Sometimes I shoot my mouth (or keyboard) off and get myself in trouble. I once made a crack about how bogus I thought the whole school labeling idea was, either here or in response to another writer's post. The gist of it was that I didn't believe specifically in the gifted label. After looking at the content of AP classes, it seemed the so-called advanced placement courses contained the kind of work that should be expected of all students. The kind of studies that were commonplace way back when. Nor did I subscribe to the "everybody's gifted" line of thinking. Sure, everyone has strengths, but the term "gifted" should be reserved for the true prodigies: the three year olds composing and performing their own piano concertos, the seven year olds attending college, the ten year olds with PhDs in nuclear medicine. Many children are smarter than the average bear, but to deem them all "gifted" diminishes the achievements of those who are truly outstanding. Like Syndrome says in The Incredibles, "...Everyone can be Super! And when everyone's Super... No one will be."
Well, this ruffled a few feathers.
Some people may have felt defensive because their child was labeled as such, and of course we all like to think our children are extraordinary, but to me, the impartial observer, the child was, no doubt, very bright, studious, and curious, but certainly not a genius. Unfortunately, thanks to our educational system, the general population has been dumbed down so much, that this is what passes for extraordinary these days: above average. Our standards have been significantly lowered.
Sour grapes, perhaps? You might have said that at the time. My child didn't wear the label, maybe I was just jealous. Now however, I can state it with absolute conviction. Today Gracie, my very bright, curious, middle daughter was tested by the school board's special education expert, and despite running a fever with her second case of strep throat in one month -- her teacher called this morning and asked that she not stay home as we had decided yesterday, because she had forgotten about the special appointment and rescheduling was nearly impossible -- scored in the 98th percentile. So she is officially "Gifted." What does this mean for us? Essentially nothing. Her present school does not offer a specific program geared to those types of students, although the teacher is able to work one-on-one with her pupils, allowing them to pace themselves. It was more of a hedge. If public school was to be in her future, she could at least be assured of acceptance on the Alpha Track at the less than mediocre neighborhood middle school or at the gifted-only K-12 charter school several towns away, the benefits of which are merely that you generally have fewer disciplinary problems with those students. Is the education any better? Maybe, compared to what the general population would receive. Better than what I could provide? Doubtful.
Considering that gifted classes seem to be on the chopping block in that good old egalitarian spirit, the one that says not only should everyone start out on equal footing, but everyone should finish on equal footing, the one that is eliminating the honor of naming one student valedictorian, this may be a moot point anyway.
I am sticking by my statement that the label represents bright, curious, above-average students. The students that should be the average have been elevated to this higher status due to the lowered status of the majority.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Public Service Announcement
Starbucks Coffee Fudge Brownie: Unimpressive. Infrequent specks of black gooey purported brownies did not satisfy.
BETTER BROWNIE ALTERNATIVE:
Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Not a chocolate ice cream fan here, but a bounty of brownie-like chunks, particularly crunchy ones like the kind from the edge of the pan, made for a pleasant surprise.
BETTER COFFEE-WITH-LITTLE-TREATS-INSIDE ALTERNATIVE:
Starbucks Coffee Almond Fudge. Pure heaven and still number one in my freezer. Not too sweet coffee flavor with delightful chocolate covered nuts swirled throughout. It's ice cream! It's candy!
ALTERNATIVE ALTERNATIVE:
Breyers Oreo. None of that chocolate sandwich cookie imitation crap for me, no sir, this is the real thing. Hard to beat.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging...
BETTER BROWNIE ALTERNATIVE:
Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Not a chocolate ice cream fan here, but a bounty of brownie-like chunks, particularly crunchy ones like the kind from the edge of the pan, made for a pleasant surprise.
BETTER COFFEE-WITH-LITTLE-TREATS-INSIDE ALTERNATIVE:
Starbucks Coffee Almond Fudge. Pure heaven and still number one in my freezer. Not too sweet coffee flavor with delightful chocolate covered nuts swirled throughout. It's ice cream! It's candy!
ALTERNATIVE ALTERNATIVE:
Breyers Oreo. None of that chocolate sandwich cookie imitation crap for me, no sir, this is the real thing. Hard to beat.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging...
