Project 52, Week 6: Sh*t My Students Write

This is a follow-up post to week 3′s “Sh*t My Students Say.”

Over the years I have definitely found myself chuckling and laughing aloud while reading student work. Not only because of the content, but because of the  inventive spellings kids come up with.

Below are some student writing and drawings I have collected over the years. FYI, I’ve kept the spelling “as is” to stay true to the author’s words and intents. So don’t think I’m a bad speller.  I came in third in the 6th grade spelling bee ok?!

_________________________________________________________________________________________

It was about 6:30 pm and I was still at school. I was reading the students’ writing drafts. They wrote personal narratives and I had just taught a lesson on how to end your story with a lesson learned. I was up to the last story, which was about a boy who made a bet with his friend that he could crack a walnut in his bare hand. When he won, his friend refused to pay him. So at the end of the story, the boy wrote: “And the lesson I learned was…never trust a Mexican!”

I pulled him aside the next day and the first thing he said to me was, “Am I in trouble?” I asked him why he would think that. He replied, “Because my story is racist.” I had no words. I just gave him back his story and smiled. He said, “Ok, I’ll fix it.”

This particular student was a very creative writer. He thoroughly enjoyed our fairy tale unit where he wrote about a flying pig searching through the forest for a ham sandwich. Very clever. When we hit poetry, he was thrilled. Thanks to a wonderful idea I got from a fellow teacher, we created “recylced poetry”. This entails giving the students 5 random words cut from a newspaper or magazine. Students then create a poem incorporating the five words. Here is what racist 3rd grader came up with:

If you can’t read it, here is the translation:

I love my beaver!

I have to call my pet beaver now because he had a heart attack. I love my beaver so much. He’s so furry. I got him when I was a kid.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Here is an entry I found in a student’s reading notebook.

The book was about Mindy and Mandy they raped themselfs with paper. (OUCH!) they can not move at all (WELL OBVIOUSLY!). She was being chased by someone. She was scared because she was being chased. I bo (do)no like to get chased by people.

Maybe I should take that book out of my library. It really doesn’t seem age-appropriate. KIDDING! M & M are friend detectives who get themselves in a mummy mess and WRAP themselves with paper. Guess I have to work on teaching silent w.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Here is a really pleasant student who decided to write back to my comments in her writing notebook.

Yep, she crossed out my comment and wrote: “it is good for the last time stop doing this. my gosh!” Stop giving you compliments? Sure! You got it!

________________________________________________________________________________________

Here she is again telling me to “shut up” after I suggested that she not number each sentence.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Can you figure out why this animal is happy? Could it be the penis shaped toy in his mouth? Just wondering.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

On the topic of genitalia, here is another personal favorite of mine. I couldn’t include the picture because it said the actual’ names of those involved. I changed the names to protect the not-so-innocent.

Dear Ms. G and Ms. M,

Johnny and Bobby and Joey said girls have hairy dicks and the biggest dicks in the universe and they said Angela and Katie had boobs the size of Prospect Park and Homer’s hairy dick and Marge’s unappropriate parts. They also said that girls have vigina’s the size of the world. They also said we have huge shiny dicks. They also said we have Homer Simpson’s hairy ass’s and laughfted about everything.

Sincerely,

The Girls from your class

How do you even respond to something so ludicrous? The parents even laughfted laughed at this one!

_________________________________________________________________________________________This Another year, another group of perv boys and offended girls. This is a list of the “inepropriet” things the boys talk about at recess:

sex, bad words, girl-love, inepropriet vidio games, bad movies, kissing, inepropriet songs, grand thieft auto-a vidio game, and gangsters.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

This concerned student wrote me a cautionary letter. How sweet.

Dear Miss Goldberg,

I hope you can stop screaming because you lost your vos but don’t keep screaming and keep screaming you can not speek no more. but I dont want you to lost your vos because I Love you.

Love, S

________________________________________________________________________________________

Another sweet letter from a girl:

Dear Ms. G,

I wish I was in 3rd grade still so I could be with you because you ar the most funnyest , coolest, awesomest teacher I ever had! I like how you were so nice in the begining of the year. Then you became nicer in the middle of the year and then at the end you became the nicest you have ever bin. Well, I might see you next year if I have to deliver something to you. P.S. Like M says, Ms. G rocks my socks!

Love,K

I’m glad Iprogressively became nicer. That was nice of me.

____________________________________________________________________________

Girls aren’t the only ones who write sweet thangs. Here is a poem from a 1st grade boy:

Ms. G, Ms. G, you are calm and nice. You are good at soccer, with lots of edvice. You’ve helped us know how to read and write. I think that you are very bright (as in happy and stuff). Math routines are so much fun, After I go for a mighty run. You have helped us learn. You are the opposite of stern. The End.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

In honor of the upcoming V-Day, I’ll end with this.

Good luck not getting shot by the malicious Cupid in the middle of your back when you least expect it! That dirty bastard!

Project 52, Week 5:Watch Where You’re Going Matt Damon!

Living in New York City for the last decade, I have had my fair share of celebrity sightings. I mean, I am not one of those maniacs who run up to some famous person and ask for an autograph or ask to take a photo together. OK, fine. I did that once, maybe twice, but we’ll get to that later.

While living in the East Village, it was not uncommon to see Ethan Hawke sipping some hot beverage at Little Veselka, the outdoor cafe by my apartment. Or Naomi Watts and Liev Shrieber strolling down 3rd Avenue; Liev with one beautiful blond child on his shoulders and Naomi pushing the stroller of other beautiful blond child.

I once saw Rider Strong (what an awesome name) who played Sean from Boy Meets World, listening to his iPod walking down Avenue C, a rather sketchy/divey/grungy-hip area at the time.

More recently, I saw Courtney Love sitting on a fire hydrant in SoHo texting. I’m assuming it was to her broker after she got kicked out of her place.

The irony of seeing Fiona Apple at Whole Foods picking apples still makes me giggle.

I don’t approach these people because, like us, they are just people going about their day; drinking coffee, playing with their kids, shopping for fruit or going to buy pot, whatever. They don’t need to be harassed by someone asking stupid questions like: “Hey Ethan, was Uma a good lover or was it awkward…you know with her gangly limbs and all?” or “I know you lived in a trailer park and you were Cory’s BFF and all, but you totally should have had Topanga. Cory’s Jewfro and stuffy attitude made that union completely unrealistic.” or “Fiona, do you even like apples?”

I restrain myself from these questions and comments with admiration and respect  (or disgust) for these individuals. I might stare and gawk a little, but that’s about it.

