THE "Mmm" HOUSE.

So I've registered for the Chicago Marathon. While crossing the finish line of the Rochester 1/2 last fall, my immediate thoughts were: "God, I'm tired" and "I'm thirsty". But after catching my breath and getting some beverage, I marveled at how well the race went, much better than I could have anticipated. So I decided - pretty much right there and then - that I'd like to try going the whole distance. From what I've read and been told, the first 13 miles of a marathon are relatively easy, it's the second 13 that kill you. I guess this is why I was able to make such a confident decision, having never ventured past that 13-mile mark. But I'm gonna give it a go. Hell, if P. Diddy can do it, why not me? I mean, we've got so much else in common and all.

Two weeks ago, I began a "pre-training" training program. The miles are pretty low right now, but the runs are more frequent and regimented. I need that. I need the chart on my refrigerator telling me which days to run and how far. Funny - the rest of my life is so very scattered - following no set course whatsoever. But this really seems to work for me. There's this nice little boost I get when I cross off each completed run. Like when I was little and got a "Good Job!" sticker on a quiz or something.

I have several routes of different mileage. This morning was 5 and I decided to take a route past this one house that ALWAYS has these great smells coming from it. Sure enough, they were frying up the bacon for Sunday morning breakfast. In the evenings, it always smells like pot roast or grilled burgers. There's something very comforting about this [very carnivorous] family: the idea that they probably take time out to have meals together, a somewhat foreign notion these days.

When I was little (Christ, here she goes, being that old fart again) I remember playing outside after school with this mob of neighborhood kids. We'd ride bikes in each others' yards until each house had its own muddy moat around it. Or play catch in the street. Or brutally mock whichever kid who's turn it was to be the outcast. Meanwhile, there was the warm aroma of dinners being cooked, wafting through windows. And somehere around 5:00, Moms would begin calling their kids home.

I guess that's what running past "The Mmmm House" reminds me of. Simpler times. Good times. Maybe that still happens and I just don't see it. In any case, it's a nice feeling - the memory. Also, having something happy to think about seems to make the miles go by faster.

FLOATING IDIOTS AND HAWAIIAN RODENTS.

Lying here, wishing I could've slept longer. Had a surprisingly tame - but great - night last night. Me & 4 of my girls celebrated "Bees L's" 30th birthday/Cinco de Mayo. I didn't get home and into my bed until after 2 AM due to much commotion in the city.

You know, the usual traffic, crowds, stops at various sex shops... Oh, and the detour I begged them to take past Lincoln Center so I could see that idiot, David Blaine, floating in his human fishtank ("Come on - it's not THAT far out of the way!") I don't know which is more bizarre: his stunt, or the fact that there were 500+ people lined up to see him at 1:00 AM. And wouldn't you know? The bastard was SLEEPING! I did, however, manage to get this fine photo of his foot.

So my plan was to sleep late. But 6:30 AM came and the birds began their grand opera outside my window. It's actually quite nice to lie here and listen to all the different songs (yes, I can get crunchy). But we also have an enormous colony of chipmunks who make this incessant, "chit chit chit chit chit..." - and all at the exact same time. How can one word [chit] mean so many things? Maybe it's like "Aloha" or "Shalom." Or "Smurf."

And also the neighbors next-door have FOUR children under the age of 8. Two are twin 5 year-old boys. And one of them is ALWAYS doing something wrong. And Dad ALWAYS catches him. Loudly. Louder than any chitmunk.

BUENOS CINCO DE MAYO!


Today we commemorate the victory of the Mexican militia over the French army at The Battle Of Puebla in 1862. It seems that we in the U.S. love to celebrate just about ANYONE kicking French ass, and what better way to do so than over a frosty pitcher of margaritas? I, for one, plan to do my part this evening at Burrito Loco in the Village. Let no man call me anti-American - er, I mean anti-Mexican...?

Today also happens to be a special day because it marks the birth of two of America's most influencial figures: Ann B. Davis and Tina Yothers.

So if you find yourself out and about this evening - shooting tequila and hating the French (ole!) - be sure to drink a very special toast to both Alice (80) and Jennifer Keaton (33).

PUBLIC APOLOGY TO MY FRIEND MIKE:

I'm sorry I called your concert an "aural assault". Had I known you read this blog I might've written my true opinion of the performance: that it was easily the finest display of talent by the largest group of child prodigies ever gathered in one room. I am hardly worthy to even ATTEMPT putting on my own school concert in 2 weeks (which, by the way, you better fucking be at).

I hang my head in shame.

Tonight HE and I endured a 90-minute aural assault.

My friend Mike, a first-year middle school music teacher, had his first Spring concert.

It was my first time in a long time as a "spectator."

It was also my last.

I AM TWO DEGREES FROM KEVIN BACON.

A few years back I was out with a couple of my gals, having dinner -- and lots of drinks. After dinner in one of our favorite hip towns, we went to this cool theatre we sometimes go to - it shows indie films. When we first got there, my friends went to the bathroom and I went in to get seats. I think it was a weeknight cause I remember there only being two other people in the theatre.

So I am sitting there - slightly inebriated - and the movie starts while they're both still in the bathroom. And something about the opening scene strikes me as eerily familiar: the town - the setting - the buildings... as if I'd been there before. And then I realize - much too slowly - IT'S MY TOWN! And I say aloud (to the other two people in the theatre) "Holy shit! That's MY town!!" It was all very surreal - especially with the drunk factor. When my friends finally came in, they shared my awe. And we spent most of the movie watching the background, seeing if perhaps I would go running by.

Not long after, I was at the movies again - this time I had gone to see "Mystic River" (I'm not sure if I was drunk or not - movies following dinners out usually come with a 50% chance of drunkenness. Alright - maybe more like 80%.) All of a sudden, it strikes me that one of Sean Penn's 'kids' looks remarkably like one of my students. Sure enough, there's her name in the closing credits! Naturally when I saw her in school the next day and said, "Guess what movie I saw this weekend?", she blushed and replied, "Mystic River?" Jeez! It turns out she'd been in quite a few movies. This one with Kevin Bacon - hence the title of the post.

That's twice with the weirdness. But wait --

Tonight I'm sitting there watching this odd indie film I borrowed from the public library (did you know you can get free DVDs at the library now?) Lo and behold, ANOTHER one of my students appears! WTF?!

I just hope that movie I starred in never falls into the wrong hands...

WHO SUCKS MORE THAN ME?

Answer: Very few. I wish I had a valid reason for not posting in so long. And considering the very morbid tone of my last post, people probably assumed I dove off a building or something. Not the case. A whole lot has gone on this past month - and some REALLY great blog topics too! Alas, the truth is... I am fucking lazy.

BUT I'M BACK! Um... for today. Let's not get crazy with the expectations.

Hmm... Okay -- big news: I moved up out of The Grotto and took over my aunt's apartment. We had it painted all these great, bright colors and refurnished the hell out of it. There are huge windows, one of which acts as a headboard for my bed. And the sun happens to rise through that window every morning. And it's glorious.

Secondly, I became an aunt again! Bean has a little brother (whom I have not yet nicknamed so for now he shall be called #2). He's pretty cute for a little smoosh of a thing. I forgot how small they are when they first come out!

And lastly (but certainly not leastly) I myself have a new pride and joy. Behold:


Who knew such joy could come from some metal and rubber? Okay wait - BIGGER pieces of metal and rubber. For exterior use. I'll stop.

The long-hated Saturn that I'd been driving for the past few years decided to puke antifreeze all over the inspection station (a blog entry unto itself) and rather than blow $2,000 on fixing the head gasket, I traded it in to lease this wonderful little guy.

So yes, I am very much alive and life gets better with each breath. And now that the blogging seal has been broken, I will do my best to get back on task and write. I've missed it. Truly.

IGNORANCE = BLISS?

I think I think too much. I also think that if I weren't me, I'd find me annoying.

What separates being mentally ill from NOT being mentally ill? Apparently, there is a verrrry fine line between the two. I don't think it's a very straight line either. I think it curves is some areas, and is blurry in others - more like a smudge. And try as I may to walk down the center of it, it's darn near impossible.


Depression and mental illness run rampant through my Dad's side of the family. Probably Mom's too, but Dad's actively sought treatment. They all spent their fair share of time in psychiatric hospitals, and each had a revolving cocktail of meds. I wonder what it felt like inside their heads? I mean, we all have ups and downs -- sometimes the downs last longer than the ups. But when do you cross the line?

For a while now, I've had this theory that "depression" is the soul's way of telling you you're not in the right place in your life. But with all the options available to us; and with all of society's pressures that we put on ourselves, how the hell do we know where (or who) we're truly supposed to be?

Who are the "Happy People"? Are they the ones who really know who they are? Or are they just people who are so distracted by the everyday things in life - work, kids, money - that they're too busy to sit around thinking about this shit? My brother J, for instance. He and his wife work so damn hard. They have a house that they bust their asses over; a 3 year-old son and one on the way; they even have the frigging Golden Retriever. They're about as All-American as they come. And they truly seem happy to me.

But I don't get it. 'Cause I don't think that having all that shit would make me happy -- it would just keep me busy.

I dunno... I think that for a long time in my life, I was one of them. Able to get caught up in the surroundings and just BE. But somewhere along the way, I became an overthinker, and have since been 'defiled'.

ADDICT.

