Sarabelle and I took a quick trip up to Boston to see Tim Minchin earlier this month. If you get the chance to be within range of one of his appearances, GO. Sarabelle, already a fan of his wickedly clever lyrics, spirited piano-playing, and flat-out hilarity, summed it up when she gushed, "I love him more than ever now!"
Last night Elle and I watched The Ledge. I really liked this. It's worth the download. My kids are rather squeamish about sex scenes and Elle found her notebook doodling much more interesting than the two on-screen encounters. It amuses me that some parents are more likely to censor a movie based on sexual content rather than on violence. Make love not war...?
Counting down the days until The Amazing Meeting! I decided this year, instead of reading about how informative it was and how much fun everyone had and wishing I had the chance to go, that I would go.
Showing posts with label Links. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Links. Show all posts
Friday, June 24, 2011
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Schola Classical Academy's Insane Field Trip
Grice and her Young Republican friend, J -- who had overheard our plans on the way home one afternoon and was beyond excited to join us and Keep Fear Alive, and whose parents must be as nuts as I am to actually let him go with a virtual stranger -- were picked up when school got out at 1:45. Good-byes were said, a last minute iPod auxiliary player was located and borrowed, the car fueled, it was 2:30 PM and we (Sarabelle, her roommate A, Elle, and I) were on our way. With only four gas/snack/bathroom stops, we drove straight through the night and were parked in the garage at Ronald Reagan International by 6:30 AM.
After a short delay fighting with a Metro ticket machine, we finally arrived on the Mall about an hour later. We could have set up right in front of the stage, it was still that empty, but spread our blanket out a little ways back, up against a First Aid tent so nobody could crowd us.
Here's the view from our spot:
Then, while I held our ground, the kids, all armed with cell phones, headed out to find me coffee and to do a little sightseeing. And boy, was there a lot to see.
Elle wanted to see the Washington Monument and the Reflecting Pool, and when we got there she wanted to press on and see the Lincoln Memorial. It was getting close to showtime and we had already walked quite a way, but being the awesome homeschooling mom I am, how could I possibly say no? Plus, my iPhone said there was a restroom there.
We hoofed it back down the Mall to our place and that's when the drama began.
We had been fenced out of our primo location. A volunteer offered to go let my kids inside the fence know where we were, because by then, for whatever reason, there was no cell phone service. He came back to tell me there were only two kids there. Which ones? He didn't know. So I'm missing two kids. Great. And they were still not going to let us in. We waited patiently for someone to exit, "one in, one out," but nobody seemed to be leaving. Elle was with me and the others were in pairs, wherever they were, so I was not overly concerned. But I wanted my spot. The spot I had staked out at the crack of dawn. Speaking to the cops was no help. Until, after watching another mother's success, I too played the hysterical mom card. Elle and I got in and found Grice and A at our blanket. Sarabelle came wandering up a few minutes later. Alone. She and J had been waiting at another "one in, one out" gate to get back into our area, but he opted to find another way in while Sarabelle held her spot in line. J is a clever, resourceful, and highly independent kid, wants to be an admiral in the navy one day, so we knew he'd be okay, and might even end up appearing on stage as his mother warned, so I was still not too worried, just hoping his view was at least as good as ours. The opening acts were through, the announcer had begun his intro, "...and now, please welcome your host..." and suddenly J appears at our side. So while the crowd is wildly cheering the entrance of "...Jonnnnnnnn Stewarrrrrt!" we were wildly cheering the return of J.
The show was fun, funny, over the top, and I was ready to hear Jon get serious at the end. "We live now in hard times, not end times..." "If we amplify everything, we hear nothing..." Yes! But I was a bit disappointed that he claimed not to be here to ridicule the Right and people of faith, among others. That's what he does so wonderfully on his show. And since then, watching Keith Olbermann, Bill Maher, and Rachel Maddow discuss the matter of false equivalency, I'd have to agree with them, that while all the media tends to be shrill and sensationalist, one group is particularly egregious and dangerous, and maybe Jon did miss an opportunity. But he's a satirist, not a politician after all, and he does what he does so well.
We made it out back to our car in just over an hour, which was amazing considering the crowd at the Metro, and were back home by 9:30 AM, time enough to go to breakfast, take a nap, finish costumes, and get ready for trick-or-treating.
After a short delay fighting with a Metro ticket machine, we finally arrived on the Mall about an hour later. We could have set up right in front of the stage, it was still that empty, but spread our blanket out a little ways back, up against a First Aid tent so nobody could crowd us.
Here's the view from our spot:
Then, while I held our ground, the kids, all armed with cell phones, headed out to find me coffee and to do a little sightseeing. And boy, was there a lot to see.
Elle wanted to see the Washington Monument and the Reflecting Pool, and when we got there she wanted to press on and see the Lincoln Memorial. It was getting close to showtime and we had already walked quite a way, but being the awesome homeschooling mom I am, how could I possibly say no? Plus, my iPhone said there was a restroom there.
We hoofed it back down the Mall to our place and that's when the drama began.
