What Happens in Vegas, Stays in... Pt 1

What happens in Vegas stays in, well, Astoria, appartently.

Here are the events of the week as I experienced them.

Several days ago I was chatting with a friend about Saturday evening, and the fact that Ryan and I had plans. We were going out to dinner. With another married couple. Without the baby. This was, I explained (though I probably didn't have to) a very big deal. We never get to go out just the two of us. We were even spending the night at our friends' apartment in Astoria, so there would be no worrying about who would drive, no rushing back to the babysitter.

Friday morning I got a text. Our babysitter was canceling. This was not OK. I needed this night out. And I knew that Ryan needed this night out. And he had mentioned several times over the past two months (yes, we had made these plans two months ago) how important the evening was. That it was the ONE NIGHT when we must be certain to have a sitter. I was angry and frustrated, and I knew he would be angry and frustrated, and I set to work finding a replacement.

That's all I did on Friday, really. I sat around and waited for people to get back to me. I was either actively contacting people, or sitting around being a nervous wreck, unable to focus on anything productive. I knew a few of my close friends already had plans- like... playing Ophelia in Halmet, or celebrating their own anniversary. Then some of my go-to girls from my theatre company started to get back to be. None of them were available. I posted it on facebook. Nothing. Then I started to get messages from a friend of a friend, because there were a few people devoting a lot of energy to finding us a babysitter. It was that important. And I was grateful that everyone seemed to understand that it was that important.

A little confused.

But grateful.

Ryan found someone on Friday afternoon around 4:30. Whew.

I set out on Saturday to teach a lesson in Manhattan in my usual fashion- a bag slung over my shoulder carrying different clothes, make-up, and shoes, so I could get dressed up to go out after I taught. I am starting to feel like I will spend all of my Saturdays this way. I taught, and then I wandered around Manhattan for two hours, just waiting for time to pass before my date. Finally, I had wandered as much as I could wander. I called Ryan and asked him what the plan was. "I'll be at Eddie and Melissa's around 8:00. I'm leaving the car in a garage that is one subway stop closer to Manhattan. I'll meet you at that subway stop and we can walk together."

8:00, eh? It was 6:00.

"I was thinking I might just go on to Eddie and Melissa's and get ready there. I'm really tired of carrying all my stuff around."

"No! I really want to walk with you."

"But my shoes are huge. I don't want to walk in my giant heels. And I don't have any place to get ready."

"We never get to spend time together! I want to walk with you."

"Fine!" I conceded. But this was really annoying. The Starbucks where I had been reading did not have a public restroom, and I didn't feel like wandering around Manhattan trying to find someplace, so I got on the train to Astoria. I arrived there about 6:45, and started, once more, to wander. Again I called Ryan.

"How long do you think you'll be?"

"It will be at least an hour."

"OK. There's seriously no place for me to go."

*silence*

"Fine. I'll figure it out." But he was lucky this was not a first date.

As I started wandering- again- I got a text from Melissa. "Just leaving the city with my nails painted! So excited!" Getting my nails done is a pretty rare treat for me, but it gave me an idea. A nail salon would have a bathroom and a place for me to sit down for a while. And- could it be? A salons with manicures for $6. I couldn't sit at Starbucks for $6. So I picked out a plum colored polish, and let someone else take care of me for 30 minutes or so.

Then I called Ryan. Again. "OK, what's your ETA?" I could tell he was about to lose it when he told me that he was stuck at the toll and was at least 20 minutes away. I didn't want to make him feel even worse about being late, but come on. "Fine. Call me when you're here."

I found a bar and ordered a 7-and-7. And I sat and drank. By myself. Finally, the woman next to me asked-

"Are you waiting for someone, too?"

"I am. My husband."

"Yeah. Awkward, isn't it? Because until they show up, you're just drinking at a bar alone." We laughed and chatted for a few minutes before my phone rang. Finally.

I met Ryan under the subway. Not the most romantic start to a date I've ever experienced, but I was just happy he was there. With a suitcase. But I let it go.

