I kept telling the girls to back up to get the palm tree in the background. We didn't realize until they were about to get into the car that I had backed them into a pile of dog poop.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Trick or treat?
I kept telling the girls to back up to get the palm tree in the background. We didn't realize until they were about to get into the car that I had backed them into a pile of dog poop.
Happy Halloween!
I thought I was making a huge mistake. I had accepted an invitation to dinner from my ex-boyfriend’s best friend and roommate. The two of us had bumped into each other at a party, and I was surprised to learn he was not the grouchy, grumpy guy I had seen previously only in passing. Later I realized this was going to be very awkward and I immediately regretted agreeing to go.
He wined and dined me, dinner alfresco at the Kaleidoscope in Coconut Grove, drinks at the Grand Bay’s piano bar, and two more stops at late night clubs before we returned to his place and sat out all night talking on the lifeguard stand in front of his apartment.
Two days later we were headed down to Key West for Fantasy Fest, a possibly more debauched Halloween version of Mardi Gras. We miraculously located a hotel room in about five minutes without a reservation, ran into Bugsy McGraw sitting alone on a bench, a former professional wrestler working as a bouncer at Sloppy Joe’s that we both recognized from too many childhood Saturday afternoons watching TV, who gave us the Fantasy Fest ’85 tee shirt right off his back, I still have it, and generally had a fabulous time.
From then on, we considered Halloween our anniversary.
After five years of cohabitation, we decided to make it legal. We had the license, which had been taped back together at one point after a rather heated disagreement, and made plans for a small, private ceremony with a few close friends. We arranged to rent a cottage in Key West, on Love Lane, for a weekend, fly eight friends down, get married at the freak show that is sunset at Mallory Square, and charter a deep sea fishing trip the next day for everyone on a private boat.
It soon got out of hand as other friends, acquaintances, and family got wind of it and made plans to join us, invited or not. They began planning a reception for us. Now, neither one of us had ever wanted to have the traditional walk-down-the-aisle-be-the-center-of-attention-reception type of wedding, so plans were cancelled.
At work, on Halloween, I received a call from G, wishing me a happy anniversary and inviting me to lunch with him in Fort Lauderdale. We met, I got in his car, and he surprised me by pulling up to the courthouse a few minutes later, asking if I wanted to get married. The county clerk that performed the service was wearing a clerical collar for a costume, as close as we would ever come to the full-blown church wedding my mother would have liked. We grabbed a bite to eat downtown and went back to work.
He wined and dined me, dinner alfresco at the Kaleidoscope in Coconut Grove, drinks at the Grand Bay’s piano bar, and two more stops at late night clubs before we returned to his place and sat out all night talking on the lifeguard stand in front of his apartment.
Two days later we were headed down to Key West for Fantasy Fest, a possibly more debauched Halloween version of Mardi Gras. We miraculously located a hotel room in about five minutes without a reservation, ran into Bugsy McGraw sitting alone on a bench, a former professional wrestler working as a bouncer at Sloppy Joe’s that we both recognized from too many childhood Saturday afternoons watching TV, who gave us the Fantasy Fest ’85 tee shirt right off his back, I still have it, and generally had a fabulous time.
From then on, we considered Halloween our anniversary.
After five years of cohabitation, we decided to make it legal. We had the license, which had been taped back together at one point after a rather heated disagreement, and made plans for a small, private ceremony with a few close friends. We arranged to rent a cottage in Key West, on Love Lane, for a weekend, fly eight friends down, get married at the freak show that is sunset at Mallory Square, and charter a deep sea fishing trip the next day for everyone on a private boat.
It soon got out of hand as other friends, acquaintances, and family got wind of it and made plans to join us, invited or not. They began planning a reception for us. Now, neither one of us had ever wanted to have the traditional walk-down-the-aisle-be-the-center-of-attention-reception type of wedding, so plans were cancelled.
At work, on Halloween, I received a call from G, wishing me a happy anniversary and inviting me to lunch with him in Fort Lauderdale. We met, I got in his car, and he surprised me by pulling up to the courthouse a few minutes later, asking if I wanted to get married. The county clerk that performed the service was wearing a clerical collar for a costume, as close as we would ever come to the full-blown church wedding my mother would have liked. We grabbed a bite to eat downtown and went back to work.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Limbo
The Red Sox were a pleasant, if not anxious, distraction. What will keep me occupied until Super Tuesday? What was it Yogi Berra said? As if. We've already got a snafu in Broward County, Florida.
----
Yes, we've resigned ourselves to the idea of being monks for the preservation of the best of our culture, read Berman's book, but can we please come up with a more interesting moniker? Monks are dutiful, virtuous, and earnest surely, but they are just so, well, I hate to say it, but, boring.
(True, and stop calling me Shirley.)
Certainly we, our family and yours, are not boring.
----
Mental Multivitamin reminded me today of one of our favorite movies, destroyed years ago by a curious toddler, The Nightmare Before Christmas. I decided to order it immediately on, hopefully, unbreakable DVD, but I'm $11.01 short of Free Shipping. Buying another book is always preferred over paying shipping, but I am, unfortunately, drawing a blank.
----
Yes, we've resigned ourselves to the idea of being monks for the preservation of the best of our culture, read Berman's book, but can we please come up with a more interesting moniker? Monks are dutiful, virtuous, and earnest surely, but they are just so, well, I hate to say it, but, boring.
(True, and stop calling me Shirley.)
Certainly we, our family and yours, are not boring.
----
Mental Multivitamin reminded me today of one of our favorite movies, destroyed years ago by a curious toddler, The Nightmare Before Christmas. I decided to order it immediately on, hopefully, unbreakable DVD, but I'm $11.01 short of Free Shipping. Buying another book is always preferred over paying shipping, but I am, unfortunately, drawing a blank.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Expanding our minds
I got DSL! I got DSL!
The phone guy showed up exactly, right on schedule. He plugged everything in. I installed the program. Beautiful, everything worked. I take back all the uncharitable things I said about Sprint, at least until something screws up.
-----
The downside to educating your children, and I am refering to the high-minded Greek idea of education here because I'm reading Climbing Parnassus, is that you create cultural aliens, cultural in the anthropological sense.
My older girls realized today that they do not fit in. They complained about not being able to hold a decent conversation with their peers during today's swimming lessons. The only topics discussed with enthusiasm were Pokemon, Manga, and Game Boys, none of which my darlings know or care anything about. When my kids shared their story about finding the octupi this weekend, they were met with blank stares by the other children and parents who interrupted them midsentence to mention their savvy $2.00 savings on Pepsi at Winn-Dixie. S was very frustrated by the general ignorance, and both girls lamented the fact that the odds of making any real friends here are very low.
