Mean Teacher's Ordinary World

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

2008-04-14T18:11:00.003-05:00

A couple of low-level Imperial gunners, in the midst of a space-battle of epic bloodshed and destruction, improbably decided not to shoot down an escape pod devoid of life-signs -- what, were they trying to save ammo? -- allowing two bumbling robots to make it to safety with the information key to saving the entire galaxy, and Star Wars, the Odyssey of the late 20th century began.

I was four, and I was enraptured. Have been ever since. Sleep-overs at my house included a required marathon of Episodes IV-VI. To this day, my best friend insists she's not sure how the saga ends, as she invariably fell asleep during the Jabba the Hutt scenes.

When the movies were re-tooled for re-release, I dutifully went to every one at the theater, then bought the box set. That box set is what Buddy watches now. We also have The Phantom Menace, but unfortunately I can't stomach Episodes II and III enough to justify purchasing them.

Spike TV ran the whole thing in HD over the past two weekends. I DVR'd, so I could give watching the Hayden Christensen episodes another go, but have already deleted them to make more room for our South Park collection. I STILL haven't made it through Revenge of the Sith in one sitting. I'm not even sure it's called "Revenge of the Sith." Is it? I can't even be bothered to go to IMDB to check...

But I'm saving the old ones. For one thing, my copy of The Empire Strikes Back was lost a few years ago in an... incident. Also, HD truly does do justice to the visuals. I didn't have time to sit through them fully over the weekend, when they were on live, but I called up Return of the Jedi this afternoon, mostly because I didn't feel like actually interacting with my children.

Can you BELIEVE it? Maybe you bought the full DVD box set a couple of years ago and they're like this, so you already knew... they've changed it AGAIN! It's a tiny little thing, at the very end of Jedi, where, ten years ago they redacted the perky "Yuppa Yuppa Ya" Ewok celebration song and added in shots of Bespin, Mos Eisley and Coruscant joining in the fun -- complete with a delightful shot of the Emporer's statue being pulled down in a Coruscant square.

Now they've added a shot from Naboo, which is cool, 'cause Naboo is pretty, but they put it in place of the Emporer's statue being pulled down. That irks me a bit, because I liked that shot, and I only like it more now that the Iraqis (consciously? unconsciously? I could probably look it up... nah) copied the move in Baghdad.

Also, I was gearing up to have to explain (again) to Buddy who the old guy was hanging out with Yoda and Obi-Wan in the final scene, but, oop! He wasn't there! It was Hayden Christensen! I was totally weirded out. I have to admit, it gave me a frisson, like, Oooh, the circle is complete, sort of thing, but at the same time, a girl's gotta ask: three times? Old George has gone and changed this movie now, THREE TIMES? How can that be okay? I mean, I'll be the first to say, it's George's movie, he can damn well do what he pleases with it, but... three times?

The truth of the matter is, and I think I've said this before, the thing that sucks for those of us who fell in love with Star Wars before puberty hit is that, no matter how much George tweaks it, we grew up, but the saga never did. I feel that way about The Neverending Story, too.

It takes me awhile, but eventually I get it...

2008-04-13T18:44:00.003-05:00

I saw the girl who stopped swimming in the window at Park Road Books and thought to myself, Hey, look! I didn't know Joshilyn had written another book. And then I felt a pang of guilt because I had never actually read Joshilyn's book that I did know about -- gods in Alabama. So I went to the library that afternoon, read it in as much as one sitting as I can manage in these small-child-infested days, and then saw the girl who stopped swimming yesterday at Costco, and just finished it about 10 minutes ago, acknowledgements and all.

I'm making it sound like I know Joshilyn personally, which I don't, but I'm closer to knowing her than any other proper author on the planet, and that's what makes the blogosphere so darned cool. I've always been intrigued by the structure of the network that joins one blogger to the next, so you'll have to bear with my while I play Six Degrees of Separation...

When I started up Mean Teacher, I managed to somehow catch the eye of Jay Allen, then author of The Zero Boss. Jay was a card-carrying blogosphere D-lister, and his periodic links to me brought Mean Teacher whatever tiny little fame it ever enjoyed. Through him I found a host of other friendly and interesting bloggers: Goldie, MIM, Robin, possibly Mande (I can't remember if I got to Mande through Jay)... the list continues. Anyway, Jay was a great one for keeping the sphere alive, spotlighting lesser-knowns, sparking wild conversations, and creating opportunities for all us repressed David Foster Wallaces to get our gab on.

One of his best notions was Blogging for Books, a competition in which he and a guest judge, who was a published author, would put out a topic and invite anyone and everyone to submit blog entries on that topic. The guest judge would determine winners and the prize would be one of their books.

Early on I earned an honorable mention with a musing about my ignorant mistreatment of one of my students. After that, I caught the bug good and participated in "B4B" as often as inspiration would allow. Ultimately real life caught up with Jay and he ran out of whatever steam was necessary for keeping B4B alive. Some point after that, though, Mir at Woulda Coulda Shoulda and Joshilyn Jackson took up the torch. I entered one last time -- resulting in a brief, not-particularly personal correspondence with Joshilyn, who hosted the contest at her site -- and actually got third prize. I made another friend on that foray with Deb Richardson, who did not frequent Jay's site but tried out B4B for the first time through Joshilyn.

All this is to say that it was really cool to read two wonderful novels and know that, in a vague and meandering way, I kind of have met the author and she's a very real person. And it was even cooler to think, when learning that the main character in the girl who stopped swimming made art quilts, Hey, I wonder if Joshilyn got that idea from Deb Richardson, who makes stunning art quilts. And it was even cooler to read the acknowledgements at the end of the novel and see Deb's name there, big as day.

I can't recommend both novels enough. I sucked them down like strawberry milkshakes, got very attached to the characters, and was very bummed when they ended. I will be on the hunt for Joshilyn's third novel, Between, Georgia (and full marks to her for capitalization on that title) probably tomorrow.

I'll also probably get around to reading the novel I won, Confessions of a Super Mom, by Melanie Lynne Hauser and to purchasing and reading Trina's books, because she's been a very nice blog buddy with whom I've had actual lovely conversations, and clearly I'm on a roll here.

Many, many of the blogs that were going strong when I joined the sphere are dead or atrophied now, mine included, but I do hope this wonderful, egalitarian world of the brain doesn't implode (as I tongue-in-cheekly predicted it would in my winning B4B essay) as these kinds of connections are the best of what the internet really has to offer.

But I still don't believe in Mount Rushmore...

2008-03-27T17:21:00.003-05:00

Greetings visitors from planet Diaperswappers! And I have no idea who gave me the props, but they are my new best friend.

Buddy's in the back yard setting up a leprechaun trap. The original notion of such a trap came from his kindergarten class (where a note I found stuffed in the bottom of his backpack two weeks after the fact informed me that he was not allowed to build a leprechaun trap as a result of having done something stupid with scissors).

This leprechaun trap, however, is a pure-D Buddy Creation: it's a box with Lego guys set up inside to "look like they're having a fun party." The idea is that the leprechaun, unable to resist the temptations of such a rockin' affair, will be lured into the box, at which point Buddy will slam shut the door and... well... I haven't quite gotten him to think through the next part. I believe gold theft is part of the plan. My question is, what do you feed leprechauns? Whiskey? I don't think we have any...

I will admit that, one sunny afternoon when I wanted to watch Ghosthunters and didn't want to have to spend my next drive to school denying the existence of spectral dead people lining the road, I did tell Buddy that there were elves that lived under the cedar tree and maybe he should go look for them. Though he hasn't yet spotted any, he still seems to believe me.

I remember visiting my mom's Uncle Donald in his cabin in Colorado once. Another random young relative and I build a fort of some sort in the trees. The next day, we found the fort in tatters. Uncle Donald told me soberly that the Artesians had done the dirty deed by dark of night. I believed him and was rather frightened of Artesians (without ever really knowing what they were) from then on.

I also had myself convinced for quite awhile that I was secretly a unicorn.

Buddy's doomed, isn't he?

Aten't dead...

2008-03-18T18:11:00.005-05:00

I just finished reading Elegy for Iris, a memoir by literary critic John Bayley about his marriage to novelist Iris Murdoch, and his thoughts on her journey into the neverwhere that is Alzheimer's.

I've never read any of Iris Murdoch's work, but one thing Bayley's rambling, whimsical narrative makes clear is that Iris' was a unique and powerful personality. Now that that personality is completely devoured by the memory-destroying disease, who is the person inside the body of his wife? And where or what is the woman he fell in love with fifty years ago?

It is, despite the light, loving and positive tone, a very disturbing book.

It must be a very good book, in it's odd little way, because it has obliged me to reflect on many things. My grandmother, who was the light of my early childhood, suffered from some form of senile dementia. When I met her for the last time, with a three-month-old Buddy in tow, she did not know me or understand that she was holding her first great-grandson. When she died a few months later, I took comfort in the conviction that, upon arrival to Heaven, God took mercy and restored her memories to her intact, including the ones formed in the end, and that she was rewarded with an understanding that I had come to see her one last time, and that she had met Buddy.

But that is a posthumous comfort, and not available to the friends and family of the living. I can only approach the puzzle of Iris in quick feints, because the whole of the question is terrifying. And also the whole of this question: what if it should happen to me?

Another author, one who's books I have read -- all of them, multiple times -- also has Alzheimer's. Iris Murdoch is an abstract puzzle to me, but Terry Pratchett is a blow much closer to home. Along with Douglas Adams (oh, well) and Neil Gaiman (get in line) he is one of the few authors I've ever wished to meet in person. I certainly have a complete imagined personality ascribed to him: a quite, thoughtful man, with a devilish streak and a secret lust for bad puns. His voice and his values pervade his work, and those books are reliable old friends that I turn to, when, more that anything in the world, I just need a bit of fun.

I imagine that he, like Iris, is very much loved by those who truly do know him. And that the spectre of his disappearance by inches... well, mustn't wallow. In a blog post on the topic, Mr. Pratchett himself quoted his greatest character, Granny Weatherwax, saying: I ATEN'T DEAD. And he would thank folks not to mourn him prematurely.

Meanwhile, in a style that fits my image of him to a tee, he has done something proactive and positive by donating nearly $1,000,000 to the Alzheimer's Research Trust. And a movement has come out to support him and his cause. Click and check out Match it for Pratchett.

I have zero money at the moment, but I can at least envision the purchase of a sharp tee-shirt in my near future. I think thirty bucks to help good people fight a disease that scares the living crap out of me is a smart investment.

While composing this post in my head, it even occurred to me that I could auction off a Feegle, provided anyone would be so louche as to purchase one. If you think that's a good idea, comment and I'll get to work on it.

My public needs me...

