Whistling the Classics

My bus journey today started with a beautifully haunting moment in the Union Station bus parking lot. It's always crowded, and people are rushing to catch their buses. Yet, in the midst of the crowds, I heard a distinct melody.

It was, in fact, Beethoven's Für Elise. 

Where was that song coming from? Oh, from one of the bus attendants. He was a pretty impressive whistler.

As you well know, the elegance of a classical composer is not a typical part of my bus trips. I took a moment to stop and listen. 

In the dark

My family celebrated my dad's birthday a couple days early this evening, and my mom and I made a key lime pie. At desert time, we realized we had no heavy cream to make the whipped cream topping, so I offered to go out and buy some.

In DC, we live on a cul-de-sac with stairs making a shortcut down to the main road with the market. In the daytime, it's a walk in the park.

At nighttime, it looks like this (with the flash):

Yikes. For a moment, I panicked. It was completely pitch black, and I seem to have a penchant for falling and hurting myself even in broad daylight. I also just finished reading Blindness by Jose Saramago (featuring a world in which blindness is an epidemic) and to put it lightly, the book really freaked me out about losing my sight. I regretted not bringing a flashlight.

Then, I remembered that I have a flashlight app on my phone. My grandma marveled frequently throughout this past week that the world is so caught up in these devices, and she's right. As a former camper and camp counselor, I felt almost silly using a flashlight app instead of the real thing. I know I need more distance from my phone.

But...it sure works in a pinch.

Teaching on the Fly

Teachers are always told that they need to expect the unexpected. This philosophy once again proved to be true today when I found myself teaching my grandma's morning exercise class at her assisted living community in Louisiana. I kid you not. This really happened.

Let's back up a bit. My mom and I have been attending morning exercise with my grandma and some of her fellow residents a couple times this past week. An instructor has lead us in some chair stretches and light weight lifting. Each of these times, my mom and I have come in late, so this morning we were determined to be on time - early, even.

We were sitting in the exercise room, ready to go, when the recreation director came over and told us there probably wasn't going to be anyone wanting to exercise today. Well, sure enough, my grandma and two other residents came over to attend class. The recreation director said there was no instructor available today on account of Good Friday, but that we could turn on an exercise DVD. Now the last time I actually owned a TV, there was only one remote, so even between the two of us we could not figure out how to turn on that DVD.

Finally the recreation director turned to me and said, "Well, unless you want to lead it yourself, it looks like morning exercise is not going to happen."

The residents looked at me expectantly. I knew what I had to do. So I did it.

I want to say that I faked my way through the moves pretty well. I managed to remember most of the exercises we had done over the past couple of days and my mom filled in when I forgot a few. Most importantly, the ladies seemed to trust that I actually knew what I was doing, despite the fact that I certainly had attended fewer morning exercise classes than they had. In the span of a moment, I had become their morning exercise instructor.

I guess that's what I get for being punctual. Can I add this to my resume now?

Pass the bunny bait?

Today my mom and I attended an Easter party in my grandma's residence. Well, the word party might be stretching it a bit. The party consisted of 15 individuals sitting silently around a long table festooned with chocolate and Easter eggs. I tried to liven up the party by shaking hands and introducing myself. However, after the perfunctory pleasantries (who I was, the warm weather, and how they were feeling), the conversation lagged. I couldn't tell if the problem was that they couldn't hear me or that they just didn't know what to say. It was awkward, to say the least.

Even the arrival of the Easter Bunny didn't help much. My mom made me take this picture.

A bit later, the activities coordinator brought out some bowls of what she called "bunny bait", basically a mixture of chocolate eggs, pretzels, popcorn, and other assorted trail mix items. I was seated near the front of the table, and I automatically started to pass the first bowl of bunny bait to the woman on my right. Maybe it was all of my years of camp training, but it seemed like the right thing to do. The activities coordinator told me that I should keep my bowl. She would take care of delivering each individual portion to each resident.

