Stories for Invisible Friends

*Potato Time with Melissa

2012-02-10T22:42:00.001-05:00

She feels better, I think.

After 8 days of fever and couch-laying and moaning Zoe seemed almost herself tonight.

I wanted to be gentle on her stomach so I baked potatoes for dinner.

I made the first potato for her, peeling it and smashing it and butter-salt-stirring it just right in a shallow wide red bowl.

She ate it happily and neatly, and then got up to prepare herself a second potato.

She tried smashing her potato with a spoon, which just won't work.

She doesn't ask for help, but I can't help myself.

Standing next to her I notice (and then try to forget) that she is almost as tall as I am, and any minute any breath she will tower over me.

"You need a fork for smashing the potatoes just right.... and then you need to get a thin thin thin slick of butter so it melts quickly and after that you add two shakes of salt and....."

My daughter interrupts me to proclaim, "This is wonderful! This is art! You are a potato artist!; You should have your own cooking show on HGTV! Potato Time with Melissa... or Cooking with the Potato Dr... or...." she stops and thinks of something else, and I interrupt her for a reality intervention.

"I will not cook on TV, never never never, not on your life," I snap (gently?) but she ignores my protest and gets her brother to join her on a tangent inventing catchy potato show titles.

It seems like she feels better, like she conquered the virus and she's back.

Walking the Shady Side of the Street

2012-02-02T18:39:00.003-05:00

Passport ordered and on its way, I imagine packing swingy sundresses in a range of non-communist colors matched with super cute flat sandals (I wonder if 4 pairs be enough, and list them -- solid black, strappy gold, simple white, perfect brown).

Mom kills my fantasy of delicious shoes and swirly dress cuteness, warning me to stop asking myself "What would Lucy Ricardo wear?" and focus on packing 3 outfits of plain, loose clothes so I can blend in at the places we will really visit.

She doesn't say it directly (but she does have my dad call later and make sure I know she's not kidding) I hear it clear.

She expects me dress and act like a Nun on a mission, not "Melissa and her Amazing Shoes Tour."

I ask if I can at least wear a lacy Mantilla, perhaps in black to show how we mourn. I imagine myself in Cuba kneeling in front of a candle-lit crucifix at a cool dark alter, peacefully praying my way through the decades of my Abuela's heavy rosary.

Again my Mother and Cuba-advisor rebuffed me.

"No mantilla! no hats! If you wear a hat there you'll look like a farmer."

I ask if I can wear a visor and she pushes back again, "NO! You will look like a CRAZY farmer."

No problem,I don't even own a visor, I tell her, and kiddingly add how thankful I will be for sunglasses.

"No sunglasses!" she interjects before I can continue. I hadn't thought of it but then I understood completely. Of course if they don't have lots of coffee and sugar and food they aren't going to have Castro's Sunglasses Hut on every corner.

For a second I am shocked and saddened at the thought of all those people under Cuba's bright burning sun, denied of simple luxuries like repeatedly buying, breaking, losing and finding sunglasses thanks to the Cold War.

Mom understands my concern and continues, "We will do what people have done for 200 years. The buildings make shade. People walk on the shady side of the street."

The idea strikes me as so obvious and yet foreign, and I begin to wonder what else I'm going to learn (relearn?) walking the streets of Cuba.

My Night in Paris.

2012-01-28T10:44:00.001-05:00

I dreamed it was dark cold drizzly night in Paris and I was in a hotel suite looking out the window enjoying the city lights and peopLe.

I do not answer the phone.

I ignore the knocks.

Soon enough the quiet returned.

I stay by the chilly window peacefully enjoying the view and trying to remember something.

Something.

What?

I wake up enough to remember what it was.

I still don't have a passport and also apparently I don't have a secretary who will help me with it.

For less than a minute I focus on reasons I'm sure I totally can have a successful happy complete life without ever leaving the US, but I was too tired to lie to myself very creatively so I let it go.

After that, I stayed awake, unable to slip back legally into my own quiet Paris night.

Catch 22

2012-01-25T08:20:00.000-05:00

And then last night she blurted it out, trying to make me understand.

"Daddy feeds us much better because he feeds us what we LIKE, not what we ask for...."

Having  explained that, she walked away, unburdened, unaware she'd give me a  great excuse to never spend a half hour hunting for spare change from my  car and the bottom of my purse to buy her a frappaccino again, no  matter how much she begs.

Caribbean Escape

2012-01-23T20:28:00.000-05:00

Today after school I turned my back for one minute, noticed "it was too quiet" and found Zack sitting outside pounding an aerosol can with a hammer and a screwdriver trying to find out what was inside and how it emitted that wonderful chemical cocktail room spray "Caribbean Escape."

Squatted down right outside the door and laser focused on his task, he reminded me of my brother and I using a similar tactic to crack open orphan coconuts.

There may or may not have been a machete involved.

I'd like to think my parents were too on top of things to leave us with a machete.

I stopped Zack before what I imagine was going to be mid-scale chemical explosion and redirected his attention to something super special that he loves more than science -- I brought him to the kitchen and wordlessly pointed at the floor.

His eyes lit up, and I nodded.

Yes, yes you can swiffer, I told him, and hugged myself with realization that in this one single day I both saved my son's life and I would have a clean floor.

Before I could get too smug I tiptoed over the wet floor and hid Zack's hammer and screwdriver above the refrigerator, behind the leftover Christmas candy, saying a silent prayer that I might remember -- for once -- where I put them.

That Awkward Pause

2012-01-20T19:34:00.001-05:00

We are at Chickfila for our Friday treat. Last week it was Zoe's turn to choose - Zack wanted Chickfila, Zoe wanted Subway, we ended up at Wendy's.

It was a fiasco.

This time things were going well.

We settle down and while I'm drawing a line of ketchup on my beautiful golden waffle fry, Zack punches the peace with an accusation towards his sister, "I thought you HATED this place...."

She exhales, squares her shoulders and (I can tell) is ready to fight back.

I stop her and him from going any further with a wave of my lemonade.

"That's how she felt last Friday. And this is how she feels today. People are always changing, and the things they like change too. That's life, you have to let people change and grow, you have to expect them to have new feelings and want new things....."

Both kids stare at me in an extended awkward silence.

"It sounds like I'm breaking up with you both, doesn't it?"

Zoe nods.

I pop my perfectly ketchuped waffle fry into my mouth and tell them not worry about me breaking up with them, not today at least.

Mall Mom

2012-01-14T18:12:00.001-05:00

We are home in a quiet house after a 24 hour romp of pizza, sleepover and a trip to the mall where Zoe wanted me to let her roam the mall with her friend and be given a large fat wad of cash from some stash she imagines I have access to.

At the mall I ignore their request to "pretend I didn't know them" and stuck to them like glue, trailing them quietly (it killed me), standing at the back of awkwardly dark, loud stores cheered on silently by my facebook friends.

I was on my Best Behavior.

For an Entire Day.

Now, home and back to normal, I feel rested up enough to torture her like a good mother should, especially now that she has no witnesses or allies.

"Zoe! You forgot to put sweetner in my coffee!"

I get up off the sofa's warm hug and walk to the kitchen where she says (after a sensible pause) "I didn't make you coffee, Mom..."

I shake two packets into my hot coffee with my back to her and remind her sweetly, "You're right. You didn't even offer to make your sweet mother coffee. And now you feel AWFUL for not doing more for me after ALL I've done for you. I *forgive* you."

She rolls her eyes and I kiss her on the forehead before returning to the warm deep sofa, planning my next move.

Cupcakes and Tequila

2011-12-31T17:51:00.001-05:00

Before it gets darker and I (again) don't stay up until midnight, while I sit here with my good friends (cupcakes and tequila) I'm working on my 2012 resolutions.

This is what I have so far:

More air, more sunshine.

Less cupcakes, less tequila.

More travel, less shyness.

More kindness, more salads.

More sunscreen, more walks.

More calls and letters to my 91 year old Abuelo.

Less TV (except for Jersey Shore, which starts January 5*)

More laughter, more stories.

A Rock Waits in Cuba

2011-12-27T12:38:00.000-05:00

Today I applied for my first passport so that I can go to Cuba with my Mom, just like I promised at the end of Marvin's Book. Its in writing, it is published. I absolutely have to do it.

In the past two years I have seen the invisible wall separating us from Cuba crumble, and the scholar and historian and storyteller in me should be drooling over the opportunity to take part in and write about this moment in history but I'm not entirely ready.

The idea of being So Far Away makes my stomach hurt.

Except for my two year exile in the Great Mountains of Far Far Away Colorado and maybe a few trips across the border to Georgia, I'm not much of a traveler. When I do travel, it to places where there are fireworks, ChikFilA, Princesses and Monorails.

I can't expect that in Cuba. I'm not sure if my blowdryer will work (if not, can I use my straightener? is there a Plan C for hair?) and I don't think my iPhone will be able to generate my soothing Pandora nighttime channel.

I'm scared.

But I'm going to go to Cuba, anyway.

I have a story to tell for my Abuela (and for you) and although I already know most of what I want and need to say, there is something I need to see. There is a rock, a magic rock in Cuba and I know where it is.

I have to see it, it calls to me, laughingly.

So today after stalling hour hours by sinking into episodes of Pawn Stars and Storage Wars, I turned on my computer and applied for my passport online.

At least, I filled out the form online.

Now I have to print it out, and in order to do that I have to set up the still-in-the-box wireless printer that Psychic Santa sent me, along with a pack of white paper.

And in order of set up the new printer I need to clear a great space for it, and to do that I have to tackle cleaning this post-Christmas house, do a few loads of laundry, and while the laundry is rolling I should drag the kids to the grocery, then when I get home, cook and then clean some more.

But after all that, I'll set up the printer and print it out my passport application.

And then, I'll have to take a passport picture.

And actually go somewhere to hand this form in.

Maybe I haven't actually applied for my passport YET but I've taken the first step - I've started on my start to see the rock that waits patiently for me in Cuba.

Now Can I Open a "Real" Present?

2011-12-24T17:00:00.002-05:00

Zack hugged himself on the sofa, rolling and moaning. "I don't feel gooooood," he whined, making sure he had my attention.

It's hard to stop my pre-Christmas momentum -- it's Christmas Eve, I have to clean everything up so that we can mess it all up tomorrow -- but it's the holidays so I find a way to roll myself into park and settle next to my little guy on the kitchen sofa.

Poor guy, of course he's feeling sick.

He was up half the night asking if it was Christmas Eve YET. Around 6:15 he finally got out of bed (and got me out of bed) egging himself on by this inflated expectation of getting a gush of joy from opening a gift ANY GIFT today.

I stalled him until about 7am, but but soon enough he ripped into a present and for about three minutes it was enough for him to parade around in his awesome new pirate socks.

After that wore off (and while my first cup of coffee was still mostly full, and also still very warm) he looked up at me and asked if he could please now open a REAL present.

Right. I knew that would happen.

Before "Just one present?" became "just one more?" I packed both kids off for a romp to the mall.

In case you were ever afraid of going to the mall on Christmas Eve, let me tell you, it was tranquil and empty. As late as 10am there were only tiny threads of quiet people wandering among the shops. outnumbered by with bright eyed employees.

The entire trip was uneventful except for the part where Zack set an alarm off on a display while playing with a smartphone. The staff pulled out keys and cheerfully turned the horrendous beeeeeep off and consoled my sobbing red-faced son that this happens "all the time, in fact he was the third guy today!" but I knew that alarm hit his stomach, hard.

That's probably why my little guy is such a wreck, I tell myself, stroking Zack's hair as he sat next to me on the sofa looking sick and slightly moaning.

"You've had a tough day, little guy," I tell him.

Then I ask, "What can I do to make you feel better? Apple juice? Crackers? Want me to put something on tv?"

He rolls over and with suddenly bright green eyes, sits up a little bit and faintly pleaded, "Opening a present would help....."

I pushed him backdown and left him to his misery.

It's Christmas Eve, I have to clean the whole house today so we can spend tomorrow messing it up again

The Santa Tax

2011-12-23T11:58:00.001-05:00

Ho, ho, hum, I thought I was almost done.

Last night, fortressed behind three locked doors, bopping to happy (not holiday) music, I wrapped three bags of gifts and wrote names across each one in large scrolling letters (clearly mine) so there would be doubt who these gifts would be from.

After I finished wrapping the gifts (all of them! hooray!) I carry them to the tree and scatter them in between and among the other gifts, The kids watch silently, pretending to be transfixed by an episode of the Amanda Show.

When I finish I head back to clean up the tape, the paper, the scissors, but before I can get out of earshot I hear Zack announce "16 for each of us!" like it would be a Christmas miracle that I would remember to bundle and separate and wrap gifts so they would balance in their inevitable pre-Christmas ritual of counting and re-counting the gifts under the tree. He continued, "I wonder how many more Santa is going to bring?"

Santa? SANTA?'

I forgot about the Santa tax.

I will pay that tax, of course I will, but dear powerful and mystical St. Nicholas, forgive me now for what I am sure will be meager efforts in your name, but my enthusiasm and budget expired hours ago.

Order Marvin's Book!

2011-12-22T16:03:00.001-05:00

Print Copy:https://www.createspace.com/3748734

Ebook:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/103885

Tale of a Town Founder, Queen, and Pioneer Medicine Woman

2011-12-12T15:15:00.000-05:00

Subtitle: What Would Genghis Khan Do?
Sub-Subtitle: My Adventure on the Electronic Oregon Trail

-------------

If you have noticed I haven't written much lately you might think I'm busy with Marvin's Book coming out any second.

You'd be wrong. I'm done with Marvin's Book, there is nothing left to write.

I have been busy taking care of my special little frontier town nestled between the fish-filled lakes in Oregon that lives on my iPad.

At first I loved my special town, and I happily spent my limited energy (why do they limit my energy?!) clearing trees, planting tomatoes and building a happy little pen for my irrationally calm and non-violent flock of ducks, pigs, chicken and cows.

I fished. I hunted. I visited other towns and helped them harvest.

As queen, founder and richest person on the block, I built houses too - mishmash groups of cheap huts, moderate Victorians, log cabins and luxury townhouses.

A one-woman political machine, I collected their rent and used the money to build medical facilities, a sheriff's office, a school house so they could hear stories of their wonderful town.

When floods came, I rebuilt the little frontier homes.
They loved me.
I accepted their praise.

When buffalo tore through, I replanted the virtual crops.
They cheered.
I built them a glorious new town hall.

When my courageous settlers were bitten by snakes or fell sick to measles, I did my best to save them by producing the magical mix of "things" needed to get my settlers to produce in order to cure them: herbs, splints, a mortar and pestle, bandages.

At one point I had 8 medical facilities churning out the ingredients for these cures, each of which required a constant supply of of lumber and food, so I'd have to send myself on endless romps through my expanding (healthy) frontier town, planting crops and chopping down trees to fuel my medically advanced utopia.

Due to limited energy, all I could do is fuel this direly important medical mission. As soon as I cured one settler, another fell ill.

I stopped collecting rent.

I stopped fishing for cute catfish.

I didn't visit other towns to help them harvest.

I stopped visiting town market, the tavern, the saloon and I didn't even have energy left to shoot a disoriented black bear as it tore right by me through my frontieropolis.

All I could do was stay in a tedious cycle of production and consumption keep making medicine to keep my people alive. When the game forced me to run out of energy after a certain number of turns, it offered me an option to spend real cash to keep playing and keep my settlers and their little town going. Tempting as it sometimes felt (especially late at night) I knew better and spent my time-outs playing game after game of Spider Solitaire.

Then it dawned on me.

I must have planted my frontier town somewhere in a sickness-filled pit like Jamestown.

No wonder the land was so cheap. No wonder the natives didn't fight me for it. It was crappy land, and the people were going to die, or I was going to die of boredom trying to keep them alive.

So I dug deep into my heart and decided it was my responsibility to use the best medicine for everyone - the current and future generations of my little frontieropolis.

I asked myself, "What would Genghis Khan do?"

And then I knew, I really knew.
Before another electronic settler in my frontieropolis could break their arm, drink brown water or be bitten by a snake, before another little girl could fall ill to measles, I did the best thing I could as their leader, their medicine woman, and the town's sole founder, only politician, queen, empress, dictator and resident nuclear physicist in training.

I deleted my little frontier town and saved them all from their inevitable suffering. And I did it, without warning or permission or any discussion at all.

I think Genghis Khan would be proud; maybe Colin Powell, too....

Motherhood Chronicles: Porcelain Boundary

2011-12-07T17:14:00.000-05:00

Today my son asked me sweetly and convincingly to sit on the cold hard toilet seat and warm it up for him.

