Friday Night Lights

“You may ask, ‘How did this tradition get started?’ I'll tell you. I don't know. But it's a tradition... and because of our traditions... Every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do.”

Jews have been following a certain routine of rest for thousands of years and, in our house, Shabbat breaks down this way:

I light candles and cover my eyes, while everyone else covers their ears, before singing a prayer of thanks. I sound like Fiona Apple, I swear. Afterward, the man of the house holds up wine and Challah and sings his own prayer of thanks. He sounds like Neil Diamond; somehow it works. We then place hands over our children’s heads and pray they never vote Republican. Actually, the prayer is an affirmation of love and pride we feel for them. As evenings with the family goes, it’s not bad.

Then we sit and eat.

Sometimes we go to synagogue and sometimes we hang at home. Friday night is one night a week when we set aside distractions and concentrate on each other. We don’t answer the phone, watch television or post comments online.

Instead we:

• Look at each other and try not to laugh.
• Yell at Daddy when he tries to turn on ESPN.
• Feign interest in conversations about Scooby-Doo.
• Whistle and stare at the ceiling.

After the boys go to bed, Husband reminds me that headaches are a sin on Friday nights before falling asleep in the middle of my tangents.

That’s our Sabbath. It might sound trite, but these weekly meetings with the Lord keep us connected to each other and the rest of the tribe as well.

So here’s the deal: As a high school teacher, it is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore sporting events on Friday nights. These are not traditions that go back thousands of years; therefore it’s never been an issue for me. Perhaps my husband and I were waiting for the boys to enter high school before figuring it out. Maybe our kids would be part of the Goth scene and never even request a kitchen pass. When I was in high school, I only went to games when Michele or Becky performed special routines and requested my attendance. Cathy and I would show up half-drunk, throwing things and making fun of them. Good times.

My kids, though, they’re more like my man. You know, socially appropriate. These events are also pretty important in the lives of my students, co-workers, etc. This is where I work and where we live – our community – and we want to participate in events around us. (Not every event is up for discussion. I draw the line at carnivals.)

My rabbi used to say, “What are you going to teach your children? Sports are more important than family and tradition?”

My rabbi, he rocks with the guilt.

No, I’m not suggesting we do away with off-tune prayers and silent judging. It’s nice to have a night together – no matter what the rest of the world is doing. Thus, the confusion.

As is often the case when faced with Jewish Conundrums, I think of The Cohens. Every Jewish family should have The Cohens in their lives. I don’t know what we’d do without ours. First of all, Mrs. Cohen knows more than God. And Mr. Cohen may not know right then and there but he can find out. And when he makes up his mind, he’s always right. Seriously, they’re our best friends from Boston and more Jewish than anyone we know.

In her house growing up, Friday nights were broken down this way: Dinner was set in stone. Then everyone would go watch her throw her pom-poms around a football field. (How do all these fur-wearing, veal-eating, ex-cheerleaders find me?) Anyway, she grew up to revere the Jewish faith and raise her children the same way. Everybody wins.

If it works for them, it can work for us, right? As long as my boys and I are together, isn’t it okay to join the community as well?

This Friday, after our candlelit dinner, we’re going to watch my new school beat the pants off my old school in football. I feel good about showing my students some support. I just wonder how they’ll respond to a shout-out like “Shabbat Shalom!”

Don't Go Changin'... to Please Me

A friend of mine might move to Chicago. I’m thinking, “Chicago….Tampa…no contest.” He hesitates because he’d miss many good friends (mostly me).

“You can keep in touch,” I said.

“Keeping in touch is hard,” he said.

Just like a man. What’s so hard about maintaining contact with people? In this day and age especially, it’s never been easier. “Free nights and weekends” mean anything? And for the time it takes to watch commercials during SportsCenter, five emails can be sent out. I know. I timed it.

What about mass distribution lists; or as my cousin calls them, “mass distros”? He emails over a hundred family members at once, saving enormous amounts of time, to keep us informed about the exciting life of a graduate student in NYC. As I wipe poop off toilets and tushies, I try not to hold that against him.

