Eating Rabbit Food

For as many years (22 +) as I have been a member of Weight Watchers their program has allowed the unlimited eating of vegetables—they are considered a “free food.”

And very recently a good friend of mine said to her significant other in utter disappointment I have been eating carrots and celery all week and I still haven’t lost any weight!

To which the significant other replied Have you ever seen a rabbit that did not have a fat ass?

Excellent point.

I wonder if Weight Watchers has ever considered this?

Favorite Toys and Childhood Dreams

“Tiger” was my favorite stuffed animal. His eyes glowed in the dark. He also was my smartest student. When I would play school and line up all my animals in front of my chalkboard he would always answer all my questions correctly. He was the only stuffed animal that received a 100% on every math or spelling test I devised.

He was the teacher’s pet.

If you asked me as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up I would have said a teacher or an actress. I could never decide which profession was better. All I knew was I loved standing on stage at Emerson elementary school playing Miss Henny Penny while the crowd cheered. And I also rejoiced in chalk, erasers and teacher’s edition reading books that my father brought home for me from the Yonkers Public Schools.

But it wasn’t until 12^th grade when I volunteered to work with Father Hickey teaching CCD to 7^th graders that I received some real hands-on pedagogic experience. I discovered that  standing in front of a bunch of well-behaved stuffed animals who hung on every word you said was way more fun than standing in front of living breathing pubescents. Thirteen year old boys and girls were positively obnoxious. And even the most attentive students were not so engaged in the activity to make the experience fruitful—either for them or for me.

I always felt sorry for Father Hickey who despite trying very hard to be patient and get God’s message across failed every time. It would have driven any man to drink—which is precisely what happened—Father Hickey ended up in rehab.

So I never became a classroom teacher. I knew that I could never feign concern over students I did not like very much---I did not have the fortitude. And to be a good teacher one must attend to every student—even the annoying ones.

But over the course of the years I did get to enjoy my love of the stage. In 8^th grade I played Mrs. MacAfee in an abbreviated version of Bye Bye Birdie--I sang a solo with Jackie Degnan. In high school I had a lead part in a play called “For Women Only.” And when I became involved in PTA acting took on another form-- running PTA meetings or speaking in front of the Board of Education. On any stage I enjoyed the rush of “all eyes on me.” I found delight in captivating my audience. I felt omnipotent—especially when I could feel the crowd in agreement with my words—they nodded their heads gently.

And I chose Kara to be the keeper of my most treasured childhood toy. “Tiger” sits regally  in her room on top of her desk. Over fifty years later most of Tiger’s fur still remains-- although his right ear is a bit thread bare. And his eyes still glow in the dark---an indication his vision is still sharp. His physical presence reminds me that for every teacher, a favorite star student remains in the heart forever—it’s what keeps teachers teaching---- the quintessential Academy award for every classroom warrior.

Lennie (The Drycleaner Delivery Man)

When I first left my children home alone, I would always tell them do not answer the door. And then I would add do not even go to the door—keep quiet so no one knows you are home.

One of the best things about living in Garden City, particularly when my children were babies, was that every business in town delivered. One could be a complete agoraphobe—there was never a need to leave the house. My diapers and formula were delivered by Chateau Pharmacy. My food was delivered by The Food Basket. My wine came from Madigans. And my dry cleaning was picked up and delivered by Bestever’s which later sold to Adelphi Cleaners.

Life was good—convenient. The bell rang and the delivery men were at my service. All of them were nice but one in particular was just a little too nice—to the point of abject irritation.

    

Lennie was a man of short stature and build. He did not know the line between casual interest and nosiness. If he were female he would have been called a yenta---or maybe better yet: a menta.

So when the bell rang with the dry cleaning I was faced with two dilemmas—shutting Lennie up and keeping Jasper (my not-so-friendly Wheaten terrier) from tearing him apart from limb to limb. At no point did Lennie ever get the hint that I did not want to chat it up with him or that my dog had channeled Cujo.

It got to the point that I would lock the door, shut the lights and duck below my kitchen countertops so I could pretend that I wasn’t home when he arrived.

This went on for several years. I was a prisoner in my own home.

But certainly not soon enough, it occurred to me that maybe I should use a different drycleaner. This was silly. Grown women should not be hiding from little Jewish delivery men who talked too much. There were other drycleaners who were more than capable of both cleaning my clothing, delivering it,  and keeping quiet. 

