It’s been an incredibly busy week... hence, the lack of posts. Fortunately, I can now unwind and review posts that I wrote last week, but didn’t have time to edit. Then it’s off to Cape Cod for the weekend. Geez, I’ve got it rough.
Lots happened last week. So much happened, in fact, that I ran on six hours of sleep a night instead of my standard eight. And, that did not always make a happy camper.
On Tuesday evening, I joined friends at Central Park for a free concert by the New York Philharmonic. I took one of Ben’s large blue folding chairs that can be carried like a backpack because it had rained earlier that day. The chair is big on Ben, so it basically ate me when I put it on.
I went into Duane Reade (with chair on back) to get snacks for the concert and totally knocked out an elderly couple as I cleared a shelf of products. Tourists in buses snapped pictures of me as I blazed a trail up Broadway and flattened throngs of pedestrians and strollers that got in my way. The giant chair embarrassed me, but I knew the humiliation would be worth it once I got to the park and didn’t have to sit on wet grass. As it turned out, the rain never touched Central Park and the ground was dry. Typical.
On Wednesday night, Ben burst through the front door after a three day business trip and excitedly announced that an almost new micro-suede couch sat on the curb one block from our house. After living in the city for almost a year, I immediately grasped the gravity of the situation and we headed down the street. I inspected the couch as Ben gathered the couch’s history from the building’s doorman. Who previously owned it? Why did they toss it? Did they have pets? Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Then Ben realized the couch came with a twin size hideaway bed. Jackpot! Decision made. We hauled the couch off the curb and carried it home, where it now sits perpendicular to the floor and on its side until we decide which couch to keep – the Craigslist couch or the curb couch. Either way we’ll sell one and make some extra cash. Hopefully.
On Thursday, I survived the last day of school at both my Upper East Side and Harlem schools, a true feat. An achievement that tells the world “I worked full time in the New York City public school system and lived to tell about it.” Something that I will always refer back to when trying to one-up somebody.
We also managed to fly out of LaGuardia airport on Thursday night to make it home for a wedding that I was in over the weekend. When our plane landed in Louisville, I breathed a sigh of relief, happy that the week’s chaos was behind us and we could finally relax and enjoy the wedding weekend. Unbeknownst to me, the next morning, my crown would pop off my tooth and hit the mirror as I flossed my teeth before the bridesmaids’ luncheon. Ay yiy yiy.
Life is never boring. Never.
This might be the first time I have ever said this…
But, thank God it’s Monday.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Different Kind of View
Snapped a picture of my flip-flops. They looked so warm and happy as they basked in the afternoon sun at Central Park.
* I posted this picture with my readers' health in mind. Weak stomachs couldn't handle the picture of Ben and I - two albinos stranded admidst a sea of tan bodies. We reflected (rather than absorbed) the sun's rays that day.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Perspectives: Part III
Some kids are just extra cute. They’re cuddly and their parents wiggle them into colorful outfits with matching hair bows and socks. They're always polite, well mannered, and love to do their best. These kids bombard me when I enter the classroom. They sit on my lap and hug me, excited to show me the good work they’ve done.
I work with a lot of kids like those.
And, I work with a few kids who are all that and a little bit more.
As I helped one of my favorite little girls, she leaned against my arm and exclaimed, “Your arm cold.”
I replied, “You’re right. My arm is cold.” (Squeezing in that opportunity to stress the usage of a verb).
“It cold and shaky,” she said as she jiggled the fat of my underarm for the entire class to see.
Ah, yes, it cold and shaky.
I work with a lot of kids like those.
And, I work with a few kids who are all that and a little bit more.
As I helped one of my favorite little girls, she leaned against my arm and exclaimed, “Your arm cold.”
I replied, “You’re right. My arm is cold.” (Squeezing in that opportunity to stress the usage of a verb).
“It cold and shaky,” she said as she jiggled the fat of my underarm for the entire class to see.
Ah, yes, it cold and shaky.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Perspectives: Part II
Leave it to an innocent kindergartener to put me in my place.
