Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Because Barbara Doesn't Have a Blog to Post It Herself
When asked what he wants to be when he grows up, nine-year-old David James replied, "I'm going to be the CEO of Dell, and then I'm going to have a mid-life crisis, and THEN I'm going to be an amusement park manager."
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
You Can Tell When I Can't Tie It Together In The Title That These Stories Really Have Nothing To Do With Each Other
I went to the grocery store yesterday. We were a little low on food. Tyler says we're out of food when we don't have milk, cheese, or bread. I say we're out of food when I feed Talmage four M&Ms and a tortilla for breakfast. Which I did.
A typical trip to the store involves Talmage asking for 12 million things, ranging from Cars napkins to new sippy cups to bubble bath to, of course, treats, preferably gimicky treats that involve some kind of powder. He's pretty good at being told no when I remind him of our grocery store deal: he gets one treat per visit.
Yesterday my friend Hana offered to watch Talmage while I went to the store, and I chose to bypass the grocery store treat, an omission Talmage took issue with. "I WANNA TREAT" sounded loudly around my house this morning, and when I say loudly, I imagine my neighbors in Colorado heard the shrill echo. I offered him bananas, apples, and cheerios, all substitutions that were promptly rejected. Not that I'd imagine he'd go for it. I just get a strange thrill out of hearing him yell, "NO! NO APPLES!"
After roughly 20 minutes of this meltdown, Talmage exiled himself to Asher's room, where the abundance of toys soothed his tortured soul. Every five minutes or so, however, Tal would remember the injustice of the sugar Nazi, and would give a half-hearted "Wah, hah, hah." After which he'd forget his anger. This continued for another 15 minutes, until he emerged from the room and politely asked for a bowl of cereal.
This is the first time Tal ran to his room and slammed the door in anger. This is the tactic I most often employed as a child, a strategy I imagined caused my parents profound guilt and regret but, of course, just pleased them because I couldn't yell as loudly in my room. I imagined them standing on the other side of my door listening to my tortured cries and typically spelled out all the injustices my family had inflicted on me and vocally arrived at the inevitable consequence: I was going to run away. That'd show em. In fact, I even had three garbage bags full of stuffed animals packed and ready to go in case one of my siblings crossed the line and I needed to make a quick getaway on my pink banana-seat Huffy. I maintained this plan until one day I actually did run away and got all the way to 2700 E, about four blocks away from my house. Turns out three garbage bags are pretty hard to tote when you're chasing your childhood dreams.
But I didn't really have it that bad at my house. At least my mom never served me a single tortilla as a meal. Where I grew up you had your option of any one of 700 condiments. Bavarian sweet mustard, anyone? That's the breakfast of champions.
A typical trip to the store involves Talmage asking for 12 million things, ranging from Cars napkins to new sippy cups to bubble bath to, of course, treats, preferably gimicky treats that involve some kind of powder. He's pretty good at being told no when I remind him of our grocery store deal: he gets one treat per visit.
Yesterday my friend Hana offered to watch Talmage while I went to the store, and I chose to bypass the grocery store treat, an omission Talmage took issue with. "I WANNA TREAT" sounded loudly around my house this morning, and when I say loudly, I imagine my neighbors in Colorado heard the shrill echo. I offered him bananas, apples, and cheerios, all substitutions that were promptly rejected. Not that I'd imagine he'd go for it. I just get a strange thrill out of hearing him yell, "NO! NO APPLES!"
After roughly 20 minutes of this meltdown, Talmage exiled himself to Asher's room, where the abundance of toys soothed his tortured soul. Every five minutes or so, however, Tal would remember the injustice of the sugar Nazi, and would give a half-hearted "Wah, hah, hah." After which he'd forget his anger. This continued for another 15 minutes, until he emerged from the room and politely asked for a bowl of cereal.
This is the first time Tal ran to his room and slammed the door in anger. This is the tactic I most often employed as a child, a strategy I imagined caused my parents profound guilt and regret but, of course, just pleased them because I couldn't yell as loudly in my room. I imagined them standing on the other side of my door listening to my tortured cries and typically spelled out all the injustices my family had inflicted on me and vocally arrived at the inevitable consequence: I was going to run away. That'd show em. In fact, I even had three garbage bags full of stuffed animals packed and ready to go in case one of my siblings crossed the line and I needed to make a quick getaway on my pink banana-seat Huffy. I maintained this plan until one day I actually did run away and got all the way to 2700 E, about four blocks away from my house. Turns out three garbage bags are pretty hard to tote when you're chasing your childhood dreams.