2008-03-12T17:53:00.002-05:00

I know you're being quiet and reserved about it, and I respect your civility, but I can tell that teh innernet is once again crumbling without my participation. I don't actually have a story to tell or an annoying picture to post (what do you have to DO to actually get up on icanhascheezburger? Maui's lolcat wasn't exactly genius, but it could hold it's own, I felt.)

But that's okay, because House is coming back someday and in the meantime, New Amsterdam isn't half bad and I'm all about some American Idol. I just wish Simon and Ryan would have sex or shoot each other already and get it out of the way. The problem with that whole side-drama is that Ryan Seacrest has about three fewer IQ points than an empty Coke bottle and is standing around all smug like he just launched the Killer Zinger From Mars when in reality he was just being...

Lord, need to shut up about that.

Moved four-fifths of a truckload of wood chips this weekend. That's about 12 cubic yards. That's about a drivewayful. How long does that take? Exactly six hours, thank you very much. (He Who Looks Hot in Jeans was at work, he got the other three cubic yards moved today. ) Anyway, guess which body part hurt from this assault of unaccustomed physical activity? And guess who had to sit on said body part all day on Monday? Not pleasant.

Busier than a one-handed paperhanger, to tell the truth. But just wanted to let all my worried fans know:

I ATEN'T DEAD.

i can has lolcat...

2008-03-05T18:34:00.002-05:00

moar funny pictures

I'm not html literate enough to make this fit properly on the page, so click to see my clever caption!

Everything I need to know about life I learned from playing with my Legos...

2008-03-04T15:41:00.003-05:00

Buddy's teacher has said, on multiple occasions, that he has a hard time following directions. Especially multi-step directions. I'm willing to believe this.

A few weeks ago, Buddy received several Star Wars Lego sets. One afternoon, he sat down and proceeded to put together a kit with 248 pieces and 29 pages of instructions. My assistance was in the department of "clicking" fiddly bits, not in the department of interpreting directions. He did that all by himself.

And I said to myself: This kid can follow directions.

How could I translate the Lego success to classroom success? I put forth a suggestion to his teacher: if Buddy had picture cards of each step of his directions, as visual cues, and also as elements of his own exercise of assembling the appropriate direction cards in the correct order, we might just have a strategy in place for improving this little deficiency.

She said it was a good idea. Several days later, she sent home a note with a list of directions he needs to work on.

This morning I made the cards, and brought them to school when I joined Buddy for lunch. She said they looked great and they'd give them a try.

This afternoon Buddy gets in the car and I check his backpack for homework and notes (S.O.P.). I find his direction cards in his folder with a note from the teacher saying she is barred, by law, from using the cards in the classroom without testing and documentation that he may use these modifications.

I'm flabbergasted. What's more, I'm a teacher. When I was in the classroom and had a kid who needed to go at it from a different direction, we worked on a strategy that would reach him or her. I know nothing about this law she's citing.

She's a first year teacher, and has all of my sympathy on that note. I'm sure she showed the cards to an experienced teacher, who rattled off this stupid notion, and she bought it hook, line and sinker. Part of my problem here is that I would never have done that, even in my first year. In fact, I was notorious for demanding, "Why the hell not?" Heh, still am.

She gets a little cringe-y around me, 'cause she can smell that I have a temper. What she very well may learn when I walk Bud into class tomorrow morning is that, up until now, I haven't unleashed it on her.

I'll be showing at the Guggenheim, just you wait and see...

2008-02-26T19:39:00.005-05:00

It's 6:30 in the morning, I have dishes to wash, children to breakfast, dress and load into the car, lunches to make and keys to lose. Sometimes I dress myself too, although there have been a few disastrous near-misses.

One of the hideous curses of my existence is that I am at my most clear-headed and productive of the day for a two hour window that opens roughly 45 minutes after I roll out of bed. The largest swathe of this time is generally wasted on Independence Boulevard, trying to enjoy Bob and Sheri while a tiny voice pipes incessant questions about fairies, the atmosphere, slime, addition, or the size of Spongebob's boat.

But I will not let motherhood and wifeitude smother the passions of my generative soul! The voice inside will not be silent all these years but will leak out onto a medium whose achingly transitory nature stands in stark contrast to the granite permanence that is my genius:

I am referring, of course, to lunchbags.

What I wrote on the fridge this morning * ...

2008-02-12T16:34:00.000-05:00

What I found in the fridge this afternoon...

*Because I discovered that, sometime after midnight, my brand new pack of lunch meat had been ripped open, raided, and left open in the deli drawer. No, I don't actually think ferrets did it.

My day continues to improve...

2008-02-10T18:59:00.001-05:00

Which Discworld Character are you like (with pics)
created with QuizFarm.com
You scored as Lord Havelock Vetinari

You are Lord Vetinari! Supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork! Cool, calculated, and always in control. You graduated from the assassins guild, but failed a course on stealth and camouflage, because the professor never saw you there (even though you attended every class). You always seem to know what everyone is thinking, and after a conversation with you, people feel that they have just escaped certain death.

Order reasserts itself and the Great A'Tuin swims patiently on...

2008-02-10T16:02:00.001-05:00

A few updates, since I've not got any good post ideas...

Maui has turned into an absolute monster since Sam has left us for sunnier windowsills. He was never nice to Grace, but now he's beating her up on an hourly basis. It's interesting to realize how much influence Sam apparently exerted, despite being old, creaky, and half Maui's size.

I've got to head to Michael's in a few minutes to get a stepping-stone kit. I had mentioned this to HWLHiJ as a notion for a headstone for Sam, and didn't think it'd made any sort of impression, but he brought it up yesterday, so I guess a) he was listening and b) he actually thought it was a good idea.

*****

Buddy lost his First Tooth Ever on the ride home from school Wednesday. Fortunately, we had a little friend in the car with us who is a pro at losing teeth and who did a bang-up job of calming him down and explaining the wonders of the Tooth Fairy. The Tooth Fairy part was fun for me, too.

*****

How apoplectic was everybody on the planet who set their DVRs to record House after the Super Bowl, went to bed, and got up on Monday morning to discover that, since the Super Bowl post-game coverage ran 20 minutes over, nobody knows how a whole brand-new episode of House ENDS? Oh my flingin'flangin' God, I know it shot my whole week to hell. Anyway, Fox finally got a clue and is re-running the episode this Friday, so it's good to know the western hemisphere will soon be able to get a decent night's sleep again.

Me? I rooted for the Giants, mostly to irritate HWLHiJ. Talk about satisfying.

Up next: "I like women who are ornamental and give me advantages in social situations..."

2008-02-06T16:31:00.001-05:00

In the car this morning, in the midst of a conversation that careened around the topics of foster care, gross anatomy classes and what color the sky really isn't, Buddy commented that his dad was a good friend and that he planned on being friends with him when he was grown up and didn't need to be taken care of anymore.

Feeling reckless I said, "Is your mom a good friend?"

A serious, thoughtful silence emanated from the back seat. Finally, Buddy said, "I like friends who are real suckers and give me toys and candy whenever I want. That's why Daddy is my friend. I don't think you can be my friend."

It's good to know he's gotten such an important philosophy figured out. And now, more than ever, I have to say I'm completely fine with not being Buddy's friend.

This is the other, slightly less depressing thing I did with my weekend...

2008-01-30T17:46:00.001-05:00

Ugly little bugger, ain't he?

He's a Nac Mac Feegle. I think he's Big Yan.

I made him out of polymer clay, a hanger, a marshmallow toaster, some cowrie shells, some leather thong, a safety pin and a small plaid shirt that neither of my kids seemed interested in wearing.

Buddy applied the shells.

We're very, very proud.

Sam...

2008-01-28T17:06:00.001-05:00

It was nearly 1 a.m. when I came home from poker night and went into the bedroom to put myself to bed. I heard a low Wroaowwwww and looked to my open closet door, where Sam, our oldest cat, was creeping out. His knees and elbows were splayed, and, even as he inched forward at a glacial pace, he still managed to stagger. Every few seconds, he’d moan again. He made it across the room, to the bathroom door, then hunkered, and wroaolled. I filled up a container with water, which he ignored, got a fuzzy sweater I never planned on wearing again, and wrapped it around him, then lay down on the floor and pet him. He stopped moaning, and started to purr. Finally, convinced he was as comfortable as he was going to be, and that he wasn’t going to die immediately, I told him he was a great kitty, that it was okay if he needed to go, and I went to bed, troubled.

When I first met Sam, nearly ten years ago, he was already an elder statesman in a house improbably full of cats. Between my future husband and his twin brother, their shabby townhouse had five cats, two lizards, a parakeet and, ultimately, a husky. Sam and Little Boy were the oldest, Clyde was the Cat in Charge, and the two females, Jiggy and Void, kept out of the way.

You couldn’t help but like Sam, a sturdy fellow with shiny grey fur and a white nose and socks. He appreciated a companionable pat, without Little Boy’s pushy lap-insinuation. His meow was a manly thing, atonal and loud. And he had a very odd habit, despite having been fixed, of stealing sweaters and having intense relationships with them. Generally in front of the TV when guests were over.

When HWLHiJ and I moved in together, Sam, Jiggy, and Kita the husky came along and failed to team up with Grace, my grey tiger stray. Sam and Jiggy claimed the upstairs of our tiny house, and Grace and Kita took the downstairs. HWLHiJ installed a fleecy kitty window-seat in our bedroom, where Sam would while away sunny afternoons, curled up in a rumbly grey ball.

If HWLHiJ said “Blblblbblbrrrtt!” Sam would often come and head-butt a hand for a scratch. He was a chin-and-ears man. Good cats usually are.

After Buddy was born, we moved to a real house. The move killed Jiggy, riddled with tumors. That was the first time HWLHiJ had lost a pet of his own, and he took it hard. By this time, Jiggy’s littermates, Clyde and Void were already gone, and their father Little Boy went soon after. What those cats had in personality, they lacked in good genes.

Sam and Grace never had much to say to each other, but Sam was a mellow chap, and he never bothered his feather-brained housemate. When Opal, the great Dane, came to live with us a few years later, Sam and Grace both assessed the situation briefly, said “Fuck this,” and moved outside.

HWLHiJ had found Sam as an adolescent kitty, abandoned in an apartment in Chicago during his early days at Loyola. We’ve never been entirely sure how old he was, as a result, but he was definitely retirement age, well into his teens, when he moved outside. He did well, though. Brighter than Grace by a country mile, he avoided scraps with the local strays, and stayed close enough to home to never be bothered by the coyotes that live in the greenbelt. If you needed him, you could generally find him under the enormous hosta that hid our electric meter on the side of the house.