We had been fenced out of our primo location. A volunteer offered to go let my kids inside the fence know where we were, because by then, for whatever reason, there was no cell phone service. He came back to tell me there were only two kids there. Which ones? He didn't know. So I'm missing two kids. Great. And they were still not going to let us in. We waited patiently for someone to exit, "one in, one out," but nobody seemed to be leaving. Elle was with me and the others were in pairs, wherever they were, so I was not overly concerned. But I wanted my spot. The spot I had staked out at the crack of dawn. Speaking to the cops was no help. Until, after watching another mother's success, I too played the hysterical mom card. Elle and I got in and found Grice and A at our blanket. Sarabelle came wandering up a few minutes later. Alone. She and J had been waiting at another "one in, one out" gate to get back into our area, but he opted to find another way in while Sarabelle held her spot in line. J is a clever, resourceful, and highly independent kid, wants to be an admiral in the navy one day, so we knew he'd be okay, and might even end up appearing on stage as his mother warned, so I was still not too worried, just hoping his view was at least as good as ours. The opening acts were through, the announcer had begun his intro, "...and now, please welcome your host..." and suddenly J appears at our side. So while the crowd is wildly cheering the entrance of "...Jonnnnnnnn Stewarrrrrt!" we were wildly cheering the return of J.
The show was fun, funny, over the top, and I was ready to hear Jon get serious at the end. "We live now in hard times, not end times..." "If we amplify everything, we hear nothing..." Yes! But I was a bit disappointed that he claimed not to be here to ridicule the Right and people of faith, among others. That's what he does so wonderfully on his show. And since then, watching Keith Olbermann, Bill Maher, and Rachel Maddow discuss the matter of false equivalency, I'd have to agree with them, that while all the media tends to be shrill and sensationalist, one group is particularly egregious and dangerous, and maybe Jon did miss an opportunity. But he's a satirist, not a politician after all, and he does what he does so well.
We made it out back to our car in just over an hour, which was amazing considering the crowd at the Metro, and were back home by 9:30 AM, time enough to go to breakfast, take a nap, finish costumes, and get ready for trick-or-treating.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Papa
Everybody deals with death differently. My brothers and I tend to find levity in serious situations and this can be a comfort to us but discomfiting to others. And, of course, my mother tends to be one of those people we are always unintentionally offending.
She did not appreciate our sincere suggestions to dress my dad in one of his favorite Guy Harvey pocket t-shirts, khaki shorts, and boat shoes, the 'uniform' he wore nearly every day since retiring some twenty-odd years ago. The idea to use one of his hideous but treasured Garo Yepremian neck ties, since we had to go formal, was seen as a mockery. She pursed her lips at my brother's suggestion to print on the bottom of the prayer card, "Brought to you by [his company's name]" as an excuse to write it off as a business expense. Heads would have rolled if she had noticed the script printed on the ribbon of the floral spray, "Love the Grandchildrens", purchased from a local ethnic florist. But my dad would have laughed.
When assembling photos for a slide show to play in the funeral parlor lobby, the best photos, and the bulk of the ones I contributed, showed my dad hamming it up with the grandkids. My mother thought many of them disrespectful, but we gently reminded her that we too had lost someone and this is who he was to us.
The night before he died, the priest had been called. After privately taking my dad's last confession, Elle, Grice, and I, being the only ones present besides my parents, were invited in for prayers. Elle flat-out refused, Grice and I bristled but conceded. We rotely spouted the Hail Mary and the Our Father for my dad's sake, all the while I was hearing the prayers in a new way, wondering that I had never doubted the lunacy of them before. We then had to go around the very small circle and tell my dad what we loved about him and what we were grateful for. I thanked him for always sticking up for me, remembering in particular a high school situation when I got into enough trouble to be threatened with expulsion before final exams and he convinced my mom it was only a minor indiscretion, peer pressure, bad judgment, nothing to worry about, and another occasion where on the spur of the moment he jumped in a car to drive cross-country and rescue me from an abusive relationship. I thanked him for my wanderlust and then inwardly smirked that I'd praised at least one deadly sin in the presence of the priest.
The next night my brother was trying to fill the funeral Mass roles designated by Father Everyone-Must-Participate. I was chosen to do the second reading. I knew now, after performing a wedding, that I could do it if I focused intently on the material, ignored the audience, and occasionally inhaled. I could read Psalms, they were literary, poetic, I reasoned. Instead something from John had been selected, and regardless of the choice, it would have to be concluded with the line I worried I might actually choke on, This is the Word of the Lord...
My dad knew about my atheism. He was very angry about it. He publicly criticized and insulted me for it. And I still would have done the reading out of respect for him, though the majority of the people present would know of my apostasy and know I found the whole thing disgusting and some might even think me hypocritical, except that the memory of that episode, dredged up from almost exactly one year before, when he most certainly did not stick up for me, suddenly overwrote all the good memories. I could not do it. I did not want to have that memory of my father at the top of my mind. I called my brother to explain and could hardly speak for the sobbing.
As my dad was taking his last breaths, my niece reached over and put a homemade SpongeBob on his chest. Papa loved to watch SpongeBob with (and without) his granddaughters and the girls had all made him one for his birthday years ago. It sat in a place of honor on his desk. In an effort to make the scene more solemn, my mother reached over and put the crucifix they had received as a wedding gift on his chest as well. From my place at the foot of the bed I commented that it looked a little sacrilegious, SpongeBob and Jesus holding hands... We all cracked up. And that's the memory I prefer to hold on to: the sound of laughter, and the view of SpongeBob and Jesus escorting my dad out.