However, at that point, it was too late. I had passed a couple bowls to my right, and chaos started to ensue. 

"WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?" 

"PASS THE BOWLS DOWN!" 

"WHAT?!" 

"PASS THE BUNNY BAIT DOWN!"

"WHAT??!"

"NO, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO KEEP THE BUNNY BAIT!"

Finally, one older lady burst out laughing, and everyone had a chuckle at the mess we had made of the bunny bait system. Even the activities coordinator cracked a smile. 

I certainly know how to liven up a party.

Taking a Moment

I realized today that I haven't felt the sun on my face in forever. I may just be exaggerating, or as my students would say with a great deal of prompting, using hyperbole. Well, it feels like forever. It's been a long, dreary winter in Philadelphia, and I had my mind set on sunny skies when I traveled to Louisiana. The first few days were freezing for the South - just a few degrees above the North.

Finally, today, it was warm enough to sit outside without a jacket. My grandma's dog, Ringo, is constantly in motion. It's very difficult for this little dog to sit and just take a moment. I am often the same way. Yet today, I lay down on a bench outside my grandma's place, stuck Ringo on my lap, and we both took a moment to lounge in the sun.

Immediately upon taking this picture, of course, Ringo hopped down and scurried as far away as the leash would let him go.

Moon

I'm not sure if it's quite a full moon, but I know it was breathtaking today in Ruston, LA.

This picture really doesn't do it justice. Did you see it?

Yes ma'am, no ma'am

You guessed it - I'm in the South for a week. No matter how many times I visit, I can never quite get used to the, "Yes ma'am, no ma'am" of it all. I often fall into the practice when I'm speaking to my family members, but it always surprises me to hear it from other people. Saying "yes ma'am" does really add something to the end of a sentence. It softens the phrase, and makes it sound just a bit friendlier. They aren't lying when they talk about Southern Hospitality - especially in this town, where everyone knows everybody.

Today, I went to go pick up some treats for my grandma's dog, Ringo. I walked into the Vet Clinic, and everyone was so friendly. Did they know my grandma? "Yes ma'am, and she is the sweetest." Did they have the treats ready? "Yes ma'am, of course, right here. Isn't Ringo the cutest dog?" The receptionist next informed me that the total was $20.96. I looked at my grandma's pre-written check of $20.95, and laughingly told them that she must have forgotten a penny. I fully expected her to say something like, "Oh don't you worry ma'am, $20.95 is perfectly fine. Bless her heart." Yet without missing a beat, the lady handed me a pen and told me to change the "5" to a "6". "Is that alright, ma'am?"

"Yes ma'am, that'll be fine", I muttered.

Biting My Tongue

Whenever my mother and I travel to Louisiana together, we always manage to run into some transportation issue. The real problem stems from the fact that there is one car rental company in Louisiana that rents handicapped accessible vans.

One.

As you can imagine, with absolutely no competition, the quality of the vans isn't great. The customer service is pretty sub-par. One time we had to wait four hours to have a van delivered to the airport. Another time there was no seat belt for my mom. Oh, I can't forget the time the battery died. We don't have a great track record.

Whenever this kind of thing happens, I'm furious. I fly off the handle, and if it wasn't for my sweet, calm, composed mother, I would let this rental company have it. However, then we would have no rental car. She usually smoothes things over.

Today, we flew into Jackson, Mississippi. A driver from this same company was coming to pick us up, and the deal was that we would drive this woman back with us to Ruston, Louisiana. (See, already this is sounding like something a normal rental company would NOT do.) Well, the woman offered to drive back, which I thought was very nice. We had a two and a half hour drive ahead of us. About an hour and a half later, I glanced up from my book and saw a sign that said...

It turned out that the woman didn't actually know she had been driving East instead of West the entire time. My mom had been absorbed in her knitting, I in my book, both of us completely confident that the driver actually knew where she was going.