He got a little leaner, his knees were clearly getting arthritic. Periodically he’d get an infection in one eye – easily cleared up with a brief session of half-hearted struggle and the application of eye-drops. He made friends with our Russian neighbors, and was always up for a pat on the head and a bit of conversation. We got Maui, an immense indoor cat with a personality like a football field, and then the Bear came along, and all was well for awhile.

We made Sam and Grace come in this winter, when it started getting bitter cold. We’ve been worrying about Sam for awhile – he hid in our bedroom, peed in the bathtub, and started drinking water way too much.

He was alive Saturday morning, having forsaken the sweater for a space under the edge of the bed. I had to take Kita in to the vet to get her stitches out, so I showed Sam to HWLHiJ. Sam was alive, but not interested in opening his eyes or purring.

We had a conversation and made a decision. HWLHiJ speculated that he might die from the stress of the car ride. I, tasked with the terrible errand, kind of hoped he would. He didn’t, and a gaggle of kids in the waiting room crowded around to pet Kita, our canine fashion model. They asked about Sam, and I told them gently that he was old and sick, and that he’d appreciate being left alone, and they were very nice about it. I was glad they left before we did.

The vet checked him out, probably because she’s supposed to anyway. She told me he weighed seven pounds (a third of his normal weight) and was barely breathing, and that we had definitely made the right decision. She took him away for way too long to put in a catheter for administering the medicine, then came back with him wrapped in a towel. She had a white box with beveled edges. She turned out the exam room lights and flicked on the X-ray lamp, which I thought was corny, but she was trying so hard to make things okay for me that I didn’t say a word.

Kita, already relieved of her tummy staples, lay patiently by the door. I imagine she understood. She was very good.

I held Sam in my lap, he was already limp with a sad sort of exhaustion. The vet pushed the plunger slowly on a hypodermic full of clear pink liquid. As the last of the anesthetic went in, Sam’s nose came down gently on my hand.

We buried him under the electric meter, and I think HWLHiJ is going to be okay. When he told his twin brother about it, the response was, in our minds, exactly the right thing to say:

“So, how are your sweaters taking the news?”

In our house, animals are people, and they add much more than fur, excreta and dander to the fun of our lives. Sam was a fine cat, and he is missed.

But I didn't have to go racing out to the store to buy bread...

2008-01-20T16:58:00.000-05:00

It... er... slushed on Thursday. Big Urban School District (where I work, see) chickened out and canceled school. However, the Catholic schools did not, so I woke Buddy up ("I got good news and bad news, Bud. The good news is, it snowed! Now, as for the bad news..." -- I know, I know, Mother of the Year is in the bag, I can just smell it!) and drove us both into town.

So, things about that which suck: a) Buddy and I didn't get a day off and b) the make-up day for the slush day is the one (1) workday available for the rest of the year where we can do teacher training.

Now, I can understand the notion that less teacher workdays = more days with kids in their seats getting educated, but come on! Secondary teachers are truculent at best when it comes to showing up to workshops on a day when they've got nothing else to do. Now I have to figure out how to get them to come after school (at 2:30! That's practically suppertime, people!) to learn what they need to learn and get the rest of their professional development credits. Not to mention to get a good 'nother couple of hundred books distributed to them. Oy, Eddie Vedder.

The great bread experiment continues. I made up sourdough starter on Friday night for pancakes on Saturday morning. The pancakes were unbelievable (I honestly don't understand why you'd attempt to ingest any other kind). I had plenty of starter left, and there are sourdough bread recipes in The Tassajara Bread Book that call for the exact same starter. So I used it and kneaded it and left it in a nice little ball in a towel-covered bowl, and came back an hour later to a lump. Dunno what happened, but the little yeastie-beasties were not playing. Not so much as a burp.

Not one to waste a good sodden lump of goo, I made flatbread. Which is fine, except... well... it's flat. And I have no idea what to do with it. So I bagged it up and tossed it in the freezer with the idea that, should the Apocalypse come, or possibly Passover, that's one meal taken care of.

Today I attempted focaccia. Now that's the dream: fresh, slightly greasy, pungent focaccia made by my own two hands. And I had sworn to make this weekend's baking theme "More Yeast!" which went well with the focaccia recipe calling for three whole packets of the stuff.

Siiigggghhhh. It's good. It has rosemary in and a little salt on the crust (and the crust is delightfully crispy), but I cut the loaf open, bracing myself for clouds of steam to puff from dime-sized sponge-holes.

Yeah. No holes. No puffs. It doesn't even slice very well, just sort of... crumbles. I'm truly, truly at a loss. Maybe I don't love my yeast enough after all.

And excuse to write "gobbed with gobbets of gluey ecru crud"...

2008-01-13T15:55:00.000-05:00

It's Sunday again. My hair should be washed, my floors should be vacuumed, my laundry should be fluffy, folded, and put away.

Instead, my kitchen is coated with a light dusting of flour (as is myself) except for the parts that are gobbed with gobbets of gluey ecru crud.

I'm learning how to bake bread.

Item the first re: baking bread: it takes a really long time. Hence the horrible abuse of Sundays. Still, a girl's got to get good at something, right? I'm going to get good at bread.

I blame France completely. In France I learned to like all sorts of offensive things, like stinky, squishy cheeses that were probably still alive, fresh fish that came out of the oven looking utterly like a fish, and Jeunet and Claro movies, but the real lesson was in the bread.

So inculcated was I upon arrival with the view that bread should be rectangular and pre-sliced, that I hunted the aisles of Monoprix and came home more than once with what looked like proper bread, but turned out to be cunningly packaged Melba toast.

Eventually I got the hang of things, and learned the special joy that comes of hitting the boulangerie just after the loaves come out of the oven, and being obliged to purchase two because you're walking back to your apartment with this warm weight in your palm and this delicious scent wafting into your nostrils, and you'll find yourself in your kitchen with a small piece of crust and some flaky crumbs on your lower lip. So: one loaf is for dinner, and the other is for the walk home.

My boyfriend at the time and I would make a meal out of a good-sized loaf: bread and Boursin for the hors-d'oeuvres, bread and hard salami and swiss for the entree, and bread and Nutella for dessert.

I love good bread.

Good bread can be found easily enough, even in this cultural desert of a city -- I give full props especially to Nova Bakery, and not just because the lovely Serbian family that owns it employed HWLHiJ as a tutor last year. We used to live practically around the corner from them, but have since decided that some things, even good bread, are not worth so many rats in the walls, and have moved on to more post-Diluvian housing. Sadly, housing is far away from bakery. And it's possible to get a decent loaf at the local Harris Teeter, but sometimes one needs that arm and that leg. Anyway, I decided to learn how to bake bread. It's a craft. One should know a craft.

I'll tell you what: villanelles are easier. Spelling "Diluvian" is easier. Moving back into that rat-infested house on Eastway is easier than baking a good loaf of bread.

HWLHiJ helped matters greatly by purchasing self a very, very, very nice mixer. Alton Brown has this mixer, is all I'm saying. Mom helped further by buying self The Kata... Kala... fuck, I have to go get something... oh my, I was way off... The Tassajara Bread Book. It is considered the Bible for serious bread-makers. Granted, it's written by the granoliest hippie-assed motherfucker I've ever encountered, and he gets a little uncomfortably intimate on the degree to which one should cosset and love one's yeast, but it too has furthered my progress along the path to bread enlightenment.

Because enlightenment, so to speak, is actually the issue. I followed Alton Brown's sourdough bread recipe on my first attempt and got a doorstop. I figured I'd done the kneading all wrong and took a scientific approach on the following two Sundays: the first kneading significantly less, the next kneading significantly more. Two more damn doorstops. Then came the mixer and the book, and last Sunday was my first outing with both.

You know you have an awesome mixer when you turn the dial to "pulse," dough flies all over the kitchen, and all you can think is Wheeeee! Let's do that AGAIN! HWLHiJ actually had to make me go settle down. I still haven't taken that baby past 4 on the dial. I wanna get some egg whites in there and see what that bitch can really do.

Anyway, the attempt turned out a lot better than the previous efforts in the taste department (I still have some in the fridge actually, and it's still soft and muy delicioso) and it wasn't quite doorstop material, but it was still lacking the lovely holes of yeasty steam that I so yearn for. This week was even better (got better flour) but still not the pinnacle of perfection. Next week: more yeast! It's a million-to-one chance, but it just might work!

Honestly, I don't care. Half my brain has grown tired of the extra poundage I'm carting around and has sworn off glutens and all beverages except water. Of course the other, shall we say weightier, half of my brain is sucking down an egg-nog latte and saying, bugger that for a game of soldiers, we haven't even mastered ciabatta yet.

In other words, it's the journey, not the destination. Now I have to go get the chisel and start cleaning up the kitchen. And get started on the friggin' laundry.

Fiddly bits [not necessarily in order of importance]...

2008-01-10T17:32:00.000-05:00

Bought and watched "Stardust." I did not love it to anywhere near the degree that I loved "Beowulf." He Who Looks Hot in Jeans wandered in and watched most of it and didn't hate it anywhere near to the degree that he hated Beowulf.

Stardust, while not my favorite of the Gaiman oeuvre, is a novel that works (and may be a graphic novel that works as well, I'm waiting for an order of "fer funzies" books I did at work to come in and I included the original version in said order, as well as Coraline and The Wee Free Men and Dave Barry Slept Here and a "Get Fuzzy" anthology and 65 similar items because I am JUST THAT AWESOME) but the changes made to the script made no sense to me. It wasn't that complicated of a story line, and I think the changes were made in the interest of Cinematic Simplification -- not, in and of itself, a Bad Thing -- but I didn't see how they simplified.

The actors were excellent choices (well, actually, I'd say DeNiro was a strategically wise choice, and leave that one there) and the imagery was good -- where the story line coincided with the actual novel I was completely satisfied -- but it was a mere confection to Beowulf's meal.

*******

My Grandfather, who just turned, I think, 99, is on the downswing. He went into the hospital right before Christmas with congestive heart failure and, dammit, his heart was the one part of his body (other than his mind) that was still working. Not so much anymore, and this has exacerbated other problems that were once merely intolerable but now are turning deadly. He's always been a robust, active man, and for him to linger in an invalid state much longer is not the best solution. So...

*******

Our Main Dog, a Siberian Husky of somewhat advanced years (she is a Lady, so I will not specify), was having a very odd heat cycle, not at all how it normally goes. I called the vet and described the issues, and was pretty much allowed an appointment on suffrance, despite my being very, very silly. Of course, when the doctor looked at her, he sent her off immediately for emergency surgery. Turns out she could have dropped dead at any time while we stood around with our head on one side wondering if we should be worried about these symptoms.