I almost did it, I almost fell under his spell, then I balked.

I do enough, already.

I will not be his potty warmer.

Abuela, 4 Years Later

2011-12-01T08:56:00.000-05:00

Dear Abuelita,

I called Abuelo last night. He asked me what you think of him, and how he's doing and I told him the truth, that you are laughing that you are free and you're everywhere now*

7 Thanksgiving Guests

2011-11-24T17:15:00.000-05:00

On Thanksgiving, the official start to the holiday season (which, in my mind, ends around the 4th of July) I get the impression these crazy people who live in my house want me to cook for them.

I can't cook until the house is bleached down clean, and I don't feel like cleaning because, well, I'm the Mom and I say so.

Anyway, I have something more important to do – I have to warn you about the 7 guests that will be visiting you this long Thanksgiving Weekend.

Shopping.

She might've hit your house three weeks ago, when someone went through recipes and "planned." I hear She visits some people predawn hours, possessing them to drive towards bright lights that line Box-shaped buildings.

She likes to drop in around noon drag you to that ONLY place which is open to find that ONE thing you didn't get.

To be brutally honest, I was hoping Shopping wouldn't stop by this year, and when she called me at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving my stomach hurt as I drove to Publix expecting it to be a loud bright crowded holiday nightmare.

It was quiet and empty. In less than 20 minutes, I got everything I needed for under $100 and was out the door.

I enjoyed my time with Shopping and I hope she comes back to visit soon.

Cleaning.

It's inevitable she's coming by, so you might as well prepare. She can sometimes be a bitch and try to keep you distracted all day, so watch out.

Before she arrives, set a timer for 30 minutes and get ready to work. Spray her favorite perfume around (Clorox Cleanup), clean off a few counters and toss some laundry in the wash. Or at least kick the clothes completely under the sofa.

Take clutter off the refrigerator, sweep the Legos into the shoebox science project and put it all in the closet where you keep your board games (the ones with the missing pieces).

To make sure Cleaning doesn't stay all day and drive you crazy, I suggest you turn on some music and introduce her to your family and friends if at all possible. With all that attention, Cleaning gets all shy and slips away. (Then the fun begins).

Regret.

He is going to show up - He *always* does - so be ready. Hopefully he will not bring his favorite date, Punishment, because when they arrive together their idea of a good time is ruining the holiday for the rest of the guests.

Maybe he will give you a surprise and unwelcome bear hug after you ate that last piece of pie standing up in the kitchen with your back to the chaos.

Maybe he will bring up the grief you hoped wouldn't visit today, reminding you of loved ones you can't see and a places you can't be.

Perhaps he will just punch you in the arm and say "you deserve something so much better."

You have two options when Regret inevitably arrives.

1) Spray Clorox Cleanup right into his (invisible) face and shout "AWAY" while spinning around three time or 2) take a deep long breath of the air that is around you and come back into the present.

Regret loves to drag you through time (forwards and backwards) but if you make space for him to visit for just one or two breaths, he will go quickly on his way to visit someone who welcomes his presence.

Dancing and/or Football:

I promise Dancing (and/or Football) will visit you this holiday weekend.

Maybe dancing with a baby, a grandparent, or because that Wii game is FORCING you to, you will be visited by Dance (and/or watch Football).

I'll just say what I say every year when they come over: Hopefully no one gets hurt.

Celebration.

The Guest of Honor, Celebration rare arrives on cue.

She might come early, at the airport, in a tearful hug.

She could hug you when that awesome dress zips up.

She might show up late, when “they” packup and finally leave.

On a rare lucky occasion, she will show up at the meal intended for her.

If you recognize her and call her by name when you see her, Celebration will make herself a constant companion.

Generosity.

Generosity is a shape-shifting guest who likes to disguise himself in gestures of patience and hospitality.

Make sure to leave extra room for him because Generosity’s constant companion is Gratitude.

Silence.

The guest few people expect visits everyone, every year, and many of them dread it.

Sometimes she visits everyone at once, covering the table with an awkward stillness.

She may swing by when they all leave and you feel alone. (Please don’t take the wine if she offers).

She might be sitting on your chest when you wake up, alone.

When she comes to visit this year, please don’t be a rude host and shoo Silence away, because she’s just trying to introduce you to her best friend, Peace.

Happy Thanksgiving*

(I better start cooking now)

Walk of Shame

2011-11-15T18:59:00.000-05:00

I spent the first hour of my office hours rearranging images for a lecture on Vietnam and answering email. After that, it was time to proofread the actual pages of the print edition of Marvin's Book.

It was real. 167 pages of real, with just the right font and perfect footnotes on the right pages. I didn't swoon, I didn't gloat. I got out a pen (red) and hunted for my own bloopers.

Because Marvin's Book is partly a book of grief and loss, I'm kinda drained from writing it. So there, I said it. It was hard to write about losing students and a friend, and re-reading the stories doesn't take a bit of the sting of grief away.

But today I have to read it, it is time. This book will be in airports. It will be available in at least 31 countries. I can't have my own bloopers.

So I read. And my eyes danced on a few funny things I forgot, then stuck on something new. I write about chocolate eclairs and carrot cake in one chapter. Chocolate fudge Pop Tarts play a big role in a different chapter. Oh my gosh, I skim the pages. I wonder whether to be ashamed or not, then decide I'm hungry and continue to lament nobody feeds me.

This is a problem that one day will solve itself, I am sure. Until then, there is the Student Union. So I gather myself and stroll off to Subway for breakfast and forget myself and order lunch (why?). After the awesome guy goes to the back and finds me a pack of the sacred jalapeno chips, I tuck my money in my pocket and march back to my office, stomach rumbling, and mildly confused on why I wasn't holding grits and eggs.

After I eat my lunch (happily) I realize there is cash in my back pocket, which is strange because I know I brought my wallet to the Student Union.

I hunt in my purse, in my computer case and I even open my office windows to see if it could have fallen out the window and onto the hedges below. Nothing.

I call Subway.

Its there. Sigh. I ready myself to march back.

Dr. V is now in his office across from mine and he sees me rush out.

I stop myself and collapse a little with humility as I admit to him I was about to do "the walk of shame" to go pick up my wallet. I shrug, salute him, and head out.

He sees I'm frustrated and calls after me, "Melissa, you can't do the walk of shame. You're Cuban!"

That makes me perk up a bit.

I've already turned the corner and done a little three step salsa to cheer myself up and call back cheerfully, "That's RIGHT! I'm CUBAN! VIVA!"

His deep laugh fills the hallway behind me, "No! I said HUMAN! I said YOU'RE HUMAN! It's HUMAN to make mistakes"

I heard him and giggled, thankful for the timely reminder.

Happy Veteran's Day* (From 11/11/2010)

2011-11-07T22:01:00.000-05:00

Dried Up

2011-10-19T12:39:00.000-04:00

It’s after my class and I take my time going up the stairs and into my office, where I often disappear for too long. I meander through the faculty lounge and find some fun.

Professor Dribbles, one of most favorite people, walks in right behind me and says, “Ask me why I’m tired. Why? Because I was at the clinic last night with a UTI”

The idea of a bladder infection makes me wince. Professor Dribbles continues, “Why? Because I’m dehydrated. Why? Because the water fountain is broken.”

I laugh – I think she’s kidding – and tell her she could have gone to any other water fountain in the building, or on campus. We are not in Ethiopia during the famine, we don't have to walk miles in danger in hopes of water.

This answer doesn’t suit her. I understand.

We faculty get used to teaching the same subjects year after year, sitting in the same office year after year, and stopping on the way to class to drink at the same fountain between classes year after year.

One small change in that routine and the foundation of sanity cracks a little.

Yes there are other water fountains but this one is on the FACULTY side, not the student side. It is in a place we can bend, slurp, dribble and adjust without being in the public eye.

I understand my friend and I want to help her so I offer Professor D a diet coke, which she politely declinesAnother professor overhear my offer and sticks his head out of his office – “I’ll take it!” forcing me to play deaf rather than fork over my precious 1-liter bottle to anyone but my beloved Professor friend.

The Dean joins our conversation because he isn’t sure the water fountain is actually broken.

We form a pack (if we had an agenda, it’d be a committee) and head down the hall to investigate.

When we arrive at the water fountain, the Dean pushes the bar and a trickle of water rises up.

Professor Dribbles shakes her head. “It wasn’t like that yesterday.”

He pushes the bar again. Again a little dribble roles out.

To drink from so low a fountain with such a small dribble requires acrobatic talents of bending and twisting, which I impulsively demonstrate to the Dean and the thirsty Professor. I ask her was she trying the water fountain like this? Like this? Or with deep knee bends like this?

More people join our pack mostly to laugh but also to give grave consideration to the water dribble situation. The Dean says he will put in a work order. And with that, quickly enough, we disband, shaking our heads at apparent frailty of this world and all things in it.

Praying with Bad Posture

2011-10-12T10:48:00.000-04:00

(From 2007)

Until recently, I’ve seen praying as a ridiculously formal exercise.

CCD (Catholic Sunday School, I can’t tell you what it stands for because I think only the Pope knows) teachers taught us chants, lists, macabre stories of beheaded men.

The worst CCD teacher I ever had was the one who prepared me for Confirmation.

I was about 11, the age of rapid growth and expanding curves.

In my case, Cuban curves. Everywhere.

One Sunday I decided to wear an outfit of stretchy red pants and a striped red and brown shirt (hello, it was the 70s, I forgive myself).

The outfit was a bit too small. Definitely unflattering, too tight in certain places, short in others.

I remember thinking that it would be the last time I would wear it before passing it on to another family.
I didn't feel a great desire to dress up for church or CCD.
Confirmation-preparation lessons were uninspiring, unspiritual and tedious.

Lists, facts, names.
Things a Catholic must know in order to converse fluently with God.

When to look up, look down, stand up, kneel, quietly kick-up the kneeling-thing so people could pass through the aisle.

Specifically, our lesson that particular day, the day I wore the red pants, was The Seven Deadly Sins.

We were young, naïve, and words like sloth and lust were pretty much lost on us, so the teacher – an overweight, undercreative woman who seemed lacking in both the temperament and inspiration to teach – decided to use examples for each of the sins.

When she got to gluttony, she wiped her brow, which usually beaded up with the exertion of standing and pacing in front of us, yelling at us to sit still, hands on our laps, eyes forward.

I remember the moment before she locked eyes with me, then announced GLUTTONY is the sin that I’m guilty of, apparently (she gestured toward her large, lumpy body) and Melissa is guilty of, too.

12 pairs of pre-teen eyes whipped around my way, and a piece of me broke off.

That day signaled the first shots of the Civil War that I would wage against my body for 25 years.

I have looked for rest, respite, an armistice, but have only found temporary havens.

It has been a war that has engulfed me, stolen my happiness, and left me so completely ashamed that I couldn’t bear to ask for help.

This past weekend, by a lake in a secluded camp, a friend sat back and admired the sunset.

She told me a story about a man who walked around for a long time in a suit that didn’t fit him, just because he thought it would be the only suit he’d ever have.

He was afraid if he took it off, he would have nothing.

I know that feeling.

I’ve been long afraid that if I put down the guns, cannons and bombs that volley around in my head and heart I would not recognize the terrain of my spirit.

Because of that, I’ve spent little time praying, facing a cross, feet flat on the floor, skirt knee-length-or-longer, chanting.

At the lake, after my friend told me the story, I decided to throw my suit into the lake, along with my idea of a God who gives pop-quizzes and multiple choice tests.

I will talk to God, but not with lists and chants.

I will pray with bad posture, pen in my hand, laughing the whole time.

* * *

This is College Football. Get Used to It.

2011-09-18T13:11:00.000-04:00

The stadium was packed.

The first quarter was slow and loud, and to be completely honest I spent most of it trying to figure out how to get bars on my iPhone and check into Doak Campbell on Facebook.

By the time I checked in, I had something to say.

“Watching drunk girls fight at Doak.”

What I didn’t see until the next day was all the snide comments betting these were “sorority girls.”

Yes, yes it was.

They didn’t have Greek letters on their clothes but sorority was woven into their outfits – all wearing similar short dresses, long hair pulled back with matching bows and (sigh) cowgirl boots.

It went down like this.

Excited crowds often stand up at Doak Campbell; once one row stands, the people behind them stand, and a wave of standing behind them ensues.

My row was 2 from the top – high enough to watch the Miami Game on the TVs in the SkyBoxes. There was no choice, this high, about whether to stand.

The problem was whether to stand on the seat part of the stadium or the floor part.

Apparently, a very petite bow-sporting student (I’m naming her Britney; that’s what I’d call her if she was in my class) – did what people for 20 rows ahead of her were doing; she stood on her seat, blocking the view of the woman behind her (who I’d call Delores).

Britney was in a row of people standing shoulder to shoulder, chanting loudly.

Delores could not see.

Delores’ husband could not see.

This was a big loud game and being there but not able to see must have been frustrating.

Delores could have stood on her seat so that she could see over the sea of sorority bows and camo hats and garnet-gold pompoms instead of having butts waving in her face.

But Delores made a different choice.

She tapped Britney and her to step down.

Britney looked around, surprised and annoyed.

I can imagine what she was thinking – why should I step down? Then I won’t see either?

She wasn’t wearing her peacemaker hat. She was, however, clutching an FSU license plate, which didn’t really go with her bow and dress.

Britney was a rowdy student at a BIG game and we were LOSING. She unleashed on Delores.

“This is COLLEGE FOOTBALL!! GET USED TO IT!!!”

After that, a series of F-bombs ensued, but FSU got a third down so I didn’t watch too carefully.

Then I saw hands flashing in faces and finger pointing. Delores’ husband put his hand between them and then there was a first down and everyone turned.

Britney’s friend-sister-bow-twin moved her three rows down. The solid line of sorority girls scattered and Delores could see the game.

An exceptionally happy girl from Britney’s matching bow sisterhood moved to the spot in front of me where I had been standing.

She introduced herself as E* and asked if I minded her being there.

When I said no, she hugged me (hard), giggled and proclaimed, “I like you!”

In a pause for a TV time out, the girl next to me (Jessica who goes by Brooke) and her friend (who never told me her name but she partied like a Lauren or an Alexis) ask what happened.

So I re-enact it, standing up to shout into the air, “This is COLLEGE FOOTBALL!! GET USED TO IT!!!”

Britney somehow sees with her magic behind the head sight because she turns towards me and gives me her best evil drunk girl look. Her bow-twin sister friend turns her back around.

E* hugs me again, giggles and jumps and proclaims again, “I REALLY like you!”

After every FSU tackle we chant “This is COLLEGE FOOTBALL!! GET USED TO IT!!!” and Britney turns again and again to look at us until she disappeared into the crowd sometime in the 4^th quarter.

Coming 11-11-11* READY?

2011-09-14T17:32:00.003-04:00

What I Wrote 9/11/01

2011-09-10T21:53:00.002-04:00

http://laughingmelissa.blogspot.com/2006/12/today-we-became-generation.html

Hanging Up on World War 3: My 9/11 Story

2011-09-10T21:45:00.001-04:00

Here is my 9/11 story.

9/11/01 was a Tuesday.

I was home with baby Zoe pretty much all the time except the few hours I taught one History class that met at night on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

On this particular Tuesday morning I took Zoe to the pediatrician for her 9 month check up.

Everything went beautifully and as I pulled out of the parking lot, I called Chuck let him know appointment went well.

He answered the phone, "World War 3" -- so I hung up on him because I hate it when he answers the phone in fake voices or saying crazy things.

A minute later, when he didn't call back, I called him again, and again he answered, "World War 3!"

I hung up on him again, annoyed at him and also at trying to take a particularly tight left onto Betten.

A few minutes later, he called me back.

I told him Zoe had a great check up and he asked if I'd seen the news.

No? You're kidding he said, you have to see this, YOU of all people. America is under attack!

America is under attack? I asked, say, repeating his words while looking into the backseat at happy quiet Zoe.

I don't remember asking who was attacking us or why, and I didn't think at all to panic on the drive home.

I didn't turn on the car radio because I wasn't ready to hear what was going on (yet).

The rest of that day I was glued to the TV and the phone and email because students were tracking me down to ask if there would still be a quiz that night.

I didn't have a quick answer for them - I guessed there would be because I hate moving quizzes and changing published dates.

Students said they couldn't study, they were afraid to come to campus, that they were too distracted by trying to find brothers and cousins and best friends in New York.

I didn't know what to do - I'd never even imagined a day like this. I grew up during the Cold War -- the best I could do was sing a little "Duck and Cover" which, it turned out, didn't help us much during this particular attack.

