Here’s the comment to which I’m responding:

Zach — How do you know that I am not, in fact, lame?  Welp, I’m not unable to move my legs, so you’ve got me there.  I have felt the same way about using the word “crazy”  before.  The only problem is that there lacks a equally descriptive word in either case. Or, I should say, I lack an equally descriptive word.  So, dear law student, I’d be happy to remove the word “lame” from my lexicon if you can supply me with an equally descriptive word that doesn’t offend anyone.  Therein lies the rub.  More appropriate would be for me to say, “I feel as though I’m suffering from dementia.”  Yet, would that be putting those folks down?  I guess I could say I’m pathetic.  I guess that is a less-offensive term.  But forgetting the conversation in which my mom asked if it would be ok for her boyfriend to stay over the break, and then remembering it just as she re-told me they would be staying with us (and don’t worry, Mom, it isn’t a problem at all, I just had told Ang you’d be staying at the hotel again because that hole in my brain told me so) probably doesn’t actually evoke pity in any of my readers.

As a person who loves words, of course, I’ve had to zip over to my online dictionary a few times in writing this.  I am actually feeling annoyed that the first and second definitions of “lame” do indicate folks with leg and foot difficulties.  Then the third one says, “weak; inadequate; unsatisfactory; clumsy.”  Ugh. That is offensive.  I am annoyed at a word.  This is all very weak, inadequate and unsatisfactory.

I’m sure some of my readers will think you are over-sensitive and too PC.  Other of my readers, like me, have probably been hurt by other peoples’ flip use of language.  So thanks, I appreciate you pointing that out to me and to your students.   I’m not sure I’ll be able to completely rid my mouth of the word.  But when I do say it, I will feel guilty and kick myself for not saying weak, inadequate or unsatisfactory.

I’m also open to other suggestions for replacements for both lame and crazy.  I say “crazy” way too often.  Anyone?  Give me good ones that won’t sound stilted or academic.  No offense to law student Zach.

I’m pretty sure there is a hole in my head that goes from one ear to the other.  Between the hole openings, there is a little conversion box that changes things I hear to… whatever my brain decides was said, even if it was not said at all.  I’m only 38.  Could dementia truly be setting in already?

I thought my mom was staying in a hotel with her boyfriend.  But they are staying here.

I think I sent my mom the flight information for our winter-break trip to A’s mom’s house.  But I probably didn’t.

It is no wonder the people in my life get annoyed with me.

I wish there were a way to change this about myself.  It sucks.

But I have other good qualities.  I can, you know, teach kids to read and stuff.

My maternal grandmother was Irish.  Her husband was a Lithuanian Jew.  My mom has a funny story about slamming the door in the rabbi’s face so he wouldn’t see their Christmas tree.

So it goes in Judiasm, due to the unfortunate violent nature of the history of the diaspora of my chosen peeps, the religion is passed down via the mother.  Because one knows for sure who one’s mother is.   So my mother was not technically Jewish, because of her Irish mother.

When I was in high school, my family went through a pretty rough divorce from my step-father.  My mom lost over 80 pounds, I feel, just from being sad.  She looked fabulous, but I really wished to have the happy, chubby mother back.  She started going to conversion classes at a temple that didn’t actually have a temple.  It met in a hotel conference room.  The rabbi was a young, funny man named Rabbi Breskin.  He was so funny.  Wait, I’m jumping ahead.  So my mom kept asking me if I would go to a class with her.  I didn’t really want anything to do with all that religion phooey.  But she was sad.  She was asking.  So I went.  Really, I would have done anything to make her happier.  I do love that mom of mine.

Rabbi Breskin was hilarious.  Once, a woman who had been taping the class asked him to wait a second, while she flipped over the tape.  After she pushed record, he said, “… and that (dramatic pause) was the meaning of life.”  Anyway, Rabbi Breskin said that for Jews, religion was like a conversation with god.  A conversation?  With god?  I do that all the time.  He said that Jews are encouraged to question things.  Questioning religion was what Judiasm was all about.  Questioning things?  My teen-aged self was all over that.  So I kept going.  And, though I’d grown up attending seders here and there and calling myself “half Jewish,” I converted.  I will say, that I did not swear in front of god on the windy summer night when we had our little ceremony on a stage in a park, that I would raise my children to be Jewish.  I lip-synched that part.  Perhaps some small part of me knew I’d hook up with an African American ex-pentacostal woman one day.  Maybe I sensed that the bi-racial part and the gay part of our relationship would eclipse altogether any attempt at figuring out how we’d deal with religion with our kids.  Which it has.  Which leads me to raising my kids as I was raised.  No formal religious schooling.  Lots of Christmas and the occasional seder and visit to a temple.