She did not appreciate our sincere suggestions to dress my dad in one of his favorite Guy Harvey pocket t-shirts, khaki shorts, and boat shoes, the 'uniform' he wore nearly every day since retiring some twenty-odd years ago. The idea to use one of his hideous but treasured Garo Yepremian neck ties, since we had to go formal, was seen as a mockery. She pursed her lips at my brother's suggestion to print on the bottom of the prayer card, "Brought to you by [his company's name]" as an excuse to write it off as a business expense. Heads would have rolled if she had noticed the script printed on the ribbon of the floral spray, "Love the Grandchildrens", purchased from a local ethnic florist. But my dad would have laughed.
When assembling photos for a slide show to play in the funeral parlor lobby, the best photos, and the bulk of the ones I contributed, showed my dad hamming it up with the grandkids. My mother thought many of them disrespectful, but we gently reminded her that we too had lost someone and this is who he was to us.
The night before he died, the priest had been called. After privately taking my dad's last confession, Elle, Grice, and I, being the only ones present besides my parents, were invited in for prayers. Elle flat-out refused, Grice and I bristled but conceded. We rotely spouted the Hail Mary and the Our Father for my dad's sake, all the while I was hearing the prayers in a new way, wondering that I had never doubted the lunacy of them before. We then had to go around the very small circle and tell my dad what we loved about him and what we were grateful for. I thanked him for always sticking up for me, remembering in particular a high school situation when I got into enough trouble to be threatened with expulsion before final exams and he convinced my mom it was only a minor indiscretion, peer pressure, bad judgment, nothing to worry about, and another occasion where on the spur of the moment he jumped in a car to drive cross-country and rescue me from an abusive relationship. I thanked him for my wanderlust and then inwardly smirked that I'd praised at least one deadly sin in the presence of the priest.
The next night my brother was trying to fill the funeral Mass roles designated by Father Everyone-Must-Participate. I was chosen to do the second reading. I knew now, after performing a wedding, that I could do it if I focused intently on the material, ignored the audience, and occasionally inhaled. I could read Psalms, they were literary, poetic, I reasoned. Instead something from John had been selected, and regardless of the choice, it would have to be concluded with the line I worried I might actually choke on, This is the Word of the Lord...
My dad knew about my atheism. He was very angry about it. He publicly criticized and insulted me for it. And I still would have done the reading out of respect for him, though the majority of the people present would know of my apostasy and know I found the whole thing disgusting and some might even think me hypocritical, except that the memory of that episode, dredged up from almost exactly one year before, when he most certainly did not stick up for me, suddenly overwrote all the good memories. I could not do it. I did not want to have that memory of my father at the top of my mind. I called my brother to explain and could hardly speak for the sobbing.
As my dad was taking his last breaths, my niece reached over and put a homemade SpongeBob on his chest. Papa loved to watch SpongeBob with (and without) his granddaughters and the girls had all made him one for his birthday years ago. It sat in a place of honor on his desk. In an effort to make the scene more solemn, my mother reached over and put the crucifix they had received as a wedding gift on his chest as well. From my place at the foot of the bed I commented that it looked a little sacrilegious, SpongeBob and Jesus holding hands... We all cracked up. And that's the memory I prefer to hold on to: the sound of laughter, and the view of SpongeBob and Jesus escorting my dad out.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Road Scholas
Show your children democracy in action, rather than democracy inaction: Take them to a political rally!
Perhaps rather insensibly, but with a great sense of spontaneity and duty, I've organized a road trip up to Washington, D.C. to attend Jon Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity. Sarabelle, Grice, and another friend are all licensed drivers which will make the trip so much easier, and we still have room for one or two more.
This should be great fun. And so educational!
Perhaps rather insensibly, but with a great sense of spontaneity and duty, I've organized a road trip up to Washington, D.C. to attend Jon Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity. Sarabelle, Grice, and another friend are all licensed drivers which will make the trip so much easier, and we still have room for one or two more.
This should be great fun. And so educational!
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c | |||
| Rally to Restore Sanity | ||||
| ||||
| The Colbert Report | Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | |||
| March to Keep Fear Alive | ||||
| ||||
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Work, work, work
How's the renovation going? Four purchases yesterday at Home Depot according to my online and now frightfully low checking account balance. Is God in the details or is it the devil? I'm never quite sure having heard it both ways, but I do know Ben Franklin and Andrew Jackson figure in there quite prominently.
I'll post some more photos soon. The kitchen is almost finished. According to Jorge, there is a new appliance package in our near future. First though, I have the gas guy coming to give us an estimate for converting. I'm no gourmet chef extolling the benefits of precise heat, I just want to be able to boil water the next time a frequent lightning storm or hurricane knocks out power. I was hoping we'd get our friend to custom fabricate stainless steel brackets for the open shelving, but at this late date these IKEA brackets and shelves are looking pretty good. I will need three. Say goodbye to another Franklin.
The back room, which will be my bedroom one day, had the ceiling and old insulation ripped out on a whim right before Jorge left for Nashville, and is now sealed off, unusable with its furnace-like temperatures. It will be slightly less sweltering when I can open all the windows after picking up the new screens. Ben Franklin, Ben Franklin, Ben Franklin. In the meantime I will be taking up air-conditioned residency in what is to eventually be Grice's room. I am also earning her animosity. For 15 years she has been waiting for her own room. Can you feel the angst? Good thing she's going away for a week.
