Pay Attention!

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT’S relativity.”

- Albert Einstein

What type of student are you?

When I was young, I was talker. A fidgeter. Since first grade, I’ve doodled in the margins of my textbooks. Early on, I learned if I drew, it kept me listening to the teacher and less likely to talk. Besides, I wanted to be an artist. I recall drawing my nun instructor during CCD and proudly showing her the portrait after class. Her face read a mixture of delight and disappointment. I promised her I had been paying attention.

Besides doodling, I took copious amounts of notes. So many that one fingernail is slightly flattened. In college, for a fifty-minute lecture, I’d write at least five pages. For an hour-and-twenty, I’d fill in at least seven.

I’m a tactile learner*. One of my studying strategies was to recopy my notes to prepare for an exam.

Last week on Wednesday evening, I received a call for a three-day Special Education gig at the high school. As I’ve learned from previous Special Ed. assignments, saying “Yes” to one is like picking the “Potpourri” category on a quiz show. Would I teach a subject alone or co-teach in more of an assistant role? And what exactly would the subject be? Mysterious….

I showed up on Thursday morning to find out I’d be co-teaching (Whew) MATH (Gasp). Those of you who have followed by blog for an extended period of time know that math and I do NOT get along. Want evidence? http://theresamilstein.blogspot.com/2010/01/special.html

The other teacher was the lead, so I was supposed to provide academic support. Who was going to provide me with academic support wasn’t clear. Have I mentioned the only reason I passed college Calculus is because my now-husband tutored me? And that was a LONG, LONG time ago. You’d think with all of these Math gigs, I’d have absorbed something. (Not without writing it down!)

The teacher didn’t actually introduce me to any of the classes, though he did tell me to write my name on the board.

At some point he explained the other teacher would be out and added, “Ms. Milstein will be here for the next three days.”

One student blurted, “Who’s Ms. Milstein?”

The teacher pointed to me. “Her.”

Awesome.

The teacher resembled the teacher from the TV show “Thirtysomething”. Remember that one? And man is he a good teacher. First, let me give him props for having a timer dock on his desk with a remote control. When a student is granted permission to use the bathroom, s/he takes the remote portion and both timers begin… well… timing. The teacher and student know how long this “bathroom” break is taking. And if a student disappears for too long, s/he has to make up the time.

Next impressive move is when a student asks for a pencil, the teacher says, “What will you give me?” I witnessed pencils swapped for a book and a trinket. I can’t tell you how much wasted time there is in a classroom over lack of writing implements. Few teachers give pencils freely since after a meager supply from the school budget, more pencils must come out of their own pockets. Some teachers have a No Pencil rule, but then precious time is wasted while students grub for pencils from their classmates. Other teachers buy boxes of golf pencils but then there’s the whole lack-of-eraser issue. Other teachers give out pencils as gifts and prizes, only to say a day later, “What happened to that pencil I gave you?”

Besides cutting out the nonsense of bathroom breaks and pencils, he was just a plain good teacher. He made use of the smart board more than any other teacher I’ve observed, not only making use of multiple boards on the screen, but also to play Math Jeopardy (I was in charge of keeping score). After he asked a question, the man didn’t mind long bouts of silence to let students puzzle out an answer. If a student mumbled an answer the teacher would say, “Loud and proud”. Students were encouraged to try in order to learn. He also broke up the time in about three different activities, making the long block more manageable so the students kept their attention. The way he taught problems, even I began to get it.

And when students wouldn't participate, he made everyone stand. A student would only be allowed to sit when s/he answered part of the equation correctly. That would've been enough motivation for me to learn math!

Other than scoring Jeopardy, I didn’t have much to do. When I looked at their problems, my mind was as blank as their pages.

At some point, the teacher told me he’d be out the next day so I’d (gulp) be ON MY OWN. He handed me the packets and told me to “look them over” during break. I was able to do about five problems in two packets, so I told him I’d take them home, figuring my husband could help me create an answer key.

WRONG.

Apparently, he was rusty. He acted like a student, reminding himself what the formulas were and how to solve them. And he didn’t get very far, so I was a ball of anxiety, threatening to jump out a fifth-floor window if things didn’t go well. (Even though they don’t open and the construction workers all over the roof would stop me. Probably.)

Got to school on Friday and … what do you know… he left me answer keys. I was able to help the classes. Hooray! My biggest concern became second period because they’d been a bit difficult the day before. When the one who needed the most attention began acting up, I said, “You teacher told me how smart you are. Why aren’t you focusing on your work?” That did the trick.

