Fan Girl

It was still more than 30 minutes until the 9:30 p.m. show for which we had tickets, so we decided to see what was going on upstairs. There was a balcony overlooking the lobby. Was it a bar? We climbed the stairs and pushed open the heavy door, and sitting before us at a table surrounded by a lineup of diehard groupie-fans was Sandra Bernhard. We were there to see her, too, but we were much less gay than the rest of the crowd.

Ricky and I often find ourselves at places where we play the guessing game called: "Is Ricky the only straight man here?" I'm not sure why that happens, but it does. It happened at the Melissa Etheridge concert, and the Cyndi Lauper appearance at a club in South Beach. I don't know. I guess we just like gay stuff.

We sat down in two bright orange chairs just a few feet from the line and watched the goings-on. There was one very large man with a walkie talkie and a shirt that said "STAFF" on the back, but otherwise, there were meticulously dressed men with stylish shoes and glasses chatting up Sandra. "I saw you in LA." "I worked with you in..." Chuckle chuckle. Snap a picture. Sign a T-shirt.

We had seen Bernhard about five years ago, also in NYC, but in a larger venue. This was in Joe's Pub, part of The Public, the same organization behind Shakespeare in the Park in the summer. I loved her show the last time: She is a much better singer than I would have guessed. I'd always thought of her as a comedienne. But her act mixes storytelling and singing. And, okay, I have to admit it. If I can't be Tina Fey, I wouldn't mind being Sandra Bernhard. (Minus the being lesbian part. Not, as Seinfeld would say, that there's anything wrong with that.) I would love to have people pay to come hear me tell funny stories and rant about whatever I want (quite funnily, of course), and then periodically break out into song when I felt like it. Who wouldn't want to do that?

But in the meantime, I guess I'll just have to be satisfied with being a part of the audience, and blogging as funnily as I can.

What a Panic

I am very calm in emergency situations. Here are some sample comments from me.

Don't worry about it. I'm sure it'll stop bleeding eventually.
Just use the other arm.
That doesn't smell like smoke to me.
It always makes that noise. Just ignore it.
That's not a rash.

While we always hear that people should not panic in emergencies, few may realize that it can also be a problem to be too low key. Like when one is in labor, for example. I was only in the hospital 45 minutes when my daughter Leah was born. The doctor barely got there in time and later told me he had not hurried because I had sounded too calm on the phone.

Before becoming parents, most adults put way too much importance on the screaming/crying of children. That's because when an adult screams and/or cries hysterically, that means something REALLY BAD is happening. Non-parents have that as their only frame of reference. But once you have kids, you come to realize that hysteria can mean that the Teddy bear's bow is askew or the icing on the cupcake is not the desired shade of blue. This parental mind shift was not as big an adjustment for me due to my natural inclination to under-react.

So, I did not freak out when my son at age 3 fell from the top of the play equipment at the park and was unconscious for a moment. Nor when daughter fainted when having blood taken. When husband needed nine stitches in his knee. When son and/or daughter(s) and/or husband lost keys and/or wallet and/or homework and/or broke out with mysterious red bumps on one body part or another.

Clearly, there is just no need to panic. It's not like today is the end of the world. Happy 12/21/12!

Love Me, Love My Mailbox

We live in a gated community and pay a fairly hefty maintenance sum for the privilege. The bulk of the money from this monthly fee goes to the management company so it can send us an almost constant barrage of letters telling us to do something to our mailbox.

You see, the homeowners association mandated that everyone in the development have an identical mailbox painted the identical pale green color. These mailboxes are not made of metal or plastic, but of a much classier material called wood. This would be lovely except that in South Florida, our weather is broken into: Hurricane Season, Rainy Season, and Humid Season. Each of these seasons shares a common element called moisture. Wood and moisture do not peacefully coexist, so we are always getting letters.

Paint your mailbox. Caulk your mailbox. Replace the numbers on your mailbox. Paint your mailbox again. And then recently, we received a new one: straighten your tilted mailbox.

My what?  I walked outside and stood a few feet back into the road, gazing at my mailbox the way art patrons pose themselves in front of their favorite Jackson Pollack. With my elbow crooked and my chin resting in my hand, I attempted to understand this most recent demand: Straighten the tilted mailbox.