So last weekend, when I saw Detective Olivia Benson (aka Mariska Hargitay) on 5th Avenue in Brooklyn, I exhibited that same restraint. However, it was very exciting for me. This woman, along with Chris Maloney (Elliot Stabler) and Ice-T (Detective Tutuola) got me through a pretty rough time in my life. Watching the Special Victims Unit save an abused teenager turned pregnant prostitute eased my pain. Knowing there were fictional characters out there with problems worse than mine was extremely helpful in my healing process. Luckily, both TBS and TNT ran SVU marathons constantly.

Mariska, dressed casually in blue jeans and a long flowing cardigan, was with her biological son August (the two newly adopted children must have been home with the nanny), her very handsome husband and some friends. They were waiting by the very bus stop I was about to wait at. I got super excited. Olivia Benson and her gorgeous entourage  are waiting for the bus just like me?! How cool! They take public transportation? WOW! I was so in awe, I texted my husband excitedly: “I’m about to take the B63 with Detective Olivia Benson!”  A minute later, reality hit and I texted him back: “Scratch that, her town car just pulled up.”

It was an exciting moment nonetheless.

On a hot June night a few years ago, after having a hell of a time trying to find 25 youth large plain white t-shirts in the Astor Place K-mart, I was walking home frustrated, hot and sweaty. With my head down, carrying an embarrassing amount of K-mart bags, I attempted to cross the street, when someone bumped into me. “Jesus Christ! I don’t need this right now! Get the hell out of my way, damn you!” He and I had that little dance people have when you both go the same way to get by and then you try again and you go the same way again until finally you look up and make eye contact to figure out the situation.  When I looked up, I was face to face with…wait for it….wait for it…Matt Damon! I literally (most over- and misused word on the planet) ran into Matt Damon!

We finally crossed paths and when I got to the infamous sidewalk where you can see three Starbucks at the same time, I immediately called my friend who was obsessed with Matt and Ben.

“Follow him!” she exclaimed. And like a desperate jerk who didn’t want to go home and paint 25 t-shirts for field day, I listened.

“What’s he doing now?” she asked breathlessly.

“Going into a really crappy pizza place. Should I warn him?”

This exchange went on for another 10 minutes, with me giving a Matt Damon pizza eating play-by-play. Finally, I was tired of watching the man chew, no matter how beautiful he is, and schlept my K-mart bags home.

But perhaps the my most memorable NYC celebrity run-in was with funny man Robin Williams. After coming out of an exhilerating day of professional development at Columbia University’s Teacher’s College, I noticed a movie trailer on the corner of 120th and Broadway. I convinced my colleague to stop by the trailer to see what was going on.

“A new Robin Williams film,” replied a snotty intern puffing out the smoke from her cigarette.

“Oh, I love Robin Williams. Is he in the trailer? Can we say hi?” I asked.

“Ummmm, he’s not here right now,” snotty intern sassed, looking me up and down.

“He should be back soon if you want to wait,” her friendly counterpart confessed.

“Great!” I said with a little too much excitement. I had been sitting in a lecture hall of complaining teachers for the last 6 hours and I needed something uplifting. Who better than Mork to brighten my spirit?

We stood there waiting. 10 minutes…..15 minutes….the interns staring at us and trying to look cool. I decided to strike up a conversation.

“I used to watch Mork and Mindy all…the…time,” I stated making exaggerated hand gestures. “Mrs. Doubtfire….classic. And he was GENIUS in Good Will Hunting. He got an Oscar for that didn’t he?”

“Uh, yea,” snotty snooted.

This girl was pissing me off but I decided to have some fun with her. I opened my eyes wide, shuffled in a little closer to her and in a hushed tone said, “Can I tell you something? I secretly have a thing for hairy men,” I confessed nodding my head. “Yep, and as you know, Robin is quite gorilla-esque.”

Snotty backed up and glanced at me with disgust. I got a chuckle out of Friendly intern though.

(Little did anyone know my future husband would be a fierce competitor with Mr. Williams if there were ever a “Hairest Man on Earth” contest. I guess I really do like hairy men.)

After 20 minutes we finally decided we were not destined to meet the great comedian so we bid our farewells to the interns and were on our way.

“Oh well,” I said disappointingly to my friend.

As we walked toward the subway, my friend nudged me and said, “Hey, isn’t that….”

I looked closer to the man she was pointing out, dressed in head to toe camo and sunglasses. It was Robin Williams!

With courage I didn’t know I had, I walked right up to him and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Williams? Hi, we were just waiting for you by your trailer and were wondering if we could get a picture with you.”

He smiled and asked me my name. Then put his arm around me and asked where the camera was. For some reason I just happened to have a disposable camera with me (this was before camera phones). As  my friend set up to take the picture, I told Robin about how I was messing with the interns about loving hairy men. He let out a boisterous laugh.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked.

I told him.

“I like you Goldberg,” he chuckled, and the picture was taken.

I used the photo as my holiday card that year. On the inside of the card I wrote:

Robin and I wish you a very happy holiday season and all the best for a healthy, joyous new year. We are currently on location in Namibia for Jumanji 2 which will hopefully come out this spring. Hope to see you soon! xoxox, Robin and Dayna

Unfortunately, there are some celebrity sightings I will not be able to have because these stars’ lives were taken too soon. Here are some people I would have loved to pass by on the street or see in a restaurant or swinging with their children at the park:

Bea Arthur

Chris Farley

Captain Lou Albano

George Burns (I was a HUGE fan of the Oh God! movies)

Lisa “Left-Eye” Lopez

Dana Plato

and now to add to the list, the dynamic, multi-talented Whitney Houston.

This post is for you Whit. R.I.P

Project 52: Week 4: Baring It All

I wrote my first book when I was in sixth grade. It was a coming of age story about a tree named Oakley called Bare to Beautiful. I thought the main character’s name was very clever because of the super-popular sunglasses of the same name at that time, AND an oak is a type of tree AND the story was about a tree! Brilliant!

Bare to Beautiful was published by the Michael F. Stokes elementary school publishing company, bound and laminated by the school’s very own machine. I dedicated the book to my great-grandma Rose because at the time I was under the impression that books were dedicated to dead people. The book was placed in the school library and was available to be checked out, which it was, by the principal and by her very kind secretary Ms. Kenney.

Bare to Beautiful became such a hit that I was asked to read it aloud at our Arbor Day ceremony. I proudly read my story of how Mother Nature sprinkled her fairy dust and relieved Oakley’s pain and suffering  in front of the whole school, my beaming parents and teachers and the Levittown Tribune! Yep, I was in the local paper! I was a celebrity!

