Cubanitas,
Laughing,
Professor Diaries
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Your Final is ... When?
She texted me yesterday, reminding me to bring my camera to work. I forgot.
Today, she texted me again. I remembered.
I got to work a little late because it's Final Exam day for Summer Session A (yay!) and the entire schedule is a little off kilter.
Standing in the hallway outside the room where Liz is seated, I can hear her speaking to a student.
She doesn't know I'm there, but I am, and I hear her half of the conversation:
Yes, last night. That's what it says here in the schedule.
Today is Wednesday.
Yes, today is Wednesday.
Your teacher said the Final was Wednesday?
What's your teacher's name?
OK, then, if you don't know that, do you know what the name of the course is?
Well, then, do you know what room number it meets in?
OK, well, let's keep looking. What summer session is your class?
You don't know which session?
(very long pause)
Ok, that's a good idea. Ask another student in the class. OK, alright.
Today, she texted me again. I remembered.
I got to work a little late because it's Final Exam day for Summer Session A (yay!) and the entire schedule is a little off kilter.
Standing in the hallway outside the room where Liz is seated, I can hear her speaking to a student.
She doesn't know I'm there, but I am, and I hear her half of the conversation:
Your final was last night.
Yes, last night. That's what it says here in the schedule.
Today is Wednesday.
Yes, today is Wednesday.
Your teacher said the Final was Wednesday?
What's your teacher's name?
OK, then, if you don't know that, do you know what the name of the course is?
Well, then, do you know what room number it meets in?
OK, well, let's keep looking. What summer session is your class?
You don't know which session?
(very long pause)
Ok, that's a good idea. Ask another student in the class. OK, alright.
And then, after telling her I was here, we met in the hallway for a nice photo shoot where I took the official pictures of Liz and her boyfriend, Timmy Atkins.
The End.
Labels:
Professor Diaries
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Subway Family Dinner
Turkey and ham
and pepper jack cheese
on six inches of
honey oat
with spinach
carrots, tomato
and red onion
covered with far too much
completely fat-free
spicy mustard
and a very small bag
of jalapeno potato chips
along with a diet coke
and three bites
of Zoe's oatmeal raisin cookie
one of which she offered
two of which
she didn't see me
sneak
as she was focusing
all of her attention
on walking her hand
unnoticed
into Zack’s
uneaten bag
of sour cream and onion chips
while he happily played
with his free toy.
and pepper jack cheese
on six inches of
honey oat
with spinach
carrots, tomato
and red onion
covered with far too much
completely fat-free
spicy mustard
and a very small bag
of jalapeno potato chips
along with a diet coke
and three bites
of Zoe's oatmeal raisin cookie
one of which she offered
two of which
she didn't see me
sneak
as she was focusing
all of her attention
on walking her hand
unnoticed
into Zack’s
uneaten bag
of sour cream and onion chips
while he happily played
with his free toy.
Subway
Turkey and ham
on six inches
of honey wheat
spinach, carrots
tomato
and a tiny bit
of red onions
then
lots of spicy mustard
more, probably, than I should
a bag of jalepeno
potato chips
a diet coke
and three bites
of Zoe's
oatmeal raisin cookie
two of which
she didn't notice
((thank g*d))
as she was
involved in sneaking
Zack's sour cream and onion
chips
while he was playing
with his
free toy
and not eating
anything
at all
Friday, June 13, 2008
Timmy Doesn't Suck....
I've finished writing my final exam and drag myself away from the open window of my office, down the hall, around the corner.
No one is at their desks where they belong, so I follow the voices to a different hall.
There is a Dean, a Chair, a Vice President, and two other people who's jobs are top-secret (classified) standing in front of a fat, new, vending machine.
This is clearly a Big Deal in our little world, because the LAST Dean put a water-bottle-only vending machine downstairs when the building opened in 2002.
Since then, any person in this particular corner of campus who desired anything more interesting than water would have to either walk the 50 yards (and across the street) to Wendy's OR walk the 50 yards (and weave through hordes of cell-phone whispering students) to the Student Union.
Both of those options are clearly too far for my colleagues who take the ridiculously slow HSS elevator DOWN from the 2nd floor to the first floor. For years we've been clamoring for a faculty-only vending machine, arguing that while students might spill, leave wrappers, and generally trash the building, faculty only mess up their offices.
As I walk up to group, she waves me over. "Timmy is here!!"
"Fantastic. Um he looks more like a Chad. Or a Thad. I'd name him something else, though -- Timmy isn't metallic enough to capture his angles and electricity..."
She shakes her head. "Timmy from South Park."
Oh. I nod my head.
Actually, I'm a Spongebob girl, so I don't get it immediately.
"You know.... The One in the wheelchair..." another professor offers.
"Timmy won't take dollars," she tells me, hair pulled back into a ponytail, eyes wide, figeting as usual, clearly caffeinated already.