I came up with as many explanations as I could. Among others, maybe:
-- the kids didn't believe it
-- it sounded like bragging
-- the parents believe children should be seen, not heard (thus the proliferation of hand-held electronic toys?)
Further discussion at home determined that moving back to Hollywood or Fort Lauderdale would not change things. Going to an expensive private school would not change things either.
We do have some homeschool friends who are on the same track as we are, but they are not full-time Florida residents. Kind of like you all.
Instead, we live among people who visit the "specialtist" when their regular doctor won't do, who marvel at the "zefflin" flying overhead, who advertise "Happily Divorced 2x's" on their pick-up's window tint, who give their ADHD, bi-polar, heavily medicated kid a Game Boy, at their doctor's suggestion, to improve his eye-hand coordination, who are great-grandmothers at 45 years of age and raising their grandchildren, and belong to churches like the True Highway Holiness Hallelujah Freedom Bible Church of the Love Gospel.
Tonight, rather than watch The Game, even though she has a huge crush on Johnny Damon, G decided to watch "The Missing Link" on NOVA (I thought that was Johnny Damon), and S has been taking apart old, broken watches to see what makes them tick.
So yes, we are freaks, oddballs, foreigners among our fellow residents. Always positive though, the foil to my pessimism, my husband pointed out that this particular housing experiment has been an eye-opening, mind expanding experience for us.
The phone guy showed up exactly, right on schedule. He plugged everything in. I installed the program. Beautiful, everything worked. I take back all the uncharitable things I said about Sprint, at least until something screws up.
-----
The downside to educating your children, and I am refering to the high-minded Greek idea of education here because I'm reading Climbing Parnassus, is that you create cultural aliens, cultural in the anthropological sense.
My older girls realized today that they do not fit in. They complained about not being able to hold a decent conversation with their peers during today's swimming lessons. The only topics discussed with enthusiasm were Pokemon, Manga, and Game Boys, none of which my darlings know or care anything about. When my kids shared their story about finding the octupi this weekend, they were met with blank stares by the other children and parents who interrupted them midsentence to mention their savvy $2.00 savings on Pepsi at Winn-Dixie. S was very frustrated by the general ignorance, and both girls lamented the fact that the odds of making any real friends here are very low.
I came up with as many explanations as I could. Among others, maybe:
-- the kids didn't believe it
-- it sounded like bragging
-- the parents believe children should be seen, not heard (thus the proliferation of hand-held electronic toys?)
Further discussion at home determined that moving back to Hollywood or Fort Lauderdale would not change things. Going to an expensive private school would not change things either.
We do have some homeschool friends who are on the same track as we are, but they are not full-time Florida residents. Kind of like you all.
Instead, we live among people who visit the "specialtist" when their regular doctor won't do, who marvel at the "zefflin" flying overhead, who advertise "Happily Divorced 2x's" on their pick-up's window tint, who give their ADHD, bi-polar, heavily medicated kid a Game Boy, at their doctor's suggestion, to improve his eye-hand coordination, who are great-grandmothers at 45 years of age and raising their grandchildren, and belong to churches like the True Highway Holiness Hallelujah Freedom Bible Church of the Love Gospel.
Tonight, rather than watch The Game, even though she has a huge crush on Johnny Damon, G decided to watch "The Missing Link" on NOVA (I thought that was Johnny Damon), and S has been taking apart old, broken watches to see what makes them tick.
So yes, we are freaks, oddballs, foreigners among our fellow residents. Always positive though, the foil to my pessimism, my husband pointed out that this particular housing experiment has been an eye-opening, mind expanding experience for us.
Monday, October 25, 2004
The girls were entertaining us tonight with their version of The Swan - Extreme. The poor unattractive girls were drawn on, and all surgery performed on, our whiteboard. The results are amazing! Then they spoofed hip hop fans.
I remember Billy Crystal's stories about performing for his parents. Please, not that. But they are truly hilarious children.
----
As part of a check for a hormone imbalance, no facial hair yet thank you, today I took an at-home saliva test. It did require some studying. Do you have any idea how hard it is to fill an entire test tube up with spit? Bubbles don't count. After I packaged it up, it occurred to me that not all deliveries from the UPS man are pleasant.
----
We have two very cool additions to our menagerie, Oscar and Octavius, tiny little octopi, that the girls discovered inside some conch shells they were collecting yesterday out on the island. Dad was sent out on a mission to purchase and set up an aquarium for studying them. Our current research involves learning the differences between octupi and squid.
I remember Billy Crystal's stories about performing for his parents. Please, not that. But they are truly hilarious children.
----
As part of a check for a hormone imbalance, no facial hair yet thank you, today I took an at-home saliva test. It did require some studying. Do you have any idea how hard it is to fill an entire test tube up with spit? Bubbles don't count. After I packaged it up, it occurred to me that not all deliveries from the UPS man are pleasant.
----
We have two very cool additions to our menagerie, Oscar and Octavius, tiny little octopi, that the girls discovered inside some conch shells they were collecting yesterday out on the island. Dad was sent out on a mission to purchase and set up an aquarium for studying them. Our current research involves learning the differences between octupi and squid.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Mission accomplished
The older two girls and I enjoyed chaperoning a field trip today for L's school to Hunsader Farm. I had been a tad nervous after learning that we would not be visiting as an entire class and would be drifting around freely in our own little groups. This after offering to accommodate up to four passengers in addition to my own three kids. Visions of suffering a two hour drive with a carload of maniacs, and trying not to lose any during our four hours on site, had me tossing and turning, and then ultimately out of bed much earlier than need be this morning. Fortunately our only passengers were a classmate of L's and the classmate's grandma. So grandma was responsible for her little darling and I was off the hook.
A pony ride-corn maze-circus performance-pumpkin patch-petting zoo-hayride later, and I am ready to dig into that big, heavy box the UPS man left on my doorstep. First up, Climbing Parnassus.
A pony ride-corn maze-circus performance-pumpkin patch-petting zoo-hayride later, and I am ready to dig into that big, heavy box the UPS man left on my doorstep. First up, Climbing Parnassus.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
A few well-timed nods of the head, several glances, including eye contact, and 157 pages of Skinny Dip, that describes my daylong Board of Realtors orientation.
----
Last week Dy wrote about loving your home. Since we sold our house in Hollywood four years ago, I haven't felt that happy, welcoming, secure feeling from any of the myriad properties we've inhabited, until this past weekend.
Late Friday evening, after a mishap with a malfunctioning tilt switch and a last minute swap of the car battery for a dead boat battery, we arrived at the island, anticipating a weekend of the best weather we have had so far. I finally felt like I had come home. That's where I want to be. That's where I want the grandkids to come visit. That's where I want to die. Throw my ashes out in the bay, or just feed me to the crabs.