I was ready to let her have it. I had a whole speech prepared. It may or may not have been full of choice expletives.

Then I realized that we had to spend four more hours together in the car. And that we have no other rental company options. So I bit my tongue.

But you can be sure that as soon as we made a lunch stop at McDonald's (the only place around for miles, that offers grits with every meal for only $.99), I insisted on taking the wheel.

Morning Sun

(For some reason, this post didn't actually post on Saturday like it was supposed to...)

I spent Friday evening with my lovely friend who lives in an apartment that's 17 stories high. 

I wonder what those people in the musical "Oklahoma" would say about that.

"Everything's up to date in Kansas City

They gone about as fer as they can go

They went an' built a skyscraper seven stories high

About as high as a buildin' orta grow."

We woke up early this morning to this view from her balcony.

I took a moment to take in the early morning sun.

If you can't spot the weird person on the bus, it's you

I’ve talked about the ups and downs of discount buses. The ups clearly revolve around the price. The downs are numerous. The bus can be late, you can have an unfortunate seat partner, the bus can have a horrible smell, or you can realize while using the bathroom that people in other cars can in fact see you. This is all hypothetically speaking, of course.

I’ve been seated next to a wide variety of individuals in my time spent on discount buses. To name a few, there was the man who sobbed to me for the entire trip about his recent breakup, the pungent fish sandwich eater, and the extremely loud cell phone talker.

Yet today I had a completely normal, quiet, polite seat partner. 

I looked around for the unfortunate seat partner – and realized it was me.

Let’s back up a little bit. I had rushed over to the bus around 4, not having time to eat my packed lunch before I left. It’s been one of those weeks where I ended up just sautéing everything I had together for my lunches. My particular concoction this week was eggs, cheese, sausage, couscous, and green peppers. I realized while standing in line for the bus that I didn’t have a spoon or fork. My mind raced to try to figure out a substitution. A folded up piece of paper? A paperclip?

Finally, when the bus arrived 30 minutes late, I was ravenous. I sat down, took out my lunch, took a deep breath, and started eating it with my hands. Fortunately, I had learned to do this properly in Nepal over last summer. Soon I started getting looks from the other passengers. Not only was I eating a dish primarily composed of couscous with my hands, but the dish definitely smelled of eggs.

In that moment, I realized that I was the weird lady on the bus. Perhaps the other passengers were texting their friends as I’ve so often texted mine, regaling them with the story of the lady eating egg couscous with her hands.

I was soon saved from the scrutiny when another passenger spilled a large Dunkin Donuts coffee all over the floor.

Cupcake Addiction

I never had this problem as a middle school teacher. You see, 8th graders don't give teachers cupcakes for their birthdays. They give their friends cupcakes. 3rd graders, however, are an entirely different story. They hunt their teachers down to give them a birthday cupcake. 

Nice, right?

Well, here's the problem. I teach 48 lovely 3rd graders. And let's not forget those other lower schoolers who pass out cupcakes to every teacher on the 2nd floor. You do the math.

At first, I'd take those cupcakes to be polite. A kid hands you a not so great looking cupcake, looking very earnest and hopeful that you'll eat it right there and then. I'm a sucker for those hopeful looks. Slowly but surely, I began craving the sugar rush of those cupcakes.

Today, I overheard two of my students passing out cupcakes to teachers in different classrooms. I realized I was fervently hoping that they would remember to stop by my office, but I was too embarrassed to go out in the hall to ask for a cupcake. I actually got actively excited when one kid said, "Don't forget Tr. Julie!" 

In that moment, I hit my cupcake addiction rock bottom.

The cupcake, like all the rest, wasn't so great. I devoured it anyways.

Terrific

We started reading Charlotte's Web by E.B. White today, and I must confess that I've been looking forward to it all year. Little did I know that I would inadvertently steer the conversation away from the warm, fuzzy, friendship parts of the book, and straight into the facts of life parts of the book.