And I kept up with the timer and pencil-swapping rule, so now the teacher has a mini bottle of lotion.

Monday, the teacher was impressed I’d left him a note about the day. Apparently, NOBODY has ever left him a note before. And so I was back in the assistant role. It was a long, painful day. Just sitting, not doodling, refraining from fidgeting, paying attention to math equations, is a long and boring way to spend the day. I shouldn’t complain because it’s easier than the way Monday and Tuesday went last week (more on the Jerry Springer incident in another post), but the day went slowly. To say the least.

* Post that has info about learning styles:

http://theresamilstein.blogspot.com/2009/10/ill-health.html

Outtakes

Statue on a timeout at the wedding reception.

“He is truly wise who gains wisdom from another’s mishap.”

- Publilius Syrus

Not everything in Ireland and Paris went smoothly. I remembered to pack everything, no luggage lost, the weather cooperated, and my children behaved better than I’d hoped, especially since we walked constantly everyday and stayed up late every night. That said; there were a few mishaps.

Our seats weren't together for our flight from Boston to Dublin. My daughter and I took the two seats together in one row, while my husband and son were going to sit apart in the next row. A raucous crew of friends was visiting Dublin for a golf trip. They shifted so my husband and son could sit together. The drinking buddies kept it up during the flight.

At some point, the man next to my son and my son fell asleep. They wound up leaning on one another. Near the end of the flight, the man awoke and kissed my son on the top of my head. Realizing it wasn’t his own child; he made a sheepish smile to my surprised kid.

My daughter brought a few items to play with, while my son only brought his Nintendo. She packed Kelly Dolls and Playmobil people. My son and daughter saved up more than twenty dollars before the trip, so they could buy souvenirs, and my daughter also planned to buy more toys. We found a toy store in Dublin. My son bought a couple Lego Mini figures that came in a wrapper so the contents were unknown. I dubbed these “Russian Roulette Legos”. My daughter bought two Playmobil sets.

A couple of days later, we went to the post-wedding brunch. My daughter and a girl her age happily played with the Playmobil figures in the living room. At some point, one of the horses became wedged behind the radiator. The playmate kept saying, “She lost it and now she can’t get a new one.” (I guess that’s the rule at her house.) After several people attempted to retrieve the toy, my husband was finally able to save it by using a bamboo stick.

That night we ate dinner at a pub. When we returned to the hotel, we realized my daughter’s toy bag was missing. (And yes, the same bag holding the horse we spent 30-minutes trying to fish out of the radiator.) I called the restaurant, but they couldn’t find it. Thank goodness my daughter’s Nintendo wasn’t in the bag.

The next day, while I met the Irish bloggers, my husband returned to the restaurant, but couldn’t find the bag. He took my daughter to the toy store to buy new figures, with the understanding that whatever she spent would come out of future allowance. I bit complained when I saw the majority of her purchases were Lego sets. More pieces to lose!

That night, we took a taxi to Dublin Airport. As soon as we checked in, I noticed we were near a MAC counter that had a limited-edition blush I’d coveted, which would be duty-free! My husband took the kids so I’d have a few minutes to shop. The salesperson asked for my boarding pass to buy it, so I spent several minutes looking for my husband, who had the boarding passes. When he finally came back, I got the boarding pass, and he told me to meet them at the gate. I was only going to take a minute to pay, but I assumed he was annoyed (even though it wasn’t my fault) so I let them go without me.

When I looked at the boarding pass, the number of the gate was hard to read because part of it printed in the perforation. (Did I mention when I’m under stress I make all the wrong choices?) I found a list of flights. The flight number didn’t match, but I saw a gate and made my way over. I got there, but it was empty. I walked back up the stairs and looked again. I tried asking a few people, but nobody viewing the screen spoke English. (Where were all the employees right when I needed them?) I went back down, but it was still empty. What time was it? I began to panic. After running back upstairs, I found someone who said I was probably in the wrong place, and he told me to head down another hall.

I RAN. I checked that screen and found the correct flight. Then I headed towards the gate. Soon it became apparent it was a L O N G C O R R I D O R. Did I mention I hate running? I had no choice because it was late. By the time I arrived, most of the plane had boarded. When I reached them, I began tearing up. My poor son, who gets nervous about being late or in the wrong place, was full of anxiety. Soon, I was blubbering. So embarrassing.