----
And in that same morbid vein, it must be Halloween coming, does anybody else enjoy visiting old graveyards? Our family loves to walk amid old headstones and imagine the lives and deaths of the people buried there. Last week we discovered Pine Knoll, an historic burial ground outside of Arcadia, Florida, that contains the remains of some of the area's pioneers. Definitely a hardscrabble life out there in the scrub. Modern cemeteries, boring and sanitized with their uniform bronze plaques recessed into the ground for easy maintenance, give me the creeps, I want to get out of there as quickly as possible. But plots with elaborate statues, engraved obelisks, stones so worn they are unreadable, family plots and crypts, and custom epitaphs are fascinating and can occupy my imagination for hours.
A few years back, driving through Comer, Georgia, at dusk, we found the old cemetery where my husband's ancestors were buried. Spooky old moss-draped oaks lined the short loop road. When we spotted familiar surnames we stopped the car. Two of the kids were asleep, the other was terrified, hiding on the floor of the car. "It's okay, honey, these are family." G got out for a closer inspection of the headstones beyond the reach of our headlights. Minutes passed and I could no longer spot G as a fog had begun to creep in. Suddenly G appeared, wrenched open the door, jumped in, slammed the door, locked it, started the engine and sped away. He said while he was kneeling down reading an inscription on one of the stones in the last row, he heard a twig snap directly behind him in the woods.
So now we only do our jaunts in broad daylight.
----
My favorite epitaph:
As I am now,
So you shall be,
Prepare for death,
And follow me.
----
Here's a fun one.
----
Finally, my dream Paris itinerary:
First The Louvre, then this.
----
Last week Dy wrote about loving your home. Since we sold our house in Hollywood four years ago, I haven't felt that happy, welcoming, secure feeling from any of the myriad properties we've inhabited, until this past weekend.
Late Friday evening, after a mishap with a malfunctioning tilt switch and a last minute swap of the car battery for a dead boat battery, we arrived at the island, anticipating a weekend of the best weather we have had so far. I finally felt like I had come home. That's where I want to be. That's where I want the grandkids to come visit. That's where I want to die. Throw my ashes out in the bay, or just feed me to the crabs.
----
And in that same morbid vein, it must be Halloween coming, does anybody else enjoy visiting old graveyards? Our family loves to walk amid old headstones and imagine the lives and deaths of the people buried there. Last week we discovered Pine Knoll, an historic burial ground outside of Arcadia, Florida, that contains the remains of some of the area's pioneers. Definitely a hardscrabble life out there in the scrub. Modern cemeteries, boring and sanitized with their uniform bronze plaques recessed into the ground for easy maintenance, give me the creeps, I want to get out of there as quickly as possible. But plots with elaborate statues, engraved obelisks, stones so worn they are unreadable, family plots and crypts, and custom epitaphs are fascinating and can occupy my imagination for hours.
A few years back, driving through Comer, Georgia, at dusk, we found the old cemetery where my husband's ancestors were buried. Spooky old moss-draped oaks lined the short loop road. When we spotted familiar surnames we stopped the car. Two of the kids were asleep, the other was terrified, hiding on the floor of the car. "It's okay, honey, these are family." G got out for a closer inspection of the headstones beyond the reach of our headlights. Minutes passed and I could no longer spot G as a fog had begun to creep in. Suddenly G appeared, wrenched open the door, jumped in, slammed the door, locked it, started the engine and sped away. He said while he was kneeling down reading an inscription on one of the stones in the last row, he heard a twig snap directly behind him in the woods.
So now we only do our jaunts in broad daylight.
----
My favorite epitaph:
As I am now,
So you shall be,
Prepare for death,
And follow me.
----
Here's a fun one.
----
Finally, my dream Paris itinerary:
First The Louvre, then this.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Pressure
I'm no sports fan, as a child I'd sit in the stadium with my nose buried in a Nancy Drew mystery when the rest of the family dragged me out to the ballgame, but I have been glued, nail-biting, to the television the last two nights in morbid curiosity. Can the Red Sox actually pull it out?
If forced to pick a favorite team, I'd have to choose the Yankees. Ever since those reluctant family outings to see America's favorite pastime, I've always thought their pinstripe uniforms were just so much better looking than anyone else's, and well, my mom is a Red Sox supporter.
This time though, it's those poor, long-suffering Boston fans that I'm rooting for.
But I can't take it, it's much too stressful. Twelve innings? Fourteen innings? Just please tell me when it's over.
If forced to pick a favorite team, I'd have to choose the Yankees. Ever since those reluctant family outings to see America's favorite pastime, I've always thought their pinstripe uniforms were just so much better looking than anyone else's, and well, my mom is a Red Sox supporter.
This time though, it's those poor, long-suffering Boston fans that I'm rooting for.
But I can't take it, it's much too stressful. Twelve innings? Fourteen innings? Just please tell me when it's over.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
More vulgarity and blasphemy from yours truly
One consequence of watching Les Miserables last week, is that I have been occasionally bursting out, Tourette’s-like, in snatches of song. My husband was slightly surprised, and dare I say it, a little excited, to hear, “Bargain prices up against the wall!” from “Lovely Ladies,” come flying out of my mouth today.
----
This past Tuesday, our local public radio station, WGCU-FM, had as a guest, Jan Davidson, author of Genius Denied: How to Stop Wasting Our Brightest Young Minds. (Audio archive here.) One of the statistics I heard was this:
Children enrolled in Special Education classes account for approximately 15% of the student population. A little less than half that, 7%, are considered gifted and qualify for placement in accelerated programs. There is some overlap between these two groups. The balance, 78%, are in regular classes.
Here’s a radical notion: The term “gifted” is overused. Maybe the 7% aren’t really gifted, not in the true Mozart-Einstein-Michelangelo way, but are simply above average, bright, hard-working, creative students, befitting the higher expectations and stringent standards of old. Maybe the 78%, is actually a lump sum of a few average students and a majority of below average students, products of a failing educational system and lower expectations of a culture obsessed with entertainment.
I honestly do not see 7% of our students, or our population in general, coming anywhere close to being truly gifted.
And please, oh, please, do not suggest that all children are gifted in some way. Yes, everyone has their individual strengths, and weaknesses for that matter, but to say that every child is gifted in a particular discipline is akin to giving every team in the league a trophy for playing the season.
Maybe I’ll be nominated for the Golden Icepick Award.
----
This past Tuesday, our local public radio station, WGCU-FM, had as a guest, Jan Davidson, author of Genius Denied: How to Stop Wasting Our Brightest Young Minds. (Audio archive here.) One of the statistics I heard was this:
Children enrolled in Special Education classes account for approximately 15% of the student population. A little less than half that, 7%, are considered gifted and qualify for placement in accelerated programs. There is some overlap between these two groups. The balance, 78%, are in regular classes.
