Queen Mab's Lair

"Garnet and Gray, we hail today..."

2012-01-08T21:04:00.001-05:00

Just two years ago, I was writing about the closing of North Catholic, the scrappy little school in northeast Philly that I student taught at.

Never, ever did I think I would be writing a similar post about my own alma mater.

The Archdiocese of Philly just announced its plans to close 44 grade schools and 4 high schools--Archbishop Prendergast High School for Girls being one of them.

Now, I didn't LOVE high school. I had a pretty okay experience. I wasn't a standout in any way; I found my happy little niche with the choir and theater kids, excelled in English and Spanish, limped along in Math and Science, feigned enthusiasm at the pep rallies, had some great teachers (my junior English teacher, who actually made Beowulf palatable) and some pretty awful ones (one of whom spent the better part of sophomore History dishing dirt on her fellow teachers and telling us about the gun she kept in her glove compartment), and made some great friends that I am still close with today.

But there were things that made Prendie special, and that is what makes me sad--that other girls won't get to experience that. "Music on the Stairs" signaled the official start of Christmas break. The choir would gather on the grand staircase of the main entrance to school, and serenade the students with Christmas carols as they left for vacation. The month before graduation, you could "kiss a senior goodbye" by sending them a Hershey Kiss candy-gram (and being a girls' school, it was just a cute little tradition instead of something fraught with romantic drama and angst). And we were blessed with a gorgeous chapel--basically the size of a small church--which had served the children of St. Vincent's Orphanage, the original residents of the building. My friend Erin and I started attending the lunchtime Communion services senior year, and it provided a blessed few moments of peace and serenity in the midst of the usual high school nonsense. (I would also pop into the chapel alone on occasion when I just needed some quiet. For a teenager, this haven of sacred silence was literally a Godsend.)

And finally, the bell tower was the Holy Grail for bad-asses--strictly off-limits, and punishable by suspension if caught trespassing. The day before graduation, my friends Jenn, Trish and myself managed to climb up and paint our initials on the wall. I ran home and breathlessly confessed to my mom, a fellow Prendie alum, about our sordid crime. She feigned anger, and then quietly gave me a high five when my dad wasn't looking.

High school definitely wasn't the best time of my life. But it was pretty good, all things considered. I wore my garnet and gray uniform with a sheepish pride, and my heart swelled with mixed emotions on graduation day when we sang our alma mater for the final time: "Garnet and Gray we hail today, girls of Prendergast High..."

And now, girls who have had this tradition in their families for generations will have to find a new home. There are options, sure. But I know I was happy to share this bond with my sister, mom, and godmother, and also know how much I took it for granted. Prendie stood like a stalwart beacon on the hill at Lansdowne Avenue and Garrett Road; I just always assumed it would be around. As did thousands of families who are now wondering where their children will go next fall. As did 1700 teachers in the Archdiocese, who are painfully uncertain what will become of their jobs come spring.

It's a strange time for the Church. There is no choice but to downsize and consolidate; I get it. But I do hope it remembers that "pro-life" means "ALL life," and that they do everything within their power to help these families and teachers who have sacrificed so much for Catholic education.

The Christmas Crunch

2011-12-30T21:13:00.000-05:00

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Every year I resolve to glide through Christmas like Mary Bailey herself--elegance and grace under pressure, wearing pearls and pumps to boot. Instead, I find myself galumphing around Target on December 23rd dressed like a refugee and beating myself up for waiting 'til the last minute for thisthat'ntheotherthang.

But this year was a little different. And I think part of that was due to trying out some new traditions, instead of stubbornly sticking with the old. (It also helped immensely that we were staying put this year. Last year's cross-country trek with a 3-year-old and a feverish infant was just the merriest little sprig of Christmas joy that anyone could hope for!)

1) Secret Santa
Years ago, my mom suggested to my (then) family of four that we should do a pollyanna. "WHAAAT!?!" we all screamed and raged, like she had suggested sacrificing the cat for Christmas dinner. "HOW DARE YOU, CHRISTMAS CRAPPER!!!????" But after a few years, it seemed to make sense (a mortgage and two kids will do that to you.) And soon after, NR's family followed suit. So instead of trying to figure out the perfect present for Cousin Cathy whom you see (maybe) once a year, we receive *one* person to shop for, an agreed-upon budget, and a list of helpful ideas for gifts. Headaches and guessing games averted. Thank you, Baby Jesus.

2) Planning Ahead
On December 26th of last year, the Teege started composing this year's Christmas list. By December 3rd of this year, we called it a day and decided it was time for Santa to get down to business. We asked my folks to babysit on a Saturday evening and attacked Toys 'R Us with a very specific, very researched list in hand. (And guess what--most of the Black Friday deals were still on. So there really is no reason to get up at 2 a.m. and fight all the other wacky jacks in line at the big box stores.) By the end of the night, Santa was all done, and we could calm down a bit for the rest of December. Plus, we made it into a date night by starting off with a dinner at Maggiano's. New tradition? Definitely.

3) Mass in the City
A few years back, my sister invited us to Christmas Eve Mass at St. Joseph's University for something different. It was beautiful (and of course, being presided over by a Jesuit, entertaining AND meaningful.) We thought it would be nice to go again, but they only had an 8 p.m. service...kind of impossible with rugrats. So we decided to try the Children's Mass at Old St. Joe's Church in downtown Philly. The church was gorgeous, the music adorable (the Children's Choir sang), and we got to sit right next to the nativity scene, which my children are obsessed with. Kelly kept wrestling herself out of NR's arms to stomp right up to the manger and proclaim "BABYJESUSBABYJESUSBABYJESUS!" while Teege asked where Baby Jesus' menorah was (perfectly valid question). On the way home, we listened to Christmas carols and got to see Boathouse Row all lit up on the Schuykill. Perfect way to end the day before scurrying off to bed.

4) Macy's Light Show
When I was a young pup, my city-born-and-raised dad was all about jetting around downtown on public transportation, taking me to his old haunts (a favorite trip was going to the magic shop at the Bourse, with a quick stop for nonpareils at the candy store.) I feel like I've failed so far at showing NR and the kids the same sights, so I suggested taking the train down to Macy's one day to see the annual Christmas Light Show and Dickens Village. Well, the train wasn't working (so we paid $30 to park) and the line for Dickens turned out to be 45 minutes, but it was still a fun, new thing for our little family to try, and it's on the agenda for next year as well.

Don't get me wrong...I love old traditions as much as the next gal. But I also think it's important, when you start your own family, to branch out and try new ones as well.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a blessed 2012 to all.

The Curtain Falls...

2011-11-13T21:50:00.002-05:00

...on my latest theatrical adventure, "Sorry, Wrong Number" at Celebration Theater in Lansdowne.

This was the first production I've done *not* pregnant since The Exonerated back at The Attic in '06. I played Mrs. Stephenson, a haughty invalid who overhears a murder plot, and spends the rest of the play trying to get everyone and anyone to listen to her. It was a tremendous amount of fun playing a b*tch, and quite an acting challenge since I am bedbound for the entire play. I'm usually all about the business when acting--stalking around the stage, rearranging props, doing whatever I can to communicate nonverbally. So it was interesting to just use my voice, upper body, and anything within arm's reach to create a character.

I also LOVED the space we performed in--the Twentieth Century Club in Lansdowne. I grew up in this lovely little borough, so I just adored driving "back home" the past three months. The 20CC itself, a beautiful historic building built at the turn of the (last) century, was actually the site for our reception back in '02. And long before that, my dad and I did a magic show on the same stage. I got scolded for shirking my magical assistant duties and sitting on pumpkins during the show. (I was probably about 4...but still.)

I find it so important--ESPECIALLY as a mom and a teacher--to do something that feeds the creative spirit now and again. Meeting new peeps and playing make believe for a spell has certainly done the trick...and now I'm ready and renewed for the onslaught of holiday craziness just around the corner.

St. Connie

2011-10-09T20:58:00.000-04:00

Last Saturday was the Feast of the Little Flower--St. Theresa. I don't often remember feast days of the saints, but this one was particularly special.

Freshman year of high school, I joined our parish CYO (Catholic Youth Organization). I hadn't attended the parish grade school, so I was a bit apprehensive about hanging out with a bunch of weird do-gooders I didn't know every Sunday night. But my mom had grown up in the parish, and wanted me to feel the same sense of community she had. In fact, many of her classmates' kids were members.

So I showed up--reluctantly--and was suprised by the mix of kids there. Preps in penny loafers sat alongside metalheads in Metallica shirts. It was overseen by a truly awesome priest, Fr. Groarke, who just "got" kids. (And no, there was nothing suspicious or weird about him, nor have there ever been any "complaints." He was just a truly awesome guy.) We did the usual youth group stuff--retreats, "lock-ins," service projects, the works--and the highlight was an annual weekend convention at the Valley Forge Sheraton. Picture a bunch of crazy Catholic kids running rampant from ballroom to ballroom...mildly chaperoned by guitar-wielding college students, the token "cool" priests, and mostly frazzled moms. Good times!

I made some great friends in the group--two in particular. Amy was a goofy artsy type a year ahead of me. We started walking to school together...much to the surprised delight of our moms, whom we found out had also walked together twenty years before, even meeting up at the same corner. Through her I met Chris, a sweet but terrifically sarcastic guy who shared my passion for music and theater. We wound up doing Summer Stage together, which pretty much bonds you for life. He was also EVERYONE'S prom date (his nice nature + tall stature being two key factors.)

The CYO kids generally bounced between Amy's house (where we would bake cookies and play on her dad's motorized chair that could zoom up the stairs) and Chris' (where we watched the very first season of "The Real World." I know, I was a huge hellraiser in high school.) Chris' saintly mom, Connie, always welcomed us with hugs, thoughtful questions, and the nicest compliments. She immediately made you feel like you were the only person in the room. "Oh, St. Connie," my mom would sigh whenever I raved about her. "She was always everyone's mom in the neighborhood when we were growing up. Looks like she's still at it."

After high school, everyone went their separate ways. But I would still see St. Connie at church and around the neighborhood. Every time, she would put her delicate hand on my shoulder and inquire about my life with a "Oh, hon..." And a few weeks after my wedding, she gave me the nicest compliment out of anyone. "That was such a neat wedding, hon," she said softly. "Exactly what a wedding SHOULD be. I've told so many people about it."

Every time I saw Connie, I immediately felt peaceful. She just exuded a quiet, lovely grace. It's not something you can learn or strive for. You just have it. She had it.

Two weeks ago, she lost her battle with cancer.

On Saturday, St. Philomena's was PACKED with people. Fr. Groarke returned to say the funeral Mass, and it was he that reminded us of the feast day. "Connie WAS our Little Flower," he reflected. "You are all here because of that little lady--that little flower that touched you in some way." As she was brought out of the church (to "How Can I Keep From Singing?"--a perfect choice), he led us all in a round of applause.

It was the most beautiful send-off for somebody who always led the applause for others.

Rest in Peace, Saint Connie.

You know New York, You need New York...

2011-09-25T19:07:00.000-04:00

...you know you need unique New York...

So goes one of my favorite tongue twister warm-ups when I teach acting.

Seven years ago, I had the excellent fortune of teaching at an amazing school on Manhattan's Upper East Side. I was assigned a banged-up group of juniors with a terrible reputation for being difficult, unruly, and just generally annoying. Not only did I have the joy of teaching all of these juniors Brit Lit, I also had to teach them Speech. Plus I had a junior advisory group. I couldn't escape.

I forged through the year, determined to keep my head above water, and forced myself to like them. But a funny thing happened on the way to June...I fell in love with them. They just barged on in to my heart and made themselves at home. I came to know each of them, quirks and all, and just enjoy them immensely. Together, we marched through "Macbeth," built houses in Kentucky, West Virginia and Belize, served together in Camden, laughed together in the Commons, and cried together on retreats. I also managed to guilt many of them into taking a risk and performing onstage for the first time. And by the time graduation came two years later, they chose to dedicate their yearbook to me--still one of the greatest honors I have EVER received as a teacher.

So when an invitation to their 5-year reunion appeared in the mail, NR and I decided to return to the Big Apple--our first time back there together in several years. We booked our Bolt Bus tickets, left the kids with the grandparents, and scored a stay with a Jesuit friend of ours who lives around the corner from Carnegie Hall.

He urged us to walk up to the reunion. "Thirty blocks!?" I balked and whined, hoping for a taxi. But my frugal beloved pointed out what a nice night it was, so off we went.

And it was nice. Our favorite part was strolling through the Mall in Central Park--a place we had never gone. In fact, we realized how many "New York" things we had never done in the NINE years we worked up there. State of Liberty, Shake Shack, skating in Wollman Rink...oh, we did our share of touristy stuff during our JV years, but it petered out once we started working for real. Because, honestly, who wanted to wander through the Met when you had a stack of papers to grade in your tote bag? Who wanted to ride the swans when we had grocery shopping to do?

So it was a real treat to just savor and enjoy a city that has meant so much to us.

As we wandered through the Mall together--no tote bags or kids in tow, no chores hanging over our heads--we passed by several wedding parties having their picture taken. As we approach our ninth anniversary, it was a beautiful reminder of all we've been through together...and where it all began.

Ten Years Ago.

2011-09-10T22:00:00.001-04:00

What a decade it's been.

This anniversary is always a tough one. For years, I was in New York on September 11, so the entire city took on a tone of haunted reverence and quiet thanksgiving. We all took a collective deep breath together, it seemed.

Now I'm in PA. And while people are certainly reflective and reverent, it's a little different. (For example, my school puts up a huge memorial in the cafeteria with giant photos of the towers in flames, Fr. Judge being carried from the ashes, etc. For me, it's too much. It's too painful.)

So I'll just share my story here, for those of you who read this.

On Friday, 9/7/01, I took the "E" train down to the WTC as I often did after school. I bought myself a smoothie and glanced up at those two testaments to capitalism--catching myself, as I often did in my early twenties, having a "New York" moment. Feeling like an ant, but like an ant that counted in the great scheme of things. I was here. I was doing it. Frank Sinatra would be proud.

The next night, my roommates and I went out to toast a new job. As we walked towards the Jersey City waterfront, we gazed in awe. "Look at the Twin Towers," Amanda sighed. "I mean, we live here! Can you believe it?"

That was the last time we would ever see them.

Tuesday morning dawned bright and sunny--a perfectly gorgeous day. As I stood in the Grove Street PATH station, the WTC train pulled up. It was packed to the gills. I usually got a seat on the 33rd Street train, so I opted to wait. This was at 7:45 a.m.

When I arrived at school (56th & 1st), my colleagues were marching in a circle holding picket signs. "Oh crap," I thought. "Here we go." Our union, the Lay Faculty Association, had finally decided to go on strike. I joined in with my friends and started thinking about how to rearrange my lessons for the week. My freshmen were starting that day, so I felt a little bad for them. What a way to start high school!

Pretty soon, news reporters started arriving to cover the strike. The girls were hanging out the windows, cheering us on and throwing down Starbursts. One of the Spanish teachers started singing, "Pagame, pagame mucho..."

One of the reporters got a call while she was interviewing us. I heard something about "World Trade Center" and "plane." As quickly as the newspeople arrived, they vanished.

"World Trade Center," another teacher said. "My husband has a meeting down there this morning."

I saw our union liaison, Vinny, pacing and talking on his cell. He looked up, his face ashen. He summoned us over. "A plane went into the World Trade Center. The Pentagon has also been hit. They think there's another one heading for the White House."

I started panting. Like a dog. My mind couldn't process it. Were we under attack? My lungs couldn't fill up with enough air--I just kept panting and gasping.

Our principal came out and asked us to put down our picket signs. "We need your help inside," she explained. Without a word, we threw down the signs and entered the building.

I went up to my classroom. A handful of girls were watching "The Net," starring Sandra Bullock, while a stranger sat at my desk. They had no idea.

The upperclassmen, however, must have gotten wind. Within minutes, chaos erupted in the halls. The bell rang to switch classes, and only a few girls came into my room. "Ladies, let's pray, okay? There...was an accident downtown...a plane hit...the towers...and we think it was on purpose."

They stared at me. I stared back, and then started the Sign of the Cross. What the hell else could I do?