TCC's campus closed that afternoon, so my quiz was postponed.

But those hijackers didn't hijack my semester; we dove into American history deeper and harder than any semester before.

Since 9/11 there have been more opportunities to show kindness and neighborliness; since 9/11 there are more flags, and more parades.

Best of all, 9/11 I've had the pleasure of seeing more Veterans in my classroom than before -- prouder, younger, and more visible than any group of Veterans to roll out of war and into college since WW2.

The only time fear has crossed into my life since 9/11 was a few weeks after 9/11 when I was flying with Zoe.

She was almost a year old and barely able to stand, so I carried Zoe with me through the airport electronic screening. The metal zipper on her footed jammies set off the beeper and so they needed to go over her body with that beeping hand-held wand thingy.

The whole beeping ordeal was starting to freak Zoe out, so she was crying hysterically and clinging to me.

A stern voice barked at me to put her down so they could wand her, telling me to take my hands off of her and step away.

I remember blank faces staring helplessly as I pulled Zoe's grabbing hands off me, making her cry even more hysterically.

It was all over in less than five minutes, but while it was unfolding, I didn't feel like I was in a free country -- for a few minutes I didn't *like* what I thought America could become.

When we boarded that plane I let all my fear and anger go, because I love this country. I study US history and foreign policy professionally and tell stories about her compulsively and passionately -- including one where I hang up on World War 3.

A Positive Note

2011-09-09T20:19:00.003-04:00

This semester I added a new question to my Unit #1 Pretest.

After asking “Who is the Commander in Chief”[1] and “Name 5 countries in Asia”[2] I asked the students something they weren’t ready for.

“#24: Tell me what you’re great at*

When a roomful of fearful eyes darted up from the page, I explained I wanted them to imagine me calling people who know them and asking that question.

A few students winced, so I continued, “For example, if you won the lottery what would you DO for fun that you’re already great at?”

A student blurted out, “Well I wouldn’t be HERE!” and a few others laughed along.

I didn’t laugh. I stopped cold and lost all my bouncing Tigger energy. “Oh no! I don’t wish that for you! I want you to be happy, now and always, like I am!” I told them I taught my heart out as a graduate student for $1000 a class just as hard as I teach full time now. And if I won the lottery tomorrow, I’d STILL be teaching here, same classes, same students, same attitude (cuter earrings), because every single day at my job is fun.

The class stops and everyone looks up, because this whole “life thing” sounds serious.

I remind them that life is supposed to be fun. FUN FUN FUN. Too many of them look at me like I’m crazy which is a problem because it’s early in the semester and I’m still doing my best to not look crazy. I have to concentrate on “composure” more at the beginning of the semester than later, with a CNN-crawl through my head saying HEY! don’t throw pens HEY don’t trip over your feet, HEY! don’t wear the same outfit twice in a row, HEY! don’t lose the wireless mouse.

While I have their attention (and also because they’re taking a test and they don’t know the next question so they’re literally hostages) I tell them about H* from last semester who came to my office for advising.

While we discussed his major, H* told me he knew he could find a job after graduation with the state, and it would be steady work.

I asked H* if he’d LOVE that job and he laughed at the question, shooting back, “Dr. Soldani, not everyone can LOVE their job like you do!”

When the shock of his statement rolled past me I told him I wished better for him, I wished for him a life that brings fulfillment and joy.

Their answers to question #24 by the way, were beautiful. Across three classes my students candidly shared they can (among other talents, I’m sure) hunt, fish, sing, do hair, fix cars, build computers and make other people feel included.[3]

The fact I think I have the dream job, and get giddy at work sometimes bothers people.

The other day I got to class 10 minutes early, ready to set up. Another professor was still there, having a serious talk with a concerned student. I erase the board and find a place to put my stuff.

Then, I guess I swirled around like Snow White because she stopped talking to her students and said, “Did you just swirl?”

I caught myself and felt my hand against my long favorite peach silky dress.

It was possible I just swirled, but just in case, I did a nice twirl and told her I was so happy to teach Reconstruction I couldn’t contain myself.

She told me to get my head checked, which was funny, so I swirled and twirled again and soon enough I was off telling stories to another class, positive I have the dream job and wishing the same for all of them.

[1] About half the students answered it correctly; guesses included Condoleesa Rice, “some General” and “Donald Rumsfelt”

[2] My favorite was a student who wrote “Persia, Persia, Persia, Persia, Persia”

[3] My favorite was the student who wrote (in purple pen, with round deliberate handwriting) “People come to me for advice” then inserted another word so it read “People come to me for GOOD advice.”

I'm Already Giving Students Nicknames...

2011-08-31T09:13:00.000-04:00

Its the first week of school (again) and I'm surrounded with people who soon won't be strangers but for now, they are a little too silent, too serious, too stiff.

Maybe not all of them.

The first day, in my BIG auditorium class, I gave them a mini lecture on the scope and content of the course.

We went through the Civil War and Reconstruction, past the Spanish American War, through the Progressive Era and WW1, then past Lysol douches and paused in the 1930s where I showed the students a picture of a Hooverville and told them what a Hoover Flag was (an empty pocket, turned inside out), what a Hoover Blanket was (a thin piece of newspaper).

I pause and ask -- knowing most of them won't be able to answer it -- "What's on a Hoover sandwich?"

Blank faces tinged with fear looked down and away, but one girl -- a beautifully dressed one in the front row blurted out, "a whole bunch of people, I hope!"

I shook my head, trying to imagine -- then not imagine -- a sandwich full of people, which looks like a bread orgy in my head.

"No, it's a stale piece of bread, but you're awesome..." I said while pausing lecture to give her a nice hug for being so funny (and sitting in the front row).

In another I class, a student kept her phone out as I was starting class, then said "But I'm tweeting!"

aI asked "about me?" and she said "YES" and I said "$20! I can't tweet about you during class, you can't tweet about me during class."

It killed me to take her $20 because deep down I wanted to show her I was impressed at her initiative in reporting from the field, for writing when she didn't have to write, and having the sense to write something nice about me, but I couldn't, so instead I gave her a nickname (Tweet) and called on her relentlessly for the rest of the class period.

So far, so good.

My Car Lies

2011-08-16T12:06:00.000-04:00

Thank you, Allstate, for taking such good care of me in my recent accident.

Thank you for fixing my car so wonderfully and thank you for hooking me up with the Rav4 rental car.

It was OK, tolerable, but not especially comfortable or powerful.

For a moment today, I doubted you.

As the kids and I ran our first errand today in the "post-crash" Santa Fe, I checked to see if I needed gas (no, not yet) and then noticed something was seriously wrong.

The temperature (outside) was reading 77 degrees.

It is August in Tallahassee, there is no way this could be right.

I think (fiercely!) "Damn you, Allstate and your preferred provider! What did you DO to my car's delicate computer system? Teach it to LIE?"

Why is it reading 25 degrees low?

(I think briefly, oh Allstate, we are on to something -- can you fix bathroom scales to read 25 pounds lighter? Yes...? call me.... then I remember I'm annoyed and get back to being annoyed)

Then, in a fit of daring, I rolled down my window down a crack and dared to let a bit of August into the car, where her hot breath (I was sure) would quickly fill our car with an uncomfortably thick hot wetness.

No such rush came, so I lowered my window more, then more.

My car wasn't lying (sorry Allstate) -- so I open all the windows and let today's strangely enchanting dry cool air slip in and dance around, wondering what other magic Allstate can do.

The Crying Game

2011-08-11T20:19:00.000-04:00

As we are cruising down I-95 home from a day of lots of waterpark and almost but really not enough sunscreen, I call my Mom (who is in "another time zone") to check in with her to see if she's talked to Abuelo and knows how he's doing today since I saw him at 8am.

She tells me she talked to him.

He's sad. He's lonely. He's crying.

He really doesn't want to move to the "much nicer" place a mile or two away that has "Village" in its name and is often called a "retirement community."

I know he doesn't want to go, and I don't blame him.

It isn't like he's moving to the dorms at Harvard, proud of himself for landing a coveted spot.

It isn't even like when he left Cuba in 1960 for what he expected to be a "short vacation" from Castro's revolution.

He's looking down the barrel at soon leaving the house he's lived in for decades, the one Abuela lived in too.

Moving on to the "next part of his life" doesn't feel so good, and -- more than he can know -- I understand.

When we get out of the car, before I even change out of my bathing suit I march straight through my parents' backyard to Abuelo's door. He answers.

He doesn't look that sad; more tired and disheveled.

Without much small talk beforehand he straight out tells me, "I'm sad. I'm depressed. I want to cry. I feel useless..."

I nod my head. "I totally understand. I'm sad and I'm depressed and I cry all the time. Let's do it together, I bet I can cry longer. Let me in...."

He laughs and stands in the door shaking his head.

Apparently I'm reading off a different script because he doesn't know what to say at first.

"You know what, you're a piece of work" he says, and I can't help but shake my head and laugh too because I know I could have beaten him in both intensity and duration if he really wanted to challenge me to a crying war.

"You're not sad. You're not depressed. You just need some rest" he tells me, like he's now the designated advisor to sad people.

I say "No, I don't need to sleep, I don't need to rest, I need to work more. I get sad when no one needs me, like I'm invisible and I might as well disappear... now can I come in and cry?"

He laughs again and says "No crying, lets just dance...." and before I could even start to take him up on his offer, my kids started shouting for things (I'm sunburnt! I'm hungry! Where is my camera? where is my snake?) and I dance away by myself, leaving him smiling, for now.

Crash Test*

2011-08-02T19:00:00.000-04:00

On the way to get my hair done (which I rarely do, because I don't sit still well) someone - lets call him Driver X -- crashed into my car.

The impact of his Honda on my Santa Fe felt like a head butt by kindergartener.

No airbags went off.

Not bad. Not something I'd want to do again; not something I've ever done, so today I let go my perfect no-car-accident 25 year perfect streak that has been running since 1986 -- nine years longer than "Driver X" has been alive. That's fine.

Neither of us were hurt, but our cars looked a bit mangled.

We called the cops and waited. No injuries, no hurry.

He was shaking (a little) so I got him out of the car for awhile so we could talk under the canopy of a convenient (like a movie!) old oak tree in front of a huge house off Thomasville Road.

I drilled him on things I'd seen on Cops and Dog the Bounty Hunter.

"You have a license? You're in America legally? You only have one ID in your wallet, right, not like 10? Any warrants? Any weapons"

(He laughed - he looked like he belonged on the set of Glee or High School Musical).

"Your car is legal? Not stolen? The plates aren't altered? And no one is hiding in the trunk? You're not trafficking humans, seriously, tell me know, pay me off and we'll split it -- also, there is a cap to how much cash you can have on you without looking suspicious..."

After about twenty minutes of my thoughtful interrogation, he still looked off and odd like he'd been in a BIG ACCIDENT and not the minor crash we were blessed with.

I asked him directly, "What's wrong?"

"I feel guilty, I'm so sorry I hit you."

I laughed. "If you were going to hit someone, I'm glad it was me. This is no big deal in my world."

He nodded.

But I haven't lectured to students or anyone (my kids have headphones and ignore me for fear of hearing more about the intricacies of Jacksonian politics & etc) so I kept talking.

Because I could.

"Don't feel guilty. Guilt is like self-torture and it's so selfish. And pointless. Be sorry. People who are sorry express regret, make things better and move on. If you're sorry you can come help me move boxes tomorrow...."

Soon enough, the cop was there, the papers were filed and we drove off, a little wiser from afternoon on Thomasville Road.

The Big Bang (Birth of a Bra Salesman)

2011-07-17T13:27:00.001-04:00

I am writing and writing and also packing and then writing (can't you tell?) when a loud BANG explosion from the living room stops me cold.

There are 4 kids out there (two tween girls and two redheads) so I wait a second for the laugh, the cry, the crash that comes after the BANG.

Strangely enough, nothing.

I think to ignore it, but then, I'm the adult.

I can't wait 30 days to check on my kids.

People hold me to higher standards than that.

So I get off the yoga folded yoga mat and pull myself away from my writing and my Mac and go into the living room unannounced.

There was a Fort in my living room and no apparent casualties.

Zack's friend -- standing over a bicycle airpump that I'd uncovered in my unpacking, repacking and throwing things away -- holds up pieces of limp orange rubber (formerly Zack's favorite basketball) and calmly explains. "It exploded."

I nod my head and point at the Fort then say nothing and return my room, to the yoga mat, to the floor half- waiting to hear Zack scream out in protest that his favorite ball had been murdered.

I wait.

Nothing.

I wait.

He knocks on the door then enters holding the two halves of his basketball in his hands, offering it up to me with a big smile. "Here Mami, we made you a bra...."

Sit Quietly and Wear a Hard Shell

2011-07-16T21:41:00.003-04:00

(From "Charming Emily"  - http://charmingemily.blogspot.com )

In the first six weeks at Retreat, I learned to pray in my own words, to find grottos in the silence, and to offer what I have to those in need.    

Apparently by not dying at that point I was eligible for a promotion. Once I became a Priestess I most enjoyed hearing confessions and giving absolutions.

I do not wish to heal. I do not wish to heal others.

 That isn’t why I’m here; except it seems to be exactly what I’m doing (again, but now for free, which is lost to me hour by hour, let it be known).

I retreat, they follow. I meditate, they surround. 

I try to keep my hands to myself, but like magnets they snap into place, aligned, silent.

Without them, without this, I think I would spend my days waiting for the sunset, then, after that, I would spend my nights waiting for sunrise.

 I would be waiting and waiting for this to just end.

But it will. 

Everything does.

Katie followed me on my walk today, holding a rosary and asking about hell.

I say nothing, I’m not here to say anything, I’d like to be a stone, ignored and silent, baking in the sun.

“The pain,“she asks, “is it mental? Or physical? And is that what God DOES? Abandons us to a sadistic torturer?”

I wonder where she got this, but not enough to interrupt her, which would also involve turning around, which today I am too weak (or, rather “light”) to consider.

She continues, “I don’t understand a vengeful God….” Then she stops, huffing from whatever condition brought her to this camp.

I pause on the narrow bridge over the koi pond, not intentionally waiting for her.

The ripples between me and the darting fish magnify my baldness. I look like an initiate, a nun, a priestess. 

Coincidentally, I think as I ponder myself as confessor, as minister, as gateway, it now seems relevant and almost a sign this whole time that I prefer caftan dresses with long wide sleeves that make triangles when I hold my arms out.

I packed four of them (red, white, blue, black), before I even knew.

Katie follows me, talking more to herself than to me again, which I am not going to point out to her.

“So why did God punish me? What did I do to deserve this? And is dying like this enough for what I’ve done or will I still be paying for eternity for something I did years ago? Or what? I wish I hadn’t and if I could do it again I wouldn’t, but now I still have to pay? Will I? I need to KNOW, you know?”

We walk under canopying oaks draped with Spanish moss. 

A greedy squirrel stops in front of me; yesterday I brought my lunch. 

He remembers. I nod and shrug. He shakes his head. Disappointed.

She continues.“I need to know who to talk to, what to say, what to do, to just FIX this for once and for all, to let it go and to know I’m not spending eternity in flames, tortured, roasting, thirst.  That’s worse than Cinderella’s stepmother. How could a good and decent God send us to THAT? So I should fear him? Hell ya,  I fear him, like I’m cowering in the corner waiting for some beating I just know is coming, so I’m mad too, because how could He do that to me? “

“Isn’t it enough I’ve lost my breasts, lost my hair, lost my job? And now I’m facing eternity being tortured. Oh. My. God. This is insane. What was I even born? Why even create me?”

At this point we’d crossed under the canopy of oaks, arriving on the rocky shore.

I laid my folded red blanket into a thick small rectangle and poised myself to wait for the sunset.

Two ducks sat beside me; a family of turtles sleeping and sunning on a rock held their stillness. 

Katie paced between me and the shore. “I mean, I don’t even know how this is going to end. Right? I could live to be 90.  I could be a grandmother. And I could worry about dying later, but I can’t stop now because if this doesn’t work and I do go then I want to ready, but how? Again, like, is there a form? Because I heard Catholics have a form , like ‘its been x months since my last confession; I’ve done 4 of #x, and 3 of #8.’ I can never memorize the amendments. What if I don’t do it right?”

She looks at me, I look at her. 

The part of me that once would have laughed or would have corrected is still. 

Nothing I can say matters anyway, I am vaporizing, can’t she see this?

I tilt my head up  to the sun which is directly overhead, welcome its revealing warmth on my head.

 I’m tempted to run my hands over my head but instead slide back to stillness.

The water is motionless now. There are no clouds. 

