Fancy Seeing You Here!

Having taught high school social studies for ten years before my older daughter was born, I often run into former students.  Even if I don't remember the name, I almost always feel a familiarity for the face.  I see these kids everywhere:  one was a server at our favorite restaurant, one worked at Walmart, another at Pier One, another is now a teacher at my daughters' school.  One girl (woman) even got my attention at a red light, rolling down her car window to give me a shout out (which is one of those trendy terms that I might not be using quite appropriately).  Now normally when I run into a student, they give me the whole, "Hey, Mrs. Howland! I loved your class!" kind of deal (okay, not always the "loved your class" part, but there's always definite enthusiasm).  But not last week.

I'm at the gynecologist's, ready and in-position for a Pap smear. The doctor calls the assistant in, and I recognize her as a former student, though I don't remember her name.  Let's call her Suzi Slackjaw.  I chirp, "Did you go to Lincoln High School?"  She flatly replies, "Yeah, you were my teacher."  "Chilly" is a word that could be used. "Uncomfortable" works on many levels.  Needless to say (and I say it anyway), it's humiliating enough to be greeted with less than apathy when you're fully dressed and standing up.  Splayed and covered in paper, it's quite the vexation.  Moral of the story:  Be nice to everyone you see on the way up, because they could end up seeing way more of you than you ever imagined.

On the other hand, Bruce (last name not remembered) who works at Pier One was happy to see me, reminding us all it's always better to be a customer than a patient.

Honey, I Wrecked the Kids

My sister has ruined two of her three children.  I know this for a fact because she's told me so.  And the only reason the third one hasn't been wrecked yet is because, as the youngest, there hasn't been enough time.   I have wrecked my kids as well, and it can all be traced to the game Hot Potato.

This past Christmas while I was volunteering for the holiday party in my fifth-grader's classroom, I had to direct the kids in a holiday game based on the whole Hot Potato idea, where an object is passed around the circle until time is called and whoever is left holding the object is out.  At eleven years of age, almost none of these kids knew how to play, including my own.  This is why:  when the girls were little, I would have their birthday parties at home, which always included a craft, games, and cake.  Because parties are supposed to be happy and because I couldn't bear to make a kid sad (and, let's face it, because it's annoying when kids cry), I'd always plan games where everyone was a winner .  And that meant no games of Hot Potato.

Fast forward five years filled with trophies given for showing up and games where everyone's a winner, and you get a bunch of kids afraid to fail because they didn't learn to fail when the stakes were low.  Or you get a bunch of kids thinking they're good at lots of things that they're not.  Or sometimes both.   As the old saying goes, "My bad."

The Last Last Supper

I finally solved the riddle of my continuing struggle with weight (a struggle of the 20-lb. variety):  I have Last Supper Syndrome.  The scales (get it?....) fell from my eyes as this miserable month nears its end.  I had decided that I'd use the last week of February to jump start the old weight-loss jalopy by being Queen of the Spartans until March 1, when I'd hew to a healthy and calorically reduced regimen.  Then I thought it might be better to just wait until March 1 (fortuitously on a Monday) and start then, enjoying a personal Mardi Gras beforehand (which I guess would actually include not just a Fat Tuesday, but a Fat Wednesday through Sunday as well).  This is when the scales (get it?....) actually fell.  Since I've been vowing to start a diet at the beginning of each month for the past, oh, ten years (and that's 120 different vows, all made like they're the first one) and since I've succeeded about three times (for my 25th high school reunion, for a summer vacation I knew would involve being photographed, and another time I can't actually come up with but I'm giving myself credit for anyway), the Big Diet thing probably wasn't going to happen.  In and of itself, that's probably not such a big deal.  What is a big deal and is directly related to my big ass is the 120 Last Suppers. 

You don't have to be Judas or the apostle Paul to have enjoyed a last supper, that smorgasbord of leftovers and snacks, drinks and desserts that is ritually consumed the night before.  Under certain circumstances, the Last Supper might include the Last Lunch, the Last Breakfast, the Last Supper before the Last Supper, and so on (circumstances to be decided by whim).  And this is what's killing me (not really, because I'm sure I'll drink myself to death before I eat myself there).  So I've hereby vowed to not have a Last Supper again.  I'd also like to get back to my four basic rules that I used to live by:

a)  Don't eat in the car in case, God forbid, there's an accident.  You don't want to be found dead with french fries in your mouth.

b)  Spaghetti costs a dollar a pound.  Shove the leftovers down the garbage disposal instead of down your throat.

c)  You are not a garbage can and any food left on your children's plates is garbage.

d)  Never leave the house in sweatpants.

For the past few years, I've thrown these rules by the wayside.  I think I need them again.  And I'm wrestling with myself to start right now and not wait until March 1st.  I'm also trying to remember that what's (probably) more important is that I'm a woman with a heart as big as this ass.

