Joy & Pain

I am totally stealing this from my new favorite blog, FIPS (Fucked in Park Slope), so I must give credit where credit is due.

"Joy & Pain" is one of my favorite songs from high school. It reminds me of early high school when I was a cheerleader (9th & 10th grade) and how the JV cheerleaders cheered for the girls basketball team. We could ride the bus with them (no fear of hot lesbian trysts on the bus, I guess) and on the way back from games we'd listen to music. "Joy & Pain" and "It Takes Two" are the two songs that stand out to me. Robyn, Heidi, and I would sit in the back of the bus and sing different parts of the song. Robyn and Heidi were on the basketball team, and I got major cool points because they didn't think I was some perky cheerleader airhead. In fact, I remember someone else from the team telling me how surprised she was that I wasn't an idiot. Thanks!

Heidi died less than a year later in a car accident driving to school but singing "Joy & Pain" always reminds me of her. I'm sure she'd love this video. And that girl freaking out on her boy reminds me of high school drama all over again. Does it ever end?

An Awkward Beer of Reconciliation

Today Obama is supposed to have a beer--the universal act of manliness--with Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and Sgt. James Crowly to foster the spirit of reconciliation regarding the shitstorm Gates's arrest in his home caused nationwide as it opened up Pandora's box on racial profiling, the issue of privilege combined with race, and the insulting words of Obama on the police acting "stupidly."

I have thought about this situation a great deal as a teacher, another civil servant to society, who is constantly faced with "verbal abuse" for which there is no law against. In NYC, if a student hits a teacher it is a felony (of course, the teacher has to press charges), but you can call your teacher every name in the book of bad words and there are literally no rules about what should happen to you. Henry Louis Gates is the student in this situation. He was accused of something outlandish that rang of racial profiling, his pride was injured, and he lost his cool. Anyone with a smidge of history of police relations amid the African American community should know that this freak out was sparked by ancient beef and to let it/him go. Walk away. The student lost control; it happens....a lot.

Now the cops who freaked out in response to Gates freaking out are the teachers in this situation. As a teacher, when a student loses it about something and is yelling and screaming at me, especially if they pull the race card, I try to diffuse the bomb and have us all back to singing "Kumbaya" around the fire as soon as possible. Only in rare situations to I have to call security to remove a kid from my class. But let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen of the world, that is is FUCKING HARD to sit there and have someone yell all sorts of shit at you and not respond. You can feel your blood boil; you can hear the smart-ass retorts forming in your head; and the rest of the class is waiting for your response and you are modeling behavior for all of them while all you want to do is body slam this little jerk for causing such an uprising in your classroom. BUT....you have to take the moral high ground. That's just the way it is.

Obama is the principal here, and let me tell you, if my principal ever said to the school faculty at large that I had acted "stupidly" in a situation as difficult as the HLG Jr. situation I'd be pissed. First of all, "stupidly" is a very lame word. It would be on my list of banned words that are not allowed to be used in writing in my classroom b/c it's so lacking in pizazz. Secondly, you weren't in that situation Principal Obama. Yes, teachers do stupid things when put in situations when students are yelling at them, calling them names that make gangsta rap lyrics sound like lullabies, and it's hard NOT to respond. And sometimes teachers do stupid things and regret it (or not). But for the leader of the school to publicly denigrate the teacher like that is unacceptable and unprofessional.

So, here we have a bizarre triangle of emotion and stupidity from all sides. But I am most disappointed in Obama, I must say, and his word choice that not only insulted the cops on duty but cops nationwide. I am not a cop lover nor do I blast "Fuck the Police" from my ipod earbuds, but I don't think society at large understands the tightrope walk between authority and humanity that civil servants balance daily.

Good luck with that beer of reconciliation. Hope they chase it with a few shots of Jack Daniels.

My Teenage Daughter

Alexandra resisting Daddy's snuggle on her 2nd birthday


Adam and I joke that Alexandra certainly received the memo that she turned two. It happened about two weeks after her 2nd birthday, and then the sass and tantrums and roller coasters of emotion kicked in. About 99% of the time I just feel for her--she's struggling to navigate a whole spectrum of frustration, happiness, anger, and so forth and she's not sure how to do it. About 1% of the time I want to walk about the door and get a stiff drink--pregnant belly and all.

