closing curtain

This past Wednesday my dear friend Tali and I attended our final show together here in CLE.

While we met just after I moved back to Ohio, our friendship bloomed in the velvet seats of Cleveland's Playhouse Square.  I don't remember who had mentioned wanting to see Mary Poppins when the tour was coming through town (I adore Mary, so I would guess it was me, but I can't be sure), but we bought two tickets, met for dinner at PF Changs and headed downtown to take in the show.

At some point shortly after Tali said "wouldn't it be fun if we got season tickets?!" I agreed and we purchased our first of five seasons the the Broadway Series.  Five seasons, seven shows each season, and a sprinkling of other concerts, shows, and readings.

Almost all of these shows began with a 5:30 meeting at the Dewey's Pizza in Cleveland Heights. (I know we had Aladdin's at least once while I was doing a clean eating thing, but I really think it was Dewey's all the other times).  Very little changed in our order: I would always get the harvest salad when it was in season, and we would split the peppercorn ranch salad when it was out of season.  Toward the end of our run Tali finally came to the dark side for the harvest, and when she adopted a vegetarian lifestyle we nixed the bacon.  Our pie always had half Ryan's Inferno (again, until her vegetarianism, and then we went the Green Lantern route).  We sampled almost every seasonal pizza that sounded good to us.  Sometimes we got water, sometimes diet cokes with lime.

One of the waiters at the Cleveland Heights location became affectionally known to us as The Butt.  He gained his name because of, well, his juicy booty.  He faithfully refilled our DCs and limes, and always brought a lime back with the refill; which, in my book is a sure-fire way to get yourself a nice tip.  And then one day The Butt wasn't there.  And a few months passed and he still wasn't there.  Then like a beacon of light in the darkness I went to the Lakewood location with my family and there he was! He must have been promoted from waiter to manager and The Butt found his way to my side of town.

I would say of the 40 some shows we saw we enjoyed the majority of them.  Frankly, there was only one where we left at half time, which I think is a good sign of the quality of shows that pass through.  That show we left during, Priscilla, landed is at Sweet Moses for a root beer float, and that was just fine by me.

We saw plays, operas, ballets and musicals.  We travelled to Chicago, Osage County, South Pacific, Washington Heights, Oz, and Uganda.  We saw dancing and singing nuns, flying nannies, flying monkeys, Frankensteins, Addams Families, Cats, Beauties and Beasts, and Fiddlers.  We saw more than our fair share of drag queens, and productions about hair, be it "greasy" hair, Hairspray, or just plain Hair.  We saw green witches, green ogres, feuding families on the West Side, and plight of those in the French Revolution. We saw the stories of famous people unfold before us: Jersey Boys, Come Fly Away, Million Dollar Quartets, and Memphis.  We went to Ireland twice with Once and Billy Elliot.  We saw a dancer reach her dream in the steel down of Pittsburgh.  We saw the amazing puppetry of War Horse, and the dice rolling of Guys and Dolls.

I enjoyed reading the playbill synopsis beforehand and trying to count the number of actors and actresses who had been on any of the Law and Order shows.  Tali and I would catch up during these monthly dates. It was good for my soul, and I hope it was for hers too.

We had such a great run.  Tali is moving this week to the Big Apple to chase a dream.  I'm excited and jealous and sad all at the same time.  But I don't like to think of this as a goodbye.  I don't like goodbyes, I like "see you soons."  And I prefer to think of this not as the closing curtain to our friendship, but just the closing of the first Act.  Good luck, kid!

Act II: a street somewhere in New York City 

the song that needs to go away

You know what song needs to go away? Just die and never come back? (You wouldn't have kept reading if you didn't think I would tell you, right?)

The song that needs to go away is: Rusted Root's Send Me on My Way.

What are the reasons you ask? Probably not very good or very founded reasons, but sometimes you can not like things just because.

Send Me on My Way (SMoMW) came on to the scene in 1992 and is some how still popping up on TV commercials and radio spots.  How is this still happening? How can a song that was only mediocre when it came out twenty two years ago last this long?