To Stalk or Not to Stalk

My friend who broke up with me (let's call her Michaela) has a birthday coming up.  I haven't seen her for two years now, though she lives only fifteen minutes away.  (For details on my being dumped, please see http://suchpotential.blogspot.com/2009/10/breaking-up-is-hard-to-do.html) Michaela made it pretty clear to me that she's just not that interested, but we used to be such good friends and then the kind of friends who don't see each other often but can pick up where they left off (in my head, anyway), and it's not like we had any sort of falling out.  Over the past few months, I've posted a few comments on her Facebook page (which went unremarked).  When I found an old email she'd written to me (which I'd saved because I thought it particularly insightful), I forwarded it to her with an "it's been too long" note.  She did respond, with a kind but dismissive reply.  (And now reading what I've just written, even I think I'm a little pathetic.)  Still, I'm thinking about sending her a birthday card (which I've done every year but the last one).  Yes or no?

Classic Cathy

Since I've just discovered I have a loyal following of THREE people, I feel that I must post after such a long lapse.  Unfortunately, I got nothing.  So I've combed the archives and have found this email exchange.  In 2008, my sister forwarded to me a burning question she'd received from her friend Amy regarding the TV classic "thirtysomething" (which has just recently been released on DVD).

The question:

Howdy! The Melanie Mayron character. She was perpetually single, right?  And she was the one who was still single at the end of the series, because the curly-haired girl got married, right?


My answer:
I'm so proud! I know the answer! Curly-haired Ellen Warren married Billy Sidell near the end of the series. At her wedding, the ghost of Gary tells Michael Steadman how it will all turn out. When doing so, he foretells that Melissa (Melanie Mayron) and her beau Lee (the painter/artist who is much younger than she) will have a daughter (though he doesn't say they wed).  FYI, in addition to "thirtysomething," I can do "The Dick Van Dyke Show," "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," and "My So-Called Life."

I'm always thrilled to be an expert in something.  If anyone needs more expert advice, I'm aces in the following areas:

*Pimple popping [I can tell at a glance if it's ready to go, if it needs to be primed a day ahead, or if it's (as my husband calls it) subterranian]
*Meat expiry [how long it can be stored, cooked or raw (factoring in refrigerating vs. freezing, date of purchase vs. sell-by-date, and other items of concern only us experts would know)]
*The use of brackets and parentheses.

I admit that my areas of expertise might be considered pathetic by some.  What would be, I'm sure, considered pathetic by all is that I archived a two-year old email that showcases my near autistic recall of defunct TV shows.  We take what we can get.

Those Were the Days

So there I was, checking my email and planning my next snack, when I see this Facebook message:

Pretty sure this is you. We went out once in Nashville, long long ago when I was in my early 20s. You sent me a postcard from Italy afterward and that's what made me remember your name. It just popped into my head now. LOL Hope you're well. :)

Now, I didn't recognize the guy's name or his ID photo (or whatever you call the picture that goes with your Facebook account), but since a) I did go to Vanderbilt a long time ago, b) I frequently had only one date back then and c) I would be pathetic enough to send someone a postcard (why would I have his address?) even if he had never called again.  (In those years, I took an unreasonable amount of solace in the lyric "If you never hear from him, it just means he didn't call" from Van Morrison's "Domino".)  Still, despite the reminder of a dating past I can only describe as "sorry-ass," it put a spring in my step that someone had remembered me.  I even felt shyly boastful when I told my family about the message at dinner (where the only comment was from my 11 year-old who said, "Mommy, just remember that those Facebook people are kind of..." and she raised her eyebrows.)  Even though I'd just told everyone, I still felt like I had a secret only for me and my 20 year-old self.

I think my 11 year-old and I are at the same stage.  We're both feeling a little reined in by the restrictions of how our family defines us.  We're both starting to flirt with the idea of creating an identity outside of the four of us.  Of course, she'll need to break away to do that, and I have no intention of doing so.  Sometimes I just need to be reminded that the me that I was is still a part of the me I am now.  While I treasure having so much of my identity tied to this family, I'm thinking there might just be more to me than that.

Adventureland

My husband loves coming-of-age stories.  He also likes movies shot in Pittsburgh.  A great evening it was, then, when we watched the indie film "Adventureland" (available On Demand).  The movie followed recent college grads who were working at an amusement park for the summer.  Because they're young and biologically primed to mate (as opposed to me, whose eggs have definitely passed the "use by" date) and because it's so much easier to persuade other people to join you if you throw in a drink or two, sex and alcohol (two things I've traditionally supported) also played starring roles.  As my husband and I drank wine (see:  my support of alcohol) and snuggled (see:  my expired eggs), we watched this story of overwhelming desire and seemingly limitless possibility, and I remembered living in that time myself.  I didn't start teaching until I was 25 or get married until I was 29, so I had many of those moments where my story had yet to be written and really anything could happen.  Of course, much of that time involved despair over what would I be and would I end up alone, but a lot was quite simply thrilling.

As I was enjoying the movie with my husband, in our home with our children in bed, I knew I wouldn't trade this time of my life for the time before.  Nonetheless, you can't help but be nostalgic for when you were young and brimming with all different kinds of passion.  That's when it hit me.  This movie wasn't written for me.  It's written for my older daughter and who'll she be five years from now.   And that just made me sad.