Teaching at NYU

I used to teach at NYU.  Mom was surprised to overhear.  I was teaching a class preparing students to take the graduate entrance exam for their MBA.  The group was mostly Hispanic and Black from lower income backgrounds who signed up for a class through a tutoring company.  

 

On a side note, I barely admitted taking the LSAT my final year of college lest I be asked my score.  Not a fan of standardized tests.  But I had been tutoring one on one for the SATs and then the GREs which is a lot like the SAT.  My mom joked soon I would be tutoring kids for the MCATs. I was equally qualified to tutor for the GMAT. 

 

But I was hired.  I was trained. And even though I had never tutored more than two students at once one Tuesday evening in a classroom at NYU Stern School of Business in front of fourteen students.  

The tutor head had offered a rogue student to myself and others leading their own classes. The undercover student would pop in to save a stumped teacher.  I declined but on the first day of class there was a surprise new student who was not affiliated with the scholarship program as the other students were.  So I was a little nervous if instead he sent over a spy.  Thus when we spoke I needed to confess to boss how I was late the first day.  

 

I explained to the students how I went to the wrong building carrying these heavy text books.  I tied it in to never making the same mistake again

Don’t Make the Same Mistake Twice

Something silly clouds your thoughts.  You could be distracted.  You will make mistakes.  Just make new ones.  

Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it. Each misstep is an opportunity to refine manners.  

 

I made a minor mistake that could end up costing me $2500 over the next year.  It’s low enough that I could eat it, but high enough that I don’t want to – not that one ever wants to lose money.  Never feels good.  But it’s not a small bite.  I am working on bringing it down half which is obviously twice as good as the alternative.  

 

 

A little flirting

I went to a foreign wedding a few weeks ago, leaving my husband and three kids stateside.  While I would not admit this aloud, when I walked into the wedding, after visiting with most of the guests over the pre-wedding events, I felt slightly aroused.  I looked around at all of the married men thought of my husband at home and fantasized of a Roman rendezvous before returning to reality – an overflowing glass of Proseco.

Later that night several substances later I found myself on the dance floor dancing erotically with other women, being kissed by at least one, swapping dresses behind the bushes, and feeling generally great.  Sexy.  Attractive.  Horny.

The events of the night triggered something in me.  A sexual desire that had laid dormant since my first pregnancy.  Nearly six years later that horny insatiable provocative prowess emerged. It wasn’t Fifty Shades of Gray that woke me up – although that had stirred the pot – but the idea of something illicit and inappropriate and somewhat displayed on the dance floor.

I love my husband and want to spend the rest of my life with him.  He is a great man, father, husband, lover, provider, soul mate.  And fortunately he responds to this new sexual uprising.

Who knows how long it will last, but we are both enjoying this new ride.

Hello. I Love You. Won’t You Tell Me Your Name

A case of mistaken identities.  

All _________(fill in the blank with an ethnicity distinct of yours) look the same.  

 

One summer I was waitressing in a nearby town and moonlighting–ish as a cocktail waitress at a nightclub.  I was 18 years old, finished with my first year at a women’s liberal arts college, home for the summer.  

 

The nightclub gig was a result of my mom.  She was renting retail space to a surf store who happened to own the local hotspot.  LIke several cuter and older girls I was given a tray.  Bartenders were supposed to take my orders and in retrospect I probably should have tipped them better although at the time I did not know any better.  Perhaps that’s why I had to wait to place my order.  

 

The manager of the bar and I did not get along.  Our personalities clashed and in another lifetime the outcome would be different.  

 

I remember being mortified when one waitress who was friendly with the manager told me my dad had called.  ”What?”  I was shocked.  In the era before cell phones our business was less private.  I reasoned if my dad was looking for me, he would in theory call the nightclub – but why would he think I’d be there beyond a Saturday night? My heartbeat increased.  The conversation continued until I realized that she was referring to the landlord of the nightclub.  Apparently I had ousted as the landlord’s daughter, perhaps the only reason I was kept on as a once a week waitress who commanded no salary.  The confusion lay as i was the daughter of the landLADY of the surf store in town.  

 

And it was at said nightclub on a weeknight when I was merely a customer that i met a DJ of African American descent – as was a socially acceptable description of someone black. 