The air feels clean.

I notice my life continuing.

 I breathe in, then out, over and over, appreciating how effortlessly it comes. 

Katie keeps talking.

As the ducks leave me, she is still talking.

“How do I just forgive everyone? Because I hear you need to do that and I can’t forgive someone and really I don’t want to.  I want him to roast I hell over those flames tortured for what he did, for what he made me do. For real. For REAL, how can I forgive him and why should I forgive him, he hasn’t even asked me to and I don’t want to, and it was the ONE thing I said I would never do.”

The ducks left me, one signaled the other it was time, and off they went. 

The smaller one looked back. I think she feels sorry for me.

The sun moved across the sky, unimpeded by clouds. 

Katie kept talking.

“If I could do it again, I wouldn’t have done it.  I wouldn’t have A. met him or B. slept with him. Even though my GOD that man came over me like a tidal wave, like washed me away into his world and I couldn’t stand and I didn’t even want to, you know? Hello? Sister? SISTER?”

I look at her, now. I am not her sister. 

Oh God, she thinks I’m a nun.

“Look Sister, I don’t know if you’ve always been a virgin please don’t tell me please but hasn’t a man ever made you melt?”

I laugh.

 Katie is satisfied.

“After our first date, he walked me back home and sat outside my window, talking to me through the screen. I invited him up but he said no. Seriously, I forget that night because it was before. You know? He said it was against his religion and also, he said I wasn’t clean and if he touched me he wouldn’t be clean. And that was a big deal, in case he died on the way home.”

“We talked all night, offering pieces of ourselves into the air for each other, each story building stacking  delicately together. Did you ever realize how important it is to tell good stories? We become the stories we tell about ourselves. Ever heard that? I don’t know if I made it up so you can use it if you want, if you ever talk, but anyway, I dated a guy with these pointless stories. He would take three hours to describe a half hour sitcom. It’s like no one listened, and he kept talking, talking, filling the air. He never had a point, he never got anywhere, he just talked and talked. But no, this was different.”

“I melted in his stories, cursing God for every second he’d been on earth but hidden from me.” Katie sighed and followed my eyeline to the sun, which was lower and softer now.

I consider opening the bag of nuts and raisins in my pocket, but choose to stay in this pause of silent emptiness.

 Right now I’m only still and peaceful, so I do nothing.

Katie continued to  talk and I wonder how she hasn’t needed water. 

Actually, Katie’s frail frame was gesticulating energetically as she talked about this man, this event, this whatever.

“When we went out he looked so tenderly like he could somehow reach into my sore spots and fix them. Fix me.  And I wanted him to, I believed he could, like he was going to be that guy who would read my mind, know what I wanted, never would look at any other women but me. His hands….”

Katie looked down, “Now I feel like a train crashed into me and I didn’t think to move.”

At that point she sat next to me, unwound enough to look where I was looking, noticing the how the sinking orange surrendered to the purple, sending streaks of pink and red to say thank you thank. 

Now, after her silence, she was ready, and without a ritual or a proclamation, she offered her burden up.

“It was only once. On our third date.  It wasn’t what I’d hoped. He walked in the door, looked me over and shook his head. Not a hug, you know? That says something. Anyway.  He marched me to my closet and proceeded to choose this and that and then said things were dirty or dingy or cheap and we were running late, and he went to get a glass of water while I accessorized the slutty short black dress I’d worn for Halloween last year as a one of the back dancers in that “Addicted to Love” video, with the red lips, remember?”

I do remember, and she can tell without me saying a word.

“So then I’m dressed and come out and he has pulled all my glasses into the sink saying they’re dirty. He wanted me to wash them before we left, and while I washed them he stood next to me, tossing peanuts into his mouth,  explaining that I just wasn’t turning out to be what he’d expected, but not to cry, I was beautiful, really, for people who looked past things, he added. Then we finally went to dinner and the place was awful and the waitress fawned on him. He ate salmon and ordered salad for me.”

The sun lingered so long, I think she wanted to hear the story too.

“I needed to learn some things, he kept telling me, for my own good.  And I believed him, I swear to you, I swam in his eyes like those cowmaids or milkgirls or whoever danced drunkedly with Krishna. I would change for him. And at home he told me he couldn’t stay the night but that he would put me to bed. Which he did by some hypnosis I can vaguely remember, but I never saw after that night. I thought it was the beginning, otherwise I would have paid more attention, you know?”

Two turtles slid off their rock into the water. The others stared at the sun.

“It wasn’t… romantic?... and then, he just sprung up and  afterwards he said my butt jiggles and to work on that. That’s what he said. Then he had to do some ritual cleaning and blew me a kiss on the way out because he couldn’t touch me.”

“So then a week later, he comes over on his way out to meet another girl and I’m eating dinner and he said it smelled and it made me smell and pretty much I lost my appetite at being so gross you know? He called the next morning before work, then at lunch to make sure I wasn’t eating, then again after work. Each time I’d invite him over, each time he’d say no.”

“Then I called him. Twice. Without his permission. A woman answered and I wanted to die. For the first time in my life, really seriously, I wanted to die.”

I sat still, very still, surrounded by ducks and pigeons and a few peripheral squirrels.  

Time has become meaningless to me lately, more since my appetite left.

It was night now. Compassionately silent stars stood guard over our confessional by the lake.

 In my head I call the turtle next to me Teddy, like Teddy Roosevelt (“sit quietly and wear a hard shell,” I imagine his slogan would be) and imagine him giving his friendship freely. 

He opens and closes his mouth then twists his head.

The pamphlet mentioned hearing loss as one of the signs.

I’m not listening for it, but I’m not afraid of silence.

Emily Remembers

2011-07-16T12:27:00.001-04:00

 (From Charming Emily -- the first book a book in a series called "Blowing Sunshine")

Sister Georgina walked around inside the circle of folding chairs in the St. Joan House looking at the ceiling, at the floor, everywhere but in their eyes.

The tale of Snow White – and her sister Rose Red – is a tale of redemption, of faith, of the kind of love we should expect in life. 

The sapphire rosary wrapped around in Sister Georgina’s left hand tinkled joyfully as the gray haired, dimpled woman marched to the cadence of her own lecture. 

And the love, the ultimate love Snow White found was given to her freely, in her sleep. She had not sinned, yet she was punished. She was exiled, yet she found a home. She was cursed, and then redeemed.  A story not from the Bible, yes? But a story of love, divine.  Snow White did not need the Bible, she did not need to wear a cross. She was loved, always and unconditionally because God’s grace does not discriminate.

Last week, Sister had told them the story of Cinderella, again with a happy ending about love and God.

The week before that, it had been Sleeping Beauty, love and God.

And before that, back in December, before final exams, Sister Georgina told the story of Aladdin, only she ended it by telling them that everyone had magic lamps that could bring them great abundance.

Which, Emily particularly knew, was crazy.

And wrong.

And undermined the whole purpose of being Catholic.

Sister Georgina halted her march, exhaled with her palms up, arms open, and asked, “Now my children, what questions do you have for me about God? Or Love? How can I help you find your way a little bit better this week?”

The group clapped politely and dismissively. Without ever discussing it, the core group – all female, all Catholic, all scholarship residents of St. Joan’s House  -- agreed that the mandatory Tuesday prayer circle ended when the questions began.

They each stood slowly, reaching to their neighbors, shaking hands.

Peace. Peace be with you.

And with you.

Peace.

Peace.

Peace.

Mike stood up first, then offered his hand to Emily.

 The gesture felt corny and pressured to her, like he’d mentally rehearsed it then waited for his cue.

She took his hand, stood up, allowed him to kiss her on the cheek.

Peace be with you, he said.

And also with you, she replied, eyes on the door.

Pounding the Meat

2011-07-14T17:45:00.000-04:00

It is the usual evening summer evening around here.

Zack is competing against the world on MarioKart Wii.

Zoe is skyping.

I'm in the kitchen getting dinner ready.

I'm just following step #3 of a recipe when Zoe shouts out over my clanging and banging to her skype friend, "I can't hear you! My mom is pounding the meat!"

She pauses and says, "That sounded so wrong."

Then she sat in silence and so I offered, unsolicited, "Tell her 'My mom is banging the pork chops!'" but she ignored me.

It is the usual summer evening around here.

Love and Flattery

2011-07-09T11:24:00.000-04:00

I am on the kitchen floor pouring bleach under the sink cleaning up one of the small acts of rebellion my house been has performing these past weeks.

Zack walks up behind me and hugs me.

"Mom, can you tighten the chain on my bike?"

Tears come to my eyes (not from the bleach vapors), I wipe my hands and hug my son.

"You're the best thing in the world, I love you," I tell him and kiss him on the head.

He looks at me, sweaty and puzzled.

"Just that you would think I would know how tighten the chain on your bike... just that you would think that, it's so beautiful, it brings tears to my eyes..."

He hugs me back, then slowly and quietly backs away, leaving me alone to fix to the project at hand.

Camp Art of War

2011-07-05T13:30:00.001-04:00

Zack and I are celebrating Independence Day weekend by studying military history and building forts.

He builds the forts.

I attack them.

Sometimes I come in and hang out and pretend to fall asleep. Then I attack him.

Sometimes I jump through the ceiling. I win.

Sometimes I send in good things to eat, and tell him I killed him. Score.

Once I attacked him crucial fortification with a Spongebob ball calling it a "naval bombardment"

Today it was my turn to build a fort. My fort was square, like the Alamo, and had a yoga mat on the bottom because I hear most of war is spent waiting and waiting so I didn't want to be in the "dirt."

Zack curls up next to me, like a good son should.

I tell him stories about people just like us who lived a million years ago caves and painted on the walls.

What would you write? I ask him, not at all trying to be a teacher or professor or anyone who had a right answer in mind.

"I'd write F.U. British!" Zack said, then he killed me.

Veteran's Village: Good News and Bad News

2011-07-01T16:51:00.000-04:00

I have great, heartwarming news.

My students came together to assemble and deliver about 50 bags of groceries and $200 in gift certificates for the food closet at Tallahassee Veteran's Village.

We want them to know they are part of our holiday, that they are remembered and included and that we are thankful for their service.

I took pictures of the food in my office (below) but my hands were full once we arrived at Veteran's Village.

A gentleman there offered to show us the Food Closet.

Kori, Anthony, Zoe, Zack, Margie and I climbed the stairs behind him and peeked into the room,

That's where the bad news comes in.

The food closet is the size of a large walk-in closet, lined with wire shelves.

The food closet was, for all practical purposes, bare.

There are rows and rows of creamed corn. And there are rows of canned regular corn. The only food in the dark refrigerator was husks of corn, which I was told were expired and would be thrown out.

Other than a few cans of green beans and about ten boxes of off-brand rice-a-roni, the shelves were bare.

We brought a lot - PopTarts and cereal and sauces and boxed dinners and brownies and cookies -- but the Veteran's Village food closet needs more. A lot more.

They need milk. They need bread. They need eggs. They need a little bit of help from a lot more of us.

Please consider donating to the Veteran's Village, and choose to serve those who have chosen to serve their nation.

For Whom the Stars Shine*

2011-06-28T19:43:00.002-04:00

Many years ago – 15? 18? – right before the long drive back to Tallahassee, I snuck into my parents’ room and stuck a constellation of glow in the dark stars above their bed to ease our bittersweet parting.

Mom called that night – or was it the next? – giggling. She’d loved the stars because they reminded her of when I was 4 and reached up and grabbed a star for her in a moment of unleashed gushing mother worshipping love.

My Mom then snuck some glow in dark stars onto the ceiling of Abuela’s room.

Don't ask me for a more specific story than this, because I’m not sure how it went over way back then. Really. I had a dissertation to write, I was busy being in my 20s and and also that was the “old days” when communication was clunkier.

I bet that at first pobre Abuelita must have thought her eyesight was going wild, or that she was becoming like Cuca who went blind and then would see and talk to a handsome man who was invisible to us all but drove her absolutely wild.

I got the impression he courted Cuca and loved Cuca, and entertained her endlessly. As far as I could tell, she was the happiest vieja in the “home” and if I go even a little bit crazy please oh please let me go like Cuca went! Anyway.....

Whether Abuela loved those crazy stars or not, they stayed on her ceiling shining over her for the years she suffered a little, then a little more, then so much she jumped past the stars and left us all here.

Last week in the silence of a hot summer night, those stars I had forgotten all about shined down on me for awhile, and I laughed (again) (alone) with my Abuela, and in my heart I told them goodbye and let them be free*

Like Teaching a Fish to Ride a Bicycle*

2011-06-19T18:26:00.001-04:00

As the football spirals down perfectly into my hands with a delicate amazing accuracy, she cheers. “That’s right Mom, catch it with your hands, not your body. Aren’t I good at this?”

Both of our faces get sweaty and red as we pass the ball between us 15 times without dropping; 26 times without dropping it; 31 times without dropping the ball.

“You are. Amazing.”

I can’t talk in full sentences because it’s 101 outside and also because I only recently discovered that my Magic Bullet (blender) makes the best 100 calorie frozen margaritas in the world and if I talk more I’ll talk myself into going back inside and making one right now.

A little voice (mine) the size of an angry Leprechaun (have you ever seen a female Leprechaun? I haven’t. I know there is only one girl Smurf, and I was taught to believe Smurfs are communists even though they are blue not red. Anyway…) says to me, “Throwing a football?! What a waste of time an talent on a girl. This is like a fish that likes to bicycle. Not natural, no good, no point. Anyway, why the hell are you teaching her to throw a football? Where’s her Dad? What’s wrong with this world?”

I’ve had bad thoughts like these before. Like everything else in the entire universe, they pass. I stand out of the storm of thoughts like a pedestrian standing out of the rain, dry, peaceful, observing.

I let go of wanting anything more than this, here and now, and toss the football ball back to Zoe, trying to look all intimidating and Quarterback-like.

It’s a dead-on spiral. Whoot! She cheers and catches it, spins the ball to get the right grip, then reloads her arm, aims, and throws it back to me.

It goes above my head but I reach up and grab it then strike the Heisman Pose.

We laugh and go in to get ice and ask for nothing better than this, today.

Camp Mommy: 6 Pack After Lunch

2011-06-14T18:35:00.000-04:00

After the shower I walk out with a towel my head. Besides that, I'm fully dressed because I know better than to expect privacy once I open the door.

Every time I close my bathroom door the children are pulled towards it and held in some 15 foot hover-zone.

Zoe is editing a video (loudly); Zack is shirtless laying on my floor in sit-up position on my yoga mat, his feet are tucked under my heavy dumbbells.

His "major goal" this summer is to get a a 6-pack of hard abs and pretty much will do any exercise you tell him will give him a 6-pack (including the very ab-specific carrying of groceries in from the car, try it, no joke).

As he exales, he says "Siiixxxxxxx" then back down, then up again, "sevvvvvennnnnn......"

I cock my head.
My special Mother senses tell me this is wrong, all wrong.
He can do better.
I must show him how.

"Zack, whenever someone walks in on you exercising, you must immediately go to 127. And say it like you're super happy and out of breath at the same time..."

He lays back, and starts to do a sit up but I stop him "WAIT, NO, I have to leave the room!"

First I think to take a step backwards and go back into the bathroom and blowdry my hair in this peaceful eye of the storm. But it's too hot in the bathroom, so I walked across the room and out the bedroom door and closed it behind me.

I walked in and Zack, perfectly on cue said, "127!" and Zoe and I laughed.

Then he went back down, and on the way back up, said "NNNNNinnnnnnne"

"What? What?" I said, "Do you know what happens to campers who try to outsmart their Camp Director and fitness trainers?" and I threw myself down on the floor and wrestled with him and tickled him until both our stomachs hurt from laughing.

Churros for Peace

2011-06-10T17:45:00.003-04:00

Zack and a neighbor are playing Mariokart. Zoe is reading. I order delivery Cuban Food and thank God for the USA.

The doorbell rings. I pay.

"Cuban food is here!" I announce.

Zack turns to his friend and says, "We are Cuban. That makes us Hispanic....I hope you don't want to kill us now that you know that.... I read about a lot of murdered Hispanics.."

His friend keeps racing MarioKart and says something like "uhhh ok"

I slip the guy a still-hot churro (the one that would have been mine...) just for insurance, anyway.

So far, peace reigns.

Churros for Peace

2011-06-10T17:44:00.000-04:00

Zack and a neighbor are llYing Mariokart. Zoe is reading. I order delivery Cuban Food and thank God for the USA.

The doorbell rings. I pay.

"Cuban food is here!" I announce.