Let me explain. As you should know (if you haven't read Charlotte's Web, go pick up a copy ASAP), the novel opens with Fern trying to save the pig Wilbur who is the runt of the litter from an untimely death by her father. Fern tries to convince her father that it's unjust, and asks him if he would have killed her if she had been born too small.

He replies, "But this is different. A little girl is one thing, a little runty pig is another."

While I was reading this aloud, I was inspired to have my 3rd graders debate whether or not they agreed with this statement. After a couple minutes of talking it out amongst themselves, we had a consensus: every single child disagreed.

"Humans and animals are exactly the same!"
"We should never kill animals!"
"I would never kill a pig!"
"The pig has feelings too!"
"People used to kill animals for food, but they don't do that anymore!" (This comment was said with the utmost confidence.)

It went on and on. Without really thinking it through, I asked them to raise their hands if they had ever eaten bacon. Almost every kid raised their hand. Hamburgers? Check. Chicken nuggets? Check check. Fish? Check check check.

I said, "So, I have to say that I'm really torn over this statement. I kind of agree with Fern's father. I love the character of Wilbur the pig, but I do eat meat."

My students looked at me like I had suddenly grown horns.

"So...you guys know that when you're eating meat, you're eating an animal, right?"

Oops. That was the moment I realized I went just a bit too far. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I was uncovering some far-off truth that these kids had never previously discovered. I just made it a bit more real for them. Probably exactly the kind of thing a teacher should do for 8th grade students. After all, 15 year olds can probably handle hard truths a bit better than 9 year olds.

I guess in that moment I realized that I'm still adjusting from the 8th grade to 3rd grade switch. Maybe I'll get it right by June.

Your child is more than a test score

Today we held a meeting for some very anxious 3rd grade parents. Their children are taking the dreaded state tests for the very first time. Thanks, No Child Left Behind. Parents are already obsessing over whether their 8 year-old will be classified as Below Basic, Basic, Proficient, or Advanced.

I wasn't planning on saying much during the meeting. I hate standardized tests with a passion. I don't believe they show a child's true ability or talents, and I detest the fact that as a teacher, I'm forced to spend so much time dealing with them.

But when a mother said this, I couldn't hold back any longer:

"For me, the reason I'm so nervous is because this is the first time I'll see whether or not my daughter is a good test taker. Test taking is so important for her future."

I took a deep breath. In that moment, all I could say was this:

"Your child is so much more than whatever she scores on this test. Sure, we can't pretend that test scores don't matter at all. But I've always been a terrible test-taker, and I've done pretty well. Other things matter. Grades, essays, interviews, how she'll get along with people, the activities she does outside of school. This test score will not influence your daughter's life in any way shape or form. Please relax."

I stopped myself short of saying that I could care less how her child performs on this test, because I knew I would be crossing the school line at that point.

But the truth is that I really don't. Her child is funny, outgoing, an avid reader, a creative writer, and so caring towards others. How can a test percentage possibly capture all of that?

Neat Stuff

There's a store right around the corner from my apartment called Neat Stuff: Collectible Toys and Memorabilia. 

On it's own right, it's not so appealing. In fact, it's rather creepy.

What fascinates me about this store is that in the 6 years (yes, it's been 6 whole years) I've lived in Philly, I've never once seen this store open.

So you're probably thinking that since I'm always working from 1:30 - 5:00 (in my opinion, ridiculous business hours), that's why I've never seen the store open. Au contraire, my friend. Even during times I've passed the store on purpose during business hours, hoping to see that "Open" sign, I've found signs like this:

Or like this:

I began to obsess wonder what on earth was going on with this store. I would loudly proclaim to anyone who would listen that it must not even be a real store.

However, walking by today, I did a double-take. It was open! I so very dearly wish I had taken a photo of the "Open" sign before walking in. I didn't because as I was gaping at the door, I became acutely aware of a woman wearing sunglasses, a jean jacket, and a peace sign necklace lurking in the shadows. Tentatively, I pushed open the door.