Here’s a radical notion: The term “gifted” is overused. Maybe the 7% aren’t really gifted, not in the true Mozart-Einstein-Michelangelo way, but are simply above average, bright, hard-working, creative students, befitting the higher expectations and stringent standards of old. Maybe the 78%, is actually a lump sum of a few average students and a majority of below average students, products of a failing educational system and lower expectations of a culture obsessed with entertainment.
I honestly do not see 7% of our students, or our population in general, coming anywhere close to being truly gifted.
And please, oh, please, do not suggest that all children are gifted in some way. Yes, everyone has their individual strengths, and weaknesses for that matter, but to say that every child is gifted in a particular discipline is akin to giving every team in the league a trophy for playing the season.
Maybe I’ll be nominated for the Golden Icepick Award.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Thank you, Maitresse, for reminding me about Ramadan. This suggested a visit to our Turkish friends’ oceanside restaurant this week when we travel over to the east coast for a few days. I’m going to be stuck in a realtors’ board-required, 9 to 5 orientation class. Besides finding a seat in the back and enjoying my own reading material for eight undisturbed hours -- there is no testing required, only attendance -- I now have another reason to be enthusiastic about the trip.
We first met our friends when we stopped in to try their new restaurant on Hollywood’s Broadwalk. S was a newborn, only a few weeks old. She had just finished nursing and I was trying to burp her and get her to sleep when our food arrived. Gulten, our hostess, asked if she could please hold the baby while we ate. A restaurant with babysitting? We were sold.
Since then, countless days and nights have been spent enjoying the excellent food and company of what we all call, “Gul-and-Hasan’s,” instead of the proper, “Istanbul,” while their two children, the same ages as G and L, race around with ours in the sand, steps away from our table.
----
Fall has finally arrived here in South Florida. It takes some expertise to detect it, though. No garishly colored leaves or frosty, chill mornings here; it’s very subtle. The air is drier, drifting silkily across your skin. The sky is an almost cloudless, lighter, brighter shade of blue. The light is lemony, changing to a mango hue by late afternoon. The end of October brings cool, damp, blustery nights, accompanied by the wild, chattering, sweeping sound of the palms; perfect weather for trick-or-treating.
----
Old news?
Michelangelo’s David not anatomically correct.
John Cage's world’s longest concert. Back in July things really got crazy when three notes were played.
----
Yesterday, waiting for Property Appraiser staff to return from lunch in order to complete a petition for reducing our taxes* (“Do we get to hold signs and march, Mom, or do we get to ask lots of people to sign our paper?!”), we popped into the library for a few minutes. I happened across a slim volume by Steve Martin, Pure Drivel, a collection of short essays described by the author as, “little candy kisses, after-dinner mints to the big meal of literature…” I gobbled it up in about an hour and now am craving more. Not much makes me actually laugh out loud, MFS’s comments yesterday aside; this is some funny stuff.
I also picked up on tape, Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters and Wodehouse’s Jeeves and the Mating Season, just what I need for our upcoming drive.
*Our island taxes nearly tripled two years ago and this year doubled again. That’s with a homestead exemption. Without any county services, no sewer or water, no paved roads, no public transportation or schools or emergency services, it would almost be comical if it weren’t so damn expensive. We fortunately discovered that we have been incorrectly billed using the millage rate for Gulf front property, which we are not, and at a rate nearly thirteen times some of our neighbors. We think we have a pretty good leg to stand on.
----
Odd Replies
Diane – I finally had a chance to look back through the archives on introverts at WTM Secular. I should have known. That is such a great list, I need to check in more often. Oh, and thanks for the link to Betty Bowers.
Jose – Ah, to be young and innocent again. Don’t worry, it could still happen to you one day. Keep your eyes open.
Joyce – Artes Latinae looks great. The only problem is that you really need to begin with that program since they teach the case paradigms in a different order. Had I realized that before beginning Latina Christiana…
We first met our friends when we stopped in to try their new restaurant on Hollywood’s Broadwalk. S was a newborn, only a few weeks old. She had just finished nursing and I was trying to burp her and get her to sleep when our food arrived. Gulten, our hostess, asked if she could please hold the baby while we ate. A restaurant with babysitting? We were sold.
Since then, countless days and nights have been spent enjoying the excellent food and company of what we all call, “Gul-and-Hasan’s,” instead of the proper, “Istanbul,” while their two children, the same ages as G and L, race around with ours in the sand, steps away from our table.
----
Fall has finally arrived here in South Florida. It takes some expertise to detect it, though. No garishly colored leaves or frosty, chill mornings here; it’s very subtle. The air is drier, drifting silkily across your skin. The sky is an almost cloudless, lighter, brighter shade of blue. The light is lemony, changing to a mango hue by late afternoon. The end of October brings cool, damp, blustery nights, accompanied by the wild, chattering, sweeping sound of the palms; perfect weather for trick-or-treating.
----
Old news?
Michelangelo’s David not anatomically correct.
John Cage's world’s longest concert. Back in July things really got crazy when three notes were played.
----
Yesterday, waiting for Property Appraiser staff to return from lunch in order to complete a petition for reducing our taxes* (“Do we get to hold signs and march, Mom, or do we get to ask lots of people to sign our paper?!”), we popped into the library for a few minutes. I happened across a slim volume by Steve Martin, Pure Drivel, a collection of short essays described by the author as, “little candy kisses, after-dinner mints to the big meal of literature…” I gobbled it up in about an hour and now am craving more. Not much makes me actually laugh out loud, MFS’s comments yesterday aside; this is some funny stuff.
I also picked up on tape, Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters and Wodehouse’s Jeeves and the Mating Season, just what I need for our upcoming drive.
*Our island taxes nearly tripled two years ago and this year doubled again. That’s with a homestead exemption. Without any county services, no sewer or water, no paved roads, no public transportation or schools or emergency services, it would almost be comical if it weren’t so damn expensive. We fortunately discovered that we have been incorrectly billed using the millage rate for Gulf front property, which we are not, and at a rate nearly thirteen times some of our neighbors. We think we have a pretty good leg to stand on.
----
Odd Replies
Diane – I finally had a chance to look back through the archives on introverts at WTM Secular. I should have known. That is such a great list, I need to check in more often. Oh, and thanks for the link to Betty Bowers.
Jose – Ah, to be young and innocent again. Don’t worry, it could still happen to you one day. Keep your eyes open.
Joyce – Artes Latinae looks great. The only problem is that you really need to begin with that program since they teach the case paradigms in a different order. Had I realized that before beginning Latina Christiana…
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
And:
Saw a chiropractor. Chronic back pain has always been a problem, but nothing a good massage wouldn't fix. These last few weeks though, since what I thought was a pretty minor traffic accident, I have been almost flat on my back. The chiropractor felt that the accident was enough to have severely aggravated a minor pre-existing condition. I've been for two office visits so far. The adjustments, with their loud snaps, felt wonderful. I felt taller.