Zack turns to his friend and says, "We are Cuban. That makes us Hispanic....I hold you don't want to kill us now that you know that.... I read about a lot of murdered Hispanics.."

His friend keeps racing MarioKart and says something like "uhhh ok"

I slip the guy him a still-hot churro (the one that would have been mine...) just for insurance, anyway.

So far, peace reigns.

HERO Scholarship*

2011-05-28T10:32:00.002-04:00

TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (May 26, 2011) – Tallahassee Community College has established the HERO Scholarship, designed to help students who have overcome heroic odds pay for their college education. The driving force behind this scholarship is TCC professor Dr. Melissa Soldani-Lemon. She has made a significant personal pledge over the next ten years to initiate the launch of the scholarship.

Dr. Soldani-Lemon was inspired by the students in one of her American History classes to create the HERO Scholarship. David Lowe, a triple amputee Vietnam veteran was a student in her class when he tragically broke his femur just weeks before the semester ended and his injury forced him to drop out. He spent 19 months in a Veterans Affairs clinic rehabilitating from his injury. During this time, his classmates assembled care packages for David and other veterans in the clinic to demonstrate their appreciation for the veterans’ service.

Finally healthy, David was ready to return to campus this fall and finish his dream of receiving his college degree, but the financial cost of college was a problem. Seeing the need for additional support for our country’s veterans and the outpouring of support from David’s fellow classmates, Dr. Soldani-Lemon was moved to create the HERO scholarship, to help students that have overcome incredible odds attend TCC.

“Going to college is an act of optimism, and supporting someone else is a courageous act of optimism,” Dr. Soldani-Lemon said. “We cannot do enough for our veterans here at TCC.”

David Lowe is on track to return to TCC in the fall of 2011 with the help of the HERO Scholarship. He intends to finish up his final few classes and graduate in the spring of 2012. David plans to walk across the stage—against all odds—and accept his college degree from TCC next spring.

Dr. Soldani-Lemon believes that, “The HERO Scholarship is a measure of this institution. We want to do more than just help our veterans, we want to welcome them and ensure their success.” The HERO Scholarship and the newly opened TCC Veterans Center exemplify TCC’s commitment to veterans.

Those interested in supporting the scholarship can visit www.tcc.fl.edu/foundation and designate contributions to the HERO Scholarship or learn more about other scholarship opportunities. For more information, contact Ranie Thompson at (850) 201-6064 or thompsor@tcc.fl.edu.

The Best Lunch that Day

2011-05-20T18:18:00.000-04:00

It had been too long since I'd seen David Lowe, the Cool Shiny Man.

For the better part of two years, I brought gifts from the TCC community to ransom him out of the VA and bring him back to campus so he could rejoin the community and -- above all - graduate.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSK3xYx7IcM

So I invited him to join me and my kids for a very late lunch which happily turned out to be my third lunch that day.

When we arrived at Sonny's before David, I asked the host for a table that would accommodate his wheelchair. They moved a chair out of the space so that he could pull up easily. Zoe and Zack and I were deeply engrossed in an iPhone app that is a pretend friend who is pretending to text you when Zack shouted "there he is!" and Zoe added "in the HAT! and he's WALKING!"

I jumped up.

I'd forgotten.

I couldn't believe I forgot that he was better, that he could walk, and of course he would walk.

Before he could arrive at our table, we'd slid a chair in for him and the kids never mentioned a word about it.

The conversation was the usual.

What to order, how the kids are, and why he isn't going to summer school.

We sit in shocked disbelief as David explains how new million dollar arm has cool attachments like hunting knives and fishing poles. Then the conversation turns to his classmates, mutual friends and then his family.

David's niece, he tells me, is very into genealogy, a secret passion of mine that I've decided not to explore until I finish two books and somehow have someone ask me to leave the country.

I won't leave the US without an invitation, it's my quirk.

David and I fall deeper and deeper into a conversation while passing the bottles of bbq sauce between us.

We both admit to being closet Genealogists and we both watch that awsome series "Who do you think you are" where people like Sarah Jessica Parker, Lionel Ritchie and Rosie O'Donnell traced their family history and uncovered amazing things.

While this is going on, I can't help how quiet Zoe is being. She is across from me, her face in what can't quite be called a scowl, but definitely frozen in disapproval.

This is strange, I tell myself and then silently try to figure out what could be going wrong here.

I know it wasn't David - she loves him.

I know it isn't the food - she cleared her plate.

I know it wasn't my fashion -- she approved my outfit before we arrive.

I mentally step out of our conversation for a minute and certified there was no cursing.

Finally Zoe can't help herself any longer.

She stands up from her side of the table, walks around behind Mr. David and whispers in my ear, "I do NOT think it's appropriate that you are talking about vaginas."

I look back at her, stunned.

She leans in close to my face, and whispers sternly "Gynecologists are vagina doctors, I know that Mom. Change the subject."

David and I laugh, and then Zoe understands and laughs at herself.

Soon after that, our late lunch ends and we go off our separate ways, me with my kids and David with his freedom and fishing rod.

Small hours, small talk*

2011-05-18T20:51:00.000-04:00

It's no secret around my house that I can't sleep.

I think it started the night President Obama kept us all up with the announcement about Osama bin Laden.

Really, as a responsible parent himself, I think he might have considered waiting until maybe 10am on Monday -- a SCHOOL DAY -- fter everyone got their kids to school, got themselves a decent cup of coffee and shook the weekend out of their brains.

But no, since the President decided to keep me up that Sunday night, I pretty much have been waking up in the middle of the night on my own, wondering if maybe the world is passing me by a little.

I write a little, watch tv more than a little, and on more than one occasion I have eaten Pop Tarts.

Anyway, Zack begged me to please wake him up the next time I couldn't sleep so that the two of us could talk. I agreed.

Last night, it happened again.

I woke up at 1:20am, put away dishes, folded laundry, watched Nurse Jackie, and ate a bowl of chocolate chip cookies crumbled into Heavenly Hash ice cream.

As 3am was running into 4am, I was still wide awake, but hoping for some rest.

I set my iPhone alarm for as late as I could possibly imagine sleeping and still getting the kids to school, tucked a pillow under my arm and headed to Zack's bunk bed.

He was sleeping on his back with his arms folded behind his head, looking like an angelic version of Huck Finn.

I slide in the bed next to him and pull the Transformers blanket over us.

I whisper soft enough that if he's in a really deep sleep I won't bother him. "Zack, Zack, I'm here! Mommy is here! I'm ready to talk!"

He slides one of his arms around mine and moves his face to nuzzle on my arm.

I think he's probably asleep, but I try one more time. "Zack, I'm here, It's the middle of the night. What do you want to talk about?"

Zack squeezed my arm in a small hug, then let go. As he rolled over he mumbled, "Turns out I don't have anything to say just right now."

Magic Bullet Chronicles

2011-05-05T17:38:00.000-04:00

My kids have been entertaining themselves like angels while I pour my attention into getting ready for online courses that start Monday. They know there will be pizza at 6, and until then, they're on their own.

Zack wanders around the kitchen deciding to make himself a snack.

"Anything you want," I tell him, "Just make it yourself."

"Even a chocolate shake?" he asks and I laugh.

"Sure, but we don't have the ingredients. Sorry," I tell him while writing "interesting" feedback for incorrect answers to a multiple choice question about the Federalist Papers.

While I disappear into my virtual classroom, I don't notice him assemble milk (oh yeah! I bought that!), ice cream (oh, in the freezer, who looks there?) ovaltine (we had that? I'm impressed) and chocolate syrup.

I take a break and join him for the scooping and the pouring part.

Yes, he should be independent, but in my reality I end up cleaning up after that "independence" so it's better to gently join in at the beginning before chaos can ensue.

"Do you want me to use the blender or the magic bullet?"

He shrugs while I pull out the small hand blender someone gave me for a holiday (Really. Someone gave *me* a kitchen appliance. For a holiday. I guess they had some eggnog before hitting up Walmart. But that's not the point of this story, so read on.)

"That one?" I hold up the magic bullet.

He nods, and asks, "What's it called again?"

I look down at his first grader toothless freckled face and smile, "Just call it whatever you want...." and go back to scooping the ice cream and miss the look on his face while he thought of what he said next.

Zack then announced -- without much consideration, I might add, as though he had been waiting for just this opportunity to name some thing that might need naming and hooray now it arrived -- "Yay! I'm going to call it PENIS!"

It's Time for a Parade (at least)

2011-05-03T13:45:00.002-04:00

I found out when I woke up around midnight to check to see if I'd set my alarm for the morning, making sure I'd have enough time to get Zoe to school on crutches and escort her to the rehearsal for her 4th grade play.

Everyone in my world knows not to bother calling me late, that my phone and my brain turn on before dawn and off at dusk.

That's why it was weird to see I had 4 unread texts.

5/1/11 11:05pm Text #1 (K): Don't you wish you had lecture tomorrow?

I blink hard and smile. How sweet! She was right, I did wish I had lecture tomorrow. I love teaching history. It's ridiculous how happy I am when I'm lecturing, but the next day was the Monday after Finals week, the day semester grades were due. so no more lectures until August 29. I'm not awake enough to reply with more than a smile and yawn.

5/1/11 11:10pm Text #2: (Mom): Are you watching CNN?

I wrinkle my nose and blink. I'm thinking a Kennedy Special is on. Or maybe more stuff about that wedding over across the sea. It was stranger for her to text me this late - she knew I probably wasn't awake or watching CNN, so I replied to her text with a silent "no."

5/1/11 11:11 Text #3: (C) Osama bin Laden dead.

Now I'm awake. And a little sleepy so I read it again to make sure it didn't say "Saddam Hussein" or "Franklin D. Roosevelt."

I read it right. I didn't answer, because it wasn't a question.

Then my favorite text popped up, the one that got me up out of bed.

5/1/11 11:11 5/1/11 Text #4: (C) We killed him.

I sprung out of bed, landed in front of the TV and scooped up every bit of good news I could with a big spoon and a bigger smile.

I wanted to know then -- and I want to know again, now, when we can we have the big Parade?

No Argument. No Winner. (But I Won)

2011-03-31T17:46:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting quietly in my green writing chair, working on a picture I've been painting.

He walks over and looks at it.
I say nothing.
Maybe he'll go away.

Then he looks at me.
I still say nothing.
Really, maybe he'll go away.

Then he looks in my hand.
I say nothing (brilliantly, by this point, I might add -)
Really, doesn't he have somewhere to go?

"Is that your new Sharpie?"

"Yes!" I smile and admire (again) the handy chiseled tip that helps me make funky artsy letters.

"Well......that's NOT a Sharpie," he says, and then spins on his heels and walks, clearly away satisfied his message has been fully conveyed.

Because I don't bother contradicting him with reality (example: the words "Sharpie" on the pen), I win the argument and the universe rewards with more time (alone) to draw and to write, happily and quietly.

Let go. Grow.

2011-03-31T07:50:00.000-04:00

For eleven days it lay broken on the floor, a shoe with its heel twisted at an impossibly wrong angle, a crime scene that would make any Jimmy Choo-loving woman wretch.

My favorite shoes suffered this break on a particular day when I was lecturing for another professor. After class, while I was turning off the computer, I leaned back on the heels of my gorgeous high heels and (forgetting they aren't made of steel...) "click" the heel popped off.

So off I hobbled, to my office (no extra shoes there) to my car (nope, no shoes there) then home, where there were shoes... but not the ones I wanted.

That's OK, I told myself. Be open to new shoes. The universe is full of wonderful things, make room for something new....

I placed my broken shoes in a corner, by my home office, and tried not to look at them.

But despite my best efforts and best intentions, I just couldn't throw those gorgeously carved wooden platform leather topped shoes away.

Then again, I couldn't fix them.

These awesomely perfect shoes were a super amazing sale find of $12. It would make more sense to buy new (cheap) shoes than to bring these (cheap and broken shoes) to the dreaded shoe man (with that awful shoe smell) and ask for help.

For almost two weeks, I shopped and shopped but no other shoe had the right heel, the same lift, that exact color and texture that made me smile.

Nothing looked good enough. Nothing looked right. I didn't even try a single shoe on.

(Note to self: "investigate serial shoe monogamy")

Then yesterday a surge of courage and hope rolled over me.

I picked up the tube of Gorilla glue that normally terrifies me (what if it spills? what if I glue the washing machine closed? wonder what it smells like.....?) and decided that I would find a way to stick that heel back on.

At first it didn't work, but I tried again with more glue and a steadier hand until the heel stuck back up against the rest of the shoe, flat, strong and stable like it should be.

So if you see me smiling a little more than I should be today, you'll have to forgive me -- I'm wearing my favorite shoes and thinking about what they taught me.

It's great to let go and grow, but some things are worth fixing.

Camp Mommy: Under Attack*

2011-03-24T16:07:00.000-04:00

It is after lunch and before what would be afterschool if they were in school which they are not because its Spring Break.

Zack is sitting on my lap quietly.

We rock back and forth, silently. He's tired, I'm tired.

No, maybe not tired. Peaceful.

Yes, the two of us both feel calm and peaceful.

The spell is almost broken by loud metallic crash in the other room, and Zoe almost-cursing (Dannngggrrrrrr...UGH!) in a loud whisper to herself.

She doesn't call for either of us.

She doesn't say she's hurt.

I can hear her breathing heavy, like she's lifting or pulling or fixing something challenging.

Zack and I stay quiet, still slowly rocking back and forth, resting in each other's peaceful company.

Then I hear her a loud dial tone come out of the speakerphone in the other room.

So... it sounds like she hurt herself.... trying to dial the phone?

It seems so, Zack answers quickly, then hugs me, as if I even a little bit had entertained getting up and saving Zoe from the horrible dangerous phone.

We laugh together for a minute, then he slides off my lap and slips away to bug his sister, as if inanimate objects weren't enough for her to battle on this lovely day at Camp Mommy.

Camp Mommy Day #1: Big (Crafty) Love

2011-03-21T17:36:00.002-04:00

I leave the house early early and shorten office hours to spend time with my kids who are on their Spring Break (which is never the same as my Spring Break, but I've had Spring Break every year since 1986 so I'm not complaining).

Two minutes after the sitter leaves the house, both of my normally happy kids are twisting and climbing around me with complaints like sticky thorns... what is there to DO? Where are we going to GO? But I'm BORED!....

So I packed the kids off to Michael's Craft Store, telling them I was going to buy plastic flowers for our yard because Tita said they use them in Cuba and it really works.

They believe me.

So the three of us walked around that store for a good hour while I picked up 50% Daisies (in teal, in white, in orange, in purple, in black, in pink) and then Irises and then Petunias and matched them in bunches and them in rows and considered them and put them down.

Then decided I couldn't live without them and generally pretended that I would really stick plastic flowers outside my house without the supervision of a real Cuban.

In between all of that general wandering around, we find cheap things for the kids to do and make.

Of course, I didn't buy the plastic flowers. In my entire life I have never been seized (more than once or twice) with the urge to buy plastic flowers. And that was the 1990s. And I've put that all behind me.

$11 later and we are home, each kid armed with 50% off craft supplies and happy mood from a nice car drive on a sunny day.

This means one thing. Time off for Mommy.

I know, I know, in real camp, someone would supervise the children.

But I taught the Vietnam War this morning. I shaved my legs, I've had meetings.

My 9-5 is 5-1, and it's already 4pm and I have another shift (dinner, whatever, darkness, sleep) before repeating it all tomorrow. I slip away from the happy kids to take off my dress, take off my heels and put on my yoga pants.

I cuddle with a pillow and watch to the Series Finale to Big Love, listening every now and then to the chirping happy-craft-day-at-camp kid voices coming from the room.

I get thirsty and push pause, and leave my warm soft TV spot.

Just as I'm turning the corner I hear Zoe telling Zack (in a sugary sweet hushed tone extra nice nice way), "Remember you're not going to tell Mommy..."

So I bang my fist on the wall, causing them both to jump.

"Tell me, what? That you LOVE me?"

And they laugh, because that isn't what they were talking about at all.

We laugh together and suddenly it does feel like camp again, like last summer when we were all rested and relaxed.

I sneak back to my lunch break before the next shift -- dinner, whatever, whatever, darkness -- and watch the end of Big Love, then, because the kids were so happy, I got to write for a little while.

A Castro By Any Other Name...

2011-03-16T09:08:00.000-04:00

Before every unit I give a pretest.

This week, as part of the pretest, I put a picture this of Fidel Castro up and asked, "Who is this?"

In one class, two guys in the front blurted the answer out (in a "duh" tone; I think they thought I was really wondering who was in the picture!), so that class found out the answer quickly.