We walked the few blocks to Melissa and Eddie's and chatted about my lesson and the woman at the bar and my purple nails. And as we climbed the steps to our friends' apartment, I expressed concern over wearing my hair down. I never wear my hair down.

"It looks fine." Well. That makes me feel better. "I think you might look a little too classy, though."

"Excuse me? Too classy, for what? For Astoria?" This was a little hurtful, since I was specifically going for an artsy look. I was confused. So I added "I have purple nails? Does that help?" I never got an answer, because that's when Melissa opened the door. In bunny ears. And Playboy pajama pants...

To Be Continued...

Wreck This Journal

I attended a bachelorette party on Friday night. I didn't want to go. It's not because I don't care about the bride, or the hostess, or the other guests. I was just... tired. I know the other toddler Mommies out there can understand. If you have a night off, you sort of want to stay home with your family in your jammies. But, I fixed my make-up, and got on the Metro North, which took me to the 6 train, which took me to the N train, and I arrived at the party, ready to make the most of it. I was handed a drink nearly immediately. OK, that helps... And then, I was handed a book.

"Wreck This Journal."

I didn't understand. It was just a book with a different instruction on each page. And the primary purpose is to wreck the book.

A BOOK. You want me to destroy a BOOK? I care about books. I have always cared about books. I'm writing one, for goodness sake. But I am a good sport, I can do this. Our hostess turned our attention to a page in the middle that said "rip this page out. Throw it away. Accept the loss." And it was kind of... liberating... actually. We spent the whole evening wrecking our books and talking. It's interesting that women have to have busy hands in order to connect. Men can just drink. We need to DO. And so we talked, and we drank, and we threw our books off of the balcony, and we set them on fire, and we tied strings around them and dragged them around the neighborhood. People stared (fortunately I am not shy) and asked what we were doing. We answered that it was a bachelorette party. Somehow, this was accepted as an answer that made sense. Oh, New Yorkers.

The longer the night went on, the more I got it. My inner-perfectionist let go. I got less and less worried about doing something the "right" way. I didn't save pages for when I was in the mood. And the results were all rather artistic. And honest. They were simple tasks, and they gave me an instant feeling of accomplishment.

There is a lot of freedom to be gained from wrecking this journal. I'm about halfway. So here it is. My new category of blogs. Wreck this blog. This could get messy.

Can You Feel the Love Tonight?

I had heard that the first few minutes of Disney's "The Lion King" on Broadway are some of the most breathtaking moments people have seen on stage. Last Saturday, I sat in our secluded little area, (it's not where our seats were, but since we were with a Lion King employee and the area was empty, we got to sit in the middle of the six empty rows in the back. The best place to enjoy a show with a 17-month-old) and I felt the house lights go down, and I wondered. I am not easily impressed. Would I feel what others have felt?

Less than a minute later I was holding my breath and crying as I watched the beautiful events unfold. But I could not tell you what was happening onstage. Or what the elephants looked like. I could barely tell you what song they were singing. (OK, it was "Circle of Life," but come on. We've all seen the movie.) Because the sight that had me so swept up was not the show itself, but rather, my daughter watching the show.

She sat on a booster seat between Mommy and Daddy for the first minute. She laughed when the baboon came out. But when she saw the elephant pass by in the aisle, just inches away, she crawled onto Ryan's lap and wrapped her arms around his neck, facing the back of the house. She held on, but she never stopped watching. Once they had passed, she turned around to see the parade of animals make their way up to the stage. "Wassat?" she asked. (This version of the word highly preferable and much more developed than the former "What is it?" scrunched into one syllable. "Shi-iht?") And before we could answer her- "Oooooooh! Wow!" And she sat. And she watched. And she clapped. And she laughed. (including when Mufasa died. But we'll forgive her for not understanding the context.) And she saw nearly the entire full-length show at seventeen months old.

Our friend Lindsay, who got us the tickets, did take Lily out into the lobby for a few minutes during Act 1, and again for a few minutes in Act 2. But not for long, and only for the slower parts. She sat mesmerized through the rest, and by the time Scar was brought down, she was standing on my lap and clapping her hands and yelling "Yaaaayyyy!!!" (But again, she laughed when Mufasa died, so...)