Got hit on. In the supermarket, after my adjustment. It must have been the big smile on my face.
Got hit on. In the supermarket, after my adjustment. It must have been the big smile on my face.
What I've done the last few days:
Passed. I had a senior educational professional in my classroom observing my performance the last two days and am happy to report my high marks. No, it's not a state or county school board requirement. My mother, the retired early childhood specialist, was here for a visit. Both she and my father came over to see where we're living these days and to keep an eye on the kids while Dad and I went to Open House at L's preschool (and snuck out afterward for a nice dinner.) She said she was impressed with both the content and the effort of our studies. I am redeemed.
Learned a new word. Synecdoche. Now I need to use it. Besides trying to fit "synecdoche" into a sentence, I will try to incorporate it into my writing.
Ordered books.
Climbing Parnassus
Who Killed Homer?
Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare
Asimov's Guide to the Bible
Peer pressure can be a good thing sometimes, no?
Kept abreast of GG Mil's situation. A few days ago my husband's grandmother fell in her assisted living facility and was found unconscious on the floor with a fractured wrist, and what else, a broken hip. The upside is that even though her mind is beginning to deteriorate as rapidly as her bones, she is still having a good time. Her long dead husband moved back into town and came for a visit the other day. She believes she hurt herself when she tripped on a rug, dancing the night away at Monroe Station.
Released some of my vitriol. Yep, blame it on the hurricanes and the election. Maybe it's out of my system, but don't bet on it.
Determined to read some Mencken and Berry. And Twain and Postman. Oh my, where to start?!
Gasped. I read Mental Multivitamin's most recent "On the nightstand..." post and then seconded R.T.'s sentiments, "Thank you for that effort. This is my my selfish vote in favor of the continuation of your blog because it is still fresh, it is still unique, and it still challenges me." Here, here!
Learned a new word. Synecdoche. Now I need to use it. Besides trying to fit "synecdoche" into a sentence, I will try to incorporate it into my writing.
Ordered books.
Climbing Parnassus
Who Killed Homer?
Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare
Asimov's Guide to the Bible
Peer pressure can be a good thing sometimes, no?
Kept abreast of GG Mil's situation. A few days ago my husband's grandmother fell in her assisted living facility and was found unconscious on the floor with a fractured wrist, and what else, a broken hip. The upside is that even though her mind is beginning to deteriorate as rapidly as her bones, she is still having a good time. Her long dead husband moved back into town and came for a visit the other day. She believes she hurt herself when she tripped on a rug, dancing the night away at Monroe Station.
Released some of my vitriol. Yep, blame it on the hurricanes and the election. Maybe it's out of my system, but don't bet on it.
Determined to read some Mencken and Berry. And Twain and Postman. Oh my, where to start?!
Gasped. I read Mental Multivitamin's most recent "On the nightstand..." post and then seconded R.T.'s sentiments, "Thank you for that effort. This is my my selfish vote in favor of the continuation of your blog because it is still fresh, it is still unique, and it still challenges me." Here, here!
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Honestly trying not to be too provocative...
Religion, especially organized religion, irks me. I have a sense that there is an incomprehensible greater intelligence out there somewhere, but to pretend to know it and explain it seems arrogant and ignorant. I also feel it's too easy, unthinking, and naive to resign oneself to the idea of being part of someone else's master plan. It removes personal responsibility. No wonder some of these believers seem so gosh darn happy all the time, it's never their fault, and they're always forgiven.
Here's where I quit being so snarky and show some genuine concern for those believers who lean a little more to the right than I...
Lately, more and more, it appears to me that, Bush, darling of the religious right, is blatantly misusing the trust and manipulating the faith of many Christian Americans by claiming to do the will of God. I thought fundamentalists were ever vigilant, on the lookout for their false prophets and anti-Christ. Maybe they are too literal, seeking beasts and fiery dragons instead of someone who contradicts the simple commandment, "Love one another," someone who promotes death, destruction, greed, and hatred, and misleads the people in a most reprehensible way, by using the name of their God to sanction his self-serving behavior.
Okay, I'm not suggesting that Mr. Bush, our fearless leader, is the anti-Christ, that would put me in league with some real crack pots, although it might be fun to turn up in a Google search using both those terms, and the comments would certainly be entertaining, I'm just wondering, seriously, isn't that blasphemy? Why would they support that?
Here's where I quit being so snarky and show some genuine concern for those believers who lean a little more to the right than I...
Lately, more and more, it appears to me that, Bush, darling of the religious right, is blatantly misusing the trust and manipulating the faith of many Christian Americans by claiming to do the will of God. I thought fundamentalists were ever vigilant, on the lookout for their false prophets and anti-Christ. Maybe they are too literal, seeking beasts and fiery dragons instead of someone who contradicts the simple commandment, "Love one another," someone who promotes death, destruction, greed, and hatred, and misleads the people in a most reprehensible way, by using the name of their God to sanction his self-serving behavior.
Okay, I'm not suggesting that Mr. Bush, our fearless leader, is the anti-Christ, that would put me in league with some real crack pots, although it might be fun to turn up in a Google search using both those terms, and the comments would certainly be entertaining, I'm just wondering, seriously, isn't that blasphemy? Why would they support that?
Friday, October 08, 2004
“Lights, Camera, Democracy!” one of the essays in Waiting for the Barbarians has my hackles up. Lapham muses that our country grants parallel sovereignty to both a permanent and a provisional government. The permanent government is comprised of Fortune 500 companies, their lobbyists, big media and entertainment syndicates, civil and military services, research universities, and law firms. They hire the politicians and set the terms under which we, the people, can exercise our rights. The provisional government is a spiritual democracy; a fraudulent-voting, flag-waving pageant.
I’ve considered this before but have only the most minimal understanding of how big and pervasive it is. How many others have felt the same uneasiness, catching a peek of dark things darting just beyond our peripheral vision? (I’m not counting the ones wearing tinfoil hats or victims of alien abduction.) Seeing in black and white, explained so clearly and eloquently, that democracy is a big fat lie perpetuated by a corporate oligarchy is hugely depressing. Not only is the glass half empty, but what is that scum floating on top? Who drank it up? I’m sure they left their nasty germs on the rim.
What frightens me is how many people don’t recognize this, and more so, how many don’t care. They have a home, they have a job, or at least a government subsidy, they have food, they have clothes, they have entertainment. What more could one want? What more does one need?
Has there ever been a society not governed by an elite? Why should it be any different here and now? People survive and live under all brands of government. Does the name given to a particular form of rule matter? Why should it bother me that the ruling class promotes an illusion of freedom and democracy? Does it make any difference in our day to day lives?