Out of my other two classes, about 50% correctly identified the man in the picture as Fidel Castro (not all spelled it the same way - there were a few "Kastro" and some "Feedels" and a "Phedel" that I decided to count as sorta correct).

23 students thought the image was Osama bin Laden
6 thought the man in the picture was Saddam Hussein
Stalin(3)
Tom Cruise (2)
Liam Neeson (2)
George W. Bush (2)
Lincoln, LOL
Middle Eastern Terroriots
Theodore Roosevelt
Kumar from “White Castle”
Che
Jimmy Frimmel
Hitler’s cousin Jimmy
Ben Linden
John Cock
John Cain
Jeff Clain
Jeff Swindell
Whodumwhosum
A smoky guy
Jose Cuba
Coy Moses
My Dad
Chiba
Rafiki
Casa Blanca

Faith

2011-03-14T17:15:00.001-04:00

In her perfectly still mind,

as empty and silent as the Grand Canyon,

she floated along

on the sound of extinct rivers

still roaring past

her beautifully carved and scarred

landscape

completely ready

and absolutely certain

of the water's

return.

Lunch Bunch 1: Leaky Princesses

2011-03-13T11:47:00.000-04:00

During my Spring Break, I join Zack and Zoe for lunch at their cafeteria, with their friends.

My son apparently has a harem or something like that because the closest boy to him is eight girls down the line of chattering first graders who all sit on the same side of the table facing empty seats where parents would be if they were visiting.

A tiny girl in front of my with angelic blonde hair and impossibly white teeth nibbles a cheese sandwich "with Mayo!" she proclaims, causing the girls and Zack to wince all grossed out.

They compare lunches, take sips and sit awkwardly.

I spy their high-class icepacks enviously. I can't find where they hide those suckers in the store, or/and when I do find them I think "oh, no, we don't really need new ones..." so I give my kids the same years-old battered and leaky blue packs, mummified in two feeble layers of zipped baggies.

I point it out to them. You have a soccer ball! Your mom rocks! And you have... an insulated sandwich holder! A+ supermom! And you have... a Princess icepack! Cold princesses, cool!

Zack and his harem all giggle, and I sneak my third mini-muffin from my son's lunchbox.

The girl with the soccer pack adds, "I used to have the Princesses! But they leaked...."

You had to throw it away? I ask, making an exaggeratedly sad face. I understand the sentimentality of the six year old heart.

She nodded, giggling and pretending to be sad. That is my cue. I take a carton of chocolate milk and hold it up as a toast.

A line of girls hold their juiceboxes and thermoses up. Zack smiles proudly, impossible to embarrass.

It's a good policy to throw leaky princesses away. We should all agree to that now. It's a good rule to have for life. No leaky princesses.

We high-5 each other and a cafeteria aid comes to stand near us and do this clapping thing that translates to "stop making noise, pay attention to me" -- and I stifle my frown. This is America, we are free to laugh, I want to say, but I don't because I know that's a lesson they'll have to learn on their own.

Out of the Closet & Easy

2011-03-06T12:09:00.007-05:00

Last week I dragged myself in for my infrequent eye exam.

I arrive to my appointment compulsively early as usual, check in, and walk along the cases of frames.

A man in a suit greets me and I tell him what I'm looking for.

"I love the glasses I have on now - I think they are awesomely Tina Fey. But I need another look, something different and something that goes with my blondier hair," I tell him while he appraises the shape of my face and nods.

I continue, "Ever since I became a blonde my daughter won't let me wear these glasses to pick her up at school. That hurts me. Deeply."

I feign a sniff of imagined indignity

He shakes his head laughing and asks, "You haven't always been a blonde?"

I lean over the counter, make sure no one is listening and whisper, "I just became one about a year ago but I feel like I've come out of the closet, like I've been a blonde all along and everyone knew it but me."

He chokes back a laugh.

They call my name and I tell him I'll be back.

I follow a cheerful pink-scrub wearing ponytailed 20-something.

I tell her I'm not going to enjoy this, and she doesn't care. I like that about her.

I tell her that I hate putting my chin on anything and staring into a box.

She says she understands.

I tell her I hate being asked (cheerfully, even worse) "Which is better? One?" "Two?" "Again?" "One?" "Two?"

And she agrees that it gets annoying.

Then I tell that I especially hate having my pupils dilated.

She tells me it's not that bad, that it's much lighter and gentler, and that I'll be fine.

I ask her, "are you going to use a speculum?" but she doesn't answer.

Or laugh.

When she leaves the room with my chart in her hand, I pick up my iPhone and with dilated eyes compose a tweet about that.

I feel better.

Soon enough, it is over, I survive and am rewarded with a prescription for new lenses that are "a little" stronger.

I return to my gentleman at the frames counter, who thankfully is not detained by someone trying on every frame in the shop.

I've been that person. The narrative went something like: Nothing looks right, nothing looks good, or if it does look good, it's too expensive so show me something that looks like the one I love and can't have but I'll never be happy with it...has it been two hours? I'm so sorry I just haven't quite found anything, but OH how about those? Oh? I tried them already? *sigh*

He greets me and asks me if I'd please indulge him and try a particular pair of frames he thought might look good.

Of course I try them on.

He's a professional glasses-picker.

I trust him.

They are red. They are hip. They are different. They are perfect.

"Thanks!" I say, take them off and hand them to him. "What do we do now?"

His eyebrows furrow. He doesn't understand.

"They're perfect. I know what I like, and I like these. Now what?"

He silently exhales all his sales-pitching and coaxing and coaching that he won'tbe doing.

I imagine he also happily pockets the patience I'm not going to drain from him, not today.

I follow him to a chair and stay on my best (translation: QUIETEST) behavior while he writes up the details of the order.

I think he's waiting for me to suddenly change my mind, or to freak out about money or something along those lines. I wonder if our uneventfully quick transaction disappoints him.

We shake hands when I stand up and he doesn't say it, so I do.

"You didn't think I was going to be this easy did you?"

He shakes his head, laughs and then waves at me as I happily leave the store and go back into the world, out of the closet and easy.

We Broke Up. Please Delete Me*

2011-03-05T16:28:00.000-05:00

Dear Pizza Chain,

I used to love you.I used to look forward to your thin crispy crusts and your cheap child pleasing cheeses.You were cheaper then, easier then, convenient and cheerful.

Then during last summer's gas crisis you raised your prices, and I said nothing, but I started exploring my options.

That same week -- you would not know this, but it's time I told you -- I joined Costco and I found dinners far cheaper and more interesting than you ever were. (Can you say "Tilapia?")

Also -- you would not know this either, but it's also time I told you -- I got this amazing sharp knife from my father this past Christmas, and I now I love cooking. Or at least, I love chopping. I'm looking for good pots and pans, maybe some glass bowls.

I don't know exactly what I'll buy, but I know I can't get what I want by turning to you anymore.

I can't say this any clearer; I've shown you with my actions by not ordering from you since before Christmas, and now I'm telling you with these words.

I don't want you to cook my food, I don't want you to bring me food, I don't want to eat what you cook. I want to cook my own food.

Please, please, stop texting me and emailing me and sending me mail bragging about your specials, promising me satisfaction, delivery, warmth.

Maybe you haven't changed, but now, to me, you seem greasy and actually kind of desperate.

I would be ashamed to place your box on my corner in the recycle bin.

If you have any dignity at all, please don't text me any more, don't email me anymore, and don't bother mailing me any more of your brightly colored flyers.

I am immune to your charms.

Delete me, Pizza Chain, forget we ever knew each other.

To My Students on Spring Break

2011-03-05T07:47:00.000-05:00

As you go where you're merrily going, please do me and the universe a great favor.

Be careful.

Wear your sunscreen, wear your helmet, wear your seatbelt, and wear your condoms [as relevant].

Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.

Don't drink and drive, don't drive and text, and don't put your precious life in the hands of someone who does.

We have many more stories to live and to tell, more laughs to have and you have so many more wonderful adventures on your path to becoming who you were imagined to become.

Be careful.

Disconnected, Connected

2011-03-04T08:50:00.001-05:00

The last time I saw my Mom we were both sick and coughing.

It was before Christmas.

Since then we've bridged the 500 miles between us with short (coughing) conversations, short email and even shorter texting.

Then the other night my Mom calls and asks me a question about something she'd emailed me and apparently I'd ignored.

"I didn't see that question," I tell her, unrepentant. "I get so many questions on email.... I feel like they're writing assignments....Or I glance at them and think I read them but I didn't... I'm sorry."

Mom doesn't laugh.

I hear her take a deep breath like she's dealing with a teenager and needs to choose her words carefully.

The silence feels like she is gathering her courage to say something difficult.

Finally she asks, "Melissa. Please. How can I better communicate with you?"

Now she has my full attention.

No one EVER talks to me that way, at least not since I got tenure.

So I finally push PAUSE and tell her the truth.

"Mom, I just discovered Kitchen Nightmares. I mean, all this time, I never saw it, and now I'm catching up and I'm watching two and three of them a day!"

Now we're communicating.

She suggests that I'd probably also like Top Chef.

I admit to watching Teen Mom 2, Pawn Stars, Hardcore Pawn, American Idol, Jersey Shore, Jerseylicious, Shameless, Boardwalk Empire, Tabitha's Salon Takeover, and as I'm trying to remember other things to make my confession complete, I add "OH! AND there's a new America's Next Top Model! Isn't that AWESOME??"

We giggle together, and then, finally, we talk about Abuelo, about Cuba, about things going on in our family, and we talk and talk until my finger itched so badly I *had* to undo the pause button and see Gordon stick his hand into a box of moldy fruit.

My Mom understood this compulsion, and we got off the phone, happily connected again.

My Other Place ---

2011-02-28T18:08:00.002-05:00

http://drsoldani.blogspot.com/

From GOD

2011-02-19T10:20:00.001-05:00

(From July 2007)

On Saturday morning I packed the kids into the car for errands.

By noon we were back home, Zoe watching TV in her room, Zack positioned at the breakfast bar to watch me cook.

Can I have a spoonful of icing?

Icing? No.
I save that for bribing you or rewarding you for being sooooo brilliant.
How about some muffins?

No. Yuck. Those are Zoe's.

Fine. How about some grapes. They're healthy.

How are they healthy?

I get some from the refrigerator, buying time for a great answer.

Grapes grow from the ground. They're natural. I deposit a plate of grapes in front of them.

Natural?

Yes. Grapes come from God.

He holds on up. GOD is in this grape?

Yes!

Zack pretends to hug the grape, then eats it.

Is God everywhere?

Yes.

Is God in your boobies?

I laugh and look down to admire them, then turn to the cabinet.

Would you like chocolate or vanilla icing?

Donald Duck' Awkward VD Poster

2011-02-18T18:37:00.002-05:00

WW2 VD Posters

2011-02-18T18:36:00.000-05:00

Please. Stop. Staring.

2011-02-18T09:37:00.000-05:00

I’m feeling much better and almost up to my usual breakneck speed.

I leave my office (and the line of invisible students who never seem to come to office hours) to check the faculty room for donuts and/or interesting people to talk to.

Before I can enter the room I see something that stops me in my tracks.

I spin on my shiny black patent heels that have cute rosebuds over the peek-a-boo toes and walk into the staff room.

Four women, of a variety of ages from 20 to 45 working by phones and computers look up.

I untie my scarf, then announce, “She’s staring at my crotch. I can’t go in there.”

They all stop. They are silent.

I repeat myself.

“She’s staring at my crotch. Inappropriately. I can’t go in there.”

Because no one gets up to help, I pull Charlotte up to see.

There, on the door, I tell her, pointing to the culprit -- an important flyer posted at crotch level that included a cool glamour-shot photo of the presenter.

Charlotte scowls for a minute then – in her magical way --- agrees with me while denying me …“Look at her gaze, clearly she’s staring at MY crotch…”

An artistically gifted work study student takes credit for posting the flyer, and at that the conversation turns to me, pulling my scarf on and off and on and off, retying it, taking it off again.

“Why are you flashing us so much today?” asks a beleaguered worker.

I shake my head. “Not flashing, deciding. Is this scarf too much for WW2? I think it might say Cold War.”

Another beleaguered worker answers, “No, wear it… it breaks things up.”

I nod, then agree, repeating her advice.

“Yes, yes, break things up for WW2. I’m ready…..” and off I go into professorland, fixing my scarf so it hangs straight down, covering every bit of my cleavage from that inappropriately staring woman in that flyer.

Turning On the Gorilla

2011-02-18T07:36:00.000-05:00

Valentines Day evening, 2006.

Long-suffering husband says "did you leave this note?"

Huh? I take a minute to respond, because if it's GOOD, I'm taking credit. I come from a family like that (Hi Dad!!).

It's a note written in crayon, taped to one of the columns between our kitchen and living room.

I have been BANNED from using tape on the walls by the "treat our new home with respect" Nazi, so I shake my head ADAMANTLY.

OH. It's a note from his step-mother, my mother-in-law directing us to look in the fridge, apologizing for missing us.

I don't read it to Chuck - I just head to the fridge.

THREE BOXES OF CHOCOLATE *and* a $50 bill.

Clearly the $50 bill is a traditional aphrodesiac, yes?

So I liberate the cash from fridge, put it in my bra, and shove the chocolate behind the milk and OJ.

ZOE SHRIEKS.

There is a life-sized stuffed animal in her room.

A life sized SHEEP DOG in her room, on top of a laundry-basket.
Guess what's in the laundry basket?

Enough chocolate to fuel a class of 5-year olds pushing a minivan up Mt. Everest.

I try NOT to curse.

I want to be happy for her. But my kids on chocolate are... miserably wound-up. Loud, aggressive, tearful. High, low, everything in between.

Chocolate brings out the latent teenager in them.

I get husband's attention, and direct him to grab a few bags and he shovels chocolate into them by the HANDFUL while I distract the kids who are now trying to pull each other around on the above-mentioned sheep dog.

Then Zack goes to HIS room.

You guessed it.

A life-sized GORILLA, sitting on a laundry basket full of chocolate.

He doesn't notice any of it, except for the fact that the GORILLA is holding a sheet of Dora the Explorer stickers.

I'm trying to figure out how to distract my son while rooting around for the 10 pounds of chocolate nestled under the gorilla.

Then Zack sees the gorilla, pokes it a few times, and says "Mommy, turn it on."

I wink at it.

Flip my hair.

Lean over to tell it a joke.

NOTHING.

So I slipped it the $50, wished it a Happy Valentine's day, and watched American Idol.

I'm the One They Warned You About

2011-02-14T09:15:00.001-05:00

I believe that one small act of chocolate kindness can make a ridiculously big difference in someone's day, so over my many years of professoring I've developed a ritual of bringing lots and lots of candy for my students on Valentine's Day.

Each year after I pass bowls of candies around my classes there is always a ton of candy left, so I've make it a habit and ritual to walk the halls of my building offering Valentine's Candy to students sprawled on the floor texting, students standing in the halls whispering, and other students generally milling around doing what students do in college hallways between classes.

And each year -- no matter what candy I offer -- students respond the same.

With widened eyes and serious frowns, they say "no."

All of them.

Always.

"No, no thank you, no candy, thanks."

I offer again, again and again.

And they always turn away a little and whisper again, again, and again, "No, really, no thanks..."

And as I walk away, I know what they're thinking, whispering and texting "FINALLY! A STRANGER just offered me CANDY!. I know I'm supposed to say NO to strangers offering candy, but no stranger has actually been kind enough to offer my candy, so finally I was tested and I passed the test!!! Yay! I passed the test!!"

So I take my bowl of candy back to my office, thankful to have played a small (and non-toxic) part in other people's holiday, and offer myself a small act of chocolate ....and laugh.

Happy Valentines Day*

Monkey Girl

2011-02-12T12:00:00.002-05:00

It's a sweltering Sunday morning in August, and I'm helping my friend pack her house into a horse trailer so she can leave Tallahassee, leave me, go far away and be a professor in Palm Beach.

That's OK. She will be happier there.

She hates moving, so I keep things light.

I brought drinks for everyone, and post-it notes so I could stick silly dirty notes into her boxes.

Around noon, her almost-fiance leaves with a friend to pack a bed from his house.

Power Man is an unusually large man whose "day job" is a powerful position.

He is a man who is used to commanding respect and holding people's attention.

He also is bigger than 300 pounds and completely bald... but I can't write that, can I?

No one has appointed him chief engineer of the moving van, but he has assumed that title and power that goes with it.

Each and every (motherf*ing) time his engineering hit a glitch, he called for Monkey Girl to climb over the boxes, through the little air space, over the headboards and move things.

Each time, Monkey Girl did what she was asked. Enthusiastically and proudly.