Out in the hallways, sobbing and screaming. I looked outside. Jeff, one of my colleagues was racing towards the stairs. "What's happening?" I yelled. He stared at me. "The towers. They're gone."

I stared back. "What?"

"Gone. Fallen."

The panting started again. Gone? I had just seen them two days ago.

My students, overhearing, asked if they could call home. "Of course," I said, and let them go to the office (where, of course, everyone was running.)

Downtown. Nick was downtown. On the Lower East Side, but still...

I ran down the hall to where I knew one of the Holy Child girls would be. Holy Child was the sister school of Nativity, where Nick taught, and several of the graduates came to Cathedral for high school (where I taught.) My plan was to gather those girls and bring them downtown, since I knew where they lived. (Remember, these were the days before emergency evacuation plans. We had never counted on this.)

The first classroom I entered was full of freshmen. Some idiot substitute had turned on the television, which was just a screen of smoke. I looked away and told her I was taking some of the girls home.

"Um, who ARE you?" she asked snidely.

"I'm their teacher."

"Oh, one of the teachers ON STRIKE?"

I pushed past her and beckoned to the girls. They followed me, and together we found their classmates. "Miss, what are we doing?"

"Going home."

"Cool!"

Before we left, I stopped into the finance office to call Nativity. A math teacher had just hung up with her brother, who worked in the towers. She was sobbing uncontrollably. "He said...people were jumping out of windows...I told him to go home, just go home..."

We went outside. For some reason I thought we could catch the M15 bus. But once we started walking, it became clear we would be doing just that for a long time.

Straight down 1st Avenue, in the middle of the brilliant blue sky (God, it was a gorgeous day), we saw a large cloud of black smoke.

"Miss, what's that?"

"Um...I think it's a steam cloud or something. Hey, do you girls want to get a soda?"

We went into a little pizza shop and I bought the girls some Cokes. We chatted about their summer, how excited they were for high school, which Nativity boys they thought were cute. To this day, I am so thankful for these girls and the selfish distraction they provided me with. I had no time to freak out or panic. I had to be Miss Kelly.

Somewhere in the twenties, my old high school friend Dan came out of a pub. It was a truly bizarre, random meetup. We hugged and delighted in the happy coincidence. The girls giggled and said they were going to tell Nick. I haven't seen him since.

The further downtown we got, the more our awareness of what had happened grew. SWAT teams grew in number. People walked by us covered in ash and clutching masks. Police barricades started blocking the streets. I continued to distract the girls (and myself) by asking about their families and where they lived.

Around Thompson Square Park, where most of the girls lived, we parted ways. I finally made my way to Nativity, and Nick. The boys had all gone home.

We went back to his apartment on 4th Street. His roommates were gathered in the common room, watching the coverage on TV. Until then, I really had no idea what had happened. I swore I was watching an action movie. This couldn't be real.

Exhausted, I took a nap while Nick and his roommates went to donate blood. I woke up, vaguely remembering this horrific nightmare I'd had. Then I smelled the smoke. And that's when the tears started.

Nick had returned. The hospitals didn't need any blood. We thought that was great news at the time. It wasn't.

That night, we went up on the roof. No sounds but sirens. Horribly eerie for the city that never slept.

Two days later, we returned to work. By that point, the photos of missing people had started appearing in subway stations, on walls of hospitals, throughout the entire city. Within a few weeks, they would turn into memorials.

My faculty gathered in the theater before school to figure out what to do. We were shaken to the core, terrified, and heartbroken. How could we face our students? So many of them had lost family, friends, and neighbors. What could we do?

Teach, as it turns out.

My first period was senior Drama. The girls entered somberly, sat down, and stared at me expectantly.

I took a deep breath. "Okay, ladies. I'm going to give you a choice. If you need to talk, debrief, or just collect your thoughts, we can. Or, I have a whole lesson prepared on Classical Greek Drama. Your choice."

After a pause, one of the girls said, "I don't know about everyone else, but if I talk or think about it one more second, I'll go crazy. Let's just get on with it."

Another girl said, "Yeah, let's just learn something."

And so we did.

God, did we ever learn something.

Magic Up Our Sleeve

2011-08-07T21:57:00.001-04:00

If I ever become a superhero (according to my 4-year-old, it's possible!), my origin story would begin here...with a close-up of a bearded, bespectacled man clutching a microphone, counting to three, and shushing an audience full of wide-eyed kiddies.

When I was about four years old, my parents started bringing me to the children's shows at Upper Darby Summer Stage. Every show began with the theme song, "Magic Up Our Sleeve," followed by the founder Harry Dietzler (insert bearded bespectacled man) urging us to count to three to turn off the lights and start the show.

When I was ten, I was finally able to join the Apprentice Program. I took daily classes in acting, improv, dance, music, and speech. I expected to only embrace dance, but was surprised by how much I enjoyed the other classes as well. I especially liked improv--the idea of flying without a net and diving into the unexpected. It taught me how to take risks and bounce back from failure or disappointment.

From there, I did five years of Children's Theater (playing everything from a dwarf to a mermaid) and five years of Mainstage (where my biggest role was Wife #5 in "Joseph"). There were lots of laughs (endless games of "Freeze Frame" in a sizzling courtyard), lots of tears (usually when I didn't get a part I desperately wanted), and of course lots of drama (both onstage and off.) But there were also lots of pleasant surprises--new friends, finding out I was kind of good at Shakespeare, and when Tina Fey (yup, she worked there during college) named me Summer Stager of the Week for IMPROVISING to cover a mistake during "Hans Christian Anderson."

Harry was kind enough to let me join the staff right out of high school, in a variety of roles: intern, assistant choreographer, stage manager, storytelling teacher. I found that as much as I loved performing, I loved sparking that desire in young people even more. When I was 21, he blessed me with the Big Kahuna--my very own Children's Theater show to direct. (It was "Sleeping Beauty," and it was freaking adorable.)

I then took a nine year hiatus during my time in JC. But every summer, I managed to meander back to good ol' Summer Stage to catch a show or just say hi. And when we returned to PA in '07, Harry welcomed me right back. I now teach acting and improv to the Apprentices, and can't believe that I get paid for such a fun, rewarding job.

On our last day of class, I always have a little reflection with the kiddies--asking what surprised them about the past few weeks, and what they will remember. Our kids come from a huge array of backgrounds (seriously, if you want to see a cross-section of every ethnicity and socioeconomic status, stop by Summer Stage. It's an unbelievable testament to arts education as the great bridge builder.) Yet across the board, the answers are always the same:

"All the friends I made."
"How much fun we had."
And my fave...
"That it's okay to be weird."

It's hard to explain this special program to people who haven't experienced it. "Oh...so it's like a theater camp?"

Um...sort of.

Someone once said, "your talents are God's gifts to you. What you do with those talents are your gifts to God."

Summer Stage teaches children to find their gifts, but even better, how to use them for the greater good.

Clang Clang Clang went the trolley...

2011-07-31T14:25:00.001-04:00

I love the trolley. Is that gross?

I'm a big fan of public transportation in general. I will take two trains and a bus if it will keep me off the highway. (Anyone who's ever ridden shotgun with me will understand. I'm a Nervous Nellie behind the wheel...and Distracted Donna if someone's in the passenger seat.) While living in Jersey City, I would sing the praises of the PATH to anyone who would listen. "It's clean! It's quick! It's cheap! I get to NYU in 10 minutes! It only smells a little in the summer...!"

But here in Philly we have the trolley. Growing up, most of my high school friends didn't get their licenses until after graduation, since we could just hop on the trolley to visit each other or go to the Springfield Mall. Yeah, it smelled kind of funky, and the conductors were less than pleasant, but it was cheap, convenient, and got you where you needed to go.

And now we have a trolley stop right down the street. If I worked in the city, it would be a dream commute. (In fact, when the houses on our block were built back in the 30s, most residents commuted into the city...which explains our narrow street/shared driveways/teensy garages.) Two years ago, at the height of my son's "Thomas the Tank Engine" obsession, we spent many an evening sitting at the stop and waiting for the trolleys to pass.

SEPTA (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority) has recently been overhauling the tracks and stations, so our stop is now shiny and new (and lacking that lovely urine aroma.) So yesterday, we took a little trip on the trolley into Media (America's first "fair trade town"), had some burgers at Zac's, wandered around Ten Thousand Villages, and came back in time for naps. KG wasn't too impressed (she just wanted to run up and down the aisles, and Mean Mommy wouldn't allow it), but Teege loved it--announcing "WE'RE ON AN ADVENTURE!" to the other passengers and narrating everything that we saw (through a four-year-old's eyes, a creek becomes a river, some trees become a forest, and a group of stores becomes "a cool city.")

Don't get me wrong--I sure like my comfy Corolla. But for a touch of nostalgia and quality time with the fam, the trolley fits the bill.

Superhero Camp!

2011-07-25T15:16:00.001-04:00

I cannot sing the praises of The Creative Living Room highly enough.

For the kid's third birthday, I wanted to do something special...particularly because his little sister was almost done cooking, and life as he (and we) knew it would never be the same. (Little did any of us know what a blessing KG would be...I was just wracked with guilt over how Teege would deal with sharing us. Who knew that he would become the best big brother ever?) We toyed with the idea of the usual "bounce house" places, but our Teege is a little on the shy side, and those places can be kind of alarming.

So I checked out TCLR, a lovely little place in Swarthmore, which offers all kinds of arts classes for children and adults. Allison, the teaching artist, custom-designed a dinosaur party for Teege. She led them through an hour and a half of music, creative drama, art projects, and games. We topped it off with pizza in their art room and cupcakes that my sister and I had baked. People still talk about it...it was kind of amazing. :)

When KG was born, I took her to their "Goo-Goo Gang" classes--a morning of music and activities for newborns, with an important dose of mommy-bonding. There were also "special guests": a baby sign-language expert, Reiki practitioner, infant masseuse, etc. One of the other moms started teaching an adult ballet class at TCLR (see earlier post), which kicked my butt in the best way possible this past year.

During the summer, most classes are on hiatus, so they offer a bouquet of week-long camps with various themes--Princesses, Music & Art, Animals, Greek Myths, Pirates & Mermaids, you name it. Teege just finished a week at Superhero Camp, and loved every second of it. They created their own superhero identities on the first day (he was "Starfish Man," with the power of the sea!), did super yoga, had super snacks (i.e. blueberry power smoothies), told stories, made up songs, went on a field trip to the local police station (to visit the REAL supers), and had a scavenger hunt on the last day looking for the "Litter Caper."

This place ROCKS.

Pool Yourself Together

2011-07-03T20:19:00.001-04:00

I'm sitting in what has become my unofficial uniform of the summer--gold Old Navy flip flops and a slightly damp 2-piece bathing suit (modest tankini and skirted bottom, a favorite choice post-pregnancy). Out back, three beach towels are flung over the clothesline. It's official--we're a pool fam.

Oh dear Lord no, we haven't achieved Clark Griswold's dearly held dream of a pool in the backyard. We joined the local swim club this year.

The DH was a bit skeptical when I first broached the subject several years ago. To a born-and-bred Cali boy, the whole concept was a bit puzzling (especially since the Pacific Ocean was just a few blocks away.) Add to that a significant chunk of change required for membership, and one can understand my beloved's apprehension.

But our new neighbors urged us to join the waiting list when we moved to the 'hood, and "Mare" (the mayor of the block who called everyone "hon") offered to be our sponsor. So when our name came up this year, we plunged right in.

And it has been FABULOUS.

The swim club has become our favorite place to go when the kids are rammy, we feel imprisoned by the air conditioning, or we just want to escape for a bit. Since we don't go "downdashore" (unlike most Delco/Philly peeps, we're trekking up to Maine in August), it's so nice to just take a quick dip, catch some rays, and be back by lunchtime. It's even served as a pick-me-up when we're tired or just "meh" (i.e. last month I received some pretty disappointing news, and instead of moping around the house, we packed up the kids and jumped in the pool.)

No better cure for the summertime blues than a little sun and chlorine. :)

Fasting from Facebook

2011-04-23T19:41:00.001-04:00

Several years ago, I was writing for an online magazine (which, sadly, folded due to this crummy financial fiasco we're in). One of my blog entries, entitled "Why I <3 FB," was a big fat valentine to my latest obsession--ye olde Facebook. I think my basic gist was how wonderful it was to reconnect with old friends, stay in touch without having to commit to a long-winded phone call, how funny is that this person knows that person and my-oh-my how flat is our world, blahblahblah.

That was then.

What once began as a fun little distraction during the Writers' Strike became a sick obsession. True, I never let myself enter the world of FarmVille or MafiaWars (or Bejeweled Blitz or CafeWorld or anything else that the "Hide" button was invented for). But I started to stalk. And compare. And despair.

And judge.

It's one thing to bump into an old friend or distant relative at the store, play the catch up game, glance politely at their cell-phone pix of offspring or the new house, and go your separate ways feeling congenial and happily surprised by the run-in. It's another to be swamped by their (often ill-informed) politics, their (embarrassing and cringe-worthy) attempts at humor, their (usually inane) minute-by-minute account of their day, their (AFFIRM MY BRILLIANT PARENTING/FABULOUS LIFESTYLE/CHOICE OF PARTNER!) parade of photos.

Oh, believe me, I am NOT innocent. But I found myself competing with and getting enraged by people that, in real life, I could care less about. On the other hand, I discovered more than I ever needed to know about people I actually liked...which sort of dampened my affinity for them, in some cases.

So, despite my very mixed feelings about Catholicism this year (see: most recent Grand Jury Report down here in Philly), I decided to play along and give up FB for Lent. I granted myself access on Sundays; after all, I don't have everyone's email accounts anymore, so there were times I genuinely had log on to set up a play date or find out where my next Book Club meeting was taking place (and more on my fabulous BC in a future blog!)

And I found...immense freedom and joy. I'm not exaggerating. Instead of comparing my life to everyone else's, I lived it. Instead of documenting every second of my children's development, I reveled in it. And instead of crowing to the world how much I love my husband, I told him.

Tomorrow is Easter. And I may just stick to this happy new habit.

Now off to play Easter Bunny...and I am going to actively fight the urge to splash pictures of my brilliant baskets all over FB!

If You Can't Take The Heat, Get Your *** Outta the Classroom

2011-02-17T10:37:00.005-05:00

Much has been said about this Natalie Munroe, a teacher at Central Bucks (a local high school here in PA). She was suspended with pay for blogging about how her students were "lazy whiners" (and that was probably the nicest thing she said about them in the rant.)

Two camps have formed--one which vilifies her for attacking her students, one which applauds her for "telling it like it is."

As a fellow teacher, my initial reaction was sympathy and fear. I certainly understand what a frustrating job we have. I also have a FB account and (obviously) a blog, both of which I treat with extreme caution.

However...

When I did a little digging (and, granted, I don't work with this woman, I've never seen her teach, I have no knowledge of the school community of Central Bucks), I found that she's only been teaching since 2006. In one of her blogs, she writes about how "the students get worse and worse every year." Honey...four and a half years and you're already talking like one of those burned out 30-year-veterans bitterly chugging coffee in the faculty room? Not okay.

Second...EVERYTHING you post online is public. EVERYTHING. And as a teacher, sorry, but you relinquish (to a certain extent) your right to free speech. You are expected to model appropriate behavior, both in and out of the classroom (and now in cyberspace). When I was a younger teacher, my students constantly hounded me for info about my private life. While some of my easily flattered colleagues gladly volunteered such details, I would joke "Oh, I just crawl under my desk every afternoon and grade papers until you guys come back the next morning." They did NOT need to know what I did (even though it was hardly scintillating.) It just wasn't their business! I remember once mentioning that I liked the Cure, and a student perked up and said, "Wow, you have like this whole secret life!" Um, no...I just don't use the classroom as my personal sounding board.