Who knows how much she understood of the story. Very little, I'm sure. But she could feel it. She could feel the orchestra. And she could feel the energy in the room. She could see and hear the instruments ("Doot doot dooooooo!" and then looking for my reaction. Is that right, Mommy? Yes, baby girl. Those horns say "doot doot doo.") and the voices, and she could see the costumes and the sets. And she could go backstage after the show. And she got to meet the actors and even go trick-or-treating in their dressing rooms and have hot dogs with their families.

Being a Mommy is exhausting. And sometimes thankless. And being in theatre is exhausting. And often thankless. But last Saturday, Lily reminded me that things aren't so bad.

"Waiting for Superman" Tells It Like It Is

A few weeks ago I got a facebook message from a friend inviting me to see "Waiting for Superman." She had been telling a mutual friend that she wanted to see it, and he had suggested I might also be interested. Frankly, I had never heard of it, and I very rarely go to the movies. As the Mommy of a toddler, it's both time and cost prohibitive. But once I looked into it a little, I knew I needed to find a way to make it work. Did I want to go see a documentary about the state of public schools in the US? Yes. Yes I did.

So, I went. And I watched. And a lot of it was really painful. But not for the reasons many other current and former teachers are claiming. For me, it was painful because it was so very true. "Waiting for Superman" tells the story of public schools the way I experienced them as a teacher. I wish it wasn't true, but it is.

Now, before my facebook friends list shrinks to about half, (although I would hope my friends would be willing to hear me out) let me get a few things out of the way. I went to public schools. I was served well by public schools. My husband also went to public schools, where he was served well. Our daughter, even in a town where there is tremendous pressure to attend private school, will attend public school. (although, this is because we decided when she was just over a year old to move someplace where she could attend public schools. If we were still in NYC, we would make a different choice.) Both of my sisters, my mother-in-law, and two sisters-in-law (my brother's wife, and my husband's sister) have taught in public schools. And they were all phenomenal teachers.

But here's the part I don't talk about very often, especially not publicly. Of those six women (including myself) in my family who have taught, NONE remain teaching today. One retired as scheduled. (but, as I understand it, exhausted and frustrated.) One retired early. (because she was exhausted and frustrated) The other four of us just quit for a variety of reasons. But among the top of our list of reasons is the fact that the system is broken. (leaving us... exhausted and frustrated)

From the reviews I have read of "Waiting for Superman," (and I've read a lot) there seem to be four central ideas regarding the film that really have people pissed off. 1. That it suggests teachers are bad, 2. That it suggests charter schools are the answer. 3. That it suggests home life has nothing to do with student success, and ignores the fact that the students whose stories are told all come from loving families. 4. That the film itself is purely propaganda because it tells such a one-sided story. I don't think any of this is true, but let's look at each idea.

1. Teachers are bad

"Waiting for Superman" examines a lot of bad teachers. Or, as many reviewers would have us believe, it has the audacity to examine bad teachers. We can bury our heads in the sand if we like, but we need to be aware of the fact that there are many, many bad teachers out there.

I've hesitated- fingers frozen over the keyboard- for probably a minute now, still afraid to type these next few sentences. What am I afraid of? Hurting friends and family? Well, let me be really clear then. If you are a teacher, and you are my friend or family member, I don't mean you. You are all fabulous. So here goes.

I taught with someone who didn't care for one of his classes, and he didn't know what to do with it, so he made it a study hall and gave everyone an A. I taught with people who just fell into their positions who were in no way qualified, and, once there, were fully protected by the union. I taught with people who made racist and otherwise hateful comments regarding students, and when I complained, I was told I would get used to it.

I ALSO TAUGHT- in fact I MOSTLY taught, with amazing teachers. Teachers who cared about their students and were gifted educators.

But the fact remains, there are really bad teachers out there. And in any other field, they would be fired. But they are protected by the union, there is nothing that can be done. "Waiting for Superman" exposes the teachers union as a major lobbyist. When I was a teacher, I was often intimidated by the meetings, and we didn't even have anything major going on. But it was more than the intimidation factor. The contracts themselves seemed unfair. I worked harder. I was better. But I was still paid less than some of those horrible teachers who had been there longer.

