I usually don't watch award shows, but I watched the Oscars last night. Some of it, at least. I have only one comment - a fashionista I am not. I looked at all the fancy gowns and thought how glamorous everyone looks! I remember a few years back when people were showing up in the weirdest, featheriest costumes. But last night, everyone I saw looked fabulous.
One person, I think it was Beyonce, looked so beautiful in her pale green gown. Last night and today on many, many media channels (internet, tv, radio) people were trashing her outfit. 'Hoochie mama' was a description that stands out in my mind. I thought she looked elegant and beautiful!
Apparently, I know zilch when it comes to fashion. I would think I would have enough sense not to come dressed in saran wrap or band aids or asthma hound chihuahuas, but that is probably why I'm destined to be the person with the black rectangle over their eyes in the 'don't' fashion column.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Strange Days Part 1
Around 10 years ago or so, I had the opportunity to visit Japan with my mother and two of her sisters. We spent a week with a tour group and then broke off from them and spent a week traveling and visiting with some distant cousins of my mom and her sisters.
I did not know how to use chopsticks before this vacation. Hunger will teach your fingers compliance really damn fast. Except in my case. Hunger laughed at me and bought a ticket to Maui. It took over a week for me to figure it out. It probably has something to do with the freaky way I hold a pencil. What? You never noticed? Hand me some paper and a pen and I'll show you sometime.
It was beautiful there - especially when you lifted your eyes and tried to see the mountains above the gazillion people crowded into such a tiny living space. When we were in Tokyo with our tour group I mentioned to our guide that I was a vegetarian. In retrospect, perhaps not the wisest of ideas. After much consultation with the chef, the hostess, another tour guide, and several dictionaries they came to the conclusion that surely I must eat chicken and fish. No, nothing that had a face. There was a lot of bowing and some clucking (verification?) and shortly thereafter the chef himself appeared and presented me with a plate of tempura fried vegetables that literally could have fed a family of eight. I thanked him and bowed and soon realized that he wasn't going anywhere. The tour guide whispered to me that it would be a great insult to the chef if I didn't eat every single vegetable because of the great effort he had gone through. I cannot begin to tell you how ill I felt after eating that much fried food in one sitting. And I did eat it all. The chef nodded and went back to his kitchen, probably laughing his ass off that I actually did it. I learned my lesson. After that I just ate my rice and discretely passed the fish to my relatives.
I did not know how to use chopsticks before this vacation. Hunger will teach your fingers compliance really damn fast. Except in my case. Hunger laughed at me and bought a ticket to Maui. It took over a week for me to figure it out. It probably has something to do with the freaky way I hold a pencil. What? You never noticed? Hand me some paper and a pen and I'll show you sometime.
It was beautiful there - especially when you lifted your eyes and tried to see the mountains above the gazillion people crowded into such a tiny living space. When we were in Tokyo with our tour group I mentioned to our guide that I was a vegetarian. In retrospect, perhaps not the wisest of ideas. After much consultation with the chef, the hostess, another tour guide, and several dictionaries they came to the conclusion that surely I must eat chicken and fish. No, nothing that had a face. There was a lot of bowing and some clucking (verification?) and shortly thereafter the chef himself appeared and presented me with a plate of tempura fried vegetables that literally could have fed a family of eight. I thanked him and bowed and soon realized that he wasn't going anywhere. The tour guide whispered to me that it would be a great insult to the chef if I didn't eat every single vegetable because of the great effort he had gone through. I cannot begin to tell you how ill I felt after eating that much fried food in one sitting. And I did eat it all. The chef nodded and went back to his kitchen, probably laughing his ass off that I actually did it. I learned my lesson. After that I just ate my rice and discretely passed the fish to my relatives.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Beware the Vampire
I have a soft spot in my heart for the legend of the vampire. I don't remember when I first heard tales of them, but I do know that for several years as a child I would sleep with my covers up over my neck so I wouldn't get bitten. In Florida. In August. With no air conditioning. I was so sweaty that any vampire that happened upon me would probably have given up from the ick factor.