SCONES FOR THE BUDDHA

Today I went to my local Asian nail salon for my bi-weekly fills*. Whilst sitting there inhaling acrylic dust, I noticed the shrine again.

I am assuming my Korean(?) manicurists are Buddhist and that the assemblage on the floor near the sink - which consists of an elaborate statue and a bunch of bowls and flowers and stuff - is indeed a shrine of sorts. And, as in times before, I noticed that there was food laid out in front of the statue - offerings.

Today this particular Buddha received a cup of Starbucks coffee and a scone.

I don't know much about Buddhism, aside from what little I picked up in the Religion & Culture elective I took in grad school. So I Googled Buddhist offerings (and then scones... and then offerings+to+Buddha+scones) I learned that offerings to Buddha are known as "puja", and that they can sometimes be of food (although no sites specifically mentioned scones).

I would really like to know more about all of this, but I feel strange asking my Asian manicurists. I don't want them to think I'm stupider than they already do. Ever seen the Seinfeld episode where Elaine is paranoid that her Asian manicurists are making fun of her in a foreign language? Been there.

So I dunno. Perhaps it's hard to find milk-rice and lotus blossoms at the nearby ShopRite. And let's face it -- scones be some damn tasty puja.

* I am probably the most NON-high-maintenance woman on the planet, but I recently got the nails cause my own just will not grow. At all. So this is my one vain indulgence. Truly.

A REALLY GOOD WEEKEND.

You know it's been too long since your last blog post when you forget your password to login.

What a great few days it's been. Had a busy week - two performances with my kids. The first was Wednesday night at my school - our annual Jazz Cafe. Excellent event -- featured my jazz band and a bunch of soloists and small ensembles, along with a gigantic coffee cambro, courtesy of the ECE. It was the first time HE had been to my school and seen me "in action". I was proud of my kids and really happy that HE was there. Friday night's performance was brief, and involved just a handful of my students playing at a fundraiser at the high school.

Saturday I woke up early and went out for my first longer-type run in a while - the weather was AMAZING -- I am so ready for spring. I worked about 6 hours at ECE and spent a fine evening at HIS place with take-out Chinese and three TiVo'ed episodes of "American Idol". I'm rooting for Taylor Hicks. He reminds me of a cross between Ray Charles and Robert DeNiro... with autism.

But today was the best day by far. We drove down to visit HIS family - first stopping at this incredible place for breakfast, before heading to HIS brother's place for a visit. Afterwards, we wandered around scenic Bordentown, NJ -- it was a little like stepping into a Colonial timewarp. Very cool. And then we went to HIS folks' for an amazing dinner.

I really hope HE realizes how lucky HE is to have such wonderful parents. They are the kind of people that radiate warmth and just scream to be hugged. More than anything, they are just very real, genuine, good people. If I could choose parents, they'd be way up there. Right with Mike and Carol.

PAMIR - A Haiku.

Belly full of food
Norange Palaw and cheap wine
The burps remind me

I KNOW ... I SUCK.

At least I can admit that. I get pissed when the blogs I love to read aren't updated regularly, and here I am being a hypocrite (and a cocky one at that - assuming anyone actually READS this blog). So yeah, it's been nearly two weeks since my last post. I wish I could say I was doing something amazing - like riding a bicycle 244 miles from Prague to Budapest (no wait, that's happening this summer!) - or maybe being held as a POW on some third-world island nation (hopefully NOT happening this summer) - but really I've not been doing much of anything.

Last week was Mid-Winter Recess. It was glorious. I slept in almost every morning unless I made plans, which was rare. On Wednesday I went into the city with P.McQ and D. We had gotten cheap tickets to see "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" so we did lunch and stuff. Was a nice time. I'm not a huge fan of Broadway though, and - true to form - I did doze off during the first act. Fucking siestas are to blame.

Friday I drove down to the annual NJMEA conference (aka: Giant Convention for Dorky Music Teachers). And like every year, it was basically a big reunion of the people that I went to college with. I went with my friend L, whose school district is nice enough to pick up her registration fee AND a hotel room. After we went to dinner at Makeda, I really just wanted to go back to the room. So I did. And fell asleep by like 10:30. Woo hoo. Meanwhile, L stayed down in the hotel sportsbar and drank her face off. When she (and some friends) stumbled back to the room at 3:30, I was less than pleased. I'm becoming such an old fart.

Then the snoring began. And even through my noise-canceling headphones - which are able to drown out the sound of a 747 jet engine - the snoring was audible. So around 4:00AM, I decided I had slept enough, packed my shit and drove home. That was NJMEA 2006. Although I did go to a couple cool workshops including one on the Alexander Technique and one which taught me about my new favorite program, Garage Band 3. All was not lost.

Last night I went to a NJ Devils vs. Philadelphia Flyers game. P.McQ got cheap tickets (did I mention she is Queen of Cheap Tickets? I think she may have a mob connection ... or maybe she just puts out) and that was kinda fun. I'm not a huge sports fan or anything, but hockey is definitely exciting. It moves really fast and there are grown men wearing ridiculous amounts of padding, sliding around the ice and bashing each other. What's not to like?

During the second period, a fan-fight broke out in the stands. Mixing Jersey and Philly is never a good idea. Throw in alcohol and face paints and chaos is sure to ensue. It was actually more entertaining to watch the fan-fight than the game. It made me think that they should sell weapons at sporting events -- right next to the beer kiosks. Not guns or knives or anything, more like medieval weapons - like flails and maces. Just food for thought.

Anyway, so that's where I've been. Sorry if I disappointed you. If it makes you feel any better, I'll tell you I'm on my way to Iraq to be a human shield.

ALL IN A DAY'S WORK

Contrary to popular belief, I do have a heart. And today being the last day of school before Mid-Winter Recess, I decided to surprise my "Period Zero" Band class with a treat: breakfast. So this morning I stopped at the local Dunkin' Donuts and picked up a few boxes of munchkins and swung by the local bagelry for a couple dozen bagels. Hell, I even bought JUICEBOXES!

Needless to say, the kids were very pleased. NOTE: If you ever need a kid to do ANYTHING, bribing them with copious amounts of food - especially sugary food - usually does the trick. As they were enjoying the bounty, I begged them to please just kinda sit and relax, and to make sure they don't make a mess.

Ha.

About 15 seconds later, I see a group of sixth-grade boys jumping at one of the basketball hoops - we rehearse in the "gymatorium" - while another boy went to get a long-handled broom. I made my way over to them just as he was about to start poking at the net with the broom.

"Come on guys, why can't you just sit down and relax for a few minutes? What are you doing?"
"We're trying to get that down", replied one kid, pointing up where a juicebox was lodged between the backboard and the net.
"Why is that there? How did that possibly get there?"
"John threw it up there."
"Is it full or empty?"
"It's full."
"Why would John throw a full juicebox into the basketball net?"



-- Here's where an obvious and almost acceptable answer of: "we were playing ball" might fit in. But that would make sense. Instead I got --

"To get Matt's retainer down."
"..." [me - dumbfounded.]
"...did you get it?"
"Yes."
"...um.. Well done."

I decided they should just leave the juicebox up there and see how long it takes for someone else to notice. I think it would be kinda funny if it were still up there when these kids are 8th graders.

And so in case you were wondering why teachers get all these weeks of break off from school, this is why. Welcome to my world.

WHEN I RULE NORTH AMERICA ...

I will institute a mandatory daily siesta period.

A siesta is a short nap taken in the early afternoon, often after the midday meal. Such a period of sleep is a common tradition in hot countries. The word siesta is Spanish, from the Latin HORA SEXTA - "the sixth hour" (counting from dawn, therefore noon, hence "midday rest").

It's the same story every day: I get in my car to drive home after a full day at school and as soon as my ass hits that car seat, I want nothing more than to crawl into bed. Seven years teaching and this feeling has not lessened. My body has not "adapted" to getting up at the ungodly hour of 5:21 and turning on the juice for 50 kids at 7:00AM P.C. (that's Pre-Coffee, my friends).

Recently, I've been giving in all too often. Sacking out for an hour in the middle of the day, when the rest of the workforce is in full-swing, keeping the world running smoothly. I wake up feeling refreshed, rejuvenated and full of shame, promising that tomorrow I will make it through the day without a snooze. I know it's an evil cycle and I'm only feeding the habit.

But perhaps I should not feel guilty for my 3:00PM "crash" and subsequent nap. There has to be some sort of validity to this whole Circadian rhythm stuff. Could entire nations of people be wrong? Granted they're mainly South American countries -- they tend to be laid back folk. But India and China too? Could such a large chunk of Asia be considered lazy?

I think we'd all be a little better off for hauling out the nap-mats. Perhaps the world might be a better place.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY FROM THE SOUP GODDESS.

Not too big a sucker for this Capitalist holiday, although I am certainly grateful to have someone wonderful with whom to share it. Shout out to HIM: "I love YOU!"

Other than that, fighting off a cold and a cough so drastic it's actually left me with aching ribs. Do you know that people have actually cracked ribs from coughing so much? This idea frightens me.

Last night I made my first-ever BIG POT OF SOUP and it kicked ASS!! It was a vegetable and chicken broth-based soup full of cabbage, onions, carrots and a bunch of other healthy goodies. And it was actually really frigging good! Perhaps I've found my true calling?

Hope your day is a good one - full of warmth, love and gas-inducing cuisine.

SNOW WHAT?