   

So finally Lenny was gone---along with the badgering dentist. I fired both of them on the same day.
  

And now if I leave my children home alone, despite the fact that they are old enough to answer the door they chose not to do so—they know whomever is at the door isn’t there for them. They would have gotten a phone call or text message first.

And the new drycleaner delivery man is sometimes Korean and sometimes Hispanic—it depends on the delivery cycle. But neither man speaks English very well—and it’s good.  They just nod and say thank you. And that is exactly the way I like it.

Evolving Traditions

My mother is a lover of books. She read to me every day from a blue hard cover anthology of nursery rhymes and fairy tales. It is where I learned about Jack Sprat and Little Miss Muffet. I imagined what a gingerbread house might look like or a wolf dressed in a granny’s nightgown. I wondered why Snow White was so desperately needy.

When I was little there was no real children’s literature. The Brothers Grimm were the gold standard.

But by the time my own children were born there were high quality contemporary children’s books everywhere—even at Cosco. My children learned quiet lessons from the hungry caterpillar and Alexander’s very bad day. We bore anxiety over the wild things. We learned the perils of taking too much from the giving tree. We said Good night Moon!

And on Father’s day this year while we (my husband, my three daughters, one of their boyfriends and myself) were enjoying a glass of chianti on the patio, someone brought up the fate of Tikki Tikki Tembo-no Sa Rembo-chari Bari Ruchi-pip Peri Pembo—a character from a prized children’s book. And my three girls and the boyfriend went into a full on analysis of the story—way more rigorous than my book group would ever delve into.

They concluded that message of the book was that family traditions need to adapt to a changing world. It’s why poor Tikki Tikki Tembo nearly drowned and barely recovered from his fall into the well—his elders had mindlessly perpetuated rules imposed by previous generations. The old ways may not be best.

And at that moment two things occurred to me—the first and lesser of which was that these four twenty-something year olds understood a profound message from a book none of them had read since they were about five or six years old. But the second and more meaningful thought was that  I had understood their concluded message way before I had ever read the story—I had adapted family traditions in the face of a changing world. I read to my children as my mother had done for me, but I had  abandoned the nursery rhymes and fairy tales and replaced them with contemporary works—ones that were not just more easily understood by children, but had a better, more lasting message.

Because children’s books are no longer just for children anymore.

And in the new movie The Huntsmen the screenwriters finally give Snow White a much needed makeover. They recognized that society has evolved and hence the storyline must adapt and progress too. No one finds a helpless dependent woman attractive anymore.  In today’s world a man’s kiss isn’t the sole solution to a lost woman’s problems—it’s merely encouragement for a woman to actualize her own potential.  And Snow White can defeat the queen herself and lead her own army to get her kingdom back. She has evolved.

Unencumbered vs. Unfiltered Thoughts

A very good friend of mine did not grow up in New York or any of its suburbs. As a consequence she approaches life pragmatically—and more simply.

I like that.

And not too long ago when I was with her at lunch she suggested a solution to my life’s complaints. Her solution was invaluable.

And when I got home I emailed her to thank her for lunch and I added something to the effect that I well appreciated her always unencumbered view on things.

But when I saw her again she asked with concern what I had meant—she wondered: did mean to say unfiltered? Because speaking without  a filter is something she feared she may do on occasion.

And I said no---there is a difference between unfiltered and unencumbered thoughts. An unfiltered thought is a knee jerk response that escapes the brain’s sensory system—there is no self-governing FCC at work. Unfiltered thoughts are uncaring to the consequences (usually negative) of the spoken words. Unfiltered thoughts are abrasive and often hurtful.

But unencumbered thoughts involve deductive reasoning—they are thoughts which are not distracted by inconsequential data. Unencumbered thoughts get to the heart of the matter with no ill feelings—they are reason-dependent yet never offensive.

And I gave an example. I reminded her that when she had returned from Lehigh with her son after a college visit I asked her what the area was like surrounding the university. Her answer was Southside Bethlehem reflects the economic downturn of the steel industry. It was a completely unencumbered response. But if she would have said Southside Bethlehem is a sh**hole, it would have been an example of an unfiltered thought.

And even though both descriptions of Bethlehem would have projected the town as poverty stricken—the unencumbered view was much more informational and was in no way offensive. The unfiltered view of the town—not so much.