As far as a classical education is concerned, are we offering our children a superior education in hopes of breaking them into that upper echelon, to join the nobles and escape serfdom? Or maybe breaking them in to effect a change? If we are teaching them to think, what shall they think about? What a hopeless situation we are locked in? Are our aspirations to educate our children a fantasy, as distracting and time consuming as sitting in front of a television? Even remembering the past, are we not still doomed to repeat it? Are we simply vessels of information, keeping knowledge alive through the dark ages, like monks, for the next renaissance?
In spite of Lapham’s perspicuity, he has not offered any solutions. Ideas, anyone?
I’ve considered this before but have only the most minimal understanding of how big and pervasive it is. How many others have felt the same uneasiness, catching a peek of dark things darting just beyond our peripheral vision? (I’m not counting the ones wearing tinfoil hats or victims of alien abduction.) Seeing in black and white, explained so clearly and eloquently, that democracy is a big fat lie perpetuated by a corporate oligarchy is hugely depressing. Not only is the glass half empty, but what is that scum floating on top? Who drank it up? I’m sure they left their nasty germs on the rim.
What frightens me is how many people don’t recognize this, and more so, how many don’t care. They have a home, they have a job, or at least a government subsidy, they have food, they have clothes, they have entertainment. What more could one want? What more does one need?
Has there ever been a society not governed by an elite? Why should it be any different here and now? People survive and live under all brands of government. Does the name given to a particular form of rule matter? Why should it bother me that the ruling class promotes an illusion of freedom and democracy? Does it make any difference in our day to day lives?
As far as a classical education is concerned, are we offering our children a superior education in hopes of breaking them into that upper echelon, to join the nobles and escape serfdom? Or maybe breaking them in to effect a change? If we are teaching them to think, what shall they think about? What a hopeless situation we are locked in? Are our aspirations to educate our children a fantasy, as distracting and time consuming as sitting in front of a television? Even remembering the past, are we not still doomed to repeat it? Are we simply vessels of information, keeping knowledge alive through the dark ages, like monks, for the next renaissance?
In spite of Lapham’s perspicuity, he has not offered any solutions. Ideas, anyone?
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Reprise (and some vulgar name dropping)
That would be "vulgar" modifying the act of dropping the names, not the names themselves. Except as I now, in passing, mention the nasty real estate agent I once encountered named Anne Orefice -- yeah, you know which one, too -- and another slimey realtor named Harry Cockey -- he could have easily been "Harold," it just wasn't as much fun, I guess.
Today, to reward ourselves for all our hard work of late, or to be completely honest, because I am still licking my wounds from yesterday, we watched movies.
History related, and therefore, of some educational value. Right.
The new flat screen LCD TV/DVD that Dad brought home has some tricky sound modulation that I haven't quite mastered yet. Some DVDs will not play above a certain volume level no matter how high the sound is turned up. To overcome this problem, we activated the subtitles for our first selection, Les Miserables in Concert, and all sang along at the top of our lungs in mock operatic style.
Next up, The Madness of King George, and then back to Hugo's story in Bille August's adaptation of Les Miserables.
It occurred to me during the musical's credits that I am following in my great-grandmother's footsteps, though I have a much smaller and less impressive collection. Cameron Mackintosh once sent me a thank you note for beach towels I designed as gifts for the cast and crew of The Phantom of the Opera, which we had for six sold out weeks as the very first show in the brand new Broward Center for the Performing Arts. They were terribly clever, made to resemble postcards with "Wishing you were somehow here again...," a completely insincere sentiment by the way, scrawled on one side, the mask as the stamp, and show dates as the cancellation mark. I'm sure it was major copyright infringement, but thankfully, everybody like them. A thank-you note to our CEO from Andrew Lloyd Webber for some London opening night gift basket was doomed to be forgotten, and ultimately disposed of, in some long-lost file somewhere had it not been for my refiling it in a safer location. And when Greg Louganis mailed a postcard to his friend who shared an office suite with our company before he left under unfavorable circumstances with no forwarding address, I rescued the postcard from the trash. That one was from a dive trip Louganis had taken in Belize shortly after we purchased our farm down there, I couldn't resist.
Today, to reward ourselves for all our hard work of late, or to be completely honest, because I am still licking my wounds from yesterday, we watched movies.
History related, and therefore, of some educational value. Right.
The new flat screen LCD TV/DVD that Dad brought home has some tricky sound modulation that I haven't quite mastered yet. Some DVDs will not play above a certain volume level no matter how high the sound is turned up. To overcome this problem, we activated the subtitles for our first selection, Les Miserables in Concert, and all sang along at the top of our lungs in mock operatic style.
Next up, The Madness of King George, and then back to Hugo's story in Bille August's adaptation of Les Miserables.
It occurred to me during the musical's credits that I am following in my great-grandmother's footsteps, though I have a much smaller and less impressive collection. Cameron Mackintosh once sent me a thank you note for beach towels I designed as gifts for the cast and crew of The Phantom of the Opera, which we had for six sold out weeks as the very first show in the brand new Broward Center for the Performing Arts. They were terribly clever, made to resemble postcards with "Wishing you were somehow here again...," a completely insincere sentiment by the way, scrawled on one side, the mask as the stamp, and show dates as the cancellation mark. I'm sure it was major copyright infringement, but thankfully, everybody like them. A thank-you note to our CEO from Andrew Lloyd Webber for some London opening night gift basket was doomed to be forgotten, and ultimately disposed of, in some long-lost file somewhere had it not been for my refiling it in a safer location. And when Greg Louganis mailed a postcard to his friend who shared an office suite with our company before he left under unfavorable circumstances with no forwarding address, I rescued the postcard from the trash. That one was from a dive trip Louganis had taken in Belize shortly after we purchased our farm down there, I couldn't resist.
Cringe
What happened? I have no idea.
Yesterday I wrote up every important thing I could think of to explain The Well Trained Mind. Then I edited it and rewrote it. When I was satisfied with the content, I timed it, 10:47, and decided after reading it over and over, that I should rewrite it in more of an outline format. There was plenty of material here to work with, I could easily talk it up, but didn’t want to drone on, so an outline would keep me focused on the key points.
Today I got up in front of the podium, took a deep breath, introduced myself, began my spiel, voice wavering, unaware that the microphone wasn’t picking me up because the pounding hum in my ears and the heat in my face blocked all other input, including my vision apparently, for I could not seem to follow the notes I had in front of me, looked up and down a few times pretending, in my hysterical blindness, to make eye contact, even ad libbed a little and held up my revised and updated volume for a visual aid, asked for questions, none?, good, I’m done, thank you very much. I took my second breath and teetered to my seat.
Dead silence, blank stares, and then, after I had returned to my place and sat down, weak, tentative clapping from our group leader.
It was mercifully short, all of about two minutes. Like reading a grocery list. Underwater.