Just settling into The Grotto after a fine weekend - particularly the last 24 hours spent snowed-in with HIM. We got hit with the "Big NJ Nor'Easter" and were forced to snuggle up, drink lots of wine, eat lots of junk food, and watch lots of movies. HE subjected me to 'Star Wars', and I retaliated with 'Bridget Jones'.

Sometime around 4PM we decided to brave the elements, and this wonderful man drove me back home and proceeded to help me dig out both my car and my Mom's - all the while enduring my incessant whining about how cold my hands were, and how much snow just sucks in general.

I'm not sure what I did to deserve this relationship - certainly nothing worthy enough in this lifetime. Maybe in a past life I voluteered to work on the Underground Railroad, or hid some Jews during the Holocaust. Whatever it was, I am certainly reaping the benefits today.

HUMILITY.

This is one of those things I probably shouldn't share, but I feel compelled to, nonetheless.

*Ahem* Here goes ...

On weekdays, it is my habit to set my alarm clock for 5:21 AM. This way, I allot myself nine minutes of snooze time, and then I am up at 5:30. This morning when my alarm went off at 5:21, I realized that I reeeeeally had to pee. But I was determined to get my full 9 minutes of snooze. So as I lay there - enjoying the warmth of my bed while simultaneously fighting with my bladder - I turned my head and saw A GIANT FUCKING SPIDER on my pillow.

This was no Daddy-Long-Legs or little, brown ceiling spider. This was a miniature tarantula -- a 'hard' arachnid that wouldn't crush lightly in a Kleenex.

Suffice to say, the shock of finding it beside my head - in my semi-lucid state - led me to attempt to leap out of bed. But not before my way-too-full bladder failed me.

Just a little. But enough.

I didn't find the spider. I balled up my wet, insect-ridden sheets and carried them shamefully up to the laundry room. Luckily my Mom was already up to witness my ascent.

"Should I ask?" she said.
"Please don't", I replied.

WHAT TEACHERS DO IN THEIR FREE TIME

1) We send each other e-mails about kids:

"Oh My God, I'm gonna puke..."Timmy" just took his shoe off in Math class...it smells like hot buttery ass. February Break can't come soon enough for me."

- Courtesy of D, who teaches 7th grade Special Ed.

OFFICIAL SEX CONVERT


Mmm - maybe not what it sounds like. I am still heterosexual. But I have gained a whole new perspective on, and appreciation for sex. I think I finally 'get' what the big deal is.

I was a bit of a late bloomer, sexually. I waited until I was 24. Not sure what my reasoning was for this - certainly not religious or anything. I think it was largely fear-based. All the 'evils' of sex pounded into my subconscious during years of Health class - pregnancy, disease, etc. Maybe part of it was due to my poor body-image. Maybe part of it was due to the fact that I didn't date anyone who I had tremendous feelings for. Whatever the case, I waited.

My 'first' was a guy who was significantly older than me. Like ... 30 years older. Oh, and he was married. Doesn't take a certified psychoanalyst to figure THAT one out I guess. But I have to say it was a great experience. And in that sense, I have no regrets cause my first time was with someone who really knew what he was doing (one would hope so after all those years) and it put me at ease.

The whole situation was exciting - albeit a very unrealistic one. It was a new thing for me: being put on a pedestal, being wooed by this wealthy, Richard Gere-looking guy. But after a while I started to feel not so good about it. I felt like I deserved something more REAL. So in the end, it was me who put the kibosh on it.

For the next few years, I dated a lot and had a lot of mediocre sex. But I wasn't a slut or anything -- never did much whorin' around (aside from the one one-night-stand of my life with the Austrian busdriver, Gunter ... that has potential to be its own blog entry). Sex was -- eh.

Sex with The Brit was very good in the beginning. And I now know it's because I had very real feelings for him, I believe he may have been my first real love. He was an extremely physical person, and I think he helped me to get over a lot of insecurities. Alas, as the relationship became rocky, I no longer enjoyed the sex. Nothing physical had changed - but emotions did - and that changed everything. Sex became an act of control on both parts - it was not good. I even started seeing a therapist to find out what was wrong WITH ME -- why I couldn't get into it with him.

Post-Brit sex returned to mediocrity (as mentioned in prior entries) and frankly, I was pretty okay with giving it up altogether.

But then I met HIM.

And not to blow HIS horn or anything (innuendo, yes - I like those) but sex has suddenly taken on a whole new meaning. I don't wanna go into too much detail - this is a family show, after all. But just THINKING about sex with HIM gives me butterflies in my stomach. I'll be in the middle of teaching a class of 7th grade saxophones or something and just have a remembery and get all flustered. It's WRONG! And it's GREAT!

I finally feel normal. For the longest time, I thought women who said they enjoyed sex were full of crap. Like they were only SAYING that - cause no one actually enjoys it. Like opera. Does anyone actually ENJOY listening to opera? Hell, maybe after this big revelation I ought to give "Il Pagliacci" another shot.

YEAY! I'VE BEEN TAGGED!

Yeah, so I'm a dork - and? True, most people might find it annoying to get tagged, but I'm flattered. It actually gives me a glimmer of hope that more than one person (me) reads this blog. And although the benefits of being tagged are not as bountiful as that of the dishtowel chain-letter (from which I amassed 11 dishtowels) - it does give me something to write about. So here goes...

DIRECTIONS: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following lists and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot:
1) Marginal Utility
2) Sarah With No H
3) Just Thoughts
4) I Am Prepared to Give Up at Any Time
5) Views from the Shell

Next, select five people to tag:
1) The Dark Lord
2) Odie
3) Portuguesa Nova
4) Bored Housewife
5) Jerry

What were you doing 10 years ago?

I had just turned 21. I was a junior in college, dating Sean, a jazz trumpet major who liked to spend his days sleeping and his nights smoking pot and eating Hot Pockets on his couch. His weird roommate (Ted) used to sleep fully-clothed (shoes too) with his lights on and with no covers.

What were you doing 1 year ago?

Living in squalor with The Brit - wondering how my life had taken such a tragic turn - and thinking of ways to get the hell out of Dodge ... without hurting his feelings.

Five snacks you enjoy:
1. Chocolate Twizzlers
2. Dark chocolate Hershey Kisses
3. These amazing pretzel chips they only seem to sell at Costco
4. Teriyaki turkey jerky
5. Yogurt-covered almonds

Five songs you know all the words to:
1. “Hook” – Blues Traveler
2. “Square Dance” – Eminem
3. “Like A Cannonball” – Menudo
4. “My Favorite Things” – (“Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple streudel; doorbells and sleighbells and schnitzel with noodles…”)
5. Just about any song by Queen

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. Pay off all my debts (lame)
2. Pay off my family’s debts (lamer yet)
3. No longer endure teaching 6th grade drummers
4. Find a brilliant person to show me how to best invest and then …
5. Travel the world

Five bad habits:
1. I pick my teeth with the mail
2. I chew gum incessantly [chain-chew]
3. I doubt myself – often
4. I go through phases where I become addicted to computer solitaire, and play it when trying to escape from all things work-related
5. I procrastinate (see #4)

Five things you enjoy doing:
1. A good run in nice weather
2. The Sunday crossword w/a cup of coffee
3. Savoring a warm & fuzzy wine buzz
4. Threesomes with me, HIM and TiVo
5. Waking up early and realizing it’s a weekend, and then rolling over and going back to sleep

Five things you would never wear again:
1. “Mom-Ass” jeans (which sit just below the rib cage, allowing for maximum ass exposure – a truly flattering look)
2. Tucked-in button-down shirts (which go best with #1)
3. That pesky house-arrest anklet
4. Blue eyeshadow
5. The Under Armor sportsbra which chafed the hell out of my boob

Five favorite toys:
1. Hehe … no. Pervert.
2. “Podgie” (my iPod) & his friend Herr Bose
3. My laptop
4. The E.T. doll I got for Christmas in 1982
5. Okay… so yeah … maybe #1

I think I may have come up with a suitable solution for the naming of my new man.

Many different ideas came to mind but were discarded for one reason or another. The truly great nicknames - like "The Chinchilla" and "Hank" - were taken, while others - such as "TPMIM" - weren't very appropriate, considering he's not Portuguese.

I thought of some loftier names: "Uber-Mensch", "Wunder-Schlong", "Dr. Spleen" or "Mr. Boombastic". But such names might put undue pressure on the guy (that is, assuming he even reads this blog -- as if he's got nothing better to do) and I surely wouldn't want to cause him stress. I also briefly considered some cheesy, sappy names such as "Soul Mate" or "The One" - but come on. Even I am not THAT nauseating.

So I decided that from now on, I will simply refer to him in the appropriate male pronoun, in caps. Like HE or HIM (or HIS, possessively). It's important to distinguish HE from He, as I do not want to infer any biblical meaning or - God-forbid - give HIM a Jesus complex.

I think it is subtle, yet significant. It seems accepted that when you write something REALLY IMPORTANT, you tend to capitalize the WHOLE word. Emphasis. Yelling. Yeah. YEAH!

So henceforth, the amazing man in my life has a name. And we like HIM. A LOT.

IF MY LIFE WERE A TV SHOW, I'D TOTALLY WATCH IT.

Big weekend approaches. On Sunday, I am meeting the 'rents. I don't know that it's ever been this big a deal to me before. I'm trying to remember a relationship of any significance when I got all nervous about meeting his Mom & Dad. I can't think of any. That's a little disturbing. But it also makes this whole thing that much cooler.