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Action!
Today we were up and at our appointed meeting spot before the sun came up. Sarabelle and I went in, with Gracie in tow, to complete her paperwork. Elle was sleeping over at a friend's house -- I know, on a school night, what was I thinking, but her best friend only lives at her grandmother's house on-island during the week; her father has custody on weekends -- so it was a surprisingly stress-free morning.
When I indicated that Sarabelle was the child on the list, not Gracie, the casting rep mentioned that if Gracie wanted to be on the list, she could be if she just hung around a bit. The other two fifth graders in her school had already been included, even though they are nowhere near 12 - 14 years of age. One was there because his mom was a contact person for the shoot, the other because he is very tall, and both because the contact mother was instructed to find more boys. Gracie had been very disappointed to hear the night before that she couldn't participate, so this was exciting news.
Today they did what I think they were calling the "pick-up shots." These were all the aerial filming sequences. For most of the morning, the school bus rode back and forth across one of the three bridges linking the island to the mainland, in order to capture Mulletfingers running under the bridge at the same time the bus passes over. The kids were instructed to ignore the helicopter that flew up suddenly from under the bridge and then hovered just a few feet away from them. They said it was not easy. Then the seaplane and helicopter followed the bus as it rode around town. They had fun, Gracie missed school, had lunch catered at the beach club, and made $75.00 a piece.
Sarabelle was slightly perturbed by the other kids along for the ride. Most had brought Game Boys, iPods, cell phones, and DVD players to keep themselves occupied. My daughters were chatting up the casting rep and the bus driver. They got to hear all the goings-on over the radios, including some cast gossip, and listen to the director, Wil Shriner, call the shots. All highly entertaining for my amateur auteurs. They never did find out my most pressing question though: Was the driver, sporting a 2 Fast 2 Furious jacket, an actual stunt driver in that movie?!
If you see Hoot, and happen to not be blinking during the aerial shots of the bus, you might see my girls' arms in the windows of the first two seats behind the bus's front door.
Gracie's classmates A. and R., Gracie, and Sarabelle get ready to go.
Film crew hovering above the schoolbus at daybreak.
Gracie and Sarabelle, now in their official, assigned seats, horrified that their mother has entered the bus and is snapping photos.
When I indicated that Sarabelle was the child on the list, not Gracie, the casting rep mentioned that if Gracie wanted to be on the list, she could be if she just hung around a bit. The other two fifth graders in her school had already been included, even though they are nowhere near 12 - 14 years of age. One was there because his mom was a contact person for the shoot, the other because he is very tall, and both because the contact mother was instructed to find more boys. Gracie had been very disappointed to hear the night before that she couldn't participate, so this was exciting news.
Today they did what I think they were calling the "pick-up shots." These were all the aerial filming sequences. For most of the morning, the school bus rode back and forth across one of the three bridges linking the island to the mainland, in order to capture Mulletfingers running under the bridge at the same time the bus passes over. The kids were instructed to ignore the helicopter that flew up suddenly from under the bridge and then hovered just a few feet away from them. They said it was not easy. Then the seaplane and helicopter followed the bus as it rode around town. They had fun, Gracie missed school, had lunch catered at the beach club, and made $75.00 a piece.
Sarabelle was slightly perturbed by the other kids along for the ride. Most had brought Game Boys, iPods, cell phones, and DVD players to keep themselves occupied. My daughters were chatting up the casting rep and the bus driver. They got to hear all the goings-on over the radios, including some cast gossip, and listen to the director, Wil Shriner, call the shots. All highly entertaining for my amateur auteurs. They never did find out my most pressing question though: Was the driver, sporting a 2 Fast 2 Furious jacket, an actual stunt driver in that movie?!
If you see Hoot, and happen to not be blinking during the aerial shots of the bus, you might see my girls' arms in the windows of the first two seats behind the bus's front door.
Gracie's classmates A. and R., Gracie, and Sarabelle get ready to go.
Film crew hovering above the schoolbus at daybreak.
Gracie and Sarabelle, now in their official, assigned seats, horrified that their mother has entered the bus and is snapping photos.