There are negatives regarding emails and most of them involve me. For example, I’ve been known to reply to perfectly good correspondence in a pissy manner which gets me temporarily demoted to “Don’t email while happy” status. I once parodied a friend’s form letter and hit the “reply to all” button. Major mistake. Haven’t talked to her in six years. (My old “I thought it was funny” excuse didn’t fly. The email was funny, though. I still have it somewhere if you want to read it and agree.) So, yes, I’ve gotten into my own share of trouble with emails. Live and learn. I still think it’s a quick, easy, and somewhat painless way to connect.

I should know. I’m an expert keepintouch-er. For someone who doesn’t like people, I sure have accumulated enough of them. With few exceptions, I maintain contact with everyone that’s ever been important to me.

I even reached out recently and dragged my sister’s first boyfriend back into the mix. Why? Maybe I need another Pasco County Republican to abuse. Seriously, Jack was an important figure in my life and one of Husband's closest college friends. My future husband fixed him up with Michele and, as a big THANK YOU, Michele fixed my future husband up with me. (Pause) No, we don’t hold that against them. Besides, Jack once volunteered to spend six hours in a car with me visiting Melbourne during Spring Break. He’s a keeper.

That’s why I hate to hear people talk about how hard it is to keep in touch. If I can do it while maintaining a healthy work-life balance (see, Scott, working in the Welch quotes to keep you interested), anyone can. I’m not that special.

Okay, yes I am, but it’s still not hard.

What if someone gets away? I have two approaches.

Old CW: Mail out the holiday card anyway so it’ll get forwarded or, better yet, the card will return to you with the new address printed on it.
New CW: Google search.

So, reach out and touch someone. They miss you and would love to reminisce about that crazy time you rolled Tony’s house. Trust me.

Need further proof? My school district recently demanded I remit two years of overpayments even though the discrepancy wasn’t my fault. I investigated and discovered they simply required proof of my teaching experience from the mid-nineties. I called my old company’s payroll department, yet they destroy records after seven years and couldn’t verify employment. Since I still talk with former co-workers, several happily signed whatever I sent them, my school district approved it and I saved thousands of dollars. That might not have happened if I didn’t sometimes pull people back into my life, kicking and screaming.

So go to Chicago, Sunshine. You're not going to lose anyone worth keeping unless you want to. In so many ways, old friends are worth too much to lose.

Protect Us from Your Followers

Pat Robertson recently made headlines suggesting Venezuelan dictator, Hugo Chavez, should be “taken out”. What’s the big deal? Robertson said the same thing a few years ago about Saddam Hussein. Maybe if we had followed his advice, we wouldn't be in the mess we're in today. Everyone needs to calm down. Pat’s frugal, that’s all. He doesn’t like throwing money away on wars when there is a much easier and cheaper solution.

I’m an old school kinda gal. Or, as Christian folk would say, an Old Testament kinda gal. I don’t have any problem “taking out” a bad guy. With my bare hands. If the only way to stop a murderer is to kill him, we are morally obligated to kill him. Period. The thing is – Pat Robertson advocating assassination based on political or economic issues is a bit creepy. He doesn’t seem to be saying, “Let’s kill this guy to save lives.” He’s saying, “Let’s kill this guy to save a couple bucks.” Oh, and then there's the oil. Let’s not forget that.

Yet, for all its creepiness, I still don’t know why Robertson’s nuttiness is news. This is the same guy who prays out loud in front of millions for someone on the Supreme Court to die so Dumbya can make the Court right again. Literally.

And that’s not even the worst thing he’s ever said. Here are Robertson’s thoughts on:

Sept. 11, 2001
“We have imagined ourselves invulnerable and have been consumed by the pursuit of ... health, wealth, material pleasures and sexuality... It [terrorism] is happening because God Almighty is lifting his protection from us.”

Why Bush is best
“I think George Bush is going to win in a walk. I really believe that I'm hearing from the Lord it's going to be like a blowout election of 2004. It's shaping up that way. The Lord has just blessed him.... I mean, he makes terrible mistakes and comes out of it. It doesn't make any difference what he does, good or bad. God picks him up because he's a man of prayer and God's blessing him.”