But I didn't really have it that bad at my house. At least my mom never served me a single tortilla as a meal. Where I grew up you had your option of any one of 700 condiments. Bavarian sweet mustard, anyone? That's the breakfast of champions.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Empire Falls
I'm going to post on this book immediately after reading it. Interestingly, I would have thought that books need some time to marinate in my brain before I can really digest them. But lately I've been posting about books weeks after reading them and I have a hard time remembering my thoughts and impressions.
I got online after reading this book because I felt like I needed to discuss it, and short of my sister who recommended the book to me but who told me she forgot the plot, I didn't have anyone to discuss it with. I've actually felt like that at the end of each of the Richard Russo books I've read. I'm never really sure exactly what I want to discuss, just that I want to be in a college class with this as the text. I feel like I'm missing something incredible without the benefit of a close group study.
Anyway, I tried to satiate that need by reading other people's opinions of it, and I came across this quotation from an interview Russo gave after he wrote the screeplay for a mini-series based on the novel:
"You know, you say, 'Why did Columbine happen?' Well, people on the right say it's because of violence in movies and video games. People on the left say it's because of the availability of guns. And the argument goes on as if we have to choose between these explanations.
"But really what people are asking is, 'What does it feel like when something like that happens? What does it feel like to be a parent? What does it feel like to be a child? And that's what stories do. They bring you there. They offer a dramatic explanation, which is always different from an expository explanation.
"And I think that if people are instructed about anything, it should be about the nature of cruelty. And about why people behave so cruelly to each other. And what kind of satisfactions they derive from it. And why there is always a cost, and a price to be paid."
Why do people behave cruelly to each other? Russo offers several suggestions. Jealousy, depravity, in an effort to put oneself on top. Peer pressure, embarassment. To maintain an image. To protect loved ones.
A lot of this novel plays out in a high school, and I think public school is the time when I was closest to those emotions and the closest to cruelty. I think a lot of this is because school is populated by teenagers, and teenagers are bombarded with these sentiments. I've long believed that the hardest times in my life happened in high school because that was before I had confidence in my worldview and lacked the proper perspective to digest the experience, but this book made me wonder if maybe the reason is because I'm just not forced to move as closely through life with people as I did during public school. Most the people I interact with now are my family or friends of my own choosing, the only real exception being my students, and since I teach college I only see them for a maximum of four months, eight if they take two of my courses. I just don't have to live in as tight of circumstances anymore.
I don't think I'm a cruel person. Is this because I'm not cruel? Or is it because I'm no longer really provided with the right opportunity?
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The End of an Era
I'm currently finishing up the last four weeks of being exclusively a teacher. All summer and all next year I'll be going to "principal school."
This video was created by one of the most outstanding educators I've ever worked with representing her dream of the last day of school. I was so pleased by her dream, I made her tell it again and again until she finally resorted to having the students tell the story for her in this video.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Here's My Advice: Stick to Your Standards
It's getting warmer outside. I enjoy the sunshine, but I'm wary of the weather. Summer is the time when people bend their morals, justifying decisions that they just wouldn't make if it weren't for the heat.
I'm talking, of course, about making purchases from the ice cream man.
If I had to point to one thing wrong with the world, one thing to blame all the ills of society on, it would be the ubiquitous white truck who prowls the street in the summertime looking for pudgy faced kids and their helpless and hapless mothers. Sure, there was a time when I, too, felt a rush of excitement when I heard the tinkly chime of "When the Saints Go Marching In." That was before I realized the militant persistence that qualifies ice cream men to make their $6.55 an hour. I have successfully ignored one stubborn worker who made four tours around the south parking lot of a playground, only to have him enter the north parking lot immediately after. There's only so much stiff mothering you can dole out before you cave and spend $4.50 on a Mickey Mouse Ice Cream bar whose red dye will permanently stain your clothing.