When we landed, it was LATE. We took the train into Paris, getting off at the Les Halles stop. My husband (who says I’m embellishing and denies this was his idea. He’s in denial.) suggested we walk so the kids could see a little of Paris. Foreshadow. The long escalator was broken and reeked of urine, so we hefted our bags up many steps while trying to hold our breath. When we got outside, it had rained and was misty. It was after 10:00 pm, we were all tired trying to read signs and coordinate it with a map. One by one, we had a meltdown.

Schlepping our bags down the Rue de Rivoli seemed to take forever. By the time we reached the hotel, it was nearly 11:00 pm.

Speaking of urine, we decided to take a leisurely stroll by the Seine River, which had been so romantic the last time my husband and I strolled. Apparently, we chose the stretch where people sleep overnight and use the area to take care of certain needs. All needs, apparently. We ran back up the next set of steps. My daughter and husband mimicked the idea of the Fancy Nancy books, saying, "The fancy word for poop is feces."

My sister requested a specific Le Roche Posay sunscreen they don’t sell in The States. I almost bought it in Dublin but worried the longer I had it, the more likely something would happen to the bottle. Why I worried, I have no idea. French company, I’ll buy it in Paris. Small problem, all the bottles in Paris were in three languages, none of them English. I found an employee who spoke a little English and said; yes this particular bottle was the one for oily skin. I had to take her word for it.

Me in Paris, before make up and coffee.

Our return flight to Boston had a five-hour layover in Montreal. We sat at our gate an hour before boarding. It was about 1 am Paris time at that point. Everyone crashed. My husband fell asleep while children quietly read and lounged:

About thirty-minutes before boarding, I gazed down at my daughter propped against my arm, and realized she’d fallen asleep. When it was time to board, my husband carried my napping daughter. I belted her in. We flew. She slept. We landed. She lost a shoe as my husband carried her off the plane, but the flight attendant retrieved it. My daughter woke up at the baggage area unaware we’d been on a plane.

We called our friend, who was kind enough to drive to the airport and take us home. Thanks, Corey!

I Am a Writer

“One should not pursue goals that are easily achieved. One must develop an instinct for what one can barely achieve through one’s greatest efforts.”

- Albert Einstein

I am a writer.

One day (hopefully soon) I will be a published writer. When that happens, I hope I’m interviewed because I want to tell my story. As an unpublished writer, nothing inspires me more than to hear success stories that include trials and tribulations of previously struggling writers. Does overnight success depress you as much as it depresses me?

Elana Johnson: http://elanajohnson.blogspot.com/

Interview:(http://jennifer-daiker.blogspot.com/2010/06/interview-elana-johnson.html)

and

Beth Revis: http://bethrevis.blogspot.com/ Interview: http://misssnarksfirstvictim.blogspot.com/2010/04/author-interview-beth-revis.html

have done these types of interviews. Both of these writers have agents. Both have recently received publishing contracts. Both worked hard to get where they are.

This will be my story:

For years, I didn’t feel I had the right to be a writer. I came up with ideas, some written on paper, some typed on a computer. Then I reminded myself, I am not a writer, and those pieces were discarded.

I didn’t go to school to learn the craft of writing. While I did fine in my high school and college creative writing courses, I took them for fun. In high school, I planned to be a fashion designer, so writing wasn’t where I spent my time or energy. In college, I decided to major in History and minor in Political Science. I had different ambitions. Different dreams.

Still the ideas came. They began when I was a teenager, interfering with my sleep.

When my son attended preschool, I attempted a picture book. Without any feedback, I sent it to about five publishers. The query was wrong. The formatting of the picture book manuscript was horrendously wrong. I received a couple of form rejections and a few publishers didn’t bother to reply.

Years went by.

A spark*.

I began to write.

About six-weeks later, I was proud of my completed manuscript. I edited it with few changes. I knew someone who worked at Candlewick who gave it to an editor. Melissa Glenn Haber gave me the name of her agent, so I sent it to her.

I received rejections.

Though I didn’t know it, I had MUCH to learn.

For years:

I fumbled.

I stumbled.

I fell

flat

on my face.

Then I received a couple of requests for fulls.

Hope.

A few kind agents and editors took the time to tell me what was wrong with my manuscripts. I didn’t understand exactly what they meant. But I saved them.

I understand now.

I understand because I’ve worked hard to understand.

It took homework, collaboration, research, discipline. NOT excuses.