The Marketing Master
My broker spent big bucks on a Marketing Masters program in conjunction with our new promotional partner. The idea was that he would learn how to maximize his advertising dollars and achieve more results with less effort through highly targeted, finely crafted advertising pieces. Hey! Less effort, who's not for that? But because he goes one hundred miles an hour and can't sit through the 90+ minute teleconference calls, the other assistant, another agent, and I get to enjoy the sometime twice weekly fun.
Oh, yes, it really is fun. We discovered after a few calls that the microphone on our speakerphone prevents us from being heard unless we scream real loud right into the thing. Which we don't do. Instead, we follow along with the emailed handouts, dutifully fill in the blanks, make notes as instructed in the margins, circle important key concepts, and mock the proceedings.
In the beginning I was open to the idea of learning some successful marketing techniques. Then the lessons started. Anyone who has read either of Paul Fussell's books Bad Or, The Dumbing of America, or Class: A Guide Through the American Status System will understand what's got me ticked off:
First of all, the term "Luxury." It gets thrown around an awful lot. If you are targeting the real high end clients, this is not going to impress them. The real upper-enders can certainly afford a luxurious lifestyle, but they are discreet about it. My broker has a house coming up for sale priced at $16 million, or $18 million if you want the furnishings. They're pretty nice furnishings. In spite of the market slowing a bit, we are not going to advertise this house one single bit, in fact, it won't even be listed, because the people who can appreciate it and afford it do not want its fabulosity splashed all over the place. Word will get around that it's available and that's enough. If you want to see it, be prepared to write a hefty check as a guarantee that you are serious and qualified before you put one foot on the property. If we followed the advice of our Marketing Master we would be taking out full page ads in specialty magazines, writing verbose, sappy stories about how you know you have really arrived when you travel the elegant, winding tree-lined drive and enter the grand gates of your fine, exquisite blah, blah, blah.
Bleah.
If however, you are targeting the wannabe market, well, now we're talking. "Luxury This" and "Exclusive That" will always impress the pretenders and the poseurs, which in all fairness is a sizeable chunk of the market, and their money is as green as anyone else's, but don't hold yourself out as an expert on selling to the upper end. Be honest, admit you're selling to the nouveau riche, don't be ashamed. Highfalutin yes, sophisticated no.
Other things we have learned:
-- Pictures are not important, use more words, say the same things over and over, repeat yourself, then say it again, one more time, and add a P.S. to reiterate your point (because nobody can ignore a P.S.), change TYPE styles often, and use loads of exclamation points!!!
-- Do not use big words. You will confuse your prospects. Follow USA Today's lead and write at about a fourth grade reading level.
-- How to trick people into opening your mail (use unusually sized envelopes, handwrite addresses or if that is too expensive, use a font that mimics handwriting, include crappy promotional giveaways or 'chunky mail.' Of course they will list their property or buy a house from you, YOU JUST GAVE THEM A PENCIL!)
-- How to trick people into replying to an ad (create a cheesy SPECIAL FREE REPORT YOU CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT! YOU WON'T EVEN HAVE TO TALK TO ANYONE!! then capture their phone number/email address and start sending them unsolicited junk mail.
-- Create ads that look real newspaper articles. Yeah, more trickery.
Their materials look like weight loss advertisements in Parade Magazine.
The most amazing marketing has been done by the woman who leads our teleconference calls. She is the master of self promotion.
Oh, yes, it really is fun. We discovered after a few calls that the microphone on our speakerphone prevents us from being heard unless we scream real loud right into the thing. Which we don't do. Instead, we follow along with the emailed handouts, dutifully fill in the blanks, make notes as instructed in the margins, circle important key concepts, and mock the proceedings.