I guess my first exposure was probably through our local campy Creature Feature television show with Dr. Paul Bearer. At parades he would throw beads with tombstones or something on them. I think I had a few at one time. They played all the old horror flicks. Nothing really gory - at least, in black and white it never seems gory. The vampires always seemed so graceful to me. (I have a tendency to walk into walls, it doesn't take much to impress me on the grace factor.)
And then there was Lost Boys. I loved that movie. I took the movie poster to college with me. *coughgeekcough* Floating vamps, tapping on your window. Amazing soundtrack. Red sunglasses. (back when it was really, really hard to obtain them - and yes, I did)
Of course, it's practically obligatory to read Anne Rice. Give me a good weekend and I can totally plow through one of her books. I loved them all. Then again, I am a fan of B grade sci-fi movies. You have to be to get through all her books. I mean, how many times can one use the word preternatural in one book? How many times can one *read* the word preternatural and still continue to turn the pages? Oooh, Lestat has preternatural strength. Good, no wimpy vamps in this book. Oh, okay - preternatural vision too. Well sure, the better to see you with my dear. Mmmm hmmm. His preternatural hearing allows him to hear heartbeats. Sure. I get it. Too bad he didn't use it to realize those boys Claudia drugged were already dead. Yeah... dead blood does a body bad. Now he needs to take a preternatural dump, probably. And speaking of preternatural dumps (I've used the term seven times so far - amateur) could they have miscast the movie Interview with a Vampire any worse? Tom Cruise? As Lestat? It pains me to even think about it.
A really good vampire novel is 'A Delicate Dependency' by Michael Talbot. Go read it now. I won't use my clumsy words to try and describe it. It's your first reading assignment. Get to it, people.
I guess my first exposure was probably through our local campy Creature Feature television show with Dr. Paul Bearer. At parades he would throw beads with tombstones or something on them. I think I had a few at one time. They played all the old horror flicks. Nothing really gory - at least, in black and white it never seems gory. The vampires always seemed so graceful to me. (I have a tendency to walk into walls, it doesn't take much to impress me on the grace factor.)
And then there was Lost Boys. I loved that movie. I took the movie poster to college with me. *coughgeekcough* Floating vamps, tapping on your window. Amazing soundtrack. Red sunglasses. (back when it was really, really hard to obtain them - and yes, I did)
Of course, it's practically obligatory to read Anne Rice. Give me a good weekend and I can totally plow through one of her books. I loved them all. Then again, I am a fan of B grade sci-fi movies. You have to be to get through all her books. I mean, how many times can one use the word preternatural in one book? How many times can one *read* the word preternatural and still continue to turn the pages? Oooh, Lestat has preternatural strength. Good, no wimpy vamps in this book. Oh, okay - preternatural vision too. Well sure, the better to see you with my dear. Mmmm hmmm. His preternatural hearing allows him to hear heartbeats. Sure. I get it. Too bad he didn't use it to realize those boys Claudia drugged were already dead. Yeah... dead blood does a body bad. Now he needs to take a preternatural dump, probably. And speaking of preternatural dumps (I've used the term seven times so far - amateur) could they have miscast the movie Interview with a Vampire any worse? Tom Cruise? As Lestat? It pains me to even think about it.
A really good vampire novel is 'A Delicate Dependency' by Michael Talbot. Go read it now. I won't use my clumsy words to try and describe it. It's your first reading assignment. Get to it, people.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
As if you needed more proof
If my television died tomorrow I wouldn't care. I know, I know. I should just wear a big, flashing neon sign stating "Does not belong in this country". Don't get me wrong, I used to be a tv addict. Specifically, a TIVO addict. I liked sitcoms and medical shows and reality shows and lawyer it up shows and dramas and pbs specials and poker.