Seedlings turn overnight to suuuun floooowers….. die die die dee dee daah daah daaaaaah.  Tradition!

That’s what Cakie used to say at the end of a book: Eeee-N!

I believe I’ve come to E-N of my breastfeeding days.  I realized the other day while he was biting me once again, hard, that I no longer feel like the breastfeeding is the snuggy bonding love fest that it used to be.  When I feel a little fear and a little anxiety mixed with an involuntary roll of the eyes when he requests a nursing session, I think it is time to move on.

I don’t feel so wishy-washy about it anymore.  I just need to be a little firm and get over the hump.  Since I got it down to about one feed per day, I feel like I just need to avoid that feed.  The weekend will be hard, though.  When he’s around me all day, he’s more likely to want a little sip.    Also, I will have a hard time if he gets hurt, then comes to me and does the chest thump.  I do like to calm him by nursing.  But he doesn’t do that so much anymore.

For the past two days, when he has “requested” to nurse, I have asked him if he wants milk, made the sign for milk, and gone to get him a bottle.

We shall see how it goes.  I am not famous for my willpower.

Any tips, oh wise ones?

I am so sorry to bore you like this.  I guess if one is going to blog every day, one ought to think about it for a while before that month happens, so one might have an arsenal of interesting tidbits on which one’s readers can thoughtfully chew.

Me?  I have a clogged pipe.  That’s the big news of the day.  The sink is clogged and it is backing in to the dishwasher.  All of this the week before Thanksgiving, which we will host.

So.  Any advice?  I’m going to call the super and ask if he’ll snake the sink, but I’m a little worried about why the dishwasher isn’t draining.

Also, do any of you have a fabulous and novel recipe for a side dish for turkey day?  My honey asked her facebook friends and they came up with nothing.  I’m sure you guys have something delicious and inspiring in your recipe boxes. Share, please. 

Since I’ve obviously been suffering from writers’ block, I thought I’d share with you some facebook drama I’ve managed, yet again, to whip up.

Long story short, I have an ex-friend, to whom I shall refer as Homophobala, who decided after knowing me for 20 years and knowing I was gay for ten of those years, to tell me on the day I called to let her know I was going to be a mother that she had already decided not to be my friend anymore because of my “lifestyle.”  Wow.  Did I really just tell that whole story in one sentence?  Well, I’ve told it  a lot because it is one of the most maddening and dumbfounding things that has ever happened to me.  After the phone call, I sent her a letter telling her not to ever contact me again.

I hadn’t heard from her again, though I have occasionally day-dreamed about sending her the gown I wore as her bridesmaid with no note, but a heart cut out of the middle.  Of course, realizing how psycho that seems, I have kept my end of the deal and refrained from smashing up gifts that she has given me in the past and mailing them to her home.  See?  I’m totally sane.

But I clearly have yet to get over my anger.  She popped up on another friend’s facebook page.

My high school friend [let's call her Betty] on whose page she popped up had posted this as her status:

Upping the ante in this “thanksgiving challenge” thing. Let’s make it a little more challenging. Consider something that you regret, resent, or are generally annoyed by, and find something to be thankful for in the situation ANYWAY! list it.

Then Homophobala posted:

I am sure there are lots of things I regret if I think about it for even a little while. I am thankful that I have learned from most of those experiences and they have come together to make me who I am today, and put me where I am today. I am thankful for this life and who I am sharing it with and all the love forgiveness and freedom that comes with my beliefs.

I happy for her that she has found forgiveness.  I can’t seem to.  Just from seeing her  tiny digital face, I was shaking with rage for about an hour.  I also posted this:

I’m always annoyed when people use religion as an excuse to be hateful.

And I’m thankful to God for giving me all of these things.