Why some Christians shouldn’t have to play nice
“You say you're supposed to be nice to the Episcopalians and the Presbyterians and the Methodists and this, that, and the other thing. Nonsense. I don't have to be nice to the spirit of the Antichrist. I can love the people who hold false opinions but I don't have to be nice to them.”

Feminists – my own personal favorite
“The feminist agenda is not about equal rights for women. It is about a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians.”

The real cause of weather problems in Florida – God’s pissed about Gay Pride Day
“I would warn Orlando that you're right in the way of some serious hurricanes, and I don't think I'd be waving those flags in God's face if I were you.”

As you can see, this latest gaffe is just more of the same. Poor Pat. I feel for him. He’s looking out for the almighty dollar and everyone wants to focus instead on a man of God encouraging murder before a televised audience.

Why can't he just do it in private like a good Christian?

Peel Out the Watchword

Fun and Games: What’s the best or worst pick-up line ever? You decide...

• You have great eyebrows, like Dukakis.
• Wanna spend an afternoon with me at a nudist resort?
• Come nibble on my carrot.
• Fancy a f*ck, darling?
• You look just like Lucy from Charlie Brown. Would you like to pull away my football?
• Damn girl, your breasts have grown since high school.
• Your eyes are blue as sh*t.
• Are you gonna eat that?
• Hi, I’m not Tom Cruise.
• You puttin’ on weight?
• I can make you scream if you just give me five minutes.

I’m Ready: Lots of women hate football season. Obviously they don’t have what I have – three males in the house with season tickets! For just about every home game, they head off to the stadium and I am free! Last night I lit some candles, played CDs with parental advisory stickers, and soaked in a bubble bath all night. Heaven! Anyone want to hang out at Skippers Smokehouse during the next one? Let me know because soon I’ll be knocked up and out of commission for the next two years. Let’s get on this!

Most Obvious Headline: Pregnancies Safe if Morning-After Pill Fails. No sh*t, folks.

Holla’back/Challah Bread: What’s happening over in Israel is a shame. It’s a shame that Jewish troops are forcing Jewish families out of Jewish homes on Jewish land that was acquired after the Six Day War in 1967. Yes, it’s easy for me to yell about Israel’s right to be in Gaza from my comfortable and relatively safe home in Florida; but to those who say Israel owes the so-called Palestinians a thing or two, I ask: Should the United States give Texas back to Mexico? I know you’re thinking, “The state that gave us Tom Delay, a Bush dynasty, and shitty water? Hell, yeah, give it back!” But seriously, you understand my point. Doesn’t current Israeli action reward homicide bombers? “You died for a reason and we are bringing Israel to its knees!” If withdrawing from Gaza brings peace to the region, then I suppose it’s for the best. I just hate to think this is only the beginning and Jerusalem is next. Enough is enough.

Local News: The Florida GOP is trying to convince Joe Scarborough to challenge Katherine Harris for the Republican nomination for US Senate. I look at them both and wonder, “Is this the best you all can do?” Then again, I thought the same thing about Mel Martinez and now the Honorable Embarrassment is sitting pretty in DC, figuring more ways to benefit from tragedies like Terry Schiavo. Now we need two of them? Never underestimate brilliant Republicans and misguided masses who believe their lies, lies, lies.

Watching paint dry: And more wastes of time…

• Trying to convince a grown man and two boys to stop wrestling in the house
• Listening to Rush Limbaugh or watching Fox News in an attempt to learn something meaningful about the other side
• Watching Dodgeball
• Pining away for James Rubin, Jack Black, and you
• Appealing to the state party to get its head out of its ass
• Analyzing aforementioned pick-up lines

A First For Everything

“Your son doesn’t feel well and needs to go home.”

My first phone call to pick up a sick kid. I got to the school in record time, only to walk in on a happy little boy who looked up and said, “Hi Mommy!”

“Hi Mommy?” I asked, visibly disappointed. “I expected a kid on his deathbed. What’s wrong?”

“My tummy hurts.”

“All right, sweetie,” I said, remembering others were watching, “let’s go to the doctor.”

His tummy was fine. While we were there, I thought about my low platelet count and wondered if my vegetarian boys might be borderline anemic as well. Let’s get tested.

“Owwwwww!!!!!!” my son yelled after getting his finger pricked.