We are now $1200 poorer (and this on top of breast cancer surgery for her a little over a month ago, which wasn't cheap either) but very glad that our dog is not dead. Mom was kind enough to point out that this kind of expenditure "... is a sad example of why having five animals (and two kids) is not such a good idea. " Her dad is dying, so I will give her a pass. This time. I love how the grandchildren are added as an afterthought.

*******

Today Buddy did every mom's favorite trick of stopping in the middle of the Bi-Lo parking lot and crouching down over a puddle in the middle of the traffic lane.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?!!!" I screeched, a' la June Cleaver.

"I was baptizing my coins," he replied.

*******

I got Legends II in hardback for $4.95 from the local used book store. Like finding a diamond ring in the dollar bin, if you ask me. I'm not even halfway through, but George R. R. Martin's "The Sworn Sword" was already worth every penny. Terry Pratchett's contribution to the original Legends, "The Sea and Little Fishes" is the entire reason that I now own (but two) every Discworld book ever written, and is also one of my Favorite Short Stories EVER in its own right.

Speaking of Martin, if you are a fan and haven't dropped by his site lately, he has updated his "Ice and Fire Update" (think: next year's Christmas present) and added a new chapter to the "Ice and Fire Sample."

Why the notepad-on-the-fridge trick doesn't work at my house...

2007-12-04T17:17:00.000-05:00

garbage bags -- Hefty, for garage can
crackers for lefties, made in Iran

baby wipes make all the poop go away
AA batteries, now with more "A"!

555-3274
Is this a girl's number? I'll kill the whore!

The morons say "hi"...

2007-12-04T17:01:00.000-05:00

[This is a parable about my job and some silly, silly vendors who don't seem to know which side their bread is buttered on.]

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who lived in one of the largest urban kingdoms in the land. It was her job to purchase fruit for the children of the kingdom.

She purchased fruit from many different farmers, but there was one farmer, a rich, ugly, stupid farmer named Pearson Education, who had more fruit than anyone else, and who almost always had exactly the fruit the princess needed.

The princess hated buying her fruit from this farmer. She'd order apples and half the shipment would be wormy. She'd make a huge pineapple purchase, with free kiwi fruit as part of the promised gratis fruit in the contract, then have to pester and beg the evil farmer for the damn kiwis. Lately she had gone in for a massive order of kumquats, which she could get from no other farmer. Half the kumquats arrived on time, but the rest were back-ordered. She's still receiving tardy kumquats to this day.

Recently, the Queen of the realm gave the princess $50,000 and told her to spend it on more fruit for the children. The princess knew that there was a great need for bananas, grapefruit and persimmons, and that she, once again, could only get them from Farmer Pearson Education.

So she e-mailed Farmer Pearson Education:

I plan on purchasing one zillion bananas, one zillion grapefruit, and one zillion persimmons for the children of this kingdom, one of the largest urban kingdoms in the land. What kind of volume discount can you give me?

And the evil farmer took his time about e-mailing her back, but at last she had her reply:

If you purchase one zillion lemons and one zillion limes, I can give you a free bunch of grapes for every thousand lemons or limes.

And the princess e-mailed back:

I don't want lemons, limes or grapes, I want bananas, grapefruit, and persimmons. Look, do you want the $50,000 or not?

So far the evil farmer's reply has been:

...

The princess is about to say "fuck it" and go buy corn chips, is all I'm saying.

A hollow victory...

2007-12-02T09:12:00.000-05:00

Our seventh anniversary was last Monday. As He Who Looks Hot in Jeans (HWHiJ, for the nonce, he will get much mention in this entry) works nights, and as we had just returned from Family Stuff in Michigan on Sunday, we hadn't pulled anything together for the date itself.

But I was poontling around in Neil Gaiman's blog at work on Monday (this is because my thyroid meds are off and all I can manage at work right now is poontling around in Neil Gaiman's blog. Fortunately, it's a fairly old blog with lots and lots of stuff to poontle. Yes, it's a word, goddamnit, because I say it is). Anyway, various reviews of Beowulf were intriguing me, so I called up my man and said, "I know what I want for our anniversary, I want to go see Beowulf."

"That's sounds cool," said my beloved, "Except I want to see The Mist."

I gave this some thought, and figured, well, if Beowulf, Mr. Magorium's Magic Emporium, Enchanted, and No Country for Old Men weren't out, well, heck, I'd want to see The Mist too. So I said We'll see, and set about securing a babysitter.

[Totally unrelated babysitter commentary:] When I called the secured babysitter on Thursday to finalize the start time -- which HWLHiJ and I had determined needed to be no later than 5:00 to make dinner and the movie -- she said, "Can't it be at 5:30?"

"I thought you got home from school at 3:15?"

"No, 4:15."

I did some difficult mental math, resulting in the fact that there were still 45 minutes here to work with. I hazarded a guess, "If dinner's the issue, I'm getting y'all a pizza."

"No, it's not dinner. I just need some time to relax after I get home from school."

Mind you, this kid's in the eighth grade, not med school. Am I a horrible evil bitch for having been utterly put off by this conversation?

Anyway, we compromised on 5:15, and I informed HWLHiJ, steeling myself for a whinefest, since he does not do well with having his plans dicked with (yes, even by fifteen minutes) and he said, "Oh that's okay, I've got a tutoring appointment until 5:00 and won't be home until 5:15."

So there ya go. [End unrelated babysitter commentary.]

I really wasn't opposed to seeing The Mist, but dinner was indeed a close shave and the first theater we went to, Beowulf was well underway and The Mist wasn't even showing. I was beginning to boil here, because all I had asked for was to see Beowulf, and now it was shaping up that I was going to get to eat Indian food and go home. Yay. However, we tried one more theater, where we had missed The Mist by 20 minutes, but Beowulf was just about to start.

I would say, hey, it's not my fault that we didn't go see The Mist, but you and I both know we could have walked into the Stephen King movie 20 minutes late and still have gotten to see five minutes of trailers. HWLHiJ never seemed to work this out, and I, by my silence, became a passive-aggressive conspirator in forcing him to watch the movie I wanted to see all along. I'm admitting this to you, Inconstant Reader. I don't think HWLHiJ will ever figure it out.

Well, I knew I was in trouble as the action got started and HWLHiJ leaned over and hissed, "You didn't tell me this was animated!!"

HWLHiJ and his heavy sighs aside, I loved the movie. Yes the eyes were weird and yes the horsed SUCKED, but that is the sum total of my complaints. As I mentioned, I've read many reviews that liked the movie for a plethora of reasons. I flatter myself that my reasons are a little different:

1) The Storytelling: With an impatient man who now hates Harry Potter like DEATH because of the butchery of the first HP movie, I was worried as hell that I'd lose him to boggy plot points. (Little did I know that, upon realization that the movie was animated, I'd lost him, period, the end, no take-backs.) But anyway, if he hadn't been such a noodge about the fact that No, Virginia, they're not real people, the plot would have given him no cause for complaint.

It was clear, it moved at a fantastic pace. I found it interesting, intriguing and affecting. And anyone who knows me knows I did not read Beowulf in high school, I merely jumped up and down on the book, bullshat my way through class discussions, then went home and read Robert Asprin. But I got a huge kick out of the story and the best part was, here's this ancient epic that millions, perhaps billions of teenagers have slept through over the centuries and Gaiman and Avary never once let the story slow down. There was no room for sleeping.

2) The Language: I never expected HWLHiJ, author of the statement, "Why the hell would you want to say 'auspicious' when 'promising' says just the same thing?", to get off on the language.

As a linguistics dork, myself, I loved it. I loved the language, barely understandable to modern ears, shared by Grendel and his mom. I loved that a bard stood up and recited from the original poem, in the original language, as the fight between Beowulf and Grendel was reenacted. While the main portion of the movie was dedicated to making the story digestible to modern audiences, these shout-outs to the ancient originators were perfect touches.

Yes, I know, I am a dork.

So, my darling husband hated it. That makes me sad. I hope I don't do that to him -- I do try to be interested in what he's interested in. Even if I can't stand it, I give it a fair shake, and I've learned to like a few things along the way -- Electric Light Orchestra and epic fantasies being two examples that jump to mind. Possibly even zombie movies. Granted, I believe I can take the credit for his obsession with Great Danes and irises, but still...

It's always disappointing to try to share something you dig and have it be rejected out of hand. Especially over something as stupid as whether or not it's animated. I mean, for what it's worth, the animation (barring horses and eyes, yes) was AMAZING. What has been accomplished over the past two decades with CGI just BOGGLES MY MIND.

(My one question to the artists though, is why not just go a little Manga with the eyes? Give up on making them look real, it's not working. Just go big and limpid and at least they'll be pretty, and possible less distractlingly creepy. Anyone?)

And I don't often regret that I was robbed of all depth perception by an extreme case of strabismus, but I did in this case (and when I'm backing into a parking spot). We watched the 2D version -- and I could have physically seen the 3D version, but it would have looked just like the 2D version. As neat as the 2D version was for me, I wonder how cool having blood and spears fly out of the screen at you would have been. Perhaps my man would have enjoyed it more...

My next pathetic attempt will be to get him to see The Golden Compass. He's already up in arms because some moron on the internet said something about how the book does nothing but bash Catholics. I said, Dude, read the fucking book and then get worked up about it, and he said, I don't have to read the fucking book if I don't want to, and I said...

Seven years. Hard to believe, I know.

A denial, a denial, a denial, a denial...

2007-11-28T18:31:00.000-05:00

I remember senior year in high school, hanging out in my friend Eric's car during lunch, with the seats fully reclined and Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" cranked on the stereo. That song, and a few others from the grunge era, grabbed me by the ears and spoke directly to my poor, dark, misunderstood soul. My reaction to them was visceral and pure. My devotion to the ideology and the boots, sincere.

Fifteen years later, I'm lying on my couch (in a fabulous pair of boots) watching a half-hour documentary about the making of that video. How it was the death knell for 80's hair bands and the voice of the disenfranchised Generation X. Dave Grohl, Crist Novoselic and the guy who made the video reminisced about Kurt and the anger and passion he brought to the soundstage.

Finally, after much platitudenizing and deep searching of navels, they played the video. I lay back on the couch and tried to recapture the thrill, the throb of a song that was once the soundtrack of my world.

The Bear toddled into the room, watched the TV for a few seconds and pogoed (if forced to choose between music and animals, the Bear's head would probably just explode from the stress. Musical animals, now that's what Santa needs to bring!) then came up to me and handed me two inches of masticated banana. I handed it back and he shoved it in his mouth, creating fake banana teeth and growling (like a Bear).

I looked at the TV screen, then looked at my not-so-baby boy, his face a pastiche of potassium-rich sludge. I tried to imagine how this scene would play to my 18-year-old self and drew a blank.

Then I got off the couch and changed the TV to Cartoon Network. I've got better things to do with my time now.