Except I looked like this at the time:

A few words about this picture. This was the height of my awkward stage, in case you couldn’t figure that out by the photo. Actually, 7th grade was when I added teal framed Sally Jesse-Raphael-esque glasses into the mix, so that might have been the height of it, but this was pretty bad. I was wearing Keds (leather, not canvas) and thick white slouch socks, yes there is a banana clip in my hair and I was not smiling because I had braces. One sleeve up and one down, sweatpants a few sizes too small and camel toe; I was a hot mess before the term even became popular.

My grandfather’s best friend owned a clothing manufacturing company and I was the lucky recipient of  these lovely FREE sweat suits. Not only did I have the sweat suit in the Pepto pink/charcoal gray combo you see here, I also had aqua blue, sea foam green,  sunshiny yellow and angelic white. I was wearing the white one when Peter Canerelli, the boy I had a huge crush on, told me I sat in chocolate in the lunchroom, but I had really gotten my period. It was a rough year. But being a published author, having supportive friends and family and not owning  a mirror, helped me through this difficult time.

A few years later, my mother was taking a course in children’s literature and had to write a children’s book. Guess what she used. Yep, she used the book her 11 year old daughter wrote and got an A plus! Wait, did I just admit to my mother plagiarizing? Yep, I think I did. Sorry mom.  Not only did she get an A plus, but her teacher told her she should try to get it published! This was the moment I knew I wanted to be a writer.

For years I have known what the title of my next book would be: My Grandma’s Name was Tom. It will be a collection of short stories in the style of  David Sedaris or Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake, two writers I admire very much (and one who I am going to see at BAM on May 7th…WOO HOO! Looking forward to it David!). The sequel to My Grandma’s Name Was Tom would be Grandma’s Three Dicks, which would be another collection of biographical short stories.

OK before you start thinking my grandmother was a hermaphrodite with multiple sex organs, let me explain. Tom was her nickname because she was a tomboy growing up. Living in Florida in a retirement community, my grandmother found herself with multiple friends by the name of Dick. She was very happy when I told her what the name of my first book would be and she guffawed when I came up with the sequel. She was a super cool lady. Now I just have to write the actual books.

I am a procrastinator. When I was in second grade I was given an assignment to read Beverly Cleary’s sibling rivalry epic Mitch and Amy and write a book report about it. I had a week to complete it. Two days before the assignment was due, I still hadn’t read the book. My mom was on my back about it all week, but I had more important things to do, like watch Punky Brewster or admire my puffy sticker album. The night before the assignment was due, I was up until midnight, which is really late for a 7 year old. Disgusted and frustrated, my mother told me she hoped I got a bad grade so I could learn my lesson. The lesson I learned was I work well under pressure and when you wait until the last minute, you get an A. Now every time I am under deadline and my mother nags me, I always say, “Mitch and Amy, mom, Mitch and Amy” indicating I will get it done and it will kick ass.

But I think I have been procrastinating on this book writing thing long enough. Here is one reason why:

This is Anthony Wiggle  from the Australian children’s entertainment group, The Wiggles. He wrote a book. When Anthony Wiggle (no that is obviously not his last name) writes a book called How I Got My Wiggle Back, it is time for me to step it up. No disrespect, Anthony. I think of you and your cronies every time I eat fruit salad (yummy yummy!).

Yesterday I went to my favorite bookstore in New York, Housing Works. My friends and I adoringly call it “The AIDS bookstore” because proceeds from book sales go to AIDS research. It is an incredible place. They had a children’s book sale yesterday and I got 37 books for $50. If you do not think that is amazing, we can never be friends.

After I killed it in the children’s section, I looked around for books I either want to read or can’t believe were published and here is what I found:

Wow. Really?

C’mon Kristin! You’re adorable, can sing your tiny tush off, you’re a Broadway and television star and now you have a book too? Give the rest of us a chance please!

Fine. I would totally read this. I love her.

Since when do fictional character’s from Grey’s Anatomy write books? McSteamy has a book? Dr. Mark Sloan? That’s really your name, dude? Lucky.

After my search, I got an overpriced cafe latte and reflected on what I found. Plus, 37 books weigh a shit ton. I thought to myself, what do J-Woww, Anthony Wiggle, Kristin Chenoweth, Punky Brewster and Dr. Mark Sloane have that I don’t have? Besides the fact that 3 out of 5 got boob jobs (Punky’s was a reduction), one of the things they have that I don’t is a published book.

Yes, Bare to Beautiful will forever live in the hearts of the Stokes community, and might be print worthy to a college professor. It might happen one day, who knows? But I too want to fulfill my dream. That’s why this blog exists; not only for your reading enjoyment, but also in the hope that one day, someone, somewhere will read and it and say, “Where the hell have you been all these years?!” and want to publish my writing .

Until then, I will promise to stay away from banana clips, try to find my sticker collection, try not to sit in chocolate or procrastinate and keep doing what I love: writing.

Project 52: Week 3: Sh*t my students say

Being a school teacher has it’s perks. I am usually taller the students in my class. They usually listen to what I say. They are like sponges, absorbing every detail of new information being presented to them, usually. Not to mention the summers off. And usually when I come home from school, I have a terrific quote from at least one of them. Just as the great Bill Cosby says, “Kids say the darndest things!”

This year I have an especially quote-worthy class. As my grandmother would have said, “They are a piece of work.” And they are. Each and every one of them has his/her own distinct personalities. Our class of eight- and nine-year-old children run the gamut. We’ve got a flatulator, whose gaseous releases occur several times a day and are louder than what I can ever produce (get over it ladies, you know we fart ); droopy drawers, who has a constant plumber’s crack; the big teddy bear; who is almost as tall as I am; the soccer fanatic; the tomboy; the fashionista; and many, many more.  

In college, my roommates and I had a quote board on a piece of oaktag in the middle of our living room to document the witty, stupid things we said. Some of my favorites were:

Me to one of my roommates: Why does your room always smell like salami?

My roommate after we got cable boxes: I love my box.

My roommate after cleaning out the clogged tub: I just found enough hair in the drain to make wigs for a small country of bald men

(That’s what you get for living with 5 girls with one bathroom!)

I think perhaps I should start carrying around a quote book to jot down all the hilarious, noteworthy things my students say, because by the end of the day, I usually forget. Here are some I remember:

 

The Hypochondriac

H: I think my dad should go to the doctor.

Me: Why? Is he sick?

H: No, but he has a suspicious mole on his back.