Monkey Girl is flexible, fits into small spaces, and gets a huge buzz out of winning small missions.

So anyway, off goes Power Man for an hour to get something.

Monkey Girl (a mover) and Ms. Jackson (the moveee) end up in the airconditioning.

Ms. Jackson (who, shhhh, has MS and fibromyalgia) gives me the look.

That look.

The one that says please please forget all the boxes, just use your strong and accurate hands to rub my back.

15 minutes later, Ms. Jackson is facedown on the floor in a pool of drool as I work yoga positions on and with her, stretching, pulling and threatening her muscles.

By the time power man comes back, Ms. Jackson is smiling, no longer in pain, no longer as anxious.

Monkey Girl? I need you to climb under that sideways bookcase, go to the other side of the mattress, stand on the sofa and dislodge that rocking chair leg. Then slip this rug between the two.

Fine. I grab the rug, hustle to my mission, thinking I'm leaving the lovebirds.

He follows.

Minutes later, drenched in sweat, I emerge triumphant.

He mops his face with a towel.

Where did you learn these amazing Monkey Girl moves?

I smile right into his beet red face.

On top of your girlfriend.

I flash him the peace sign, and dash back into the airconditioning.

Soon after that, I left the moving party, went back to mommyland.

But as far as I know, Power Man is still standing there, speechless.

Name This Dictator --

2011-02-02T13:30:00.003-05:00

On the PRETEST for Unit #2, put up a picture of Benito Mussolini and asked them to fill in the blanks:

This is ___________, leader of ___________.

Ten students (out of 76) correctly identified him by name and associated him with Italy.

The rest…. Well….. Here is a sampling:

Jefferson; US

Jerry King, Leader of Hitler’s Army

Fester Adams; ?

Hector; Guam

Mr. Clean; Russia

General Cobbs; Congress

General Cromwell; US Army

Lennon; Russia

General Patton; US Army

Hamler; Russia

Mow; France

Putin; France

Bob; Germany

Serious Man; Leader of Insane Asylum

Hugo; Bulgaria

Gorbachev; Russia

Jean-Paul; ?

Steve Wilkos; Russia

General Baldo; Japan

Sherman; Shermanville

Curly; Soviets

WW2, In Vivid Color (sorta)

2011-01-31T16:46:00.000-05:00

Today I put up a picture of FDR and asked my students: "Who was the President of the US during WW2 and how many times was he elected?"

Answers (in no particular order):

· Nickson. 3x
· Kenedy. 2x.
· John Hay. 2x.
· Bush. 2x.
· Franklin Roosevelt. 2x.
· Woodrow Wilson. 9x. (Nine? 36 years of Wilson?!)
· Abraham Lincoln. 1x.
· Adams. 4x.
· Truman. 2x.
· FDR. 2x.
· Theodore Roosevelt. 2x.
· Wilson. 3x
· Teddy Roosevelt. 3x.
· Nixon. “Was elected in harsh times.”
· F. Roosevelt. 3x.
· Franklin Roosevelt. 2x.
· T. Roosevelt. 2x.
· Grover Cleveland. 1x.
· Truman. 3x.
· Franklin Theodore Roosevelt. 3x.
· John Adams. 2x.
· Nixon. 2x.
· Eisenhower. 1x.
· FDR. A lot of times.
· A creepy old man. 3x.
· Hay. 2x.
· Johnson. 0 times. [1]
· Teddy Roosevelt. 4x.
· FDR. 2x.
· Teddy. “Elected in warfare times.”
· Franklin D. Roosevelt. 4x.
· F.D.R., 3x.
· Teddy Roosevelt. 2x.
· Lyndon Johnson. 2x.
· Franklin Roosevelt. 4x.
· Woodrow Wilson. 2x.
· Ford. 12x. Not.
· Hamilton. 3x.
· Nixon. 4x.
· Jefferson. 2x.

[1] Tricky.

Politely Looking Away: Wikileaks and Sneaky Peaks

2011-01-28T09:22:00.001-05:00

I just read an article about ROTC students not being allowed to read Wikileaks material. According Col. Charles M. Evans, commanding officer of the 8th Brigade, U.S. Army Cadet Command "using the classified information found on WikiLeaks for research papers, presentations, etc. is prohibited."

As a Professor -- an exceptionally curious one who teaches US Foreign Policy -- I thought I would wildly and vehemently disagree with Col. Evans.

I mean, who is HE to tell students what resources they can use? Who is ANYONE to limit academic inquiry?

Then I turned the question on myself.

When I first heard of Wikileaks, I drooled at the idea of so many raw primary sources waiting to be picked, read, analyzed, contextualized and (insert joyful sigh) synthesized.

I decided I would dive into Wikileaks documents and find a way to make an assignment so that my students (too many of whom think the Taliban, lead by Saddam Hussein, attacked us on 9/11/2001) could dive into the current wars and understand them better.

But despite my early enthusiasm, I still haven't created that assignment, mostly because I can't bring myself to read Wikileaks.

Why? The material there isn't for me.

It isn't for public consumption.

The documents on Wikileaks were stolen from my country, and I feel like reading it would be akin to poking through a neighbor's drawers or going through a student's purse when they leave the room.

Perhaps I'm waiting for the feeling that reading classified state documents is "wrong" to pass.

Until then, I will steadfastly and politely and patriotically continue to avert my eyes.

Death, Silk and Dust*

2011-01-26T09:33:00.001-05:00

It's an hour before my first lecture and I've been in my office since dawn doing the "things" I do in the morning (write lectures, answer emails, youtube videos).

My door is open for once, so I look up when she walks towards my door.

At first I think its one of my students (what? coming to my office before an exam? really??!) but it's one of our awesome departmental work study students.

I was a work study student in the History Dept at Loyola when I was an undergrad, so I take mentoring work study students seriously.

"I hear you might be mentally unstable today...." she says as she stops in my doorway, smiling face framed by heavy bangs and long hair.

I know exactly what she's talking about.

Earlier this morning as I walked by a huge round planter that I walk by ten times a day and stopped to feel some of the leaves of what I thought was a towering bamboo plant.

It was fake.

It was a fake silk plant, pretending to be bamboo.

Then I felt more leaves and there was definitely a dead bamboo plant in the planter, brown and dried.

On the bottom of the planter, dusty silk plants in purples and greens spilled over.

Mortified, I told the people who NEED to know (and they KNOW who they are) that there is a dead dead plant and a fake plant coexisting in the hallway and everyone is walking by it like it's just FINE to walk by death.

And they laughed.

So I laughed and went back to my office.

That's when she showed up and asked about my mental stability.

"Oh I'm stable, alright. My plants are ALIVE. And I have my new shoes on....don't worry about me! " (I lifted my leg up way above my head so she could appreciate the glory of these black clogs...)

"I guess you're doing fine then," she said before she left.

And that's how my day is going -- the usual mix of laughter, history, death, silk and dust*

The Last Sunday (Cow Penis) Supper

2011-01-25T07:50:00.000-05:00

Sunday went something like this.

I got up super duper early and -- because just this once I finally could -- I went to Publix just as it opened at 7am to do the grocery I've been putting off for over a week.

By 8am I am home again, lugging more meat and fruit and veggies than this house has seen all year. I unload, sort and put things away and settle into a long morning of grading.

Around noon I put a pork tenderloin in the oven and start pots of black beans and rice. Soon enough, the house smells like garlic and love.

When the roast finishes, I take it out and let it rest on the counter.

Zoe takes one look at it, and despite the fact that pork roast is her favorite food, pronounces it is a COW PENIS and she isn't going to eat it.

I try to tell her cows don't have penises. I try to tell her pork isn't cow.

She refuses to listen.

She refuses to even try it.

Zack looks at it (respectfully, and maybe a little awed) shakes his head and refused to even try it.

Fine, fine, I tell her to make herself a sandwich, and that I'm not cooking any more today.

She settles back into Hannah Montana (the LAST ONE EVER) and I finish grading my quizzes.

When I'm all done recording grades, alphabetizing them, and putting them away, I head to the kitchen to try the pork.

It is juicy. It is crispy. It's the best damn pork I ever made, so I declare a small holiday and make myself a sandwich with it on Cuban bread.

It's so good I want to dance while I eat it.

Until about two hours later when I got an outrageously bad feeding, dash to toilet and and throw it up.

Honestly, as far as throwing up goes, that wasn't the worst ever. It was fast and it didn't taste bad at all.

I remember when I was in labor for Zoe and I had just eaten a blueberry donut, then a minute later threw it up and it looked and tasted almost exactly the same. Laughing between contractions I announced that I finally understood why dogs ate their vomit. An hour later, I became a parent, and since then I've been struggling with what to feed myself and my kids.

Zoe stands outside the door while the waves of what I decide are food poisoning roll over me.

She comforts me with her words, and when I stop wretching, admonishes me, saying this is what I get for eating the cow penis.

I'm too tired to fight.

I nap.

Later, Zoe and Zack eat Subway for dinner.

Zoe has her usual 6" turkey with an entire salad on it.

Zack orders a 12' ham sandwich, uncut.

Uncut, I ask him, you sure?

Yes, he said, eyeing his sandwich in front of him.

I want it to be as big as that Cow Penis from earlier today, he says with a big smile.

And now you know exactly when and where and why I gave up on cooking Sunday dinner.

Sweet Solstice Eclipse

2010-12-20T22:20:00.001-05:00

What is sweet
about this December eclipse
is that
the darkness
will greedily win
(as agreed)
and cease its surge
to pause in
empty glory.

And then

-- every time --
(like hope)
(like faith)
(like love)
the silently strong sunlight
returns and grows.

Like Stairs Going Up, Up, Up

2010-12-19T12:54:00.005-05:00

On the cold morning of my birthday (today) after a warm breakfast with my visiting parents, I throw myself down onto the sofa and curl up under a fuzzy blanket.

“It’s my BIRTHDAY and I have the REMOTE all DAY!” I sing to no one at all because the kids are playing with Lady, a lovely borrowed dog who is with us for the holidays.

As I deliberately enjoy my ritual of flipping through wedding dress shows, WW2 shows, Pawn shows, news shows, home shows, cooking shows and funny animal shows, Zoe leaves the dog and Zack to their game of hide-and-seek and joins me on the sofa.

I sing it again, now that I have someone to listen, “It’s my BIRTHDAY and I have the REMOTE all DAY!”

Zoe smiles at my song and adds, “And you get to see Harry Potter today! Aren’t you exited?”

I mirror her super cheery smile, and in turn she pats me gently like I’m her old lady mother, feeble and frail, then asks, “Is today BETTER than last year’s birthday when a BUG went up your BUTT?”

While I give her question the serious deliberation it requires, Zoe takes the remote control from me without asking, out of habit, and is quickly transfixed, flipping channels. She pulls up my blanket and curls herself under it and around me.

Last year we spent my very cold birthday at Animal Kingdom, and I had a horrible cold and could hardly talk.

I should have stayed home but besides an awful chest shaking throat ripping cough, I felt really fine.

The highlight of the day was at the 4D show “A Bugs Life” where, after a cool 3D movie, the benches come alive, which I didn’t expect (would you?) and some Disney-imagineered bug went straight up my butt through my coat and my jeans.

In response to this surprise invasion I jumped and shrieked something like " EEEEEEEEP!!," which was so funny I laughed at myself and then started coughing uncontrollably so hard and ugly that people in the rows around me in all directions winced and covered themselves and their children with whatever they could.

Their general reaction would have been considered rude, but as we were in the midst of Spanish Flu Death Watch 2009, I could imagine a few people thinking something along the lines of "Dear Stars Above, oh Why? - oh Why? - oh Why? oh Why Did I Not Pack a Surgical Mask to Wear for this Onslaught of Plague from this Red Coated Blonde Weapon of Biological Destruction??" which made me laugh (and cough) harder, causing the the crowd to stampede worse, grabbing their cameras and running from me like paparazzi in reverse.

It may have only lasted a few minutes but it was the highlight of my birthday and my week, laughing and coughing and being unable to sit down out of fear that damn butt invading butt would rise up again.

“That was a good time. Today is better.” I answer Zoe's question, warm with certainty. It’s been an excellent, excellent year and even better year is coming around the corner, like stairs going up, up, up, of that I am sure,.

Motherhood's Silent Sacrifices....

2010-12-04T16:05:00.000-05:00

 I spent the morning walking around the house like the anti-Santa, tossing crayons rumpled papers and wrappers into a large used Target shopping bag.I did laundry, mopped and vacuumed around kids who ignored me except for turning up the volume on iCarly.

I'm not complaining about cleaning; I do it in a cute apron wearing heels (for "exercise") and playing Pandora on my iPhone.

The real sacrifice came today after laundry, after dishes, after making beds,  when I cleaned out the Freezer.

A single ice cream sandwich sat alone in it's box, the sole survivor of a slumber party feeding frenzy.

As a good (sacrificing) Mother, I took it upon myself to do the right thing with that poor grenade of a single ice cream sandwich -- eat it.

Quickly, silently, diligently, hiding in the kitchen like the out-numbered underarmed peacemaker that I am, I savored each sweet creamy bite of wisdom and peace. 
  

I had no choice.

 The kids would soon find it together during an iCarly iCommercial break snack-hunt and fight over who would get the last one.

No ice cream sandwich meant no fight, I thought, and no fight means peace love and weekend happiness in the house. 

I washed the chocolate stickiness off my hands, then folded the empty box and stuffed it into the big red bag of trash, then silently prayed to again and again be allowed to sacrifice myself this way as an instrument of peace.

7 Holiday Guests

2010-11-25T09:57:00.001-05:00

On Thanksgiving, the official start to the holiday season (which, in my mind, ends around the 4th of July) I get the impression these crazy people want me to cook for them.

I can't cook until the house is bleached down clean, and I don't feel like cleaning because, well, I'm the Mom and I say so.

Anyway, I have something more important to do – I have to warn you about the 7 guests that will be visiting you this long Thanksgiving Weekend.

Shopping. She might've hit your house three weeks ago, when someone went through recipes and "planned."

Maybe it will hit at noon when you race to that only place which is open to find that one thing you didn't get. For some people (the crazy ones we read about, the list-making planning people) She is a regular invited guest during the cold predawn hours.

To be brutally honest, I was hoping Shopping wouldn't stop by this year, and when she called me at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving my stomach hurt as I drove to Publix expecting it to be a loud bright crowded holiday nightmare.

It was quiet and empty. In less than 20 minutes, I got everything I needed for under $100 and was out the door. I enjoyed my time with Shopping and I hope she comes back to visit soon.

Cleaning. It's inevitable she's coming by, so you might as well prepare. She can sometimes be a bitch and try to keep you distracted all day (all week!) so watch out.

Before she arrives, set a timer for 30 minutes and get ready to work. Spray her favorite perfume around (Clorox Cleanup), clean off a few counters and toss some laundry in the wash. Or at least kick it completely under the sofa.
Take clutter off the refrigerator, sweep the Legos into the shoebox science project and put it all in the closet where you keep your board games (the ones with the missing pieces).

To make sure Cleaning doesn't stay all day and drive you crazy, I suggest you turn on some music and introduce her to your family and friends if at all possible. With all that attention, Cleaning gets all shy and slips away. (Then the fun begins).

Regret. He is going to show up, so be ready.

Maybe he will give you a surprise and unwelcome bear hug after you ate that last piece of pie standing up in the kitchen with your back to the chaos.

Maybe he will bring up the grief you hoped wouldn't visit today, reminding you of loved ones you can't see.

Perhaps he will just punch you in the arm and say "you deserve something so much better."

Hopefully he will not bring his favorite date, Punishment, because when they arrive together their idea of a good time is ruining the holiday for the rest of the guests.

You have two options when Regret inevitably arrives. 1) Spray Clorox Cleanup right into his (inviOn Thanksgiving, the official start to the holiday season (which, in my mind, ends around the 4th of July) I get the impression these crazy people want me to cook for them.

I can't cook until the house is bleached down clean, and I don't feel like cleaning because, well, I'm the Mom and I say so. And really, I can't clean this house (why should I?) until I write this story and tell you Happy Thanksgiving.

7 Holiday Guests that Will Visit Everyone Thanksgiving Long Weekend.

Shopping. This might've hit your house three weeks ago, when someone went through recipes and "planned."

Maybe it will hit at noon when you race to that only place which is open to find that one thing you didn't get.

For some people (the crazy ones we read about, the list-making planning people) it hits extra hard in the predawn hours.

To be brutally honest, I was hoping Shopping wouldn't stop by this year, and when she called me at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving my stomach hurt as I drove to Publix expecting it to be a loud bright crowded holiday nightmare.