The living room just needs artwork and I haven't quite decided what is going where. Generally I'm competent at hanging pictures on walls. I bang 'em up after eyeballing the space where Jorge requires building permits, tape measures, and levels, but I admit I will need help hanging some of our 36 x 48" monstrosities. My cousin is coming for a visit soon. Her husband is handy.
And what are these "curtains" people speak of? In all our 20+ years of habitation I have never familiarized myself with these items. Venetian blinds on a window or two once, maybe. Am I worried about people peeking in my windows? This is apparently a huge concern to many people as the subject comes up at least once a day. I figure if someone's made the effort to scale the walls and brave my ferocious hounds they've earned it. Even when we lived in town, right on the ground, our next door neighbors were breast-enhanced, liposucked, nipped and tucked nudists. Looking in our bedroom windows would have been a disappointment. Oh, wait, maybe these people have already seen in my windows and are suggesting curtains for their own sake. Huh.
All renovations have unforeseen situations and unexpected costs. We had a bee infestation.
See the man in the white suit? The man is removing a "medium to large" hive from a hole cut into the wall outside my soon-to-be laundry room.
I'll post some more photos soon. The kitchen is almost finished. According to Jorge, there is a new appliance package in our near future. First though, I have the gas guy coming to give us an estimate for converting. I'm no gourmet chef extolling the benefits of precise heat, I just want to be able to boil water the next time a frequent lightning storm or hurricane knocks out power. I was hoping we'd get our friend to custom fabricate stainless steel brackets for the open shelving, but at this late date these IKEA brackets and shelves are looking pretty good. I will need three. Say goodbye to another Franklin.
The back room, which will be my bedroom one day, had the ceiling and old insulation ripped out on a whim right before Jorge left for Nashville, and is now sealed off, unusable with its furnace-like temperatures. It will be slightly less sweltering when I can open all the windows after picking up the new screens. Ben Franklin, Ben Franklin, Ben Franklin. In the meantime I will be taking up air-conditioned residency in what is to eventually be Grice's room. I am also earning her animosity. For 15 years she has been waiting for her own room. Can you feel the angst? Good thing she's going away for a week.
The living room just needs artwork and I haven't quite decided what is going where. Generally I'm competent at hanging pictures on walls. I bang 'em up after eyeballing the space where Jorge requires building permits, tape measures, and levels, but I admit I will need help hanging some of our 36 x 48" monstrosities. My cousin is coming for a visit soon. Her husband is handy.
And what are these "curtains" people speak of? In all our 20+ years of habitation I have never familiarized myself with these items. Venetian blinds on a window or two once, maybe. Am I worried about people peeking in my windows? This is apparently a huge concern to many people as the subject comes up at least once a day. I figure if someone's made the effort to scale the walls and brave my ferocious hounds they've earned it. Even when we lived in town, right on the ground, our next door neighbors were breast-enhanced, liposucked, nipped and tucked nudists. Looking in our bedroom windows would have been a disappointment. Oh, wait, maybe these people have already seen in my windows and are suggesting curtains for their own sake. Huh.
All renovations have unforeseen situations and unexpected costs. We had a bee infestation.
See the man in the white suit? The man is removing a "medium to large" hive from a hole cut into the wall outside my soon-to-be laundry room.
Friday, June 04, 2010
DO NOT CALL
Nothing very notable has been happening around here, oh, except for the pending environmental destruction of epic proportions.
When the two Jehovah's Witnesses showed up at my door the other day, blissfully oblivious of my rage and depression over the whole BP mess, and started spinning their happy end of the world scenario: Worried about where this world is headed? War! Oil spills! Isn't it wonderful? Jehovah is near!, it was a good thing I was coughing so hard I couldn't speak. I am officially going on the "Do Not Call" list.
Their idea of complacency made my blood boil. Anyone who looks forward to violent confrontation between nations or the ruination of the planet as the opening chapter of their salvation should do us all a favor and just step off the planet now. Get a headstart on their afterlife.
We've let corporations get away with murder. And the Supreme Court has gone and lifted limits on campaign contributions which just makes it worse. We know both parties are beholden to corporate graft (though one side's benefits are completely lopsided*) so quit trying to blame the current administration for what it has or has not done in response to the Deepwater disaster, place the blame with those who have allowed these greedy money machines to rule our world, and figure out how to rectify the situation.
I have been coughing for two days shy of two weeks. The wedding went well, prior to the nuptials I was in total denial about standing in front of a crowd and did not feel the least bit nervous until I was well into the second page of the ceremony when I suddenly became conscious at that point that, Hey!...I'm doing this!...I'm reading this!...I'm actually in front of a lot of people... It was at that point my left leg began to shake. But I willed it to stop and I made myself take a big breath (in case I hadn't had any lately), and didn't pass out and knock the bride into the alligator-infested river. Then the day after the wedding, without any warning, I woke up with a terrible sore throat and without a voice. Not even a croak. The timing was perfect, one day earlier and it would've been a catastrophe.
Formal studies have ground to a halt. Yes, we theoretically go year-round, but when the neighborhood kids are knocking at your door and your best friend wants you to sleep over for days at a time, calculating perimeters and area becomes less of a priority -- unless you're building a prison cell for your captives (Geneva conventions and all.) And just when I think I'm dropping the ball again, self-led learning kicks in. Elle, my reluctant reader, has surprised the heck out of me and chosen The Yearling
, a hefty book I've attempted more than once due to the frustration of reading dialogue in a redneck drawl, as our next read-aloud. What really stunned me, besides that fact that she actually likes speaking in character puzzling out what the backwoods Baxters are saying, is that she has decided to read it to me, as my bedtime story. If she never finishes it I will still consider it a triumph that she even gave it a go. Last night, to hear it aloud, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings description of Florida flora and fauna brought a little tear to my eye, not just for it's spot-on accuracy and beauty, but for what we are about to lose.
