Easter Mash Up

This is Pulaski’s meat market. Every year I trek there for kielbasa, ham, pierogies, etc. for our mix and match Easter. North American Catholic traditions, check! Eastern European homage to pork, check!

I wait my turn with old school Polish, Ukrainian, Czech couples. One of these things is not like the other. And that thing is me people.
I get my number and start the wait. I’m #93. They are on #18.
No, you can’t wander about the market while your number is called. There’s no side shopping while you wait. This is like the soup nazi for meat. Wait your turn. Know what you want. Do not hesitate.
But I’m not scared. This isn’t my first polka. I may look completely and utterly out of place. But I know exactly what to order.
2 1/2 hours later. Success.
It’s not Easter until my Subaru smells like kielbasa.

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A Full Plate

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Grilled cheese sandwiches have always been my friend.

No steaks
No caviar
No lobster
Not for me

That’s what I had in the Kmart cafe in Albany when I was 10 and my mom told me she was preggers with my sister.

It’s what I had at the Friendly’s across the street from the library in 10th grade with my bestie instead of doing our history paper.

It’s what my boyfriend in college treated me to. I was a cheap date.

It’s what I had when that boy married me and we partied all night and went to a Greek diner at 5am.

It’s what I have now with my punks and their friends on a rockin’ Friday night that ends at 8.

Cheese. Bread. The building blocks to a good life. Fries are good too.

Bard Books

I went to go visit the cutest little baby on the Upper West Side of NYC. I would show you a picture but his parents are normal, private people that don’t need to Facebook, Twitter and Instagram every waking moment of their new baby’s life. Instead they are living in the moment and off the social grid. Freaks.
Look at these books I found for the babe. Forget “Goodnight Moon” – cool babies read these…

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I went with the fish tale…

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They also had Romeo and Juliet…but that’s just crazy.

Here’s to you Mrs. Jones

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This is my boy and his all time favorite teacher – Mrs. Jones.

A second after 3rd grade started, the teacher he was supposed to have all year had a baby and Mrs. Jones stepped in. She immediately turned the room into an interactive, dynamic place – new rugs, new wall coverings, new everything. It wasn’t just room B-6, it was Hollywood.  All the “kiddos”, as she called them, were mini directors in their own productions. The room was covered in colorful, themed imagery.  She was animated and sweet and my boy (and the whole class) loved it.

As the year went on and we all got to know Mrs. Jones, it was clear how much she loved teaching and how much she loved our kids. Yes, all the usual teaching stuff happened. They learned, they read, they wrote.  But her class was more than that – it was fun. It was silly. It was over the top. And it was exactly what those little people needed. I’ve never had a teacher send me daily updates (sometimes more!) or pictures of fun things the class did that day.  We even got Sunday reminders of what the week ahead would look like. I don’t know about you, but I try very hard to forget where I work from Friday night to Sunday night, not her.  It was obvious that this wasn’t a burden for her.

This past week we got a letter from the school that our original teacher (who I’m sure is a wonderful person) is coming back for the last two months of school.

Devastation ensued.

9 year olds crying everywhere.

I still remember my favorite elementary school teacher, Mr. Walter Freeman. 4th Grade. He ate oranges at his desk every morning. When you went up to talk to him,  he had a citrus halo around him. Is it weird that almost all my good memories have food related connections? Anyway. He was dreamy.

Teaching is a calling. You need some sort of superpower to be able to walk into those classrooms every day and actually enjoy being there.

So good luck to you Mrs. Jones – there’s a lucky class out there waiting for your cheery voice.  Thanks for making a really good memory for my boy.

Close….

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You know those weekends when the garbage bag almost makes it to the garbage? And then you just come to terms with it being on the floor. And you start using it. And then it gets fuller and fuller to the point where it’s too late to stuff into the can. That would be wasted energy, you think. The next bag will go right in, you decide. And the other three people that live with you decide the same thing. You’re not committing a crime. This is no big deal. I mean… How type A would you have to be to get totally obsessed with a dumb bag.
Oh thank god.
My husband just threw the bag out. I love him.. I just hope he puts a new bag in. Happy Weekend!

Kiss this week goodbye!

This clip may make you as happy as it made me this morning. Peace out.

Do you world Promise?

These two monkeys live in my house and yell and fight and laugh all day long.

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They’ve been at it since she was 5 and he was born.

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They are 5 years apart. Two little Scorpios.

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She was going to be an only child – imagine that! But then we came to our senses and added the ying to her yang.

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They are so different. And so alike. They write each other letters of love and devotion – and then sell each other out at the drop of a hat.

She’s his best friend – says him.

He’s her best friend – says him.

When they tell each other secrets they make a “world” promise. The biggest, most powerful kind of promise. A promise that, if broken, can have dire circumstances. These usually involve hidden candy in their rooms, newly learned bad words or inappropriate videos on YouTube. The usual world promise stuff.

Last night I was writing another blog post and my girl asked what the topic was. When I told her what I was writing about she said,”oh. you should write about me and Jack.” So there you go.

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