I suppose people think it's fun and carefree and bright and lively and energetic.  And I guess it is those things.  But my ears can't take it any more.

I was 10 when the song first came out.  In my head I was older than that but sometimes time is strange.  My sister and her friends were in the midst of a sort of suburban hippie stage where they would burn incense and wear tie-died shirts and listen to things like The Grateful Dead, Phish, and, of course Rusted Root.  My ten year old self idolized these sophisticated 12 year olds, so I guess I liked the song then.

But now I can't deal with the incoherence.  I just don't understand what this man is saying.  Two years later Blues Traveller came out with their hit Hook, which also featured an incoherent portion.  Barenaked Ladies? Incoherence is also in their wheel house.  I guess nobody wanted to know the words to songs in the 90s? Or, artists thought it would be kind to make the words to their songs so indiscernible that nobody ever felt ashamed when they got the lyrics wrong.  You know, because everyone got the lyrics wrong.

But here's SMoMW rearing its head again.  With its words that make no sense and it's strange hooting and howling cries.  And I can nearly smell the patchouli wafting from the band members themselves.

It's just a song that never seems to end.  Much like another song we all know and wish would die.  Because it's the song that never ends ... yes, it goes on and on my friend ...

[Now it's your turn! Tell me in the comments below what song or songs you wish would just go the heck away!]

hell hath no fury like a woman trying to get a mayonnaise to come together

Every now and then I like to launch myself into a period of time wherein I "eat clean."  You know, whole foods (not the store).  Foods as they exist in nature, minimally touched and tampered with.  I try to do this for a few reasons, but most notably this time around was to sort of "reset" what I was putting into my body.  Sometimes I get freaked out if I think too long about what an egg was supposed to be, and then I can't eat eggs for a while.  But now I'm thinking about all of the non food items that are available and what THEY were meant to be, and now I can't eat packaged food for a while. Funny how that happens.

I've lost 85 pounds in just under two years and in the last few months I've really dived head first into exercising.  What I've noticed is this incredible connection between moving your body and then having this need, hunger if you will, to feed it good, nourishing, nutritious foods.  It's like your body begs for quality food after you sweat your brains out for an hour at your CrossFit gym.  So I decided to give the Whole30 a try.  I had some friends who had successfully completed it, and my aforementioned CrossFit gym was doing a clean eating challenge and thus the stars aligned.

I began the Whole30 almost two weeks ago and immediately felt the effects.  Literally the day before I started the program I lamented on Facebook about how dang tired I was.  I believe I even used the phrase "delusional tired."  Within days of starting Whole30 I had so much energy I actually felt manic.  I had the energy to get up on time, work a full day, put in a hard workout, and come home and grade papers or cook or other things I enjoy doing (like watching Jeopardy).

Because you're eating whole foods there's a lot of cooking involved.  I mean a lot.  I was accustomed to spending a chunk of time on Sunday afternoons prepping my lunches for the week.  On Whole30 I have to do the same for my breakfasts, since I can't grab a Greek yogurt and run out the door (no sugar, no dairy).  I've been pretty creative with my dinners and I've learned to eat eggs for breakfast all.the. time.  For my lunches I like to have some veggies and something to dip them in.  Prior to Whole30 it was hummus.  Hummus is out on Whole30 (no legumes), so I had to come up with a Plan B.  Last week that was baba ganoush.  Which was good.  But I got baba ganoushed out.  I hit a wall and I literally could not put one more bite of roasted eggplant puree into my mouth and swallow.  So I began dreaming about ranch dip.  Which is so strange because I haven't had bottled ranch in something like over a year.  And this began my Mount Everest climb to make my own mayonnaise.