* From OpenSecrets.org:
Oil & gas industry political contributions:
2010 (to date): $11,572,527 70% Republicans, 30% Democrats
2008: $35,595,537 77% Republicans, 23% Democrats
2006: $20,364,856 82% Republicans, 18% Democrats
2004: $26,077.264 80% Republicans, 19% Democrats
2002: $25,037,766 80% Republicans, 20% Democrats
2000: $34,323,192 78% Republicans, 21% Democrats
When the two Jehovah's Witnesses showed up at my door the other day, blissfully oblivious of my rage and depression over the whole BP mess, and started spinning their happy end of the world scenario: Worried about where this world is headed? War! Oil spills! Isn't it wonderful? Jehovah is near!, it was a good thing I was coughing so hard I couldn't speak. I am officially going on the "Do Not Call" list.
Their idea of complacency made my blood boil. Anyone who looks forward to violent confrontation between nations or the ruination of the planet as the opening chapter of their salvation should do us all a favor and just step off the planet now. Get a headstart on their afterlife.
We've let corporations get away with murder. And the Supreme Court has gone and lifted limits on campaign contributions which just makes it worse. We know both parties are beholden to corporate graft (though one side's benefits are completely lopsided*) so quit trying to blame the current administration for what it has or has not done in response to the Deepwater disaster, place the blame with those who have allowed these greedy money machines to rule our world, and figure out how to rectify the situation.
I have been coughing for two days shy of two weeks. The wedding went well, prior to the nuptials I was in total denial about standing in front of a crowd and did not feel the least bit nervous until I was well into the second page of the ceremony when I suddenly became conscious at that point that, Hey!...I'm doing this!...I'm reading this!...I'm actually in front of a lot of people... It was at that point my left leg began to shake. But I willed it to stop and I made myself take a big breath (in case I hadn't had any lately), and didn't pass out and knock the bride into the alligator-infested river. Then the day after the wedding, without any warning, I woke up with a terrible sore throat and without a voice. Not even a croak. The timing was perfect, one day earlier and it would've been a catastrophe.
Formal studies have ground to a halt. Yes, we theoretically go year-round, but when the neighborhood kids are knocking at your door and your best friend wants you to sleep over for days at a time, calculating perimeters and area becomes less of a priority -- unless you're building a prison cell for your captives (Geneva conventions and all.) And just when I think I'm dropping the ball again, self-led learning kicks in. Elle, my reluctant reader, has surprised the heck out of me and chosen The Yearling
, a hefty book I've attempted more than once due to the frustration of reading dialogue in a redneck drawl, as our next read-aloud. What really stunned me, besides that fact that she actually likes speaking in character puzzling out what the backwoods Baxters are saying, is that she has decided to read it to me, as my bedtime story. If she never finishes it I will still consider it a triumph that she even gave it a go. Last night, to hear it aloud, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings description of Florida flora and fauna brought a little tear to my eye, not just for it's spot-on accuracy and beauty, but for what we are about to lose.* From OpenSecrets.org:
Oil & gas industry political contributions:
2010 (to date): $11,572,527 70% Republicans, 30% Democrats
2008: $35,595,537 77% Republicans, 23% Democrats
2006: $20,364,856 82% Republicans, 18% Democrats
2004: $26,077.264 80% Republicans, 19% Democrats
2002: $25,037,766 80% Republicans, 20% Democrats
2000: $34,323,192 78% Republicans, 21% Democrats
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Floating along
Not completely slacking, contrary to the prior post, as a little time travel through my calendar and email accounts shows that we actually have had a few quality lessons lately...
Grice had to attend and critique a live concert performance for her dual enrollment music appreciation course. Fortunately for us, our local symphony had one last show, "Classical Spice," before the end of the season, featuring Bizet's "Carmen," Ravel's "Bolero," Rodrigo's "Concierto de Aranjuez," and, what turned out to be our favorite, Gershwin's "Cuban Overture." We arrived an hour early for the pre-show lecture where we were introduced to several of the unusual horns used in "Bolero" and the 19-year old special guest harpist, Greta Ásgeirsson, whose instrument was once owned by Harpo Marx and used in the movie A Night at the Opera (Becky, I thought of you!) The best part was that our little local symphony has free admission for children with a paid adult, not one child per adult either. I took my three girls and the older two's best buddies for the price of my ticket alone, a very reasonable $30.00. I will definitely be supporting this cultural gem next season.
Another great night, and school-based event, was a picnic under the stars. The Parent Teacher Organization invited the collegiate high school students and their families to enjoy some food and games and then a telescope viewing and highly entertaining lecture from the astronomy professor at the college's observatory.
The next bit of 'accidental' learning came by way of this terrific resource, BANG! The Universe Verse Book 1. Author Jamie Dunbar explains the origins of our universe with comic book-like illustrations and Seuss-like verse and has graciously made it available for free. Anything that makes science so accessible and fun for the kids while helping science-challenged me get it as well gets two big thumbs up. I'm looking forward to enjoying Jamie's other titles.