It was quiet and empty. In less than 20 minutes, I got everything I needed for under $100 and was out the door.

I enjoyed my time with Shopping and I hope she comes back to visit soon.

Cleaning. It's inevitable she's coming by, so you might as well prepare. She can sometimes be a bitch and try to keep you distracted all day, so watch out.

Before she arrives, set a timer for 30 minutes and get ready to work. Spray her favorite perfume around (Clorox Cleanup), clean off a few counters and toss some laundry in the wash. Or at least kick it completely under the sofa. Take clutter off the refrigerator, sweep the Legos into the shoebox science project and put it all in the closet where you keep your board games (the ones with the missing pieces).

To make sure Cleaning doesn't stay all day and drive you crazy, I suggest you turn on some music and introduce her to your family and friends if at all possible. With all that attention, Cleaning gets all shy and slips away. (Then the fun begins).

Regret. He is going to show up, so be ready.

Maybe he will give you a surprise and unwelcome bear hug after you ate that last piece of pie standing up in the kitchen with your back to the chaos.

Maybe he will bring up the grief you hoped wouldn't visit today, reminding you of loved ones you can't see.

Perhaps he will just punch you in the arm and say "you deserve something so much better."

Hopefully he will not bring his favorite date, Punishment, because when they arrive together their idea of a good time is ruining the holiday for the rest of the guests.

Regret is a greedy and selfish guest who pleasures in taking you out of the moment. Unless this sounds like your idea of Holiday Fun, you have two options when Regret inevitably arrives. 1) Spray Clorox Cleanup right into his (invisible) eyes and chant three times "be gone!" or -- and this is the one I'd suggest 2) take a nice deep breath of the air that you actually live in. As you exhale yourself back into reality, Regret should start taking a hint.

Dancing and/or Football: While there is a .001% chance Dancing will bring her friend Romance and visit you under the moonlight, I promise Dancing (and/or Football) will visit you this holiday weekend.

Hopefully no one gets hurt.

Celebration. The Guest of Honor, Celebration rare arrives on cue.

She might come early, at the airport, in a tearful hug.

She could hug you when that awesome dress zips up.

She might show up late, when “they” packup and finally leave.

On a rare lucky occasion, she will show up at the meal intended for her.

If you recognize her and call her by name when you see her, Celebration will make herself a constant companion.

Generosity. Generosity is a shape-shifting guest who likes to disguise himself in gestures of patience and hospitality.

Make sure to leave extra room for him because Generosity’s constant companion is Gratitude.

Silence. The guest few people expect visits everyone, every year, and many of them dread it.

Sometimes she visits everyone at once, covering the table with an awkward stillness.

She may swing by when they all leave and you feel alone. (Please don’t take the wine if she offers).

She might be sitting on your chest when you wake up, alone.

When she comes to visit this year, please don’t be a rude host and shoo Silence away, because she’s just trying to introduce you to her best friend, Peace.

Happy Thanksgiving*
(I better start cooking now)

Ready, Set, Cuba*

2010-10-30T11:43:00.001-04:00

This Changes Everything

2010-10-29T16:00:00.002-04:00

You're not going to believe this.
I still can't believe this.
No one who has ever taken my class will believe this.
My Mom is going to Cuba tomorrow.
Which means I'm going to Cuba (soon).
I know, I know.
This changes everything.
It's like the Berlin Wall separating our family (and its history) has
been lowered enough to tiptoe over.

Tears and Pie

2010-10-24T10:17:00.002-04:00

Tears well up in Zack's light green eyes this morning.

He isn't himself; he isn't laughing or dancing or building intricately balanced bridges blocking access to the toilet and all exits.

I'm halfway through my first cup of coffee and now ready to be kind, so I ask my freckled first grader what's up.

He exhales and looks up, a heaviness falling on him.

"I had a nightmare...."

"Oh?" I notice a clump of Key Lime Pie in his newly shorn hair, behind his ear, and want to shout at his sister immediately (or at least send her a well-deserved stern look) but I hold my urge and sink back into his tearful green eyes.

"I dreamed....that....(he looked down, looked at the wall, then looked back at me) Daddy ordered Ranch dressing on my Subway sandwich...."

Zack took a step closer to me, vulnerable from his confession.

I don't laugh; I make a compassionate sad face, and he blinks back tears from his already wet eyelashes.

Instinctively I held my arms out and he climbed up cuddled on my lap, his skinny newly long legs and arms folding like the tines of an umbrella.

"What an awful nightmare, good thing it was only a dream!" I say, rocking him in my lap and kissing his head, pretending to stroke his hair but really plucking pieces of pie out of his hair.

Supporting Those Left Behind By Military Suicides

2010-10-22T11:25:00.001-04:00

Supporting Those Left Behind By Military Suicides
by Sarah Gonzalez

- October 21, 2010

A spike in military suicides has led to a renewed focus on prevention efforts by the Defense Department. But the surviving family members often have an uneven network of support that allows some to work through their grief, while others are left feeling angry and confused.

The Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors -- TAPS -- is trying to fill the gaps by bringing together families from across the country to share their grief and learn.

About 250 adults and children recently gathered at a hotel in Arlington, Va., to share their stories at the TAPS seminar for surviving family members of suicide by service members. Some traveled from as far as Alaska and Hawaii.

Adding Guilt To The Grief

For many, like Denise Coutlakis, the grief is still raw. Her husband, Col. Todd Hixson, committed suicide in October 2009. The 27-year Marine veteran of several wars had been home just three weeks from his only deployment to Iraq.

When Coutlakis got the phone call saying that her husband had committed suicide, she says she did not know what to do. "I didn't know ... how to get my husband's body. I didn't know what to do next, so I called the Marine Corps," Coutlakis says.

She made the call on a Sunday, and Coutlakis says it took a while for anyone at the base to respond. "They showed up at some point and ... started talking to you about, 'This is what you need to do to move on. [Here] are the things you need to do. Here are the services,' and it gives you a sense ... [that] you have a list of things to do," Coutlakis says.

But Coutlakis says the list did not help her heal, and the suicide only added guilt to her grief.

When a service member dies in combat or in an accident, Coutlakis says, "nobody looks at the family and says, 'What was their responsibility in this? What did they not do?' "

Maintaining Mental Fitness

Families are often the first witness of a soldier in crisis, according to Bonnie Carroll, the executive director of TAPS. She says that while military families need to know the signs of suicidal behavior, the military also needs to do more to encourage soldiers to get mental health treatment -- just as a coach encourages an athlete to see a trainer.

"We've gotten off track in that we don't allow our service member to do that for their mental fitness in the way we insist they do that for their physical fitness, and that has to change."

A Suicide Prevention Task Force was formed under the Defense Department last year to make recommendations on how to decrease military suicides.

Maj. Gen. Philip Volpe is co-chairman of the task force, and he oversees Army treatment and medical facilities. Volpe says one way to help prevent future suicides is giving service members more "dwell time" in between deployments "to reconnect and re-establish some of the bonds that may have been weakened and [to] get back to a sense of normalcy before they start training for the next mission."

One Of The Lucky Ones

In 2007, Army Spc. Jeremy LaClaire returned from his first deployment to Afghanistan distant and unable to relate to his family. His widow, Megan LaClaire, says the Army diagnosed him as bipolar. Less than a year later, he was scheduled to be deployed to Iraq.

"And he was not going to go is what he told me," LaClaire says. "He said he didn't care what it took, but he was not going back."

LaClaire's husband shot himself in the head on their living room couch the morning of their daughter's seventh birthday. LaClaire refused to cancel their daughter's birthday party. She says her military family helped her through the grief and enabled her to be strong.

"The Army has been amazing for me. They have done nothing but support me in every way possible. I was one of the lucky ones. A lot of people weren't that lucky," she says.

LaClaire lives near an Army base and always has access to the support resources offered there. Others, like many who attended the TAPS seminar, travel across states to get that same support. [Copyright 2010 National Public Radio]

To learn more about the NPR iPhone app, go to http://iphone.npr.org/recommendnprnews

A Proud Passing Victory

2010-10-20T14:37:00.001-04:00

Thirty minutes before the elementary school bell rings, spotlessminivans and SUVs line themselves up pristinely in the best spots intentionally leaving spaces between themselves so they can sit in their cars silently texing, especially proud of themselves and their passing victory.

(I'm the one in the green Santa Fe, right in the middle.)

Me, Surrounded by Tomorrow's Great Leaders

2010-10-19T17:14:00.003-04:00

I'm sitting outside revising my manuscript, just like I should be, and I am, but I have to tell you this, now.

Zoe is turning cartwheels on the front yard (not an easy feat on a hill).

Zack is riding his bike in lazy circles and figure 8's.

They chatter at each other, and I fall into my screen, into revising, cutting, deleting and then I notice its quiet.

Too quiet.

My kids are still like statues in this awkward thing little kids do when older kids go by their yards, pretending not to be self-conscious while holding their ground.

From the side of my eye I see three teenagers approach. One girl says to the other (loudly, as though to impress the boy it seems like they might be following around the block), "You KNOW, our feet aren't actually touching the ground. They never really do...."

Her friend agrees with her giggling, "Yes, yeah, I've heard that...." and they turn the corner, out of my sight, and the conversation goes with them.

The Personal is Political

2010-10-18T15:10:00.002-04:00

In this key election year, I am laser-focused on one and only one issue only: the complete prohibition of pleated-front pants and skirts.

Blow it?

2010-10-16T11:46:00.001-04:00

I just confiscated this interesting game that my son tells me came
from Wendys with his meal of a cheeseburger and fries.

Halloween is in the Air

2010-10-15T17:23:00.001-04:00

Zack is compulsively shopping online for his costume with an
emotional intensity usually only seen in bridezillas.

Promises, Broken... For a good reason.

2010-10-12T16:22:00.002-04:00

I promised myself that I wouldn't blog until I completely revised my manuscript, but I have something to tell you.

Actually, two things.

And one of them is about Mexico, so don't get distracted halfway through this.

Ready?

First. Blogger has statistics now, including a map of readers. Below is the list of countries by # readers. (NATO and her allies?)

Second. This semester I'm giving my classes "pretests" to find out what they know (or think they know) before we cover it in class. Yesterday I asked the students in a pretest, "When was the Vietnam War?" and a student responded "1940-1950" then added, "(it was in Mexico)."

Have a nice day!

Your Horse Has Diabetes (But I'm Much Better)

2010-10-05T18:48:00.001-04:00

During Prohibition, there was an urban rumor circulating that went something like this.

Once there was a guy named Mac who loved his gin and whiskey  so much -  he stocked up on a bottle a week (sometimes a bottle a day) during all of 1919 as the country faced the countdown to Prohibition.
 

Years later, when Mac’s supply ran out, he discreetly asked a few friends for a referral and had a few unfortunate disappointments before he found a bootlegger who brought him the smoothest,  mellowest moonshine they nicknamed “Mama’s Milk.”

Just when Mac was coming to rely on his new treasure, Mac’s bootlegger gets arrested. 

Or was it shot? Yes. He was shot. Dead. No more moonshine for poor Mac.

Instead of moping around, Mac gets an inspiration.  He fills a tiny shot glass with a sample of his precious remaining jelly jar of Mama's Milk moonshine and has a courier deliver it to the local pharmacist  in a paper bag with a discreet note (wrapped around a $1 bill) requesting all possible tests be done to determine the liquid’s content. 

Three weeks later, a thin envelope arrives from the Pharmacy: Your horse has diabetes.

When I finish telling the story to my history class, I pause for a second as students scribble pieces of the story down. 

Hands shoot up into the air.

A guy in the back row sitting towards the lecture hall’s back door asks, “Was it horse pee? Really?”

I shake my head.  "Urban myth. Remember? That’s how I started the story?"

Heads nod. Most of them understood. 

A few girls in the middle of the room  are still writing so I take another question.

A guy in second row from the back offers, “I peed in a bottle once. At a football game….”

I shake my head at the randomness of his statement and the class laughs.

He continues, “these people kept stealing our beer….” 

And this is it. I fall on my knees looking to the sky, silently asking "Why is this student telling us this? Why?"

 He continues, “you know those beer balls?....” and continues his college-esque story about punishing some random thieves with urine and, well, I didn't really listen because as I  allowed him (this once, and only this once) to ramble on, I remain my knees,  on the floor, holding my head like "I'm losing my mind, what do I do?"

I'm teasing. 

They know I'm teasing. 

I run my classes like a totalitarian dictatorship -- no cellphones, no computers, no talking, no tardiness, no getting up and coming back in. I do my best to not waste their time, so that we have digressed for less than a minute is forgiveable in the course of a semester.

After we laugh together for a moment or two, I pop back up, brush myself off and redirect our attention to Prohibition, then to the  Scopes Trial.  

I’m not sure the class knew it (they will know it now) but somehow, when I fell down today, I got back up whole again, laughing again and ready to write again. 

Its no coincidence the healing happened in my one class who already knows the whole story behind this book. 

Better Than Spongebob?!

2010-10-03T17:06:00.001-04:00

Zack bangs on my locked door yelling "MOM??? MOM!!! MOM??!!" until I
relent and open the door.

I expect to hear his sister is bleeding or the house is on fire.

He is standing in the bathroom doorway, feet tapping so impatiently he
almost dancing.

"Guess what? Guess who's on Family Guy tonight?"

"Spongebob?" I guess, and he frowns audibly.

"No, Mom, this is good! Guess?! GUESS!"

His feet continue their tango and I suspect he has to go to the
bathroom but I don't dare ask; he is six now, it's embarasing for his
mother to mention such private matters.

I play his game. "Better than Spongebob?! Who can be better than
Spongebob?"

He nods, feet twisting below him, and before I can compose a thought
he blurts out, "Oh my God! Mom!! Its Rush Limbaugh! Rush Limbaugh!
Tonight! On Family Guy!"

I adjust my towel and thank him with a motherly kiss on his forehead.
He looks up at me, completely still for a minute, then races away.

After that, I lock the door, turn the radio back on and get back into
the shower to finish shaving my legs.

Don't Blink *

2010-10-02T21:57:00.001-04:00

I overhear their chatter while i hunt for the missing pillow.

Zoe tells her brother about infant mortality, and that "every time you blink your eyes, another child dies."

Incredulously he asks, "Really? I'm killing people just by blinking my eyes? Cool!"

Zoe shakes her head and exhales visibly, tired from a long week of being a big sister.

*********************

Sent from my iPhone

(But not while I was driving....)

Soccer Mom

2010-10-02T08:04:00.002-04:00

The house is silent in this Saturday morning, except for the heavy breathing of children tangled up in bedclothes sprawled unselfconsciously across their beds (at least one of them is drooling, I know it without looking).

I'm up early because today is the big day, the day I thought would never come, secretly hoped would never come.

In just a little bit over an hour, my son has his first soccer game.

Like it or not, that makes me a soccer mom.

And I'm not sure that's who I want to be a soccer mom, so I consider sneaking back to bed, letting them all sleep late, tangled in their sheets drooling (happily).

I have a few more sips of coffee left, so I sit here in the almost silent house considering soccer, Saturday mornings, and other life changing things.

Is it a riddle?

2010-09-17T12:39:00.001-04:00

Q: What do you when you mix deer and turkey??

I DId it Again. Sorry.

2010-09-16T19:08:00.000-04:00

> Dear Zoe's Teacher,

> Yesterday I enthusiastically cleaned off all the papers on the
> counter and mistakenly tossed out Zoes wordlist, rendering her
> incapable of doing tonight's homework of putting those words in
> alphabetical order.
>
> I know this is her responsibility, but I feel awful.

> I watch Hoarders too much and have been overcompensating.
>
> Sincerely,

> Melissa (Zoe's Mom)

According to My Rules

2010-09-15T19:36:00.001-04:00

....this is cooking from scratch.

I had to even get out some aluminum
foil!

Interloper

2010-09-15T14:42:00.001-04:00

I am trying something brave bold and new.

Instead of picking my kids up at carpickup, I've parked my car and
I'll meet them in the courtyard.

Because I'm trafficphobic, I arrive twenty minutes early and back into
an easy to get out of spot.

So far three minvans (white, blue, copper) have slowed to a stop in
front of me, scowling slightly into my unfamiliar vehicle.

I think I might be in someone's usual spot.

I imagine a tow of ponytailed khaki wearing brunette usually park
here, next to each other, and my presence has wrecked their afternoon
chat.

Because of me, theyll probably drink too much tonight, maybe one of
then will burn dinner.

I could be wrong.

Either way, I hold my ground, sitting in my car alone and furiously
write something important. (This).