Which is why speaking unencumbered thoughts is something I aspire to. So when a daughter of mine asks me in the dressing room how do I look in this? I will often say the nature of the fabric and cut of that dress gives unflattering lines. And my daughter will then say with annoyance Are you saying my ass looks big?

Sometimes even when you speak unencumbered thoughts they are heard with unfiltered ears.

Even Smart Kids Cheat

I knew someone in high school that would take a $.19 Bic pen, remove the blue or black plastic plug at the end, and insert a small piece of paper as a cheat sheet. To my knowledge they never got caught. They also received really good grades.

And period seven was the beneficiary of being the last class of five tested by Mr. Santemeyer. Mr. Santemeyer, the American history teacher at my high school, issued all his classes the same multiple choice exam. By the last section of the day all the answers had been smuggled out. He must have thought period seven was intellectually gifted. 

    

Sister Julia, as well as Ms. Sterzenback had students switch papers with each other to correct quizzes. No one ever received a poor grade.

When the proctor of my Algebra regents put everyone on their honor so she could make a quick trip down to the office, all hell broke loose in the classroom in her absence. There was no honor. The only code respected was the code of silence---say nothing and reap your reward.

No one thought well-behaved privately schooled Catholic girls from good families would ever cheat. But they did—and without remorse. If teachers were foolish enough to leave chinks in the armor, resourceful students were going to find them.

In college, cheating took on a whole new level—particularly with the super bright slacker engineering students. They knew how to program calculators that were not quite yet designed to be programmable. It was the cusp of the computer age. Technology was an added method to the tried and true answers and formulas written on sleeve-covered arms.

When my one of my daughters was in high school there was a cheating scandal. AP students had texted    answers to other AP students---a fee was involved.  And the whole allowance of cell phones in classrooms debate got resurrected again. People thought that cell phones bore the onus of the cheating. People thought that if cell phones were forbidden, cheating would cease.

I shook my head. I knew better. It’s not the arrow—it’s the Indian.

It is my genuine belief that there is no more cheating in this generation than there was with mine---the tools are just different. If you do not want students to cheat then you must fingerprint them before each exam and have them sit naked in a one-person furniture-less wireless lead-lined classroom painted white with a single issued pencil. And even in that scenario I am certain some students will find the chink.

Because even smart kids cheat—and in my experience they are the ones most skilled at it---and they rarely get caught.

Word Pronunciation

My husband and I went to out to dinner last Saturday night. Our server was new—we were her first customers. And she was quite enthusiastic—eager to please—very congenial. After fetching our drinks she reeled off the chef’s specials. And she was doing a diligent job—specifying the type: fish or pasta etc and how it was prepared.

One special caught my ear—not just because it was veal (one of my favorites) but because of her word choice: pan seared veal scappolini with…... But I was completely distracted by the word scappolini—I had never heard  that word before. I thought hmm maybe the “scap” part of the word referred to the scapula—the shoulder region of the veal. And maybe the “lini” part of the word meant little or tender. I guessed that veal scappolini was a tender cut of veal from the shoulder. It seemed plausible---my etymology seemed logical.

So I ordered the veal special—which prompted the waitress to say good choice—the scappolini is very good tonight.

But I still remained a bit skeptical about the whole scappolini business. Something did not seem right.

And when my entree was served the mystery was solved. The veal special was scallopine. The waitress had no idea how to pronounce the word correctly. She may have been sweet—but she was not too bright.

But the story isn’t over.

The next day when I took my tin of leftovers out of the brown bag I noticed that the waitress had written the name of the entrée on the paper lid—it said veal scapolini. So not only did she get the pronunciation wrong, but if scappolini was an actual word, it would have had   2 “p”s in it—she got the spelling of an incorrect word, incorrect also.

And I was reminded of a thank you note I once read—it was written by someone I did not know. The recipient had saved it for me to read—she was testing my deciphering ability. The note said (in reference to her and her then boyfriend) Use too are some of my favorite people.

I had no idea what the person was trying to say. And the recipient said listen to it phonetically with a heavy Bronx accent and you will understand.

I totally got it. You (plural with an “s” at the end) two are some of my favorite people.

Dina Cortese (from the Jersey shore) was quoted as saying Hestatic is when you're super happy and like really happy.

I think she meant ecstatic.

 Some people really are that dumb---and seemingly that happy—hestatically so.