Seriously, I should NOT be allowed to write titles...

2007-11-17T01:57:00.000-05:00

I know, I know... I haven't posted in... months. After yet another extravagant promise to get back to the blogging. I'm a terrible liar (and the Blogger editor thinks that both "blogging" and "Blogger" are incorrectly spelled words -- now that's amusing).

To be sure, I've actually been busy, rather than wallowing in the depths of despair. Buddy's entree into the world of edumacation has been rocky and requiring a great deal of at-home support, for which I should be canonized. A month in, his teacher was declaring she was positive he would wind up being retained. However, with a great deal of reinforcement on my part and sheer herculean effort of will on Buddy's part, he has improved substantially and, at last week's parent-teacher conference, his teacher pretty much ate her words.

The Bear, who will be two in exactly one month's time, doesn't talk much (although he has the essentials down: "Yes", "No" and "Shut up!") but the other day, in the parking lot of Super Wal*Mart Almighty, he started singing "Charlie" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, clear as day.

I was pulling out onto a busy road some time ago, and realized that Buddy, usually a conscientious wearer of the seat belt, was unbuckled. I read him the riot act, then demanded, "Why on earth have did you not get your seatbelt on?"

And he replied, "I was busy pretending I could see with my nose."

And for further evidence that he should be apprenticed to Neil Gaiman forthwith, I submit to you my two favorite pages of a book he illustrated and dictated to me. (The final pages involve his resurrection at the hands of a kindly witch and his Mom's exultation over the return of her beloved son, so, no worries.)

I absolutely adore my kids. Here's an unsurprising thing, though. I finally uploaded some photos to Flickr, and included this:

Which I foolishly entitled "Underwear Model", because he looks like a model, and yet you can see his Power Rangers underwear (obviously).

24 hours later, all of the items in my Flickr group had precisely 0 views, except that one, which had 17.

If your wondering what He Who Looks Hot in Jeans has been up to lately, well, he's been baiting liberals, thank you very much. I read the thread and had a few remarks to make about his tone, so he let me edit his parting shot. Anyway, guess which commenter I'm lucky enough to be married to and I'll link your site.

Sorry for the utter ramble, but I finally got Hot-in-Jeans out of town for awhile (hunting trip, surprised?) and got his computer (read: the one that works) to myself, so maybe I'll post again over the next days to continue the catch-up. Hell, Doxie's gone quiet again, so why not stop by and give me a read? If she's not posting, I'm the next best thing -- 20,000+ visitors at the long-defunct Mean Teacher can't possibly be wrong.

I am such a liar.

Crawling back to civilization

2007-08-18T07:53:00.000-05:00

Maybe I'm on somebody's blogroll and they'll see the update and come and visit...

Hahahahaha. Anyway.

Dear blog,

I haven't missed you one little bit. But I need to get back to writing and to human interaction. In the year 2007, updating one's blog may be an important part of that.

I wasn't kidding that the infamous Wagon Scene in Zelda: Twilight Princess consumed my attention and soul for actual weeks, but I must confess even more distracting and frustrating events were going on as well.

The big problem was that I was summarily reassigned at work to go teach at the very worst school in the city. Now, I can handle teaching at a tough school, I've been doing it almost my entire career, but it's not my job anymore. I left the classroom. On purpose. So to be told to go back, and to go back to a school that has so many issues, and to pick up the pieces from a fired teacher who had done such an appallingly bad job...

Well, it pissed me off at first. But I was philosophical about it.

Then I went and did the job, and that thin veneer of good attitude was pretty much demolished by the end of 3rd period on the first day. I won't dwell, but suffice it to say, my job was the part of my life that was going well, and when this shitstorm came down the line and made all aspects of my life desperately sucky, I spiraled into a depression, stopped calling friends or checking e-mail...

Finally the school year ended and I was released back to my "real" job, which I'd been away from so long I couldn't figure out what to do with myself once back at the cubicle. Fortunately, I had a trip to New Mexico (for my grandparents' memorial service and attendant family reunion) to look forward to at the end of June. Ultimately, I was so wiped by the preceding experience, that I took a week off sick before I left on vacation.

That helped. And getting back into the swing of things at work and another weeklong beach vacation in the beginning of August also did wonders.

Meanwhile, I refinanced the house, as the ARM we were stupid enough to get into was an ever-increasing source of disastrous friction between the husband and myself and that helped a lot of things at home. It's sad to say on your way to the beach, "Hey, maybe this year's trip will be even better because you will be speaking to me this time!" It also turns out to be true.

Buddy starts kindergarten in a matter of days. Thank God I got all the other crap dealt with because there's enough stress in this operation to age me twenty years.

So, thats the short version. How's everyone doing?

The above picture is of my two boys exploring White Sands.

Oh, and? I'm applying to law school.

If you need me, I'll be on the Hyrule fields...

2007-03-18T17:22:00.000-05:00

... trying to cut my way through goblins and vengeful bomb-dropping birds as I escort a wagon with my amnesiac true love, some fat bar strumpet, and a sick mer-child in whose life rests the entire fate of the world.

As you can see, I, like apparently all other players of the Wii game Zelda: Twilight Princess, am stuck on a particularly vicious bit of gaming code and have little time to spare for blogging, eating or doing my taxes. Twilight Princess is such a fantasmagorically fun game and the Nintendo Wii is such a brilliant game platform that it has managed to suck in even me. And I hate video games.

I'm beginning to work up a healthy dislike for this game in particular. And He Who Looks Hot in Jeans is waaaaayy behind me (he's distracted by trying to win Olympic gold for the Canadian hockey team on the X-box 360), so I can't make him help me until after he's defeated the Fiery Wagon Ride of Carpal Doom himself. Which, if the forums (fora?) are any indication, he may never do either.

Meanwhile, my job sucks and I'm broke and I'm seriously considering firing my babysitter, despite the fact that I don't think I've got any other valid options for child care. Since I've sworn not to use this blog as a platform for bitching, I guess I'll just have to go one maintaining air silence. As I said, if anyone needs me, I'll be on Hyrule field, chasing that damn bimbo and her burning wagon around and around in circles.

Send bomb arrows. And a fire extinguisher.

It's like a medieval Kim Possible, only it's totally not...

2007-03-03T11:57:00.000-05:00

I live under a pretty hefty rock, so I don't know if I'm ahead of or behind the curve on this one, but people, you have just got to go get the kids and watch Jane and the Dragon.

An obscure DirectTV channel called Ion carries VeggieTales and 3-2-1 Penguins! on a Friday afternoon network called Qubo, also available on our NBC affiliate on Saturday mornings. After the lovable Christian comestibles ran their credits, this new CGI confection came on, and I was immediately hooked. So were the rest of the Dungeons and Dragons dorks lounging around my living room getting a head start on their Friday night buzz. Buddy likes it well enough, but I bet he'll enjoy it more when he's older (he needs more explosions right now).

Anyway, things that are right about Jane and the Dragon:

It takes place in a medieval castle, in an era of chivalry and, of course, dragons. As far as I'm concerned, every TV show, movie and book should have a similar setting. Even the ones about WWII.
It's about Jane, a girl who wants to be a knight.
It's made by Weta, who are singlehandedly responsible for everything that is awesome in my DVD collection so far.
The CGI animation is well-done, but that's not a major accomplishment anymore. What is remarkable is the beautiful and extremely original styling of the animation: the colors are soft, and the backdrops look as if they've been drawn with colored pencils, and the character modeling is very appealing. Jane's hair is especially fun. Dragon's motion controls are genius, the giant reptile slithers over the walls of the castle like a skink.
The stories are good and include a compelling moral for the kiddies -- and it's not too simplistic, there's room for discussion at the dinner table

A word to the wise, however: last Sunday I watched The Chronicles of Riddick and the Oscars, and I thought both were fantastic, so clearly I have absolutely no taste.

Happy Birthday Buddy! Villanelles are HARD!

2007-02-20T17:10:00.000-05:00

In honor of Buddy's 5th birthday, which is TODAY, I shall now inflict upon you a villanelle, intended to describe the circumstances of his introduction into our family (we were doing summer work in the Alaskan bush, the pregnancy was most unexpected, and Buddy's eyes are deep blue with gold flecks: how could you NOT write a poem?).

If you feel it is a sodden piece of belabored crap, try to remember, villanelles are incredibly HARD, and the fact that it is WRITTEN and that it is actually a villanelle is so freakin' AMAZING that there is no need to expend further effort to judge the actual quality of the actual words.

So, with no further excuses:

I left the flakes of gold on the riverbed
Believing I'd return to find them there.
I find my treasure in your eyes instead.

The prospectors are a hundred years dead,
Deeding the gold to caribou and bear.
I left the flakes of gold on the river bed.

Named for, "Good news, it's a boy!" so they said.
Had the same "good news" so I got out of there.
I find my treasure in your eyes instead.

A vacant vale that Good News River fed
With salmon, gold and quiet like nowhere.
I left the flakes of gold on the river bed,

A new frontier beckoned with thrilling dread,
Infinite risks, prizes beyond compare:
I find my treasure in your eyes instead.

No vista bests your life stretched out ahead,
I'd give up more to have your world to share.
I left the flakes of gold on the river bed --
I find my treasure in your eyes instead.

Don't worry, he also got a Wii.

Better than being beaten, stoned and finally beheaded...*

2007-02-15T16:59:00.000-05:00

Note to parents considering placing their kids in pre-school:
How's your self-confidence? 'Cause there's nothing like a pre-school event -- Valentine's Day springs to mind here -- to let you know exactly how much you suck as a parent.

I thought I was the fo-shizzle, as it were, having purchased cards well in advance, and having even got cool Nerds candy cards for Buddy, with tiny boxes of candy that popped cunningly into the cards (tape and die punch not included).

Buddy came home with a bag full of cards that included candy, but worse than that, several of the candy cards were hand made, incorporating the candy packets into clever little animal designs. This is because I suck.

Also, I forgot to put together any cards for his teachers. Perhaps they did not suffer for lack of Nerds, but it's the thoughtlessness that counts.

I didn't go so all-out with Bear's cards, simply getting him a pack of Pixar-related cards with neither bells nor whistles. I had theorized that a roomful of pre-two-year-olds would not give much of a crap about Valentines. When I set down to address all the cards, I couldn't find a class list for him anywhere. Again, going with my madcap what-does-an-eighteen-month-old-want- with-a-Valentine? theory, I put Bear's name on a fistful of cards, stuck 'em in a baggy with a self-deprecating note to his teacher, and moved on with my life.

When did I locate the neatly labeled and completed list of his classmates? If you guessed "three blocks away from the school, after I dropped them off" you win the enchilada. Running Appallingly Late has been a major theme of mine lately, so all I had left to do was drive on to work in a steaming puddle of shame and humiliation.