"This is tilted?" I thought, the same way the uncultured masses might think, "Isn't this Jackson Pollack just scribbles?"

I tilted my head one way and then the other. Ricky got out the level, and we plopped it on top of the mailbox. The little floaty globule was barely off center. Even so, in the spirit of good citizenship, we complied. We paid a guy to come out and dig and prop and fill and measure until the box was absolutely, perfectly level. And just for good measure, we painted it, too! And cleaned the metal numbers! It was a thing of beauty.

Until two months later when we got another letter that said: Please replace rotted mailbox. Rotted! After all that? Perhaps too much moisture from the Humid Season has gotten into the brains of the homeowners association. I'd be happy to straighten them out with my level.

5 Days Until Winter Break

If you think students get excited about the approach of a two-week break from school, you should develop the ability to read the minds of teachers. Actually, no, forget that suggestion. (Really, really bad suggestion.) Instead, I will present you with my Week Before Winter Break by the Numbers.

5 = school days until the break
40 = pages in the December issue of our school newspaper, which is now at the printer (to be distributed Tuesday)
4 = people who will be mad at me on Tuesday about something in the December issue but will not tell me
1 = people who will be mad at me on Tuesday and tell me
96 = yearbook pages that need to be submitted to the publisher this week
3 = students who already told me last week that they won't be here at all this week
200 = papers I will collect this week that I will need to grade
215 = total students I have on my roster this year
6 = classes I teach
10 = average number of extra hours beyond my scheduled work week that I usually work
0 = extra hours it is my goal to work this week (hahahaha!)
50 = estimated number of my students who will be absent at least one day this week
15 = estimated number of Starbucks gift cards I will receive
100 = estimated number of times this week that I will be tempted to eat something incredibly fattening
2 = estimated number of earnest, sweet notes/holiday cards I will receive from students that will make me sigh, get teary, and come back after the break and next school year, too

A time to be serious

Like everyone else right now, I am wondering: What kind of person guns down little kids? While the horrific mass murder committed yesterday will prompt much discussion once again about our ridiculous lack of gun regulation in this country, I believe we must give equal attention to the fact that we live in a culture where "first person shooter" is a term of art in one of our most popular forms of entertainment. I know that most people who play violent video games do not commit violent acts, but we have raised an entire generation that has become desensitized to violence. A civilized society is supposed to rein in any natural tendencies we may have toward antisocial behavior that will harm the common good -- not promote, cultivate, nurture and glorify these tendencies. Those who are in the process of purchasing as gifts this season the latest installments of games that as realistically as possible maim and murder others should take a long time to think not just about guns and what they do, but also about the games we play and the legacy this will leave.

Don't eat this post

Let me start by saying that if you have allergies, you are exempt from the rant that is about to follow. So, if consuming a peanut can kill you, then this is not directed at you.

People need to get over the dietary idiosyncratic behavior that has taken over America. When did "I don't eat..." become a common starter for sentences among adults. As in:

I don't eat meat.
I don't eat processed sugar.
I don't eat more than one starch per week.
I don't eat cooked vegetables.
I don't eat eggs from chickens that are fed processed sugar. Or glutens. Or anything but whole wheat grain freshwater free-range cod-liver-oil beans.

Want to hear mine? I don't eat anything that isn't considered food. There! I said it!

Full fat, half fat, lite, skim, low-cal, high-carb, low carb, no-carb, here a carb, there a carb, everywhere a carb, carb.

When was the last time you heard this exact conversation:
"Want some pizza?"
"Okay!"

I bet you're thinking really, really hard. Because the odds are that the person being offered the pizza doesn't eat dairy. "As long as we get it without cheese..."

Well, America, I'll be happy to ingest all the glutens you are shunning. Once I figure out what glutens are exactly.

Rally Dog

The man sitting next to me at the Brooklyn Nets vs. Miami Heat game was eating a hot dog as the whistle blew for the start. I wasn't hungry...yet. But I kept eyeing the dog with my peripheral vision. And of course there was the smell...oh, the smell.