Third...what I've read of Ms. Munroe's posts are dishearteningly negative and mean-spirited. One of the first requirements of teaching should be liking kids--quirks and all. I've certainly had disagreements with students, or personality differences, but I have honestly cared for each and every one of my students over the past thirteen years. They have inspired, challenged, and intrigued me. I miss them terribly when they graduate. One of the best things about FB has been the ability to see former students grow into amazing young women and men...and I'm humbled to think I had a tiny part in their journey. True, I've never taught in public school, and I'm sure there are challenges I've never dreamed of in that realm. But what I do know that wherever I've taught--from downtown Jersey City to the Upper East Side to bucolic Chester County--is that kids are kids, and need to be heard, loved and supported. That means different things, depending on the individual. It could mean a quiet conversation after school, providing a forum for them to shine, or numerous emails/calls home to a parent. But it is our job as teachers to find out what will work, and try our best. And if it doesn't work, you make peace with it and get on with your life. Maybe you complain with your colleagues in the break room, or hash it out over happy hour. But you do NOT blast the kids in a public forum.

I hope Ms. Munroe can learn from this experience and become a better teacher because of it. Or maybe it's time for her to move on.

"Just me and you, Mommy..."

2011-01-16T19:01:00.004-05:00

Back in September (has it been that long since I've blogged? Um, yes. Suffice it to say that my return to work, a.k.a. leaving Kelly Bells, was much harder than expected, and I spent a lot of nights wallowing in self-pity, regret, and Oreos rather than working it out through my blog. But I digress...), I decided to sign the Teege up for a sports class. I thought hey, he likes to run around like a maniac, why not? Could be fun!

Or could be a colossal waste of money and negative energy.

Teege was much more interested in sitting on basketballs and announcing "I AM IRON MAN!" instead of shooting hoops or making a soccer goal. Which would have been fine...but he was the ONLY ONE. The other kids, egged on by psychotic soccer moms-in-training, tore around the gym performing their drills with manic precision. Teege would wander around aimlessly, bellowing "I'M THIRSTY" and wind up in my lap.

After suffering the hairy eyeballs from the other moms and getting upset beyond reason that Teege wasn't exactly loving it, NR and I decided to quit. The kid is three, for God's sakes. But how else to keep him away from the TV on Saturdays?

That's when we decided to start "dating."

Several years ago I attended Speak Up, a forum for teens, teachers, and parents to discuss drugs, pressure, sex, all that good stuff. At the closing address, one dad recommended "dating" your children. You can't just ignore your kids and then expect them to magically abide by your rules. Instead, dating can lay a healthy foundation for mutual respect, open communication, and ultimately (hopefully) positive behavior and good choices. So he suggested spending quality one-on-one time with your kid whenever possible--beyond just showing up at their games or required school events.

So on Saturdays, Nick and I rotate "date time" with the Teege. One of us will take him out for something special, without the other parent or Kelly. Sometimes it's an actual event--like a children's theater show, a Home Depot kids workshop (he's produced a picture frame, spice rack, and battery organizer), or a movie. Other times it's simply lunch at McDonald's, or hanging out in the kids' section at Borders for a while.

Teege absolutely loves it, and we do too. When we tell him what our special outing is going to be that day, his face lights up, and he'll say, "Just me and you, Mommy (or Daddy)?" At bedtime, he'll often want to talk about whatever we did, and when we'll get to do it again.

I know once he gets older and activities start to litter the schedule, these times may be limited. But I sure hope it's "just me and Teege" for as long as possible.

Back to the Ballet

2010-09-05T20:30:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, I was in total shavasana bliss at the end of yoga class--centered, peaceful, full of gratitude for the world--when the woman on the next mat over turns to me and asks, "Kelly?"

A bit perplexed, I answered, "Um, yeah, my daughter's name is Kelly."

"No, no--Donna Kelly--that's your name, isn't it?" I nodded, and the woman smiled. "Hon, don't you remember me?"

I searched her face. I'd noticed her before--partially because she was extremely flexible, despite being in her 50's, and partially because she always brought our yoga teacher fresh vegetables from her garden. But I just couldn't place her.

"Hon...it's Miss Kaye."

My heart almost jumped out of my chest as I lunged for her and grabbed her into a huge embrace. "Miss Kaye!?! I've missed you SO MUCH!!!"

As a little girl, I LOVED to dance. I would raid my grandmother's scarf drawer, arrange myself into some 4-year-old version of Salome, and flit up and down her driveway for hours on end (much to her neighbors' amusement, I'm sure). When I turned 6, my parents wisely decided to channel my energies into a more focused outlet--dance class--but they couldn't afford a standard dance studio (with all the recital nonsense that went along with it.) So they signed me up for tap and ballet at the Y.

Every Saturday, I'd line up at the barre with twenty other little girls--our jellybean bellies proudly displayed in our Danskins--and dutifully follow our teacher, Miss Kaye. Miss Kaye was all business in her severe bun and ripped tights, but I absolutely adored her.

Of course, being the early 80s, my classmates eventually jumped ship for gymnastics...until I was literally the only student left. Miss Kaye continuted to teach the Advanced class for another few years. She even had me over to her house one day when I finally got my pointe shoes, teaching me how to sew the ribbons on. And she managed to find some performance opportunities for me as well, as a "guest artist" in her friend's dance studio recital.

She moved, but we kept in touch through letters for years. But even after the letters stopped, I still kept her in my heart as a teacher who completely believed in me--and someone I tried to emulate with my own students. I never forgot her.

I also never forgot my love of dance--particularly ballet. I went on to dance in musicals for years, but it was just never the same. Whenever I saw a picture of Degas' "Little Dancer," tears would sting my eyes. Whenever I watched ballerinas perform, my own legs would ache as I mentally did the steps along with them.

When the time passed for me to actually be able to take ballet again, I turned to yoga. I actually took my first class at the same Y I had danced in, so many years ago.

And here I was, at a yoga studio in Broomall, sitting next to my dear Miss Kaye. It was miraculous.

And amazingly coincidental...because I'm about to return to ballet for the first time in twenty years! Back in the spring, I took Kelly to a "Mommy & Me" class at The Creative Living Room. One of the mommies, a former ballerina with the NYC Ballet, mentioned that she was teaching an ADULT ballet class in the fall! ADULT BALLET! Woo-hoo! So I signed up, bought myself a pair of ballet slippers (that was fun--being the only adult buying for herself in a sea of 7 year olds...), convinced my sister and a few girlfriends to join me, and here we go!

I'm nervous but SUPER excited. Letting ballet get away from me has always been one of my biggest regrets, and it's not often that you get to relive a childhood passion.

Much less meet a childhood idol. :)

Live Free or Die!

2010-07-18T14:13:00.005-04:00

So goes the motto of New Hampshire, birthplace of TJ's goddaddy, and more recently the destination of our first post-Kelly getaway. NR's good friend from college (finally!) got married, in a gorgeous outdoor ceremony at The Fells (see above).

It was a beautiful weekend for so many reasons. One, it was just heaven to get away for a night. I love my kiddies like a lioness, but I sure love my hub, too, so escaping every now and then is a very good thing. Two, his friend has had quite the rocky road to romance--not for lack of options, but just finding the right one to spend forever with took a while. Well, he certainly met his match in his bride, and it was a fantastic celebration of two strong-willed, adventurous, altruistic individuals coming together. Three, a slew of Nick's old college buds were there (whom he never gets to see, as almost all of them are scattered along the West Coast), so he got a healthy dose of male-bonding and stogie-smoking.

It was so breathtaking up there that we decided to pack up the kiddies in a few weeks and head to Maine. Although we're breaking the trip up with a stopover in Connecticut, it's still probably a ridiculous undertaking. But when you're young and poor, I guess you make questionable vacation choices. (Exhibit A: when I was about 8 months old, my parents decided to take me to Canada! And CAMP along the way! What in holy hell were they smoking?)

So stay tuned for some interesting post-vacay updates. ;D

Remembering "Norf"

2010-06-09T10:12:00.009-04:00

In the midst of high school graduations this week, there is one school whose ceremonies I'm following with a particular sadness.

Northeast Catholic High School for Boys (or, as commonly referred to by locals, "Norf"), was where I initially cut my teeth as a teacher. And boy, was it a baptism by fire.

As I worked on my English education degree at St. Joseph's University, I had a hazy idea of who and where I would teach. Probably some idyllic private school on a bucolic campus...coaching my young charges (class size no more than 10, please) to write sonnets under an old willow tree as we drank deep from the well of literature. My students would be enraptured by my knowledge, my vintage clothes, my general coolness. I'd never raise my voice, or argue, or split hairs over a grade point. It would be a mutual admiration society for all.

Well, St. Joe's had other plans for me.

I received my student teaching assignment in the mail over Christmas break senior year: "Northeast Catholic High School: Cooperating Teacher, Joe Salvatore." A quick look at the map told me that North was at least an hour away by car or SEPTA. There were a number of high schools within twenty minutes of my house; wasn't there a closer option?

The answer was no--unless I wanted to teach in public school.

So off I trekked on the el every morning, landing bleary-eyed at the Erie-Torresdale stop. I'd follow the boys in their black sweaters to the stately old school, trudge up the steps, and make my way down to Joe Salvatore's classroom. It was a recipe for disaster. Here I was, barely 21, assigned to teach juniors and seniors in their second semester. These hulking boys were 2nd and 3rd track, which in 1998 meant they were generally not considering college. Most of them already had jobs lined up at their dad's auto body shop, or were planning to attend trade school. Not only that, Joe--or "Sal," as the guys barked at him in the halls--was a young, cool, beloved teacher. They were NOT thrilled with the idea of little Miss Kelly coming in and trying to teach them about analogies for SATs they would never take.

The first few weeks were hell. The principal, an Oblate of St. Francis de Sales, would rave about the "Salesian gentlemen" of North, but I had yet to meet one. Instead, I dealt with obscene gestures (and drawings on the back of tests), gaseous emissions (I dreaded the classes who came in after lunch), multiple double entendres, and eye-rolls/guffaws galore at my futile attempts. On more than one occasion, I entered the room to find all the windows open...which I found harmless, until Sal gently reminded me, "Donna, what happens to girls when they get cold?" Ai yi...

My classroom management was a joke. I'd clap my hands, bleat "settle down, settle down," and occasionally lose my temper. Lesson planning wasn't much better. Something that I was sure would take 40 minutes would be done in 5, leaving me to tread water until the bell rang while the guys shuffled restlessly.

After a particularly awful day (one which my supervising professor had visited, and left after a less-than-glowing review), I broke down. Sal tried his best to pick me up. "Kid, you're brand new at this. I can guarantee you'll be a master in a few years. Don't sweat it." He then started a practice of bringing me a Wawa coffee every Friday for surviving the week.

I needed to design a unit plan for my student teaching class, so we agreed that with my background in theater, Pygmalion would be a good choice. I started the unit with an exercise in stereotypes, which sparked a lively discussion about accents (being from Northeast Philly, the home of a distinctly horrifying if admittedly charming dialect, the boys loved this.) As we started reading and discussing the play and my comfort level grew, the boys slowly warmed up and began to humor me. They started turning in halfway decent work; I was able to appreciate their comedic timing (such as the day Peter went up to give a presentation, trailed by a dryer sheet stuck to his pant leg. "Hey Pete," Ryan called. "I see you have a little 'Bounce' in your step today!") Sal would often joke that I was the Eliza to his Henry Higgins--there was hope for me yet. And by the time my supervisor came for his final visit, he admitted that I made him miss teaching high school. "Would you accept a position at North if one was available?" I surprised both Sal and myself when I blurted out, "Oh, definitely." I had fallen in love with "Norf."

On my last day, Sal surprised me with a party--complete with donuts, Sinatra on the stero (I'd admitted my love for Frankie during class once), and an official North Catholic sweatshirt. After the dismissal bell, he turned to me, shook my hand, and quoted from the musical version of the play we'd just finished: "Kid, I've grown accustomed to your face. By George, you did it, Eliza!"

A few boys stopped by to say goodbye and wish me luck. We chatted for a while, and then I excused myself to run and catch the el.

But as I made my way down the main hall for the last time, my eyes started burning. Another teacher stopped me to ask if I was okay. "Ed, I just never--expected to actually like them. These guys were the best." He smiled and agreed, "North guys are pretty awesome." I then ran to the bathroom and had a good cry for several minutes.

These days, where I teach is a far cry from "Norf." I've finally reached that undergrad fantasy--small classes, idyllic setting, bucolic campus, and angelic students. But I still remember my North boys with the deep fondness.

I've often said that no education class can sufficiently prepare you for teaching except the actual student teaching experience. I am forever indebted to the boys of North Catholic for making me a teacher--the hard way. My "Salesian gentlemen" will always be in my heart.

Best. Baby. Ever.

2010-05-28T16:16:00.002-04:00

Seriously. This little girl is unbelievable.

I remember babies like this. When I had Teege, I attended a new moms' group in Hoboken. Most of us showed up with dark circles under our eyes, milk stains on our shirts, juggling screaming newborns for 45 minutes to calm them down for what would turn out to be a 5-minute nap, if we were lucky.

But there were those token few moms who breezed in, looking remarkably put together, cradling sweet little angels on their laps. When asked to share their highs and lows of motherhood with the group, they would wax blissfully about what a magical, wonderful time this was, how much they were enjoying their cherub, blah blah blah...all while said cherub would either sleep peacefully or smile at anyone who looked in their direction.

The rest of us would glare. Bitterly.

Well, I now have one of those cherubs. Kelly is an absolute sweetheart. She cries for maybe 5 minutes a day, total--and only when she really, really needs something. The rest of the time she's napping, or giggling at me, or just checking out the world around her.

This makes my imminent return to work very tough to swallow.

At the end of June, I start teaching part-time for six weeks at a local theater. Then I'll have most of August off, and return full-time in September.

I guess this makes me feel good. I remember counseling a little boy at camp once, telling him that homesickness was a good thing--it meant that home was a pretty great place to be. I suppose that my not wanting to go back to work means that mommyhood is agreeing with me more and more. With Teege, my world was so topsy-turvy, I was ready to just start work again and get my life in order. I felt kind of guilty that I didn't really want to stay home. It had nothing to do with him...I just longed for a semblance of order. I also didn't really feel like a mommy yet. The concept was still so foreign to me.

(Interesting question for my parent friends...when was the moment you first REALLY felt like a parent? NR and I discussed this the other day. Interestingly, both of us answered that it took a scary injury for our little guy to submerge us completely into the parent 'hood. And this was after he was a year old!)

With Kelly, things are much calmer, and...I feel so much more confident. Even times when I'm home alone with both kids, there isn't this panic and fear that I always felt the first time around.

I know things will work out when I do start working again. Thankfully I have a pretty low-stress job, supportive co-workers, an awesome parenting partner in NR, and a terrific daycare lined up.

But after a day like this one, just snuggling with Miss Kelly and reveling in her sweet little smiles, I can't help but long for more.

Brought to you by Kleenex

2010-04-19T12:14:00.010-04:00

One of the great perks of maternity leave is the blessing to become a couch potato. When you have a newborn sleeping snugly in your arms, and the stress of work but a distant memory, you have full authority to watch whatever the hell you want. Don't get me wrong, I've been reading a ton as well--but sometimes you just gotta turn the brain off and nourish it with mental junk food.

So I've been loading up my DVR with all kinds of crap that I wouldn't normally watch: multiple Lifetime movies, "Chelsea Lately," "Slings and Arrows" (a cancelled Canadian series from the early '00s about a Shakespearean troupe), "Arrested Development" (catching up just a few years too late), and "16 and Pregnant"/"Teen Mom." Those last two are doozies, and should be required viewing for anyone who's hit puberty.

The other morning I watched Catelynn's story. Catelynn is a chipmunk of a gal from Michigan who, with the support of her adorable boyfriend Tyler, decides to give up their baby daughter for adoption. The poor kids realize what a crappy hand they've been dealt in life (unstable mom, jailbird dad), and unselfishly realize they want better for their child. So they choose a fantastic couple to adopt "Carly," and bide their time until the birth.

I sat on the couch, holding my baby girl, sobbing hysterically as Catelynn gave birth and tearfully handed the baby over to the radiant adoptive mom. It takes a lot for me to cry at a movie or television show (anything during pregnancy doesn't count), so this was quite a weepfest.

It started me thinking on what exactly provokes my tears when it comes to entertainment. There are certain scenes from certain movies that get me, no matter how many times I've seen them. Here are a few...