In the beginning I was open to the idea of learning some successful marketing techniques. Then the lessons started. Anyone who has read either of Paul Fussell's books Bad Or, The Dumbing of America, or Class: A Guide Through the American Status System will understand what's got me ticked off:
First of all, the term "Luxury." It gets thrown around an awful lot. If you are targeting the real high end clients, this is not going to impress them. The real upper-enders can certainly afford a luxurious lifestyle, but they are discreet about it. My broker has a house coming up for sale priced at $16 million, or $18 million if you want the furnishings. They're pretty nice furnishings. In spite of the market slowing a bit, we are not going to advertise this house one single bit, in fact, it won't even be listed, because the people who can appreciate it and afford it do not want its fabulosity splashed all over the place. Word will get around that it's available and that's enough. If you want to see it, be prepared to write a hefty check as a guarantee that you are serious and qualified before you put one foot on the property. If we followed the advice of our Marketing Master we would be taking out full page ads in specialty magazines, writing verbose, sappy stories about how you know you have really arrived when you travel the elegant, winding tree-lined drive and enter the grand gates of your fine, exquisite blah, blah, blah.
Bleah.
If however, you are targeting the wannabe market, well, now we're talking. "Luxury This" and "Exclusive That" will always impress the pretenders and the poseurs, which in all fairness is a sizeable chunk of the market, and their money is as green as anyone else's, but don't hold yourself out as an expert on selling to the upper end. Be honest, admit you're selling to the nouveau riche, don't be ashamed. Highfalutin yes, sophisticated no.
Other things we have learned:
-- Pictures are not important, use more words, say the same things over and over, repeat yourself, then say it again, one more time, and add a P.S. to reiterate your point (because nobody can ignore a P.S.), change TYPE styles often, and use loads of exclamation points!!!
-- Do not use big words. You will confuse your prospects. Follow USA Today's lead and write at about a fourth grade reading level.
-- How to trick people into opening your mail (use unusually sized envelopes, handwrite addresses or if that is too expensive, use a font that mimics handwriting, include crappy promotional giveaways or 'chunky mail.' Of course they will list their property or buy a house from you, YOU JUST GAVE THEM A PENCIL!)
-- How to trick people into replying to an ad (create a cheesy SPECIAL FREE REPORT YOU CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT! YOU WON'T EVEN HAVE TO TALK TO ANYONE!! then capture their phone number/email address and start sending them unsolicited junk mail.
-- Create ads that look real newspaper articles. Yeah, more trickery.
Their materials look like weight loss advertisements in Parade Magazine.
The most amazing marketing has been done by the woman who leads our teleconference calls. She is the master of self promotion.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Hoot Reshoot
We submitted our headshots last time and never heard a word. Then the girls were busy with kayak camp and utterly exhausted by the end of the day so we never made it over to the island to watch the filming either.
But Wednesday, the cast and crew return to the island to refilm a few scenes. This time they need 12-14 year olds for the school kids riding the bus shots with barely a day's notice. Fortunately, this time I have a 12-14 year old that's readily available and I now have some connections. Plus, I have a front row seat for the activities.
For a peek out my window, not exactly, but nearly the same view, check out the live webcam from the Boca Beacon. Enter the username "demo" (without the quotes.) There is no password required. The benches alongside the post office, by the tarpon mural, are where the kids will wait Wednesday at the "bus stop" for the big yellow school bus to pick them up.
This will be Sarabelle's first, and probably only, ride on such a bus.
But Wednesday, the cast and crew return to the island to refilm a few scenes. This time they need 12-14 year olds for the school kids riding the bus shots with barely a day's notice. Fortunately, this time I have a 12-14 year old that's readily available and I now have some connections. Plus, I have a front row seat for the activities.
For a peek out my window, not exactly, but nearly the same view, check out the live webcam from the Boca Beacon. Enter the username "demo" (without the quotes.) There is no password required. The benches alongside the post office, by the tarpon mural, are where the kids will wait Wednesday at the "bus stop" for the big yellow school bus to pick them up.
This will be Sarabelle's first, and probably only, ride on such a bus.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
"Homeschool"
"I'm sorry, may I hear that in a sentence, please?"
"You need to homeschool your children."
"Oh, yeah, thanks."