 

The following week I had presumed the DJ with whom we had an amazingly fun night with a group of people walked into my restaurant one town away.  

Happy Labor Day My Dad’s Dying

We are all dying in one way.  We’re either living or dying.

At a certain point you past your midway point, you know you’re in the latter half of years.

The reality is no one knows when their time will end, and we could have already passed our half way point without knowing.

 

A local celebrity – 35 years old father of two went for a swim this August and was found washed up on the beach this summer.  He was a year older than me in school and we had mutual friends.  Every time I saw him, a handful of times each summer, he was friendly.

 

His tragic death left a dark cloud over the town.  So many people knew him, adored him although they probably would never use the term adore, were affected by his passing.  It was so sudden and unexpected, perhaps because he had persevered through some rough spots.

He woke up one day and it was his last.  I imagine if you had asked him how would he like to spend his final hours he would probably have said, wake up with my wife and kids then go to the beach, which is what he did and somehow you have to respect that when his clock expired he would not regret his final day.

 

There were other deaths this summer as well from the local camp director to two pedestrian accidents including a hit and run to fatal car accidents.  Apparently this was all statistically normal but still depressing nonetheless.  All of this while my father fights his two cancers and struggles with the symptoms.

All That Matters

When my mom was very sick, I had a feeling in my gut that the end was close.  I had hoped that I was wrong, but was afraid I was not. It was as I was preparing myself for the inevitable.  Instead of facing the pain all at once, I was braced. 

I was traveling alone in Paris when I climbed the steps of Sacre-Coeur.  I had not seen the trolley and was up for the challenge while six months pregnant.  I sat in the church staring at large Jesus pinned to the cross as tourists came and left.  I prayed for my mom sick in her hospital bed in India.  Do I betray myself and pray to Jesus?  Promise my allegiance should my mom recover? My Judaism is part of my identity but I considered denouncing it exchange for my mother.  

The favorite teacher of friend of mine who attended Catholic high school was a former POW.  He prayed to G-d that if he survived the prison he would devote the rest of his life to Him.  Sitting in one of the holiest churches in Paris where my mom had once studied I prayed to whomever was listening but remained allegiant.  

 

It was all awful. And I am so afraid that I will be returning down a similarly awful path. 

Striking a Balance between work and motherhood

rkGrowing up, I took having a working mother for granted.  Sure, I would be frustrated that she was not involved with the other PTA moms and would just show up for an event, and leave after my performance.  At times I resented that she had to travel for work or left me waiting in the car when she was only supposed to dash into her clothing store for a moment.  I’d kind of shake my head when people would comment on how incredible and talented my mom was.  She was my mom and my default more fallible than most.  

I’d echo her sentiment as I got older about how all of those non working moms were lost as their kids grew up and depended on them less.  How empty their lives must be, happiness contingent on their children. 

My mom never knew when I had homework or tests, but I did well and she did not need to become involved in that.  Perhaps she knew my teachers’ names but missed many of the details of my day.  

Now as a mom of a little girl, I want my daughter to know that she can be a  mom and have a career.  I’m extremely lucky that I do not have a traditional job – something I’ve felt guilty about in the past. I know she resents that I cannot come to all of the school field trips, of course even if I wanted to, the other moms would want a chance as well. I may not do all of the pick ups and drop offs as she might like, but I have an identity outside of my children.  I am more than a mom and a wife.  I am a business woman.  

I recently sold a real estate investment that had run mostly, save for a few days a month, on auto pilot.  When I first purchased the property my dad had told me to downplay it lest people get jealous and give me the evil eye.  Over the years my husband has encouraged me to share my accomplishments and investments as they are noteworthy.  

This year I had signed up to make my son’s class yearbook and through some miscommunication another mom became involved.  The last time we spoke about the yearbook she was letting it stress her out.  ”I cancelled all of my appointments today,” she lamented.  And I felt guilty for a moment until I realized it was  an appointment with her designer.  I was meeting with attorneys and real estate brokers, tenants and handymen.  I may not have a full time job the way some parents do at hedge funds but I have commitments that help me strike the closest thing I can to a work/ home balance.  And I’ll take it. 

This post was inspired but the book Julia’s Child by Sarah Pienneo.  I received a complimentary copy of the novel through my participation in the book club From Left to Write.