2. Charter schools are the answer.

"Waiting for Superman" is not suggesting charter schools are THE answer. It's suggesting better teachers are ONE answer, and that the teacher's union is often standing in the way of improvement in teacher efficacy. The filmmakers suggest, then, that families who are dissatisfied with their local public schools send their children elsewhere- someplace where the teacher's union is not in control. One option is private school. The families we follow in the film do not have the option to go to private schools, but live near charter schools with proven success. So, they enter their children in the lottery to attend these better options. They are ONE option, probably the BEST option, for THESE FAMILIES.

3. What about the families?

"Waiting for Superman" does not, in any way, suggest that home life is not a factor in student success. It also does not suggest that physical, emotional, and metal health are not a factor. Or the economy. Or the political climate. Or the weather when it's really hot or really cold outside and students can't concentrate.

But seeing as there is little the school system itself can do to change home life and the economy and the weather, "Waiting for Superman" doesn't highlight these aspects. It focuses more on the parts we can change, which feels more helpful to me.

4. The film is merely propaganda, as it is so one-sided.

First, I would argue this one-sidedness. The film DOES state that there are fewer charter schools that are succeeding than public schools. You just had to be paying attention. And it DOES highlight successful teachers, and successful public schools. But anyone who has ever taken a script analysis class can tell you that trying to show two sides of a story is just not effective storytelling. And it is, after all, a movie. Constantly going back and forth between "the public school system is broken" and "but there are some great public schools and public school teachers out there" (much the way I am doing in this blog...) waters-down the message. We're supposed to leave feeling conflicted, our hearts breaking for the kids who most certainly are getting "left behind." And we're not supposed to have a clear answer. We're just supposed to know it needs to be fixed.

I have more to say. But I'll save it as answers to my hate mail.

Crazy Straws, Nerf Balls, and Coffee Filters (Oh, My!)

I don't know why we can't just buy a costume. There are many lovely costumes available for purchase, and they are probably less expensive than what we end up spending on the parts needed to assemble something homemade. But we both feel the same way. We will make Lily's costumes. So there we were last night at Toys R Us, trying to find all the right pieces. Did it matter that there was a big silver heart on the front of the sweatshirt? How would we get the Nerf ball to stay on the crazy straw? And more importantly, how would the crazy straw stay upright on the headband? And did it matter that it would show? Should we cut holes in the hood so it could go underneath? No, she could wear this again.

We put Lily right to bed when we got home and got to work. Step one had Ryan over the stove melting plastic. Sewing the headband to the hood proved difficult and ineffective. Good thing we had nice strong tape. Then I realized the curling ribbon was in the spare closet in Lily's room. That's OK, we had twine. And in under and hour, voila! The costume was complete.

I had to wait until this morning to try it on her. (although I really wanted to wake her up. But I remained patient.) She tipped her head backwards in order to see what was on top of her head, and continued to try to see for long enough that I laughed so hard I snorted. I carried her into the bathroom, not sure that would work- did she even understand mirrors? Not really. But she took one look at her reflection with that silly hood and smiled, then giggled, and accepted the hood as appropriate attire. I changed her out of the costume immediately, of course. We need to keep it clean for the party at "The Lion King" tomorrow, (yes, the Broadway musical. We know people.) and trick-or-treat on Sunday.

But I know that it works, and it fits, and she likes it. And someday, she'll be the girl who just wants her parents to buy her a damn costume from the store. But until she's old enough to know better, she's the girl with a designer and a music theatre teacher for parents. And we don't buy costumes.

Move Over Laura Ingalls

Things in my apartment that do not currently work properly.

1. My phone. The button at the bottom that takes the user back to the home screen does not work. At all. In order to get back to the home screen, I have to shut off the phone and restart it. As an iPhone addict, this is more than just a nuisance. It is life-altering.

