Fourth Period

My work day is broken up into 8 different parts. The first part I use to run "errands", such as  calling parents, yelling or being yelled at in the guidance office, grabbing a terrible cup of coffee from the cafeteria.  Another part is used to scarf down lunch while trying to catch 10 minutes of a Glee episode I missed on hulu; when the network isn't down, that is. The other parts are consumed with a live organism made up of 25-32 living, breathing specimens of teenagedom. They call these things "classes".

Every class period has a different pulse.  A different rhythm.  A different personality, all it's own.  Classes are akin to wild animals. You must respect the personality of the class or it will eat you.  And possibly, your young.  Which you do not have, of course.  Because these "classes" consume all of your time, energy and sometimes, sanity that would be dedicated to said young. However, just like those human interest stories on 20/20 where a bear and a dog become best friends, every year there is a class that I take a liking to, even though it seems terribly unnatural.  Sometimes, it's in an "oh-look-at-that-dog-in-a-doggie-wheelchair-isn't-he-cute?" kinda way.  Sometimes it's in an "I-can-save-that-duck-covered-in-slimy-oil" kinda way.  Other times it's more of a "you-drive-me-crazy-but-I-cant-get-rid-of-you" way. It changes from year to year.  Last year, it my second period full of arrogant, pranking but good-hearted, predominantly male class that captured my attention and made going to work slightly more interesting than my college biology professor's choice of dockers with embroidered lobsters. This year, it's my fourth period.

My fourth period kids give me a "pound" upon entering.  They think I'm funny, which automatically makes them my favorite.  Which means, they actually understand what I'm saying-most of the time. Every teacher knows how priceless it is to be understood.  They scream my name in the hallway followed by, " that's my favorite teacher!" They cut other classes to ask me boyfriend advice.  They come through my door, holding a bloody nose or a chin or an eye and ask me to look "real quick" to make sure nothing's broken.  They need me to tell them to ice 15 minutes on, 15 off.  Basketball players cry about friends they've lost in the front row of my classroom.  They flood my doorway as soon as school is over, sometimes with dejected shoulders, sometimes grinning, waving acceptance letters to show off or hang on my paper "refrigerator". They ask for letters of recommendation.  They ask if I like their new ballet flats.  They confess to me their crushes, their learning disabilities, their desires to be rock stars and nurses and stay-at-home moms. They seek words of affirmation.  They look for me at their games.  They make tasteful, decent jokes that I can't help but laugh at.  They ask me where I went to college.  Why I got married so young.  If I ever felt all alone.  And I answer them.  I answer them all.  

Before this year, what I loved most about teaching high school was how independent the students are.  I didn't want to be any kid's "mom", care-taker or confidant.  That's the funny thing about classes.  Animals tend to change people.

Woe to the One Piece

      After a long and dreary winter full of snow plows and an equally long and dreary start to spring with massive flood waters interfering with my already draining commute, AND, with our first-time home buyers tax credit coming our way, AND me, being so tired that I no longer care about run-on sentences, grammatical errors or syntax...my husband and I thought it best we go away this spring break.  Now, for those that know us, when Rich and I get away, it is seldom a vacation.  We like to pick strange, remote, culturally rich locations that require maps, backpacks, safe drinking-water pellets, solid walking shoes,etc.  Not this time.  On a Saturday afternoon, still both in our pajamas, only getting up to make YET another pot of coffee, we realized that this year we didn't want to compete with bugs, touchy intestinal tracts, rain coats or frustrated non-bilingual cab drivers.

      We wanted white sand.  We wanted warm water.  We wanted a pink drink with an umbrella; to eat all day uninterrupted and to wake up with an ocean view.  We didn't want to be tempted to leave the property of the hotel by the lure of lush rain forests, the smell of exotic local food or the call of ancient ruins.  We wanted to sleep, swim, read, eat, repeat.  Thus, two tickets were booked for 5 days, 4 nights to Montego Bay, Jamaica.  All details have been taken care of and I've had everything that will be packed delicately laid out for days; however, there was one thing haunting me that I could not escape.  The bathing suit sized hole must be filled before getting on the plane.

      I have successfully (or unsuccessfully, if you ask my terribly fashionable sister who is often horrified at my clothing purchases) avoided purchasing a bathing suit for going on 5 years.  Said bathing suit is rather saggy in the bottom, has a bit of wear and tear across the top, but was, I thought, otherwise still in decent condition.  Until, it spontaneously combusted in my washing machine.

      This left me in quite a predicament.  I've held onto my bathing suit for so long for several reasons.

1.  I purchased it at j.crew when I was much younger, thinner and had less restraint on my budget.

2. My now frugal self would argue that it would silly to purchase another since this one was still functional, leaving me free not to face the fact that I have steadily gained a few lbs a year since the date of purchase

3. I HATE the one piece vs. two piece show down.

      Everything in my already advanced beyond my years aged-self tells me that it is time to face the music.  I am 27.  I weigh 135 lbs at 5'5.  I am a teacher, a wife, a home-owner.  Sigh.