Sarabelle is not doing well with her relative independence. Initially she was sent off with her dad and several days' worth of assignments. Her curriculum had been narrowed down to grammar, math, and Latin. Soon it was just math and Latin. And then nothing. Moving around caused her books to be left in different vehicles and locations. I looked into signing her up with the Florida Virtual School, the Latin course was the only class still available that far into the year, no surprise, but not having a computer readily and regularly available, except when she was at the office, and then someone might actually have some work to do on it, and because of the small technicality in the registration process which requires you identify the county you are registered with so they can confirm your homeschool status, and we are technically flying under the radar, we decided to pass. Jorge wondered if there were any courses she might be able to study via CD-ROM, as we had an extra laptop she could use. I remembered picking up Switched On Schoolhouse Algebra and Science 9 for free at one of our support group swaps, so we gave the Algebra a try. The scoring had been set to not allow her to change wrong answers, after all, it's multiple choice, you change your answer three times and it's guaranteed to be correct, right? Unfortunately, the teaching format was scattershot, a video clip here, an animation there, and on her first lesson, the easiest, she scored an abysmal 46. Discouraged, she did not want to continue.
In the meantime, she was reading up a storm: Dracula, Just So Stories, Carl Hiaasen's latest, Flush, basically whatever she got her hands on, so that was okay.
After a while she took a break from the books and finally found a computer that could run her Pirates! game. She spent days at the office strategizing and raiding the Caribbean. It's not too much of a stretch to say she learned quite a bit of geography and even a little history.
Then last night a call from Jorge, worried that Sarabelle is not doing anything productive. He suggested putting her into school, eighth grade, for the remainder of the year. My response: Not "no", but, "!@#$ no!" He is supposed to be finished with his contracts in March. I assured him we could hang on at least that much longer. He agreed. Tonight they went to Barnes & Noble and she picked out The Grapes of Wrath, The Wind in the Willows, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a Spanish-English dictionary, and a book on sign language. That will keep her busy until later this week when her paedeia for the Scripps Howard Spelling Bee is due to arrive. The regional competition is being held in Tampa, scheduled for February 25. I need to dig through the boxes this weekend and locate my copy of The ABCs and All Their Tricks and she needs to study.
"H-O-M-E-S-C-H-O-O-L"
"That is correct."
"You need to homeschool your children."
"Oh, yeah, thanks."
Sarabelle is not doing well with her relative independence. Initially she was sent off with her dad and several days' worth of assignments. Her curriculum had been narrowed down to grammar, math, and Latin. Soon it was just math and Latin. And then nothing. Moving around caused her books to be left in different vehicles and locations. I looked into signing her up with the Florida Virtual School, the Latin course was the only class still available that far into the year, no surprise, but not having a computer readily and regularly available, except when she was at the office, and then someone might actually have some work to do on it, and because of the small technicality in the registration process which requires you identify the county you are registered with so they can confirm your homeschool status, and we are technically flying under the radar, we decided to pass. Jorge wondered if there were any courses she might be able to study via CD-ROM, as we had an extra laptop she could use. I remembered picking up Switched On Schoolhouse Algebra and Science 9 for free at one of our support group swaps, so we gave the Algebra a try. The scoring had been set to not allow her to change wrong answers, after all, it's multiple choice, you change your answer three times and it's guaranteed to be correct, right? Unfortunately, the teaching format was scattershot, a video clip here, an animation there, and on her first lesson, the easiest, she scored an abysmal 46. Discouraged, she did not want to continue.
In the meantime, she was reading up a storm: Dracula, Just So Stories, Carl Hiaasen's latest, Flush, basically whatever she got her hands on, so that was okay.
After a while she took a break from the books and finally found a computer that could run her Pirates! game. She spent days at the office strategizing and raiding the Caribbean. It's not too much of a stretch to say she learned quite a bit of geography and even a little history.
Then last night a call from Jorge, worried that Sarabelle is not doing anything productive. He suggested putting her into school, eighth grade, for the remainder of the year. My response: Not "no", but, "!@#$ no!" He is supposed to be finished with his contracts in March. I assured him we could hang on at least that much longer. He agreed. Tonight they went to Barnes & Noble and she picked out The Grapes of Wrath, The Wind in the Willows, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a Spanish-English dictionary, and a book on sign language. That will keep her busy until later this week when her paedeia for the Scripps Howard Spelling Bee is due to arrive. The regional competition is being held in Tampa, scheduled for February 25. I need to dig through the boxes this weekend and locate my copy of The ABCs and All Their Tricks and she needs to study.
"H-O-M-E-S-C-H-O-O-L"
"That is correct."