Jorge traveled down to Haiti. I'd like to say it was for purely humanitarian reasons, but that's only if you count trying to keep our own head above water altruistic and charitable. He headed down looking for work and to try and help, stimulating the economy as he went. We've always been interested in Haitian art and he just could not refuse this strange post-earthquake canvas from the poor artist who chased him down the street. It was only later Jorge's traveling companion looked at the painting more closely and noticed the bodies. Like a tragic Highlights hidden picture, we've found three so far.
Plans were to return soon with Elle -- we both think a dose of third world reality will make her less susceptible to any princess tendencies; unlike her sisters she was too young to remember Belize -- after determining the risks involved (it is both very safe and terribly unsafe at the same time.) Instead Jorge is being redirected to Nashville where one of his brother's real estate investments is currently under the Cumberland River.
And I overcame my hesitation about gun-toting crazies and stopped in at our town's Tax Day Tea Party for a little education of my own. Because, really, who could resist rubbing elbows with the likes of these people?
The fun began with an introduction disavowing the evil left's charges of racism, an introduction met with hearty cheers and lots of flag waving (including one from the oh, so obviously not local, Culpeper militia), but as the first guest began to speak, a heavily accented Cuban immigrant campaigning for a spot on a future ticket testifying to his firsthand account of the horrors of socialism and communism, members of the group next to me murmured, "Is he even a 'Merican citizen?!" and when the second campaigner got up there, a black man from Miami, they stomped off in disgust.
Grice had to attend and critique a live concert performance for her dual enrollment music appreciation course. Fortunately for us, our local symphony had one last show, "Classical Spice," before the end of the season, featuring Bizet's "Carmen," Ravel's "Bolero," Rodrigo's "Concierto de Aranjuez," and, what turned out to be our favorite, Gershwin's "Cuban Overture." We arrived an hour early for the pre-show lecture where we were introduced to several of the unusual horns used in "Bolero" and the 19-year old special guest harpist, Greta Ásgeirsson, whose instrument was once owned by Harpo Marx and used in the movie A Night at the Opera (Becky, I thought of you!) The best part was that our little local symphony has free admission for children with a paid adult, not one child per adult either. I took my three girls and the older two's best buddies for the price of my ticket alone, a very reasonable $30.00. I will definitely be supporting this cultural gem next season.
Another great night, and school-based event, was a picnic under the stars. The Parent Teacher Organization invited the collegiate high school students and their families to enjoy some food and games and then a telescope viewing and highly entertaining lecture from the astronomy professor at the college's observatory.
The next bit of 'accidental' learning came by way of this terrific resource, BANG! The Universe Verse Book 1. Author Jamie Dunbar explains the origins of our universe with comic book-like illustrations and Seuss-like verse and has graciously made it available for free. Anything that makes science so accessible and fun for the kids while helping science-challenged me get it as well gets two big thumbs up. I'm looking forward to enjoying Jamie's other titles.
Jorge traveled down to Haiti. I'd like to say it was for purely humanitarian reasons, but that's only if you count trying to keep our own head above water altruistic and charitable. He headed down looking for work and to try and help, stimulating the economy as he went. We've always been interested in Haitian art and he just could not refuse this strange post-earthquake canvas from the poor artist who chased him down the street. It was only later Jorge's traveling companion looked at the painting more closely and noticed the bodies. Like a tragic Highlights hidden picture, we've found three so far.
Plans were to return soon with Elle -- we both think a dose of third world reality will make her less susceptible to any princess tendencies; unlike her sisters she was too young to remember Belize -- after determining the risks involved (it is both very safe and terribly unsafe at the same time.) Instead Jorge is being redirected to Nashville where one of his brother's real estate investments is currently under the Cumberland River.
And I overcame my hesitation about gun-toting crazies and stopped in at our town's Tax Day Tea Party for a little education of my own. Because, really, who could resist rubbing elbows with the likes of these people?
The fun began with an introduction disavowing the evil left's charges of racism, an introduction met with hearty cheers and lots of flag waving (including one from the oh, so obviously not local, Culpeper militia), but as the first guest began to speak, a heavily accented Cuban immigrant campaigning for a spot on a future ticket testifying to his firsthand account of the horrors of socialism and communism, members of the group next to me murmured, "Is he even a 'Merican citizen?!" and when the second campaigner got up there, a black man from Miami, they stomped off in disgust.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Update
Time for a post methinks. I surprised myself by remembering the email address and password for this account after apparently cleaning out my cookies. On the first try too! So here I am, ready or not...
School for Elle (and here, finally, I'll plug my little online umbrella school, Schola Classical Academy*) has been extraordinarily lax. Yes, even more than my usual disorganized blasé approach. (How's that for an endorsement? Come to our lazy-ass school!) In fact for the past three days she's been on the east coast doing what I like to refer to as an 'apprenticeship' with her father: Processing permits, managing a crew, playing with Post-It Notes. Tomorrow we have a big day of learning planned: Swimming at a friend's. And then dance class. I have been seriously thinking that with her high social requirements she might be better off in school, but this business with my brother beckons and being flexible enough to travel wins. For now.
Sarabelle is still up in the air about college. Currently she is considering a degree in audio engineering and putting her fine arts as a secondary pursuit to her music. She is shopping around for an upright double bass and aims to play with the local symphony. If she is still undecided about her major come July, she will be enrolled at the local state college to work on her Associates. We've got another campus tour coming up on a Sunday in May -- the day after a big wedding that I am performing.