Grammar can’t be fudged. Submitting without having beta readers look at my work is unfathomable. Editing other people’s manuscripts makes me a stronger writer. Workshops always teach me something new. Writing everyday is a must. Doing homework is a must. Rushing to submit a manuscript before it’s ready is writerly suicide. If I want an agent or contract, I need to send them the best product I (with help from my beta readers) know how.

When I land an agent, I will count my rejections. I can’t right now or I’ll lose hope. It’s not that many for any particular manuscript. I’d do my version of polishing, querying, and then receive rejections.

I’d give up on that manuscript and move on to the next one. Sometimes, I’d do my version of changes from feedback. But I’d only send to another handful of places before giving up again.

I was in a rush to win a race. Publishing was supposed to save me.

Now I know it’s writing that saves me.

For years I queried mostly publishers instead of agents. Some people swear by that route, but if anyone had offered me a contact, I would’ve been uneasy negotiating on my own.

Now I’m trying to land an agent first. My manuscripts are on the brink of ready. REALLY ready this time. I’ve been reading to become a better writer. Books on grammar and writing. Fiction. Nonfiction. YA.

Some things haven’t changed:

I still don’t outline.

I have no writing schedule with demands of time of day, length of time, or word count.

I still need to kill extraneous words: that, of, was, were.

But I believe I’ve conquered (most) of my writing demons.

I know what a voice is and I’ve found my voice.

Maybe a round of queries will prove me wrong. But I won’t give up. When it comes to querying, I’ve confused losing a battle with losing a war. No more.

I am a writer.

I’m not a published one.

But I hope to be.

We all start somewhere. Maybe my start is similar to your start or maybe you hit the ground running. Maybe we have the same strengths and weaknesses or different strengths and weaknesses.

Marsha Moore/Talli Roland: http://talliroland.blogspot.com/

and

Karen Gowen Jones: http://karenjonesgowen.blogspot.com/

explain publication doesn’t mean instant success. Their hard work doesn’t stop because they’re published authors.

The work won’t stop for you.

The work won’t stop for me.

It took me four years to really, really get it.

When I made business cards for the NESCBWI conference this year, I decided to write:

YA AUTHOR

Elana Johnson has it on her blog. So does Tahereh: http://stiryourtea.blogspot.com/

I’m an unpublished author, but so what?

When the subject comes up, I tell people I’m a writer. Or author. Then I say I’m not published.

What’s their reaction?

I don’t care.

I don’t hide.

I don’t fear.

I just keep working hard.

Theresa Milstein, YA Author (Albeit Temporarily Unpublished)

What’s your story?

The story of the spark is here:

http://theresamilstein.blogspot.com/2009/09/reading-aloud.html

Celtic Cuisine and French Fare

View of Sugar Loaf Mountain at the wedding reception.

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

- J.R.R. Tolkien

Monday evening, even though I still suffered from jet lag, despite bumbling through a horror sub job, I cooked. After halving a pint of cherry tomatoes, I brushed them in olive oil, salt, pepper, and a pinch of sugar. I tossed cauliflower florets with salt, pepper, and olive oil in a pan. Both dishes roasted in the oven. Next, I sautéed mushroom halves in salt, pepper, bacon fat, and butter. Lastly, I assembled a ground beef, potato, prosciutto, and mushroom gratin.

Eating new foods inspires me to cook. AND to EAT.

First… Ireland:

I started the trip with a traditional Irish breakfast at Bewley’s Café, complete with eggs, black and white "puddings", sausages, toast, sautéed mushrooms, and roasted tomatoes. Later, the rehearsal dinner at The Cellar at the Merrion Hotel was a wedding in itself. The meal was fabulous. Salmon tartar, potato soup, fish, and asparagus. And plenty of wine.

Afterwards at the bar, my daughter step danced to traditional Irish music. (How she figured it out, I have no idea. Genetics?)

My son sat amazed at the dexterity and speed of the bartenders. He had two Shirley Temples. Now I’m worried he’ll switch from wanting to be a chef to a bartender.

The Conrad Dublin has a wonderful breakfast buffet that was included in the cost of our hotel room. (And they have the best pillows and comforters. Really.) Each morning I ate fresh fruit, smoked salmon, cheeses, excellent breads (including one sprinkled with sunflower seeds), and those wonderful sautéed mushrooms. And lots of coffee.