When I tackle a project I like to research the possibilities endlessly.  I can spend days looking up various ways to do something probably because I like to understand it on an intellectual level.  So I spent the better part of an evening looking at recipes for mayo and watching YouTube videos of everyone from Alton Brown to Jaime Oliver to a little old British lady in a witch hat who calls herself the "Saucerous".  One of my favorite foodie blogs said "all you have to do is put the ingredients in a mason jar, stick in an immersion blender, and in seconds you have mayo!" That was my attempt number one.  And it failed miserably.  So I tried again, and failed again.  And then I got mad.  Like really offended that I couldn't get an egg and oil to play nice.  I tried an immersion blender, which I ended up killing (it sparked and smoked.  RIP Immersion Blender).  I tried a regular blender, no luck. I tried using a whisk, no luck.  My last resort was to go and use my sister's Vitamix.  And then I complained to Facebook and received a lot of encouragement and advice.  I watched a few more YouTube videos, I girded up my loins and I set out one last time to make mayonnaise (who am I kidding, I probably would have kept going until there were no more eggs or oil left to be found).

This is the part you have all been waiting for: my recipe and tips and tricks.  I will be the first to tell you that this was probably sheer luck.  I blended (puns?) a few recipes together to come up with this version, and I think it turned out super thick and really tasty.  So here we go:

Ingredients:
*3 egg yolks, room temp
*1 teaspoon-ish Dijon mustard (if you're doing Whole30 or eliminating sugar make sure you read labels carefully.  Our old stand-by Grey Poupon has both wine and sugar in it, which is non compliant.  I found an organic Dijon that was wine and sugar free)
*pinch-ish of salt (Alton Brown says not to use kosher salt, the granules are too big to act as an abrasive.  I don't understand it, but I trust him)
*1 cup-ish LIGHT olive oil (don't use extra virgin, it's way too strong.  If you're not worried about Whole30 feel free to use any light tasting oil like canola or vegetable)
*lemon juice to taste

I put the yolks, mustard and salt into a bowl and started beating it with my hand mixer.  Just my little cheap hand mixer from Target! Not even my fancy pants Kitchenaid!  I mixed this until it started to get a little thick and the yolks got a little lighter in color.  Maybe a minute or two.  Then I started adding the oil.  And when I tell you I added it a drop at a time I'm not exaggerating.  I love me a good hyperbole, but this is not a hyperbole. I think this is where I went wrong in the other 6 attempts -- I added the oil too quickly (they all say to add it in a thin stream but they lie.  It's all lies.  DROPS not STREAMS here).  I would add a drop and then mix mix mix.  Add a drop and mix mix mix.  I got a little downtrodden because I didn't think it was getting thicker and then magically it did! It started ribboning out of the mixer beaters and I began crying tears of joy.  I thought: this might actually happen!! At some point when I starts to get thicker, word on the street is you can add the oil in more of a thin stream.  I didn't trust myself, or my emulsion, so I stuck with the drops.  And it took me nearly 30 minutes to make the mayo.  Once your oil is all in/you like your consistency, add in the juice of a lemon and mix again.  And tah-daaaaaa! You have homemade Whole30 and paleo mayo!

This beautiful nectar of the gods was quickly turned into chicken salad and ranch dip.  Ranch dip was mayo, garlic, fresh chives, fresh dill, dried parsley, salt, pepper and unsweetened coconut milk to thin it out (you could use regular milk or even buttermilk to thin it out, but no dairy on Whole30.  And you can't taste coconut at all in the unsweetened coconut milk, I swear!).  So stinking good!

time

Time is such a funny thing.  Sometimes it seems to move by so fast.  Sometimes it seems to stand still.  Sometimes there's too much time.  Sometimes there's too little.  Most often it's never what you want or need it to be.

I sat down today after work (the first time all week I've had a chance to watch Food Network and zone out after work all week) with the itch to write.  Autumn showed up today in CLE in a big way.  All chilly and sort of gloomy.  Perfect weather for a warm Starbucks drink and writing.  And then I remembered again what day it is.

We had a moment of silence today at school.  One, frankly, that they forgot to tell us to sit down from so we were all sort of standing there twiddling our thumbs for a while.  And then a different principal than the one who ushered us in to the moment of silence told us to sit down. And then she didn't hang up the intercom so we hear her tell the whole office that they forgot about us and she saw the whole dining hall still standing.  And then you could hear the office phone ringing, and then more ringing and multiple teachers were calling down to say "hang up the intercom."