The crowd pulls out dollars, offers them up to Timmy, begs and cajoles Timmy to take their offerings.
"He won't suck," she proclaims.
"I'm not touching that," I reply, waving both hands in front of me in mock embarassment.
Murmurs and head shakes ensue.
No one offers to teach Timmy to suck.
Not dollars, at least.
A vice president who escaped for a minute rejoins our group, holding a clean piece of white paper, which he slides into Timmy's dollar slot.
A green light goes on.
Again, Timmy wouldn't suck.
I plop down on the chairs that line the hall outside the Dean's office.
"This is the best show on campus. I could sit here all day and watch people play with Timmy," I cross my legs, lean forward, examining what I'm now realizing is an assortment of overpriced carb-delivery vehicles.
"Timmy's brought the entire division to a standstill," I observe.
"You have to blog this," another person says.
"You think my life is so slow I'm going to write about how excited we were to get a low-functioning vending machine in our little corner of the world?"
Several powerful and well-paid heads nod in agreement.
So I get up and do what I'm told.
I file my Final Exam to be sent to the Copy Center, then return to my office to write this little piece.
As I finish, I call her. "I'm calling it 'Timmy Doesn't Suck," -- what do you think?"
"Or swallow," she adds. "Timmy won't suck or swallow."
"Oh geez...." and I hang up, thankful for another interesting Friday in my little corner of the world.
No one is at their desks where they belong, so I follow the voices to a different hall.
There is a Dean, a Chair, a Vice President, and two other people who's jobs are top-secret (classified) standing in front of a fat, new, vending machine.
This is clearly a Big Deal in our little world, because the LAST Dean put a water-bottle-only vending machine downstairs when the building opened in 2002.
Since then, any person in this particular corner of campus who desired anything more interesting than water would have to either walk the 50 yards (and across the street) to Wendy's OR walk the 50 yards (and weave through hordes of cell-phone whispering students) to the Student Union.
Both of those options are clearly too far for my colleagues who take the ridiculously slow HSS elevator DOWN from the 2nd floor to the first floor. For years we've been clamoring for a faculty-only vending machine, arguing that while students might spill, leave wrappers, and generally trash the building, faculty only mess up their offices.
As I walk up to group, she waves me over. "Timmy is here!!"
"Fantastic. Um he looks more like a Chad. Or a Thad. I'd name him something else, though -- Timmy isn't metallic enough to capture his angles and electricity..."
She shakes her head. "Timmy from South Park."
Oh. I nod my head.
Actually, I'm a Spongebob girl, so I don't get it immediately.
"You know.... The One in the wheelchair..." another professor offers.
"Timmy won't take dollars," she tells me, hair pulled back into a ponytail, eyes wide, figeting as usual, clearly caffeinated already.
The crowd pulls out dollars, offers them up to Timmy, begs and cajoles Timmy to take their offerings.
"He won't suck," she proclaims.
"I'm not touching that," I reply, waving both hands in front of me in mock embarassment.
Murmurs and head shakes ensue.
No one offers to teach Timmy to suck.
Not dollars, at least.
A vice president who escaped for a minute rejoins our group, holding a clean piece of white paper, which he slides into Timmy's dollar slot.
A green light goes on.
Again, Timmy wouldn't suck.
I plop down on the chairs that line the hall outside the Dean's office.
"This is the best show on campus. I could sit here all day and watch people play with Timmy," I cross my legs, lean forward, examining what I'm now realizing is an assortment of overpriced carb-delivery vehicles.
"Timmy's brought the entire division to a standstill," I observe.
"You have to blog this," another person says.
"You think my life is so slow I'm going to write about how excited we were to get a low-functioning vending machine in our little corner of the world?"
Several powerful and well-paid heads nod in agreement.
So I get up and do what I'm told.
I file my Final Exam to be sent to the Copy Center, then return to my office to write this little piece.
As I finish, I call her. "I'm calling it 'Timmy Doesn't Suck," -- what do you think?"
"Or swallow," she adds. "Timmy won't suck or swallow."
"Oh geez...." and I hang up, thankful for another interesting Friday in my little corner of the world.
Labels:
Professor Diaries
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Missing
I am tying Zack's shoes, then pause to kiss him on the forehead.
"I miss daddy."
This is random. I pause.
"You MISS Daddy? Seriously? Like right now, with me giving you candy for breakfast?"
He smiles.
"I miss my daddy."
"You really miss your daddy? Even when we're playing play doh?"
He smiles even bigger.
"I miss the presents he's going to bring me."
"Oh. That's different. I can totally understand that...."
Then I gave him more candy.
"I miss daddy."
This is random. I pause.
"You MISS Daddy? Seriously? Like right now, with me giving you candy for breakfast?"
He smiles.
"I miss my daddy."
"You really miss your daddy? Even when we're playing play doh?"
He smiles even bigger.
"I miss the presents he's going to bring me."
"Oh. That's different. I can totally understand that...."