When I was pregnant with Fizzgig and Drama Princess was under the age of 2, I still had my habit. I liked to keep the surrogate mommy on for background noise. One day as I was stuffing my face full of atomic lemon warheads (to ward off the nausea), I noticed D.P. staring at the screen; slack jawed, drooling, vacant. Like a frat boy watching porn. It was more than a little creepy. Shortly thereafter, D.P. would crane her neck to catch a glimpse anytime she came near the electronic crack - department stores, friends' houses, restaurants. It's unsettling to see yourself reflected in your child's glazed eyes. I decided she needed to quit cold turkey.
I kept the television off as long as she was awake. The color returned to her cheeks. The vultures stopped circling overhead. It was a good move. The girls don't have a tv habit. They get to watch movies on the weekends and Sesame Street during the week if they ask (which they almost never do). We don't forbid tv - they just don't see us watching it and so it doesn't occur to them to ask for it, unless they're feeling particularly under the weather. And I am all about soda crackers, warm blankets, tissue boxes, and Cookie Monster.
Buddha Butt and I don't watch much at night anymore. I limit my TIVO selections because I could *easily* get sucked into around a dozen shows if I watched them for a couple episodes. I TIVO 'My Name is Earl' ,Heroes, CSI, and whatever poker tournament is on. I do love a good Texas Hold 'Em tourny. Heroes is the only one I am dedicated to watching, though. And when they decide to cancel it, as they always cancel the ones I like, we may cancel our TIVO subscription. I know, sacrilege. But there are so many good blogs to read! And books! Which I should go do now. You too.
When I was pregnant with Fizzgig and Drama Princess was under the age of 2, I still had my habit. I liked to keep the surrogate mommy on for background noise. One day as I was stuffing my face full of atomic lemon warheads (to ward off the nausea), I noticed D.P. staring at the screen; slack jawed, drooling, vacant. Like a frat boy watching porn. It was more than a little creepy. Shortly thereafter, D.P. would crane her neck to catch a glimpse anytime she came near the electronic crack - department stores, friends' houses, restaurants. It's unsettling to see yourself reflected in your child's glazed eyes. I decided she needed to quit cold turkey.
I kept the television off as long as she was awake. The color returned to her cheeks. The vultures stopped circling overhead. It was a good move. The girls don't have a tv habit. They get to watch movies on the weekends and Sesame Street during the week if they ask (which they almost never do). We don't forbid tv - they just don't see us watching it and so it doesn't occur to them to ask for it, unless they're feeling particularly under the weather. And I am all about soda crackers, warm blankets, tissue boxes, and Cookie Monster.
Buddha Butt and I don't watch much at night anymore. I limit my TIVO selections because I could *easily* get sucked into around a dozen shows if I watched them for a couple episodes. I TIVO 'My Name is Earl' ,Heroes, CSI, and whatever poker tournament is on. I do love a good Texas Hold 'Em tourny. Heroes is the only one I am dedicated to watching, though. And when they decide to cancel it, as they always cancel the ones I like, we may cancel our TIVO subscription. I know, sacrilege. But there are so many good blogs to read! And books! Which I should go do now. You too.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Un-American
I don't like jewelry. There, I've said it. I can stand here on my little island all by my onesie. The only piece I wear is a ring that my husband, let's call him Buddha Butt, gave me after we had been dating for a year, I think. And that was around 18 years ago. I wear it for sentimental reasons.
I never had an engagement ring or a wedding ring. And trust me when I say I wanted it that way. My mother-in-law once offered me a fabulously shiny ring - lots of diamonds and other sparkly rocks and was completely shocked when I politely turned her offer down.
I'd much rather have a good book or a piece of software for my computer or a day at the spa. At first, Buddha Butt found this intriguing. Hey, look at my girlfriend! I don't have to buy her jewelry! How cool is that?! But after a while, it was less cool. Jeebus, a Hallmark created holiday is coming up and I don't know what to get her! If she liked shiny rocks that would make it so much simpler. Hmmm... sorry about that.
I appreciate the fact that gemstones reflect light nicely. Or that they can elongate the neck. Or break the neckline. Or complement an outfit by its structure and/or color. I was art ed for two years. I took design and all those other fun courses. Yes, I even took basket weaving. Really. But that's a whole different blog entry.