He Who Looks Hot in Jeans got me an iPod as his token of Valentinian affection. I'm sure I'll get exactly zero sympathy from all none of you who read, but I simply cannot break him of the notion that "expensive"="awesome". I like the iPod, it's blue and shiny and tiny, but I'm going to have to commit to actual lifestyle changes before I find a use for the darn thing.

(I just spent the last forty-five minutes trying to upload my songs and calling innocent software some very ugly names.)

I got my man a cherry tree and a comforter and I fed him salmon for dinner. I'm enjoying the comforter as much as he's enjoying my iPod. If that's not love, what is?

*St. Valentine apparently got hisself martyred in this extensive fashion.

On the one hand...

2007-02-12T16:44:00.000-05:00

Via Drudge: Cabin girl in hiding 'after liaison with Fiennes on a flight'

I personally would be all, "Hell yeah, I tapped that!" A career at Qantas or a red-hot-slice of Ralph Fiennes is not even a contest, if you ask me.

On the other hand, if the poor girl is telling the truth, then I'd really be annoyed, if I were her. And not simply because I didn't get to bang Ralph Fiennes.

Did I ever tell you the story of Mrs. McCave? She had 23 sons and she named them all Dave...

2007-02-12T15:57:00.000-05:00

I'm helping out with the statewide English proficiency testing at one of our high schools. I was doing individual speaking tests this afternoon with a group of kids I'd never worked with before.

I came to an unusual name -- let's say it was "Scarlet O'Hara" because it totally wasn't -- which surprised me because I'd already tested Scarlet O'Hara in another class. So I glanced around the classroom and spotted a girl who, sure as shootin', looked exactly like Scarlet O'Hara.

I noted this to the teacher, who said, "Oh, this isn't that Scarlet O'Hara. This is Scarlet O'Hara's twin sister, Scarlet O'Hara."

That's right, identical twins, with identical unusual names. Their middle names, which I didn't quite catch, but may have been "Thumbelina" and "Beatrice," are different, but what the hell does that matter if they both use Scarlet O'Hara. Furthermore, upon administration of the English proficiency test, I determined that Scarlet Thumbelina O'Hara didn't have enough English to pour widdle out of a boot ("How old are you?" "I am fine, thank you.") much less handle a discussion of whether or not it would be sensible to go by Thumbelina. And my Spanish, while better than even I'm willing to admit to myself, was unequal to the task.

I guess on a practical level for everyone else (their mom possibly included) it makes for less muss and fuss for them to have the same name, but I wonder, knowing how identity is such a weird and touchy subject with my identical twin husband, if Scarlet or Scarlet ever wishes people would decide to call her sister by some other name.

Small Dreams

2007-02-08T17:44:00.000-05:00

For this month’s Blogging for Books, write about a dream you’ve had - either waking or sleeping.

I can say a lot of things to my therapist, admitting guilt, unloading rage or confessing bewilderment. We clicked straightaway, and she's done me some good, but she's got one question that still makes me quail:

What do YOU want?

I've got no answer, and that fact shames me. It does not mesh with the warrior queen image I pretend to see in myself. I have no dreams. I have pushy people on all sides of me with voices so loud and agendas so lengthy I couldn't hear myself dream if I had anything to say.

When I was a kid I had a few dreams: become a photojournalist, learn French, live in France, be a rock star. I got over some and attained the others. And good things have come my way -- living in Alaska, my kids, my job -- but, as much as I've appreciated them, they weren't necessarily my idea. Therefore they're not my dreams.

And I lament the fantasy life I seem to have misplaced. I used to go to bed and imagine: what if I went back in time? what if the aliens came and I stowed away? what if World War III happened next Tuesday? and I'd drift away into adventure and peril. One time an evil queen sat high above me and glared down in judgement. One time I died, and the afterlife was a bizarre shade of green (so there's a myth shot down for you).

Nowadays I put myself to sleep with a good book full of someone else's imaginings, and dream of small things: finding money in my purse, being skinny again, showing up at college and not knowing what to do with my kids. Sometimes I dream I'm buying donuts. Then I wake up and am sad.

My dreams have compacted under the weight of my real life. I know I've built the walls that squeeze it all down, and, when I'm not too tired, I scrabble away with my nails, trying to tear them down.

Perhaps my dream is to dream again -- as big and as technicolor as I pretend myself to be. Small dreams don't fit me.

Over the Hedge

2007-02-04T16:13:00.000-05:00

Back in the days when I would have been enraptured by any feature length animated movie that came down the pike, the sad truth was that every feature length animated movie that came down the pike, from The Rescuers to The Fox and the Hound, was of dubious quality at best. It wasn't until Disney redeemed themselves with The Little Mermaid, when I was well into high school, that the state of the genre reattained the heights once achieved with Snow White and the Seven Dwarves or, my personal favorite, Cinderella. I may have been nearly an adult, but I was finally a fan.

Then, while I was in college, Pixar raised the bar several notches higher with Toy Story. I've been a slavish devotee of CGI animation ever since, and would have declared not too terribly long ago that there was no such thing as a bad CG film.

Then I had kids, and flat couldn't wait to take them to the movies.

Then came Robots, The Wild, Monster House, Chicken Little and similar dreck, and I have to admit, I've been seriously worried.

Not Buddy. Not only has he been enraptured by all of these films, but he stops strangers in the streets and quotes lines from Monster House to them on a regular basis (I really do wish I was kidding about that). And, being four, he insists on watching anything I rent at least twice a day until Blockbuster starts sending nasty postcards.

So it was with dire trepidation that I rented Dreamworks' Over the Hedge. While Shrek was pretty damn good, I put the blame for the decline of the genre squarely on their shoulders, pointing to Shark Tale and Shrek II as Exhibits A and B (Pixar has yet to fuck up in this vein, God bless 'em, and the less said about the work of upstarts, such as Ice Age and whatever the bandwagon-jumpers at Mattel are churning out the better). So my expectations for Over the Hedge were minimal at best.

I was more than pleasantly surprised. The story is charming, well up to the beating it must take chez Mean Teacher of multiple viewings (the instant death of Chicken Little, which was clearly written by a committee). The voice work is dead-on (a real surprise, since it was the "all-star" casts of Shark Tale and Madagascar that weakened those films -- some actors look a lot prettier than they sound, like the conundrum of the transition to "talkies" back in the '40s, only the other way 'round). Garry Shandling is a particular knockout as Vern, the cautious paterfamilias box turtle, and Nick Nolte turns in his best performance in decades as the bad news bear.

But the real winner here is the animation itself. The texture people at Dreamworks have achieved new miracles with fur and foliage. Like Finding Nemo, there are nonstop roller-coaster action sequences which manage to be both breathtaking and enduringly funny. Best of all is the character control: keeping in mind that CGI is more puppetry and mime than classic animation, the facial expressions of the animals are not just engaging, they're addictive. I keep finding myself stopping in the midst of chores or reading specifically to watch Vern deadpan wearily or R.J., Bruce Willis' trickster raccoon, cock a sly eyebrow. There's real acting going on here, and the Orwellian threat that CGI will eliminate the need for SAG members to show up for work for once seems like an actual possibility.

The DVD has worthwhile extras, including the highly amusing short Hammy's Boomerang Adventure and the first informative behind-the-scenes documentary I've yet seen on a Dreamworks' Animation DVD. Also included, however, are teasers for Bee Movie and Shrek III.

They look like they're going to be awful. Absolutely awful. I'm sure I'll be in a position to let you know soon enough.

When hedgehogs lose their prickles, so does Mean Teacher...

2007-02-01T01:37:00.000-05:00

I think global warming is a massive crock of shit. In A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson asserts that the "normal" world climate is infinitely more balmy than we're experiencing today, but then, like, two books later in A Short History of Nearly Everything he declares that the frigid grip of an ice age is much more typical than our current climate.

Not that Bryson is a world-renowned climatologist, but I don't read world-renowned climatologists, and anyway, Bryson is a smart man who has admitted publicly to availing himself of a library from time-to-time and if he can't state definitively whether or not we're in the midst of a cold spell or a global Indian summer, then I'm just not going to get bothered about the fact that the Earth's climate is changing. Apparently it does that.

But, when you bring the hedgehogs into it, I am given pause. I have a particular weakness for hedgehogs, and I might actually start to feel a little ashamed of having skipped a few emissions inspections after having read this article (via Drudge).

"Unwanted Guest Brings Lysol"

2007-01-29T18:52:00.000-05:00

As I was dashing around town this morning, a local radio show was inviting callers to summarize their weekend in exactly four words. At first I didn't think I was up to the challenge, but then Inspiration, or possibly, Carbon Monoxide and Sleep Deprivation, deposited the title of this post into my brain.

I immediately arrived at my destination, so I was unable to wow Candy and Potter with my verbal dexterity, or find out if they actually asked people to elaborate on their summaries (or did the break simply go:
"Hi! You're on Candy and Potter!"
"More Monkeys Than Wise."
"Thank you! Hi! You're on Candy and Potter!"
"Hoping The Glue Holds."
"Fantastic! Hi! You're on Candy and Potter!"
"That's How You Were Concieved."
"Oops! Sorry, that's five words. Hi! You're on...")

But anyway, "Unwanted Guest Brings Lysol" is my summary and if I was Candy (or, perchance, Potter) I'd demand elaboration, so here goes:

Thursday morning, Buddy got up, announced he was sick, and then appeared to spit a giant loogey on my carpet.

Unimpressed, I made lunches, brushed teeth, and clothed children. At last ready to race out the door, I was saying goodbye to the Jeans Guy when Buddy walked up and... gave a much more convincing performance. Again, all over my carpet.

So I left him in his father's capable hands, took Bear to daycare, and then went on to the office. I had the second half of a Big Deal Workshop that afternoon, which I've been totally geeked to present since October, and which had already suffered Lameness and Curtailment during it's first installment on Tuesday due to 1) lack of preparation due to an all-weekend ear-infection-a-thon, hosted by Bear and 2) the fact that I had to duck out an hour early if I was going to make it to the Chili Pepper's concert on time.

Anyway, I was somewhat concerned, because I really needed to nail this presentation and now I was going to have to run home and fetch Buddy and have him sit in the corner and play Gameboy, because his dad had to go to work at four.

[At this point some readers are beginning to see the appeal of the Four Word Weekend Summary.] Short story long: get home, Buddy, who had looked fine at 8:30, now looked like unholy death, and was still spewing copiously every half hour. There was no way I could drag this pathetic being back across town to do this workshop. So, at the risk of never redeeming Tuesday's pathetic performance, I cancelled and stayed home.

When we went to the babysitter's to retrieve the Bear, another of her charges got off the school bus right in front of us, and barfed all over her driveway.