      I am prime one-piece material.

      So, I lingered in the one piece aisle.  Even tried a few on for the first time since Saved by the Bell was on Saturday mornings, right before California Dreams.  And have come to the following conclusion:

      One pieces are both unflattering and uncomfortable and I will obstinately refuse to wear them.  There.  I said it.  Here's why:

1.  If you have any other shape aside from pre-pubescent teenage boy, those straps just ain't gonna stay up unless you tie the suckers together. Unless, of course, you go for the size smaller and are willing to put up with the uneasy feeling that a midget is clinging desperately to your shoulders, trying to drown you.
2.  If you have chosen the latter, then I don't have to tell you about the painful condition that is common among one-piece wearers- the hot dog bun.  These are not love handles.  They are not muffin tops.  These are the hot dog bun-sized rolls that sneak out of the bottom of your one-piece due to how small it is, with a delicate red, ketchup line cutting off all circulation to your lower appendages.
3.  Who would purchase an article of clothing that straps down your greatest asset in favor of highlighting the bulk of you????
4.  I do not buy the "pull over" method.  I am tired of emerging from the bathroom stall feeling as if I wrestled an anaconda trying to pull my wet, one piece back on.

      There you have it.  I hung up my sneaky suspicions of being too old, too fat, too this, too that and marched forward to the check-out line brandishing my new, two piece swim suit with the confidence only a non-hot dog bunning, anti-midget carrying, retired anaconda wrestling woman could possess.

      I strongly encourage you to do the same.

    

I-Talian

The clock ticked ever so slowly during eighth period. So slowly, in fact, when I looked up from my desk I counted two student sleepers, four doodlers, one drooler and five day-dreamers. I hadn't even noticed I had lost their attention. The fortunate (or unfortunate, depending upon how you look at it) reason for that is that I was less engaged in Macbeth's dreary plight of murder and pillage than I was with two, beautifully green, edible bouquets in my veggie drawer beckoning me home. I bought artichokes at the first sight of spring-much like normal women purchase flip-flops- and my mind continuously wandered like an unfaithful lover to the scent of imported Brenta cheese and freshly chopped garlic.

This may or may not surprise you, considering only a few, short years ago, I was neither Italian, nor a cook. I have since claimed both, which, according to me, is completely within my rights after struggling long and hard as the only Vanderberg growing up on a block full of Tony DiVencenzos.

I've wanted to be an Italian my whole life. Please, do not take this to mean that I am not aware or proud of my own heritage- Florence Nightingale and I are distant cousins, didja know?-but it doesn't change the fact that my classmates in the little town in which I was raised couldn't point out a potato unless you artfully described the wort-like spud used to delicately craft their beloved gnocci. To make matters worse, I wasn't even Catholic. No pasta bolognese OR first holy communion? What was this, a conspiracy? Who hates the Dutch kid? Hands up!

I walked through life an outcast- made to lurk surreptitiously in doorways to catch the scent of stewed tomatoes wafting on the breeze. Destined to forever order pizza from one of the Tony's who would not be coerced to give out his great-great-great grandmother's secret spice to cooking time ratio.

Until.

Until I married.

Richard Shannon.

Don't let the name fool you.

Do you know what his mother's maiden name is?

D'addio.

Yup.

That's right.

It took more than several attempts, frantic late night phone calls to my ever-so-patient new mother-in-law and hundreds of tablespoons of sugar to balance the salt from my tears in my inedible tomato gravy to finally find my sweet spot in the kitchen.

Now, with the increasingly warm smell of bubbling artichoke gurgling happily on the stove, I can put my feet up, say a Hail Mary and scribble out a list of different yeasts to try out for some decent Paesano bread (you just can't find a good one in the store anymore these days) and what heirloom tomato seeds to purchase for the spring garden.

Just like any decent I-Talian would do.

Yo' Mama

Mothers are strange creatures. Mine is no exception. My Mom wears pink more often than Lady Gaga changes her eyeshadow. She loves buying stuffed animals for our cousins that talk when you squeeze their bellies-though they are old enough to ride their bikes to school. And read chapter books on their own. She coos over every and all things monogrammed.

Though the list of strange-Mom-behavior could go on, I would simply be backing myself directly into the corner in which we'd inhabit together. Because, for all of the weird things my Mother does, the weirdest of it all is that I happen to be right there in the life boat with her, rowing the same damn way.

With that said, the fastidious writer that I am could not let this post go without a comprehensive list of the weird things my Mom and I share.

1. We both laugh until our faces turn an unattractive plum and tears hold our mascara hostage all the the way down our(long)noses at America's Funniest Home Videos (the Danny Tanner version, not the new Dancing with the Stars guy), the story about the babysitter who got attacked by a squirrel and mom forced to go home early due to the fact that she thought rabies was an airborne disease, and fart jokes. Fart jokes, are, alas, always funny. Especially when my sister tells them.