"To Sir With Love": Sidney Poitier's character endures a tour of duty teaching at a crappy English public school. He's decided to leave and take an engineering job, despite some significant successes, and the kids surprise him with a going-away gift. Overcome by the gesture, he goes up to his classroom, where he's accosted by two brats who inform him he'll be teaching them next term.

As they run out, "Sir" stands up, pulls out the letter of employment, and tears it to pieces. He picks up a flower from his desk, pops it in his buttonhole, and returns to the farewell party and his students.

"The Bridges of Madison County": After a torrid 3-day affair, Iowa housewife Francesca decides to NOT skip town with a hunky photog, Robert. About a week later, she's in the car with her husband when she spies Robert's pickup in front of them. The light turns green, but he doesn't turn...waiting for her to maybe, just maybe, jump out of her car and escape with him. She grabs the door handle...but can't do it. After an endless pause, he pulls away. She lets go.

"The Notebook": I absolutely refused to read the book, and hated 95% of this movie. I thought it was a complete cheesefest, horribly written, overacted, you name it.

But man...when the nursing home aide comes into Ally's room at the end, to find her and Noah wrapped in each other's arms...if you don't lose it at this scene, you're officially heartless.

"Juno": I first saw this delightful little gem as a new mom. I knew something was up with creepy Jason Bateman from the get-go, so I was thrilled when sweet Jennifer Garner got her little bambino at the end. But that birth montage set to "Sea of Love"..."He was never ours, he was always hers"...oooh, boy. I've already decided that if Teege ever gets married, that is the song we will use for our mother/son dance. He has no say. Sorry.

"Friday Night Lights": One of the best "inspirational teacher" movies ever, if a rather unconventional one. (Sorry...as much as I love Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society," WHAT DOES HE ACTUALLY TEACH!?) The worst part of being a teacher, for me, is letting go of your students at the end of the year. When Coach takes the names off the roster, reflects on each player, and slowly tosses them away...holy cow. Emotional train wreck.

So which scenes turn you into a mess of snot and tears every time?

She's Here!

2010-04-06T16:19:00.003-04:00

It's a Girl! Kelly Genevieve was born on March 5, 2010 at 7:13 p.m.

The Labor Story...

On March 3, I went to the ob for my weekly checkup. I was huge. I was sore. I was bored out of my mind after two weeks of maternity leave.

And I was freaked out, because just the day before I'd been to the hospital for an ultrasound. The tech informed me that Baby Romero was eight pounds...fourteen ounces. Yeeouch!

So after my exam, my doctor pulled me up to a sitting position and said, "So how do we feel about induction?" I had really been against it--I just wanted labor to start naturally (since I'd always planned on epidural, maybe it was guilt...like, it's bad enough I'm getting drugs to help with the pain, do I really need drugs to induce labor as well?)

I was also afraid that it would cause unnecessary stress. TJ was a pretty fussy baby, and I was always convinced that it was due to my 36-hour-labor. I so desparately wanted to bring this next baby into the world as peacefully as possible.

But the doctor talked me through it. The baby was nice and big, and was only going to get bigger. I was very close to my due date. But what finally sold me was this--he said this way, there would be no surprises. I could drop TJ off at my parents the next night and get him settled, then head on over to the hospital where they would start me on drugs. I would sleep for a few hours, and hopefully have the baby by morning. Best of all, if everything went well, we'd all be home in time to celebrate TJ's 3rd birthday on the 9th.

Sounded good to me!

So after conferring with my hub and mi madre, I went home, did some laundry, cleaned the house, and finished packing. It was SO nice knowing that Friday was the day! The next night, Nick and I took TJ out to dinner--our last dinner as a trio--and then spent some time with my family. We calmly drove out to the hospital (so different from the first time, where I silently cursed poor Nick every time he drove over a bump), checked in, and met with our adorable labor nurse, Amy. By 9 o'clock, I was all settled into the delivery suite, eating popsicles, watching "The Office" (oh irony of ironies, it was the delivery episode!), and waiting for the drug to kick in. I couldn't believe how relaxed everything was.

By midnight, contractions were in full swing, which meant I wouldn't even need the pitocin. I got my epidural (oh sweet pharmaceuticals, how I love thee), and just rested for the next few hours while they periodically checked on me. Around 6, Dr. Laveran examined me and said "Well, you're fully dilated--ready to start pushing?"

Oh crap. This was when they turned off my epidural with TJ--so I would "know when to push." I steeled myself and asked Amy, "So, are you turning off the epidural now?"

She laughed. "Why would we do that? I'll tell you when to push!"

Did she ever. After only 45 minutes of pushing (where, honest to God, I felt no pain--just pressure), out popped the bambino. I looked down to see what he/she was, but the umbilical cord was blocking the important part. Nick yelled out, "She's a girl!"

I almost fell off the table. I was CONVINCED that she was a boy; I'd mentally prepared myself for another boy. But a GIRL!?

Yup, a beautiful, happy, sweet-natured, mellow little girl. We now have "the millionaire's family." Very rich indeed. :)

Veggie Bombs (or how parenting makes you a big fat liar)

2010-03-01T10:17:00.004-05:00

All right. I fold.

When I first heard about Jessica Seinfeld's "Deceptively Delicious" method several years ago (pre-kids), I smugly thought, "What the hell? Why doesn't she just teach her kids to eat veggies the old-fashioned way?"

Chalk this up to the many other preconceptions I had about parenting. SO much easier said than done.

We started out right with the Teege. Strictly breast milk for the first four months, slowly introduced (organic) formula, offered him every baby veggie food imaginable (which he happily accepted). Once he started eating "big people" food, we found that he loved fruit--esp. bananas, berries, and apples. "Ah," we thought, "what healthy eating habits we've instilled in our brilliant offspring!"

Then His Highness started developing PREFERENCES. No matter how many times we offered veggies with dinner, they were roundly refused. For a time we would just give him something else for dinner, but quickly realized that was going to be a slippery slope (and NR kept having flashbacks of his own mother bellowing to her picky charges, "I AM NOT A SHORT-ORDER COOK!"). So we continued to offer whatever we were eating, but started working out a bartering system ("If you eat one more piece of chicken/strawberry/please God anything besides macaroni, then you can have another biscuit.")

Well, when we met with our pediatrician last week, she set us straight--that while we thought we were calling the shots, clearly it was the other way around. Just keep offering "your" food, she encouraged--don't force him to clean his plate, but make it clear that there are no other options. She also suggested the Jessie Seinfeld method--pureeing veggies into sauces, just to allay our fears that the child was turning into a giant chicken nugget.

So I come downstairs the other night to find NR commandeering the Cuisinart, blending up a steamed veggie medley, which he then froze into "veggie bombs." He mixed some in with our spaghetti sauce the other day, and darnit if Teege didn't gobble it right up.

Is this teaching him how to eat veggies? Absolutely not. I get it. And we'll continue to offer real veggies with dinner (which will continue to be ignored until one magical day when our backs are turned.) But in the meantime, I know that he's getting some of the nutritional benefits.

This is just one example of many parenting philosophies we formally dissed and now embrace. I used to roll my eyes at the wild child lashing out at a harried mom in the supermarket ("Ha! Clearly she has zero control over this miscreant! I, however, will be a beacon of calm with my future angel.") Riiiight.

I certainly still judge parents--who doesn't? And as a teacher, it's almost impossible not to (although not necessarily right.)

It goes both ways. For example, there are those who think NR and I are nuts for our anti-spanking policy. We certainly weren't raised in hippy-dippy families where discipline didn't exist. We both got spanked; we both survived. We just don't want to hit our own kids. We're not expecting medals for it.

So what does that mean? It means a LOT of continual communication/agreement between the two of us as partners. A lot of research into which methods we think will work, and which won't. A lot of creativity (if I start the "1, 2, 3" warning, I'd better have an actual consequence--and firmness to follow through--by the time I get to 3.) The knowledge that although he's not yet 3, Teege certainly understands a lot more than he lets on (including how to charm the paint off the walls.) A lot of patience when dealing with the supertantrums and requisite time-out chair (thank God for yoga--seriously!)

And a LOT of humility in knowing that we'll screw up--a lot. So in the meantime, it's veggie bombs and time-out chairs. :)

Confessions of a (Sorta) Mean Girl

2010-02-27T10:37:00.003-05:00

When I was in 5th grade, my best friend was a sweet little Indian girl who lived around the corner. We'll call her Sadie. Sadie sat behind me in school, and we were both on the quiet, bookish side. We rode bikes, played Barbies, ran through the sprinkler, and even tolerated her younger brother. When she spent the summer in India visiting her family, we exchanged letters and postcards the whole time. While our classmates were starting to "date" and go to dances, Sadie and I were perfectly content to just be ten. We even wore those silly "Best Friend" necklaces that fit together.

Until Catelyn moved in across the street.

Catelyn was "cool." She had older sisters who let us hang out in their room while they dyed their hair, listened to Metallica, and gossiped about boy drama. We snuck their V.C. Andrews novels, and were both horrified and fascinated by what we read. I slept over one night, and we stayed up to watch Pink Floyd's "The Wall" (which still gives me nightmares to this day.)

Eventually, Catelyn started making comments about Sadie. "She's so dorky." (Well, so was I--for an idea of my wardrobe at the time, see Dawn Wiener in "Welcome to the Dollhouse.) "Has she ever kissed a boy?" (Irrelevant, since neither of us had, nor were in any rush to.) "Her house always smells." (It smelled delicious to me, of curry and cumin and exotic spices that certainly never graced my own Irish kitchen at home.)

But at the tender age of 10--and too heavily influenced by books like "Sweet Valley High" which dictated some sort of expected adolescent pecking order--I started to buy into Catelyn's comments. When I planned the guest list for my 11th birthday party, I left Sadie off in order to placate Catelyn.

Sadie biked over to my house one afternoon in a panic. "Are you having a birthday party this year?" I quickly denied it. "I heard that you were, and you didn't invite me because you don't want to be friends anymore." She dissolved into tears, and I wrapped my arms around my sweet friend, begging her to come anyway. But we both knew it was beyond repair.

We wound up at the same high school together, several years later, but never progressed beyond a cordial "hey" in the hallways.

As time went on (I switched schools, Catelyn moved, and our friendship dissolved), I can't say my friendship skills progressed. When things got sticky (i.e. there was a disagreement, a difference of opinion/interest, a general annoyance), I simply extricated myself from the relationship and moved on. I became way too judgemental--instead of accepting my friends as they were, I professed exasperation (as I got older, I would write them off as being "too high maintenance.") I prided myself on what I thought was strength of character (I remember announcing to one poor girl, when I was about 14, that nobody liked her and thought she was annoying--thinking, somehow, that I was helping her!?! My old roommate loved this story and would always quote it at random, "NOBODY LIKES YOU!" But I can't say it was my finest hour.)

Looking back, I think I was terrified that someone would hurt me the way that I'd hurt Sadie. (Oh, and I had my comeuppance--in 7th grade, I was booted out of the "popular" crowd for a spell, and spent several lunch periods in the bathroom.) It was easier to turn away or brush someone off than work at the friendship.

WORK at the friendship. See, I didn't realize that it was just that--work. I thought that friends were just accessories to cement you into a certain social group, or cheerleaders to pick you up when you were down.

Now, at the ripe old age of 33 (and a teacher at a girls' school), I am extremely sensitive to this topic. I cringe when I hear of girls being cruel, rejecting each other, or grinding the gossip mill.

I've also reaped what I've sown. I have a few old friends that I keep in regular contact with (and through the magic of Facebook, I've reconnected with many people that I've truly missed), and I love meeting new people and developing new friendships. Yet I can't help thinking of all the times I failed as a friend throughout my adolescence, and the toll that has taken.

And then my thoughts turn to Sadie, and what would have happened if Catelyn had never disrupted our little world.

As my Teege gets older, and the birth of Baby #2 approaches, I ponder (and worry) how to teach them the value of true friendship--and the concerted effort required to make it work.

tick tick tick tick...

2010-02-22T08:10:00.003-05:00

NR says when he looks at me these days, he sees the clock from "60 Minutes" ticking away. Thanks, honey. ;)

I was SURE I was going into labor last week. Sleepless nights, nausea, general misery. It was also my last week of work before maternity leave (which officially starts today!), and I was in pain by the end of each day (not just uncomfortable, in PAIN.) I am blessed to teach on a beautiful campus, but that beautiful campus was literally kicking my butt!

So while emotionally, it was very hard to say goodbye to my students (and a job which I really enjoy), physically I was MORE than ready. And I know it will be bittersweet when I return in September.

I remember returning to work after TJ was born. He was six months old, and attending a really wonderful daycare, so I had nothing to worry about. But there I was, standing in front of my new students, wearing an actual outfit (not my previous uniform of shorts, flip-flops, unkempt hair and a nursing tank top), waxing poetic about Tennessee Williams or somesuch...and feeling like something was missing.

Oh, right. My little sidekick wasn't there.

It hit me harder than giving birth. I recall wondering how my body would respond once the baby was actually in my arms instead of my stomach. Would I...I don't know...mourn the detachment? Well, no--because now I could hold him and actually see his little face (even when he was screaming, he was still pretty freakin' cute).

But now, I couldn't even see that. Sure, I had a picture on my desk, but that was a poor substitute for the little man who had just started smiling, sitting up on his own, and developing a personality. (The now almost 3-year-old little man who just this morning declared that I was a mommy monkey, he was a baby monkey, and Daddy was a T-Rex. Of course.)

Three years later, I've adapted. I love being a mommy, and I also love my job. I wouldn't want to give up either. I love the great discussions with my students, the moments they surprise me with a brilliant essay or project, conversations with colleagues I respect and admire, and the purpose I feel every morning.

But I also love hiding out in dinosaur caves, drawing with sidewalk chalk on the back deck, mixing up granola bar batter, and even reading 10,000 stories before bedtime with the Teege.

I thank God every day that I have a job which affords this precious gift of time. Sure, we both sacrifice as teachers. Combined, we make a lot less than many of our friends earn individually. So we live in a tiny house and don't take fancy vacations (or really, any vacations--visiting the in-laws in L.A. is it. Not that one can really complain about L.A.!) We have a luxury that many don't--peace--and I will never, ever give that up.

"It's gonna come out..."

2010-02-07T21:54:00.003-05:00

So says my almost-3-year-old about the almost-done-cooking baby sibling! (Of course, he follows this up with "It's gonna go back?" Sorry to disappoint, my young friend...it is indeed gonna come out, and your life will be forever altered!)

(BTW, the above is my current profile pic on Facebook...it's "doppelganger week," and I've had to guffaw at some of the celebrities people claim they look like. Being that the only celebrity I've ever been compared to is Sandra Bernhard, I opted for Juno--at least our bellies are doppelgangers these days!)

As I approach the due date (March 8, but I swear this kid is coming early--there is simply NO ROOM left in the Inn Utero Romero), I'm feeling a mix of emotions: excitement, fear, joy, anxiety, exhaustion (is that an emotion or more a physical state?), and guilt. None of these are new, and thankfully (surprisingly), stress is not in the mix this time.

In February '07, I was going through a helluva time. We had recently decided to uproot our lives in JC/NYC and move/buy a house/find jobs down in PA...while raising an infant. Instead of focusing on the joy of welcoming our first child, I was completely preoccupied with what I was "giving up"--friends, security, the feeling of being established, and the totally selfish lifestyle of kid-free couplehood.

This time, however, we are settled in our home, jobs, and starting to really put down some roots. Our little man is happy as a clam, my family is nearby, and suburban life fits us like a snug glove.

And the guilt that I feel is of a different sort this time. Before, I felt guilty for thinking that this baby was "making us" change everything. In retrospect, he saved us--forcing us to grow up and slow down.

Now, I simply feel guilty that I won't have as much time and attention to pour over our little guy. But I tell myself that it's all good--it's time for a sibling, and honestly, he probably won't mind that Mommy is no longer up in his face all the time!

So I'm just enjoying these next few weeks as best I can--going to prenatal yoga with my cuz-in-law, cherishing the last few classes with my students, and loving these last few moments as just a trio with my boys.

"It's A Wonderful Life"!