When I was in high school, the scariest time of year was AP exam season. This was the time teachers convinced us that how we did on these four hour tests was crucial to our success in the afterlife and that if we did well, we could pretty much count on our calling and election being made sure. We received COLLEGE CREDIT for these exams. Those two words struck fear in my nerdy sixteen-year-old heart. A group of friends and I sluffed school to study for them. I want to go back to the girl that I was, pull the pencil out of her hair, and tell her to go skiing. You know, do something worthwhile with your sluffing.
We had just wrapped up an intense study session where we reviewed trivia about the first industrial revolution. We walked out my front door to go somewhere. Probably back to school. We headed to our cars which were parked in front of my house when we heard that familiar jingle. "Hey!" one friend commented. "It's the ice cream man!" We all felt a rush of excitement, broken only when another friend noted, "Does it look like the ice cream man is veering to the right?" We all analyzed his angled trajectory until it hit it's inevitable end point, my friend's Nissan Sentra. "Dude!" one of the group yelled. "You just got hit by the ice cream man!"
The ice cream truck corrected to the left and then pulled over to stop in the gutter. At least that's what we thought he was going to do. Apparently he was just weaving around a bit more, a fact that became obvious when he hit the gas and sped up the street, James Bond style. James Bond to a soundtrack of "You Are My Sunshine."
The owner of the Sentra jumped in the car and began a wild car chase up Del Mar Drive. The ice cream truck finally stopped at the top of the street, where my friend jumped out to get his information. He ignored the beer bottles littering the floor of the ice cream truck and got straight to the point. "What's your name?" he asked. "Joe," replied the driver. Joe handed over his license which listed his name as Chris Matthews. "What happened to Joe?" asked my friend. "That's what my friends call me," he said.
After exchanging information, the ice cream man drove away, taking care to turn on the twinkly music. "Do Your Ears Hang Low" chimed out Joe's drunken shame.
Tyler recently bought Talmage an ice cream cone from the ice cream man. I would have preferred he buy him Playboy.
I'm talking, of course, about making purchases from the ice cream man.
If I had to point to one thing wrong with the world, one thing to blame all the ills of society on, it would be the ubiquitous white truck who prowls the street in the summertime looking for pudgy faced kids and their helpless and hapless mothers. Sure, there was a time when I, too, felt a rush of excitement when I heard the tinkly chime of "When the Saints Go Marching In." That was before I realized the militant persistence that qualifies ice cream men to make their $6.55 an hour. I have successfully ignored one stubborn worker who made four tours around the south parking lot of a playground, only to have him enter the north parking lot immediately after. There's only so much stiff mothering you can dole out before you cave and spend $4.50 on a Mickey Mouse Ice Cream bar whose red dye will permanently stain your clothing.
When I was in high school, the scariest time of year was AP exam season. This was the time teachers convinced us that how we did on these four hour tests was crucial to our success in the afterlife and that if we did well, we could pretty much count on our calling and election being made sure. We received COLLEGE CREDIT for these exams. Those two words struck fear in my nerdy sixteen-year-old heart. A group of friends and I sluffed school to study for them. I want to go back to the girl that I was, pull the pencil out of her hair, and tell her to go skiing. You know, do something worthwhile with your sluffing.
We had just wrapped up an intense study session where we reviewed trivia about the first industrial revolution. We walked out my front door to go somewhere. Probably back to school. We headed to our cars which were parked in front of my house when we heard that familiar jingle. "Hey!" one friend commented. "It's the ice cream man!" We all felt a rush of excitement, broken only when another friend noted, "Does it look like the ice cream man is veering to the right?" We all analyzed his angled trajectory until it hit it's inevitable end point, my friend's Nissan Sentra. "Dude!" one of the group yelled. "You just got hit by the ice cream man!"
The ice cream truck corrected to the left and then pulled over to stop in the gutter. At least that's what we thought he was going to do. Apparently he was just weaving around a bit more, a fact that became obvious when he hit the gas and sped up the street, James Bond style. James Bond to a soundtrack of "You Are My Sunshine."
The owner of the Sentra jumped in the car and began a wild car chase up Del Mar Drive. The ice cream truck finally stopped at the top of the street, where my friend jumped out to get his information. He ignored the beer bottles littering the floor of the ice cream truck and got straight to the point. "What's your name?" he asked. "Joe," replied the driver. Joe handed over his license which listed his name as Chris Matthews. "What happened to Joe?" asked my friend. "That's what my friends call me," he said.