But it seems she also got the memo that she's two going on 16. What's up with that? Seriously, I didn't think this stuff would happen until her tween years at earliest. Things like:

1. "Go away, mommy!" as she ushers me out of the bedroom she has had for approximately one week. I am not allowed in the door. She slams the door. If I insist that the door remain open, I am not allowed to stand in the doorway or she gestures with grand, sweeping motions for me to move out of her range of vision. This just kills me, b/c I was VERY territorial of my room for about as long as I can remember. Karma's a bitch.

2. Fashion crisis every morning. "Socks! No socks!" has become the joking mantra between Adam and I as we try to get her out the door. "Yellow dress" is her new fave outfit, but she only has two yellow dresses and one yellow shirt and when they're dirty...oh my. "Purple shoes! Pink shoes! No! Purple shoes!" Believe me, it's endless. And I am usually negotiating all this after having been woken up 10 minutes prior. Ai, yi, yi...

3. SASS! I was telling her not to touch the fan yesterday b/c I don't want her to have stubs for fingers, especially when it comes time to date. She looked at me, walked over to the fan, touched it, walked away, then looked me in the eye and said, "I touched it." Seriously. I was thrown.

4. "Nooooooo!" (in reference to kisses). Of course, I don't take no for an answer. I made this girl and shoved her almost 10lb body out of my poo-cat and I'm going to kiss her when I want to--PERIOD. But lately the snuggles have become less than plentiful, and that kinda breaks my heart. Makes me happy to have a little mushy-mush on the way to snuggle and kiss 24/7, and I have heard that boys like mommy's kisses much longer than girls do...But dammit, I'm kissing that baby girl anyways. Try to stop me.

At least she's not smoking pot, going to second base, or drinking Boone's Farm yet...

Kathleen Lewis

Kathleen Lewis, a Brooklynite and beauty-product maker extraordinaire, passed away yesterday with her husband and her daughter by her side.

I had met Kathleen at a goodesign roof party, but more than meeting her, I am OBSESSED with her Stiff and Sore Muscle Massage Cream and have been for years. I buy it at my local athletic store, Jackrabbit, and push it like a vigilant drug dealer to any and everyone for athletic soreness, pregnancy ailments, and overall bodily woes. I want to dive into and live in Stiff and Sore Massage Cream. I met Kathleen's daughter one summer when she was working at Jackrabbit and was jealous that she had a mom who made such great product and a dad with whom she did Ironman Triathlons. Obviously daughter and dad got to be Kathleen's guinea pigs for this magical cream b/c it's incredible. Kathleen handmade all her products in her studio in Dumbo, Brooklyn. Awesome.

As much as I respected Kathleen and her business, she was also a truly compassionate woman to my friend, Kat, after she had her son. While everyone showered Kat with an inordinate amount of presents, all of us still reeling from the death of Kat's husband and our good friend Eric, Kathleen came over and gave Kat her time. She watched the baby so Kat could workout, go shopping, get a pedicure...I remember being astounded by that gift. So simple but so thoughtful and necessary at the time. And I love anyone who loves my friends.

Kathleen was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor this past winter and was told the worst news that can be given a living being--news we all know will happen but we deny it's looming destiny nonetheless--that she had a very limited time to live.

I wish Kathleen's family peace as they embark on their lives without her. I feel especially for her daughter, since I lost my dad in my early twenties and feel my life is clearly defined pre- and post-dad. Kathleen was a good, strong woman and her energy and creativity will be missed by many close to her and those of us who just knew of her. We should all hope to leave the world with such positivity behind us.

Lost

No, this isn't a post about my fave lead-you-on television show.

Somehow, in this move from one brownstone to the brownstone next door, we lost a big box of baby girl's stuff. A big box. A box that included a bin of all her blankets used when she was a baby that she was now using on her baby dolls (including the blanket my favorite Aunt Helen made her, the blanket that our friends Charlie and Laura gave us with our Moses basket, and more blanket-related gifts), a pail of sandtoys from friends Amy and James, a pail of cars bought at a stoop sale last year, and more stuff that I haven't remembered yet but I'm sure I will soon.