2009-11-21T19:36:00.003-05:00

I'm in a play! Probably the last one I'll be doing for some time, since Baby #2 is well on his/her way. :) I get to play Mary Bailey, made famous by another Donna, in It's a Wonderful Life.

Yes, I am VERY VISIBLY pregnant these days. But this version of "IAWL" is a radio play; we're supposed to be actors portraying the story for a live radio broadcast in the 1940s. So we still get to wear fun period costumes and all that jazz...and my pregnancy is a non-issue. In fact, it's become sort of a fun conversational piece throughout the process, and is even an unintentional sight gag in one scene (where I tell an apparently blind and clueless George that I'm expecting.)

We open next week, and right now we're in the midst of the typical "Ohmygodthisisatrainwreckhowwillitevercometogether!?!" neuroses. But our company, the Players Club of Swarthmore, is a really wonderful little theater made up of terrific people. They've been around for 99 years and do amazing work, so I'm confident it will all come together...even if we need a little help from Clarence the Angel. ;D

"It's A Wonderful Life" opens on Black Friday (11/27) and runs for three weekends. For more info, visit the link above.

Wordle - Sylvia Plath's "Daddy"

2009-11-17T09:16:00.001-05:00

Wordle - Sylvia Plath's "Daddy": ""

Okay, people must have been mystified when I posted this with no explanation! I was actually playing with wordle, a really cool site that even the technologically incompetent can master. I'm teaching The Bell Jar in tandem with Plath's poetry these days (fun, uplifting stuff), and I wanted my students to create a wordle for one of her poems. All you do is copy and paste a bunch of text, and in about ten seconds you have this really cool word collage! You can even play with the fonts/color/layout/etc. Try it; you'll be addicted. :)

Dabbling in Domesticity

2009-10-12T17:23:00.003-04:00

Okay, so this is not the most beautiful cake in the world. But damn, was it delicious, if I do say so myself!

Cooking has never been my forte. I never really learned until after college, when I had to cook dinner for my five roommates at least twice a week. Luckily, none of us were spectacular cooks, but we found that if we cooked with a partner, dinner was actually quite edible--and oftentimes delicious. Unluckily, we were a vegetarian house that year, so I emerged with a repertoire of yummy, healthy...meat-free dishes (mostly culled from "The Enchanted Broccoli Forest Cookbook"--"March Hare Salad" was a big fave). Not so fun for the carnivore I would eventually marry.

However, in addition to his many talents, NR happens to be a FABULOUS cook. For our first few years of marriage, we happily split duties in the kitchen. But it soon became apparent that I was your basic meat-and-potatoes, follow-the-recipe-to-a-t kind of gal; he was more the whip-up-a-mouthwatering-gourmet-feast-using-a-few-spices-and-imagination kind of guy. Show-off. It seemed a fair trade, though; I took over 98% of the cleaning chores, while he was crowned permanent king of the kitchen.

But this summer, once I found out that we were expecting Baby #2, something alarmingly domestic started burning inside me. (And it wasn't just the usual pregnancy heartburn.) I decided to teach myself how to bake. I'd received several beautiful, glossy dessert cookbooks for our wedding, but the initial directions scared me off ("cream together..." "sift flour"... "fold in"...what the???)

So I jumped on Amazon and bought a used copy of "Baking for Dummies." And oh, the bounty that I've put forth over the last few months! REAL cookies, brownies, cakes, breads, homemade granola bars, even my first pie (banana cream, to be exact).

I'm certainly no Martha Stewart, nor do I aspire to be one. Yet there really is something satisfying about making a delicious dessert from scratch (even if, as pictured above, it's not exactly pretty...but who cares about pretty as long as it's yummy?) And my Christmas list this year includes an extra springform pan, a double-boiler, and yes...even a sifter.

So the next time you come for dinner at Casa Romero, you can be guaranteed of several things--a tasty meal by Chef NR, table-side entertainment by the Teege, and possibly a sweet something by yours truly. :)

In the Deep End

2009-07-21T13:12:00.002-04:00

Okay, so everyone in the free world has had something to say about this Valley Club debacle. Allow me to put in my humble two cents.

For anyone uninformed, the thumbnail version is this: Mayor Nutter cut funding for a number of city pools this year. A local summer camp worked out a deal with a private swim club for their kids to swim there (the camp paid and signed a contract.) After only one day, the club revoked the contract, refunded their money, and told the camp they would not be able to return. (Campers also claim they heard racist comments that day.)

Cue the media circus.

I can't stop reading about this case. And at this point, I'm thoroughly annoyed at both parties.

On the one hand, the club's offer was big-hearted but misguided. How are you going to accomodate 60+ kids, most of whom are just learning to swim? They should have worked out a system--20 kids a day during off-peak hours, for example.

Next, the club's president made a numbnut of himself when he said--in an interview!--that the campers (mostly minorities) would "change the complexion of the club." (Wince.)

So, in trying to save face (after everyone from the local Inquirer to CNN had something to say), the club invited the kids back.

Not so fast.

Several parents of campers are suing. The camp refused, and is threatening legal action. (Interesting and little-reported side note: the camp also owes about $70,000 in taxes.) Tyler Perry just announced that he's taking the kids to Disney World in order to "heal their scars".

There's one level-headed comment I've heard so far, that I wish would be trumpeted from the mountaintops. Annette John-Hall is a black columnist for the Inquirer whose articles I really enjoy. I don't always agree with her, but I do respect her opinions, and her writing is terrific. She made an excellent point recently, when the camp turned down the offer to return to the swim club: "What are we teaching our children?" When someone does wrong, but then tries to make things right, aren't we supposed to be the bigger person and forgive? Or do we fight back with a lawsuit?

I wish that instead of hiring lawyers or throwing expensive trips at the kids, someone would just teach them the simple lessons of keeping one's dignity, forgiving those who wrong us, and tolerating the intolerant.

Sweet Surprises...

2009-07-02T20:04:00.004-04:00

The first sweet surprise of the summer was the arrival of Baby Vincent! My dearest friend, Jennifer, was due July 11...but several health scares spurred an emergency C-section, so the little guy was born June 20. Mom and Dad and baby are plugging along. Those first few months are SO hard...I'm not sure anyone quite prepares you for that. Plus, she didn't even get that all-important first week of maternity leave (pre-baby), where you just get to finish up the nursery, wash all the clothes in Dreft, cat nap, watch "Ellen"...and mentally prepare (as much as you can) for this little creature who is about to take over your life and (literally) suck the energy out of you.

But as a seasoned old mama of a 2-year-old, I know that it does get better. Somebody told me that it gets harder, but I really disagree. Sure, tantrums are a nightmare, and the worrying never goes away, but this creature starts turning into a wonderful little person who fills your heart with the most unbelievable joy. Just tonight, the Teege and I were sharing popsicles on our front stoop, chatting about our day (he informed me all about the bears he saw at the zoo with Daddy). There is no way I could have pictured this three years ago, attached to a screaming newborn and running on 3 hours of sleep. If you don't believe in miracles, parenthood will certainly turn your world upside down.

The second sweet surprise was from my darling hubby! Several years ago, we started a tradition of taking ourselves to a Broadway show for Christmas. Our last Christmas in Jersey City, we were torn between "Spamalot" and "Spring Awakening." I'd heard raves about the latter, but being a former Monty Python geek in high school, I voted for the former. And...it was eh. Some memories are best left un-musicalized. =/

So imagine my delight when the mister demanded that we go on a date last Saturday. He lined up my mom to babysit and whisked me off to the Academy of Music, where we finally saw this amazing little rock-musical. I can't stop listening to the soundtrack. For my non-theater-geek readers, it's based on a controversial play written by a 19th-century German playwright named Franz Wedekind. The musical brilliantly fuses the spirit of the original play with modern rock. Whenever the characters face a particularly tense moment, they whip out a hand-held mike and start singing--the message being that rock serves as the perfect release for teen angst. I absolutely loved it. And the staging--wow! I'm a huge fan of ensemble staging and minimalist sets, if they're done well, and this was unbelievable.

Off to bake some cupcakes (my new obsession--good Lord, am I becoming...gulp...DOMESTIC!?) A very merry 4th to all my little firecrackers out there. :)

Neglectful Mommy

2009-06-14T21:20:00.002-04:00

Is it possible that the last time I blogged was February? Sheesh!

I was pretty busy second semester...besides teaching and mommying, my spring break was spent in a drugged stupor on the couch (my fault for waiting until the age of 32 to get my wisdom teeth removed), and I directed a one-act at my school--only a one-act, but when I direct, it tends to completely occupy my brain, for better or worse.

I quit the magazine I was writing for...not enough free time to get interviews done and churn out a quality product. Plus, I wasn't getting paid, which was starting to chafe a bit considering the amount of time it required. But I do miss the writing part, so here I am, like a guilty ex-lover, returning to my poor little blog. :)

NR and I made a pilgrimage to New York on Thursday. My wonderful sister and parents agreed to watch the Teege, our neighbors happily took Rocco the Wonder Poodle, William Shatner negotiated a great Tribeca hotel for us on Priceline, so we hopped on the train and returned to the Big Apple. (My brilliant hub forgot to pack pants, so our first stop in NYC was, embarassingly, the 34th Street Kmart to buy some khakis...)

NR had been invited to graduation at Nativity (where he used to be principal), which was amazing. That school has such an incredible spirit and sense of family. He was pretty much a rock star...everyone was so psyched to see him. Plus, they organized a fabulous spread of Dominican food for the party afterwards...God, I've missed good pernil!

We also got to catch up with some dear friends, some of whom are at major turning points in their lives (just married, about to get married, leaving New York, switching jobs, etc.) It's reassuring to know that nobody really "has it all figured out"--nor should they. Where's the fun in that?

While it was awesome returning to the city where we fell in love and spent our twenties, it was even better returning to the town we've started our family in. New York was just as loud and dirty and crowded as ever--exciting, for sure, but I was quite happy to come back to trees and wide open sidewalks!

I finished a book on the train: The Song Is You by Arthur Phillips. Completely annoyed by it...I'm pretty sure it was a thinly veiled defense of stalkerdom. Skeezy old dude falls in love with a young, hot singer and becomes completely obsessed with her. But instead of being freaked out by him, she's romantically intrigued. Um...no. I'm so TIRED of this plot, because some guys eat this sh*t up, and then call women picky or snobby when they aren't bowled over by what the guys consider some sort of charming persistence.

I call it the "Say Anything Syndrome." Sure, when I was sixteen and first saw Lloyd Dobbler holding up that boom box in the rain, blasting "In Your Eyes" into Diane Court's bedroom, I swooned. But when a guy several years later threw clothespins at my window, sobbing openly (ick...), it wasn't quite so adorable. In fact, it was pretty creepy.

So now I'm reading Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne. So far, no icky pseudo-stalkers...yet.

No More Drama?

2009-02-26T19:59:00.005-05:00

Well, that's a bit fatalistic. But that's what I'm feeling these days. (Above: Me as Sue in The Exonerated, February '06)

Ever since I saw my first play (around the age of 4--my parents started me early on the road to theater geekdom), I have had an extremely complicated love affair with the theatre.

I made my stage debut the summer before 5th grade with the Back Alley Players. My neighbor Heather and I went to the library, checked out a bunch of children's plays, and decided on "Rapunzel" (mainly because Kristen Scarino, who lived down the block, had really long blonde hair.) We rallied the neighborhood kids and rehearsed every day in our back alley (I grew up in a rowhouse neighborhood, so nobody really had backyards--the entire alley became one big playground for us.) I played Rapunzel's mom, and Heather played the witch (truly ironic, because years later she would find fame as the girl in The Blair Witch Project...yup, THAT Heather!)

From then on, I was hooked. I spent my summers at a local children's theater; I performed in every school play I could. I rarely recognized Top 40 songs because I only listened to showtunes. In high school and college, whenever I had the choice to research something independently, I managed to make it theater-related (a paper comparing Shakespeare to Tennessee Williams; an educational psychology paper on the power of creative drama.)

When college came, however, I balked at actually majoring in drama. Instead, I minored in it--still acting all the time in college productions, community theater, and a local dinner theater/improv troupe. (The last was a true test of acting skills--staying in character while wolfing down tiramisu was not necessarily my finest hour!) I majored in the lofty field of English, immersing myself in Austen and Fielding, yet secretly preferring my acting and directing classes.

By senior year, I'd grown tired of the acting game--tired of shallow actors, the backstage drama, irrationally pinning all my joy on scoring a role. I fled to a volunteer program for two years, and welcomed the break. I focused on teaching, and eventually found my way back onstage here and there. I began to see that my true passion was a marriage of theater AND education. I felt most alive, as a teacher, when I was directing the school play or implementing a drama activity in class to make literature come alive. Getting my master's in Educational Theatre was the perfect fit. And each time I performed in a new show, the energy and enthusiasm completely transferred to my teaching.

But now, I'm back to teaching English full time. While I enjoy it, sometimes I feel like a fraud. I mean, this was always supposed to be my "fallback" job if I couldn't score an actual drama teaching position. Who knew my fallback would become my career? But such a position usually means directing the school show--which I absolutely loved, but it meant VERY long hours and weekends. With a little one at home, that's just not realistic. I even interviewed at a theater company in Philly for a fabulous education position, but it became pretty clear to all of us during the interview that I wasn't ready to give up time with the Teege...even for a dream job.

And as for acting? Not right now. Working on a show requires tremendous dedication and energy--which is firmly reserved for my son these days. I don't think I could handle kissing him goodnight and then dashing off to rehearsal time and again. Yet I do miss opening up a script, bringing it to life, and that flying-without-a-net feeling of opening night. I also miss the sense of community that theater can provide. I was part of a fantastic little company in Jersey City (http://www.atticensemble.org/), which really became my family during my time up there. (We performed in an old mansion which housed a number of groups--during Thursday night performances, we were constantly interrupted by the applause coming from the AA meeting in the basement.) I performed in my last play with them while I was 4 months pregnant. I remember sitting backstage with my hand on my stomach, thinking about when I would tell this child about the time we "acted" together.

It's very difficult to consciously put your passion on the back burner...but as I told a student today, it's wise to know your limits. And honestly, I wouldn't trade this little "limit" for the world.

Back at Blue Ridge...

2008-08-16T13:07:00.004-04:00

Blue Ridge Summit. A breathtakingly beautiful place right on the PA/MD border. The site of where exactly ten years ago, this week, I began the volume of what I like to call my adult life.

This was where Orientation for JVC:East '98 took place. It was where I met my incredible housemates--Katie, Mary, Megan, Julie & Scott--that I spent a year with in Jersey City. It was where a lot of things I thought I knew were completely turned upside down. It was where I really started to learn about spirituality (as opposed to just going through the motions at Church), simple living (beyond just getting dollar drafts), community (learning to live with and support each other, but not having to be best friends), and social justice (a term that, embarassingly, had only recently entered my lexicon.) It was where I experienced some great moments of revelation, as well as overpowering feelings of self-doubt.

And of course, it was where I met the man I would someday marry.

NR and I were invited back to Blue Ridge last week, to speak to the JVs who were finishing up their year of service. It was quite a trip to see Teege running around the oregano fields where we first met, and to wax nostalgic with NR's old housemate (who's now on staff)--whining about endless rice & bean dinners, crazy students/clients/co-workers/housemates, but realizing what a truly amazing and transformative period it was for all of us.

We decided to make a mini-vacation out of it (hey, when you have a kid, you're not going to pass up free lodgings and food!), so we drove down Wednesday, had dinner with the current JVs (who seemed alarmingly young...which means I'm alarmingly old!), put Teege to bed, and chilled on the porch of a cottage with some Coronas and lots of memories. We watched the sun set and the moon come up over the horizon above, talking for hours. It's a rare gift to just sit and talk--especially in the silence of nature--when you're new parents, so we cherished the moment.

So as I reflect on the 10th anniversary of JVC '98-'99, I am full of thanks. Grateful for my hilarious and talented students at St. Mary's High School that year, who made my first year of teaching such a joyous one. Grateful for my housemates--who challenged and humbled me in the best ways possible, but also lifted me up on my darkest days. Grateful for a city which I would eventually call home for nine years. Grateful for learning to think beyond myself, step outside the spotlight, and discover how to be a supporting player rather than a drama queen.