Buddy was finally fine, but by 11:00 p.m., the Bear was in business. I washed his sheets, I kid you not, three times before I succumbed myself around 3:30 a.m.

So then it was Friday, and I was obliged to take yet another sick day (two and a half in one week!) and lie on the couch and moan while the kids, who were, of course, now fine, cavorted around me and the husband offered his best sympathy: "Oh great, now I'm gonna get it."

I wasn't sick again, but I hurt, and I wanted to sleep. And stare at Scrubs reruns. Then I staggered out of the bedroom after nap #3 and found my brother-in-law (BIL) installed on my couch.

That was fucking annoying enough, because if he's on my couch, then I'm not on my couch and he's playing XBox360 and I'm not watching Scrubs reruns and there was absolutely nothing in that scenario that fitted into my plans.

But what made it worse was that he, apparently pre-warned by my ever-considerate life partner, came armed with a can of Lysol.

Can you imagine that conversation?

"Hey man, Galaga tournament still on tonight?"

"Sure thing, but I gotta warn ya, everybody in the house has had the pukes since yesterday. The wife hasn't so much as fixed me a sandwich all day, she's been unconscious so much. Plus the baby was up all night and the other one puked all day yesterday."

"Wow, sounds pretty bad."

"Yeah, man."

"I'd better bring some Lysol then. I wouldn't want to catch that."

And this counts as my weekend summary because I got up around midnight last night to deal with Bear and a spectacular new diaper rash and he was still there.

That Concert was Red Hot

2007-01-24T12:47:00.000-05:00

Dispatch from the fourth row, slightly to the left of center stage, fully in sight of Flea's own personal nostril hairs:

When I was 12 I saw Whitney Houston from the balcony of the Erwin Center. She had a cold and could barely sing, and her skirt was so small and tight, she couldn't walk up the steps, but rather had to be lifted onto the stage by two burly roadies. Kenny G. opened. I was struck by how incredibly tall he was. I kind of liked Kenny G., but frankly would have preferred to be at Barbie on Ice.

When I was 17 I saw the Pixies and U2 from even higher up in the same balcony. I learned that I may be fine outdoors, but I get wonderful vertigo in enclosed spaces, and that Bono's radius of animal magnetism can encompass a small city. He may have been just a distant dot, but he was a sexy dot.

I've seen Dave Matthews, or a tiny bouncing figure purporting to be Dave Matthews, from the lawn at the Blockbuster (or whoever it pimps for now) Pavilion twice. I saw They Might Be Giants at the Tremont, and Hole at a similar small venue in France. I don't remember the They Might Be Giants (I might have been stoned) and Hole was godawful. It was two days after the anniversary of Cobain's death, and Courtney was clearly off the wagon. And her rocker.

But I saw the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who I can honestly say I've loved since high school, last night from the fourth row. I had to get a little juiced to recapture that adolescent willingness to get swept away by the music, but juiced I got and swept away I was.

Periodically my 32 year old self would swim to the surface and remind myself that I probably ought to have a few Doan's and a few Tylenol before hitting the sack, as it had been a long time since I last pogoed or headbanged, and periodically that self would wonder what a mother of two toddlers was doing there, but then I remembered that Flea has kids about the same age, so it's all good. We're all just getting old together.

Gnarls Barkley opened, and, if the sound had been better mixed, they would have been pretty darn awesome, too.

He Who Looks Hot in Jeans kept analyzing Frusciante's technique and insisting he'd seen better drummers and trying to get me to rate the show on a ten point scale. "Dude," said I, "It's the best show I've ever seen, I don't care which parts weren't perfect."

"Yeah, well, that Flea guy's a pretty good bass player. But I saw better lights at Pat Methany."

"Dude, shut up!!"

We had to go to a backup babysitter, because the one we actually like wasn't allowed to stay out that late on a Tuesday. Which is just as well as we came home even later than expected. Upon arrival in the driveway, we realized we spent all our cash on t-shirts and beer and didn't have enough left for the poor girl, so I'm going to have to slope over there later today with a 20.

Got to bed by 1am, then Bear woke up at 3am and flat out REFUSED to go back to sleep. I sat up with him for two hours, glaring white-hot half-drunk glares of impotent rage as he burbled around, happier than a pig in shit to have the living room and Mommy to himself and to be on the back end of an ear infection. I passed out on the couch and woke up at 6 to find him in a similar prone stupor in front of the television, the frenetic colored light cast by Boohbah bathing his features. I chucked his butt in bed and slept till 8. Both children and self were astoundingly late.

My feet hurt, I sleptwalked through my entire morning, and I need a nap (which I won't get). We easily parted with $700 for the total evening and I could care less. I'm definitely not too old for this.

Gettin' my dork on...

2007-01-22T14:52:00.000-05:00

This was discovered via Nobody-Knows-Anything (the first blog I ever read!), and I have no idea who this guy is or how bad his OCD is, but it's Helm's Deep in Candy and it's fucking genius.

Yanno, Hot-in-Jeans and I are big (and perhaps the only) fans of Dexter, but the minute this gets the green light, I'm paying ANY amount of money for the HBO and Showtime can take a running jump: HBO Options Ice & Fire

And this item, from Drudge? Not dorky, just very, very disturbing: Documentary on beastiality premiers at Sundance Film Festival. This excerpt is the part that really has me worried:
"Zoo," premiering before a rapt audience Saturday night at Sundance, manages to be a poetic film about a forbidden subject, a perfect marriage between a cool and contemplative director (the little-seen "Police Beat") and potentially incendiary subject matter: sex between men and animals. Not graphic in the least, this strange and strangely beautiful film combines audio interviews (two of the three men involved did not want to appear on camera) with elegiac visual re-creations intended to conjure up the mood and spirit of situations. The director himself puts it best: "I aestheticized the sleaze right out of it."

I always suspected...

2007-01-20T07:12:00.000-05:00

Excerpt from Escaping From the Backyard Gang: My Private Hell as One of Barney's "Friends"

We slept in a large dormitory, in white-enameled iron bedsteads. The girls against the east wall and the boys against the west. After lights out Matron would sit in a chair by the door, her knitting needles click-click-clicking away, to make sure we didn't try to whisper or get up.

There was hardly any need. You learned soon enough not to get too close to anyone, because chances are they'd be gone within the week. I made the mistake of becoming fond of a boy named Andy, only to see him dragged away after forgetting to smile during dress rehearsal.

Besides, we were always exhausted by lights-out. We were awoken at 4:00, expected at Morning Chants by 4:15, then Calisthenics, a breakfast of Ovaltine and gruel at 5:30, dance and singing practice in the dojo until 11:00, a thirty minute break for lunch, generally some sort of stew, then rehearsal or filming for however long it took. None of the children recieved dinner until the Director was pleased with the performance or wrapped the take. One night I remember singing and dancing to "Skip to My Lou" for eleven hours straight and finally being allowed our bread-and-butter and fish sticks at nearly midnight. Most of us were too exhausted to sway properly the next morning and were beaten in the dojo.

They'd beat us for practically any reason: standing still, not smiling, dropping our eyebrows, not skipping high enough. Of course, it was also imperative to never muss one's costume, allow one's socks to droop or let a single hair go astray. When we werent needed on the set, we wore gray smocks and slippers and kept our hair under shower caps lined with mayonnaise, to maintain its shine.

Whenever Barney entered the room with his head on, we were expected to exult gleefully, whether or not cameras were rolling. However, if he entered the room without his head on, we were forbidden to even acknowledge his presence.

Years later I asked my Mother why she had abandoned me to these evil people. She gave me that indulgent smile she always offered when I tried to suggest that perhaps this had not been the best way to pass my childhood, and said, "Well honey, you were on television. You were gonna be a star!"

I don't know of a single one of us who has become a "star." I once heard that a younger girl named Samantha had landed a Public Service Announcement about airbag safety, but even that never elevated beyond rumor.

All I know now is that if I hear fife music, I go catatonic. And I can never stop swaying and smiling: in the checkout line at the grocery store, throughout endless strings of unsuccessful job interviews, during eye exams (an excellent way to get an otherwise mild-mannered opthalmalogist to yell at you). If I ever lay eyes on that purple bastard again, I swear I'll strangle him with his own tail.

What I'm Listening To

2007-01-18T17:32:00.000-05:00

An open letter to Mr. Bill Bryson:

Sir,

I am a devoted re-reader of your books, travel and linguistic alike, and was gifted for Christmas with several of your audiobooks. I am currently enjoying, for the first time, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid.

I must admit to being a bit thrown by some of the more visceral moments in the memoir. The description of a bully's pendulous loogie was particularly awe-inspiring, as was your discussion of masticated food spraying from your Uncle Dee's trach hole, and your consequent dislike of cottage cheese.

But the topper, for me (to date, I'm only on Disc Three), was your evocation of the detritus left in your water-glass by the old man on the next stool at a diner counter.

I was in rush-hour traffic, and the instant you started in I knew what was coming, having gotten a good case of the gags from the Budder kid and Uncle Dee. I rushed my finger to the fast-forward button, but I was transfixed. I could not press it. I got the gags, and still my finger would not hit that button. The gags grew progressively more convulsive, and still I could not stop listening to this ghastly recital. I even threw up in my mouth, just a little bit. In the middle lane of Independence Boulevard.

The point of my mentioning this (oh, please God, let there be a point) is that, when the whole ordeal was over and I was madly chewing Altoids and reflecting, I had to admit: it's a powerful piece of prose that can make you barf in traffic and yet be unable to stop listening.

My hat is off to you sir.

This wouldn't happen if I stuck to biographies...

2007-01-16T21:10:00.000-05:00

Anybody who managed to stay awake in high school English should remember that Dickens got paid by the word. Ah, we clever sophomores would say to ourselves, that might explain why there's so many of the damn things in his books. And we would be right.

It occurs to me as I slog through book eleven of Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series that authors of popular fantasy series get paid by the book. That might explain why there's so many of the damn things in a series.

Especially in a series like Jordan's which establishes in the first book that the hero is moving toward a Culminating Event in which Wrong will be righted and Right shall prevail. Or whatever. But you sit back and say, "Okee-doke, we just have to get ol' Rand to Tarmon Gaidon [say it out loud, it sounds like 'Armageddon.' Betcha never caught that!] and all will be well and I can go re-read Harry Potter like I really want to."

But now, as the cast mounts into the hundreds, and the plots of each book inch imperceptibly toward the final goal while throwing up endless meaningless obstacles before the intrepid hero, I'm beginning to wonder if, somewhere around book seven, Jordan lost the love.