Then Betty of the status update posted this response:

Hey [ohm], I’m annoyed when people use religion as an excuse to be hateful too, and thankful for the opportunity it occasionally presents me, as a darn othodox Catholic, to “represent.” I could go on and on about this since, one incident, at the Plaza of the Americas at UF, campus preachers stood spewing the some of the most hateful stuff I’d heard, confirming everything that the angry (yet curious) atheist in me believed about Christians. That day, I was really ready to walk away and never give Christians another chance. I’d had enough, heard enough, seen enough. I was done. Thankfully, also that day, one kid, a Methodist kid who is now a really close friend, stood up to them. He asked them “what’s the greatest commandment?” The woman replied, “Love God with all your heart, mind, and soul, and love your neighbor as yourself.” He stood up and loudly asked, “Does anyone here feel loved by this woman?” and proceeded to move, with his friends, through the crowd and quietly talk about the Bible, not being pushy, not being judgey. I kept my distance but listened. That moment was the thin end of a wedge for me, realizing that not all Christians are on a mission to condemn people, I was willing to listen. Of course, it still took eight more years for God to get through to me — ha ha. BUT that moment on the plaza is the reason I don’t hesitate to tell people I’m a Christian, but also why I remember what St. Francis says, “Preach the Gospel at all times, and when necessary, use words.” I’m thankful for you, my friend. :^)

And I responeded:

And I am glad for you, my dear orthodox Catholic friend, for loving me and God at the same time. Kiss!

Homophobala has not responded.  I wish I could let go of this anger.  But I put so much of my heart into that girl.  She was one of my very best friends.  I constantly told her how smart and capable she was, since she had self-esteem issues.  I made her not skip class umpteen times.  I may be one of the only reasons she has a high school degree.  She was there when I converted to Judiasm.  I got to know each of her babies as they were born and got to watch her struggle with new motherhood.

Anybody have any advice about letting it go?  My honey says to just let it go.  Clearly it is deeper than that.  I think I’d feel better if I could punch her or something.

Post.

So, err.  What does one do when one’s adorable and ever-smiling one-year-old starts to whomp one hard in the head and bite while being held, laughing all the while?  And what to do when one’s toddler starts laughing hysterically when one says, “No.”  And what to do when saying “No biting (or hitting) that hurts,” and putting him down and walking away seems to have little effect on said smiling toddler?

Anyone?

I’m asking for a friend.  I swear.

It is making me feel a little boring.

Uuuuh.  It is Friday the thirteenth and nothing bad lucky has happened yet.

Ummmm.  I still get tingly when I hear the words “President” and “Obama” together.

Eerrrr.  My dad is in town.  We aren’t allowed to talk about politics together.  I have a feeling he’d get along with Puffer’s mom.  The good news is we both appreciate unhealthy pastries and walking the streets of New York.  I’m glad he’s staying with my brother so we don’t have to have Fox News on at any given time.  It is nice to see him.  He’s like a bald, male, republican version of me.

Duuuuh.  My mom might give me her car.  It is two years younger than our car, but it has 20,000 more miles than ours (since we only drive ours once a week or so.)  But it is much nicer and has more room in the back seat.  We’d have to do something about her stereo, however.

Mmmm.  Ooo!  I staged a coup at work and won!  I stormed the assistant principal’s office (really, walked in quietly and said “excuse me”) with four other third grade teachers and demanded (more like groveled for) cursive handwriting books.  They were thinking of making us teach it just in their notebooks.  But the workbooks are only six bucks each. Less than a freaking field trip.  And we really don’t use workbooks for anything else.  Guess what?  She bought them.  Viva la revolucion!

So that’s my boring-arse post for the day.  I hope you’re out having fun, not stuck inside reading my boring-arse post.

Peace.

Sometimes I wish I worked in a less whiny profession.  And it isn’t the kids who whine.  I’m talking about other teachers.  I mean, really people, just because you work with kids all day doesn’t mean you need to act like one.

Is it just NYC schools, or are teachers generally whiny in other places, too?  I don’t remember this happening when I worked in publishing and for the non-profit organization.

We get a resident artist to come to our school to teach African dance.  One of the other teachers called it a waste of time.  I said I loved it.  The whole room got quiet.  And they asked me why.  I said, “It teaches the English Language Learners directionality, it gives kids a different way to learn.  It ties in directly to our social studies curriculum…”  That’s all I could think of at the time, but since I’ve been home, more has come up.  It is total physical response! It teaches them to recognize patterns and rhythm, which connect directly with math and poetry.  It teaches them to LISTEN for cripes sake.  If they don’t listen, they mess up, and everyone knows that they weren’t listening.  When one is spending a ridiculous amount of time doing test prep, it feels damn good to stomp one’s feet.  The teacher is African-American, but he sometimes wears a shalwar, much like many of our students’ parents.  And it makes them realize that Islam is not isolated in their countries, it is all around the world.

Sorry you had to listen to my rant.  This is what you get for making me blog every single day in an otherwise uneventful month.  But seriously, don’t freakin’ knock the arts when I’m in the room.  I will knock you down.