The Brit's family was all in England. And it took almost two years for ME to arrange a trip over there to meet them (long story, not worth the effort). I think when you meet someone's family, you can gain a lot of insight - learn how they became who they are, who it was that helped to shape them. It kind of gives the person a past - makes them seem a little more "real". I dunno.

He met my Mom last week. Again, I don't remember ever being more excited for her to meet someone that I've brought home. I even CLEANED!

So Sunday I meet his family. But before that, he will get to meet my "other" family on Saturday night. My good friend D is having a housewarming party, and all my school peeps will be in attendance.

When you think about it, you really spend a large majority of your life with the people at work. Most of your waking hours, in fact. I am so very lucky to be able to consider these people my family, albeit more like a sitcom family. The cast is hilarious - each role adding its own flavor to the mix. I love each and every one of them (even the ones that I hate -- they all have a place). I can't wait for him to see this part of my world, cause I know he will fit right in.

TRUE STORY
(I swear to God I am not making this up)

I belong to the local World Gym, and have been going regularly for the past 7 or so years. I like my gym a lot. Yeah, like any other chain gym, it has its share of Meat-Heads. But since I have the coveted "teacher's schedule", I am usually in and out before the evening muscle crew comes in to tear things up.

One day a few years back, I had just finished up my workout and was heading into the locker room to get my stuff and go home.

It was a day like any other day.

I walked into the bathroom area to wash the millions of germs and bacteria off my hands, not thinking too much when suddenly -- I was face to face with this:

At first I thought I had somehow wandered into the wrong locker room. Here was this amazing spectacle of a man, standing before me wearing nothing but jeans - pecs glistening, abs rippling - blowdrying his ... shoulder-length hair?

"Hey - how's it going," the creature asked in a not-very-feminine female voice. I just stood there - gawking, confused - for what seemed like hours, until it finally registered that this was some sort of ... woman.

I maintained eye contact with the beast as I slowly backed away, out of the locker room, and ran like hell to my car.

I later learned that the creature was indeed a woman - a lawyer, in fact! And, obviously, a professional bodybuilder.

I even found she had a website where I learned that she has a 50" chest and can bench press 500 lbs.

I know I may be putting myself in danger by posting this -- she may hunt me down and swallow me whole. But I feel I somehow owe this to the world.


* If you don't hear from me again soon, please send help.

I LOVE RUNNING.



Ten years ago, I would not have ever thought I would be someone who could say that and mean it, unless perhaps it was followed by - "out to the store to buy ice cream, alcohol or both." But somehow, and over a long period of time, I have become a runner. And I can say that now and love it and believe it.

Initially, I guess I started running as part of a fitness regime. I'd do laps around this creepy little indoor track they had that ran around the upper level of the YMCA in Rochester, NY. I think it was something like 24 laps around = 1 mile. You can imagine how exciting that became. When I moved back down to NJ, I took my running to the local high school track.

Anyone else remember those dreadful spring days as a high school student? When they dragged us out - once a year - and made us "Run The Mile"? Absolutely no training for it. Nothing to compare it to, aside from the previous year's humiliating time. Do you know that THEY STILL MAKE KIDS DO THIS TODAY?! Let's just say I was not the stellar athlete you might think. I usually prided myself on being the only kid in class to take the full 42-minute period to crawl my four laps. My gym teacher despised me. But I digress...

Being back on that track as an adult was humbling. When I actually ran an entire lap without stopping, I almost cried. And so it began.

I started running routes around my town, alternating days on the treadmill. The treadmill is a good tool for crappy weather, but it takes away the very best part of running: the meditation. After my body figured out its natural gait and I realized that the discomfort fades, I became aware of my ability to kind of just 'lose myself' in my head. Body on autopilot - lungs filling my blood with oxygen - feet hitting pavement, leaving pavement.

It's truly hypnotic. It's healing. I do my very best thinking while out on a run. Sometimes I will be so caught up in my head that I will have no recollection of how I end up where I do - the miles and scenery just a backdrop to my thoughts.

I never ran with music until this summer, when I started to train for my first big race. Until then, the longest one I'd done was a 5-mile boardwalk run at the NJ shore. I did tons of local 5Ks, but really wanted to challenge myself. So I registered for the inaugural half-marathon in Rochester, NY [significant and all, right?] I followed Hal Higdon's training program to the tee, and realized that running lost a little something when it became something I HAD to do. But I pressed on. I bought an iPod Shuffle and it got me through the weekend long runs.

The half marathon went amazingly well. Better than I could have ever imagined. I planned to take a week off from running, but found I could only go about 4 days til I was itching to get back out there. Something about being done with the training made me sad - like I'd lost a little part of me. It was hard to make that transition back to running for the sake of running.

But I got there. And today - the 40 degree weather a gift in the middle of January - was a fine day for running. Out there on a Sunday morning, before the rest of the world rolled out of bed - just me and my head. Two old friends spending some quality time together. And I say again -- Life is Good.

MY DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

*DISCLAIMER* - This may be the gayest thing I ever post.
Remember... you've been warned.

I have a confession. I am a closet "American Idol" fan. I mean -- like, REALLY bad. I've been trying to figure out the draw. I have deduced that the only reason I watch it is for Simon Cowell.

He is the ultimate cynical bastard. Yeah yeah - people hate him, people love him - whatever. But I truly think he is fucking hilarious. His insults are both bizarre and brutally brilliant (points for alliteration) - like the other night when he told one guy that he sounded "as if he were temporarily possessed by a 6-year old." FUCKING BRILLIANT!!

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum for me are Paula and Randy. They are clearly the most useless sheep on the planet. Paula Abdul is retarded. I mean, I really think she is retarded. What qualifies her to be a judge of anything, least of all "talent"? How was she chosen - out of the millions of ACTUAL successful entertainers - to represent a musician??

And Randy Jackson? Who the hell IS he?? A Google search and subsequent IMDb profile reveals absolutely NO credentials, aside from being Samuel L. Jackson's cousin, and starring (as himself) in a bunch of stupid award shows. WHO IS THIS MAN??

Maybe part of the reason I watch the show is because I am some sort of masochist. Perhaps a sick little part of me enjoys the humiliating, squirmy feeling I get when one of those two imbeciles tries to offer legitimate criticism. Or maybe it's just the look of absolute disbelief Simon wears after either one of them speaks -- confirming my own feelings.

Whatever it is, I don't know and don't care. All I do know is that I am happy as a clam that my favorite show is back on for another season. Yes, life is truly good indeed.

HEY -- IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!

So today I turn 31 - at 8:01 AM.
31 is not a bad age to be. Feels a lot like 30, perhaps a little more enlightened. I didn't freak out when I turned 30. 29 was definitely worse for me, although I'm not exactly sure why. I don't think I've ever fallen victim to the "biological clock" bullshit. Maybe because I am pretty satisfied with my career & life at this point (yeah, yeah -- I know I live in my Mom's basement... shut up) - and I don't want kids, so I don't care if my eggs are drying up.

I actually feel very content in my life in all areas -- possibly for the first time ever.

It's interesting, the phases we go through. The teenage years where everything is so easy. You go off to college where life is just a great big party for 4 (or maybe 5) years. And then WHAM! you graduate. For me, that summer after college graduation was a huge turning point. All the innocence and fun I'd become accustomed to was suddenly snatched out from under me and I was left facing reality. Due to shove off to grad school up in the Great White North (Rochester, NY) - and the resulting fear and depression of being all alone for the first time. It was a really hard time, but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything in the world.

The next phase hit me when I returned home to join the working world. After the initial thrill wears off, you realize you're kind of at the end of some mysterious journey. All those years in college spent grooming and shaping for a career - and there you are. Mid-20's and completely disenchanted.

I went through a period of years where I didn't know what came next. I guess for most people, the logical thing is to find a mate, buy a house and begin to spawn. But it just didn't feel right for me. So I fought with myself - battling between trying to fit that mold and finally being okay with being single, rather than settling for a situation just to fill a void. Around 30, I finally became content just to be. And wouldn't you know? Life sure has a funny way of working itself out.

I haven't gushed much - perhaps I haven't wanted to jinx anything. But a couple weeks ago (literally) I met an incredible man. Somehow the planets aligned at the right moment. Somehow, someone somewhere knew that I had reached a level of OKAY within my self - perhaps the very moment when it clicked that I really liked me. And I met the someone who is in that very place within his self. And it's simply amazing. Because, for the first time, I am able to just be ME. And he likes that ME. And I really like him. And life is good.

"31 - The Year of Liking Life". So far, things have exceeded expectation.

SAFETY TIP FOR THE DAY:
While containing no actual lemons, Crystal Light lemonade is highly acidic, and should therefore be kept away from the eyes.

"BLISSED OUT"

CORN SYRUP; SUGAR; CORNSTARCH; CONTAINS 2% OR LESS OF: CHOCOLATE; COCOA; PARTIALLY HYDROGENATED SOYBEAN OIL; SALT; ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR; POTASSIUM SORBATE (PRESERVATIVE); AND ARTIFICIAL COLOR.

...and he's even better than that.

This past week has been a little nuts for me. Every year we do an “Area Band Festival”. An extra-curricular, honors-type kinda thing, made up of the best band kids from 30 area schools (hence the title, Area Band. Clever, huh?). 8 of my kids are involved, and I somehow got myself roped into the role of Manager for the junior high band. Which means I’ve had to attend all these rehearsals. The one I’m at now started at 9:00AM (though I got here at 8:15 to set up) and goes until 4:00. I’ve certainly made some interesting observations, which naturally I feel obligated to share in this forum.