I worked with a new student and informally assessed his knowledge of core kindergarten concepts - one being “colors”. He named the color of his shirt, my shirt, his pants, my pants, his shoes, my shoes, his hair, and then… my hair.
His assessment? (Never mind the multi-tonal highlights my stylist strategically places throughout my head to create natural depth and contrast).
“Black with a little yellow. Yes, black with yellow.”
Ouch.
I worked with a new student and informally assessed his knowledge of core kindergarten concepts - one being “colors”. He named the color of his shirt, my shirt, his pants, my pants, his shoes, my shoes, his hair, and then… my hair.
His assessment? (Never mind the multi-tonal highlights my stylist strategically places throughout my head to create natural depth and contrast).
“Black with a little yellow. Yes, black with yellow.”
Ouch.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Deja Vu
Yesterday morning, Ben yelled “Get a paper towel!” I immediately knew what was up. I grabbed a paper towel and skidded across the floor where he waited, poised and ready to strike. Or so I thought. I should have known better.
I thrust the paper towel in his hand and narrowed my eyes at the spider that treaded across the wall, inches from the pillow on the bed. I encouraged Ben with a high school cheer. I built up his confidence and waited for him to bravely squash that spider. I waited for him to make me proud, restore the confidence lost the last time we encountered a bug in the apartment.
He eyed the spider (timidly) and struck. He reeled back with a triumphant smile and held the squished paper towel out to me. I shook my head.
Ben wheeled back around and we watched the spider trot away behind my side of the bed.
“I thought I had it,” he said (rather unconvincingly).
“You were five inches to the right of it,” I said.
“Oh. I really thought I had it.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Now it’ll crawl into our clothes chest and have babies. We’ll probably swallow it tonight when sleeping…” I continued, scaring Ben into action for the next time. “Actually, it will probably bite our face and lay eggs under our skin where baby spiders will burst out of our skin when hit by a ball.” It happened to a kid in our high school, so my prediction was not totally unfounded. And, he knew it.
“Oh, man. I should have tried harder,” Ben said. Unfortunately, the waver in his voice and the twitching corners of his mouth told me otherwise.
I thrust the paper towel in his hand and narrowed my eyes at the spider that treaded across the wall, inches from the pillow on the bed. I encouraged Ben with a high school cheer. I built up his confidence and waited for him to bravely squash that spider. I waited for him to make me proud, restore the confidence lost the last time we encountered a bug in the apartment.
He eyed the spider (timidly) and struck. He reeled back with a triumphant smile and held the squished paper towel out to me. I shook my head.
Ben wheeled back around and we watched the spider trot away behind my side of the bed.
“I thought I had it,” he said (rather unconvincingly).
“You were five inches to the right of it,” I said.
“Oh. I really thought I had it.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Now it’ll crawl into our clothes chest and have babies. We’ll probably swallow it tonight when sleeping…” I continued, scaring Ben into action for the next time. “Actually, it will probably bite our face and lay eggs under our skin where baby spiders will burst out of our skin when hit by a ball.” It happened to a kid in our high school, so my prediction was not totally unfounded. And, he knew it.
“Oh, man. I should have tried harder,” Ben said. Unfortunately, the waver in his voice and the twitching corners of his mouth told me otherwise.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Field Trip
Today, I accompanied my kindergartners on their field trip to the zoo. My favorite exhibit involved two frisky prairie dogs that humped for two minutes straight and the twenty five children that watched with wonder and excitement.
“They really like each other!”
“They’re friends!”
“Look, they’re playing with each other!” (Not an entirely wrong generalization).
When one child asked me to elaborate on the rendezvous, the only answer I could muster after hours in the hot sun chasing five year olds was, “Watch Animal Planet.”
“They really like each other!”
“They’re friends!”
“Look, they’re playing with each other!” (Not an entirely wrong generalization).
When one child asked me to elaborate on the rendezvous, the only answer I could muster after hours in the hot sun chasing five year olds was, “Watch Animal Planet.”