I guess I just don't do well with items that I have to worry about caring for while I am wearing them. If I have to remove something for sleeping or cleaning or chem lab or washing or any other applicable verb- I'm just never going to put it on again. (if I don't flat out lose it while it's removed) And then compound that with worrying about something if I damaged it while wearing it? Not so much.
So there you have it. Proof positive that I am an alien. Or a fascist. Or something untoward. Man, next I'll be telling you that I don't eat meat or something weird like that.
I never had an engagement ring or a wedding ring. And trust me when I say I wanted it that way. My mother-in-law once offered me a fabulously shiny ring - lots of diamonds and other sparkly rocks and was completely shocked when I politely turned her offer down.
I'd much rather have a good book or a piece of software for my computer or a day at the spa. At first, Buddha Butt found this intriguing. Hey, look at my girlfriend! I don't have to buy her jewelry! How cool is that?! But after a while, it was less cool. Jeebus, a Hallmark created holiday is coming up and I don't know what to get her! If she liked shiny rocks that would make it so much simpler. Hmmm... sorry about that.
I appreciate the fact that gemstones reflect light nicely. Or that they can elongate the neck. Or break the neckline. Or complement an outfit by its structure and/or color. I was art ed for two years. I took design and all those other fun courses. Yes, I even took basket weaving. Really. But that's a whole different blog entry.
I guess I just don't do well with items that I have to worry about caring for while I am wearing them. If I have to remove something for sleeping or cleaning or chem lab or washing or any other applicable verb- I'm just never going to put it on again. (if I don't flat out lose it while it's removed) And then compound that with worrying about something if I damaged it while wearing it? Not so much.
So there you have it. Proof positive that I am an alien. Or a fascist. Or something untoward. Man, next I'll be telling you that I don't eat meat or something weird like that.
Latin Vocab
Drama Princess and I practice her Latin vocabulary every morning at breakfast. We have each word on an index card and the card holder is divided into the days of the week. Nouns are written in orange, verbs in blue, phrases in green, adjectives in red. That has nothing to do with anything other than appeasing the OCD in me. Don't judge me.
The vocab is evenly divided among the Monday-Friday tabs. She knows most of the words by heart now and only requires a refresher once a week. For example, one of the words for today was dangerous (periculosus) and since she got it right we will not discuss it again until next Monday. If she got it wrong it would go into the 'Practice everyday tab'. This is reserved for vocab that she has just been given and therefore does not know them yet or for words she has forgotten. We revisit that section every Monday and if she correctly remembers them, they get sorted into the once a week section. Today she pared down her everyday vocab from 20 to 4.
Now before you think about sending Drama Princess a cake with a file in it to escape from her Latin prison, don't worry. It's really not bad. She likes to act out her Latin. With her breakfast foods. Hey, it works for us. Today her vitamins were the actors. Fizzgig made her vitamin growl, which of course signaled to us that it was a monstrum. Cave! Monstrum intrat! Periculosus est! I tell D.P. "Look out! The monster has a sword!" D.P. says "Euge! Monstrum gladius habet!" And then proceeds to beat on her sister's vitamin with her fork. As the story progresses, and I drink my tea, I find ways to insert the vocab of the day into the story and D.P. translates it into Latin. An unintended plus is that Fizzgig has picked up a surprising amount of Latin in the process.
The vocab is evenly divided among the Monday-Friday tabs. She knows most of the words by heart now and only requires a refresher once a week. For example, one of the words for today was dangerous (periculosus) and since she got it right we will not discuss it again until next Monday. If she got it wrong it would go into the 'Practice everyday tab'. This is reserved for vocab that she has just been given and therefore does not know them yet or for words she has forgotten. We revisit that section every Monday and if she correctly remembers them, they get sorted into the once a week section. Today she pared down her everyday vocab from 20 to 4.