We are utterly confounded as to where this box went. I noticed it was missing right away, but Adam believed it to be stacked up with our books. Well, all books got unpacked today and it wasn't there. We looked in the cellar, but we didn't put anything down there that wasn't in a plastic storage bin--hence no cardboard box.

I find myself sitting here thinking that someone literally had to walk into our apartment and steal it, which is creepy and disheartening and weird and just plain wrong, but sadly not unfeasible. We are right next to a community center that houses a Park Slope daycamp site--there's a lot of foot traffic and some sketchy folks who work at the community center. We were shuttling stuff back and forth a lot, leaving doors open...Could that be possible?

But I'm strangely sad about this loss. I'd have been more okay with someone stealing a big box of my academic books which would = a lot more money but little sentimental value. But those were her baby things and toys she loved and now they're just gone.

I'll admit, but I did sit and cry about it tonight.

Sigh.

Christening the New Apartment

Our new apartment has been christened. And in spite of my testosterone-filled body, the christening did not take place by Adam and myself in a moment of post-moving bliss (I don't think we have had one of those yet--it's been more like divorce court trials around here...What is it about moving that makes you hate each other?!), therefore the christening came from Alexandra via...

...a poop in the bathtub.

Tonight as I was bathing her and she was bathing her baby doll, she strangely took her doll out of the tub and set it on the ledge. Hmmmm, I thought. New baby cleaning strategy? Then I smelled something but figured she'd passed gas or it was the gross smell my Birkenstocks seem to have picked up lately, but then I looked down and saw the floaters.

"Poop in the tub!" I hollered!

Alexandra looked up with a big grin on her face like it was Christmas morning. She kept repeating, "Poop in the tub!" over and over as I tried to make an escape plan.

I starting scooping the poop up with her shampooing cup, then decided I should actually get HER out of the poop-tub first, enlisted back-up from Adam, and then proceeded to chase the poop around the tub with the plastic cup (those suckers are fast). I then practically bleached the entire bathroom (so much for organic cleaning products).

Thankfully it was a pretty solid one (must be the bag of goldfish she ate for dinner at a friend's BBQ topped with Junior's cheesecake for dessert).

Welcome home.

Mr. Verizon

For those of you who haven't read of my recent testosterone-filled body and the increased friskiness it has caused, please reference here. For those who have, read on.

Last week I was given the ludicrous task of waiting for the Verizon guy to come hook up our DSL. Verizon is so generous that they give you a window of 8-5pm. I was not happy with this, but seeing as they "accidently" turned off our DSL a week early and I had been a slave to the few free wireless networks on my block, I was willing to wait so that I could go back to obsessively checking my email and facebook.

Well, luck would have it that Mr. Verizon called to say he'd be here at 10am! I felt totally liberated and relieved. Until Mr. Verizon walked through the door. MEOW!

DISCLAIMER: I have never had a hot service guy before. Cute, yes. Nice tush, sure. But the whole package....this was a first.

Mr. Verizon was tan, he was muscular, he had a sexy accent I couldn't place, he was friendly, had great teeth, was wearing a leather tool belt (I have a thing for men with tools)...I was literally giggling and starry-eyed and watching him like a hawk as he walked around our tiny apartment trying to figure out where to install the DSL wire. I was trying to be cool, but it probably wasn't working. I'm sure I came across as a lioness stalking some prey.

But the package became complete when Mr. Verizon pulled out the drill to end all drills, with a drill bit that was literally a foot and half long---oh my...the phallic symbolism was just overwhelming. He shoved that baby through our entire brownstone wall, muscles flexing, and I felt like I was at the beginning of a bad porno flick. I stood there with my mouth agape.

I recalled the story to hubby that night, literally salivating as I described Mr. Verizon, and he laughed at how insane I must have looked--big pregnant woman oggling Mr. Verizon. Husband is really getting a kick out of my hormonal surges lately.

And, today when moving, I heard a weird noise. I looked in the backyard and there was Mr. Verizon hanging from a telephone pole, looking like he should be wearing a thong instead of beige work pants...Can't say I didn't stop and stare for a while.