Tears poured out and I felt bad for him. Not too bad, just a little. Turns out his iron level is fine. My parents will be disappointed, I’m sure; they’re dying to serve meatloaf again.

“Mommy, that hurt really, really bad,” he said.

I can smell a teachable moment a mile away.

“Well,” I said, wiping away his tears, “when you come home from school, we have to find out what’s wrong. That’s the way it goes.”

The doctor found an ear infection. So that’s something. I started my child on antibiotics and put him into bed.

“I can play when my brother comes home, right?”

“No, when we’re sick, we stay in bed all day.”

“This isn’t as great as I thought it would be.”

A few hours later, we went back to get his brother. Normally I pick them up in the cafeteria after carpoolers have gone home. Instead, I waited forty-five minutes in a line of empty SUVs and minivans, before his teacher came over and said,

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your son took the bus home.”

The bus?

“No he didn’t,” was all I could think to say.

My heart threatened to go on strike at any moment.

As his teacher talked, I kept thinking about how I told the boys to never, EVER get on a yellow ‘hound. I told them to chain themselves to the nearest pole and demand someone call me immediately. Was my precious son on a bus somewhere, scared and confused? What if he got off at some random stop and wandered around a neighborhood and ran into a pervert and OH MY GOD!?

“What kind of bus did he take?” I asked. “We live out of the area. How is it possible he just got on a bus?”

“Wait a minute. Is he in aftercare?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry! That’s what I meant, then. He’s just in his normal routine. If it’s aftercare, then he’s in the cafeteria. I’ll go get him right now!”

When I saw my little boy come around the corner with two teachers, a paraprofessional, and assistant principal behind him, I could finally breathe again. I thanked everyone for their concern, tried not to scream about lost brain cells, and drove home. I actually felt proud to have held it together.

The next morning, my oldest sold me out. When he walked into the classroom, he looked at his brother's teacher and said,

“Yesterday was a mess. When you went to find my brother, mommy said she was going to have a stroke.”

I’m just glad he didn’t repeat all the curse words.

The Blame Game

When problems arise in a government of the people, for the people, and by the people – the blame is often with the people. I’m as guilty as anyone for throwing darts at Dumbya, off earning his title of Most-Vacationing President in US history, or Karl Rove, for turning a former failure/drunk into a two-term president. However, neither of them would be in their current positions without the consent of the governed.

Ohio is literally in a state of shock, having seen more of its young men die in Iraq than any other. My heart goes out to them as they struggle with such a heavy loss. Then I think back to Ohio’s status as swing state in the last election. How many of those grieving today played parts in their own children’s demise? Do they sit at home with their folded flag, proud they exercised their right to vote by continuing the death and destruction of young American soldiers? At least gay men can’t kiss in public! Are they still convinced liberal values are ruining this country? Does Michael Moore really pose a threat? Or are values instilled in our current administration that turn their loved ones into worm food still preferable?

Even those of us who voted with the other side and therefore against this fiasco, aren’t in the clear. We should have done a better job convincing people our answers were better for them and their children.

Speaking of children, I often wonder how my own kids will rebel. All children do it, especially free-thinking and independent children. What will mine choose? I’m often frightened at the possibilities. Husband and I can understand, if not condone, certain youthful indiscretions. What if they go the other way? Shave their heads, join a cult or become soldiers? Don’t get me wrong, I think our military is filled with noble men and women who protect us and make our country strong. I just don’t want my children joining any group promising to obey the President of the United States. Often, his motives are suspect.

That’s why my heart also goes out to Cindy Sheehan. She was against the war and her son signed up and went anyway. He came home in a casket. Now she is camped outside Bush’s Crawford, Texas ranch protesting the war and demanding an audience with the man himself. While I agree she has a right to be there and, with her supporters’ help, she is asking legitimate questions, I think she is pointed in the wrong direction.

Obviously Bush cannot be swayed. His assistant chief of staff leaked information putting a CIA operative’s life at risk for political retaliation and, yet, Rove continues to work in the White House. Our Congress had serious questions about Bush’s nominee to the UN and he refused to supply the answers, then by-passed Congress altogether by handing Bolton the job. Bush continues to insist the “struggle against global extremism” is working despite all evidence to the contrary. He’s not going to pull over alongside Cindy Sheehan, chat her up, and then pull troops out of Iraq.