 

The Thinker

Me: What are some things we have in common with people all over the world?

Various Students: Water! Homes! Food! Clothing!

TT: DIGNITY!

 

Another day, the Thinker walked in and before even saying hello to me, he said:

“Do you think Darth Vader has asthma? You know, because he breathes heavy all the time?”

 

The Future Isaac Mizrahi

My co-teacher: Wow! I love your umbrella!

FIM: I KNOW! Isn’t it great?!! I got it at IKEA. They have the BEST umbrellas!

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Me to a grumpy 2nd grader in my afterschool class: If you are in my class next year, where would you want to sit?

G2ndG: The furthest seat away from you!

Pleasant. Of course he is in my class now…and fights to sit the closest to me when we meet at the rug.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

The other day, I was trying to make an especially tedious math lesson more exciting. Converting millimeters to meters is as fun as watching paint dry. But with my excited, energized voice and a few slaps of the meter stick, I was determined!

Me: If 100 centimeters equals 1 meter and 10 millimeters equals 1 centimeter, how many millimeters are in 1 meter?

(crickets, crickets, crickets….)

Right! 1,000 millimeters equals 1 meter. So if you are really bored one day and you count all of these itty-bitty lines on the meter stick, there will be 1,000.

Student: Yes, but that would be boring too!

Me: (holding in my laugh) Good point.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

I was reading math problems aloud and students had to solve them on dry-erase boards.

Me: “Ready? An elephant eats 5,000 pounds of food a day.”

Student: “JESUS CHRIST!”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Reprimanding a student:

Me: If you don’t start doing your homework, I’m going to have to call your parents!

Student: If you do, I will break your phone.

Me: Excuse me?!

Student: Haha….I was just kidding!

__________________________________________________________________________________________

My co-teacher started handing out snack.

A student says to her: Goldfish?! How did you know they were my weakness?

__________________________________________________________________________________________

One student accidentally sneezes on another student without covering his nose.

Sneezed on student: What do I look like? A….a…a..nakin?

____________________________________________________________________________________________

I am sure there are a ton more I am forgetting, but there is always tomorrow.  Tomorrow starts a new week of fanning out the flatulence, easing the anxieties, managing math, and redirecting readers.  Stay tuned for more sh*t my students say!

Project 52, Week 2: Silence is Golden

With the celebration of Dr. King’s birthday tomorrow, I want to stress how important it is for us all to accept one another for who we are; black, white, yellow, paranoid, anxiety ridden or hairy, acceptance is the key. It is this key that has unlocked the door to the happiness my husband and I share. I accept that he is a hoarder and he accepts that I have obsessive compulsive tendencies. I accept that he burns his hand on a pan every time he cooks because he refuses to use an oven mitt and he accepts that I tend to hit my head on something at least once a month (what?! I have depth perception issues!).

My hubby and I also accept our vast differences in music. While he enjoys classical music in which he can decipher chord changes and the different instruments being played, I enjoy classic 80s and 90s in which I can recite most words, to the horror of my other half. So when he asked me to start going with him to the New York Philharmonic to hear the symphony orchestra, I was apprehensive. It seemed so stuffy and proper to me. But with marriage there is compromise. I decided if I was subjected to 2-3 hours of Bach or Stravinsky every few months, then I would be able to “Rock the Cazbah” and shout George Michael’s “Freedom” when I drove the 8 hour trips to his motherland (right….I also accept that he does not have a driver’s license…don’t get me started!).

On Tuesday evening we head to Avery Fischer Hall to hear Mahler’s 9th symphony. Of course I had no idea who Gustav Mahler was before meeting my husband. We have gone to hear his work a few times now and let’s just say the music is not exactly easy listening. The last concert we heard before this one was called Kindertotenlieder, aka “Songs on the Death of Children.” Very uplifting. Perhaps I should have had a coffee before entering the land of the blue-haired ladies.

The estimated duration of the piece was 79 minutes, so I knew I was going to have to use all of my stay-awake tactics; pinching myself, pretending there were toothpicks in my eyes, looking around at the appalling outfits people were wearing (and believe me, there are many!), etc. In between each movement, people do not clap, since they are told to save their applause until the end. But there is usually a short pause between movements. During this brief pause, it seems as though everyone in the hall coughs or sneezes.  My husband likes to call the mezzanine level “the sea of tuberculosis”.

During the last movement I realized the people around me had their eyes closed. This was not because they were sleeping, but because that is how people who attend the Philharmonic listen to the music; with their eyes closed and a goofy grin on their face. I had nothing better to do so I tried it too. Maybe I would learn to appreciate the music more that way. Except that’s not what happened. Instead, I started to fall asleep. Anyone who knows me is not shocked by that last statement. I’m what you might call a good sleeper. I fall asleep at most movies. I’ve fallen asleep every time I’ve ever been to a planetarium. I’ve fallen asleep in the middle of a conversation. I’m not narcoleptic. I just truly believe I need more sleep than the average person.

But in the midst of my symphonic nap, I heard an instrument I did not recognize. In fact it was not an instrument at all. It was a cell phone! The horror! My eyes shot open. I immediately started looking for the person who had the brass ones to have their phone on at the symphony when Alec Baldwin’s voice specifically asked us to turn them off at the beginning of the performance.  Then reached for my phone to make sure it wasn’t me. Phew….it wasn’t. I thought eventually the ringing would stop, but it just kept going. As the piece grew quieter, the iPhone’s Marimba ring got louder.

Then something historical happened. The music stopped. Allan Gilbert, the first native New Yorker to be conductor of the Philharmonic, turned around and faced the audience. He directed his comment to the first row and asked whoever had the ringing cell phone to turn it off. No one moved. The tension in the room was palpable as the ringer went off once again. He stared at the front row and in the tone of a 3rd grade teacher said, “We’ll wait”. Then the shouts from the audience began:

“SHUT THE DAMN PHONE OFF!”

“WHAT THE HELL?! I PAID GOOD MONEY FOR THESE TICKETS!”

“GET OUT!”

The conductor apologized to the audience and said, “Usually when something like this happens, we just go on. But this was so egregious I just had to stop.” Nice job showing off his Harvard vocabulary. The phone was finally shut off and Gilbert said, “Let’s try this again” and the audience roared. At the very end of the piece, which I surprisingly enjoyed more than any other piece we have listened to (probably because my adrenaline was pumping after the major controversy), it is etiquette to wait until the conductor’s arms  go down before applauding. Gilbert held his arms up for a long while. I was afraid to even breathe in fear he would turn around and reprimand me. He finally lowered his arms, turned around, grinned and nodded to the culprit in the front row,  implying a message of “Don’t f**k with me, Grandpa!”