The first quarter of the game was horrible. The Heat looked awful; the Nets looked like All-Stars. The man's hot dog was long gone, but it lingered in my consciousness. By halftime, the score was only mildly depressing, not beyond hope. The cast from Stomp performed, so we decided to stay seated and watch, but I was still thinking about the hot dog.

"Hmm," I said casually to Ricky as the performers below slammed garbage can lids together as artistically as possible. "I think I may want something to eat."

"Like what?" asked Ricky.

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Maybe popcorn. Or a hot dog."

"Well, if you're really hungry, it would probably be better to get a hot dog," he said. (This is why I love him.)

As the third quarter began, I very nonchalantly agreed. Since the arena just updated and redid all the concessions this year, Ricky started flipping through the program to find the map of where the food vendors were located. (Human GPS inputting new data)

"There's a kosher hot dog stand right here outside of section 102," he said.

So at the next timeout, out I went. I stood near our section entrance and scanned back and forth up the concourse. Sure enough, there was a little hot dog stand that I had not noticed, wedged right between gourmet popcorn and gluten-free extreme tacos.

The second I got back to my seat, clutching my kraut-covered bounty, the Heat made a big play. And then another. And moments later, when I was only half way through eating (How long does it even take to eat a hot dog?) , the Heat tied it for the first time after being behind all game. The crowd roared and everyone jumped up. I remained focused on my dog and munched away, trying not to drip ketchup onto my Dwyane Wade jersey.

From then on, the Heat were superstars and they won the game. So, you're welcome, Miami Heat fans. My rally kosher hot dog and I say you're welcome.

Keeping It Real

Under the photo of the warm red-orange sun hanging low over the grassy expanse, the hashtag said, "Good  morning Everglades." Someone flipping through my son's Instagram account would probably look at it for a moment, consider it a beautiful shot, and then click on to the next image. But I lingered on it. Because I was with him when he took the picture, and I know it was a picture not of the sunrise, but of the sunset.

We've all seen fake pictures doctored in Photoshop and read fake information on the Internet. We who live in the era of irony consider ourselves savvy enough to laugh at crazy photos like the one I've seen of President Obama riding a unicorn while laser beams shoot out of his hands. Or cats parachuting out of planes. Or, cats doing pretty much everything, actually. (What's up with all the cats?) Sure, we get it.

But what about the literally millions of subtle inaccuracies that populate our high-tech world? My son, and everyone else out there who posts items on the Internet, has no obligation whatsoever to be accurate. He's not a journalist. He has no rules to follow when posting something that is for him an artistic endeavor, a hobby.

Alterations are everywhere. Profiles on Facebook or Twitter or any social media range from slightly distorted to laugh-out-loud purposefully and entirely fictional. The way we look, the way we talk, the way we write is all filtered. Instagram has a popular hashtag that says #nofilter when labeling photos. But we are living in a time when all information is filtered. The only question to ask is: To what degree?

When and where were pictures taken? Is the text of that post genuine or satirical? Is she really posting that, or did someone hack her account? Whose voice is it? Whose image?

If a brunette dyes her hair blond for 30 years, and has never been seen as anything but a blonde, doesn't that mean she's really a blonde? What is the reality of her image? And if a sunset is casually referred to and accepted as a sunrise, does that mean that to people viewing the picture, the sun rises in the west?

It's a jumble to consider. And it could very well be that unfiltered truth and reality may soon be gone. So it makes me wonder: Just where is Obama hiding that unicorn?

The Human GPS

Anyone who gets lost in my family knows immediately what to do: Call Ricky. My husband is better than Google Maps, MapQuest, and any satellite supported GPS. We don't need no stinkin' Siri to tell us where to go.

If we call him in a panic, he will immediately and effortlessly not only calculate the best and most direct route of travel, he will include commentary regarding location and duration of time of school zones (if applicable), which landmarks and road signs to note, which lane to be in ("Get over to your left and look for the Taco Bell"), where the best parking is ("Go to the far end of the lot for easier exiting later"), and even how to walk from the lot into the building ("Walk on 10th Street because there will be fewer homeless people").

It doesn't matter if we are lost in Miami ("Miami Avenue and Flagler are both zero; count up from there") Boca Raton ("That address is right next to the tennis store we went to once, on the north side of the road") or West Palm Beach ("Don't park in the garage by the courthouse; the street parking is better").