For starters, middle-school kids stink. I mean literally. Imagine if you will, 110 kids in a very small room – with no doors or windows – for 7 hours. If they could somehow bottle the smell of “puberty”, this would be it: a combination of sweat, fart, dirty laundry and cheap aftershave. Oh, and some unidentifiable, hoagie-like odor. It’s just not pretty.

Secondly, I’ve realized that for the most part, middle-aged band teachers are big dorks. I am wondering… is this my fate? If so, when do I cross that threshold (assuming I have not already done so and am just completely oblivious)? Is it a gradual descent? Or does one just wake up one morning – fat, badly-dressed and boring?

Finally, it’s occurred to me that I have become sickeningly dependent on and addicted to technology. The fact that I am sitting here typing a blog post – while compulsively checking and replying to text messages on my cell phone – and blatantly neglecting my managerial duties, is a clear indication of the horrible human being I am. Shame on me.

REVIEW FROM THE SHELL: KING KONG

Not too long ago, I had an interesting conversation with a [heterosexual] male friend about how the world would be better if it were run by women or gay men.

His theory is that the underlying driving force for all [heterosexual] men is to get laid. That every single action is motivated by the penis: the root of all evil. [Heterosexual] men go to war to gain wealth or power or land to attract women, thereby pleasing the penis. Women, he said, seem to have their sex drives better under control. And since gay men are men and attracted to other gay men, there is no shortage of penis supply.

He made a very convincing case. After seeing ‘King Kong’ last night, I think he may be on to something.

The movie itself was standard “Peter Jackson Epic of Grandeur.” Amazing cinematography, special effects, etc., etc. 3 hours long? Yes, but I didn’t get bored so that’s saying something (though it may have had something to do with the company…*ahem*..)

Having never seen the original, I was unfamiliar with the story. I enjoyed all the ironic and moral lessons. Like Ann’s initial comment of doomed love and the irony of it pertaining to her relationship with Kong. And Denham (Jack-Tenacious D–“Fuck Her Gently”–Black) turning out to be the true beast, representing that inner evil of man (penis).

The irony of the two sacrifices: Ann to Kong (in a very Lord-of-the-Ringsy scene) with the natives in their ceremonial garb, beating drums, cheering – and the sacrifice of Kong to the Broadway audience in their ceremonial garb (tuxes), beating drums (pit orchestra), cheering. Is there really such a difference between the jungles of Skull Island and Depression-era New York City?

On a personal note, Kong’s little temper tantrum when Ann told him “No!” on top of the mountain was disturbingly reminiscent of an evening involving a Brit, a PlayStation and a hole in the living room wall, while the ‘bug scene’ in the cave gave me a new appreciation for my grotto crickets.

In adhering to my friend’s theory, the movie was chock-full o’ phallic symbols and scenes – my favorite being when Lumpy, the cook, gets eaten by a giant, un-circumcised penis with teeth.

All in all, an excellent film, albeit a touch sad. I guess if I wanted the happy ending, I could have left while Kong and Ann were sliding around the ice together. But really, how could that relationship have ever worked? Eventually she would get sick of all the hair in the shower drain.


Btw, I think there may be a conspiracy going on. It seems Naomi Watts and the girl who played Kelly Taylor on 90210 may be the same person. Hmm…

MY SOUL HAS GROWN 100 YEARS IN 24 HOURS.

Within one day's time, I have experienced the pain of loss
coupled with an overwhelming sense of the peace.
I have felt the security of family - the warmth of a child on my lap.
I've felt the serenity in solitude - wind in my hair, the sun on my back.

And I have felt something within me explode into life.
A part of my being that has lain dormant for so long has awoken,
and is shining brighter than I could have ever imagined.

In death, in birth; in peace, in love - my spirit grows.
It has no limits, no boundaries -- its wings are free.

One day a few weeks back, I was working a shift at the ECE with a high school girl we'll just call "Christy" (cause that's her name). I think she's 16. Tiny, adorable little Asian girl - although not the sharpest tool in the shed. She was filling me in on high school antics in the 21st century, and I was apalled at how freaking naive I have become. Here are some snippets from our conversation:

"Yeah well, I have like mid-terms or something but like, I didn't really know any of the stuff or anything. So I got a couple Adderall from this guy -"
"Wait, isn't that ADHD medicine?"
"Yeah"
"Are you ADHD?"
"No, but everyone takes it. People just bring in their pills and sell them."
"What?! Did it work for you?"
"Eh - I dunno. I could concentrate better, but I still didn't know any of the answers."

Then there was the time she asked:

"So you're a teacher? Does it bother you to know that your kids talk about you?"
"Huh? Why would the kids talk about me? What would they say? I don't think they talk about me."
"Of course they do. Didn't you talk about your teachers?"

That made me paranoid for a few days. I'd hear kids whispering about something (anything) and I'd feel a surge of guilt. As if they knew what I had done the night before or something. I was a little skittish and weird, but it eventually passed.

Come to think of it, not only did I talk about my teachers, when I was in middle school, my friend Danielle and I actually used to write short stories about them and their secret lives outside of school. I must say they were pretty creative for 13-year olds - funny as hell - and mostly revolving around my teachers' habits of sexual deviance. I really hadn't thought about any of those stories in years, and CERTAINLY never considered the possibilty of my being anyone's main character.

Then again, kids these days have a whole lot more to keep them occupied -- internet, PSPs, iPods. We never had any of that stuff so we had to amuse ourselves any way we could. Things are different now. My kids are a lot more mature than I was.

So no, I'm not worried. Much.

TWO STORIES RELATING TO PUBLIC BATHROOMS

Since I was a little kid, I've had a recurring dream which I like to call "The Bathroom Dream". I'll be chugging along, doing whatever I happen to be doing during a dream, when all of a sudden I find myself in a public bathroom - having to go. Typically it's a big bathroom - in some sort of locker room - and there are lots of stalls. But every time I go to a stall, I find that the toilet is unusable. Some are filthy and clogged up, some have no doors, and some have weird contraptions that don't even resemble toilets -- in retrospect, they kind of look like bidets or something.

A little while ago I developed a theory for the reason behind "The Bathroom Dream". I think that I probably really DO have to go to the bathroom. And my brilliant psyche and lazy body are somehow working together to keep me from actually getting out of bed to do so. Since I obviously can't be wetting the bed at 30 (albeit tempting), these two have devised "The Bathroom Dream" to trick my poor, stupid bladder from doing its job. In case you didn't already know it, the bladder is one of the the least intelligent organs. It's only slightly smarter than the liver, but only because the liver has endured so much abuse.

A second, somewhat - but not completely - unrelated story:

Today I took one of my infamous field trips during my prep period. Sometimes I have this driving need to just get the hell out of the building. I went over to the local WalMart to buy some little gag gifts to bring to my friend D's housewarming tomorrow night. This WalMart is user-friendly, with the bathrooms right by the door, and I had to pee.

It's become my preference to use the handicapped stall. I like the high toilet seat and the fact that the door opens OUT. But most of all, I like the space! Sometimes I dance in there - just because I can. Okay, not really... but I've thought about it. I tried the door of the hadicapped stall at the WalMart, but it was locked.

*CURSES!*

So I crammed my big, unhandicapped self into the small stall next door and was sitting there sulking, when all of a sudden:

"Can you help me?" A voice in a foreign accent asks from the handicapped stall.

My God! It's an emergency situation!! I am not prepared for something like this -- what if she's sick? Or suicidal? A million possibilities unfold in my imagination in the space of the 2 seconds it takes me to ask, "Uh..yeah?"

Pleaseohpleaseohplease don't make me have to pick up a naked, elderly, handicapped, foreign woman...

"I uh - where do you-a push? I do not know where do you-a push?"

It took me a minute. Then I realized she that she couldn't figure out how to flush. The automatic toilet.

Tragedy averted, sighs all around - I saved the day. We had a good chuckle about it at the automatic sinks and then parted ways. But she'll always remember me, and I her. It's a damn good thing I was in that WalMart today, my friends.

Life is so very interesting.

My 80-year old aunt has been in the hospital since Christmas Eve. She was a smoker most of those 80 years, and is now paying the price in emphysema. This woman is amazing, and it's only over the past year or so that I have begun to realize that I am more like her than anyone else in my family.

She had a rough childhood. My grandfather (who I'd never met) was a graphic artist. When The Depression struck, he was one of the first people to lose his job -- ahh, who needs artists? He did the noble thing and bailed, leaving his wife and two kids to fend for themselves. Naturally, my grandmother had a mental breakdown and ended up in some sort of institution while my Dad and aunt were shuffled around different foster homes. My aunt became a guardian of sorts for my Dad at a very young age.

When they three were reunited, my aunt spent a lot of time still looking out for my Dad. He wasn't the most confident of kids, and their being the only Jews in da 'hood didn't exactly make him the most popular lad either. So he got beaten up a lot. And I imagine she spent a lot of time beating up those who beat HIM up.

But my aunt has had a pretty amazing journey. From the stories she's told me, she's done everything from creating and selling jewelry - even having her designs in store windows in New York City and in magazines - to owning a dress shop - to selling real estate. She's travelled all over the world - Europe, Russia, Egypt - and dated all kinds of men, but has only truly loved one.