Okay, so I now have a huge new appreciation of Dick Cheney. Live television, millions of viewers, the presidency at stake, lights, camera, action, controversy, accusations... He never flinched. Old Ironsides, man.
Later, a homeschooling mom came up to me and asked how long it took to complete our schoolwork. I figured we have five hours, the time between dropping off and picking up my youngest from preschool, including lunchtime, to finish all subjects, four days a week, the fifth day being less than half a day with the balance reserved for extracurricular pursuits.
“Really?!”
Silly me, I thought she was marveling at how we could manage to pack so darn much education into such a short time.
“That’s a lot.”
“But we only do four and a half days, that includes their lunch break, it’s shorter than a regular school day, and we don’t even have homework,” I feebly protested.
“Huh,” she snorted and walked away.
I hurried home and in my haste to forget the trauma of the morning, threw myself into my last big hanging-over-my-head unpacking project, transferring all photo albums and miscellaneous memorabilia from raggedy cardboard bankers’ boxes to solid plastic bins.
“Look! It’s Mom’s high school yearbook!”
Open to find a picture of me standing in front of another podium long ago, looking properly humiliated as Sr. Ann Ferry stands next to me, chastising me during an oral report on Robert Schumann and Felix Mendelssohn for the appallingly careless way she felt I was handling my visual aids. They were handwritten pieces of music autographed by the composers for my great grandmother, part of her large collection. In the photo, Sr. Ann is holding them with the absolute tips of her fingers, as if she really didn’t want to touch them at all. It was the one time this poor southern girl could actually understand everything the nun, with her Boston, by way of Quebec, by way of London, by way of Belfast accent was saying without having to ask for clarification. I can see the red burning in my cheeks through the black and white photo. I can still feel the blinding, pounding hum.
Yesterday I wrote up every important thing I could think of to explain The Well Trained Mind. Then I edited it and rewrote it. When I was satisfied with the content, I timed it, 10:47, and decided after reading it over and over, that I should rewrite it in more of an outline format. There was plenty of material here to work with, I could easily talk it up, but didn’t want to drone on, so an outline would keep me focused on the key points.
Today I got up in front of the podium, took a deep breath, introduced myself, began my spiel, voice wavering, unaware that the microphone wasn’t picking me up because the pounding hum in my ears and the heat in my face blocked all other input, including my vision apparently, for I could not seem to follow the notes I had in front of me, looked up and down a few times pretending, in my hysterical blindness, to make eye contact, even ad libbed a little and held up my revised and updated volume for a visual aid, asked for questions, none?, good, I’m done, thank you very much. I took my second breath and teetered to my seat.
Dead silence, blank stares, and then, after I had returned to my place and sat down, weak, tentative clapping from our group leader.
It was mercifully short, all of about two minutes. Like reading a grocery list. Underwater.
Okay, so I now have a huge new appreciation of Dick Cheney. Live television, millions of viewers, the presidency at stake, lights, camera, action, controversy, accusations... He never flinched. Old Ironsides, man.
Later, a homeschooling mom came up to me and asked how long it took to complete our schoolwork. I figured we have five hours, the time between dropping off and picking up my youngest from preschool, including lunchtime, to finish all subjects, four days a week, the fifth day being less than half a day with the balance reserved for extracurricular pursuits.
“Really?!”
Silly me, I thought she was marveling at how we could manage to pack so darn much education into such a short time.
“That’s a lot.”
“But we only do four and a half days, that includes their lunch break, it’s shorter than a regular school day, and we don’t even have homework,” I feebly protested.
“Huh,” she snorted and walked away.
I hurried home and in my haste to forget the trauma of the morning, threw myself into my last big hanging-over-my-head unpacking project, transferring all photo albums and miscellaneous memorabilia from raggedy cardboard bankers’ boxes to solid plastic bins.
“Look! It’s Mom’s high school yearbook!”
Open to find a picture of me standing in front of another podium long ago, looking properly humiliated as Sr. Ann Ferry stands next to me, chastising me during an oral report on Robert Schumann and Felix Mendelssohn for the appallingly careless way she felt I was handling my visual aids. They were handwritten pieces of music autographed by the composers for my great grandmother, part of her large collection. In the photo, Sr. Ann is holding them with the absolute tips of her fingers, as if she really didn’t want to touch them at all. It was the one time this poor southern girl could actually understand everything the nun, with her Boston, by way of Quebec, by way of London, by way of Belfast accent was saying without having to ask for clarification. I can see the red burning in my cheeks through the black and white photo. I can still feel the blinding, pounding hum.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
And the winner is...
Henle.
For those of you interested, Henle appears to be a better follow up to Latina Christiana.
PROS
Henle's lessons are more incremental, sticking to one topic at a time. Henle's first lesson, on the first declension, only teaches vocabulary using first declension nouns, while Wheelock's covers first and second conjugations: present infinitive, indicative, and imperative active, and gives sentences to translate that contain words not included in the vocabulary but are introduced in footnotes. I think S would get frustrated even though she has already covered the topics.
Henle uses a more limited vocabulary. Maria orat. Nautae orant. Nauta orat. Nautae non orant. Vident. Nautae vident. Maria videt. Videt. Nautae non vident. Non orat. Ad nauseum. It works as a confidence booster.
Henle has an answer key. I do not have an answer key for Wheelock's. Answers are given in the back for some exercises, but not all. I also have the Wheelock workbook which is void of answers. Workbook questions are taken directly from the text, so presumably you could check back in the text for answers, but this does not satisfy my "ease of teaching" requirement.
CONS
Henle's lessons vary greatly in length, which makes planning a weekly schedule challenging. I have the First Year Henle study guide from Memoria Press which breaks the lessons down into five-day weekly lessons, but I don't think I'll bother using it as it progresses v-e-r-y slowly through material she's already learned.
It's very Catholic, although the religiousness seems to taper off a bit around Unit Four. Not a big problem for me, I was raised Catholic, it's just a bit tiresome.
For those of you interested, Henle appears to be a better follow up to Latina Christiana.
PROS
Henle's lessons are more incremental, sticking to one topic at a time. Henle's first lesson, on the first declension, only teaches vocabulary using first declension nouns, while Wheelock's covers first and second conjugations: present infinitive, indicative, and imperative active, and gives sentences to translate that contain words not included in the vocabulary but are introduced in footnotes. I think S would get frustrated even though she has already covered the topics.
Henle uses a more limited vocabulary. Maria orat. Nautae orant. Nauta orat. Nautae non orant. Vident. Nautae vident. Maria videt. Videt. Nautae non vident. Non orat. Ad nauseum. It works as a confidence booster.