Ricky even knows where he is when he doesn't know where he is. He loves to input new data (as you can see here at right during a recent trip to Europe). When we traveled to Paris for the first time, we took the Metro (subway) to go sightseeing. When we emerged from the hole in the ground, Ricky said: "It feels like we should walk in this direction." And he was right. Once the local map has been absorbed, it's in the Human GPS for good. (If anyone has an upcoming trip to Austria, Germany or Hungary and needs directions, Ricky's ready for your calls. He also has quite a good handle on most of Italy.)


Clearly, the most perfect job he ever had was during college when he delivered flowers. He was given a bunch of addresses, and he then had to personally compute with his very own brain (before the portable electronic device era) the most efficient route. Boy, did he love this! It was more fun than doing the Sudoku! Especially if the route included challenges like canals that caused streets to dead end when you were almost there.

Yes, Ricky can find any place anywhere with great ease. Now, if he could just find his keys.

A MAN AMONG MAPS: There's nothing more fun than absorbing maps of new cities and their transit systems. 

Basic Slang

A vital part of my job in supervising material that is created by teenagers and published is ensuring that nothing horrifyingly inappropriate gets into the newspaper or yearbook. Since I am around teens all day at school and then come home to my own personal teens, I do have significant exposure to the slang of the moment, so I'm not as clueless as many. Even so, it presents a challenge in keeping up. And think for a moment about the pressure: I have to make sure that TEENS don't PUBLISH anything NAUGHTY.

There was the time I almost let "let's get crunk" go through because I thought "crunk" meant rowdy, until a responsible student editor let me know that it means "crazy drunk." And I refused to let "balls so hard" go into the yearbook, in spite of the fact that it's a popular song and apparently just refers to vigorous play in sports. Sorry, but anything ambiguous involving the word "balls" is not going in anything I oversee.

Potential naughtiness is not only limited to words. Hand gestures can be problematic, especially in large group shots at sporting events where fans love to hold up No.1 fingers. I know many a yearbook adviser who has scrutinized such pictures for more time than they'd like to admit. And at my school, with its beachy, surfing vibe, people love doing the "Hang 10" hand symbol with pinky and thumb raised. I've had to check up on that one, too. And don't even get me started about booty dancing or red plastic cups (the universal symbol for alcohol).

The latest slang I've come across is "basic," which seems to be an insult. (Usage: "That girl is basic.") The best I can puzzle out for this one is that having a personality devoid of lively, witty, or interesting accoutrements is considered "basic." In other words, it means you're dull.

But there is nothing dull about proofreading high school publications. I recently came upon a photo caption that read: "A member of the band blows her saxophone like a pro." I paused for a moment to wonder if teens know that "pro" is slang for "prostitute," though I am quite certain that the subtleties of the word "blow" are not lost on them. Needless to say, this caption suffered the same fate as "balls so hard."

This is why, when each issue of the newspaper or yearbook comes out and no one calls demanding that I be fired, I emit a sigh of relief and celebrate by raising a red plastic cup to toast my success.

Food Removal Service

At 5:15 p.m. on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, the following leftover food items were in my refrigerator:
2 servings of baked beans
1 container of pasta sauce
1 turkey meatball
1 large grilled pork chop
2 servings of linguine
1 portion of eggplant and tofu stir-fry

By 5:30 p.m. on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, those food items were gone. What happened during those 15 minutes in between? My 21-year-old son and one of his roommates arrived home from college and were hungry after a 3-hour-plus drive from Orlando.

At 5:35 p.m., they headed back out on the road toward Miami to go to the Heat game. All that was left behind was a duffle bag full of dirty laundry and a trail of empty Tupperware containers. And plenty of room in the refrigerator for the turkey to thaw.

Rowling's new book is vacant of cheer

When J.K. Rowling was a single mum on welfare, she created a world of literal and figurative magic filled with high-spirited adventure, humor and hope. Now that she is richer than the queen of England (really!), internationally famous and admired for her talent, and married to a doctor with whom she's had two more children, she has written the most horribly depressing novel populated with the most miserable characters ranging from feeble to evil.