2. We love to eat. We love to eat like Tom Cruise loves weird religions with aliens. Not only are we master consumers, but we are fearless and voracious in our eating. Tripe? Send it our way. Kim-Chi? More, please. Escargot? Why not? We may send it back if we hate it, or make funny faces and lie poorly about how "interesting" it is, but that will never stop us from shelling out some cash to try something new. There is never too great a price for a decent meal. Or, a good story. If you don't get the one, you end up with the other.

3. We get bored. Easily. We have 800 hobbies between us-some, I bet we don't know the other has. We like to learn new things, do new things, play new things. I bought her a red bass for christmas. She got me a kitchenaid. We're strange, strange productive people.

4. We're both maniacs on the road. We've never taken a running tally of how many times we've both been pulled over, with good reason. We tell cop stories like vets tell war stories. Mainly, to each other. It makes everyone else a little nervous.

5. We make shit up. Words. Ideologies. Pants sizes. :) It's the creative spirit in us.

It's an amazing thing why it's so surprising that we would be similar to the one that carried us for nine months.

But if I start buying pink sweaters, someone remind me that it's in our differences where we find ourselves. :)

Love you, Mom.

Muchness

Have you ever wondered what Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter discuss over dinner? I have. In fact, that's fairly all I wondered about as I sat through Alice in Wonderland
on opening night. Visually stimulating with all of the darkly, quirky details that is quintessential of the eccentric director, I left the theater feeling as though I paid orchestra prices to watch amusing spectators fight in the balcony. Perhaps, it was the gaggle of hipster, teenage girls with black nail polish and lip-rings whining aloud about the lack of testosterone in the audience throughout the duration of the movie that tainted my viewing experience. Perhaps, expectations were too high, even for Johnny Depp (who stretched his long-running pirate accent thin in his crazy rantings as the Mad Hatter). Whatever the case may be, for a film based upon "muchness", there was much to be desired.

(This does not mean that I will not continue to be the first in line for the next Burton production. I'm loyal. What can I say?)

Tomato, Tomahhhhhhhto

I am a food blog skeptic. Not because I haven't found some tummy-rumbling, drool-inducing recipes that have become staples in our weekly menu, but because of the ingredients. Well, it's not even that. It's the brand of the ingredients that drives my frugal self into a budgeting tizzy. There is no need to spend 40 dollars on a jar of grey sea salt when the stuff in my shaker does the same job. Suffice it to say, I have believed- please do not mentally berate me until I am finished- that all canned tomatoes are the same. (I cried just a little-even now- after living in darkness for so long.) So, when I was reading one of my favorite foodie fanatic's recipe for a simple tomato sauce (www.smittenkitchen.com), I didn't just scoff at her artsy pictures of strikingly bourgeois San Marzano tomatoes. I guffawed. Spend 6 dollars on a can of tomatoes when I can 20 for the same price at Shoprite? You must be off your rocker.

Until...

I was shopping at Whole Foods and stumbled across the-you guessed it- the cans of San Marzano tomatoes, regal and stacked with purpose at the end of the aisle. Shock of all shocks, this was the day fate decided I was much too thick-headed for my own good and cleverly displayed a neat little sign handwritten on organic recycled paper: On sale, 2 for $6. Reluctantly, I placed two cans in my basket and my life will never be the same.

Dearest friends. Stop kidding yourselves. Put the shoprite brand of whole, peeled, tasteless tomatoes aside- or serve it the neighbors that let their dog pee in your front yard. Only use these tomatoes. You will thank me, as I, now, owe an entire internal apology to the food blog gods. You were right. You were right all along.

Money, Money

I just checked my bank accounts on-line for the first time in two weeks. For some, this might sound incredibly irresponsible. For me, I'm throwing a quiet party decorated in wine and those lovely little green olives from Whole Foods- you know, the ones that aren't too lemony or too garlicky? Why, might you ask? Because, it seems, that I am on the way to recovery at last.

Control freaks manifest their diseases in different ways. Some must have access to the remote at all times. Others hyper-ventilate at the thought of a surprise party in which they were unable to dictate the flatware or which non-traditional Italian restaurant should cater the gloppy eggplant parm. I, eh hem, am guilty of all of these things and more- including checking my bank accounts at least 3 times a day. Yes. Three. Understand my jubilation now?

God has slowly been teaching me that I-gulp-have-ugh-no-ew-control. Over anything. Not my job, not my weight, not my happiness, not my money. I didn't believe him, naturally. I never have. Until, a few weeks ago when my sister-in-law reminded me of what happens when I let go. So, I thought I'd give it a try. And you know, I still have money right there in that account after not checking it obsessively every 5 minutes. The bills have been paid, we have been fed, we've even done some fun things that I would have deemed "out of the budget" because not only am I a control nazi, I am also a tightwad which translates into no fun. Maybe God does love me enough to care about me after all. Huh.