The wedding took place at Powerscourt Estate House. They served pea soup with clotted cream, asparagus soup with truffle shavings, and an array of wonderful appetizers. Dinner was delicious. I had well-cooked salmon, my son raved about the tender lamb. Then came a cheese plate with an array of lovely breads, and cute butter florets:

The cake was too rich to eat after all that cheese. And the wine kept flowing. Good thing I danced a lot. Look how beautifully they lit the dance room:

The next day we attended a brunch. The bride’s aunt set up a fabulous spread of smoked salmon, Irish soda bread, two kinds of tarts, and a Cleopatra Salad (apparently the Irish are still hold a grudge against Caesar). She also made an orange dessert that was similar to key lime pie.

Monday night we ate at an Irish pub called Porterhouse. I ate fish and chips and drank a beer. But I cheated because it was a Lambic. I have to admit, I hate beer. Hate it. I guess that part of me isn’t Irish.

My husband and I wanted to eat at Mao’s (Vietnamese) like we did eleven-years-ago, but we ran out of time before we had to head to the airport. So we got gyros instead. (Ireland: so international.)

Now… Paris:

Every morning, we started with breads, cheeses, and pastries. Once we got food on the Rue de Rivoli to take to the Palais Royale. Two times we bought breakfast at The Louvre gardens. It was lovely until my daughter put her hand in a big wad of pigeon poop. A couple of times, we sat at a café with coffee or wine and people-watched. Ah, to be a Parisian who could afford to do this everyday…

Our first night, we walked around the Les Halles area, unsure of where to eat. We didn’t want to eat at a tourist trap, but how would we know which place was a tourist trap? My daughter started to cry over our inability to make a decision (and hunger). It was the Paradox of Choice*.

Finally, we settled on a place that wound up being very good. I got another plate of cheeses and bread. My husband ordered a chopped duck liver plate, which was the best chopped liver I’d ever had. I much preferred it to a slab of fois gras. We had a lot of problems ordering here because the waitress didn’t speak any English and the waiter only spoke son, but he was awfully nice. We fumbled through it together.

My daughter ordered steak, which came with a side of one of the most flavorful gravies I’d ever tasted. My son had veal with a mushroom au jus. My husband and I were pretty full, so we ordered a fancy salad that we saw at another table. Turns out it was “off menu” and it took us a long time to explain we wanted, “the salad that woman was eating earlier.” My daughter ordered tarte tatin, which she didn’t like, so she got my son to fork over half his crème brulee.

While they ate dessert, the waiter came out with a GIANT pot of goo. Each plate had a sausage. He went to the pot and sort of scooped and rolled the doughy substance around the spoon and onto the plate. What is that? Why didn’t we order that? Turns out that the white stuff was a mixture of cream, potatoes, and cheese. I tried to get my husband to agree to eat there another day, but he refused.

The next night, we met a friend’s girlfriend and her son at their place for dinner at the La Defense stop. The friend was on a business trip, which was a shame. They had been our hosts for our last trip to Paris. Still, my kids got a kick out of the twenty-month-old and taught him how to high five. We had Chinese food for dinner, which was less fast food takeout than in most of the places in America. And for our part, we brought Bordeaux and a box of the best macaroons on the planet from Laduree on Champs Elysées:

At the end of the meal, the girlfriend said she and her boyfriend are getting married in the South of France at the end of June next year. Would we like to come? !!!!!

Later, I told my husband if he’s remotely thinking about it we’ll have to go on austerity for the next year. We may even need to sell a child. Or two.

Our last night in Paris. Mon Dieu! I’d forgotten to look up how to say “bone marrow” in French, but the girlfriend told us. This was good because I couldn’t order it on my own. Waiters had no idea what I was talking about. Desperate, I asked a woman on the street, who, when I said, “beef” in French and pointed to my leg, tried to send me to a pharmacy. Luckily, my husband looked it up on the Internet and found a place a few blocks from our hotel, which was supposed to have the best bone marrow in Paris at Aux Bons Crux:

We sat right next to the chalkboard.

The last meal exceeded expectations. It began with bone marrow on toast. Shockingly, nobody in my family seemed as wowed about marrow as me. (And at only 6,50 euro.) My daughter ordered salmon tartar, my son had veal, my husband ate duck, and I devoured beef carpaccio. Each dish came with delicious roasted potatoes. More wine.

It’s a good thing we walked virtually every waking hour because I didn’t gain any weight. And now we need to lay off the butter, meat, and cheese for a little bit. Our arteries are still sluggish. At least in both places, all meals were served with seasonal fruits and vegetables, so we had plenty of asparagus and strawberries.