There's drug addiction, rape of a minor, emotionally and physically abusive parents and spouses, self-mutilation, bullying, small-mindedness, small town pettiness, job loss, obesity, stroke, death. The only likable character dies in the first three pages of the 503-page novel in a very descriptive scene filled with all sorts of body fluids. He creates The Casual Vacancy on the town council that gives the book its title and its unending downward spiral into misery.

I know that happiness often ruins musicians causing them to lose their edginess (See: Billy Joel/"Uptown Girl"), but it doesn't make sense that happiness would make a writer of cheerful adventure turn into the Duchess of Depression. Harry Potter fans: Run! Run as fast as you can!

Outside the Dunkin' Donuts

A four-mile path of sidewalk encircles the series of gated residential communities that includes mine. Walking around the circle, you'll pass The Isles, The Isles East, Venetian Isles, Viscaya Isles, Mariner's Cove Isles, and Yo Mama Isles: development after look-alike development with greenery and pavers, greenery and pavers. Plopped in the middle of all this, there is one corner of commerce: The Dunkin' Donuts, which faces the (not) diminutive church across the street that I fondly think of as the Baptist Vatican.

I took a stroll to the DD this morning, purchased a large iced tea unsweetened (to save on calories, of course) and a blueberry muffin (who cares about calories? ha!), and then sat at one of the two little tables outside watching people go in and out.

I saw white people, including a couple of sets of father-daughter duos, one of which got out of a pickup truck, the other out of a Mercedes. A young African-American guy ambled in wearing a navy blue t-shirt with "Vick 7" on the back. An olive skinned middle-aged couple was next: the man wearing jeans and a denim shirt with Ed Hardy scrawled in white cursive letters across the upper shoulder area, the woman wearing an embroidered tunic, polyester brown pants and a head scarf. A pretty young Hispanic woman in sunglasses with her dark, silky hair swooshing back and forth strutted in with purpose, her flip-flops clickety clacking on the pavement. Two women wore matching heather gray t-shirts that said #brave on the front. As they walked past me, I saw that their backs had the name of the supersized church.

That's when it hit me: A microcosm of the entire world could be found at the Dunkin' Donuts that is one mile from my house! South Florida suburbia, you are much more interesting than you let on.

Party time at the Heat game

Most of the row starting with the seat next to me and a large chunk of the row behind us filled in with people having a birthday party for a 7-year-old last night. At an NBA game.

The mix of boys and girls entered right before the 7:30 p.m. start with their stubby little arms wrapped around tubs of popcorn and clutching those giant foam No. 1 fingers. Some were wearing empty popcorn tubs upside down on their heads, and they all had on itty bitty Miami Heat jerseys, including one boy with G MONEY personalized on his back. Aside from the mind-boggling expense incurred for a celebration like this, consider the energy level, the wrangling, the herding, the distributing of cotton candy and ice cream bars for 15 little kids!

Ricky and I thought they were extraordinarily cute, but then, we weren't the ones in charge of the fun-size critters. That job belonged to the hyper-alert parents doling out stacks of dollar bills to the food vendors strolling the aisles. During the national anthem, one girl belted out the entire song quite proficiently, and the whole group enjoyed making high-frequency noises whenever the opposing team was shooting free throws. For the most part, the wee fans seemed to actually pay attention to the game in between slurps and chews, and they lasted until sometime in the third quarter when, one by one, their eyelids got heavy and they began to tilt over onto their foam fingers, which made excellent pillows.

This is your teen unplugged

Since I am the school newspaper and yearbook adviser, my classroom is a computer lab. A big advantage of this is that students will sit quietly in a zombie-like state for as long as I want. A big disadvantage of this is that it takes great histrionics to get students to stop staring in a zombie-like state if I want to have them actually listen to me or maybe even answer me. Telling a teen to stop using a computer that is right in front of him is like placing cocaine in front of a crack addict and then saying to ignore the coke...and listen to me talk about why credible sources are important.

Being the wily teacher that I am, though, I have my methods. I roam the classroom peering behind this Mac desktop and then that one. Freshmen in particular can completely disappear behind a tall screen if you're not careful. ("Are you back there, Susie?!" A little hand will wave just above the monitor for Susie to let me know she's still alive.) I call the students by name to snap them into alertness, ask direct questions, have them write on the board. (Who doesn't love dry erase markers?) In extreme cases, I have been known to hum the theme from Jeopardy or do a modified version of the chicken dance.