Friday, May 30, 2008
Bonds
Wedding season has started. We attended our first of four, potentially six, weddings this past weekend. With each glass of wine or champagne I, naturally, became a better conversationalist and blabbed about the surprises and charm of married life.
I think Ben appreciated what I shared. If I recall, it went a little like this…
The first few weeks, months actually, felt like we were still dating. The ring was on my finger, we both crawled under the same sheets, but it felt like we were just enjoying an extended weekend visit.
Lately, I’ve noticed a gradual change. It’s a bond of stability and trust that continually grows stronger. No matter what, I always have a partner in life, someone that will always be there. If I lose my job, sleep with a side ponytail, forget to trim my toenails and pluck my eyebrows, or wake up with the folds of our bed sheets imprinted on my face, … he’s still there (not that any of those things would ever happen to me). We’re allies. Buddies. Partners.
I have someone to meet after work, hold hands with on Saturdays, and share every (and I mean every single, minute detail) with for the rest of my life. With every wedding we attend this summer, the ceremony and vows they make mean more and excite me for our future.
I think Ben appreciated what I shared. If I recall, it went a little like this…
The first few weeks, months actually, felt like we were still dating. The ring was on my finger, we both crawled under the same sheets, but it felt like we were just enjoying an extended weekend visit.
Lately, I’ve noticed a gradual change. It’s a bond of stability and trust that continually grows stronger. No matter what, I always have a partner in life, someone that will always be there. If I lose my job, sleep with a side ponytail, forget to trim my toenails and pluck my eyebrows, or wake up with the folds of our bed sheets imprinted on my face, … he’s still there (not that any of those things would ever happen to me). We’re allies. Buddies. Partners.
I have someone to meet after work, hold hands with on Saturdays, and share every (and I mean every single, minute detail) with for the rest of my life. With every wedding we attend this summer, the ceremony and vows they make mean more and excite me for our future.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Anonymous
In grad school, I got a pink and white canvas bag with my name stitched in hot pink and job title printed in neon green on the side. Cute, girlie, monogrammed – definitely, a southern thing.
People complimented the bag back home. But, then again, people at home exude southern warmth and charm. Chances are slim that they’ll mug me during my morning commute, steal my bag, and then use the monogrammed information to steal my identity.
The bag, I finally decided, is not for New York City. I’ve realized that announcing my name and occupation to random strangers on my trek to work is not good.
I used it for the first time on Monday. I slung it over my shoulder as I walked out the door. I fiddled with the volume on my IPod and walked past a group of men. One whistled and then loudly said, “Good morning, sweet _________ (insert my first name here along with several other descriptive, yet moderately sensual adjectives).” Not so good.
On Tuesday, I squished onto the bus in Harlem. The bag sat on my lap, my name and occupation boldly faced outward. The hot pink print sparkled in the morning sun amid the sea of black and brown bags. A female voice a couple of seats down, apparently not dazzled, grumbled “What the #!@$ is an SLP?” Not so good again.
On Thursday, I swiped my metro card at the subway turnstile and jetted down the stairs to catch the train. As I hopped down the last step, I dodged a homeless man on the corner who personalized his request. “Money, money… I need money, ___________ (once again, my first name).”
Everyone from pervy construction workers to grumpy women to homeless men knew me by name. So much for anonymity in the city.
People complimented the bag back home. But, then again, people at home exude southern warmth and charm. Chances are slim that they’ll mug me during my morning commute, steal my bag, and then use the monogrammed information to steal my identity.
The bag, I finally decided, is not for New York City. I’ve realized that announcing my name and occupation to random strangers on my trek to work is not good.
I used it for the first time on Monday. I slung it over my shoulder as I walked out the door. I fiddled with the volume on my IPod and walked past a group of men. One whistled and then loudly said, “Good morning, sweet _________ (insert my first name here along with several other descriptive, yet moderately sensual adjectives).” Not so good.
