Entries in Annie (2)


Our Fearless Leader by Annie


This, in more of a Pilgrim's Progress sort of way, is what my 2nd grade teacher looked like. Even for a rule follower like myself, Mrs. Roach could be and was frequently terrifying.

A stern, pale, and skull-faced woman of late middle age who pulled her hair back in a no-nonsense bun, my teacher wore what were commonly referred to as "cat eye" glasses and her mouth was a horizontal slash of red, courtesy of the House of Avon. She wore dresses with slips underneath, silk hose and high heels with pointy toes. Every single day.  Mrs. Roach pulling her Pontiac into the teacher's parking lot in a pair of stretch pants would have have been no less shocking than discovering an aproned minotaur in a hairnet serving up tater tots in the cafeteria on Hamburger Day. 

When it was time for math, you did not ask why and then pretend to lose your pencil. You had at least five other Eberhard Fabers (always sharpened) in the "side pocket" of your desk which you lined with a brown paper towel so that pencils and crayons didn't fall through the holes. When it was time for handwriting, you did not cleverly substitute the capital "S" in your last name with a treble clef  (even though they sort of looked the same) unless you wanted it circled in red pen with a note to erase and do it over. When it was time to read aloud, you did so in hopes of hearing a "Nicely done!" before she selected another victim student.  That was high praise enough. We didn't need or expect a 21 gun salute and an application to MENSA.

When accused of chewing gum in her class you did not roll your eyes and say, "I don't HAVE any gum" in an exasperated tone which--although-- technically true because you were chewing something, it wasn't gum. It was Captain Crunch. Because you didn't have breakfast that morning (As if that was somehow her problem or responsibility. But go ahead and suggest to her that it was her responsibility and then wait for the Apocalypse.) Better yet, have your parent do it. Same result.

You did not try to be the class clown by burping words to the Pledge of Allegiance or ask her if this was her "real hair" or if she dyed it.  When she asked for your homework you did not fix her with a smarmy grin and tell her you didn't do it because "I was busy".  The only notes you wrote in class had damn well better be from the assignment on "How to Write a Letter To a Friend" and not to your actual friend who had a different teacher altogether who wouldn't have cared if that same friend spent a brief moment of class time reading your synopsis of last night's episode of "The Monkees".

If you were told to carry a sealed envelope home to your parents, you were clueless about its contents and you did not ask. It could have been a letter about a PTA matter or a request to have you publicly flogged. It mattered not because it wasn't any of your damn business because it wasn't addressed to you and hiding it for two weeks inside your copy of Encyclopedia Brown wasn't going to make it go away.  Later, your parents weren't ever going to go all Liza Minnelli crazy when questioning Mrs. Roach like she was at her own trial because you didn't bring the note home. Why?? Because that was a parenting issue and your parents--God love them--were smart enough to know it.  However, your ass would be--as they say--grass even though the note was about being a homeroom mother, you paranoid maniac.

Had the internet existed back when you were a kid, Mrs Roach would have been listed on Wikipedia as the country's seventeenth line of defense. Just ahead of the Boy Scouts.

Mrs. Roach was a teacher, not a convenient doormat to be stepped on by lazy-ass parents who expected her to offer free tutoring for class days missed because of a surprise birthday trip to Carlsbad Caverns which necessitated lying about being sick for two days so that it would be excused. She wasn't about to be trifled with or disrespected during professional development seminars by being asked to remove her teacher hat for the day and pretend to be a student learning the same shit she was already teaching in real class. One didn't tell Mrs. Roach that she would be taking and grading work from any and all children who had sufficient time to turn in their assignments but didn't do so....for five weeks.

And if someone told her that she would be expected to tiptoe around a mentally ill student who hears voices that tell her to do bad things and if said student was demonstrating those bad things in class and began to otherwise act strangely like having a conversation with her own shoeand that she--Mrs. Roach-- was required to halt the educational process for everyone else in the class, hit the panic button on the wall and then step ALONE(?) into the hall with said mentally ill student and wait until help came? Well...Mrs. Roach would have poured those people a big old glass of OH HELL NO and stood calmly while they drank it down with a side of KISS MY ASS cookies. Guaranteed Mrs. Roach did not have to aid her nightly sleep with  five melatonin and a martini chaser because even though she was required to dress like June Cleaver and she was paid like crap and the moral turpitude clause in her contract prohibited her from being seen buying or consuming alcohol, she was respected. By everyone. Or they did a really good job at pretending. Period.