Even so, I see eyes being pulled toward the screen. A hand sliding its way toward the mouse. And if I have students -- gasp! -- shut the computers off, then the screens become...mirrors. Adjusting the hair, dabbing the make-up, practicing a smile or a pose then ensues.

"Back away from the computers! We're making a circle now."

Alas, there is nothing sadder, nothing more forlorn than a disconnected teen. Well, they always have their cellphones.

I know it was Halloween, but...

Last night as I was watching a free throw during the NBA game between San Antonio and New Orleans on TV, I noticed in the background a person in the audience wearing a full head-to-toe gorilla costume. He was sitting in a premium seat, about five rows up from the floor at the top of the key. What possesses a person to wear a gorilla suit to an NBA game?

"I think in order to fully enjoy my $150 seat I will enhance the experience by donning this incredibly heavy, airless, vision-obscuring suit and sit statue-like with my furry hands folded in my lap."

Spa me the details

I could smell happiness as I approached the entrance to the spa: whatever those oils are that they rub all over you during a massage. The scent was oozing out of the place and tickling its way into my nostrils. As I stepped into the lobby and the door to the outside world clicked closed behind me, I let it all go away: the crazy world of teaching in a high school, the bells, the teens flipping their hair, the cellphones, the computers that never work right. It was just me and the dim lights, the dreamy oils, the new-age music, and the lady behind the desk with the purposefully hypnotic voice. She whispered a welcome to me and escorted me to the waiting area, no, the meditation room, where the next person would come to get me and guide me to the place of the cushy bathrobes and then my treatment room.

And that's when Daddy Warbucks/Donald Trump came booming in -- a bald, athletic-looking, super-keyed-up dude who could definitely be #dominantcorporateboss. He was wearing a bathrobe and walked briskly into the darkened, blissfully quiet meditation room, sat down two seats away from me and bellowed: "Hello there, young lady!" He had to be talking to me because no one else was there. In the course of the unwanted conversation that followed, I found out that he was retired from the automotive industry (story garnished with highlights from the entire trajectory of his career), had just played basketball with a bunch of near-professional players half his age ("I'm older than hell," he said.), and that his girlfriend had given him a gift certificate for the massage he'd just had.

I also found out he was an alumnus of Arizona State University, where I had attended a workshop for journalism teachers a few summers back. I mentioned that ASU has a great journalism school.

"But they named it after that commie," he said, referring to Walter Cronkite. He then started explaining in detail why Walter Cronkite was a commie by giving me a full account of a specific battle during Vietnam: the strategy, the number of soldiers, casualties, weaponry, and how Cronkite had reported something false or incorrect about it.

"This is not a relaxing conversation," I finally said.

"Huh?" he said, followed by one last swig of the herbal tea he had been drinking. He clunked the cup down on the little table next to him, causing the fringe on the decorative cloth to jiggle.

"Well, gotta go!" he said. "Nice talking to you."

On purpose

Whenever I post a Facebook status, my daughter tells me it's "like a novel." She doesn't mean this in a good way. Apparently, anything over three sentences is considered a book these days, so, instead of turning to drink, I've turned to blog. Now when I write "long" entries, I can say I've done it entirely on purpose. Whether I'm talking about how crazy, goofy and zany my (what random example should I give here?) daughter is, for example, or anyone else in my realm, I won't feel limited by the teen-age eye rolling that is permanently embedded in my psyche. It is true that my posts will often be about the people who cross the path of my life the most, meaning my family, co-workers, and the ladies who work behind the deli counter at Publix. Should I be concerned about making fun of other people too much? After giving this deep, serious consideration for five minutes, I've decided: NO. I am under no obligation to be even-handed when writing about the often comical behavior of those around me. If they want to expose me for my own foibles, they'll just have to write their own blogs.

I probably don't know your mom.

It could be I've set myself up for failure here if your mom happens to be the funniest person ever. I'm taking a chance at losing readers, or, at the very least, making a false claim. But here we go. Res ipsa loquitur: the thing speaks for itself.