Her: "Why are you in here?"

Me: "Oh, I'm really interested to see what you have in here!"

Her: "Do you collect?"

Me: "Umm...no."

Her: "Usually only guys collect. Except for the Smurfs. Men and women collect those. See over here? Mint condition."

Me: "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm so excited you're open."

Her: "We're always open. 1:30 - 5:00."

I wasn't going to argue with her. For the next 15 minutes, she proceeded to talk my ear off about her various collections, the fact that she couldn't protect her 10-year old from the news (she used the example of Hillary Clinton supporting gay marriage as something she thought a 10-year old shouldn't hear), how taxes on their building had gone up significantly since 1985 when they opened the place, and about how they didn't take credit cards anymore. I started thinking that there was no way I could ever get out of there. Finally, I told her I would love to come back when I had the cash to buy something. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking of how I could get that picture of that "Open" sign.

Me: "So I'll take a picture of the door on my way out, to remember your hours."

Her: "Not necessary. We're open from 1:30 - 5:00."

Darn it. I decided that maybe she wouldn't notice anyways, thanked her, and walked out of the store. Just as I was snapping my amazing "Open" sign picture, she changed the sign from the inside from "Open" to "Closed."

It was 4:45 PM.

Philly on St. Patrick's Day

Well, I have to say that I just partied too hard yesterday, hence no blog post. Naw, if you know me at all, you'll know that I'm way more likely to not blog because of report cards rather than getting drunk on a Sunday.

So yesterday, I was sitting in front of my computer, eyes straining to focus, and I heard choruses of "Happy St. Patrick's Day!" from the street below. I looked out the window, and saw dozens of people in green, weaving their way up and down the street with their poorly concealed drinks.

As I've stated before, I just don't get the St. Patrick's Day mindset. I feel like Philly may be unique there. Last year, I entertained family on this holiday. It was a gorgeous day, but I have to say that I felt slightly embarrassed of Philly as we passed person after person who was obviously intoxicated. One girl actually couldn't get off the ground. 

In that moment, I wanted to open up the window and yell down below that some people have jobs to prepare for, but I refrained. 

Thankfully, St. Patrick's Day is over.

A little help

I always seem to have these memorable moments in Bank of America ATM's. I was getting my cash, when the woman next to me asked me to use my phone. She said she was from China, couldn't figure out how to work her phone, and needed to call her friend. I think I would have been much more cynical had I not had so many experiences in other countries when I've asked complete strangers for similar help. It's interesting how the personal boundaries can be crossed so easily when someone really needs assistance. Now, my instincts could have been off - she easily could have run off with my phone. Instead, she used it briefly, thanked me profusely, and went off to meet her friend. 

A blustery day

It's amazing how discussing the weather can bring people together. Today, talking about the weather with a complete stranger, we both blurted out at the same time, "It's a blustery day, as they say in Winnie The Pooh." Too bad the so-called stranger was an elderly woman, and not the man of my dreams.

My little girl has a mustache!

For the closing of a really awesome family program I'm involved with, everyone stands in a circle and shares good news from the week. It was the first week, so it was a bit awkward, and people weren't extremely forthcoming.

Finally, a reserved dad pulled his daughter into the circle and said, "My little girl has a mustache!"

She had given herself a mustache with a green marker.

It was such a hilarious, amazing moment. 

Walking on broken glass

Last night, I put a hot pot of green curry in my fridge. My late-night reasoning was that it might go bad if it sat out. Clearly, I wasn't paying enough attention in high school science, or I would have known that really hot things break glass. Hence, waking up to this:

Well, to be more accurate, the pot of green curry was where the eggs were...but you get the picture. The main point is that my already too-small fridge has now grown even smaller. Maybe some duct tape can fix this problem?

In that moment, already running late for school, I knew I had two options. I could either dwell on it, or shut the fridge, deal with it later, and rock out for a moment to this awesome classic:

Thankfully, I didn't actually walk on the broken glass, but it seemed appropriate for this moment. 