It's not hard to see why my colleagues and I look wistfully into the rearview mirror and sigh before pouring ourselves another stiff drink. Even on a good day, I'm forced to behave less like Mrs. Roach and more like the friendless kid who converses with her sandwich. We live in an era where teachers are everyone's whipping boy and--like my friend Nance says, no one's boss. I live for the days when I can say "no" or "yes" and actually be granted permission to follow through on my own decisions. Sure, I'm allowed to wear pants, but only in the literal sense. Never in the figurative.

But I can hoist a glass and so I do. Here's to you, Mrs. Roach.



You can read more of Annie at Rainbow Motel. Go say hey to her!


Slow Cook Thursday (by Annie)

Slow (sloh) adjective, -er, -est, adverb, -er, -est, : moving or proceeding with little or less than usual speed or velocity: a slow train; characterized by lack of speed.
1) Where are you from? I was born in Alexandria, Virginia but I've lived in the same Southwestern portion of the United States since I was a few months old.

2) Favorite music ? This is an impossible question to answer. Mainly because my tastes are so eclectic and what is working for me on a day I feel energized is going to be as irritating as hell on a day when I'm stressed. Let me just say that I've had a long and deeply involved love affair with Steely Dan since college.  That said, I listen to everything from old Motown, Led Zeppelin and Woodstock-era stuff to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Luscious Jackson and Coldplay. I think Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" is one of the most romantic songs ever written.
3)What is your idea of a perfect Sunday Morning? A perfect Sunday is one where the next day is also a holiday and there are no papers to grade. Sleep past 6:30. Caffeine and eggs while my husband and I read the papers and there is even time to start the NYTimes crossword. Yoga or a run, if the weather is encouraging. Visit my favorite junk shop near the university. Read an especially riveting book. 

4) Bath or shower?  Shower. It's faster and it's harder to see the parts of your body that you hate if you are vertical.  

5) Last book you read?  "Quiet Dell" by Jayne Anne Phillips   Historical Fiction about a Depression-era crime involving a heinous perp who used a lonely hearts club to find his victims. Horrific tale rendered in beautifully tender prose.

6) Last movie you saw? "Enough Said" with James Gandolfini and Julia Louis Dreyfus. Wonderful movie made even more poignant because it was Gandolfini's last.
09/00/1998. Files pictures. John Kennedy Jr.
7) Who is your Secret Boyfriend?  I have always maintained that John Kennedy, Jr was the most perfect specimen of male humanity on the planet. My stance on this remains non-negotiable. That said, he is no longer among the living and so my happy  runner up is Mark Ruffalo. Soulful, sweet and imperfect enough to be adorable.

8) Detergent?  Woolite

9) If you are denied entrance into the Pearly Gates, what do you hope Satan says to you?  "Your last book really made me laugh!"



My mom taught me to appreciate homemade yeast-rising breads and we do not use a bread machine. However, my Challah recipe would make for tedious reading.  Muffins are the bastard cousins of the bread family, but these team muffins are a sweet surprise and much easier to explain. 

English Tea Muffins
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon sale
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter at room temperature
1 large egg
1 cup milk
1/2 cup light brown sugar
1 tsp ground cinnamon
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease muffin cups. Mix flour, baking powder, salt and cinnamon in a small bowl. Using a wooden spoon or electric mixer, beat sugar and butter in a large bowl. Beat in egg.  Add flour mixture to egg mixture about one third at a time, alternating with milk and ending with the flour. Stir until blended. Mix topping ingredients in a separate bowl. Scoop batter into muffin cups, using just over  1/4 cup for each. Sprinkle with topping. Bake about 20 minutes or until springy to the touch in center. Cool 5 minutes before removing from pan.



You can read more of Annie at Rainbow Motel. Go say hey to her!