Let's get writing!

On this, my 100th post, I call into question my writer-ness.  I have claimed to be a "writer" of sorts, but I have yet to really do anything about it.  I have friends who are actively writing novels, and yet, they do not refer to themselves as "writers."  Stephen King says in his tome On Writing, that to be a writer, one needs to write.  (OK, I'm paraphrasing.  He words the sentiment more cleverly than I.  He is, after all, a professional.)  Writing this blog has brought me back in touch with my writer-self who was buried in an avalanche of corporate negativity and was forced to survive on a diet of grubs and self-actualization.  As they say, it's time to shit or get off the pot.  And shit I shall!

November is National Novel Writing Month, started by a bunch of friends in the Bay Area.  It started as a LAN party of sorts, only instead of playing Half Life, they were feverishly writing narratives.  The rules surrounding NaNoWriMo are quite simple: start November 1st, end November 30, and write 50,000 words.  This is my call to arms (or keyboards, to be precise).  Anyone else want to join me on this nutty crusade?  If you are, click here to read all about it.

(For you fellow English teachers out there, there is a version of this month for K-12 classrooms.  Click here for that info.)

My non-sleeping boys

It's late, and I'm not sleeping.  I'm up late reading (again).  The first essays of the quarter aren't due until next week, so I thought I'd get in something I wasn't forced to assign a grade.  As my eyes register the words on the page (uh, screen...technically), the house is filled with sounds of restlessness, of sighs, of whimpers.  The males of this house are not sleeping well.  Flynn is teething.  I can't tell how many are coming in right now because he won't let me anywhere near is mouth (unless it's to shovel in food).  I believe the number is three.  Tim is going through a very stressful patch at work, coupled with a six-day-long headache.  Drake-- I'm not sure what's eating at Drake.  Since Sunday, he's been openly defiant about anything remotely related to bed time.  Last night as we were doing our bed time ritual, he began taking to me about being lost.  He was on the verge of tears, telling me that he really loved me, but he was sad that he and Flynn were going to be lost because they were boys.  It was tough piecing it all together.  Sunday, I took the boys with me to church for the first time and dropped them off at the child care room.  (Could you imagine my boys sitting through mass? Ha!)  I think, while there, Peter Pan on.  Something about that cartoon scared him.  He was afraid of becoming a "Lost Boy."  Something else must have scared him.  I tried getting information out of him tonight, but to no avail.  Captain Hook?  The crocodile?  Tinkerbell?  I need to figure this out quick so at least one male in this house can rest peacefully.   I guess I should call it a night.  I need to be rested to combat cranky boys in the morning.

The Lost Art of Conversation

Why I can't make mom friends

This gem of a video was circulating on Facebook yesterday.  I watched it and found myself laughing hysterically.  But, at two points, I winced.  It hit a little too close to home.  Two items I will discuss (early movement/cloth diapers*), but not because I'm bragging or because I'm a "mompetitor".  It's because, well, um...and now, we return to the "socially retarded" postulate.

My parents taught me manners (not Emily Post level, but nicer than your average Joe), but didn't really teach me how to converse.  My father is an incredible social butterfly, able to engage in conversation with anyone about anything.  (As a child overhearing one of these conversations, I remember thinking that for a person who never watches football, he was surprisingly knowledgeable.)  My mother is more reserved.  I tend to be more like her.  When I'm comfortable, I'll morph into my father, jabbering about any subject.  When I'm new to a situation, I'm reserved and awkward.  I'm absolutely awful at small talk.

I know school are over-burdened, trying to get students to pass a high-stakes graduation tests, but there are some real world topics I think students would be better off learning.  Speech: to gain confidence in public situations and to practice not saying "um" and "like" every third word.  Budgeting and finance:  hey, it's math.  Manners and conversation: respect and social skills.  At Seton (long ago, far away), we had a week of fun classes between semesters called Mini-Course Week.  During this week, I learned how to make balloon animals (which actually proved to be useful-- who knew?), calligraphy, square-dancing, basic judo, and had some acting sessions.  One of the more popular courses was "You and Your Car" lead by Mr. Ralph.  What if schools around the nation adopted this?  Here's a golden opportunity to teach topics students would like (or really, really should) learn.  What if we produced well-rounded students instead of automatons?