On Tuesday, I squished onto the bus in Harlem. The bag sat on my lap, my name and occupation boldly faced outward. The hot pink print sparkled in the morning sun amid the sea of black and brown bags. A female voice a couple of seats down, apparently not dazzled, grumbled “What the #!@$ is an SLP?” Not so good again.
On Thursday, I swiped my metro card at the subway turnstile and jetted down the stairs to catch the train. As I hopped down the last step, I dodged a homeless man on the corner who personalized his request. “Money, money… I need money, ___________ (once again, my first name).”
Everyone from pervy construction workers to grumpy women to homeless men knew me by name. So much for anonymity in the city.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Work Out
As I brushed my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, an odd noise came from the other end of the apartment, grunts and heavy breathing. Even the hum of my electric Sonacare toothbrush couldn’t drown out the sound.
I poked my head around the corner to find my husband pumping iron. He stood and puffed out his chest like a glistening statue of bulging biceps and steel pecs. Kinda, sort of… well, almost.
He rooted himself in front of the mirror, strategically under the recessed lighting, and watched his muscles grow with each rep of the 20lb dumbbells. A recent purchase from Kmart. I never knew a mini Hulk Hogan loomed behind that slender 6’3 frame.
He caught my eye, winked, and laughed. I rolled my eyes and spit out the remaining toothpaste that I managed not to choke on. Fifteen seconds later I heard footsteps. He squeezed behind me in the bathroom and flipped the extra light switch. Because it’s all about the lighting.
He turned side to side, flexed his muscles, rolled his shoulders, tightened his stomach, and then dabbed his forehead with the washcloth.
“Babe, look at my muscles. Just look at them! They’re huge. Woo!”
“You just bought those weights and you lifted them for almost 45 seconds,” I reminded him. Honestly, did he think that 12 reps would do that much? Apparently, yes. Yes, he did.
“Babe, please. I’m huge, and I’m only going to get bigger.”
And, after only being married for nine and half months, I’ve learned what to say in a situation like this…
“Of course.”
I poked my head around the corner to find my husband pumping iron. He stood and puffed out his chest like a glistening statue of bulging biceps and steel pecs. Kinda, sort of… well, almost.
He rooted himself in front of the mirror, strategically under the recessed lighting, and watched his muscles grow with each rep of the 20lb dumbbells. A recent purchase from Kmart. I never knew a mini Hulk Hogan loomed behind that slender 6’3 frame.
He caught my eye, winked, and laughed. I rolled my eyes and spit out the remaining toothpaste that I managed not to choke on. Fifteen seconds later I heard footsteps. He squeezed behind me in the bathroom and flipped the extra light switch. Because it’s all about the lighting.
He turned side to side, flexed his muscles, rolled his shoulders, tightened his stomach, and then dabbed his forehead with the washcloth.
“Babe, look at my muscles. Just look at them! They’re huge. Woo!”
“You just bought those weights and you lifted them for almost 45 seconds,” I reminded him. Honestly, did he think that 12 reps would do that much? Apparently, yes. Yes, he did.
“Babe, please. I’m huge, and I’m only going to get bigger.”
And, after only being married for nine and half months, I’ve learned what to say in a situation like this…
“Of course.”
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Returning to New York
It was different this time when I left home and flew back to New York after Spring Break. I sort of felt it in the airplane as we landed, just a little. Then, I felt it again in the taxi on the ride home from the airport. It was a feeling, an emotion that I hadn’t felt before in New York City… relief and happiness, a kind of happiness to be back in New York.
For me, that’s huge. A big step toward considering New York more of a home as opposed to just some huge, overly crowded, expensive city that I must survive for the next few years. The transition from home to the city proved more difficult than anticipated, and finally a sense of relief and belonging welcomed me.
I slumped in the backseat of the taxi, weighted down by my 51.75 pound suitcase, and watched the trees in Central Park melt into one green blur. Some of the streets, some of the buildings looked familiar. The incessant car honks and people yelling oddly comforted me. The bright lights of restaurants and store windows cast shadows on the sidewalks that danced and excited me. For one second, I understood, I got why people fall in love with New York. For a brief instant, I finally felt connected to a place that had left me yearning for home since August.