My aunt has lived.

Growing up, she was always the "wild one" -- my Mom's antagonist and polar opposite. There was always this air of resentment my Mom had towards her, and I often felt guilty for wanting to hang out more with my aunt. As if in some way, I was making my Mom feel unimportant (Mom's good at guilt - she's made an art of it). Now as an adult (at least on paper), I am finally able to loosen the noose of guilt a bit - see where it stems from - and step around it enough to really get to know my aunt.

I've been visiting her more often these days. She loves to hear about what's going on in my life. And she always has a tale to relate to my own. Through labored breaths, she'll recall an experience from her past and the lesson she took from it. She has wisdom beyond comprehension and is not afraid to tell it like it is. The fact is: she's the person I want most to be like - the person I want to know more about - and I have a burning need to know as much as I can while she can still get it out.

I'm sad I was not as close to my aunt as I should have been, growing up. But she felt the vibe from my Mom and kept her distance cause she was smart enough to know how to read people - how to treat people (it gets more complicated, but that's for another time). The good thing is that I've come to realize the treasure that she is. And I am grateful for every moment - every lesson - that I am granted.

Last night I told her I wanted to be to Bean what she has been to us: the "cool" aunt who LIVES. And she said, "you already are."

HAPPY F--IN' NEW YEAR.

Laying here watching "Fiddler on the Roof" on PBS. What a great damn show -- why do I like this so much?

I guess I owe a recap of NH Ski Vacay w/S&W Jason. Here's the abbreviated, chronological account:

MONDAY - Left NJ around 10:00 after exchanging presents and stopping for coffee (he got me a DVD of 'Amelie', a couple books of Nietzsche and a pedometer). It took about 7 hours to get up there -- 7 hours filled with thought-provoking questions and 80s music from my iPod. When we arrived, we went out & got dinner at a local pub, then came back and chilled in front of the TV. Amazing how tired you can get sitting on your ass in a car for 7 hours. We got into bed and started fooling around. One thing led to another -- yadda yadda yadda ("What? I mentioned the bisque...") Sex was mediocre -- left me feeling worse than before because it confirmed the fact that I have absolutely NO romantic interest in the boy. Suffice to say, I was less than warm & cuddly after the event.

TUESDAY - Got up, had breakfast and went skiing. We did Loon Mountain -- somewhat crowded, but NOTHING like the crappy NJ slopes where you wait 45 minutes for the lifts. Things were quiet between us, luckily there was the distraction of skiing. When we got back to the hotel, we took a soak in the jacuzzi. He started getting a little frisky, but I was quick to put the kabosh on that. Dinner was tense, as you can imagine. Wine gave me the courage to tell him that I just wasn't into the situation - not looking for a relationship, etc, etc. No sex Tuesday night.

WEDNESDAY - Tense breakfast, skiing on Cannon Mountain which was less crowded but more icy. Post-ski soak in the jacuzzi (tense) and dinner. He was sulky, pouty, and poor-me-I'm-gonna-give-up-and-become-a-hermit. Luckily, LOTS of wine gave me the courage to tell him to get over himself. I am clearly not the only fish in the sea and he shouldn't be so quick to give up on life. "Sweet&Wholesome Jason" became less sweet and wholesome and grew a set of profanity balls. It actually became fun to just talk shit with him. Ah, the power of alcohol -- praise you, sweet alcohol! We decided it was a shame to waste a sweet hotel room and a good buzz, and went back and had more (mediocre) sex. Yadda yadda yadda...

THURSDAY - The longest car-ride EVER. The thought-provoking questions lost their appeal before we got out of Massachusetts, and I was about ready to kill him by Connecticut. I began to think of what could possibly be worse than the droning drive, but all that came close was having my uterus surgically removed through my eye socket... and even that didn't seem so bad.

He wanted to hang out on New Years Eve but I wasn't game. I stayed in -- yes, big loser. But I just need space - I NEED SPACE, DAMMIT!! So that's that. School tomorrow, 'cause apparently my district doesn't feel obligated to honor national holidays. Bastards. Ah well -- cheers to all as we venture into 2006. I always like to ask myself, 'where do you think you might be a year from now?' Your guess is as good as mine.

A Bernstein-esque Tribute To My New Love... Herr Bose.


I have a love, and it's all that I have.
Right or wrong, what else can I do?
I love it; I'm its,
And everything it is
I am, too.
I have a love, and it's all that I need,
Right or wrong, and it needs me, too.
I love it, we're one;
There's nothing to be done,
Not a thing I can do
But hold it, hold it forever,
Be with it now, tomorrow
And all of my life!

Uuuugggghhhh... so.. very.. fat.

I ate way too damn much tonight. Aside from that, it was a pretty good day. Bummed around this morning, took a 5-mile run around noon. Relatives came over around 2 and we did presents. My brothers & I went over to the hospital to see my aunt. She went in yesterday and it turns out she has pneumonia in both lungs. A sad place to be on Christmas, but definitely glad we got to see her.

Had some of my favorite Yellow Tail Shiraz-Grenache, lots of Mom's ziti (etc., etc.) and then an assload of cookies. Mmm -- so many cookies. Must resolve to be less of a fat-ass in 2006. Living back in the grotto is not conducive to good eating. Well, maybe the eating is a little TOO good - and that's the problem.

Anyhow, tomorrow I leave for a ski trip with S&W Jason. We're going up to the White Mountains of New Hampshire for 3 days, 3 nights. A little nervous, as I am really not wanting any intimacy to occur. He's nice, but I don't like him enough to deal with a physical relationship. I'm hoping he doesn't have the nerve to initiate anything. I'll be sure to give a detailed recap upon my return.

'Til then, friends - Ciao.

"Where Are You, Christmas?"

I think getting older sucks. I mean, there are obvious benefits -- like being able to eat at restaurants whenever you feel like it - or have ice cream in the middle of the day (and probably loads of other non-food-related perks I'm missing) but for other reasons - like Christmas, for instance - being older sucks.

I am the youngest of three, having two older brothers. When we were little, I remember the weeks leading up to Christmas. My brother J & I would make secret missions to my Mom's closet or to the attic to see where she was hiding the loot. I remember as clearly as could be, the day in December, 1982 - when J spied my Mom lugging in the E.T. doll I had been begging for.

I remember when I was little, Christmas Eve was the most exciting day of the year. At night, we'd all get dressed up to go to the Candlelight Service at the Methodist church (my Mom is Methodist, and we three were baptised - although I was the only one who followed through on Sunday School and was confirmed. My Dad was a non-practising Jew. He used this fact when it was convenient for him -- like if he didn't like what was for dinner, he all of a sudden became kosher -- but some years, he'd come to church with us on Christmas Eve). I remember the church was always packed to the seams - SRO - and it always looked so magical with the glowing candles everywhere and the pointsettias strewn around.

We'd get home and head off to bed. My bedroom was upstairs across the hall from my parents. I remember creeping to the foot of my bed, struggling to hear them lug the bounty of presents out of the attic and down to the living room. I half-believed in Santa at this point -- even though I knew what they were up to. That was the beauty of being a little kid -- things didn't have to make complete sense all the time.

And every year, J would be the one to come bounding up the stairs before 6 AM to wake me up (so that I, in turn, could wake up my parents). We'd gather in the living room and tear into shit -- just like all kids probably do. We'd have Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and Swift Premium Brown & Serve sausages for breakfast. Then we'd spend the day playing with our toys, watching TV, trading naps. In the evening, my cousins and aunt would come over for dinner - sometimes more relatives - sometimes fewer. It didn't matter -- it was just this feeling of warmth, safety and magic that kind of hung in the air.

I truly miss what Christmas used to be. Last night, I did get to the Candlelight Service - even played trumpet in a last-minute brass quartet. Sadly, the church was more than half-empty. My oldest brother B came with his 'lady friend', and my Mom sang with the choir. But something was missing -- where did the magic go? I sat and listened to the sermon but felt nothing. We got home and went to sleep. This morning, I woke up on my own around 8:00 and the house is quiet. B is at his lady's house, Mom still asleep.

J is married now, and they have an amazing son, my awesome nephew "Bean" -- kids make Christmas fun. Last year I was living with The Brit and we had his 11-year old son with us on Christmas. It was kind of neat to have my own little family. Maybe that's the idea - and what I am missing. I guess now it's up to me to make my own kind of Christmas. Maybe I'm trying too hard to hold onto what my parents' version of Christmas -- as awesome as it was.

In any case, I'm where I am [Limbo] but I will not be here forever. So make the most of what I DO have: enjoy the family that is still with us, and make Christmas great for Bean so that one day when he's a bitter, blogging 30-year old, he can recall some great memories too.

Merry Christmas - I hope this day can be special for you.

HAPPY CHRISTMAHANUKWANZAAKAHS EVE!

Spent the past 7 hours on my feet, having volunteered to work at the ECE on Christmas Eve. The longer the hours, the more it loses its appeal. Though I must say I am becoming quite handy with the lattes, I couldn't help but be a somewhat snarky barista tonight.

Got a ridiculous amount of booty from my kids yesterday. One awesome thing about being the 'hep-kat' music teacher in a money town - lots and LOTS of Christmas goodies! An enormous amount of baked goods (of which I feel compelled to try 'at least' one of everything).