Now before you think about sending Drama Princess a cake with a file in it to escape from her Latin prison, don't worry. It's really not bad. She likes to act out her Latin. With her breakfast foods. Hey, it works for us. Today her vitamins were the actors. Fizzgig made her vitamin growl, which of course signaled to us that it was a monstrum. Cave! Monstrum intrat! Periculosus est! I tell D.P. "Look out! The monster has a sword!" D.P. says "Euge! Monstrum gladius habet!" And then proceeds to beat on her sister's vitamin with her fork. As the story progresses, and I drink my tea, I find ways to insert the vocab of the day into the story and D.P. translates it into Latin. An unintended plus is that Fizzgig has picked up a surprising amount of Latin in the process.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Hair Trauma Revisited
Back in the day when 'Old Wave' was 'New Wave', there was a high school where all the monied people went. Where all the mohawk wearing kids went. And where I went. Minus the money and the stiff hair. And in this land there was a Queen presiding over all. We shall dub her Queenie.
Queenie was one of those people who was so beautiful that everyone would stop their conversations to watch her walk past. The students would watch. The teachers would watch. The dissected cats in anatomy would watch. It was kind of like a pbs nature special where they talk about the more symmetrical you are, the more beautiful you are perceived to be. You were just in awe of what people could actually look like if all their genes were lined up in just the right order.
One day Queenie decided to dye her shoulder length blonde hair. Rumor mill that it was, we all knew ahead of time and waited for the unveiling. Brunette and fabulous. A week after that, pitch black. Stunning. Each week brought a different color. Reds, greens, blues or rainbow - it all looked amazing. I remember the week she went sea foam green. It made you reconsider what you considered to be a natural hue.
But after a while, there were little tufts of colored hair to be found in the locker room. In the shower drain. In the sink. The queen was losing her hair. Oh surely, we collectively thought, the pedestal will be no more. She will walk as one of us. The peons. We heard that since she had ruined her hair, she had shaved it all off. Dare we to dream? It was kind of like channeling Ed Norton in Fight Club, we wanted to destroy something beautiful. Petty? Absolutely.
The day of reckoning approached. It was a long, long weekend for all of us. I remember my good friend remarking that now maybe she would have a chance with the cute jock in math class. Kind of like when the dinosaurs became extinct and the mammals finally had a chance to stretch their legs and evolve the hell up already.
So in she strides, as if nothing unusual had happened. Bald as Uncle Fester. And damned if she wasn't more beautiful than ever. Unbelievable.
We didn't need airbrushed supermodels giving us an unrealistic, unattainable ideal of beauty. We went to school with her. At the time, I would have given anything to look like her. We all would have. But now, with two little girls - it just seems so different. I wouldn't wish that on my babies for anything. We judged her. We watched her. We discussed her endlessly. Poor thing. I can't recall anyone who actually *knew* her. Our loss. And hers.
Here's to the asymmetrical - we were winning the whole time and we didn't even know it.
Queenie was one of those people who was so beautiful that everyone would stop their conversations to watch her walk past. The students would watch. The teachers would watch. The dissected cats in anatomy would watch. It was kind of like a pbs nature special where they talk about the more symmetrical you are, the more beautiful you are perceived to be. You were just in awe of what people could actually look like if all their genes were lined up in just the right order.
One day Queenie decided to dye her shoulder length blonde hair. Rumor mill that it was, we all knew ahead of time and waited for the unveiling. Brunette and fabulous. A week after that, pitch black. Stunning. Each week brought a different color. Reds, greens, blues or rainbow - it all looked amazing. I remember the week she went sea foam green. It made you reconsider what you considered to be a natural hue.
But after a while, there were little tufts of colored hair to be found in the locker room. In the shower drain. In the sink. The queen was losing her hair. Oh surely, we collectively thought, the pedestal will be no more. She will walk as one of us. The peons. We heard that since she had ruined her hair, she had shaved it all off. Dare we to dream? It was kind of like channeling Ed Norton in Fight Club, we wanted to destroy something beautiful. Petty? Absolutely.
The day of reckoning approached. It was a long, long weekend for all of us. I remember my good friend remarking that now maybe she would have a chance with the cute jock in math class. Kind of like when the dinosaurs became extinct and the mammals finally had a chance to stretch their legs and evolve the hell up already.