Today I almost stole a grocery cart

Well to be fair, I was planning on returning it. You see, I consistently run into the same problem whenever I grocery shop. I live in the city, I don't have a car, and I never remember my little old lady shopping cart when I have to carry heavy bags. As I've mentioned, I previously have broken both of my wrists, yet I continue to put myself in situations where I'm hobbling along on the street, stopping every couple of feet to readjust my heavy load, while everyone gives me pitying looks. Today it was more of the same. I have some social and work events that require me to purchase several bags of groceries this week. Rather than space it out, I decided to wait until the last minute.

So I'm standing at the exit of the store, with my cart, and no part of me wanted to actually pick up the bags. In that moment, I started thinking of my grandma. She has stolen a couple of grocery carts in her day. Well to be fair, she always returned them, so I guess she was borrowing them. Her justifications always seemed reasonable. The more I thought about it, the better of an idea it became. No one was around. It would have been so easy. Yet two things stopped me just in time: 1) the shame of potentially being chased down the street by the cashiers, and 2) running into someone I know whilst pushing along a stolen grocery cart. Well, a borrowed one. So I hoisted the bags up, took a deep breath, left that moment behind, and walked home.

Flying up on the wings of anticipation

Today I had the opportunity to talk to someone who wants to become a teacher. She's excited to make such a huge difference. She's incredibly confident that this is what she wants to do for the rest of her life. She can't wait to start.

In that moment, listening to her, I flashed back seven years to when I was about to become a teacher. I literally could not wait to get into that classroom. I was confident that I would always write long, extensive notes on every single piece of work that each student gave me. I knew that I would never grow tired or lose my patience. I was sure my students would hang onto my every word. I didn't care about the long hours ahead of me, the meager pay, and the utter chaos.

Sometimes I miss that person who was starry-eyed and fired up. That person was smug when listening to any teacher complain, confident that she would never be in that position. That person was blissfully unaware of any challenges ahead.

I've learned a great deal in my seven years of teaching. It's been the most rewarding, difficult, unimaginably emotional job I've ever had. I've had such high highs and low lows, and it has completely consumed my life for the past seven years.

I've always identified with Anne Shirley (Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery), who romanticizes almost everything. In Anne of Avonlea (the second of eight books in the series - yes, I've read them all), she says,

"When I think something nice is going to happen I seem to fly right up on the wings of anticipation; and then the first thing I realize I drop down to earth with a thud. But really, Marilla, the flying part is glorious as long as it lasts...it's like soaring through a sunset. I think it almost pays for the thud."

In that moment, chatting with this perspective teacher today, I wished more than anything that I could take away her impending thud. For it happens, even to those amazing teachers who teach for 20 or 30 years. At least for now, she can fly.

I'm sure that before long, I'll be soaring on the wings of anticipation about something else. Although in Anne of Avonlea, Marilla replies to Anne, "I'd rather walk calmly along and do without both the flying and the thud", personally, I wouldn't have it any other way.

You are Turkish?

As I've mentioned, I traveled to Turkey almost two years ago, and continue to be friends with several people I traveled with. Today, at a Turkish restaurant with my friends, I had an amazing moment. While in Turkey, we took some Turkish lessons. Of course I've forgotten most of the very confusing language, but I can pronounce certain items on the menu with a somewhat acceptable Turkish accent. When I finished ordering, the waiter jokingly asked if I was Turkish. We all laughed, and told him all about our trip. He grew up in Istanbul, and was so happy to talk about Turkey. For the rest of the meal, we kept sneaking in little "pleases" and "thank-you's" in Turkish, and he appreciated it so much. It's those little moments that make traveling continue to be so rewarding. 