Then I gave him more candy.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Alone*
If you want to know
the worst part
about being alone
it is surely
those terrifying moments
when I can't find
my cellphone
and there is no one
to call it
and make it ring.
Other than that
everything is
100% great.
the worst part
about being alone
it is surely
those terrifying moments
when I can't find
my cellphone
and there is no one
to call it
and make it ring.
Other than that
everything is
100% great.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Wish *
I dig my toes into the sand
the ocean looks like thousand diamonds
strewn across the broke land
I lean into the wind
pretend that I am weightless
and in this moment
I am HAPPY
I...
wish you were here...
the ocean looks like thousand diamonds
strewn across the broke land
I lean into the wind
pretend that I am weightless
and in this moment
I am HAPPY
I...
wish you were here...
Zack's Magic Bullets
My sweaty smiling son emerges from his preschool playground on Friday afternoon with a mild limp.
I ask if he has a blister on his foot.
He shakes his head.
Fall down?
Bug bite?
Sand in his shoes?
Rocks?
Shoes too tight?
He shakes his head, pulls me down to whisper in my ear.
"I have a SECRET in my sock! I can't talk about it until we get home."
Fine, fine.
So we talk about other things, finally ending up at home, nose to nose on the sofa.
Zack kisses me, then carefully takes off his shoes, then reaches inside his sweaty white sock.
"Madison (his lovely girlfriend) found a bunch of these and she kept some and she gave them to me! They're MAGIC! I have one for each of us..."
I lean closer because I'm wondering if this is a trick, if he brought home invisible puppies or aliens or sick squirrels...
"What ARE they?" I say while poking the clear cylindrical beads on his tiny palm. They are so skinny and transparent that I can hardly see them without magnifying glasses.
"Bullets!" He proclaims, big smile lighting his face.
"Bullets?" I lean back, biting my top lip.
"Yes! They're for the MEAN people."
I imagine Madison and Zack are king and queen of their playground, warrior monarchs like Isabella and Ferdinand, hell-bent on imposing orderly peace and kindness at all costs.
I have never discussed shooting anyone -- mean, communist, terrorist, repeat offender or otherwise -- with my children, so I seek clarification.
"We GIVE these magic bullets to the MEAN people?"
Zack puts his hands on his hips, and gets a far-away cowboy-like stare.
I think he tastes blood and glory.
"YES, Mommy. We SHOOT mean people with BULLETS and they DIE."
I hide my shock and amusement behind an exaggeratedly concerned face.
"We DO? Couldn't we give them a warning first? Maybe one single second chance?"
His face softens. "Fine. I guess we could."
I smile in mock relief. He remains serious.
"But you MUST carry this bullet around with you. They're magic... AND pretty"
I hold my hand out, obediently. "But they're only pretty outside the body, right?"
He nods, presses my magic bullet into my palm, then goes back to his four year old world where glass beads bring power and bullets keep away bullies.
I ask if he has a blister on his foot.
He shakes his head.
Fall down?
Bug bite?
Sand in his shoes?
Rocks?
Shoes too tight?
He shakes his head, pulls me down to whisper in my ear.
"I have a SECRET in my sock! I can't talk about it until we get home."
Fine, fine.
So we talk about other things, finally ending up at home, nose to nose on the sofa.
Zack kisses me, then carefully takes off his shoes, then reaches inside his sweaty white sock.
"Madison (his lovely girlfriend) found a bunch of these and she kept some and she gave them to me! They're MAGIC! I have one for each of us..."
I lean closer because I'm wondering if this is a trick, if he brought home invisible puppies or aliens or sick squirrels...
"What ARE they?" I say while poking the clear cylindrical beads on his tiny palm. They are so skinny and transparent that I can hardly see them without magnifying glasses.
"Bullets!" He proclaims, big smile lighting his face.
"Bullets?" I lean back, biting my top lip.
"Yes! They're for the MEAN people."
I imagine Madison and Zack are king and queen of their playground, warrior monarchs like Isabella and Ferdinand, hell-bent on imposing orderly peace and kindness at all costs.
I have never discussed shooting anyone -- mean, communist, terrorist, repeat offender or otherwise -- with my children, so I seek clarification.
"We GIVE these magic bullets to the MEAN people?"
Zack puts his hands on his hips, and gets a far-away cowboy-like stare.
I think he tastes blood and glory.
"YES, Mommy. We SHOOT mean people with BULLETS and they DIE."
I hide my shock and amusement behind an exaggeratedly concerned face.
"We DO? Couldn't we give them a warning first? Maybe one single second chance?"
His face softens. "Fine. I guess we could."
I smile in mock relief. He remains serious.
"But you MUST carry this bullet around with you. They're magic... AND pretty"
I hold my hand out, obediently. "But they're only pretty outside the body, right?"
He nods, presses my magic bullet into my palm, then goes back to his four year old world where glass beads bring power and bullets keep away bullies.
(Video) A Singing Trip through the Rainforest
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