So in she strides, as if nothing unusual had happened. Bald as Uncle Fester. And damned if she wasn't more beautiful than ever. Unbelievable.
We didn't need airbrushed supermodels giving us an unrealistic, unattainable ideal of beauty. We went to school with her. At the time, I would have given anything to look like her. We all would have. But now, with two little girls - it just seems so different. I wouldn't wish that on my babies for anything. We judged her. We watched her. We discussed her endlessly. Poor thing. I can't recall anyone who actually *knew* her. Our loss. And hers.
Here's to the asymmetrical - we were winning the whole time and we didn't even know it.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Hair Trauma
This didn't even happen to me. It happened to a friend of mine, K. But it was so horrific, *I'm* traumatized on her behalf. (No, keep reading. Not trauma, trauma. Adolescent girl trauma)
K used to go to lots of summer camps. They sounded wonderful. Never having been, I hung on every little detail. I so would not be the cranky one on Survivor who doesn't want to hear about the fabulous reward dinner the other ones had. I want every little juicy detail. Viva la vicariousity. (I call first dibs on coining that monstrosity)
Well, one fateful camp summer K and her beautiful, wispy long brown hair were taking a shower. And shampooing. And those of you with long hair know you have to do the double wash. It seems that the boys in camp had filled her shampoo bottle with something that should never under any circumstances be put in a shampoo bottle. Can you guess? Has your stomach dropped? Damn, mine has and this isn't even my memory.
Nair. After carefully scrubbing it into her scalp, twice, she started rinsing her hair and felt it stretching and falling out in clumps. And she's in middle school. And they're waiting for her outside the shower house. And laughing.
I don't remember how the story ends, I think I mentally blacked out after she said Nair. Something about hats. Lots of hats.
More hair trauma stories tomorrow. Anyone else have one?
K used to go to lots of summer camps. They sounded wonderful. Never having been, I hung on every little detail. I so would not be the cranky one on Survivor who doesn't want to hear about the fabulous reward dinner the other ones had. I want every little juicy detail. Viva la vicariousity. (I call first dibs on coining that monstrosity)
Well, one fateful camp summer K and her beautiful, wispy long brown hair were taking a shower. And shampooing. And those of you with long hair know you have to do the double wash. It seems that the boys in camp had filled her shampoo bottle with something that should never under any circumstances be put in a shampoo bottle. Can you guess? Has your stomach dropped? Damn, mine has and this isn't even my memory.
Nair. After carefully scrubbing it into her scalp, twice, she started rinsing her hair and felt it stretching and falling out in clumps. And she's in middle school. And they're waiting for her outside the shower house. And laughing.
I don't remember how the story ends, I think I mentally blacked out after she said Nair. Something about hats. Lots of hats.
More hair trauma stories tomorrow. Anyone else have one?
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Heartfelt Sentiment
My youngest, let's call her Fizzgig. (For those of you not versed in the ways of the Dark Crystal, that is the small, furry mammal-like pet that stomps its feet, unhinges its jaws and shrieks at the top of its lungs when upset. Really, it's a fair comparison.)
Fizzgig made daddy a valentine. With a big, lacy heart and an amorphous... person? Definitely humanoid at any rate. Me? Not so much with the v-day love. She did, however, run over and hug my leg and tell me she loved me because I feed her and wipe her poop. It may not be Hallmark, but it was heartfelt. Digestive tract felt even.
Fizzgig made daddy a valentine. With a big, lacy heart and an amorphous... person? Definitely humanoid at any rate. Me? Not so much with the v-day love. She did, however, run over and hug my leg and tell me she loved me because I feed her and wipe her poop. It may not be Hallmark, but it was heartfelt. Digestive tract felt even.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Tagged, in the non toe sense
Mistress Urban has tagged me. Decisions, decisions...
Things you don't know about me:
1.) When I was in elementary school I was a cast member on a local kid-tv news show
2.) I never had a drink until I was 30
3.) I scored a 99% on my A.P. Biology final and wrecked the curve for the rest of the class. I was not beloved.