After exchanging information, the ice cream man drove away, taking care to turn on the twinkly music. "Do Your Ears Hang Low" chimed out Joe's drunken shame.
Tyler recently bought Talmage an ice cream cone from the ice cream man. I would have preferred he buy him Playboy.
Books I've Read Of Late
So, I used to post after each book. Apparently that's become too complicated. So here are my thoughts on the last several books I've read.
I picked this up at my sister-in-law's house and took it home with me. I forget how much I enjoy children's literature. And I like how quickly I can read it. I enjoy intense novels that require me to give something of myself, but then after, I enjoy a book I can finish in three feedings. (Because that's how I measure a book's length now--in how many times it takes me to nurse Asher while reading it.)
One thing I thought about while reading Hoot was how comic bad guys are in children's literature. And how comic adults are. But it seems to work, because it seems like that's what adults seem to be when you are younger; big nosed silly versions of people.
When I was in elementary school I remember learning about the price of bread in 1930. It cost about a nickel. And even more exciting? Candy cost a penny. A PENNY. And in my little girl brain, I hatched a genius plan. What if I took a wallet full of money from 1988 back to 1930? I could buy anything I wanted. Even Teddy Ruxpin, that creepy animatronic bear that was all the 80s rage.
Little did I realize that I had come up with the plot for several 80s movie, only with more plot holes. Like how was I going to buy Teddy Ruxpin if I lived in 1930? But ever since then I've wondered how I would react at different times in history. A common question, but one that's unanswerable largely because time travel doesn't exist, and also because I'm a product of the current time and I would be a totally different person if I lived at another time.
That's what I thought was most interesting about Kindred. The (black) main character lives in the 1970s and is taken back in time to the antebellum South. The world she creates for herself in the past is frightening because she is aware of how wrong it is. And even more frightening is how she starts to feel at home in a world that is so wrong.
Want to do something kind of risky? Do a google image search on "Straight Man."
Richard Russo is quickly becoming one of my favorite authors. This book was hilarious.
This has nothing to do with the book, but I've realized that my favorite characters in books are men. I don't really know why this is. If I try to identify the female character I've liked the most in novels I've recently read, I think I'd have to point to Sarah Agnes Prine from the These Is My Words books, but even as I do that, I have to admit that I like Sarah, but I LOVE Jack. And Udell for that matter.
Okay, that's all I've got for you.
I picked this up at my sister-in-law's house and took it home with me. I forget how much I enjoy children's literature. And I like how quickly I can read it. I enjoy intense novels that require me to give something of myself, but then after, I enjoy a book I can finish in three feedings. (Because that's how I measure a book's length now--in how many times it takes me to nurse Asher while reading it.)
One thing I thought about while reading Hoot was how comic bad guys are in children's literature. And how comic adults are. But it seems to work, because it seems like that's what adults seem to be when you are younger; big nosed silly versions of people.
When I was in elementary school I remember learning about the price of bread in 1930. It cost about a nickel. And even more exciting? Candy cost a penny. A PENNY. And in my little girl brain, I hatched a genius plan. What if I took a wallet full of money from 1988 back to 1930? I could buy anything I wanted. Even Teddy Ruxpin, that creepy animatronic bear that was all the 80s rage.
Little did I realize that I had come up with the plot for several 80s movie, only with more plot holes. Like how was I going to buy Teddy Ruxpin if I lived in 1930? But ever since then I've wondered how I would react at different times in history. A common question, but one that's unanswerable largely because time travel doesn't exist, and also because I'm a product of the current time and I would be a totally different person if I lived at another time.
That's what I thought was most interesting about Kindred. The (black) main character lives in the 1970s and is taken back in time to the antebellum South. The world she creates for herself in the past is frightening because she is aware of how wrong it is. And even more frightening is how she starts to feel at home in a world that is so wrong.
Want to do something kind of risky? Do a google image search on "Straight Man."
Richard Russo is quickly becoming one of my favorite authors. This book was hilarious.
This has nothing to do with the book, but I've realized that my favorite characters in books are men. I don't really know why this is. If I try to identify the female character I've liked the most in novels I've recently read, I think I'd have to point to Sarah Agnes Prine from the These Is My Words books, but even as I do that, I have to admit that I like Sarah, but I LOVE Jack. And Udell for that matter.
Okay, that's all I've got for you.
Monday, May 4, 2009
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