Summer in the 'burbs...

2008-07-02T20:57:00.002-04:00

So, it works like this. Someone will tell me that they enjoy reading my blogs, and it has an adverse affect--I get slightly embarassed and sheepish and then don't blog for months on end. Or I'll replay every silly navel-gazing posting I've ever spewed, and wonder if I should delete the whole damn thing.

But maybe I'm thinking just a bit too much. It's a goofy little blog, not The Huffington Post, for gosh sakes.

So, a brief update: summertime is here, which is a simply blissful time for teachers. (See the pic of our garden, the labor of NR's love, as proof of said bliss!)

We've joined the Y in an attempt to be active--we no longer walk hither and yon like we did in NYC. I have no desire to get buff, but I would like to walk up a flight of stairs without wheezing like Patty & Selma!

I'm teaching storytelling and improv in the mornings at Summer Stage, to children who've just finished 5th grade. A really sweet age--they still have that wonderful optimism that has yet to be crushed by junior high. :( It's very strange to be back at UDPAC (the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center), a place that was my holy temple as a child, after such a long hiatus. Strange, but comforting.

The Teege is doing GREAT, of course. We're really enjoying taking him to the playground, doing little art projects, going swimming, etc. I am so thankful that our schedules allow us to spend this time with him--it's extremely precious. He's such a funny kid. I actually miss him when he goes to sleep...so of course I have to check on him every hour until Mommy's bedtime. :)

I'm still writing for Philadelphia Maven, which is a terrific creative outlet. I absolutely love meeting and writing about these rockstar women--I always leave my interviews on an inspirational high. It's such an honor to give them the recognition they've earned.

I had the chance to audition for a play, but decided against it. One of the performances falls on Halloween, and I'm just not going to miss dragging my child around in an embarassing costume! But I also didn't feel the NEED to do it. It's funny--people always said that everything changes once you have a child, but I never believed it. I was always determined that I would keep as much of my old life as I could once I entered mommyhood. But now if I have to choose between sitting in a theater with a bunch of pretentious actors (okay, they're not ALL bad!) or watching Teege stuff Legos in his mouth...I'm gonna choose the latter. Besides, I have plenty of other ways to keep my synapses crackling--teaching, writing, yoga--that keep me quite busy these days.

I had this same attitude towards acting back in college. I felt like it was great fun, but not productive enough. I found a lot more satisfaction in teaching it or directing. I remember writing this very pompous piece for Fr. Burch's class called "The Player Queen," about my issues with the actor-audience relationship.

I'm sure at some point the "roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd" (yes, that's actually the phrase I meant to write!) will lure me back. But for now, I'm very content co-starring in "The Chronicles of Teege." :D

Fear & Friendship in 48 Hours

2008-04-28T19:05:00.005-04:00

Just got back from 48 hours in NYC, where I presented at NYU's Shakespeare Conference. I felt oh-so-academic as I milled around with fellow teachers, performers, directors, and professors, discussing all things related to the Bard. What I found was this:

1) Truly smart people don't have to use big words. In fact, it's a lot more effective (and cuter) when you use words like "fanny."

2) Just because you have a British accent doesn't mean you're brilliant.

Seriously, the weekend was fabulous, and I was just so honored to be presenting alongside some truly remarkable people. I attended four workshops, a paper panel, and a production of Twelfth Night. That was a trip--the actress playing Viola was a girl I'd coached for Romeo & Juliet four years ago. Back then, she was this mousy little thing--albeit incredibly brilliant--whom I actually wound up writing a paper on (the phrase I used to describe her was "refreshingly age-appropriate.") Now, she is this very composed and lovely young woman about to graduate high school. I praised her in the talkback afterward, and her face just lit up when she recognized me. It was a very cool moment. As a teacher, you just get used to letting students crawl into your heart, set up shop for a while, and then they vacate. You're left with memories and funny anecdotes and just pray that they'll turn out okay. So this was such a gift--to see a kid you've really loved just thriving as a young adult.

My workshop was entitled "The Play's The Thing: Teaching Hamlet in the Secondary Classroom." I got some great feedback, and although I barely ate all day due to insane nerves, it was well worth the trip. (If you'd like a copy of the workshop, do let me know--I'm all about sharing!)

I also got to meet up with some of my favorite people while I was in the city--people whom I admire, respect, and love wholeheartedly, and who always affirm me in the best ways possible. On the infuriating ride home (they oversold the train, so I was stuck with my 50-pound suitcase balanced on my lap for the whole trip--oh, and then they had to replace the motor, so we were trapped in a dark, airless car for 40 minutes), I distracted myself by focusing on how grateful I am for the gift of these people in my life. God truly does send you people for a reason.

And now I'm back in da 'Hill...and so, so grateful to be back with my boys. :)

Bobby Hearts Barry

2008-03-28T19:06:00.001-04:00

Okay--color me convinced! (I love the Bob--he's a former JV.)

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/politics/2008/03/28/sots.casey.obama.cnn

"Gin" & Juice

2008-03-27T21:38:00.004-04:00

So...what's up with "gin up" these days?

I like to consider myself up on the parlance of the times. And I am, to quote my dear friend Chris, "a lover of language." But this is a new one for me.

Not only that, ever since Obama gave his "groundbreaking" (really? more on that later) speech on race in America last week, the term has been popping up everywhere. I counted at least three usages in the Inquirer this week.

Am I an old fart? Or just dumb? ("Honey...we're both," I can already hear my hubby sighing.) Or...is Obama just too trendy and relevant for me?

Okay, so back to good ol' Barry. I tend to stay away from politics in my blogs, because there's nothing I hate worse than a half-informed person on a self-indulgent rant. So I'll say this. I REALLY, really like him. I think he's genuinely positive, kind, optimistic, fair-minded. I really enjoy the fact that he's steered clear of the mudslinging. So he had a crazy pastor. (As a Catholic, all I can do is wryly sympathize.) I'm sure he's a good senator. I'm sure someday he could make a terrific president. His daughters are adorable. Michelle is class personified. But I'm a wee wary of how blindly people are jumping on his lil' choo-choo of "change". I've asked several devoted followers (in a completely innocent, "I really honestly want to know, I'm not baiting you" way) what exactly they like about him, and all I get are blissful sighs and glassy-eyed stares off to the distance and lots of talk about "change" and "future." Okay, sweet. Sign me up. But when pressed to name his acconplishments as senator, no one can give a straight-up list. So...what IS he all about, really?

There's a radio ad down here right now, targeted directly to the young 'uns, about how "he gets what our generation is all about." Okay, cool! Um...what is it that he gets? I've watched the debates, I read "Dreams of My Father" (okay, well, most of it), I read his speech (which was really beautiful, and timely, and necessary...but was there a new school of thought voiced that I missed? I've been having the same conversation with people for years.)

Fret not. I finally registered as a Democrat this year (after 12 happy but frustrating years an Independent). I voted for Kerry, whose name I still can't say without shrugging indifferently. And come April 22, I will most definitely be voting for Obama and his mission of change. I just want to be assured of what that change will be.

"Dreams are like fish..."

2008-02-29T19:54:00.002-05:00

"...you gots to keep on reelin'."

So goes one of my favorite songs by Philly boy G. Love.

Dreams have been the subject of note these days. I just finished teaching Death of a Salesman and A Raisin in the Sun to my seniors, so we have beat the subject of the "American Dream" to death over the past few months. (Side note: I really didn't think P. Diddy was THAT horrible in the film version Monday night on ABC. He's definitely not picking up any Emmys, but he wasn't the train wreck I was expecting. And Phylicia Rashad is a freaking goddess.)

So...what is the American Dream? Damned if I know. I really don't think there is a cookie-cutter dream assigned to us today. It's no longer the house, 2 cars, 2.5 kids and a dog. It seems (and so my students agreed) that the American Dream of the new millenium is simply to find true happiness through success (whether it be personal, financial, what have you.)

We had an in-service day on the topic of time management. (Funny that it took about 4 hours to learn about how to manage your time...when all I could think about was everything I needed to take care of as soon as the meeting was done! By the end of the day, I had doodled a frighteningly long "to-do" list on the back of my very thick training manual...)

Anyway, one section was devoted to prioritizing goals and deciding whether they were to "prevent pain" or "achieve gain." (Don't you love the precious little catchphrases that corporate trainers whip up? "Fight back the fear!" "Management is measurement!") At one point, we had to turn to a colleague and share something we wanted to do in life that we have not yet done. She shared that she wanted to do the Inca Trail and learn the guitar. Completely cool.

I'm happy to report that it took me a REALLY long time to respond.

Not to say I don't have dreams. But so many things that the speaker offered as possibilities...I had done. And there are so many experiences--really, ever since college--that have exceeded my wildest dreams. I'm still kind of in awe that I've lived them.

And life continues to bless me with happy surprises: how much I've enjoyed being a mom this year, buying our first house, being invited to present at NYU this spring, snagging a writing gig for a local women's magazine. I'm really not trying to brag; I'm just shocked and honored by the good fortune that my family has been blessed with.

Both of the plays my students read had to do with dreams being stifled, or just too big for the dreamer in the first place. My girls were completely fed up with the protagonists by the last pages. "Ugh, why is Willy so obsessed with his own funeral?" "Why can't Walter appreciate what a nice family he has?" The consensus seemed to be that a healthy dose of realism was sorely needed by these guys.

I'm definitely a realist, but certainly not a pessimist. I simply try--and don't always succeed--to seek peace and balance in my life. It seems that more often than not, when you make good choices for good reasons (i.e. beside yourself), you wind up reaping the benefits. As my dear friend Jen said during her toast at our wedding: "When you give glory to God, the glory comes back to you."

In closing...two wonderful friends have achieved incredible dreams over the past month. I just have to give them a big ol' shout-out because they have WORKED THEIR BUTTS OFF to make this happen--while remaining just plain good peoples. So here's to DOCTOR Christina McMahon, newly appointed professor of theatre at Santa Barbara, and Diva Julia Spanja Hoffert, who made her MET DEBUT!!! I am deeply awed and insanely proud of you both. :)

R.I.P., Janam Tea

2008-02-07T19:35:00.001-05:00

Janam Tea, an adorable little tea shop in downtown Jersey City, is closing.

Well, actually relocating--the owner is packing up and heading out to Portland, OR. (And really, can you blame her?)

This shouldn't bum me out--I don't even live in JC anymore--but this little shop has a special place in my heart.

The day we found out we were expecting, we were on cloud nine, but definitely in shock. That night, we stopped by Janam for a cup of tea and some shortbread. We curled up on a couch in the window, gazing at the neighborhood we'd lived in for years, basking in the glow of our news and talking excitedly about the future.

This part of JC (known oh-so-quaintly as "Harsimus Cove") has definitely seen some changes. Run-down parking lots have given way to luxury condos; an abandoned old community center is now a day spa. It's where I had my first apartment, my first teaching job, and where Nick and I first started our marriage. I know this particular strip pretty well, as I used to walk down it to the PATH every morning. I know the dry cleaners (who always spelled my name "Dana" on the receipt), the bagel shop, La Conguita where you could get insanely huge servings of pernil for about $5, the camera shop with the fat old cat chilling on the counter, the apartment with crazy brick sculptures in the front yard...Janam was a perfectly weird and wonderful addition to the corner of Newark & Grove. And now it's leaving.

Well, JC's loss is Portland's gain. Maybe some other dorky couple, scared to death but drunk with joy over their bun in the oven, will have a similar "Janam moment" out west. :)

Green Cleaning!

2008-01-28T14:41:00.000-05:00

You know that dizzying yet satisfying feeling you get from the smell of Pine-Sol or Tilex? That nostril-burning, nauseating, eye-reddening sensation?

Thing of the past in the Romero household these days.

No, we're not on a cleaning strike...although that's awfully tempting. :) I've taken on the mission of greening our cleaning. Yes, it sounds awfully crunchy; but you know what, I'm starting to embrace my innate crunchiness. (After all, I did live in a vegetarian household for a year.)

When I was home on maternity leave, I became addicted to "The View" (I can proudly say that I witnessed, live, the infamous Rosie/Elisabeth fight--and damn, was it great!) One day, Deirdre Imus was on to plug her new book, Green This (see above), singing the praises of "green cleaning." And you know what, it made a lot of sense.

So, I'm starting out small. Being that the bathroom is my domain (see "The Stepford Husband," below), I focused on that first. With vinegar (to disinfect), lemon juice (to deodorize), and baking soda (to scour), I scrubbed away and was shocked by the result. My bathroom was sparkling, and I didn't feel sick afterwards like I usually do! We're so conditioned to think that the smell of bleach = clean, but that's not necessarily the case.

I also made a few other changes...using non-toxic glass cleaner, freshening up our bedroom with an essential oil diffuser, and adopting some plants (which, so far, I haven't killed yet). Maybe it's psychological, but I really do feel a little healthier.

Something about moving to the 'burbs has made us want to live a more intentional lifestyle--making small but important choices to better our family, our community, and the world. Just a few minor changes can make a big difference. (I mean, we're not about to blow all our money on organic cotton sheets!)

Another thing we're trying is to become "localvores" (buying food from local farmers as much as possible.) We'd toyed with the idea of joining a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), but you're never quite sure what you'll end up with--and the next thing you know, you have a crisper full of rotting broccoli rabe and three sad little radishes.

But we did find a great little place: Farm Fresh Express (www.farmfreshexpress.com). Based out of Lansdowne, they carry products from local and/or organic farms. Either way, you feel good--buying local, you're supporting a local farmer and cutting down on fuel used to transport produce from all over the world; buying organic, you know it's just a little healthier for you and the environment. Monday, they send you a list of their choices for the week, you place an order, and then you can pick it up or have it delivered. We stopped by on Saturday, and they are so friendly and just EXCITED about their business. (You don't really get that at Acme!) Plus, they offer free, YUMMY fair-trade coffee from Mexico and Ethiopia. (Caveat: It IS a little more expensive, so we're only going to do it once a month or so at first. We are teachers, after all!)

Sure, we still drive a SUV. Let me expiate my guilt by cleaning my bathtub with vinegar and eating my organic peanut butter. :)

JUNO!!!

2008-01-12T11:29:00.001-05:00

Quite possibly the best movie I've seen in a LONG time.

Go see it. See it again. Then download the soundtrack. Guaranteed happiness. :D

The Stepford Husband

2008-01-12T11:26:00.000-05:00

As I write this, my husband is happily strolling through the aisles of Acme, carefully composed grocery list in hand, dutifully bypassing any product for which he hasn’t clipped a coupon.

No, I’m not home sick on the couch. Nor did we have a wicked fight for which he’s atoning. Rather, I’m married to a singularly unique yet no longer rare creature—The Evolved Husband.

When we first started dating, I smiled bemusedly when he first offered to cook for me. “Aw,” I thought as he whipped up a delicious chicken parm, “this must be the ‘special occasion’ dish his mom taught him to impress girls with.”

Yet that chicken parm gave way to roast chicken with homemade gravy, sausage lasagna, salsa and guacamole from scratch, gourmet Saturday morning breakfasts (with my choice of fluffy blueberry pancakes or omelets with spicy home fries)…as I slowly realized that I’d hit the culinary jackpot with this guy, my burgeoning cooking skills took a backseat. (After all, I’m Irish, and we’re not exactly known for our prowess in the kitchen!)

Not only does he cook and do the grocery shopping, but he also vacuums, sweeps, mops, cleans out my car, takes the dog out, and does the dishes. He also takes equal care of the Teege—feeding, changing, bathing, and playing. This is on top of the typical “male” chores he carries out—yard work, painting, killing spiders, etc.

So what, you may ask, do I do, exactly?

Well, laundry. And boy, is there a lot of it. My biggest shock after getting married was how much laundry there suddenly was. Nick has never been a “wear and air” kind of guy—a sweatshirt worn for two hours, over an undershirt, is promptly deposited into the hamper. Throw a baby’s endless dirty clothes into the mix, and laundry is suddenly a Sisyphean task.