That night, we waited until 11 pm when the first flashing lights on the hour at the Eiffel Tower began:

Turn up the volume if you want to hear how "romantic" the viewing was with our children.

Sitting, still full from dinner, surrounded by my family, with people lined all along the bridge was a bittersweet moment. The trip neared its end.

I may not have had time to see everything I wanted in Dublin or Paris, but I ate and drank to my heart’s content, and had a wonderful time.

Au Revoir!

More on the paradox of choice:

http://theresamilstein.blogspot.com/2010/01/scrimp-and-save.html

Terror Tuesday Blogfest

I hit 200 followers! Thank you. Contest coming soon!

Mary McDonald is hosting a “Tuesday Terror Blogfest”: http://mmcdonald64.blogspot.com/2010/06/blogfest-terror-tuesday-june-8th.htmlI decided to submit the prologue of a sequel to Aura. Enjoy!

I always felt a rush after breaking and entering. The stash in my bag rattled comfortingly against my back as I descended the steps of the Manhattan brownstone. A block or so away I began to whistle contentedly as I sauntered home. I enjoyed the adrenaline high of the whole experience, but getting home to survey my treasures and predict the money they would generate was the best part. I quickened my pace in anticipation.

After another block, I got the sense someone was following me. That was a surprise, because I prided myself on my discretion. I went in and out like a shadow, and all these years had never been close to being caught. There was an art to theft and I was a master artist - the Cezanne of stealing, so to speak. I quickly turned, but saw no one. Still I could not shake the feeling that someone pursued me.

Many blocks later, I came near my apartment in a less savory part of the city. I could afford to live in a nicer neighborhood, but why reside next to the people you take from? Besides, I wanted to stay near my kind – those who take advantage of the weak. In this area, there were many darkened alleyways where I could lose a person easily if someone followed me. I found a street with a broken light so I could barely see and ducked into one of the alleys, certain I’d shaken the pursuer. I decided to wait a few minutes to make sure.

Without a sound, the man stepped in front of me. I put my hand on the knife in my pocket, reassuringly. Whatever this guy wanted, he was no match for me. Even as he came closer and I saw his large size and almost Neanderthal features, I felt reassured by my blade.

“What do you want?” I asked like wanted to know the time.

“Me? I want to drain the blood out of your body. Because it’s a full moon, you will transform into a vampire, like myself. Then you’ll join my army because I need your special talents.”

I was dealing with a whacko. I decided to keep him talking and when his guard was down, I’d stab him. “You’re familiar with my work?”

The man gave a crude smile. “I’ve been tracking you for months. You’re almost vampire-like, the way you sneak in and out of houses with supreme agility, undetected by none but me. I wanted to take you sooner, but I had to wait until you decided to steal on the full moon. I’ve been getting quite impatient.”

He believed every word he said and I found it unnerving but I did my best to hide it. “What do you use your army for?”

“For now, just to get me money, power, and influence in this area. But soon, I’d like to take over the vampire world.”

I ran out of things to say. Each time he spoke I felt more fear, an emotion I wasn’t used to feeling. I gripped the blade and went to make my move. But he grabbed me before I could even pull the knife from my pocket. He seized my head with one hand and my shoulder with the other as he stared into my eyes. I became paralyzed – not by fright, but as in a trance. I stood as a statue, as he commanded, “You will join my army and stay loyal to me and only me.” It was pointless to fight, to say I worked alone. Whatever he wanted me to do, I’d do.

He leaned in and pierced my neck flesh with his teeth. I could not scream, though the pain seared my skin. As he sucked, my body weakened, and then collapsed to the ground.

The man chuckled as he scooped up my rag doll body and tossed it over his shoulder. Then next thing I knew we were up in the air. I viewed the tops of buildings below and silently screamed. Then I blacked out.

Please check out the other “Tuesday Terror Blogfest” entries:

1. Mary McDonald 2. Raquel Byrnes, Edge of Your Seat Romance 3. Cheree Smith 4. Skippy 5. Delia

6. Roland D. Yeomans 7. Candyland 8. sarahjayne smythe 9. Theresa Milstein 10. Lee Robertson

11. Donna Hole

Have a happy (rather than a terrorizing) Tuesday.

Dublin: Past and Present

From left to right:

Me!

Ann: http://inkpotsandquills.blogspot.com/

Barbara Scully: http://barbarascully.blogspot.com/

Brigid: http://sortofwriting.blogspot.com/

“The family you have come from isn’t as important as the family you’re going to have.”