Henle has an answer key. I do not have an answer key for Wheelock's. Answers are given in the back for some exercises, but not all. I also have the Wheelock workbook which is void of answers. Workbook questions are taken directly from the text, so presumably you could check back in the text for answers, but this does not satisfy my "ease of teaching" requirement.
CONS
Henle's lessons vary greatly in length, which makes planning a weekly schedule challenging. I have the First Year Henle study guide from Memoria Press which breaks the lessons down into five-day weekly lessons, but I don't think I'll bother using it as it progresses v-e-r-y slowly through material she's already learned.
It's very Catholic, although the religiousness seems to taper off a bit around Unit Four. Not a big problem for me, I was raised Catholic, it's just a bit tiresome.
Monday, October 04, 2004
I am looking forward to Rhetoric. I’m eager to learn how to communicate more effectively. Too bad I won't have a chance to study it before Wednesday, when our homeschool group gets together for Park Day. I was asked to introduce The Well Trained Mind to the group.
Know why I blog? Because I love to blather on and on about topics that interest me, but in real life, I'm a terrible conversationalist. It's much easier for me to type it all out. Small talk kills me, trying to think of something worth saying, and when something does interest me enough to share, I get tongue-tied, lost in the details, trying to pack a multitude of thoughts into one coherent statement. Add that to an introverted personality and well, you can see why public relations rep was the completely wrong career choice for me.
I couldn’t have cared less if nobody ever came to our shows, couldn’t make fake, happy party chitchat with reviewers, directors, or producers, and I couldn't ever think of anything dazzling enough to say to a celebrity that they wouldn’t instantly forget, having heard it countless times before. I was Andy Warhol, hanging back, observing, taking notes.
Add a little fatigue or stress and the situation deteriorates. Mixing metaphors, I am Mrs. Malaprop. Once, forced to temporarily handle six lines of incoming calls for a vanished receptionist while simultaneously juggling one grouchy CEO and two impending printing disasters that had been the responsibility of my now out-of-town boss, I attempted to relay the information to the very impatient caller that Cyndi, my boss, was on holiday and ask if I could take a message. What came out was, “May I please take a vacation?”
Give me time to compose my thoughts, edit, and revise them and I do a little better. Maybe Wednesday won't be too much of a disaster.
Th-th-th-that’s all folks.
Know why I blog? Because I love to blather on and on about topics that interest me, but in real life, I'm a terrible conversationalist. It's much easier for me to type it all out. Small talk kills me, trying to think of something worth saying, and when something does interest me enough to share, I get tongue-tied, lost in the details, trying to pack a multitude of thoughts into one coherent statement. Add that to an introverted personality and well, you can see why public relations rep was the completely wrong career choice for me.
I couldn’t have cared less if nobody ever came to our shows, couldn’t make fake, happy party chitchat with reviewers, directors, or producers, and I couldn't ever think of anything dazzling enough to say to a celebrity that they wouldn’t instantly forget, having heard it countless times before. I was Andy Warhol, hanging back, observing, taking notes.
Add a little fatigue or stress and the situation deteriorates. Mixing metaphors, I am Mrs. Malaprop. Once, forced to temporarily handle six lines of incoming calls for a vanished receptionist while simultaneously juggling one grouchy CEO and two impending printing disasters that had been the responsibility of my now out-of-town boss, I attempted to relay the information to the very impatient caller that Cyndi, my boss, was on holiday and ask if I could take a message. What came out was, “May I please take a vacation?”
Give me time to compose my thoughts, edit, and revise them and I do a little better. Maybe Wednesday won't be too much of a disaster.
Th-th-th-that’s all folks.
Friday, October 01, 2004
The Big Debate
Everybody has their own opinions, and mine, you know I'm going to give you mine, is that Kerry may have slightly edged Bush out last night. They were generally equal in their presentations. Kerry kept Bush on the defensive more than vice versa, but he also made some chillingly aggressive statements. So, basically, a tie. Unless you count their physical appearance, and then Kerry won. That though, is only my very obviously unqualified, shallow, soundbite of an opinion.
My daughter, G, however, took a very scientific approach, creating a chart of pros and cons, analyzing each major point, and assigning points based on the weight of each issue and the candidates' responses. This was all done on our erasable whiteboard, in meticulous detail. At one point, running out of the room for a bathroom break, she flung the board into my lap and asked me to keep score in her absence. Sorry to say, I was not up to the task, and not much help. In my defense, it was very complicated.
When the points were tallied, she announced Kerry had won by a score of 14 to 8, but insisted that this is inconclusive as there are still two more debates to go. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted.
My daughter, G, however, took a very scientific approach, creating a chart of pros and cons, analyzing each major point, and assigning points based on the weight of each issue and the candidates' responses. This was all done on our erasable whiteboard, in meticulous detail. At one point, running out of the room for a bathroom break, she flung the board into my lap and asked me to keep score in her absence. Sorry to say, I was not up to the task, and not much help. In my defense, it was very complicated.
When the points were tallied, she announced Kerry had won by a score of 14 to 8, but insisted that this is inconclusive as there are still two more debates to go. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted.
Salve, Magistra!
This day snuck up on me. S finished her final Latina Christiana II test this morning. She's now ready to move into a high school level text. I'm not. The older two girls left with their father earlier after completing most of their schoolwork, so I have the rest of the morning and a little bit of afternoon to figure out what comes next. Henle or Wheelock? Wheelock or Henle? Both are highly recommended. Both are on my shelves. Both incorporate a good deal of history and readings by noted authors. Both have guides and workbooks, which, of course are also on my shelves.
One is secular, one is not.
By now, some of you may be doubting my secular status. Hmmm, Latina Christiana, Rod & Staff English, a brief stint last year using Tapestry of Grace...? Our curriculum choices are based almost entirely on thoroughness and ease of teaching. I don't mind texts having a religious slant as long as they are not preachy. Any religious content must have a reasonable connection to the subject being studied. Grammar? Okay, using Biblical and Christian lifestyle references to analyze sentence constructs, I can handle that. Math? No. Latin and History, Music and Art? Sure, there are logical tie-ins there. Science? No.
Oil and water, fact and fiction, some things can be mixed together better than others.
Now, back to the books...WheelockHenleWheelockHenle...
One is secular, one is not.
By now, some of you may be doubting my secular status. Hmmm, Latina Christiana, Rod & Staff English, a brief stint last year using Tapestry of Grace...? Our curriculum choices are based almost entirely on thoroughness and ease of teaching. I don't mind texts having a religious slant as long as they are not preachy. Any religious content must have a reasonable connection to the subject being studied. Grammar? Okay, using Biblical and Christian lifestyle references to analyze sentence constructs, I can handle that. Math? No. Latin and History, Music and Art? Sure, there are logical tie-ins there. Science? No.
Oil and water, fact and fiction, some things can be mixed together better than others.
Now, back to the books...WheelockHenleWheelockHenle...
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