Cindy’s real struggle is in convincing the American people to get behind the anti-war movement. No offense to my friends in Birks, but hippies do not attract middle America. Even the grieving mothers in Ohio look at all those dreadlocks and wrinkle their noses. We have to get those mothers on our side. We need to convince our countrymen and women that the answer to lies, fear, and destitution isn’t “more of the same”.

These people have lost so much they almost have nowhere else to turn. If we don’t reach them this time, we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves.

Save a Prayer

I got a call from my doctor today and she says I have a low platelet count.

“Sweet,” I said.

“Low is good if we’re talking about weight, blood pressure, and interest rates. Not platelets,” she said.

“Oh.”

I immediately got on the computer. Have you noticed when doing a Google search for any health-related topic, the results quickly ruin your day?

Hepatitis C, AIDS, Anemia, Lupus. These are my choices? I used to donate platelets on a regular basis so I know I used to have them. Where the hell did they go?

I don’t have Hepatitis C or AIDS because practically chaste women with pristine histories and fear of harsh drugs don’t get such diseases. Do they?

“You don’t have lupus,” Becky said.

She’s a nurse. She knows these things. My sister was more on my side.

“What if you die? Who gets your husband and the boys?” Michele asked.

“Whoever wants them,” I said. “God bless her.”

“You should listen to that song Live Like You Were Dying.”

“I don’t like Travis Tritt.”

“Tim McGraw.”

“Whatever. Besides, if I lived like I were dying, they wouldn’t write a country song about it.”

“You wouldn’t go sky-diving?” she asked.

“Not quite.”

“Rocky Mountain climbing?”

“Already did that.”

“Go two seconds on a bull named Fumanchu?”

“Oh, I’d ride a bull all right, but longer than two seconds and his name is easier to spell.”

Becky weighed in on the conversation.

“With your luck, afterwards you’d go into remission.”

My dad always has the answer.

“I told you all that vegetarian sh*t would kill you. I just had a steak and feel great, ready to outlive all of ya.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

You Snooze, You Lose

What a wacky week. And I mean in more ways than one.

I’d like to digest everything for my own sense of sanity, but that would take too long. Let’s see if I can keep this short and sweet.

Up in Here: Joe Lieberman on the news complaining half-heartedly about yet another overreaching power grab by the Bush administration is enough to make me lose my mind. Where is the outrage? I can’t decide which is worse - Bolton reporting to the UN without Congress’ support or respect to the organization itself or Democrats yawning and offering up excuses like, “Well, it’s only for a year or so.”

I was ahead of my time: The front page of the Floridian section of The St. Petersburg Times is devoted to a piece about straight women who dance close together at bars for shock value. I want to ask the editors – seriously – college antics? This is news?

For those of you keeping score at home: The school board sent me a letter saying for the past two years, they’ve been overpaying me by three dollars an hour and…umm…they’d like all that money back. Perhaps I should pack up clothes, toys, and groceries, haul it all downtown and say, “Here. Have it.”

Control Issues: My children started kindergarten and I’m a wreck about it. Up every night worrying about everything under the sun.

The boys did great. They settled into their respective classrooms and made friends right away. My youngest even had a joke prepared for the teacher. (“Your name is Mrs. French? You must speak French!”) C’mon, that’s comedy. For a five year old.

On the second day, I picked them up and got out to the car – okay, minivan –checking lunches and backpacks. My oldest’s lunch hadn’t been touched.

“Why didn’t you eat your lunch, Jacob?”

“Oh,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “I didn’t realize I had my lunch today. That’s all right. I had cheese pizza instead.”

I remember the sludge they call cafeteria food and a little *ping* went off inside my head that could be the beginning of an aneurysm or stroke. I called his teacher. She apologized profusely.

“He was so confident when he said he didn’t have his lunch and seemed to know it was pizza day so I didn’t even think to check his cubby. From now on, I will. I’m so sorry.”

"How did he know it was pizza day? I didn’t even know it was pizza day.”

“Well, if you didn’t tell him, he must have read it on the calendar this morning.”