*For the record, researchers in England have determined that it's a wash (no pun intended) between cloth and disposable diapers.  Six of one, half dozen of another.  Right now, I'm being super lazy and using disposables.  Why?  Three and a half years of washing diapers wears a girl out.  That, and I'm still regulating Flynn's Miralax input.  I'll spare you the details, but your imagination is spot on.

*shudder*

I set a spider free today, instead of smashing it into oblivion screaming "Die!".  I did this because the boys were watching.  I fear spiders, even the tiny ones.  Why?  A side-effect of growing up in the Southwest.  Many of those critters are poisonous; if they aren't, they are big, hairy, and really, really ugly.  Buahahahaha.  I trace the fear to an incident in elementary school.  I was swimming in Rebecca Mork's pool (her house was directly behind mine).  A wolf spider was scurrying along the cool decking and her brother hit it with a rock.  For those unfamiliar with the wolf spider, the female carries her young on her back.  When the rock squashed the mommy spider, the babies scattered.  Hundreds of baby spiders.  (OK, maybe not HUNDREDS, but there were lots and lots and lots of the little critters.)  Creeped...me...out.  Feared spiders ever since that day.  Having the boys around has forced me to not flip out whenever I see a spider.  I don't want them to react the way I do.  They should have their own experiences with spiders before fearing them.

Sometimes fears are irrational, and sometimes they stem from an incident, like how most hoarders begin hoarding after some trauma.  My fear of sharks is somewhat irrational.  I blame John Williams and Steven Spielberg.  Jaws scared the bejezzus out of me.  To not see under the water-- no way.  Do you remember Marine Land in L.A.?  It had a tank you could swim in with rays, fish, and sharks (very, very benign sharks, but sharks nonetheless).  I went there on a class field trip and we HAD to swim in that tank.  My swim coach would have been so proud.  I never swam faster in my life, especially when one of those little buggers brushed my leg.  Everyone could hear the muffled scream emanating from my snorkel.

The Modern Scourge of Society

A predator lurks in our midst.  It will carry our society to hell in a hand basket if we stay on our present course.  And what, may you ask, is eroding our society?  Poor education?  Greedy politicians/corporations?  Greenhouse gases?  No.  The biggest issue we must tackle, right here and now, is the Bikini Barista.

(For those of you who live in areas where coffee isn't taken so seriously, the Bikini Barista is a woman working in a tiny drive-thru espresso stand, and she wears a bikini while working.  According to local governments, this is THE most important issue to tackle.  Sumner even passed an ordinance restricting these establishments, and there aren't any in that town yet.  Oh, and the barista is wearing a bikini or lingerie.  She isn't naked; that would be unsanitary.)

Since I find this both ridiculous and I am teaching 102 this quarter (Argument and Persuasion), let's analyze the two core arguments from those against Bikini Baristas.  (And, for the record, I am not fabricating any of this.)

1.  Bikini Barista stands attract a criminal element.  Seriously?  What criminals wake at 6 a.m. (other than white-collar ones)?  I've heard this same argument against strip clubs and porn shops.  If this is the logic, that the presence of scantily-clad women brings criminals into the open, then beaches need to be shut down, too.  And public pools.  And Victoria's Secret.

2.  Won't someone please think of the children?!?  Sheesh.  Whenever I hear this non-argument, I think, "Not enough real evidence against it, huh?"  Let me walk you through it.  The espresso stands are tiny buildings with small-ish windows where the ladies pass coffee drinks to the customer and take the cash.  The women are not working in glass boxes.  You have to get close to see the ladies.  You may catch a glimpse while driving by, but you should really be paying attention to the road since traffic sucks in these parts.  Plus, these stands are conveniently titled "Hot-Chicks-a-Latte" and "Bikini Bottom Bistro" so one would know what is offered with a cup of joe.  So, I have this question for the uptight ladies against bikini baristas.  Why are you taking your impressionable children to this type of espresso stand?  One can't swing a dead cat in this area without hitting an espresso stand, so why don't you drive another 500 feet to give your business to another place?  Plus, aren't you teaching your children irresponsible fiscal behavior by purchasing a $5 latte every morning?