It was the talk of the whole hall afterward, which of course upset my husband greatly. “We just heard an incredible piece of music played by some of the greatest musicians in the world and all people are talking about is the cell phone!”

He needs to accept that the average age of an attendee of the Philharmonic is probably 80 and they probably don’t even know how to use the gadget that caused the uproar. Nonetheless, the lesson learned here is: always listen to Alec Baldwin.

Project 52, Week 1: Sacrificing for Salvation

I’d like to start off the year, and my first post to Project 52, with a song summing up my first week of 2012 (to be sung to the tune of “My Favorite Things” from the World War II drama/musical The Sound of Music):

Nuts in my yogurt,
Smoked salmon and pickles.
A mug of hot chocolate,
Or coffee, I’m not fickle.
Bananas in my cereal,
And my heart really sings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
When the tenant’s dog barks,
When the kids scream,
When I’m feeling sad,
I simply have a beer or some wine,
And then I don’t feel…so bad.

After experiencing my fifth lifetime concussion in December and suffering migraines since puberty, I figured it was finally time to get the old noggin checked out by a certified professional. A very thorough Frenchman, the doctor put me through a battery of tests, including touching my fingers to my nose (I failed) and walking heel to toe (another failure). He also confirmed my extreme sensitivity to light and sound, joking: “It’s a wonder you don’t always walk around with sunglasses and cotton in your ears.” Good one Jacques.

After the CT scan and MRI came back “normal”, I underwent some other tests resembling electric shock treatment and acupuncture. With the exception of a pinched nerve in my neck (awesome), everything else was fine.

Finally, he asked me if I had ever tried the “Migraine Diet”.  Sounds fun. I was interested.  He tore of a sheet from his prescription pad, handed me one of the pens I was planning to steal anyway from his office (they write so smoothly!) and told me to write down the food and drinks mentioned above in my rendition of “My Favorite Things”. These foods and drinks, he stated, are proven to be the biggest triggers for migraines. He said to abstain from these delightful delicacies  for 8 weeks and I should see a noticeable difference in my headaches. I might see a difference in my headaches, but I will definitely see a difference in my sanity!

Well, what a way to kick off the new year. Deprivation. Eight weeks of deprivation. None of these foods for eight weeks: pickles, nuts, chocolate, yogurt, bananas, cured meat or fish, smoked salmon, wine/beer, limit of one cup of coffee or tea a day, soda.

After hearing this list of foods, my husband’s co-worker justifiably asked, “Is this doctor an anti-semite?”

Seriously! All that list needs is matzoh and kugel and something would be very gefilte fishy.

No pickles?! WHAT?! If I were stranded on a desert island or in the middle of Siberia or in my kitchen with nothing else to eat, I would be perfectly content with a lifetime supply of pickles. Sour, half-sour, bread and butter chips…I love them all. I have fond memories of walking hand-in-hand with my mom around the Roosevelt Field outdoor flea market, anxiously awaiting the end of aisle one where the hugemungous pickle barrels lived. We’d take turns crunching into a juicy pickle bigger than my face. Those days are no more. Well, I still hold my mom’s hand from time to time, but the flea market is gone and now so is my ability to enjoy a delicious pickle.

Smoked salmon, another favorite of members of my tribe, is banned as well. Lox, as we like to call it, was a staple in the Goldberg home for Sunday breakfasts, along with a couple dozen hot-out-of-the-oven bagels, white fish, tubs of cream cheese, thick tomato slices and coffee.

COFFEE! I’m limited to one cup. Isn’t he trying to eliminate my headaches and not add to them?

Wine and beer will also be a bit tough. Since meeting my husband, my drinking habits have become more, um, well rounded (read: frequent). We enjoy a nice bottle glass of wine with dinner or a beer with lunch on the weekends or a Bloody Mary during Sunday brunch or…well, I think you get the idea.

My students are not the only ones who lose steam and energy at around 10:30. While they snack on Goldfish and Pirate Booty, my snack choice is either yogurt and a banana or a handful of nuts. I will have to find something else to quell my aching hunger mid-morning. Without my refueling, I’ll go bananas! Or nuts! Both banned!

Luckily, I don’t have a sweet tooth, so I won’t miss chocolate. I was never really a fan of soda (it makes my teeth feel slimy), so that won’t be difficult either.

So my adventure begins. As if my diet is not limited enough by living a wheat-less existance, I am now temporarily (or perhaps permanently) eliminating many of the remaining foods I love. This is going to be rough. But if this is a permanent solution to the elimination of mind blowing, debilitating migraines, I’m willing to sacrifice for salvation. Stay tuned!

Reflecting and expecting: 2011 into 2012

*For those of you who read the title and think I am “expecting”, sorry to disappoint. I just like rhyming.

As I curl up on my mother-in-law’s couch, watching the snow fall in drifts, listening to the wind howl through the naked trees, I can’t help but wonder why I married someone from the Great White North rather than the Carribean. Instead of “treating myself” to expensive snow boots proven to keep my piggies so warm I can go sock less, I imagine spending that hard earned money on scuba lessons off the coast of Portugal or a kick-ass bathing suit.

Who am I kidding? Just the thought of scuba diving scares the crap out of me and we all know I only buy my bathing suits in one place…Target.

In any case, as my MIL likes to say, this treacherous, inclement weather has given me the opportunity to not only relax a bit, but to reflect on the past year and look forward to the year ahead.

In the past year I successfully completed my 11th year of teaching, gained an amazing co-teacher and one of the most hilarious, challenging, needy and loving group of kids to begin my 12th year.

2011 also brought the completion of my first year of wedded bliss. Despite the climate of his motherland (which we visited 3 times this year…it snowed twice. Once it was in April. Come on!), I think I’ll keep him.

We also had another big celebration this year; my hubby hit the big 5-0. What better way to celebrate 5 decades of life but by sacrificing a lamb? That’s right. In our Brooklyn backyard in the middle of November, we roasted a 50 pound lamb (a pound for each year) on a rented spit with 80 of our closest friends. I had never seen my husband so happy. Not even on our wedding day. There is a special connection between a huge chunk of meat, 20 cases of beer and a primal man that any woman can not deny. It was an affair to remember.

2011 brought me to visit my BFF in Virginia Beach twice, and brought her and her family to Brooklyn twice. Any less than four times a year and we go into withdrawal. On our August trip to VB my husband learned to surf from the infamous Psimas Psurf Pschool and I learned how to make uber-popular cake pops for Cam’s 2nd birthday. A successful and of course enjoyable trip all around.