The feeling didn’t last long. Or, it lasted until another car cut off my taxi which prompted my driver to let out a three sentence slew of cuss words in a foreign language. He then retaliated and swerved so violently to the right that a biker was forced to jump the curb and nearly sail into a metal street lamp.
I don’t consider New York my home… yet. But, I can sort of feel it growing on me. I can see it coming. Like the longer I stay the harder it may actually be to leave one day. For the first time, New York and I are seeing eye-to-eye. We are working out our differences and, like springtime, ready to begin anew.
For me, that’s huge. A big step toward considering New York more of a home as opposed to just some huge, overly crowded, expensive city that I must survive for the next few years. The transition from home to the city proved more difficult than anticipated, and finally a sense of relief and belonging welcomed me.
I slumped in the backseat of the taxi, weighted down by my 51.75 pound suitcase, and watched the trees in Central Park melt into one green blur. Some of the streets, some of the buildings looked familiar. The incessant car honks and people yelling oddly comforted me. The bright lights of restaurants and store windows cast shadows on the sidewalks that danced and excited me. For one second, I understood, I got why people fall in love with New York. For a brief instant, I finally felt connected to a place that had left me yearning for home since August.
The feeling didn’t last long. Or, it lasted until another car cut off my taxi which prompted my driver to let out a three sentence slew of cuss words in a foreign language. He then retaliated and swerved so violently to the right that a biker was forced to jump the curb and nearly sail into a metal street lamp.
I don’t consider New York my home… yet. But, I can sort of feel it growing on me. I can see it coming. Like the longer I stay the harder it may actually be to leave one day. For the first time, New York and I are seeing eye-to-eye. We are working out our differences and, like springtime, ready to begin anew.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Sunday Afternoon
I took this picture of Ben after we ate the biggest BBQ meal ever at a restaurant called Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem. We tried to walk home, but crashed on the lawn at Columbia University. Our stomachs were so full that my back hurt from waddling and the button on my jeans left a permanent imprint on my stomach. Ben slipped into a food coma shortly after this picture.Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Oh No, Not Again...
I got blood drawn last Sunday in Morehead. Of course, my mom and Aunt Dorothy accompanied me. Lord knows, I needed the support. Literally, like an extra set of arms to catch me before I hit the floor. Ugh, I hate needles.
I slid in the plastic maroon chair at St. Claire, my mom and Aunt Dorothy a few feet away, and twirled my hair into tiny knots to distract myself. This was my third time since December to have blood work done. Shouldn’t I be used to it? A little tougher? Slightly braver? The perspiration that beaded on my forehead suggested otherwise. I just thanked God that I didn’t recognize the lab technician… in a small town the likelihood that we would have been high school classmates or second cousins was dangerously high.
The lab technician swabbed my arm with an alcohol pad while I wished I had some alcohol in my system. One brewski would have hardly affected the results, my liver is young. She inserted the needle. I tried to breathe, imagine a happy place, and be a big girl. I just couldn’t.
Seconds after she finished, I saw spots. My stomach churned. I got light headed. My knees turned weak.
We walked out into the hallway and then it hit me. I slowly sank down and sprawled out like a limp starfish on the first floor in the main entrance of our town’s only hospital. My mom, a nurse there, held my hand and encouragingly whispered… “When you can stand, let’s make a run for it.”
I slid in the plastic maroon chair at St. Claire, my mom and Aunt Dorothy a few feet away, and twirled my hair into tiny knots to distract myself. This was my third time since December to have blood work done. Shouldn’t I be used to it? A little tougher? Slightly braver? The perspiration that beaded on my forehead suggested otherwise. I just thanked God that I didn’t recognize the lab technician… in a small town the likelihood that we would have been high school classmates or second cousins was dangerously high.
The lab technician swabbed my arm with an alcohol pad while I wished I had some alcohol in my system. One brewski would have hardly affected the results, my liver is young. She inserted the needle. I tried to breathe, imagine a happy place, and be a big girl. I just couldn’t.