The bird that couldn't fly...or wouldn't

I'm going to blame my lack of a blog post yesterday on the fact that I was so engrossed in Hillary Clinton's autobiography that I fell asleep. Hillary is without a question one fascinating lady, but it's best to read her book while sitting up in bed rather than lying down. So you'll get a bonus blog post today. Hooray!

I wanted to blog about a couple things yesterday. First off, I wanted to rant about the St. Patrick's Day festivities that have started here in Philadelphia - a week early. Yes, countless drunken individuals cavorted in the streets yesterday in their green outfits with slogans like, "Drunk Irish Girl". They were all blissfully unaware (I hope) that St. Patrick's Day isn't until March 17th. Moreover, there are actually buses to take these obliterated citizens to their next destination bar. I passed many a partier yesterday yelling complete nonsense at me. Yes, this complete disgust for the St. Patrick's Day proceedings may be a sign that I am, in fact, growing old.

However, that was not the moment I had intended to write about.

Yesterday, I saw quite an unusual sight. Two men were stopped, watching a little bird hop around on the sidewalk. One man kept cupping his hands around the bird, trying to lift the bird up. The bird would flutter a bit in the air, and then would fall. The men genuinely seemed concerned about this bird, and weren't wearing green, so I assumed they were sober. Yet they just kept trying to almost toss the bird in the air, only to have the bird fall back down. I finally suggested that they just leave the bird in peace. They were not happy with that suggestion. They eventually left the bird out of the harm of the foot traffic, and took off. I stayed, watching the bird to see what would happen next. After a few minutes, nothing had happened.

I wondered: Was this bird really not capable of flying? Or did the bird just not want to be pressured into performing in front of an audience?

Happy Birthday!

Today I saw a woman carrying a huge bouquet of flowers, with a huge helium balloon that said, "Happy Birthday." As she walked down the street, passers-by wished her a happy birthday. She had the biggest smile on her face, and thanked every single one.  

BFFAEAEUWD

Today, one of my 3rd grade students gave me a copy of her new book. Here's the cover:

It's an incredibly creative, funny, intelligent book, however, my moment today consisted of me scratching my head and asking myself what the heck "BFFAEAEUWD" meant. I had a pretty good idea that "BFF" meant "Best Friends Forever", but I couldn't get even close to the rest. Then I asked my co-worker who is about 8 years younger than I am. 

"Oh, it has to be 'Best Friends Forever And Ever And Ever Until We Die", she rattled off instantly. 

I had no idea that the standard "BFF" phrase had such an addendum! I am clearly out of touch with the younger generation. Maybe texting more is the answer...

Spinning a moment

I'm just going to say it. I'm really bad at spinning. Not twirling around in circles - I'm sure I would rock at that. I'm talking about those newfangled stationary biking classes that are supposed to magically burn billions of calories in a short amount of time. Maybe it's the fact that I've never quite mastered positions 1, 2, and 3 on the bike. Maybe I don't have enough of an imagination to picture climbing hills when the bike isn't actually moving. Perhaps I'm too tall for a spin bike.

Oh, yeah, and I have to confess something. Whenever the spin instructor tells me to turn the resistance knob up one full turn, I still don't know what that means. Perhaps it's due to the fact that the knob in question looks like this:

I mean, couldn't they add some numbers or something to that? Sometimes they tell me to turn it halfway. Really??

Don't worry, the moment of my day is coming. It literally WAS a moment. A moment in everyday life is fleeting. Moments fly by, and turn into hours, days, weeks, years, etc. That's one of the reasons I started this blog in the first place - to capture those moments. 

Well, in spin class today, when I just thought I couldn't take it anymore, the instructor told us we had to sprint for a full minute. "It's only a minute, guys!! You can do it! Push it out! Just a minute!" At that point, I was sweating beyond belief (thankfully, he had mercifully turned off the lights), and fully believed that I couldn't move another muscle.