When the Psimas clan came to NYC in November, a trip 5 years in the making, we enjoyed a very special Thanksgiving dinner like no other (much to the chagrin of my fam).

December started off with a bang….literally. After cracking his head on a pole while playing soccer and bleeding profusely, my husband decided he was fine to go to his 3 hour rehearsal and then ride his bike home. I obviously didn’t marry him for his intelligence. When he finally came home, still bruised and bloodied, he tried to soften the blow of telling me by first giving me flowers (yes, yes so sweet, I know, but I am a lucky gal because he does this often). Before showing me the damage, he tried (stress on the word tried) to calm me down by saying he wasn’t dizzy, lightheaded or nauseous. But when I saw the enormous gash in his skull with congealed, thick blood reminiscent of a ghoul from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller ” video, I was the one feeling dizzy, lightheaded and nauseous. I wasn’t sure what to do first, vomit or get him ice. But somewhere along the way,I passed out, smashing into the French doors, then the table until finally I was unconscious under the table (not dreaming).

We limped hand-in-hand to the ER, where nobody even asked us if it was a domestic dispute. Probably because they were too busy laughing at us. After 45 minutes, he had 5 stitches and was done. After 3 hours I still hadn’t seen a doctor. I ended up with a severe concussion( the 5th of my lifetime…another story for another day). I missed a week of work and, as if my brain is not damaged enough, I am still having trouble recalling, um….uh, oh, yes, words.

As 2011 comes to an end, I would like to make a few realistic resolutions for the coming year. While most people make resolutions to lose weight or work out more, I don’t plan to go that route. First off because I spent the majority of my life wanting to lose weight when I now realize I never really needed to. If anything I needed to do the opposite. Second of all, working out is not a choice for me. If I don’t want a knee replacement before the age of 35, I better move. So here it goes:

1. Write more. Ok fine, I say this every year, but this year I have a plan: project 52. First introduced to me by my multi-talented friend Karen, it is a blog for mommies to document the adventures (and misadventures) with their little ones. I am not a mommy (yet) but I thought this would be just the motivation I need to reach my goal.

2. Cook more. With the fabulous new magazine from my sister-in-law, I hope to create some delicious delights for all to enjoy. Stay tuned for my progress, and pics of successes and failures.

3. Learn French. Ok this one is for a means of survival. Each trip to this tundra means sitting in most social situations nodding and and smiling and looking cute ( which I am quite good at), but this gets tiresome. I’m getting a little better at understanding, but most of the time I haven’t a clue what the hell they are talking about. Are they discussing the deliciousness of the 8th type of meat we had this week? The debt ceiling? The spinach between my teeth? I NEED TO KNOW! Plus, when we have children, my husband plans to speak to them in French and that is one secret club I don’t want to be left out of.

4. Keep plans. People who know me are raising eyebrows or rolling their eyes but all I can do is try. I hate being unreliable or disappointing people, which I have done too much in the past. Sometimes it is unavoidable: sickness, migraines that feel like your head is in one of those vices your wood shop teacher told you not to touch, etc. But I will make my best effort, rain, shine, sleet or snow, like the USPS.

5. Stop plucking grey hairs. This sounds vain. I know it does and I am not afraid to admit it. But you need to know something about me; I have Peter Pan syndrome. I don’t want to grow up. I have never really wanted to grow up. Not me. It is why I went into a deep depression when I hit puberty. It is why I tried to keep my body looking like that of a 10-year-old boy for so long. And it is why I let my mother do things for me I don’t want to do( ie: return unwanted items at stores, make phone calls to insurance companies, get my pants hemmed). Don’t judge though…this co-dependence is one we are both fully aware of. That makes it better doesn’t it?

Anyway…the grey hairs. They are invading my head, eye brows, and my…other parts. While this is a natural condition and I shouldn’t be surprised at seeing these uninvited guests at age 34, accepting this is extremely challenging. When I see the unruly silver strands in the sea of dark brown, I gasp and feel violated. How dare these wirey, grotesque follicles intrude on my otherwise dark luxurious locks?! So when I notice these tricky troublemakers, I have no choice but to pluck them. Yes yes I know, once you pull one, eight more grow back. I don’t care. I’m more interested in the here and now. You should know something else about me, I’m a bit obsessive compulsive. Shocker, I know.

With all this said, I am going to try to decrease this activity. As ridiculous as it sounds, it might be the harder one on the list.

Ok, folks. There it is. A reflection and expectation for 2011 and 2012, respectively. I feel like a pretty lucky gal to have what I have in life; loving family and friends, a job I love, a creeky old house, and for the most part, good health. Wishing you all a happy, healthy new year full of love, happiness and no grey hairs!

Television Deprivation: A True Story

Since moving to Brooklyn two years ago, I have learned to get used to the many changes from my former life in the East Village. I certainly don’t miss the squeals of bachelorette party girls, scantily clad in super-mini mini-skirts and feather boas, clicking their heels outside my window on their way to Lucky Chengs. Or the mad dash to retrieve pots and pans during a rainstorm to collect the water pouring out of my roommate’s bedroom ceiling. Or listening to our upstairs neighbor’s cats chase each other. These are things I do not miss.

Some things I do miss since moving to the outer borough are: people who know the difference between a lemon and a lime, my block and a half walk to the subway and, oh yes, television.

My former roomie is in television production so we had every channel I never even knew existed. “Pretty Woman” in Spanish…done. Any sports event ever…you got it. Classic “Press Your Luck”….check. After an arduous day of educating the city’s youth, a few hours of mindless TV was my martini at the end of the day. I had a routine: “30 Minute Meals” on the Food Network at 6 to watch Rachel Ray slice and dice up some YUM-O meals, “Friends” reruns at 6:30 for nostalgia, “Jeopardy” at 7 to test my knowledge, “Seinfeld” reruns at 7:30 for some more nostalgia and then whatever weekday show du jour.

Those days are no more. My new roomie, and husband, didn’t have or want a television or the evil effects of its emissions. Too distracting, he says. It’s not healthy for you, he says. It eats up all your free time, he says. It causes loss of brain cells, he says. Hmmm, I thought. I am pretty distracted. I can stand to be a bit healthier and have more free time. And I certainly can not afford to lose any more brain cells. Although I wouldn’t describe myself as a television junkie, I consider television one of the cornerstones of my upbringing.

At age 6, while suffering from numerous bouts of strep throat which caused me to miss school, my job was to watch the devious deeds of the Dimeras from “Days of Our Lives” and  give a detailed report to my mother.