- Ring Lardner

Eleven years ago, I looked forward to visiting Ireland not only because it was my first trip to Europe, but also because I’m half-Irish. I’ve never been quite sure which side to identify with. When it comes to food and hand gestures, I’d say I’m more Italian. But when it comes to being reserved, obsessing about weather and the mail, and fretting about being on time, I’m more Irish (or at least my family’s version of it).

(This is where I should mention that one of my relatives from the 1800s was German so I don’t know how that influenced my family. I’m sure that’s where the on-time fastidiousness came in.)

My husband and I brought our nearly one-year-old boy, and were shocked that no restaurants had highchairs. It didn’t matter because we always seemed to sit near a couple whose children were in high school or college, and they missed having babies around, and really, it was no trouble to bounce our baby on their knees while they awkwardly managed for their food to find its way into their mouths. This happened three times: twice in Dublin and once in Cork.

(By the way, when we visited London and Cambridge, England there was also a deficit of highchairs but no offers of child bouncing. I’m not judging since I’d never offer to care for a stranger’s child in a restaurant.)

When we’d visited Ireland last time, they seemed to be on the brink of change. The people were gearing for the year 2000 and the economy seemed to be turning around.

Until the recent recession, it did. Instead of Irish people coming to America, people from other countries began coming to Ireland. As a result, visiting Dublin was quite different than our last visit. Before it was only Irish faces and accents. This time Ireland resembled an American city with it’s diversity of skin hues and accents. Before it was all Irish cuisine except for the occasional restaurant (I’m partial to Mao’s). (Warning: Don’t eat at any place that promises an “American breakfast”.) This time, there were actually clusters of ethnic restaurants. And the country finally has highchairs and GOOD COFFEE!

I don’t remember gypsies last time either.

Going to all of the wedding events was the highlight and purpose of this trip. It started thirty minutes after we’d arrived at our hotel when the first breakfast began at Bewley’s Cafe. That night, the rehearsal dinner took place in at the Cellar Bar at The Merrion. The day after was the actual wedding ceremony at University Church across from St. Stephen’s Green and reception was located at the posh Powerscourt Estate House from 4:30 pm to 1:30 am. The final day of festivities was a brunch, hosted by the aunt of the bride at her home in Dundrum. Can you believe there was also a pub-crawl and golf outing that we skipped?

I’d attended only one other wedding which rivaled this one in length and joviality, and that was in Serbia nearly three years ago. The Irish certainly know how to party.

(I’ll give details as to all the fantastic food in another post.)

The following (and last) day in Dublin I met three of my lovely blogger friends. I contacted Brigid and Ann via e-mail. We’d already gone from followers of one another’s blogs to e-mail friends before the trip was planned. Brigid invited Barbara and Niamh as well, but Niamh couldn’t make it.

Brigid suggested we meet at Avoca Café: http://www.irelandguide.com/establishment/avoca_cafe.4241.html

I got there several minutes late, but didn’t recognize anyone in the café. All I had were pictures from their blogs to go by, so I wasn’t sure if their images would look the same live. My husband encouraged me to ask random sitting women. For each table he’d point to, I’d squint (not wearing my glasses) and say, “I don’t think it’s any of them.”

It turned out I was the first one there. The others arrived soon after. I had the tiniest worry that we wouldn’t have anything to talk about. But, of course, we did. We discussed writing, blogging, and family. They mentioned a few recent posts of fellow bloggers, which caught me up because I didn’t have time to read many blogs during the trip. It is rare to spend a couple of hours with people who do what you do and are trying to succeed where you want to succeed and feel the frustrations you feel.

The subject of Americans’ view of Irish people came up. These women didn’t understand where the notion that Irish people are warm and fuzzy came from. (Maybe the accents?) Brigid even cited a couple of examples to prove how American people are nicer than the Irish.

I don’t know. Sitting in that café, eating scones and drinking coffee with “literary friends” as someone’s sister put it, I found these women to be warm and fun. It was no different than when I get together with my good writer friend in Cambridge.

Which parts of me are Irish? Which are Italian? Which are American? Which are from my Region? Town? Family? Which parts of me are just me?

I’ll have to travel more to find out.

Sad News

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.”