Peer Pressure
In the midst of her almost completed, top-to-bottom, hands-on renovation, Dy delivered a baby. And has her posting slowed a bit? Not at all. Remarkable!
In the midst of our renovation, my builder husband and I decided we didn't care about the condition of the house -- it'll be a tear-down for the next owners -- moved in, and had pizza delivered. But I did get the kitchen painted (with less than one quart, which goes to show how voluminous the wall space is), settled on colors for the other rooms, and moved about 1% of the junk, I mean, our treasured belongings, out of the garage. We are jamming! And of course my posting hasn't been affected, has it? Right.
In the midst of our renovation, my builder husband and I decided we didn't care about the condition of the house -- it'll be a tear-down for the next owners -- moved in, and had pizza delivered. But I did get the kitchen painted (with less than one quart, which goes to show how voluminous the wall space is), settled on colors for the other rooms, and moved about 1% of the junk, I mean, our treasured belongings, out of the garage. We are jamming! And of course my posting hasn't been affected, has it? Right.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Adventure
There were a lot of outraged reactions, including the understandably angry comments I received from the mother of a major stationed in Iraq, over Farris Hassan's trip to the war zone. He definitely endangered the lives of others, as the mother told me the soldiers sent to escort him to safety and out of the country were pulled from the ranks of soldiers that could have been her son's bodyguards, but all the same, my first reaction was, "Dude, you are my hero."
That kid set his mind to do something so out of the ordinary, so gutsy, and actually pulled it off. Kudos to him for his follow through. So he got himself into a bit of a bind and had to be extricated from the situation, it's the nerve I admire. Reminded me of one of our blog buddies, the one who, if I recall correctly, enrolled herself in a foreign boarding school unbeknownst to her mother, and then when she arrived without the tuition, wangled a scholarship. She's the one I want to take with me when I make my pilgrimage to Mecca. I have a dream to one day go on the Hajj, circle the Ka'ba, and touch the Black Stone, along the lines of Wilma and Betty sneaking into the Water Buffalo Lodge.
That kid set his mind to do something so out of the ordinary, so gutsy, and actually pulled it off. Kudos to him for his follow through. So he got himself into a bit of a bind and had to be extricated from the situation, it's the nerve I admire. Reminded me of one of our blog buddies, the one who, if I recall correctly, enrolled herself in a foreign boarding school unbeknownst to her mother, and then when she arrived without the tuition, wangled a scholarship. She's the one I want to take with me when I make my pilgrimage to Mecca. I have a dream to one day go on the Hajj, circle the Ka'ba, and touch the Black Stone, along the lines of Wilma and Betty sneaking into the Water Buffalo Lodge.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
No wonder their stock's going up.
I gave myself a big present after Christmas and ordered a Powerbook G4. Tired of all the work-arounds I've had to implement just to get my other older machine to work halfway right, fed up with all the spyware/spam/changing browsers/compromised security issues/incompatible programs, and wanting to be prepared with the latest mobile technology in case we take our two year sabbatical, I decided it might be time to try an Apple.
Of course yesterday Steve Jobs announced that their new systems will use Intel chips and that the new laptop, the Mac Book Pro, will be four times faster than the G4 and comes with a built in video camera.
Thankfully, they have a wonderful return policy. Once I pull all the data out of this machine, it will be on its way back from whence it came, to be replaced by the newer model.
I think I just might turn into one of those fanatic Apple converts.
Of course yesterday Steve Jobs announced that their new systems will use Intel chips and that the new laptop, the Mac Book Pro, will be four times faster than the G4 and comes with a built in video camera.
Thankfully, they have a wonderful return policy. Once I pull all the data out of this machine, it will be on its way back from whence it came, to be replaced by the newer model.
I think I just might turn into one of those fanatic Apple converts.