I've never used my notary stamp once in the 10 years or so that I've had it, ever since Jorge's aunt signed me up in order to legalize her papers and then promptly changed her mind, so at an Easter picnic, when the hostess, a dear friend, asked if anyone knew a notary, I admitted I was one thinking she needed a document processed. She then announced to the crowd that she had found her officiant; I would be marrying her nephew and his fiance. I, who when forced to do a Bible reading at my grandmother's funeral, took one big breath and never stopped reading until I nearly keeled over from asphixia, I will be the one standing up in front of a whole crowd of strangers on this momentous occasion performing the ceremony. On a pier. Under a burning hot sun. You might see me on YouTube.
Grice continues to breeze through her honors classes and is nearly finished with her freshman year of high school. Wow. That was fast. I have been drafted as secretary for next year's PTO (Reason #42,620 why you should homeschool.)
Still waiting for the finishing touches on the renovation. It looks like we might be in sometime before Christmas...
* Disclaimer: The entire premise is pompous and conceited and probably offensive to anyone with a hint of religion, but it's for those of us, the loosely-structured, classical, secular homeschool devotees, who want a serious-looking, non-parochial name on a transcript without authoritarian interference. The end.
School for Elle (and here, finally, I'll plug my little online umbrella school, Schola Classical Academy*) has been extraordinarily lax. Yes, even more than my usual disorganized blasé approach. (How's that for an endorsement? Come to our lazy-ass school!) In fact for the past three days she's been on the east coast doing what I like to refer to as an 'apprenticeship' with her father: Processing permits, managing a crew, playing with Post-It Notes. Tomorrow we have a big day of learning planned: Swimming at a friend's. And then dance class. I have been seriously thinking that with her high social requirements she might be better off in school, but this business with my brother beckons and being flexible enough to travel wins. For now.
Sarabelle is still up in the air about college. Currently she is considering a degree in audio engineering and putting her fine arts as a secondary pursuit to her music. She is shopping around for an upright double bass and aims to play with the local symphony. If she is still undecided about her major come July, she will be enrolled at the local state college to work on her Associates. We've got another campus tour coming up on a Sunday in May -- the day after a big wedding that I am performing.
I've never used my notary stamp once in the 10 years or so that I've had it, ever since Jorge's aunt signed me up in order to legalize her papers and then promptly changed her mind, so at an Easter picnic, when the hostess, a dear friend, asked if anyone knew a notary, I admitted I was one thinking she needed a document processed. She then announced to the crowd that she had found her officiant; I would be marrying her nephew and his fiance. I, who when forced to do a Bible reading at my grandmother's funeral, took one big breath and never stopped reading until I nearly keeled over from asphixia, I will be the one standing up in front of a whole crowd of strangers on this momentous occasion performing the ceremony. On a pier. Under a burning hot sun. You might see me on YouTube.
Grice continues to breeze through her honors classes and is nearly finished with her freshman year of high school. Wow. That was fast. I have been drafted as secretary for next year's PTO (Reason #42,620 why you should homeschool.)
Still waiting for the finishing touches on the renovation. It looks like we might be in sometime before Christmas...
* Disclaimer: The entire premise is pompous and conceited and probably offensive to anyone with a hint of religion, but it's for those of us, the loosely-structured, classical, secular homeschool devotees, who want a serious-looking, non-parochial name on a transcript without authoritarian interference. The end.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I Still Don't Know What I Want to Be When I Grow Up
Sarabelle takes her second round of SATs Saturday. It's not to improve her admission applications, it's to try and boost her 75% Florida Bright Futures Scholarship to the full 100%.
Ready for a big confession? We've been downsizing further education plans. We've gone from the nearby private "Yale of Art Schools," to the not too far away State University With a Good Arts Program, to the neighborhood state college. We're thinking of a two-year Associates and a transfer to whatever art program she favors later on.
And the guilt! Oh, the guilt.
Jiminy Cricket is sitting on my shoulder chirping, "Cheapskate!" in my ear, but it's not about the money. Not entirely, anyway. It is going to be a bit of a stretch as Jorge's work is now beginning to slow down and he has clients who can't afford to pay him for work he's completed and we have real estate investments meant for such expenses that are unfortunately currently unmarketable, but we do have relatives willing to underwrite the venture and I have a fund to tap (only as a last ditch effort unless I want to go straight toHell the head of the Black Sheep line. Again.) Part of it is my belief that a college education is hardly worth more than the parchment proof it's printed on. Is there even a parchment commodities exchange these days? I don't know. It's expensive, but is it valuable? I'm hearing stories from people, like the girl I used to babysit, who at 35 has nearly finished up her Masters to teach art history in connection with a museum. The debt? Is it worth it the financial and psychological stress? And the cost in terms of years lost? Let me reiterate: She's 35 and just now looking to get on with her life after graduation, finally in a position to be competitive in her job market. Life's too short, I think. I might have recommended volunteering as a docent after learning a lucrative trade. Had she asked.
Mostly, Sarabelle just isn't sure. About what she wants to do, about where she wants to go, about what she wants to study... And Jorge and I wrestle with the fact that we felt very undecided in the same situation and had no one offering us any real guidance. Do we push? Do we stand back and let her twist in the wind?