“How did he buy a lunch with no money?”

“He gave his information to the lunch lady and she’ll send you a bill for $1.75 next month. Again, I’m so sorry.”

I hung up the phone and looked at my oldest son. It’s only the second day and already he's learned to snow the teacher and get food on credit. I was still upset several hours later when talking to my mom on the phone. She was appropriately understanding about this first big step away from parental influence and how hard it is on parental units. She gave good advice and I felt much better.

“His teacher probably thinks I’m a b*tch,” I said.

She stifled a laugh.

“Probably,” she said. “You’ve got a clever kid. And what the hell is wrong with pizza?”

She’s right. He could have ordered a cheeseburger. Perhaps I should take my brother-in-law’s advice and hit happy hour every once in a while. It’d do me some good.

It’s been a wacky week. Oh, I could go on and on, but a promise is a promise. Besides, I’d like to sleep tonight.

So Long Summer

Most teachers in this neck of the woods spent Monday attending mind-numbing seminars. We should have been learning more effective teaching habits. Instead, we learned how to feign interest in mind-numbing seminars.

Actual quotes I overheard, from actual educators, while pretending to pay attention. Oh, the horror:

- “My two year-old loves The Incredibles. He laughs at violence because he’s mature for his age.”

- "I love animals, expecially at the rodeo when they're getting tied up and everything."

- “What did you axe me?”

- “Oh, supposably we’re getting another unit this year.”

- “My husband and I make beautiful children, so I think it’s only right that we make some money off them. They start modeling in September.”

- "This may take awhile. The Roman road wasn't mapped out in one day."

- "He could of learned, but didn't apply himself."

- “I know Barbara. She’s a great teacher, don’t get me wrong, but her ass is huge and all the kids make fun of her. It’s distracting for them. They’re trying to comprehend geometry and have to deal with flab for forty-five minutes. I gotta go, her friend just walked in….I know….I hate her, too. Bye now.”

That last comment came from a girl sitting at my table and talking, quite loudly, into her cell phone. Let’s call her Blondie. For obvious reasons. We’ll come back to Blondie a little later in our program.

Every workshop has the dreaded “Getting to Know You” activity that’s about as uncomfortable as a flex sig. We had to get out an item from our pocket or purse that explained something about ourselves. I took out a picture of my boys.

“My name is Catherine and this is a picture of my children. NEXT!”

Come on, people. Don't overshare. I've got a life to lead.

A few group members showed their college IDs representing graduate school and debt they will never make-up in salary. Others presented gifts their children gave them and one woman displayed a pen because she hoped to take notes and learn a thing or two. HA! Rookie mistake.

Guess what Blondie got out for display? Take a guess. What would a young, blond, Southern woman carry around with her AT ALL TIMES to show at group events????

The Holy Bible with custom-made leather binding and personalized in the upper left corner next to a fish symbol, of course. Must've cost a pretty penny.

“Well, y’all, this is with me as sort of a daily guide. To remind me how to behave.”

I almost opened her bible to the part that discourages "bearing false witness", but decided against it. Blondie’s like those people who put religious symbols on their car next to “Impeach Hillary” bumper stickers, equating spirituality with political fads. They don't respond to logic.

When we put the items in a circle, Blondie plumped God's Word down in the middle of everything. She arranged the circle so expensive leather binding (the only kind Jesus would buy) touched every other item. Guilt by association, right? As the center of all that is important in life, her personalized Holy Book could do us all some good. I looked around the group. To my left was a man more flamboyant than Carson from Queer Eye. I wondered if he agreed with Blondie's version of hellfire punishment for his kind. What about Catholics, other denominations, agnostics, or atheists who don't connect with the King James version? What about Jews? Oh, that’d be me. Blondie mentioned the Bible again and said it was appropriate to be in the center, as if we are all the same, and I decided I'd had enough.

“I’m Jewish and certainly wish I’d brought something to represent the center of my faith. Oh, well. My boys will have to do.”

Blondie didn't talk the rest of the session. She was probably too busy praying for my eternal soul. I got home and told Husband about Blondie and other educational adventures. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“You're back,” he said, “complaining about strangers instead of your children."

"As it should be," I said.