Here come da judge
Yesterday I had my day in court, only my first though, as it was just the arraignment. I plead "Not Guilty," in a very tiny, breathless squeak, to the charge that I was doing 36 mph in a 20 mph zone, an offense punishable by a $180.00 fine and four points on my license. Being a "SAFE DRIVER" for the past 20 or so years, I am totally unfamiliar with the implications of the dreaded points, other than that they are apparently highly undesirable and should be avoided at all cost. I was still in a 35 mph zone having passed only the "REDUCED SPEED AHEAD" sign, not the actual posted slower speed limit sign, when the officer shot me with the radar further down the road than he should have. Honest mistake, the blank backside of one sign looks pretty much like any other. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I'll be busy for the next few days drawing diagrams and proving the impossibility of the charge with the basic R x T = D formula.
Anyway, I was all prepared to defend myself yesterday -- you'd think someone with a judge and a bunch of lawyers in the family would be a little more familiar with legal proceedings -- but no, instead I received a second date for the trial. We'll make a day of it! A field trip! This will be a great opportunity for the kids to see the inner workings of the judicial system. And an opportunity for me to pretend that I'm still actually participating in some kind of homeschooling activity with them. Let's hope the system works.
Speaking in public is one of the few things that I can honestly use the word "hate" to describe my feelings for. This however, seemed like it wouldn't be too bad. We sat packed in a small office and waited for the judge who would be presiding from a fold-up table. Pretty nonchalant, fairly unintimidating. My composure was mostly intact, in other words, I was still breathing, until the judge entered. Then I spied his tie -- a tie emblazoned with the climax of the Stations of the Cross. Yup, the finale of the Good Friday events silhouetted in black on a fiery red-orange background, dangling there, hypnotizing me.
Was his message "Judge not lest ye be judged" or perhaps, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" or maybe that we were about to be crucified?
Anyway, I was all prepared to defend myself yesterday -- you'd think someone with a judge and a bunch of lawyers in the family would be a little more familiar with legal proceedings -- but no, instead I received a second date for the trial. We'll make a day of it! A field trip! This will be a great opportunity for the kids to see the inner workings of the judicial system. And an opportunity for me to pretend that I'm still actually participating in some kind of homeschooling activity with them. Let's hope the system works.
Speaking in public is one of the few things that I can honestly use the word "hate" to describe my feelings for. This however, seemed like it wouldn't be too bad. We sat packed in a small office and waited for the judge who would be presiding from a fold-up table. Pretty nonchalant, fairly unintimidating. My composure was mostly intact, in other words, I was still breathing, until the judge entered. Then I spied his tie -- a tie emblazoned with the climax of the Stations of the Cross. Yup, the finale of the Good Friday events silhouetted in black on a fiery red-orange background, dangling there, hypnotizing me.
Was his message "Judge not lest ye be judged" or perhaps, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" or maybe that we were about to be crucified?
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
He comes to me in my sleep, sliding up from behind and wrapping his arms around me. "I'm sorry," he whispers. I melt.
Over a clandestine breakfast meeting six years after the divorce and eight steps into his recovery, he needs to make amends. Before leaving, my aunt copies down his license plate number in case I don't return. His sister is present for support and as a chaperone. My infant daughter, the child of my second husband, sits between us, a painful physical reminder of the baby that never was. He calculates how old our child would have been. "Can you ever forgive me?" He does not understand that I forgave him long ago.
Infrequent phone calls and emails over the years detail the deaths of his beloved grandmother and cruel father, his sobriety, and the creation of his computer empire. "I did this for you." You need to do this for you, I remind him. Wounds so deep he will not remarry. He will never have children. A final phone call wishing him happiness with his new life.
But in my sleep he comes back, the strong, tall, handsome boy who dreams of a farm in an apple orchard, and I consider how to leave my husband without breaking his heart.
I wake, wiping wet cheeks, wondering if he dreams of me.
Over a clandestine breakfast meeting six years after the divorce and eight steps into his recovery, he needs to make amends. Before leaving, my aunt copies down his license plate number in case I don't return. His sister is present for support and as a chaperone. My infant daughter, the child of my second husband, sits between us, a painful physical reminder of the baby that never was. He calculates how old our child would have been. "Can you ever forgive me?" He does not understand that I forgave him long ago.
Infrequent phone calls and emails over the years detail the deaths of his beloved grandmother and cruel father, his sobriety, and the creation of his computer empire. "I did this for you." You need to do this for you, I remind him. Wounds so deep he will not remarry. He will never have children. A final phone call wishing him happiness with his new life.