2. The TV. It just shuts off and turns back on. Whenever it wants. Granted, we got this TV around the time we got married, so sure it's not HD or anything, but it should WORK for goodness sake. And Lily doesn't understand the word "broken." So she throws herself on the floor and cries when she pushes the button and nothing happens. Don't get me wrong, she's not obsessed with TV. She's obsessed with buttons.

3. The microwave. I tried to use it a few weeks ago and it sparked as if there was metal inside. (there was not.) I stopped it, had Ryan look at it, he had the same result, and it has been unplugged ever since. But it holds our little bride and groom cow quite nicely, so it is still good for something.

4. The computer. It's "fine." But it's six years old (a dinosaur, in computer years) and isn't even fast enough to watch videos online. (Netflix. Perverts.) And since it's a desktop, it's stuck here in our room, which means I can only use it when Lily is sleeping, or when Ryan is home to watch her. But if Ryan is home, I don't want to be stuck working in another room. And there are two times during the week when I have a break for HOURS and could be writing, but have nothing on which to write.

Now. There are people without food water and shelter. And there are people without love. And I have a lot. I know this. Seriously, I do, and if you point out what I have as a response to this post, I'm calling you out for not paying attention. But we get used to modern conveniences, and when they stop working, I for one get very whiny.

Does anyone know of a reality show that gives people technology makeovers? Kate Kenny? Anyone?

Jacket Required

You would think it's gross.

You would look at it, all dirty and smelling like beer and stained and worn. And then you would look at me, dressed some days in Ann Taylor, other days like a West Village artist, and you wouldn't get it.

And I wouldn't care.

It is my band jacket. And once a year, I'm wearing it all weekend.

It's OK. I didn't get it either. When I heard as a freshman that they were going to "initiate" my jacket, I told my Mom in confidence that I didn't want them to. Why would I intentionally make my jacket look old? And then, the day arrived when it was time to pick it up from Baron's Men's Shop. I was a little excited- I had seen all the other band members in their jackets, and I would have one of my own.

And the guy handed it to me. And it looked ridiculous. The letters were blindingly white- screaming "OHIO" at me from the back. And the sleeves were all stiff and new. This was clearly the jacket of a freshman.

"OK," I conceded- a little- "maybe there's something to this jacket initiation thing."

I handed my jacket to my Big. Reluctantly. Other band members ran around the field with freshman jackets- marching on them, wrapping them around trees, cleaning their car engines. But my Big made a little mud puddle, and methodically covered each of the letters and the patch on the front, turning the white to a dark brown. And he took his key and carefully put a hole in the patch that's shaped like the State of Ohio. The hole was right over the place where Springfield would be, had it been a real map. And then he asked if I wanted beer pockets.

"I'm sorry. What pockets?" I asked. Innocently. I was a very good little freshman.

"Beer pockets. If I rip the lining out of one of your pockets, it opens up to the inside of the jacket, and you can fit at least a six-pack in there." Of course, some jackets could fit more like a case. But mine was very small. "Makes it easier to get to and from parties without getting caught."

But I didn't drink. I was sort of known as a freshman for not drinking. Well, that and being a cheerleader. But mostly the not drinking thing. So I would not be requiring beer pockets. And, unlike many of the other Bigs, he honored this.

And then, he scratched his initials- TV- into the button second from the top. Followed by four other older band members. JT, and MW, and AK, and EH. And he started to make a diamond Ohio which, even today, (gulp) seventeen years later, remains just one triangle and a line. In fact the only things that have changed about my jacket since that day- aside from it getting more worn, of course- are my Tau Beta Sigma pin, and the small black ribbon I wear on my name patch on the inside to remember Jud and Frank. (who will always be with us at Homecoming)

I wore that jacket for the next five years, much to my mother's dismay. "What are you wearing over your formal dress to the Band Banquet?" she would ask. My band jacket. Obviously. I sat on it when it got too hot. And I used it to wipe the snow from my car. I wore it all over that gorgeous campus, and it let the world know that I was a member of one of the most honored organizations at that school.

It comes out of the closet today, ready to accompany me to Athens, where I will wear it. All weekend.

And you'll probably tell me you think it's gross. But I'll know you're just jealous.