Today is a very introspective day for many.  But it isn't for my students.  Thirteen years ago these kids were preschoolers.  It doesn't mean anything to them.  Well, I should give them more credit: it means very little to them.  And I can't blame them.  I was 3 when the Challenger crashed.  I sure did squeak a lifetime of school projects out of that event, but it meant little else to me than that.

As time moves further and further on this day will become an other D-Day, or Pearl Harbor Day, or whatever day is important to that specific generation.  Time doesn't care if we take the time to honor these days and these people.   But we should.  It's our American duty.  So today, I honor them.

tales from room 102 (part one)

[I love my job.  Like, love love love my job.  There are very few days where I wake up dreading going to work.  Do I dread waking up? Yes.  Do I dread being a reasonably responsible adult? Yes. Do I dread other parts of the day? Yes.  But overall, dreading my job ain't my thang.  Occasionally, ok often, funny things happen in my classroom or during my day.  Here's the part where I document them for your pleasure. Hopefully they don't end up being "you had to be there" moments.]

I am a creature of habit.  While I like to think that not every behavior needs or requires a diagnosis, I think I have some OCD-like tendencies.  Or, I like to think of these tendencies as just ways to make my life super efficient.

Like breakfast.

I eat the same breakfast nearly every day.  During the school year it looks like this: greek yogurt during first period (last year it was my planning period, this year it's my duty, so I'm not eating in front of students).  An hour or so later during homeroom and/or third period, I eat a banana.

This first week I was Struggling Stanley with getting back into the groove.  The first day of school I forgot both my banana and my water bottle.  I was in a state.  I was more careful the next few days, but forgot my banana again on Thursday.

Always one for preparedness, I keep a small stash of emergency items in my closet, including both a skirt and some snacks.  I'll tell you about the skirt sometime, if you'd like.  During third period, which happens to be my honors class, I realized that I had yet again forgotten my banana. The students were working on something in small groups so I walked over to my closet and grabbed a quick handful of trail mix.

Side note: Did you know that Trader Joe's carries 18 varieties of trail mix?  Eighteen.  That's a lot of trail mix.  My favorite mix right now? Almonds, peanuts, dark chocolate chips and dried raspberries. You're welcome.

Kids are always super curious about what you're doing, so as I was munching heads popped up left and right asking what I was eating.

"Trail mix," I said, "because I forgot my banana today."

"No, actually, you have a banana," some of them chime in.

I looked at my desk trying to see if I had, in fact, remembered my banana and maybe just forgot that it was there.  No banana to be seen.  So I asked for clarification.

One chatty redheaded boy proclaimed, " it's on your shirt!"

Here's the part where I tell you I have a thing for clothing with a whimsical print.  If you know me and/or have seen me in person, this is not surprising in the slightest.  I have items of clothing with chickens, birds, pineapples, assorted fruit, bicycles, dogs, more birds, the alphabet, barn animals, and more I'm sure I have forgotten.

So I look down at my shirt.  Apples? Yes.  Strawberry? Accounted for.  Orange? Right there front and center.  But no banana to be seen.  Witnessing my confusion a few kids point and say, "see, it's right there!"

Sure enough.  There's a banana on my shirt.  Exactly in the spot right under my right boob where I cannot see it.  But where, evidently, they can.  

"Huh, I can't see that" I say.  

And they all laugh.

And because sometimes I'm a sophomore at heart, and honors kids are generally funny kids, and because I can't resist the opportunity I add: "And stop looking at my banana." 

what to expect when...

Let's take a minute and talk about expectations.  I'm the kind of person who likes to know from the get-go where we're going.  What's the End Game? Where's our destination?  This very fact is probably the one that held me back from dusting off the old blog to start writing again.  The first blog I began was done so with the intent to keep family and friends abreast of all of the exciting things I was up to while living 2000 miles away from home in Arizona.  It had a point.  A purpose.