Laying here cookie-bloated, with a partial buzz from the 1/2 glass of wine I just had, I want nothing more than to put on sweatpants and watch "A Christmas Story" for the next 24 hours on channel TBS. Unfortunately, I have to get my self up, showered, and to the church down the road to grace the world with my bad trumpet playing.

I hope wherever you are, you're warm, happy, and surrounded by loving folks. Peace.

Ever just feel like everything's going really REALLY fucking well? Like you're in the flow - surrendering - and exactly on the right path, at exactly the right time?

The best way I can describe it is that I feel like I'm in love. You know that feeling of elation? Feet not quite touching the earth? That heightened sensitivity to everything: music, smells, sights... feeling like your heart is singing?

The strangest part of it all is that there is no ONE person for whom I am feeling it. It's an overall feeling of being in love with life. Riding the flow - trusting in it all. Allowing the energy to pass through me, to make me stronger, and wanting to pass it along. In doing so, my own energy is not depleted, but expanded - enhanced.

I'm not going all religious on your asses, fear not. I just feel FUCKING good! And it's worth blogging about. So from me to you - a little love your way.

Cheers.

Tonight I danced around the living room with my 2 & 1/2 year-old nephew, both of us wearing funny hats, spinning around until we both collapsed - dizzy - on the floor, laughing our asses off.

Thank you, Bean.

Last night's holiday concert was a success.

It's always worse in my head than it actually turns out. The hellish part is assembling 100+ pre-pubescent middle-schoolers - armed with musical instruments - in the school cafeteria for warm-ups & tuning. Inevitably (and despite numerous warnings and death threats on my part), they use that time to do everything that they should NEVER do -- especially before a performance. Like swapping instruments with their friends: the tuba player's playing a flute, the saxophonist - a trumpet. A trombone slide goes missing, a bassoon bocal narrowly misses a 12-year old's retina. And what better time - than in an overheated, overcrowded cafeteria - to yell, scream and play as LOUDLY as you possibly can?

But once they get set up, lined up and ushered out onto the stage, the transformation occurs. I stand backstage, awaiting the principal's intro, and gaze out across my fleet of mini-musicians. Sitting there, instruments in their laps, fidgeting with excitement -- tugging at neckties, waving at parents. I walk out, stand before them, they sit up straight - instruments at the ready, their eyes meet mine. I smile -- they relax, and AWAY WE GO!

Months of preparation - frustrating rehearsals, intense break-throughs and bad jokes - pay off in one glorious evening. They come through - they always come through in a clutch. And after the last cutoff, they sit tall, proud. My heart swells and I realize I am one of the luckiest people in the world to do what I do each day.

"Abhor Me" - A Haiku

Snot runs out my nose -
Slimy, oozing, drippy mess.
A sight to behold.

SNOT-ROCKETS AND BAROQUE MUSIC HISTORY 101

Today was a fine Sunday. I woke up feeling slightly more under the weather than yesterday - a barking-type cough in the wee hours of the morning and a pretty stuffy head. But I had plans to go into the city with a former colleague to hear the complete Brandenburg Concertos (Concerti..sorry) at Lincoln Center. So I got my ass outside for a run, figuring the fresh air and exercise would clear my head, and perhaps the endorphins would have a sort of antihistamine affect. Yes, I frequently make up ridiculous medical hypotheses that sound like they might be legit, and then fool myself into believing that they're real.

I actually DID feel better after the run, although my stuffy head + the cold weather = excessive amounts of snot. But what better way to expunge snot while on the move than snot-rockets? If you've never tried one, I highly recommend it -- very empowering. Nothing quite like blowing your nose into... nothing. I do need to wash my jacket, however. Damn wind.

We left for the city around 2, even though the concert wasn't until 5. If you've ever tried to go into New York on the Sunday before Christmas, you're obviously just as stupid as I am and therefore deserve whatever traffic you hit. And especially if there is a pending transit strike. But we made it in okay.

The concert was fantastic. What added to the experience was that I actually read the program notes and was fascinated to learn the origin of the pieces. Here is it is layman's terms: In his early 30's, Bach was a cocky young bastard working for a rich prince. He popped over to Brandenburg one day to pick up a new harpsicord and ended up playing for this guy who liked him so much, he asked Bach to write some music for him. This was around 1719. But Bach was too busy and was kind of like, "screw him."

A couple years later, the prince was due to get married and the future princess apparently thought her fiance spent too much money on frivoulus things - like music (Bach). Bach knew he'd be out of work soon and - remembering his Brandenburg connection - quickly pulled some musical works out of his [ass] collection, renamed them "The Brandenburg Concerti", and sent them off to the guy, 2 years too late.

Suffice to say, the guy didn't respond. Bach was stuck taking a gig at St. Thomas church in Leipzig where he stayed til he died, 30 years later. And no one's even sure if the guy in Brandenburg ever even heard the music because his musicians were hacks and probably couldn't perform it (remember, there were no iPods or even 8 tracks back then -- if your musicians sucked, you were screwed). They recovered the music later on -- lucky for us!

So I thought it was cool to learn all that. Added a bit of a human element to it all. Thought I'd share it with you lucky bastards. You're welcome.

The Downward Spiral of the Cosmo.

First cosmo imbibed by the drinker at 4:30 PM on an empty stomach, having had only a cup of Lipton soup & half a banana about 5 hours prior. It seeps into the brain - flooding the lower extremeties with a warm, numb sensation. A lovely prelude.

After the second cosmo, the drinker tends to get chatty and amorous. Starts to wander around the bar, small-talking the cute men who stand with their bottles of Bud and Corona. Suddenly intellect is no longer a requirement, as long as they're mildly attractive and willing to flirt back. Hormones are in full-swing, pheromones oozing from every pore.

The third cosmo generally leads to a melancholy state, wherein the drinker starts to pine for the Old Flame. Luckily, this drinker happens to be surrounded by good friends who will not allow her to wallow in above-mentioned state very long. Instead, they swiftly lead her to a completely new level induced by a shot of lucious Cuervo tequila.

Post-tequila, all one wants is food, and lots of it. The greasier the better. So the drinker is whisked off to Chili Willie's - a top-notch purveyor of Mexican food - where she consumes mass quantites of proteins and fats. Once the drinker finds herself back at home, nothing is more inviting than 2 Advils, a giant tumbler of water, and the beckoning of her soft floor.

A fine evening, for which she will pay handsomely tomorrow morning.

Okay Storm... you win.
THIS time.
I will remain in my warm bed with my hot tea and my bad television.
But just this once.

Dear Approaching Storm,

You have a lot of nerve. You think that just because you're a massive front of high pressure clouds you're allowed to come and go as you please - uninvited? You throw your weight around, rile us up, and typically are never what you claim to be. Sure, last week you went out of your way to live up to your reputation. But on a night like tonight, when everyone else fears your potential, I know that you are half of what they predict. Flurries - droplets - at best. The higher-ups will cancel my concert because of your threats - which we both know are idle - thereby forcing us to reschedule for Monday. Forcing me to miss one of the few opportunites I have to venture to the city to hear some music

You are nothing but an inconsistent, inconsiderate bastard. May you rot in hell.

Another fine piece ~ written by a fine Italian piece.

VALENTINA 600cc
(oil is pleasure)

My name is Valentina, and I am 599 cubic centimeters.
I own four pistons and sixteen valves. A tank above my
head pushes energy through my blood stream, and
I run run run run run....
I transform energy. I create entropy.
I make things fast. I make lines fade away.
I trasform sleeping beauties into moving daemons.

My owner, my lover, he respects me.
We give life to each other.
He rides me, making me scream, letting me reach my summit.
At 13,000 rpm, higher than the Everest mountain,
oxygen is never enough, but I keep screaming,
accelerating, scrambling, devouring asphalt...
eating dust, smashing wind, cutting breeze,
penetrating clouds, lights, fog and amber.

I fear speed. I like to sleep in my garage.
My owner, my lover, he kisses me every morning.
His hands are so strong. He guides me through the
labyrinth of shadows and flashes, signals and spaces.

I push us to speed, and we become a single body.
We make love thorough speed.
He lubricates my heart and keeps my fire on.
Beyond the sides, shapes deform; on the center,
hypnosis of lines.

I`m a pleasurable partner.
I own my driver and he owns me.
Like gods, we owe each other life.
Like daemons, we gift each other death.

But my owner, my dominator, he knows, because I know.
He wants to reach speed of light,
where time becomes slow and immensity fades away.
I will follow him, because my destiny and his destiny,
are to be a single destiny: until the end of the asphalt.

[Oofa]

Holiday Musical Revues From The Shell, Vol. II

"Christmas Shoes" -- A heinously cheesy ballad performed by some gravelly-voiced, country-esque dude who sounds like a mix between James Ingram and Michael Bolton. This is quite possibly the worst song ever written (non-holiday songs included - although "Butterfly Kisses" is a close second. Come to think of it, that one sounds remarkably similar -- could it be they are by the same pathetic man? I must research...)

While only milliseconds occur between the time I hear the first chord and the time I lunge to slam the radio off, it's still enough time for me to cringe with embarrassment - even if I am completely alone in my car. It's just plain BAD.

Why can't all holiday songs be as cool as "Sleigh Ride?"

*Sorry for the brief postings -- holiday concert tomorrow night. Getting the kiddies ready for the really big sheeow. Pray the snow holds out 'til Friday.