Personally, I have never gone to one of these places, mostly because I don't drink coffee.  But, if I did drink coffee, I still wouldn't go.  Why?  I feel bad enough about my body as it is; I don't need a young buxom thing serving me my addiction.  But, I'm not against the stands.  If a person wants his/her cup of coffee served by a young buxom thing, all the more power to him/her.  If oogling some girl's jiggly parts on the way to work gives him/her a little pick-me-up, who is it really harming?  Businesses need to do something in this economy to differentiate.

Dear Washington Weather:

Please make up your mind.  It's bad enough that you only gave us eight days of summer this year.  Now, your sadistic tendencies are driving me over the edge. Can you at least give us one type for more than ten minutes?   How many seasons can we have in one day?  I shouldn't have to wear wool socks in September.

A perfect record so far

I'm now two for two writing letters of recommendation for former students.  The first yielded a scholarship and the second admission into the Global Honors Program at U-Dub.  I apparently can write a kick-ass LOR.  It's nice to see my talents working towards good rather than evil.  (Evil usually is more fun...and has an open bar.)

Where has the time gone?

I was listening to the radio this morning on my way to buy crack (Starbucks).  The DJ was covering sports.  He mentioned the Mariners have 16 games left and the Seahawks play Denver on Sunday.  When I heard this, I thought, "Really?  Isn't it still pre-season football?  Only 16 games?"  Um...yeah...it's mid-September.  These events are normal for this time of year.  Did someone speed up all of the clocks while I was sleeping?  How have I lost so much time?

Fashionably fashionable

I'm not fashionable, by any stretch of the imagination.  It's not that I don't want to be fashionable.  I would like to look put together and not like a complete slob.  I've been sporting that look for many years, and it's time for a change.  There are two roadblocks on my path to fashion.  1) I'm notoriously cheap.  I would say "frugal," but that puts a positive spin on my condition.  I feel ill if I pay full price for clothing, even if I need it.  Intellectually I am aware that you get what you pay for.  I still have great difficulty paying more than $10 for a T-shirt.  2) Body shape.  I'm not trying to be a size-zero-runway-model.  I'm fine with being a size 10.  My problem is my middle.  This is where all the extra weight congregates and invites extra weight from other people to hang out and play Bunco.  Because of this, I don't feel comfortable wearing close-cut clothing (say that five times fast!).  Then I'm forced to buy baggy clothes, and now we are back to the slob look again.  To be trendy, one has to be on the thin side.  I saw a woman today, rocking the super high wedges with skinny jeans and a plaid fedora.  Her issue: muffin top.  Confidence is part of rocking an outfit.  My muffin-y goodness does not need to be seen by the world, and hence, I have no desire to be trendy.  I do want to be fashionable.  I want timeless pieces that look good on me and just look good.  If I can find some way to reconcile my two issues (comfortable clothes at a reasonable price), I would be a happy, less-slovenly woman.

Reading

I'm not sure if Drake actually read his first word today or if he just recognized the pattern.  "S-T-A-R-B-U-C-K-S.  What's that spell, Mommy?  Starbucks!"  OK, we do go there waaaayyyy too much.  He has been identifying letters and numbers every where we go, so it's only a matter of time.  He's not far off from the age when I first started to read.  I was the ripe old age of three, sitting in the backseat of the Audi.  Mom was driving.  We were waiting at a red light on Price Road to turn left onto the Superstition.  (This was when the Superstition stopped at Price.)  From the backseat, I utter, "Left on yellow on-lee."  My Mom responds, "Only.  Hey!!!"  Yes, I was a smarty-pants from an early age. ;)

Dear Woman* at the Nail Salon

Your request to have the nail tech paint the tips of your nails neon green was completely unrealistic (and absolutely fugly).  Your demands to have another nail tech do the job the first one couldn't/wouldn't do to your satisfaction was out of line.  Even your friends were embarrassed at your asshole-itude.  Leaving without paying anything was downright wrong.  You wasted 30 minutes of time and patience from these fine people.  From what I gather from your apparel (Wilson Seniors '07-'08), you are young and naively think the world is here to kiss your large behind.  Tip: you are not entitled to act like a diva when you earn minimum wage (that is, if you are indeed working for a living, like the rest of us in the salon do).  For the record, the first technician you claimed was incompetent owns the salon.  And, yes, we were all talking about you when you stormed out.  Get over yourself.