But in my sleep he comes back, the strong, tall, handsome boy who dreams of a farm in an apple orchard, and I consider how to leave my husband without breaking his heart.
I wake, wiping wet cheeks, wondering if he dreams of me.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
One day I'll be on the news...
"Mother leaves children home alone, story at eleven."
During the Christmas break, a break that I am probably the only parent around these parts sorry to see come to an end, it was necessary for me to leave the children home for a few hours while I did my thing at the office. I figured Sarabelle, at 13, is capable of handling herself for a time, Gracie, when she is not arguing with her older sister is reasonably responsible and able to care for herself, and the two of them together could join forces and tag team Elle to keep her under control.
That's exactly what they did.
I left clear instructions that nobody was to call me at work unless it was an emergency, in which case 911 should also have been called, and that they were to keep a hawkeye on Elle and redirect her attention if she got into any mischief. After several unsuccessful attempts to curb Elle's misbehavior, they hog-tied her with the remainder of a roll of tulle used to dress up some Christmas packages. They were so proud of their efforts they bragged later, "We fixed the ribbon so that if she tried to get away it gave her a wedgie."
Pretty good engineering, I thought.
During the Christmas break, a break that I am probably the only parent around these parts sorry to see come to an end, it was necessary for me to leave the children home for a few hours while I did my thing at the office. I figured Sarabelle, at 13, is capable of handling herself for a time, Gracie, when she is not arguing with her older sister is reasonably responsible and able to care for herself, and the two of them together could join forces and tag team Elle to keep her under control.
That's exactly what they did.
I left clear instructions that nobody was to call me at work unless it was an emergency, in which case 911 should also have been called, and that they were to keep a hawkeye on Elle and redirect her attention if she got into any mischief. After several unsuccessful attempts to curb Elle's misbehavior, they hog-tied her with the remainder of a roll of tulle used to dress up some Christmas packages. They were so proud of their efforts they bragged later, "We fixed the ribbon so that if she tried to get away it gave her a wedgie."
Pretty good engineering, I thought.
Blog Less, Work More
Strike that, reverse it.
If I made resolutions based purely on the start of a new calendrical period, those might be on my list. But I don't, they're not, and good thing too, because I'd be failing miserably.
Tomorrow begins another dread day organizing uniforms (where do all the socks go?), packing lunches, packing separate snacks, and scrounging up something appropriate to wear to an office where even though every day is Casual Friday, sweats and socks, my present attire, might be considered a tad too informal. And smelly.
I don't want my job anymore. Is it getting up every morning knowing I'm wasting my time? Is it just getting up every morning? Is it knowing I'm wasting Sarabelle's time? Is it the time being taken from away from reading or creative pursuits? Is it the exhaustion I feel along with the visible lack of progress? Maybe it's a little of all of those. Plus, working on eight figure deals is interesting, but when you're only making a paltry hourly figure it's discouraging. And the insurance never materialized. But I'm in for the season, I committed myself, I won't leave anybody high and dry. I'll tell you what: Single, working mothers blow me away. How do they do it day in and day out?
As for the blogging, well, I'm working on it...
If I made resolutions based purely on the start of a new calendrical period, those might be on my list. But I don't, they're not, and good thing too, because I'd be failing miserably.
Tomorrow begins another dread day organizing uniforms (where do all the socks go?), packing lunches, packing separate snacks, and scrounging up something appropriate to wear to an office where even though every day is Casual Friday, sweats and socks, my present attire, might be considered a tad too informal. And smelly.
I don't want my job anymore. Is it getting up every morning knowing I'm wasting my time? Is it just getting up every morning? Is it knowing I'm wasting Sarabelle's time? Is it the time being taken from away from reading or creative pursuits? Is it the exhaustion I feel along with the visible lack of progress? Maybe it's a little of all of those. Plus, working on eight figure deals is interesting, but when you're only making a paltry hourly figure it's discouraging. And the insurance never materialized. But I'm in for the season, I committed myself, I won't leave anybody high and dry. I'll tell you what: Single, working mothers blow me away. How do they do it day in and day out?
As for the blogging, well, I'm working on it...
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