4.) I had never changed a diaper until I had my own children
5.) I am a ZTA
Things you don't know about me:
1.) When I was in elementary school I was a cast member on a local kid-tv news show
2.) I never had a drink until I was 30
3.) I scored a 99% on my A.P. Biology final and wrecked the curve for the rest of the class. I was not beloved.
4.) I had never changed a diaper until I had my own children
5.) I am a ZTA
Monday, February 12, 2007
Why I Homeschool
Back when I was still working at a pre-bust dot com and was pregnant with Drama Princess, I had full intention of doing the whole daycare/private school route. I'm not a 'little kid person' and this was very appealing. Well, the VC's dropped out and the dot com tanked. I'm in my third trimester and unemployable. Why yes, we'd love to have you on our payroll for 2 days and then pay for your maternity leave! Please, sign here! And dammit, here's a signing bonus just 'cause.
Fast forward around two years. Drama Princess has been in a big playgroup for around a year. The moms and kids are fun and entertaining. I think I can really relax now. This motherhood crap isn't as tough as I thought. But. Wait. Everybody is going into preschool now. Preschool? At age 2? What the hell kind of place is Maryland? Back in Florida we just let the kids drool all over themselves until kindergarten. Okay, maybe that was just me.
Drama Princess enters a very nice preschool with many of her playgroup friends. The other moms did a fine job researching different schools and I am all about coat tails. I mean, *my* research also supported their findings. (Read: Mmmm, this chocolate tastes good and Hey! the dart landed on the same preschool that the other moms are going to! I wonder if I should be letting my two year old play with metal tipped darts... that's what preschool's for, right?)
Two years of watching my formerly sweet baby learn to dig her miniature heels in and assert herself as the queen of contrary. The other kids brought home little pictures with glittery macaronis glued in the shapes of letters and numbers. Mine? A single non-glittery macaroni. On the bottom of her backpack. With a bite impression. The other kids would race to their parents and whisper about the one that was put in timeout. Mine? The one they were whispering about. But not always. Sometimes she sat by the boys that were in timeout and would pat them on the back "because they were sad and didn't mean to be bad" That's my daughter. She likes the misunderstood bad boys. The other kids would bring home glowing progress reports at midterm and end of year. Mine? "N/S" That stands for not shown. For two years. Did she know her numbers and letters and shapes and colors? Yes. She could read. Would she in any way, shape, or form demonstrate that for her teachers? Hell to the no.
At the last parent/teacher conference the following year, the teacher leaned over and grasped my forearm and with great concern said she didn't know how Drama Princess was going to survive kindergarten. I said I had been contemplating homeschooling. (I hadn't really given it that much thought at the time, but I felt a little cornered) She released my arm and gave out a big sigh of relief. And so it began.
Fast forward around two years. Drama Princess has been in a big playgroup for around a year. The moms and kids are fun and entertaining. I think I can really relax now. This motherhood crap isn't as tough as I thought. But. Wait. Everybody is going into preschool now. Preschool? At age 2? What the hell kind of place is Maryland? Back in Florida we just let the kids drool all over themselves until kindergarten. Okay, maybe that was just me.
Drama Princess enters a very nice preschool with many of her playgroup friends. The other moms did a fine job researching different schools and I am all about coat tails. I mean, *my* research also supported their findings. (Read: Mmmm, this chocolate tastes good and Hey! the dart landed on the same preschool that the other moms are going to! I wonder if I should be letting my two year old play with metal tipped darts... that's what preschool's for, right?)
Two years of watching my formerly sweet baby learn to dig her miniature heels in and assert herself as the queen of contrary. The other kids brought home little pictures with glittery macaronis glued in the shapes of letters and numbers. Mine? A single non-glittery macaroni. On the bottom of her backpack. With a bite impression. The other kids would race to their parents and whisper about the one that was put in timeout. Mine? The one they were whispering about. But not always. Sometimes she sat by the boys that were in timeout and would pat them on the back "because they were sad and didn't mean to be bad" That's my daughter. She likes the misunderstood bad boys. The other kids would bring home glowing progress reports at midterm and end of year. Mine? "N/S" That stands for not shown. For two years. Did she know her numbers and letters and shapes and colors? Yes. She could read. Would she in any way, shape, or form demonstrate that for her teachers? Hell to the no.