And can I take a moment here to marvel at the fact that every time a character (of which, I may have mentioned there are hundreds, and not one of them bestowed with a pronounceable name) enters a scene or changes clothes, Jordan assiduously describes the outfit. And every time a character changes mood, Jordan (or, I suspect, his army of sub-authors) not only describes the mood, but explains how the focal character knows that this is the character's mood.

It's positively distracting. Not that there's much to be distracted from. I'm on page 525 of this thing (with 312 pages to go) and the only significant events are three character movements and somebody getting married (and then moving). Tiny clues are added to intrigues, but, since it's been over a year since I read the last book (and swore never to invest in another Jordan hardcover again) I can't keep straight what the intrigues were pointing to or which hundredth character with which ungodly name was involved. I can't even remember which characters have revealed themselves as bad guys -- and I'm not about to re-read the other ten books to get it straight.

And the evil! What's wrong with developing a little believable evil? A little evil with motive? The big bad guys are so viciously nasty there is no reason in the world why anyone in their right mind would want to hang with them. They have nothing to offer people but immortality in a universe of utter nastiness.

To maintain and perpetuate the obstacles to resolution, Jordan has been obligated to develop some of the most stubborn, self-involved protagonist characters in the history of fiction. If they were one whit less pigheaded, they might actually solve the little mysteries that plague them or realize that they're running around with enemy empresses or whatever. But that would end the series about five books ago, and we can't be having that, now can we? Still, doesn't make them the most sympathetic folks to root for.

And the reason I won't buy another hardcover is: Tor (God bless 'em) is in such a hurry to make a gazillion dollars off the next installment that the copy editing is appalling and possibly even more distracting than the red-slashed silks with brocaded panels or what the fuck ever.

I will say that at least Wheel of Time is not as godawful as the degeneration of Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series. In the last bricklike tome I shoveled through in that series nothing at all happened -- so not kidding! Not a damn thing until, like the last page, and if that one thing hadn't'of happened, I would have been morally compelled to set the book on fire.

The trick, it seems, is to limit yourself from the beginning (the Harry Potter series, or the highly overlooked and underrated trilogy Deed of Paksenarrion, by Elizabeth Moon) or to be a little more realistic about who the good and bad guys are (everybody, a little bit) like in George R.R. Martin's phenomenal Song of Ice and Fire series so that, even though there's a Culminating Event somewhere up ahead, you're far more interested in what everybody's up to right now, becuase frankly they're just interesting people to whom interesting things keep happening.

What the first one didn't prepare us for: Part I

2007-01-14T18:34:00.000-05:00

I walk into the living room, and am hit in the face with a massive waft of POO STENCH. I glare accusingly at the dogs, who have been doing their best of late to get me a new carpet, and they glare back: I swear to God, Mom, it's not ALWAYS us.

And I have to concede that a visual sweep of the floor yields no... nuggets... as it were.

Right at my feet the Bear is cavorting and chortling in his Bearish way. The POO STENCH seems concentrated right in his zone, but I know the stench of my baby's poo, and it is not this unholy.

I lean down to perform the traditional Baby Butt Sniff, and saw the...

... oh, God, it's just to awful to tell.

Yesterday I came home from the store and caught He Who Looks Hot in Jeans frantically scrubbing Bear's face and looking desperately guilty. At first he wouldn't tell me what happened, but when I started to lean on my brother-in-law, who was beginning to look decidedly uncomfortable, they both broke and confessed that Bear had been in the catbox.

Clearly I needed to do a better job of believing this.

Hopefully, after all of the gagging and scrubbing inside and out with Ivory and the hollering of "Bad baby! God that's NASTY!! Bad baby!!" he won't try it again. (I'd like to know what the appeal was that he tried it a second time.)

Also, perhaps, the hiding of the catbox.

When dinosaurs roamed the Earth...

2007-01-10T20:23:00.000-05:00

Remember dial tones? Remember knowing when a call was over or a connection was broken because suddenly you were hearing a humming sound?

Remember answering the phone while not knowing who was calling? Remember having to tell the person you were calling who you were? Remember *69?

Remember thinking carefully about making long-distance calls because they cost a lot of money? Remember getting out of talking to your mom so damn much for the same reason?

Remember when phones were phones and cameras were cameras? Those sepia-toned days when it would never occur to you have a conversation along the lines of: "I wish I could get a picture of this!" "No problem! I've got my phone!"

Someday I'm going to tell Buddy and Bear about twisted coiled cords, staying at home in anticipation of an important call, busy signals, ring tones that were, of all things, and actual bell inside the phone actually ringing, and a better time when nobody knew the importance of being able to type with your thumbs.

They won't believe a word of it.

The Geneva Conventions never said anything about metaphors...

2007-01-10T18:38:00.000-05:00

Man, oh man, you get out of the habit of airing your dirty laundry on a daily basis, then come back and make the rash promise that not only will all future laundry aired be clean but also and sans holes and color coordinated and then everything that goes down after that is either white cotton tube socks or that Alice in Chains tee-shirt with a rip exactly where your nipple's supposed to go and the cat's gone and pissed all over it...

Meanwhile the network guys keep calling and saying if my Neilsens don't start showing a 30% market share and I can't get something done about the dropoff after the second commercial break, they're going to have to consider going all Herman's Head on my ass...

Something blogworthy did in fact happen today, but I don't wish to elaborate on it, because that would be whingeing, but I do kind of like how I put it to a colleague after I'd ransacked her Kleenex:

I was like Captain Ahab, and I was gunning for Moby Dick, but now I'm Jonah and they're telling me I have to go into the belly of the whale.

Which is not only how much It sucks, but just the aptest description ever of what It is.

Oh, and? I was saying "The cowboy fell down" in Welsh. Not that YOU care.

For those of you who DON'T read Neil Gaiman...

2007-01-07T16:28:00.000-05:00

... and I can't imagine why you wouldn't. In fact, I can't imagine why you're here instead of there, he leads and infinitely more interesting life than I.

Anyway, I got this link via his blog, and was immediately wowed. Nearly as wowed as I was by this guy, when the husband stumbled across him a few months back.

Perhaps I will run away from home and turn up in a faraway place doing similar...

A Post-Christmas Ditty

2007-01-06T12:46:00.001-05:00

Christmas is over,
the goose has done been et.
Please will you stop asking me
what else you’re gonna get.
And also stop demanding
where I’ve gone and put the tree
and inquiring on the hour
how long Santa’s gonna be.

Christmas is over,
and while I’m sure it will return,
the concept of months and years
is the next thing you should learn.
Right after the Christ story
and a homily on greed
and how to use your Gameboy
and understanding those in need.

Christmas is over,
I’m glad you were impressed.
Perhaps in twenty years from now
You’ll also know you’re blessed.
As for now the bus is here
get on ere I explode.
January’s biggest challenge
is the stubborn four-year-old.

Fun with Rosetta Stone...

2007-01-05T06:45:00.000-05:00

Mae'r cowboi wedi cwympo.

I'll link the first genius who knows what I just said.

I learned that playing with a demo model of Rosetta Stone at work. Man, if you're a linguistics geek, there's nothing on this planet more amusing than Rosetta Stone. We're pretty pleased with it and are getting the software for many of the district's ESL sites. The company's trying to sell us on the notion that we should buy a license for every kid and teacher, then offer continuing education credits to teachers for learning a second language. I'm already half-sold on the notion.

Anyway, they sell the software to mere mortals too. If you're looking for a language tutorial, I don't think you'll find much better.

... and I thought Chicken Little was stupid, too

2007-01-03T20:54:00.000-05:00

At Buddy's insistence, we rented Monster House last week, which means that it has been in constant rotation here for days.

Um? I have a few questions?

Did it take anybody else six viewings to finally understand why Nebbercracker was always scaring kids off his lawn?
Why did Nebbercracker come back from the hospital in an ambulance?
I know the movie is supposed to be scary (and it did successfully scare the crap out of Bear) but do they realize it's really just disturbing?
Is anyone else bothered by the whole Constance-the-Fat-Freak backstory?
Does Pixar keep all the good CGI script writers locked up in a cage somewhere, so no other animation company can use them?

I dunno, it just seemed that the bits that were neither contrived nor convoluted were still just creepy. But it looks like Steve Buscemi has a whole new career ahead of him in voice work.

I did like the video-game-champion-pizza-guy voiced by John Heder (Napoleon Dynamite) -- Do you like the steel of my blade? It's so cooold! But I don't think that's enough to make me forget to return this one to Blockbuster.

Back and, if possible, better than ever...

2007-01-03T18:36:00.000-05:00

I saw how the blogosphere was suffering from my absence and decided to take pity on you all and return.

To explain, briefly, I shut down Mean Teacher in deference to the fact that my husband finally, in the midst of great marital stress, decided to read it and did not care for being referred to as "Useless" and having stories told about him that made him look like an ass.

That these stories are both true and highly amusing is entirely beside the point and, in an effort to be more positive and constructive, I am resolving, both in my online life and my real life to work on that.

Y'all keep me honest, yo.

I was fine for awhile with maintaining ether silence, but fun stuff keeps popping up, accompanied by a little voice whispering Oh, I have got to blog this! and so the little voice will have her way, I suppose. But with some changes:

I'm calling the blog Ordinary World because that's what I wanted to call it the first time. I had some valid reason for not doing so, but I don't remember it and nobody seems to be stopping me now (try it! I dares ya!) and part of the Work I Am Doing On Myself is trying to do what I want. I so very rarely even know what I want that when the opportunity arises, I'd best jump on it, no?
I am renaming everybody: the oldest boy (nearly 5) is now Buddy, the younger (just turned 1, can you believe it?) is Bear, the dogs are BooBoo (the husky) and Boo (the great Dane) and if the cats come into the story, I'll name them as needed. This way is easier because it's what I actually call them.
I won't call the husband "Useless." I'll think of something nice to call him and let you know -- perhaps "He Who Looks Hot in Jeans, I Just Wish He'd Wear Them More Often" or something, I'll let you know. And I'll keep my mean ugly thoughts to myself. This marriage ain't gonna improve by my dwelling on the icky bits.
I'll be more positive in general. Last year was a very dark year and I'm so over all the darkness.

I attempted to delete Mean Teacher when the Issue arose, but the advent of Blogger Beta fixed it so that I could only delete stuff that came after my switching to Beta. This means that much of Mean Teacher still remains and, it would seem is very popular in Pennsylvania and, as always, Milton Keynes. I cannot, however, update it or resurrect the missing posts (of course I saved them, in a supersecret file somewhere, but re-posting them would be an enormous pain). Someday I expect it will simply blow away, and I'm fine with that. There's some good writing and some valuable memories there, but bygones are best gone by.

I gotta go now and notify my blogobuddies of the resurrection and try to talk Chad into making me a new, awesome template. Happy New Year everyone! I'm looking forward to it, myself.