Cleaning the bathroom is another chore falling squarely on my shoulders. Early in our marriage, Nick remarked how glad he was that I “loved to do the bathroom.” Feeling guilty that this was not nearly as taxing as making dinner every night and dealing with the supermarket every weekend, I smiled sweetly and answered, “Oh honey, I don’t mind at all!” Thus, I sentenced myself to a lifetime of rubber gloves and Soft Scrub.

Oh, and I did go through nine months of pregnancy and a little event called childbirth.

Sure, I’m spoiled rotten. But I know that each task Nick does is out of love for us and the home we’ve created. A few days after our son was born, he braved the blizzard to shovel the car out of the snow so he could make yet another run to Target for diapers. As I watched him from the warmth of our living room, I thought to myself, “This man was born to be a husband and father.” He finds such joy in completing these seemingly mundane chores. It has certainly made my decision to return to work an easy one, knowing that he will happily shoulder the burden of homemaking with me.

Some prefer diamonds; some prefer pearls. I’ll take chicken parm any day.

Sibling Rivalry

2007-11-15T20:08:00.000-05:00

I read a book a few years back (chick-lit, for shame) in which the protagonist, a Philly newbie, remarked on how "Philadelphia was the type of place where the local newscasters were major celebrities." Growing up, I thought nothing of the fact that Lisa Thomas-Laury, Dave Roberts, and "the entire Action 6 news team" were household names. I vividly remember eating dinner in front of the television (a huge no-no in the Kelly home) one night, seeing my mom tear up as she watched the news about Jim O'Brien dying. I also remember going to Houlihan's by St. Joe's during college, in hopes of running into John Bolaris (who ALLEGEDLY ate lunch there.) And when our bus would take us back down City Line from a field hockey game, we would all hang out the window and screech for the weather forecaster who reported from outside the studio.

In the family of major east coast cities (with New York being the successful if rather self-important first son, Boston the cranky grandfather, and D.C. the dad who's always away on a business trip), what is Philly? Perhaps the brother who never went to college, is enormously talented at what he does, but never gives himself credit. Instead, he's content to lay around and bask in the glory days of high school.

Philadelphia is a city obsessed with its past. Rightfully so--it is oozing with rich, solid history. Yet unlike its founding fathers, who were always marching towards the future, its current citizens (and suburban denizens--because, let's face it, anyone within a 50-mile radius tends to refer to themselves as "from Philly"--including yours truly!) love, love, LOVE to wax nostalgic. We're like a collective Willy Loman; "woulda coulda shoulda" is our mantra. (Can you tell I'm teaching Death of a Salesman this week?)

Don't get me wrong--I adore Philly (and my dear old Delco). And I tend to have a silly little chip on my shoulder, having lived away for so long. But, like any good writer (as sporadic as that might be), I enjoy a love/hate relationship with my homebase.

My sister and I have a favorite pasttime of putting on bad Philly accents and concocting the typical Philly fam as follows:
Jim (but everyone calls him Jimmy) - big ol' sunburnt Irish guy, spiked blond hair, white sleeveless T-shirt, cutoff jeans, runs a "landscapin' compnee" and is a volunteer firefighter (tattoo: shamrock)
Denise - tanned to a crisp, halo of frosted blonde hair (which is always half-up in a fluorescent scrunchie), tight tank top, stretchy pants, Reeboks, extra scrunchie around the wrist (just in case), raspy voice (from the daily pack of Parliaments) tattoo: Tazmanian Devil ('cuz she's so CRAAAZY!)
Two non-descript kids with names like Tyler and Brianna (always dressed in various Disney paraphernalia--Brianna is especially partial to her bedraggled "Belle" dress)

You get the picture. (Or pitcher, as we like to say down here.)

My Excuse For Not Blogging...

2007-11-08T20:11:00.000-05:00

He's a pretty freakin' cute excuse, huh?

I had grand plans of blogging all about childbirth, the blissful first few months of motherhood, the joys of nursing, all that good stuff...but truth be told, there were days it was a huge, huge triumph just to get through the day in one piece and find five minutes to shower.

Oh, and remember that pie-in-the-sky blog about moving to PA for a pastoral change of pace? Well, we did it, but boy was it a stressful trip getting here! House-hunting, job-hunting, countless trips to PA with a newborn in tow...we're finally all settled into our cute little house in blessed suburbia, and I feel like I can finally BREATHE after a year.

So "the Teege" is amazing...just the happiest little boy in the world. He truly is a Superbaby. :) All the cliches they say about parenthood are true. It's a fairytale like no other. The first three months are HARD AS HELL, full of self-doubt, loneliness, and frustration, but the payoff is incredible.

Life is good. I'm back in the classroom, where I'm happiest. Teaching at a private girls' academy, where every day I fear I'll say something to get myself fired. ;) I'm not teaching drama or directing shows, which is a bummer, but it's also a beautiful luxury to leave at a normal hour--so I can go home and hang out with my boys.

We miss New York more than we thought we would...especially when we see it on TV (where, of course, NYC is always this magical wonderland of bistros and gorgeous people and carriage rides through Central Park...instead of urine-scented subway stations, maniacal cabbies, and people slammed up against each other in every direction.) We miss our friends, students and coworkers. We miss our reputations. We miss our schools.

But we don't miss the commute, the noise, our crappy neighborhood, and throwing tons of money away on rent. That's for damn sure.

Almost every morning (as I DRIVE to work now, passing horse farms...so surreal), I cue up "One Thing" by Finger Eleven on my iPod. It's really become my anthem for this year, ever since the Teege entered our lives:

Restless tonight
Cause I wasted the light
Between both these times
I drew a really thin line
It’s nothing I planned
And not that I can
But you should be mine
Across that line

If I traded it all
If I gave it all away for one thing
Just for one thing
If I sorted it out
If I knew all about this one thing
Wouldn’t that be something

I promise I might
Not walk on by
Maybe next time
But not this time
Even though I know
I don’t want to know
Yeah I guess I know
I just hate how it sounds

My Teege. He's "this one thing."

Sometimes I'll stop for a minute and think, "What am I forgetting? I feel like I'm missing something." And then I check in with myself and realize, "Oh wait...this is what peace feels like." It's such a new feeling...but one I think I can get used to. :)

Blaming Dr. Seuss

2007-02-26T13:30:00.000-05:00

So, it's my first day of maternity leave. Friday was an emotional roller coaster of a day, saying goodbye to my students and colleagues. I'm just so afraid that I'll never find another job that gives me such satisfaction and affirmation.

It also doesn't help that I haven't really had any nibbles with the job search. People are like, "Well, that's okay! You can stay home with the baby for a year!" Yeah, it's not that easy anymore...it's not the 70's when that wasn't such a financial strain.

It stinks. We don't want a lot--just a house, a bambino, and jobs we love. (Is that a lot?)

So NR and I are a bit stressed about the move. Luckily, he has some nice prospects, but we just want everything SETTLED before baby comes. An idealistic scenario, perhaps, but we would feel a lot better.

I just finished a book (see above) called "It's a Wonderful Lie: Truths About Life In Your Twenties." Parts of it I totally related to (crappy first apartments, starting your marriage someplace unfamiliar, seeking solace in grad school, constant second-guessing); others I very happily could not (specifically the serial dating or lack of romantic prospects.) Hot damn, I am so lucky I met The One when I was 21! God only knows what rocks I would have dug up trying to find him.

Anyway, the recurring theme through all 26 essays in this book was the overwhelming buffet of choices we're treated to in this generation. On the one hand, it gives us amazing freedom; on the other, it's terrifying. So we rack up debt, financial and emotional, trying to find our one true path, only to long for simplicity and direction. Freshly out of my twenties, I'm ready to settle down and enjoy some quiet, and I can't help feeling a TINY bit guilty about that just because of the messages we receive to knock down doors and kick some ass.

I blame it on a simple gift that most of us probably received for college graduation: Dr. Seuss' "Oh! The Places You'll Go!" Harmless enough, right? A furry little Seussian creature bounces through fuzzy trees and stalactites, chirping about the fantastic adventures you're about to embark on. So we dive feet-first into the world, clinging to life boats along the way (friends, jobs, traveling, etc.), discarding some along the way when we find something better. Then we think we've reached the luxury liner--the dream job, the stable relationship--only to look back nostalgically at those crappy rafts that got us to where we are.

I wouldn't say NR and I have reached the luxury liner just yet. And maybe we won't. (Hard to afford on a teacher's salary.) But thank God I have a terrific first mate and lots of support along the way.

Pimp My Nursery

2007-01-29T14:54:00.000-05:00

Very productive weekend on Baldwin Avenue! My parents brought up the crib, we went on a crazy shopping spree at Babies "R" Us, and the nursery is now pretty much ready to roll--all we need is a baby to put it in. :0

The mural was done by two of Nick's former students. We paid them in Chinese food and art supplies; they were happy as clams. Hmm, maybe we'll try that tactic when we finally have a house of our own one day..."Thanks, Mr. Plumber, for putting in those fabulous granite side-by-side sinks. How about some McDonald's and a couple of pipes and washers? Deal?"

I'm home sick today. One of the lovely perks of being a teacher is the many gifts your students give you: gratitude, inspiration, the occasional Barnes & Noble gift card, and the common cold in all sorts of lovely variations. Of course, being preggers, I'm relegated to saline spray and Kleenex as my drugs of choice...so it's Couch City with Rocco today, accompanied by "E!"

I have less than a month left with my students. I'm trying to just focus on the positive--we're moving for a good reason, everything will (somehow) work out--but it's still incredibly sad to say goodbye to a job I adore. But the way I see it, my life is going to change in ways I can't possibly fathom. So best to just keep an open mind, take a deep breath, and (try!) to relax.

Philadelphia Freedom?

2007-01-06T11:22:00.000-05:00

So, the hub and I have made a pretty huge decision...we're moving to PA this summer. Back to the land of cheesesteaks and scrappy Eagles fans, of terrible accents and tourists running up the Art Museum steps.

Well, we're not actually moving to the City of Brotherly Love, but probably my old hood of Delaware County. Back to the land of barrel-chested women with buzz cuts, dark lipliner with frosted lipstick, men built like trucks who call their sons "Pal," and beef 'n beers at the local parish center.

The reason, of course, is the lil' bambino on the way. Nick and I both grew up close to our grandparents, and can't imagine our childhoods any other way. Being a "mixed-coast" couple, we know that's just not possible, so PA has won for its affordability and proximity to my fam.

Not to mention...it's just a different way of life down there. Everything's just a little bit slower, cheaper, and not so hectic. Every morning when I get off the subway at 86th & Lex, I literally have to take a deep breath and fight my way through the crowds. My heart starts racing, my body tenses up, and I can just feel the blood pressure rising. Even when it's a beautiful day out, I barely notice because of the massive buildings, construction, and nonstop jitteriness that pervades the streets. I swear I can imagine B.R. inside me, waking up and saying "Mom, what the hell? It's too damn loud out there!"

And it wasn't always like this. When I first moved up here, I loved just diving into the crowd and being shuttled along like a sardine. You know, that whole "Oh, I'm in the pulse of the urban wonderland!" I would imagine the camera focusing on me and switching into slo-mo as I bounced along, just a silly little twentysomething in the mix. I remember when I was doing a show at the Producers' Club, and I absolutely loved walking down 46th Street past the theaters with my costume and make-up tucked away in my backpack, feeling so smug that I was one of the hundreds of Times Square actors scurrying off to work. (Never mind the fact that the show was a steaming pile!)

Now, I'd rather just take Rocco for a walk down a quiet, tree-lined street, then sit on a porch and read for a while.

I guess it's better to feel this way at 30, rather than wake up one morning and say "Dammit! Where did my twenties go? I missed out on so much!" I remember the panic I felt my senior year of college, when I realized graduation (and the real world) was looming, and I really hadn't done squat. I DEFINITELY think I worked that bug out of my system, and now this is God's way of telling me, "Look, you've done a helluva lot, and now it's time to slow down."

Well, maybe he wouldn't say hell. ;)

2007-01-01T20:21:00.000-05:00

Well! Look what happens when you don't update your blog for a while--you get knocked up!

Actually, I found out I was expecting back in July, but we didn't "go public" with the news until September. Since then, time has been tripping merrily along, my blog has gone blissfully ignored, and yours truly is getting bigger by the day!

Here's a pic of the hubby and myself receiving our very own "Charlotte York McDougal Goldblatt" diaper cake (that's for all the SATC fans) at our shower on Saturday. Clearly I was suprised, as you can see from my frump-a-dump hair and lack of make-up!

I'm definitely excited to meet the little guy--partially because I'm hoping the maternal instincts will finally kick in. So far, all things Elmo and Dora are pretty foreign and bizarre to me. They were giving away "Wiggles" tickets on the radio the other morning, and Hubs was like, "Yikes, we're going to have to take our kid to see this crap, right?" Oy...well, my parents were never ones to give in to the latest kid trends--instead, we were museum vets and musical theater geeks by the age of 5. I actually remember Rosie all dressed up, prancing around the living room, pretending to be Josephine from "H.M.S. Pinafore." One little girl's Disney Princess fantasy is another's Gilbert & Sullivan heroine, I guess!

In any event, I promise to be better about updating this, especially with the exciting events coming up in the months to come...

Summer slackerdom

2006-08-18T15:00:00.000-04:00

Whoo-boy! A whole month since my last blog. Well, it's the summer, and I've finally found peace with just taking it easy and doing whatever the hell I want. Because I can. :)

Some highlights from the past month:

Cruise to Alaska with the in-laws! Great food, amazing sights, terrific family bonding. Who knew we'd have so much fun stuffing our faces and playing bingo every day?
Cape May with the Kellys! Such a pretty little beach town, and always a good time for my family to reconnect and relax.
Spending a week at the New York Public Library, spending time with an inspiring poet (Jill McDonough) and getting to WRITE for hours...
Getting cast in "Design for Murder" at the Attic! I'm playing Nora. I've really wanted to work with this director for a while, so this will be a fun little project.
And other big news...which will have to wait just a while. But it's damn good, I can tell you that much. :D

Unfortunately, there have been some valleys among the hills...my Nana passed, very peacefully, but now my dad and his siblings have a slew of issues to work through. The funeral was an exercise in chilly diplomacy, and while I'm amazed they survived that, I'm not looking forward to the drama and bad blood that's sure to be stirred up in the months to come. My sister and I just keep promising each other that we'll never get to that point.

Hubby's dealing with a terrible work crisis, and there's nothing I can do about it. It positively sucks to see him so upset, and all I can do is listen when he wants to talk or leave him alone when he doesn't. Basically, it's one of those situations where you're smacked with the horrible reality of being an adult and having to deal with sh*t, and there's no counselor/mentor/parental figure to help you out and make it all better. Remember in high school, how whenever you had a question or problem, you just went to the front office and it was somehow taken care of? I wish we had a "front office" in life. (Maybe that's what therapy is.)

My dear Mams is coming up tomorrow...we're going to see "Sweeney Todd" on Broadway, with Patti LuPone. Should be an awesome time.

Think I'll pop on the iPod and go for a power walk...take advantage of this abnormally cool weather!

Fun with Sonnets

2006-07-12T15:08:00.000-04:00

I'm taking a seminar on the sonnet at the New York Public Library this week. So be forewarned: pretentious poetry ahead!

THREAT
Juliet fell on her "happy dagger"
After Romeo drank a bit too much
Ophelia plunged into murky water
While Hamlet ranted about "words" and such
In falling for the strong and silent type,
Portia drowned all her troubles in hot coals
Imaginary blood she could not wipe
Caused Lady Mac to simplify her goals
Cleopatra met a venomous snake
When Antony was found to reason lack
And Lady Anne saw she could not fake
Another night in bed with that hunchback

Yet fret not, love; my spirit is too strong
To buckle under one who's done me wrong.

UNIVERSAL MOTHERHOOD
(For Erna)

They mop her brow with dirty, soaking rags
Four warped walls frown upon the child bride
Outside, he drinks his Belikin and brags
About the son arriving just inside.

"Truly peaceful," Brad crowed to the whole world
Upon the birth of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt
"An amazing adventure," Angie purred
300K they gave--aren't they the shit?