I don't know if it was the peer pressure of the other spinners (they looked intense), the instructor pacing around the class, or the upbeat music, but I SPRINTED out that minute. For those 60 seconds (and I truly felt every single second), I blocked out everything else and just concentrated on continuing to move. And when it was over, I literally almost fell off my bike.

Can he say he's sorry?

Two children were arguing at school today, and I was trying to mediate. Finally, when we had gotten accounts of both sides (and one child was clearly in the wrong), that child offered an apology. The wronged child accepted the apology. I thought we were in the clear, when the child who had apologized threw a wrench in all of it.

"I said I'm sorry. Can he say he's sorry?"

I patiently asked what the other boy had to apologize for.

"Well...nothing. But I said I'm sorry. Can he say he's sorry?"

As much as this extended the awkwardness of the moment, I understood what this little boy was asking for. He had made himself vulnerable, had admitted he was wrong, and now he just wanted the same back (even though he technically didn't deserve it). It reminded me of so many adult disagreements, where we keep on asking the other person to try and take some responsibility for the situation.

The conversation then ended with each party still a bit upset. One boy was upset because he had apologized and had gotten another in return. The other boy was upset because he was being pressured to apologize for something he hadn't done. Longest moment ever. 

Conscience Clicker

I think my co-worker/office mate/best friend at work should really have her own blog. She's hilarious, and quite frequently brightens up my day in unexpected ways. Like today, for instance. She was drinking a Snapple, and told me that she was reminded of her Catholic school days...

Why, you ask? At school dances, the lids to Snapples became "conscience clickers" for the students. They would go around, and click their Snapple lids at each other if they were doing something unholy. Talk about a elaborate way to go about shaking your finger at someone! Out of all the crazy stories I have heard about Catholic schools, this one definitely takes the cake! That moment was one of utter hilarity for me. I will never look at Snapple lids in the same way again.

Any other former Catholic school students out there? Do you have any stories to top this one?

Give love

After yesterday's encounter with that belligerent gentleman in Whole Foods, I started off the day approaching this alleged City of Brotherly Love cautiously. You know, I tried not to look too many people in the eye, got out of everyone's way immediately on the sidewalk - that type of thing. Basically I didn't want to piss anyone off. But I didn't need to worry. At the end of an amazing Sati class full of positive energy, my instructor played this song:

I came out of class, feeling the love, and came across this in Rittenhouse Square:

A heart next to a trash can?? I don't know exactly how someone did this, or even if it was intentional, but it was just the sign I needed to feel that all was right with the universe. Give love, indeed!

Samples awkwardness

I'll let you in on a secret. More than half the reason I patron Whole Foods and Trader Joe's is for the food samples. I love food samples. Since I usually forget the cardinal rule, "Don't go grocery shopping when you're hungry", it's great to have something to cut the hunger so I don't go and buy dozens of chocolate bars. Of course, the only problem with this plan is that I usually end up buying the sample. Oh well. Usually, the sample stations are an oasis of calm in the otherwise hectic store. A very cheerful server will explain what's in the sample, and the customers will smile, take a moment, and enjoy their treats.

Not today, alas. Today, at Whole Foods, I was enjoying a bean/bacon/something or other (Southwestern?) mix, and another customer came up.

"Some bean/bacon/something or other mix, sir?", the server asked politely. Mind you, he wasn't actually saying something or other - I just forgot what I was eating.

"What the hell is this?" the customer demanded. The server patiently started to list all of the ingredients. He had been doing this for every customer in case there was something in there that someone couldn't eat.

"I didn't ask for a list of ingredients," the customer continued. "I just want to know what the hell you call this thing."

At that moment, a crowd had gathered around the sample station. They were looking back and forth between the angry customer and the server like they were watching a tennis match.

"I'm sorry sir," the server said politely. "It's called the Southwestern bean mix." (Or something like that.)

"Dammit!" the customer exploded. "I sure as hell don't want it NOW!" He stormed out, and everyone just stood there, awkwardly.

Finally, I stepped up, thanked him, and said I would like to purchase the sample.