This space right here? I'm not sure what its point or purpose is.  And I suppose it doesn't need to have one.  That is, outside of a creative space for me to ramble on to a captive audience.  The risk that we run on this here path is this: blogs are, at their core, inherently narcissistic.  If an author isn't careful, a blog is likely to end up being all "mememememememememe" all day every day.  And while I have a small amount of narcism in me, that's not entirely who I am.

And, because I've put on Facebook that I've started writing again, out of fear of losing friends and admirers, I'm limited in some of the content I can write about.  You can all let out a sigh of relief that I probably (mostly likely, I'll try really hard) won't write about you, at least not in a negative light.  Yes, you.  You're welcome.  

Obviously there will be hilarious tales from Room 102.  Obviously I'll write about the silly things that happen to me.  I'll probably write about some serious stuff from time to time; you know, weigh in as I see fit.

But other than that, I don't really have an End Game.  I'm going to try to enjoy the journey and see where it takes us.  I'm also going to try to avoid only talking about myself.  Because frankly, that's boring.  Feel free to add into the comments what you're hoping to get out of this as a reader.  Anything in particular you want to hear? Thanks for hopping along on this adventure!

shifting gears

Sixteen-and-a-half years ago when I was learning to drive, my two vehicle choices were a gigantic conversion van or a mid 1990s Ford Mustang.  The obvious choice here is the Mustang, except for the fact that that beautiful blue Mustang was a manual transmission. This Mustang was also so fancy that it was the first car we owned that came complete with a tape deck.  This was such a high-tech feature that there was a serious argument between my dad and sister; dad asserting that there was no way a car he bought could have a tape deck, much much too fancy, and my teenaged sister insisting that yes, that is in fact a tape deck, here, pop in my Ace of Base cassette and find out.  Guess who won that argument.  But I digress.  My dad had a penchant for purchasing Mustangs (and frankly still does), and it must be a stick shift.  And thus I learned the dying art form of driving a manual transmission.

Driving a stick shift car is a beautifully choreographed dance.  Once a driver becomes a seasoned stick-shifter they no longer rely on the tachometer to know when to shift into a higher or lower gear; the music of the engine tells them when it's time.  There's a sweet spot to switching the gear: if you upshift without accelerating enough you're likely to stall.  If you downshift without slowing down enough, you're also likely to stall.  And stalling is the.worst.  Not that I would know anything about this.  Maybe I know a little.  Like stalling repeatedly at a fairly busy corner as all of my friends whizzed past in their automatic transmission cars.  Not that I remember that or anything.

The blue Mustang I mentioned earlier took its fair share of beatings from the learn-to-drivers in my family.  The transition from first gear to second gear got to be pretty ugly.  It required the driver to really give a good tug down into second gear, and if not properly shoved into place the gears would jam and make the most awful noise, not to mention some probably serious damage to the engine.  At some point in the life of the car it got to the point where the driver needed to skip second gear all together and slide right in to third gear.  This required a little more acceleration than normal, but it got the job done.

"Gee, Kerrie," you're all thinking, "why this driving lesson?"

Well, here I stand at a pretty big transition in my year.  And I'm not so good at transitions.  They're hard on me.  The rest of the working world is envious of my two month siesta and I'm all over here saying "I wish I could work more year round-er" (which is to say I would still like that amount of time off during the year, just perhaps more spread out.  Year round school anyone??).  The transition into summer is a hard one; it feels like I'm moving from fifth gear into first and I haven't slowed down enough yet.  And now, the transition from summer to school year is like going from first to fifth and I I haven't given the engine enough gas yet.  Case and point: I nearly fell asleep today in my yoga class ... before it even began.

Certainly I can't be the only one who experiences this to some degree.  But I can't help but wonder if it's a harder transition for me because I'm half introvert/half extrovert.  I only have it in me to be an extrovert until about 3pm. After that point I lose all steam and the introverted part of me takes over in a big way.

So what's the point of all of this? I'm not really sure.  I guess I'm saying I'm tired. And it's only the second day of school.  It will get easier, I know.  But it's this transition that's rough.  So why not complicate things just a little more by starting a blog? Ok! Will do! And awaaaaayyyyy we go!