I longed to be a Cosby. Who wouldn’t want a doctor father and a lawyer mother who still had the time to bounce you and your friends on their knees and choreograph a family routine to a Ray Charles hit for your grandparent’s anniversary?

Punky Brewster emanated the style I longed to duplicate.

Punky Brewster

I made up my mind at age 8 to name my future children Alex (boy or girl) after Michael J. Fox’s “Family Ties” character Alex P. Keaton.

Alex P. Keaton

I honed my letter writing skills by penning my admiration to the likes of everyone from Kirk Cameron to the cast of “Hunter” to ALF. Kirk was too busy for me but I became fan club members of “Hunter” and “ALF” (as well as Huey Lewis and the News.)

Luke Perry donned my bedroom wall despite the disapproving looks of my high school boyfriend.

In college I videoed myself trying to be irresistibly entertaining, cute and dynamic simultaneously to become the next member of complete strangers to picked to live in a house and “stop being polite and start getting real”. The tape was destroyed, along with my hopes of ever getting on “The Real World”.

When I spent a semester abroad, my friends taped the entire season of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s compelling performances in “Party of Five” and subsequently had a marathon to watch all the episodes.

Clearly, my relationship with television has been a close one, but I felt comfortable that TV was in fact like a good friend; even if we were to be out of touch for a while, we’d pick up right where we left off when we met again. I decided to try it. Television deprivation could be good for me, I thought. Like a colon cleanse. More time to read, to write, to attempt a more consistent exercise routine.

Two years later I realize I don’t really miss it. That’s because I found Hulu.com. Hulu shows TV shows for free eight days after the show airs. Not only do I get to re-enter social conversations about how “Modern Family” is the best show since “Seinfeld” or watch the inspiring transformations of obese couch potatoes to healthy workout freaks, I also get to revisit my favorite little fella from Melmac and relive the drama of Amanda and Billy’s breakup on “Melrose Place”….all for free!

I spend just a few hours a week catching up on the essential programs with limited commercial interruptions: “House”, “Modern Family”, “Grey’s Anatomy”, “The Biggest Loser”, “So You Think You Can Dance” and when my husband is not around, my guilty pleasure, “Glee”.  It’s a nice mix of encouraging my hypochondriac nature (“Neurocystercercosis? Oh my GOD! I totally have that!”), non-trashy reality shows, ab workout worthy comedy show and absurdly entertaining and well written musical theater show.

Without cable television I have noticed I do read more, wish I could say the same about writing, and I have begun the uber-popular workout regime (yet still inconsistently) P90X. Bring it!

Although life is not about winning and losing, I will ultimately win the battle in this cable-less existence. I can always say I tried  life without the telly…kind of. But giving up TV is like giving up coffee, or any other unnecessary pleasure. Yes, you can survive without it, but if it is something you enjoy, why deprive yourself?

I know it! I’m a poet!

In celebration of April’s Poetry Month, I would like to share some poems, old and new, I have written.

My ability to create poetry is just one of the many traits I’ve inherited from my father. He used to write poetry with such ease and he’d write pages upon pages of poems. I am proud to have inherited this trait and have become “that girl” who reads her poems at every event. I’ve done weddings, funerals, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, anniversaries and birthdays and more. I’ve created poems for bridal shower invitations, baby shower invitations, and started a tradition where I write a poem about my class every year, which I read to them on the last day of school. So thanks Dad for passing down the timing for rhyming. However, being heard through written word is much more appreciated than dark under eye circles, varicose veins and weak knees. But I digress…

The feeling of a rhyme is simply sublime! So enjoy the following lines below, you just might like it, you never know!

The Best Place to Be (2008)

You just sit there,
In the corner of the room,
Awaiting my arrival,
All day long.
You look so inviting,
I just want to climb right in.
Pull back your thick skin,
To find your softest layer,
and lay with you.
As you cover me,
embrace me,
hold me,
comfort me,
Protect me.
I am safe when I am with you.
No cares in the world,
You treat me like a queen, and you are a queen yourself,
in your vast pillowy softness.
I get lost inside you and I never want to be found…
My Bed.

OUCH! (1993)
Oh, how I wish I wasn’t such a klutz,
Without any bruises, scratches or cuts.
No rides to the hospital after the game,
Where the nurses know my phone number and my name.
Hyperventilation, sprains and falls,
Imagine that…I’ve done them all!
I’ve had every medication, treatment and pills,
My God! You should see the hospital bills!
My friends and family say I’m accident prone,
Whether I fall out of a canoe or bruise my bone.
Skiing and bike riding are not my specialty,
Stitches and bloody noses are not my cup of tea.
Don’t be surprised if I’m in a sling or a cast,
It’s from one of my accidents, but certainly not my last.
Because of all the accidents that I have gone through,
Putting me in a bubble would be a good thing to do.
Away from animal bites and unsteady chairs,
No tripping off curbs or falling UP stairs!
Not being a klutz, what would I be like?
I’d be safe on the slopes and even my bike.
With all of my bumps and bruises, I really don’t mind,
Being a klutz makes me one of a kind!

Happy When it Rains (2008)
Heavy drops hit the top of the air conditioner,
Pelt against my window pane,
Then slide down the foggy glass.
I adjust my head to find
the mushiest part of the pillow,
and to get a better listen to
the cloud’s release.
The sky rumbles
Like an empty belly and erupts
Into a thunderous
BOOM!
I roll over, pull my covers
Up a little higher.
A satisfying grin spreads across my face.
The perfect excuse for a lazy day…
RAIN.

To My Friend on her 27th Birthday (2004)

Twenty-seven: young or old? Old or young?
Don’t worry, baby, our lives have just begun!
Stretch marks and wrinkles, as time passes by,
Are not as important as our friendship, you and I.
Our beauty runs deeper and our strong bond does too,
We’ve been through so much together and have so much more to do!
So look our world, here we come!
Two of the hottest bitches under the sun!

Leah (2008)

Her smile can brighten
The darkest of days,
Her laughter is contagious.
Red curls bounce on top of her head,
As she runs towards me.
She squeals as she gets closer.
I open my arms,
She falls inside.
Happiness is captured in our embrace.
Her head falls on my shoulder
we both squeeze tight.
A ray of sunshine.
A beacon of hope.
A little girl’s love.
Leah.