Watched the movie "Amelie" tonight. Movies like that make my heart hopeful - make me sappy - make me wonder what I am missing. Make me wonder if there is really all this beauty and passion and adventure in the simplicity of life. They make me want to chuck it all and move to Paris. Or to Italy, or somewhere beautiful and old. Where the people live and love with reckless abandon. Perhaps in a place like that - where everyone is like that - I could be less closed-off.. less emotionally constipated.

Holiday Musical Revues from the Shell, Vol. I

While driving home from a fine evening (spent drinking Shiraz, eating moo shu and watching "Bridget Jones's Diary"), I tuned into 106.7 Lite FM. They've been playing Christmas carols 24/7 since before Thanksgiving. Admittedly, I haven't quite been feelin' the Christmas. But after today's big snow - and probably after a little too much Shiraz - the spirit was moving inside me (or it may have been the moo shu). A few observations...

** I heard a cover of John Lennon's "Happy Christmas" done by Celine Dion. I don't think she should be allowed to cover that song. Or any other song. In fact, Celine Dion should not be allowed to sing. Ever.

** Apparently this formula works: 1 run-of-the-mill singer (Bryan McKnight, etc) + crappy karaoke-type back-up recorded beat + way too much vibrato = SUCCESSFUL R&B BALLAD. And the formula also applies to HOLIDAY ballads.

** I am such a sucker for "O Holy Night". That bad-ass punk, Josh Groban totally kicked Michael Crawford's - and a bunch of other guy's - asses by making the high note at the end seem completely effortless, while they all seem to pop hernias trying to reach it. Then he proceeds to REPEAT it, and holds it out for like 15 minutes!! You go with your bad young self.

** Did Trans-Siberian Orchestra write anything else except that crappy metal version of 'Carol of the Bells'??

** Finally, tell me that Frank Sinatra carol "The Merry Bells" (or maybe it's "Happy Holidays" -- whatever) isn't one big sexual innuendo. For instance...

- "Santa's got a great big pack"
- "Leave a peppermint stick for Old Saint Nick"
- "Loop-de-doop, and dickery-dock, don't forget--"
(why do I always compelled to finish this rhyme with the word COCK?)

You ain't foolin' this savvy perv, Ol' Blue Eyes. I know what you're up to, and FRANKly, I'm disgusted.

YEAY SNOW DAY!!

They called us last night to let us know that we'd have one today. There is no sweeter a sound than that phone call. And no sweeter voice than the twangy, southern drawl of our secretary, uttering those 3 sweet little words: NO SCHOOL TOMORROW.

So my lazy ass remained in bed until 10:00. And it felt GOOOOD.

Paid a visit to The Brit the other night to collect my Christmas decorations. I'd left them in the attic while moving out last spring. Who the hell wanted to think about Christmas then? But while fixin' to decorate this year's tree, I noticed some of my best crap was missing -- hence the visit. When I got there, he answered the door wearing a fleece coat, gloves and a hat. Because it was 42 degrees. INSIDE the house.

MORAL: When you don't have a job, you don't get paid money. And then you can't pay bills. Like the oil bill. And then you can't get oil for heat. So your house gets really cold. And you have to wear gloves and a hat inside. For four days.

The above concept is logical - even to a 6-year old. But apparently not to 40-year old Brits.

*SIGH*

Bonus post: A story written by my friend, S, the "Eminent Professor of Physics, and the Art of Life".

THE REBORNER
(the man who could not escape evil)

Raleigh, NC, 373 years before I will be born again.

After the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease epidemic of 2177, most of herbivores disappeared. It was the decision of EU and NAF (North-American-Federation) to eliminate all herbivores to contain the disease. It was a complete disaster.

At that time, planet Earth contained roughly 15 billion people. They were just starting sending explorers to Titan, a superficially known outer moon with huge hydrocarbon resources. By burning herbivore carcasses, most of the world’s population developed cancers caused by the dioxin produced by organic combustions. Humans were dying in billions. The United Federation decided to send some sort of Noah arks spread on the solar system. My ancestors were in one of them. The Earth’s life was rapidly disappearing.

The probes sent to the inner moons did not last long. The small moons, like the Earth one, were too small to capture a thick atmosphere. The amount of free water vapor was not enough to sustain more than few thousand colonies, so they had to move to bigger systems.

The colonies on Mars had better luck. They were producing electricity with the solar wind, and underground light with second order harmonic generation of cosmic rays. Big caves were carved under the carbon ice pack of the surface. New religions became popular.

After a couple hundred years, the Titan colonies became wealthy and a war started for the domination of the big methane seas. There was no reason. There was methane for all of us. The Mars colonies were in desperate need of methane. Such gas was necessary for feeding the bacteria on the surface. They were producing oxygen by terraforming the silicates present on the surface. The dream of Martian colons was to have an oxygen rich atmosphere with at least 10-20% carbon dioxide so the greenhouse effect would have kept the atmosphere with a decent temperature range, necessary for the colonies to live in the surfaces. They were dreaming to create an Earth-like planet, the planet they killed with total negligence, just three hundred years before.

Unfortunately the Titans did not want to share the methane because they were using it for trading at the border of their outermost cities located in the Pluto moons. They were exchanging it for Helium3, the most rare and precious element in the universe. Helium3 was necessary for the neutron-free nuclear reaction which was the key component of the Queller drive, the only engine capable of pushing a ship to near light speed, and, therefore, allowing interstellar travels with the big sleep of astronauts.

The war lasted many decades and I ended up being a soldier, unfortunately.
We were all soldiers.
We were young.
We did not understand the reason of the war.
We believed in the good and bad distinction that our politicians told us.
Our gods, Theos and Pyros, were silent.

Titan forces were hitting us by exterminating our people. We were doing the same to them. There was no purpose of these continuous retaliations. Who started became a no-problem anymore.

I saw friends dying in burning ships for no reason.
I fought in cities falling in flames.
I saw enemies similar to me: young, terrified, covered of fear, with poisoned souls.
Were they my real enemies?
Were they? How was it possible? War has never ennobled men.
War, where did it come from?
Where was the source of all this evil?
Where were our gods?

Then, I stole a small ship and escaped. I was followed and I pointed to the heart of the sun. I did not care anymore about myself. I was escaping war. A space-time-field distortion, just below the Einstein-Schwarzschild radius, brought me here.
Was I lucky?
Did I go to the past, so that I would have to live twice?

And I saw the same evil... the same wars.
And I felt alone.
More alone than up in the sky, between my stars and my empty spaces, where evil turns silence –
And my eyes become blind of infinite light.

It's been way too long. Apologies all around.

I spent the morning in court -- albeit merely municipal court. My first (and hopefully last) time in front of a judge. Last month, whilst down in Bumblefuck, NJ meeting a stupid computer date guy, I got lost on the way home. I drove around aimlessly for 45 minutes, following bad directions from evil gas station attendents, and pulling illegal U-turns at just about every intersection. Finally, on my ninth (and final) U-turn, lights and sirens went off and the jig was up (who hasn't always wanted to say that?) Long story short, the cop - a stocky little fellow who obviously suffered from SGS ("Short Guy Syndrome") -- advised me to go to court to amend the 3-point ticket he was writing me - "Wouldn't it just be easier for us both if you didn't write me a ticket? Seriously, though?" And so I went.

Court was very educational. And it beat being at work. Mostly there were just a bunch of other [stupid] people, like me, who were there for doing [stupid] things while driving. And most of us spoke to the prosecuter to get our sentence reduced before going in front of the judge and claiming GUILT. But there was a lot of waiting around inside the courtroom, and a couple of entertaining cases.

There was the guy who looked like Fred Sanford, that came dressed in Native American garb (complete with headdress and carved walking stick). On the back of his big shawl was a picture of an Indian -- kind of like an iron-on -- with the words "Black Angel" embroidered around it. When the judge asked his name, he replied: "Black Angel Jones" - which explained the embroidery. He blessed us all on his way out.

There was another case which was disturbing on an entirely different level. Richie was called to court facing several assault charges against his girlfriend, Marisa. She stood up there with him. Through an interpreter, we all learned that Richie had grabbed Marisa around the neck, scratched her face and slammed her head into a wall. Then we learned from Marisa that this was the fourth time Richie had assaulted her since April. And that she decided to move back in with him anyway, despite the restraining order, because he had convinced her he would REALLY change this time. Oh, and that they have a baby together.

It was so infuriating. And sad. And so TV-like. And so real. The judge was great - you could tell he just wanted to climb over the bench and throttle Richie - we all did. The judge told Marisa that no one had the right to touch her EVER. That all she needed to do was make one phonecall to the cops if he ever touched her again and he would be in jail. She nodded - thanked him in her broken English. But come on -- people like Marisa are drawn to assholes like Richie - for whatever reason - and she won't be calling the cops.

I had my turn with the prosecutor (who was textbook- Jerry Orbach) and played the "Gee, I'm just a stupid teacher who was out way too late in a far-away town and I got all scared" card and he dropped my points. When I went to the window to pay my handsome fine, I found myself standing right next to Richie and Marisa. I stood up straight, and my 5'8"+heels self towered over that little creep. I thought of how good it would feel to grab that little bastard by his neck and slam his head into the wall. I looked at Marisa - even smaller. I tried to catch her eye - to give her some form of... I dunno... something, but she would not look up. She kept her eyes glued to the floor.

So many people in the world. So many stories going on all around us, all the time. We need only open our eyes.