*Heinous Bitch

Why I write/blog

Writing in this forum is part narcissism, but mostly it's free therapy.  Writers are notoriously cuckoo-bananas, and I am no exception. I don't think what I'm doing here could be considered "craft" or "art."  It's really a high-tech journal that may or may not be read by someone else.  I find myself amusing and sometimes clever, and, until I get off my duff and get something published by an actual publication house, this will have to do.  At least I know someone is reading it (Tim, you have to; you're my husband).

When I began my teaching career nine years ago, I would become incensed when someone would quip, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach."  Before long, I realized that witticism was sadly true.  The theater teacher couldn't land a job in a working theater if the fate of the world depended on it.  Some of the crones in my department would lose their minds in a corporate setting (where performance matters).  I fall into this category, too.  I've earned a whopping $101 from my writing.  That wouldn't cover my monthly Starbucks tab.

Avoidance

Hello, this is a test of my resolve. At the tone, you will read some drivel that I wrote to avoid doing what I really should be doing.  *beep*  Blanderscythe poppycock finnegan!  *beep*  Had this been an actual writing necessity, the tone you just read would have been followed with something interesting and Pulitzer-worthy.  But, since this is only a test, that's all you get.  Thank you.

Video from Woodland Park Zoo

We went to the Woodland Park Zoo today.  Seattle-ites, if you have a chance, pony up the dough and go feed the giraffes.  Totally worth the price.

While at the zoo, Drake insisted on us letting him use the video camera.  The Flip is really small and easy to use, so, why the hell not.  Now, I understand this video is really long, but it's worth it.  I cried I was laughing so hard the first time I watched it.  Two items of note: in the reflection of the glass, you can see me wrangling Flynn wrangling the wagon; and admire Drake's unusual zooming technique.

If you've ever wondered what it's like to be Drake, here's a little sample.  Warning: if you become motion sick rather easily, please watch on a small screen. 

Dear Oblivious Zoo Attendants

I am thrilled you have selected the zoo as the location of your social event of the season.  However, those of us outside your social circle would like to see the animals.  Please stop blocking all the pathways.  Our wagon is not the off-roading model.

Dear Inconsiderate Pet Owners

The world is not your dog/cat's personal toilet.  It is especially frustrating for the non-pet owners to deal with your animal's fecal matter.  A bear does indeed sh!t in the woods, but that is it's home.  Your animal is domesticated, and, therefore, you must exhibit courteous domesticated-animal-owner behavior.  I'm pretty sure you would be unhappy if I dropped trou and copped a squat in your front yard.

The greatest sound in the world

A quiet house. :D  I can barely contain my joy.  I love my children very much.  But, I am also thoroughly enjoying the fact that they aren't here.  Today is the first day they are both at Miss Tracy's (daycare/preschool).  I haven't received any calls yet about one drawing blood from the other, so I assume all is going well.  In their absence I have managed to do the following today: return an item to the store without having to carry someone out screaming and under my arm; leisurely read the entire newspaper, not just the comics; sort and cull all the toys; vacuum like a madwoman; exercise and shower leisurely (notice a theme yet?); have lunch; go to the mall and make a leisurely decision regarding new footwear; and go to the salon to take care of the hot mess (my eyebrows-- there should be two) and get my hair done.  It's not even 2 o'clock.  After a light snack, I will be working on preparing my course for the upcoming quarter before fetching the boys.  I wasn't this productive before I had children.  I hope my energy level can handle this kind of productivity two days a week.  Now, I won't have any more excuses to avoid my massive to-do list.