- Plato

I just returned home. Soon I will catch up with your lives. And before I write about my trip escapades, I needed to write an important post:

I didn’t plan on using the computer much during this vacation. Before I left, I hadn’t even checked to see if the hotels in Dublin and Paris offered Internet. But I’d hoped to look for information about my uncle who had a stroke that impaired his speech last week (no e-mails), make sure there was no change in plans for my get-together with three bloggers from Dublin (no changes), and see if I’d won Tahereh’s Bestie Contest (I didn’t). For the three days in Dublin, I surfed the Internet for only twenty minutes in a special “Business Room” at the hotel. Since I normally use the laptop more often than I care to admit, this was progress. And I didn’t even miss it (mostly).

But on Tuesday night, when we arrived late to our hotel room in Paris, I found out we had Internet access in our apartment. When I opened the my Gmail account, I had an e-mail entitled “Sad News” from the family liaison at my children’s school. Often these types of e-mails are regarding retired teachers, many of whom I didn’t know. I opened it. It may have been the jetlag or the shock of the news that made the words incomprehensible. It was about a student in the other fifth-grade’s class. First I thought it was about his mother’s mother. Then it hit me. This student’s mother had died after a “long battle with cancer”.

Nobody had told me she was sick. I used to know her pretty well. Our sons were best friends from kindergarten to second-grade. They played at one another’s houses every week. Sometimes his mom would stay to chat at my home, and sometimes I’d stay to chat at her home. And we’d talk while the kids played at the playground.

The woman and I had a few things in common. She grew up in Forest Hills, New York where my husband and I lived when we first got married. Her parents still live there. She gave birth to her oldest daughter at the same age I had my youngest daughter, and her and my set of kids were both four years apart. We both have naturally curly hair too, so managing that was always a good topic of conversation!

At the end of the school day when we waited at the entrance of the school, we’d talk. My daughter was little then, and always told her the same stories. While I’d get impatient with my little girl’s chatter, this woman was always patient and sweet with her.

Then when our boys were in third-grade, things changed. My son and his best friend grew apart because their interests no longer intersected. And by fourth-grade, my daughter started kindergarten, so I spent more time in front of her classroom instead of my son’s. And the woman’s son no longer wanted her to come up to his classroom, but to wait downstairs. So we normally just greeted one another in passing.

Her death was, and still is incomprehensible. I’d just seen her at ballroom dancing but we weren’t sitting near one another. And just after that, I’d seen her at the school entrance. She’d seemed tired, but looked like herself. Now I knew her presence meant she’d pushed herself to be there for her son.

All of the times I’d said, “Hi. How are you?” the response had been, “Fine.” After all, what else would she say? “Who me? I’ve got incurable pancreatic cancer. How are the kids?”

The liaison informed me she’d been diagnosed with cancer in October. She’s left her husband, tenth-grade daughter, and fifth-grade son behind. I’d never heard her raise her voice or seen her lose her patience. Her job had been at a senior recreational center in the Fenway area. She always went above and beyond. She often baked huge amounts of sweets for the seniors, even though she wasn’t compensated. At some point, she left her job and trained to help seniors exercise. This was a woman who wanted to help others.

If I collected money for teachers, she’d always put in extra money, knowing that some poorer parents couldn’t contribute. She was nice person with a nice family. It’s just a shame. She could be any of us. It just isn’t fair.

So that night, I lay in bed for a long time, thinking about her and her family and feeling helpless.

The morning after I’d found out the terrible news, I asked my son if he knew the boy’s mother was sick. He did. Students had mentioned it in the cafeteria.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

“I don’t think it’s nice to gossip,” was the reply.

“If you’d told me, I could’ve offered to help,” I said.

I didn’t add that now it was too late for me to say goodbye.

I’d miss her funeral, just like the time my husband and I went away in 2007, we missed Papa’s* funeral. He died of lung cancer. I knew he was dying when we’d left, so I made sure my daughter visited him in the hospital so she’d have closure. Before I left, I wished he’d make it until we got back. But just after the wedding ceremony in Serbia, two days after we’d arrived, my sister, who babysat my children, told me the news.

If I’d known she was sick, I could’ve shuttled her children or cooked or something. She had two friends who have girls her daughter’s age and I’m sure they’ve been helping. But I would’ve liked to let her know I cared.

Now I’ll make meals for the family because I don’t know what else to do. A meal is inadequate compensation for the loss. But it’s all I can do.

Lisa Rein-Woisin. Wife, Mother.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/bostonglobe/obituary.aspx?n=lisa-rein-woisin&pid=143271714

* Previous post about Papa:

http://theresamilstein.blogspot.com/2010/02/nana-and-papa.html