Sunshine (2002)
When you are away,
My life is dark and gloomy.
A black cloud hangs over my head.
All I want to do is stay in bed.
Without you the world feels dead.
I feel the illness inside my head.
My life feels hopeless and full of dread.
My body is as heavy as lead.
But then you arrive,
And again I feel alive!
You shine and I am revived!
Into life I want to take a dive!
I come out of my cave,
I come out to play,
It is my life you have come to save.
And I just want to say,
Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
Thank you sunshine,
you make my day.

In the Memory of My Aunt Helen (1992)

A beautiful lady with a heart of gold,
A courageous woman, brave and bold.
A mother of three and devoted wife,
A terrible tragedy took her life.
She had a disease called Huntington’s,
It took over her body and unfortunately won.
Sitting in her wheelchair on the day I saw her last,
I remembered how healthy she was in the past.
She was ill and very thin now,
This disease took over her body and I didn’t know how.
I sat by her side and stared for so long,
But I could no longer remain strong.
My eyes filled with tears and I started to cry,
I went to say my last goodbye.
I wish I could have told her it would be OK,
That all the pain would go away.
But I knew it would not, there was nothing I could do,
She was going to die, but I wished it wasn’t true.
The time had come and she passed away,
I thought she’d be better off that way:
No pain, no shots, no hospital beds,
Just peaceful thoughts running through her head.
A year has gone by, and I made a new start,
But memories of Aunt Helen will always stay in my heart.

To My Mom and Dad on Their 25th Wedding Anniversary (1991)

As the day of December 18th nears,
A beautiful couple celebrates 25 years.
Know to the world as Carol and Phil,
They love each other and always will.
They got married in 1966,
Phil picked Carol over all the other chicks.
The year 1968 was really mighty,
When they became parents of their first daughter Heidi!
She was a big baby, as a matter of fact,
My father said, “UGH! Can we put her back?!”
A little brother Heidi would like,
Three years later, along came Mike.
A beautiful baby boy as my mother would say,
She might be a little bias, but that’s OK.
They lived in the Bronx for quite a while,
Then they moved to Levittown for a new lifestyle.
Living happily as a family of four,
Then I was born to add one more.
Everybody loved, cute baby me,
Although I didn’t have hair until I was about three!
Now our family is complete,
We are definitely a fun bunch to meet.
Through thick and thin we’ve been through it all,
Even all those bicycle falls!
Carol and Phil have stuck together,
I hope they will forever and ever.
To two people I adore,
I wish you happiness forever more.
From your youngest,
I love you very much,
To your hearts I hope this will touch.
Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad,
You’re the best parents I have ever had!

**By the way, this poem was a total farce. My parents were not very happy at this party, or for some time before and after that. We had the celebration against their will. They decided to get separated a few years later, followed by a divorce that should have happened years before. However, they still remain best friends….although that’s another story for another day!

Speaking of marriage…here is the poem I wrote to let everyone know I am getting married!

Love Stinks (2010)

“LOVE STINKS!” was the name of the show,
Michel was performing, as you may know.
I was asked to write a question,
On a construction paper heart,
I didn’t know what to write.
I didn’t know where to start.
Does love really stink?
I wanted to ask.
Is it hard to achieve?
Such a difficult task?
I didn’t write a heart broken question,
Or follow the norm,
As I watched the man I love,
On the stage perform.
At intermission I handed over my heart,
Feeling a little harried.
Since what I wrote was:
“What do you think about getting married?”
What was I thinking?
What did I do?
Am I the marrying type?
A Gentile to a Jew?
We discussed the proposal of my proposal,
Whether we should or should not.
Our ultimate decision was…
TO TIE THE KNOT!

When the day is done

*This was written a few years ago, when I had a different principal, different students, a different apartment and a tighter ass (although the last part has nothing to do with the story). *Also, some names have been changed as to not embarrass anyone unnecessarily.

It makes me so happy when the day is done. I’ve worked my day of work, argued with the principal as to why Martin* should get detention again (Yes…I think leaving the classroom for 20 minutes to ask his friend from another class a Pokemon question while the class is writing is a means for losing recess…and why do I need to prove this?!). After I have stayed with Sammy* after school to find her helmet (again), put the daily plan for the next day, trade nightmare stories about my day with colleagues (“Yes…not only did I have to argue for Martin* to get detention again but my girls came back from lunch and told me the boys told them they had ‘big hairy dicks like Homer Simpson!’ I can’t make this shit up!”) and put the copies downstairs for tomorrow’s homework, I gather my stuff and realize I should have gotten a lot more work done between 3:00 and 6:00, I finally leave the building.

It makes me so happy to leave the building, walk the two blocks to the F train and pass numerous parents with their kids. I saw these children  just three hours earlier, but they get so excited, you would think I had not seen them in years.

“HI MS. G!” they yell from across the street, their eyes all lit up, waving their arms wildly and jumping up and down to make sure I notice them. I wave back and smile and hear the kid say, “Mom! That was Ms. G!” as if I was some kind of celebrity. They find it amazing I have actually left the school building, am walking on the same exact street as they are walking and am about to use the subway! The next day, inevitably, the same kid, excited as she has ever been, jumping up and down, says, “Remember when I saw you on the way to the subway yesterday?!!”

It makes me so happy when I get on that subway platform at 15th street and the wind in the tunnel starts to pick up, indicating the train is approaching. I love when the train passes and blows my hair back in all directions making me feel, if not for just a moment in time, like Felicity during the opening song of the once popular TV show about college angst.

It makes me so happy to be able to work on the crossword puzzle from AMNY, the free daily newspaper, on my way home; the one I started in the morning but my brain was not sharp enough then to remember the 7 -letter word for the lead actor in “The King and I” (Brynner).

It makes me so happy to dart up the stairs of the subway station, already taking out my keys to my apartment for the most exciting part of my day. I pass the fruit guy, packing up for the day, who offers me five bananas for a dollar. Pretty good deal but I can’t stop. I’m on a mission. I pass the little Italian restaurant and sneak a peek inside to see if the cute manager is there, trying my best to look sexy, nonchalant and inconspicuous simultaneously. I finally reach my corner. I just have to cross the street and climb up those 15 stairs, unlock Fort Knox and I’m be home free.

It makes me so happy when I finally  wrangle the first key into my hand ready to unlock the front door. I check the mail…Ooooo! YAY! A Netflix movie. I know what I’m doing tonight! But not before I do my most important and favorite part of the day. I’m almost there! I open one…two…three locks of my apartment door, trying to ignore the 85-year-old neighbor who is constantly on the phone with one of her five children yelling what sounds like distress calls in Polish. Her somewhat concerning cries are not going to stop me!

It makes me so happy when, at the end of the day, I can take off my bra and let the little ladies free.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh…………..