Honest advice

Every year, some well-meaning colleague asks for volunteers to give a pep talk at the local high schools about college life, and every year, I refuse to do it.  For once, my actions are not out of laziness or any other excuses I can muster.  The reason I won't participate is because my advice regarding college will be brutally honest, and I'm sure the college would be none to happy to have me voice said advice.  Sure, most of what I say will be negative.  But, I wish someone had mentioned that negative stuff to me at some point.  I may not have listened at the time, but the comments would be out there, buried deep in my brain.

1.  Yes, college provides you with a unique opportunity to learn, grow, experience the new, and meet others outside your social bubble.  But, first and foremost, you are in college to learn.  If you are not willing to do the work, why are you in college?
2. Assignments are not about you: what you want to write about, what you want to do.  Assignments are about proving to your instructor that you have acquired said knowledge/skills he/she is presenting to you.  (And, stop writing in the first person, unless you are writing for a creative writing course.  It's still not about you.)
3.  You will have to take classes in which you have no interest.  This is part and parcel of a BA/AA.  A well-rounded education is part of the degree.  If you just wanted to learn content based on your interests, go and get yourself certified in that area.  Quit whining.
4.  You are an adult.  This isn't high school.  You will need to complete work as expected, be on time, stay for the full time, track your grades (so there are no surprises), and swallow your pride and ask for help.  The last one is very important.  Don't wait until the last minute to get help.  If you are struggling, ask your professor.  Go to the Writing Center/Tutoring Lab.  I am happy to help, but I will not hold your hand.
5.  Professors are human, too.  Yes, we make mistakes.  If we do, it's fine to call us on it.  But, do it privately or offline.  We will be much more appreciative and receptive if you do this in a courteous manner.  Blasting us in a public forum will cause us to be less sympathetic to your request to be absent to take your dog to the vet.
6. Critical feedback regarding assignments is not a personal attack on your character.  (Again, it's not about you.)  Feedback is designed to improve the quality of the work.  I don't hate you; I have issues with the writing submitted.
7.  Speak up!  If you are passive during a class, the class will be boring.  Do the reading ahead of time.  Come prepared with questions and insights.  There shouldn't be any awkward pauses as the professor awaits some kind of response.
8.  Keep your eyes on the prize.  What is the ultimate goal of earning that degree?

Yup, he's mine, too

The boys and I went to Grandma Darlene's today.  She has a giant cabinet full of toys, and the boys go in and help themselves.  Flynn's toy of choice today was an old tennis trophy.  I knew the warped sense of humor was inherited; I didn't know being a trophy whore was.

Yup, he's mine

Yesterday, Drake ran across the backyard, arms a-flailing, shouting, "Run away! Run away!"  Today, he was flying a piece of baby corn around his head saying, "Don't eat me!  Don't eat me!"  He would then say "Chomp!" after taking a bite.  Some days I question if he is mine, but I know, especially after the last two days, he is, without a doubt, mine.

Back on the treadmill

Literally.  I got my sorry ass up this morning and got on the treadmill.  I'm starting slow, but at least I am starting (finally).  I am worried about my knees.  Nine sprains and lots of abuse during the formative years has taken its toll.  I would eventually like to be running again.  Who knows what will happen?  I just know I am tired of being tired.  Wish me luck!

Imposter!

I was casually doing a search on the Internet to see how easy it is for a stalker to find me.  Thankfully, he only knows me by my maiden name, so he would have difficulty finding me in my present location.  During my search, I discovered an imposter.  She bears my name and is publishing her crazy ideas.  Don't be fooled by imitators!  I do not agree at all in the idea of "unschooling," and I don't believe Mexicans are trying to "invade" the U.S.  I have plenty of ideas, crackpot and otherwise, which I will share here.  And, if I am published by a respectable organization, I will bombard you with links, naturally.  Do not be lured by false claims of being me.