Seconds after she finished, I saw spots. My stomach churned. I got light headed. My knees turned weak.
We walked out into the hallway and then it hit me. I slowly sank down and sprawled out like a limp starfish on the first floor in the main entrance of our town’s only hospital. My mom, a nurse there, held my hand and encouragingly whispered… “When you can stand, let’s make a run for it.”
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Perspectives: Part I
I leaned against the wall at the therapy gym where I work in the evenings, and joined the other therapists in conversation. We chatted about Spring Break plans when one therapist mentioned that he will travel to Louisiana to rebuild homes destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Interested, I asked him to continue.
He had visited New Orleans in 2005 after the hurricane and witnessed the destruction Katrina wreaked on not only the city, but its people. I thought about the great perspective he will get from visiting then and now.
“I’m really looking forward to it. I mean, most people have been living in trailers for three years,” he cried incredulously. “Three years!”
The other therapists nodded in agreement, shaking their heads.
“Can you imagine living in a trailer for three years?” he asked, totally stressing the word ‘imagine’.
I stood dumbfounded and highly amused. City folk.
He had visited New Orleans in 2005 after the hurricane and witnessed the destruction Katrina wreaked on not only the city, but its people. I thought about the great perspective he will get from visiting then and now.
“I’m really looking forward to it. I mean, most people have been living in trailers for three years,” he cried incredulously. “Three years!”
The other therapists nodded in agreement, shaking their heads.
“Can you imagine living in a trailer for three years?” he asked, totally stressing the word ‘imagine’.
I stood dumbfounded and highly amused. City folk.
“Actually, yes, I can. I’m from Kentucky. Trailers… they’re pretty common.”
Roger looked at me, slightly shocked.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “Oops.”
It ain’t all skyscrapers and high rises, baby.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Urban Breeze
On Thursday evening, Ben and I celebrated the warm weather with dessert... fruit smoothies. Ben geared up for a mission and grabbed his apron, blender, and cleaver. He moved around the kitchen with a certain, um, finesse, and threw random fruits from the fridge in the blender.Meanwhile, I relaxed on the couch with my feet propped up on the stepstool and daydreamed of myself with a great tan as Ben sweated above the blender and furiously googled smoothie ingredient ratios, determined to make his first two smoothies a success.
Upon completion of his edible masterpiece, Ben served two strawberry and banana smoothies in frosted pint glasses. We sipped and savored our drinks as the fresh (my standards have changed) city air cleansed our apartment. With our hands wrapped around two neon orange koozies, we decided that summer can’t come soon enough.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Bedtime
I was unemployed for three months and semi-unemployed for four months. During those seven months, I didn’t have a bedtime. I flitted around the apartment with the lights on and radio cranked up to the highest volume. I coaxed Ben into 8pm movies, 9pm infomercials, and 10pm television shows. I flipped through magazines under the bedside lamp until midnight and annoyed Ben as I hid under the covers and text messaged friends, played Tetris. When asked what the beeping noises were, I always responded with, “Beeping noises? What beeping noises? I don’t hear anything.” Ben complained that my erratic night schedule made it difficult for him to fall sleep and even more difficult for him to wake up in the morning for work. Pfff, I thought.
But, oh, how the times have changed since getting a job at two schools and a sensory gym. I follow a strict nighttime routine. Clock work. Pajamas on and teeth brushed by 9:30pm, comfortably nestled in bed by 9:45pm, and lights turned off by 10pm. I settled into this routine while Ben was away on business in London. He left a night owl and returned to a sergeant of bedtime boot camp.
Last night, at 10pm, the TV still blared in the background. I rolled over and gently, kindly reminded Ben that it was time for bed. He acted surprised and timidly asked if he could continue to watch his show. I shook my head. I can’t bring home the bacon without a little shuteye.
Ben sighed, defeated. He turned off the TV and tossed the remote on the nightstand.
Times have changed. I’m a working woman now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