Now turned thirty, a mother of seven
Thirty-seven wounds he made with his knife
She lifts her shirt and cries up to Heaven
to save her babies from this hellish life

"The superstar mom" has movies to make
While in Belize, a mother's spirit breaks

Ode to the Adirondacks

2006-07-07T22:22:00.000-04:00

On Reaching the Summit of Mt. Jo

Breathing in pine and sweet damp earth
Sweat pouring down to foster my rebirth
Heart crying out to escape my chest
Pleading with Katie for "one more rest"
Nearing the top, trees grow less dense
--I am blessedly in the present tense--
Scraping up walls of rock and mud
(Remnants of yesterday's fleeting flood)
Collapsing in joy on the sun-baked peak
My spirit is soaring; my body quite weak
We whisper and laugh, so glad for a friend
There is nothing like Placid to make my soul mend.

Recharge

2006-07-03T19:45:00.000-04:00

Back from a terrific weekend visiting the fam.

Years ago, Oprah touted an "Attitude of Gratitude" journal--just listing things you were thankful for that had happened that day. I did it with Rosie while preparing her for Confirmation, and I continued for some time. I think it's time to resurrect this very worthy practice, so here is what I'm thankful for this weekend:

Quality bonding with the sis over Coldstone and "Devil Wears Prada" (awesome movie--reminds me how women are taught to hate each other)
Fabulous family party (featuring a magic show by my pa--just like old times)
Holding my friend Jenn's BEAUTIFUL little daughter Natalie (amazing that the girl I used to write notes to during Algebra is now a mommy!)
Appreciating my extended family with all their quirks and eccentricities
Surprisingly good visit with my Nana at the nursing home
Walking around suburbia and actually enjoying it (God, I'm getting old...)
Taking in the Wyeth exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum (and learning so much about an artist I've looked at for years, but never quite understood)
Official "Philly date" with Nick at Bridgid's (great little hole-in-the-wall with excellent beer-battered chicken)
Yuengling in the backyard with my dear friend Jennifer, b*tching about life
Dessert with Jennifer and her long-suffering fiance ;)
Waiting for an hour outside Suky's, sweating with Jennifer's bridesmaids, to try on dresses
Topping it off with a peaceful evening in the park, watching Rocco chase lil' doggies

Such a good time to reconnect with friends and family; to rejuvenate.

Off to Lake Placid tomorrow, one of my favorite places in the world, to reconnect with another friend--dear old Katie, one of my JVC roomies. I adore going up there--not just because Katie and I always have an awesome time, but because I get to revel in nature (hiking the Adirondacks, swimming in the lake) that I so rarely get to see around here. Also, Katie and her husband Brad are just genuinely good, sweet people, and their home is like a retreat for me. We spend hours reminiscing about our time volunteering, which is always a wonderful reminder of an extremely transformative time in my life.

I feel very full of love and appreciation right now. My cup runneth over.

Returning to the motherland

2006-06-29T20:20:00.000-04:00

What I'm listening to: "Left Me a Fool" (Indigo Girls)

This weekend, I'm traveling to PA to spend some time with the fam. My parents bought a new house about six months ago, so they're having an open house.

Over Christmas, we helped them pack and move everything, and I was a lot less nostalgic than I'd expected. Part of this is because we'd already gone through the process of packing up my grandparents' house in 2000, which was extremely difficult. THAT was the house I associated with my childhood, and still do; I often find myself dreaming about that house. The yellow curtains in the kitchen window, my blackboard and chalk in the basement, the strangely comforting smell of Camel cigarettes, iced tea with mint picked from Grandmom's backyard, the big orange pillow I'd sprawl on with Pop to watch "Lawrence Welk" (while we ate Breyer's peach ice cream), the blue flowered blanket I'd snuggle under in the back bedroom, the drawer full of dress-up clothes (which Grandmom would always stuff with fabulous scarves)...it's amazing how clear and vivid those images are, whereas the memories of 117 Drexel are quickly fading.

I think this is healthy. For so long, I clung to old plans and expectations. How couldn't I, when every time I visited my parents' house, the entire street was rife with memories of my childhood and young adulthood? I moved away from home when I was 21; yet whenever I'd come back for a visit, I was immediately a kid again. And this was not necessarily a good thing.

Now, it's a whole new start for everyone. My mom is finally away from the street she grew up on; my dad finally has a flat lawn to fuss over. My sister is finally moving on to campus next year. And as I keep telling my parents, this new home is a PERFECT "grandparents' house." (Here's hoping!)

"So no one told me life was gonna be this way..." (clap clap clap clap clap)

2006-06-28T18:27:00.000-04:00

...or, "why watching Friends makes me philosophical."

Back in high school, I was convinced I'd made the best friends of my life. Jenn, Erin, Dan, Tom, Jim, Pauly, Trish, Joey Freds...we loved and supported each other through break-ups, first dates, parental pressures, disappointments, driving tests, the works. Every morning, we'd gather in front of the auditorium to greet each other dramatically (my specialty was jumping into the arms of a waiting boy--we WERE theater geeks, after all), dish about the weekend, whine about our latest rehearsal, flirt, cry, cram, and laugh at the underclassmen who would desparately try to infiltrate our group. (Our favorite target was Angela--a poor soul whose facial mole would mysteriously migrate from day to day.)

Then college hit. We all scattered to different colleges, and even though nobody went very far (Dan was the brave soul who went to NYU--a whole two and a half hours away!), things changed. I tried valiantly to keep the home fires burning, but things were just never the same. This was before the time of email, so communication was limited. Yet I began to wonder--how valid was our friendship in the first place? Was it just circumstantial? Out of sight, out of mind?

Since then, I've approached friendships with a big ol' yield sign. I'll make the first "move," but you need to reciprocate. Friendships need to be nurtured; they can't be accessed simply when you're going through a rough time, or lonely.

I've also realized the value of cultivating a friendship with one person, instead of toting around a whole passel of peeps. Granted, passels are fun, but as I get older, I cherish a glass of wine with a girlfriend infinitely more than screaming in a bar with a bunch of quasi-friends.

Luckily, I have found some friends up here who follow the same policy. Most of them are through the "Jesuit Mafia" (Nick and I both work at Jesuit schools, which are rife with young, interesting, intelligent people--not to toot my own horn!), but I think that common bond is a valid one. We've known each other long enough now that we're starting to push past the politeness phase. I can be open and honest with them, warts and all. We're all starting to realize that we are flawed, weird, difficult individuals...and that's okay.

It's tough to find real friends. Yet once you make them, the real work begins--keeping them.

Weekend Cheers & Jeers

2006-06-26T12:20:00.000-04:00

CHEERS...
To Hal Sparks, Chuck Nice & Judah Friedlander at Caroline's Comedy Club on Saturday night!

JEERS...
To "A History of Violence" ($3.00 and 96 minutes of my life I'll never get back...boo, Viggo Mortenson, BOO!)

Gelatinous Grey Matter

2006-06-26T11:50:00.000-04:00

Yup...that's pretty much the state of my brain these days. Every summer of my life has been occupied with SOMETHING--camp, work, wedding planning, grad classes, SOMETHING to keep my brain active and nurtured--but so far, my 29th summer has been largely uneventful. I'm starting to feel bored and boring. During dinner last night, I actually asked Nick what his favorite kind of pasta was. Really? REALLY? This is what my conversational skills have devolved into?

I could do a number of things, I suppose. Finish that book I started writing last summer. Yet the few times I've returned to it in the past week, I find that I've stumbled across a huge writer's block. I could read all those books I assigned for summer reading. But after starting two of them, I grew bored and turned to "Entertainment Weekly." I'm kind of "literatured out" after the school year. I could take yoga, wander the city, take a class, go to a museum. Jesus, I live right across the river from one of the most exciting places in the world! Yet I long for someone to DO those things with. And pretty much everyone is working.

It's times like these I start romanticizing about moving back to Philly. But really, what would I be doing there? Probably the same thing.

The problem is, we're going on a cruise at the end of July. Which will be an AMAZING experience, I'm sure. But it's cutting into any sort of plan I could have made--any job, class, play I could have done. (It's a family cruise, so I didn't have much say in the planning.) Just last night, I got an offer from a playwright I've worked with before to do something in the Strawberry Festival. But it opens in early August, so I'm sure I won't be able to do it since I'll be away.

Waaah, waaah, waaah, right? All I long for during the school year is a little free time to myself. Now I have gobs of it, and I'm getting antsy.

Part of this is because the last time I had so much free time was the summer of 2000. I was finishing up my second year with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps--a pretty stressful year, in many respects--and once summer hit, the depression I'd kept under wraps all year had plenty of room to take over my life. I was overcome with a terrible, prevailing sense of sadness, just wanting to sleep my days away.

After that year, I've been sure to keep myself extremely busy. As Joan Baez states, "Action is the antidote to despair." My friend Gwen recently complimented me on how full my life seems to be, and how she envies my involvement in so many things. Really, it's all selfish--it's just to keep myself occupied and alive.

Nick has been very understanding--humoring my need to go out and do stuff at the end of the day, when all he really wants to do is play X-box. ;)

On Saturday, we saw a fantastic production of "Antigone" by the Urban Youth Theater at Henry Street Settlement (one of Nick's students played Eteocles). As I was watching these incredibly talented young people, I kept thinking of my own summer theater experience, and how GOOD it was for so many kids. (It truly amazes me that while music and art are pretty much a given in the curriculum, as they should be, theater ALWAYS takes a backseat. I blame the thousands of BAD drama teachers out there who give theater a bad name!) Then I started toying with the idea of creating a summer children's theater in tandem with the Attic. (Don't you love ideas that come JUST a few months too late?)

So I'm going to explore this little project over the summer, since I know squat about grant-writing or fundraising or any of that hoo-ha. Maybe next summer...who knows? I'll have found the antidote to my despair.

Lord, what fools these actors be...

2006-06-23T15:48:00.000-04:00

What I'm listening to right now: "Sweet and Lovely" (Bing Crosby)

So last night, I was invited to a reading of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." I got to read Helena, which was a happy surprise--I was all set to read Snout and call it a night.

The concept was great--gather a bunch of actors together in the gazebo at Van Vorst Park, nosh on strawberries and chocolate, and just read Shakespeare aloud for the fun of it. Yet every time we took a break to stretch our legs, I was reminded of how frighteningly neurotic actors can be.

There was no conversation to speak of. Rather, everyone just kind of talked AT each other. Loudly. And nothing of substance, really--just lots of quoting movies and fake British accents and quasi-naughty double entendres.

Immediately I was transported back to the Bluett Theatre at St. Joe's (my alma mater), where drama geeks ran rampant under the tutelage of the late Dr. Olley. Tears, lust, jealousy, backstabbing, and diva fits abounded. Once, this guy playing Jud in "Oklahoma" threw a spoon offstage because the chorus members were breaking his concentration.

I am NOT excusing myself from the equation. I certainly did my share of diva damage--storming off many a set strike because the tech director demanded that I actually pick up a power tool, when all I wanted to do was sweep sawdust half-heartedly and flirt with the lone straight boy in the cast.

This is why I love the Attic Ensemble, a little gem of a theater company nestled in the heart of Jersey City. They are good peeps. Most of them have day jobs, and real lives, and just have a passion to create good theater. One night, I got to the theater early (we were doing "The Exonerated", see above), and ran into Mark--lawyer by day, set designer/actor by night, husband/father all the time. He was still dressed in his suit for work, and was just wandering around the theater, alone, with a little grin on his face. When I came in, I said, "Wow, you're early!" To which he quietly replied, "Oh you bet. This is my therapy."

My free time is scarce during the school year, so my theatrical exploits are usually limited to one or two a year (with the occasional staged reading thrown in here and there). But there is nothing better, after teaching all day, to just sit on a stage and have someone boss me around for an hour or two.

Suddenly, it's summer...

2006-06-22T10:28:00.000-04:00

What I'm listening to right now: "Pick Yer Nose" (Ani DiFranco)

And to celebrate, my darling Nicky (thank you, Prince) and I packed up Rocco, camping chairs, a bottle of wine and headed to Hoboken's "Movies Under The Stars." Every Wednesday in summer, they show a movie in Frank Sinatra Park, overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Fantastic way to ring in summer (and a little less crowded than the movies in Bryant Park).

Okay, can I tell you how much I love Pandora? The new music site, not the myth (although it is a great story--be it Pandora or Eve, gotta love that the evils of the world are all blamed on a woman!) Anyway, with pandora.com, you just type in a band or song that you like, and they'll customize a radio station for you. And it's FREE! As much as I love my ipod, I do get sick of listening to "my" music all the time. (Yes, I know I sound like a commercial--I tend to appoint myself unofficial spokeswoman when I get excited about a product.)

My big plan for the day is to watch "Twelfth Night" (the '96 version, with Helena Bonham Carter). I'm 99% sure that's going to be our fall play, so I want to start preparing for our production meeting in July. I was toying with the idea of setting it in a modern-day high school, but I'm always wary of being too "gimmicky" with Shakespeare. If there's a rhyme and reason for a specific design concept, great, but if you're doing it just to be "conceptual," it can be wacky-tacky. I was in a production of "Joseph" once, set in modern-day Philly. As you can imagine...it didn't quite work. In fact, it was pretty craptastic. :p

So we shall see. As I'm reading the script, the idea of a college campus in the 1920s keeps coming to mind--sort of during a reunion weekend, with Sirs Toby and Andrew as rich old college alums. Then there's the whole question of the shipwreck...I might bite the bullet and rent that stupid Amanda Bynes movie "She's the Man" just to see how they approached it.

But I might feel dirty afterwards.

Belize it or Not!

2006-06-21T10:58:00.000-04:00

What I'm listening to right now: "Box of Rain" (Grateful Dead)

Here's a pic of me (I'm in the doorway, on the right) and my students in front of the house we built in Belize City! We spent 10 days (June 6-16) building a house for Erna, a 33-year-old mother of 7.

A sampling of memories, too countless to recall:
-fabulous breakfasts of fryjacks, tortillas, beans, and pineapple on the terrace
-visiting the children at Lucky Strike School (yes, named after the cigarettes...)
-evening reflection under the stars
-doing the punta with the Garifuna Dancers
-stew chicken with rice & beans
-playing with Erna's beautiful baby girl, Ashira
-singing "Lord of the Dance" at St. Martin's Parish
-snorkeling in the Caribbean (and swimming with sharks and stingrays!)
-blessing Erna's house (with Mark on the bongos and Abel on the guitar)

This photo was taken after the last event. In the sweltering heat, we gathered in Erna's new home, sang songs, listened to readings, and presented her with her very own keys. Afterwards, we spilled out into the front yard and kept singing--everything from Bob Marley to Lone Star.

Traveling changes you, irrevocably. Compound that with service, and you're permanently marked. As the JVC slogan goes, "ruined for life." Even though I'm back in my air-conditioned living room, settling into the lazy routine of summer (yoga, writing, walking Rocco, catching up on T.V.), I can't stop thinking about the incredible people I met in Belize, the sounds, the smells, the FOOD, the spirit.

This whole trip was affirming in so many ways. The students kept asking me why I did JVC (Jesuit Volunteer Corps), and although I've given various answers over the years, I think I finally got it. Yes, I wanted to help people. Yes, I wanted to be praised for something other than theater. But quite simply, I wanted to meet new people, to be associated with a certain type of person--altruistic, grounded, REAL. And nothing but good has come of that.

Sure, my life has taken a detour. I always had a vague vision of moving back to Philly, joining some theater company (perhaps even starting my own), and becoming some sort of local stage celebrity who had dabbled in doing good for a year. But when I think of the numerous blessings I've enjoyed because I stayed up here...I can't imagine my life any other way. And this trip to Belize was yet another wonderful affirmation of that.

A space of my own

2006-06-20T13:53:00.000-04:00

A blog of my own! After politely reading and commenting on friends' blogs for years, I've decided to take the plunge. Why, might you ask? Well, the writing bug has come back full force. Yet, much like exercise, the hardest part is actually getting off the couch and making it to the gym. The hardest part for me is turning off "E!" and making it to the computer (for something other than checking my email or googling someone I did a play with in 7th grade).

So we'll see where this shall take us. The summer stretches out ahead of me like an open road, but I'm just sitting at the intersection biding my time. Hopefully this will spur me in the right direction.