Social Graces

I'm so proud of Drake.  The two small dudes and I stopped at McDonald's for an early dinner.  Drake went off to play in the play area while Flynn shoveled in the food.  Another boy was playing.  Drake went up to him and asked, "What's your name?"  The boy replied, "Zachary."  Drake turned toward me and shouted, "Hey, Mommy, my friend has a name!"  About 10 seconds later he told the boy, "My name's Drake.  d-r-A-k-e."  He manages to play with whomever is around, and always tells me about his "friends."  I guess he grew tired of me asking what his friends' names are.

The boys had a great time together.  Zachary told his dad that he and his friend (Drake) were playing way up high.  It's all very encouraging.  Drake's starting to have social graces.  He still does better one-on-one than in large groups.  You hope that your kids don't exhibit the same negative characteristics you have (in this case, reserved in new social situations).  He seemed to be going that same path; hopefully, with some practice, he will be better than we are.

The Great Gaming Guru

I have played the Wii maybe 10 times.  We don't own one, but my parents do.  I haven't been able to play it while visiting because I am usually wrangling some small person.  Now that the small people have slightly more control over themselves and can manage a staircase, I have been able to indulge.  Today was Drake's second time playing.  The score in our final game of bowling was 172-165.  He had me beat the entire game until the final frame.  Thank goodness I threw that spare, or I would have been beaten by a 3-year-old.

At dinner, my father jokingly stated, "You know, other mothers would let their kids win."  Nope.  Not me.  Why?  He usually wins on his own.  He skunked both Tim and I at Candyland the other night.  First the Rainbow Bridge, then the Ice Cream Cone.  With the bowling today, first frame-- spare; second AND third frame-- strike; fourth-- spare.   He has such luck with games.  If he's this lucky with kid games, maybe we should teach him poker next.

Flynn and his bad day

The day did not go well for the wee one.  I had to take him to the lab to have blood drawn.  It's now his turn to begin the allergy gauntlet.  Drake had his first allergy blood draw at this same age (in the same lab).  The technician started in his right arm.  Things were going fine for the first 30 seconds.  Then, the blood wasn't coming.  She moved the needle around and around.  Flynn was crying, poor guy, but not flailing.  Drake was trying to help Flynn stay calm, but it's tough to stay calm under those circumstances.  I would have been crying, too.  She changed to the left arm.  More crying.  Finally, I start to sing the one song that always managed to keep both kids calm: Phoebe's song about farm animals.  For those unfamiliar with this diddy, the lyrics are as follows.  "Oh, the cow in the meadow goes moo./  The cow in the meadow goes moo./ Then the farmer hits him on the head and grinds him up./ And that's how we get hamburger... Now... Chickens!!!"  The technician looked at me and said, "Oh, you're that mom." Not sure if I should be flattered or disturbed about being remembered this way. 

After a three hour nap during excessive hammering and carrying on by the roofers, he was happy.  But, while in the kitchen, he lost his footing and fell.  Face first.  Into the corner of a drawer.  That boy has had more Band-aids on him today than he has during his whole life. 

Chicks dig scars.

I was fully prepared to have lots of snuggle time with him.  He was more interested in sliding behind the couch.  The fastest route to Mary Bridge Children's Hospital is to take 21st Street, in case anyone was curious.

The roof... the roof...

The roof is in a pile in the backyard.

Blech.

I need to go smack this home's previous owner with a large trout.  This is getting ridiculous.  The roofers came this morning to repair half of the roof (the flat torch down part).  I get a call while at Flynn's doctor's appointment, letting me know the status of my "roof."  It was a big ol' sandwich of rottenness up there.  Instead of replacing the rotten wood the last TWO times, he just put more wood on top.  Three layers of rotted wood were protecting my bedroom from the elements.  Criminy sakes alive.  This is bad, so let's just cover it up and not deal with it.  Hooray!

Some scale: the house is approx. one foot off the ground.  When standing outside, the pile is higher than the boy.

If this is the condition of the roof, I am dreading what we'll find when we redo the siding.  Aaaaaahhhh!

P.S.  Flynn is napping through the noise of roof installation.  Amazing!

Netflix just doesn't fill that void

So far, the mostly difficult part of being socially retarded is not having someone with whom to go to the movies.  I miss watching chick flicks in the theatre.  (I don't miss paying $11 for the privilege.)