At the last parent/teacher conference the following year, the teacher leaned over and grasped my forearm and with great concern said she didn't know how Drama Princess was going to survive kindergarten. I said I had been contemplating homeschooling. (I hadn't really given it that much thought at the time, but I felt a little cornered) She released my arm and gave out a big sigh of relief. And so it began.
Friday, February 2, 2007
3, 2, 1...
I am going to start a blawwg. This is so not me. If blogging were, say a house, I would be the person driving at 15 mph down the road, gawking at the lovely trim and clucking disapprovingly at the greenish gutters while the drivers behind me were getting royally pissed off at me and yelling at me to get the hell out of my car already. I don't know where I was going with that metaphor. The point being, I love to read blogs, just not actually do one myself.
It's not that I don't have any interesting stories to tell. I have a friend, let's call her Doubtful Friend, who swears that I make up all my 'listen to what just happened to me!' stories, because they just can't be real. I have never made one of them up. Although I probably should, just to see what passes her reality litmus test.
The reason I don't blog is the same reason I don't keep a journal or a diary or actually talk to real, live human beings so much. I'm a very private person. I remember receiving a diary as a kid. One of those pink jobbies with a 'real lock' and tiny key and little ballet dancers on the front. I tried for one whole day to be truthful and record my very innermost thoughts that just no one but me would appreciate. I ripped out the pages the next day, soaked them in water to make the ink run, and tore them into itty, bitty pieces. And then set them on fire. (okay, not really the fire part. I'm practicing for the next time I see Doubtful Friend.)
For the next year I lied in my diary. I lied about who my best friend really was. About what color I liked. About my favorite foods. About what star I was going to run away with. (I said Shaun Cassidy, but it was really David Lee Roth) I couldn't bear the thought of anybody sneaking a peek at my writing. Not even myself. I remember making a time capsule in middle school of things that were important to me and that I could see myself doing in the future. (all lies, but surely I'd remember what I really meant) I forgot about it and found it when I was a senior in high school. Pleasant trip down memory lane? Total mortification. I promptly ripped it up and set it on fire. (That one is true.)
Why now? Quite simply I'm in a 'Why the hell not' kind of mood. Game on.
It's not that I don't have any interesting stories to tell. I have a friend, let's call her Doubtful Friend, who swears that I make up all my 'listen to what just happened to me!' stories, because they just can't be real. I have never made one of them up. Although I probably should, just to see what passes her reality litmus test.
The reason I don't blog is the same reason I don't keep a journal or a diary or actually talk to real, live human beings so much. I'm a very private person. I remember receiving a diary as a kid. One of those pink jobbies with a 'real lock' and tiny key and little ballet dancers on the front. I tried for one whole day to be truthful and record my very innermost thoughts that just no one but me would appreciate. I ripped out the pages the next day, soaked them in water to make the ink run, and tore them into itty, bitty pieces. And then set them on fire. (okay, not really the fire part. I'm practicing for the next time I see Doubtful Friend.)
For the next year I lied in my diary. I lied about who my best friend really was. About what color I liked. About my favorite foods. About what star I was going to run away with. (I said Shaun Cassidy, but it was really David Lee Roth) I couldn't bear the thought of anybody sneaking a peek at my writing. Not even myself. I remember making a time capsule in middle school of things that were important to me and that I could see myself doing in the future. (all lies, but surely I'd remember what I really meant) I forgot about it and found it when I was a senior in high school. Pleasant trip down memory lane? Total mortification. I promptly ripped it up and set it on fire. (That one is true.)
Why now? Quite simply I'm in a 'Why the hell not' kind of mood. Game on.
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