Then there are the ghosts of our ancestors, my Yale Gramper and Sarah Lawrence Grammy, and Jorge's Columbia professor Grandmother and University of Miami Law School Judge Pop, haunting me along with a whole slew of living, breathing attorney and teacher relatives and their Ivy league and almost-Ivy League prodigies, persuading me that this is the only ticket to a successful life. And let's not forget the husband who agrees with them.
Did I mention guilt?
I know everyone has their own place. I'd rather have the girls follow their passions. I'd prefer not wasting money. But there's that whole second-guessing thing going on. Am I a realist? Am I a slacker? And the clock, with its incessant infernal ticking, I hear it.
In the meantime, I'm calling her graduated after the SATs -- I might even hum a little "Pomp and Circumstance" to make it official -- and for her graduation present she is flying to New York to see the Tim Burton exhibit at the MoMA before it closes, have a quick visit with her cousins, and hang with Cool NYC Animator Uncle at his place of business.
For all you torturing yourself with similar decisions, check out the posts over at Mental Multivitamin: About College; Paying for College: A Rant of Modest Proportions; Paying for College, Revisited; and Community College.
And good luck.
Ready for a big confession? We've been downsizing further education plans. We've gone from the nearby private "Yale of Art Schools," to the not too far away State University With a Good Arts Program, to the neighborhood state college. We're thinking of a two-year Associates and a transfer to whatever art program she favors later on.
And the guilt! Oh, the guilt.
Jiminy Cricket is sitting on my shoulder chirping, "Cheapskate!" in my ear, but it's not about the money. Not entirely, anyway. It is going to be a bit of a stretch as Jorge's work is now beginning to slow down and he has clients who can't afford to pay him for work he's completed and we have real estate investments meant for such expenses that are unfortunately currently unmarketable, but we do have relatives willing to underwrite the venture and I have a fund to tap (only as a last ditch effort unless I want to go straight to
Mostly, Sarabelle just isn't sure. About what she wants to do, about where she wants to go, about what she wants to study... And Jorge and I wrestle with the fact that we felt very undecided in the same situation and had no one offering us any real guidance. Do we push? Do we stand back and let her twist in the wind?
Then there are the ghosts of our ancestors, my Yale Gramper and Sarah Lawrence Grammy, and Jorge's Columbia professor Grandmother and University of Miami Law School Judge Pop, haunting me along with a whole slew of living, breathing attorney and teacher relatives and their Ivy league and almost-Ivy League prodigies, persuading me that this is the only ticket to a successful life. And let's not forget the husband who agrees with them.
Did I mention guilt?
I know everyone has their own place. I'd rather have the girls follow their passions. I'd prefer not wasting money. But there's that whole second-guessing thing going on. Am I a realist? Am I a slacker? And the clock, with its incessant infernal ticking, I hear it.
In the meantime, I'm calling her graduated after the SATs -- I might even hum a little "Pomp and Circumstance" to make it official -- and for her graduation present she is flying to New York to see the Tim Burton exhibit at the MoMA before it closes, have a quick visit with her cousins, and hang with Cool NYC Animator Uncle at his place of business.
For all you torturing yourself with similar decisions, check out the posts over at Mental Multivitamin: About College; Paying for College: A Rant of Modest Proportions; Paying for College, Revisited; and Community College.
And good luck.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
US vs. Them
Is it just me, or is anyone else more than a little concerned about the evidently increasing polarization of Americans, with one side willing to negotiate, progress, insure one nation with liberty and justice for all, and the other side, sure this is all a conspiracy, running apoplectic for their guns and bibles to shove their freedom down our throats and send us back to the dark ages? One side rational and the other bloody insane? Or have I just been reading too many articles like these?
Oath Keepers and the Age of Treason
Rehearsals for a Civil War
Darwin Foes Add Warming to Targets
Divide and conquer? We're making it way too easy for our enemies.
United we stand, people.
Oath Keepers and the Age of Treason
Rehearsals for a Civil War
Darwin Foes Add Warming to Targets
Divide and conquer? We're making it way too easy for our enemies.
United we stand, people.
Friday, February 12, 2010
You know what I want to read?
I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by the commitment I made to Infinite Jest
. The writing and detail of Wallace's story are extraordinary, so much so that my brain hurts and I can only take it in small doses. And right now what I want is a book, a little dystopic apocalyptic non-fiction, that I can tear through without much thought. Something that will simultaneously creep me out and amuse me. Stephen King's latest, Under the Dome
, maybe? Nah. I will get to that eventually, even though a friend, a King fan with similar book tastes, panned it. Margaret Atwood's The Year of the Flood
? Defintely, just not yet. I may want to read Oryx and Crake
again first.
I'm thinking Tim La Haye's Left Behind: A Novel of the Earth's Last Days
.
My library will definitely have multiple copies.
. The writing and detail of Wallace's story are extraordinary, so much so that my brain hurts and I can only take it in small doses. And right now what I want is a book, a little dystopic apocalyptic non-fiction, that I can tear through without much thought. Something that will simultaneously creep me out and amuse me. Stephen King's latest, Under the Dome, maybe? Nah. I will get to that eventually, even though a friend, a King fan with similar book tastes, panned it. Margaret Atwood's The Year of the Flood? Defintely, just not yet. I may want to read Oryx and Crake again first.I'm thinking Tim La Haye's Left Behind: A Novel of the Earth's Last Days
.My library will definitely have multiple copies.
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