tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92124092024-03-07T16:22:47.164-05:00flightless hagA chronicle of the adventures of birdwoman: a lonely, talentless freak who wanders the internet in search of entertainment.birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.comBlogger590125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-11402225740400732362017-08-25T18:27:00.002-05:002017-08-25T18:27:23.227-05:00See You On The Dark Side of the Moon!Eclipse 2017. The Great American Eclipse. Where... were... you????<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, about a year ago, I read in one of my nerd magazines that there was going to be a total eclipse coming to a continent real near me in the coming year. I pointed it out to my dear dirty bird. We looked at each other... minds once again in synch...<br />
<br />
LET'S PLAN A NERDCATION!!<br />
<br />
Now, dear reader, if you don't know, both of us are kind of a little nerdish. Um, maybe more than a little. We were PSYCHED. We'd both seen the mostly almost full eclipse back in 92 (93?) but never a full one. We mapped the closest places and he booked a really cool cabin on a fantastically cool lake.<br />
<br />
One day of eclipse chasing, one day of water skiing.<br />
<br />
But it came close to the nerdcation, I was more than a little embarrassed. We were going to drive 10 hours down to the middle of freaking Tennessee just to see an eclipse. Yeah, we purchased glasses (a year ago from a reputable nerd outlet). But really. We could have seen 80% from home. And we were going to turn around 48 hours later and drive home? Really?<br />
<br />
I mean, the lake was nice, but isn't Harvey Pond just as nice?<br />
<br />
So, I didn't really tell many people. I was ashamed of the level of my nerdocity.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you, there are a heckalotta nerds out there!<br />
<br />
First, the roads down to TN were JAMMED. Completely, utterly jammed. Then, when we were just trying to get back to our cabin from the town where we watched it? That 1.5 hour trip took 4.5 hours. Yikes.<br />
<br />
Now, we were eating our lunch the day of the eclipse (at Buddy's BarBQ) and one of the staff told us that we'd best get out there and start looking because it was happening.<br />
<br />
So, we went out. We stood in the parking lot of the Hobby Lobby and watched for 45 minutes as it got windier and darker and OH MY GOSH it was so cool! We weren't alone, but there weren't a whole lot of ppl in our particular strip mall - maybe 50 or so.<br />
<br />
We missed the eclipse party. It was, I kid you not, across the street in the parking lot of the Walmart. There were people camping there. One was playing weird music and had signs welcoming the aliens - not so far out of scope, as apparently it is very rare for a planet to have a satellite that appears to be the same exact size as its sun... solar eclipses would be a very rare thing in the galaxy and would be a definite tourist stop for star-traveling aliens. A few were passing a funny cigarette, as Moth pointed out. It was a time of coming together in the Athens Walmart.<br />
<br />
And then we had to turn around and come home. It was a good nerdcation, but I am glad to be home!<br />
<br />
(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-655625318428681422017-06-10T07:31:00.000-05:002017-06-10T07:31:19.913-05:00The ShirtRecently, Moth's natal anniversary passed. He is now well and truly into his teenage years. He's still a goofball, and kind of like a very large puppy, he looks a lot older than he acts. <br />
<br />
So, Moth's birthday was on a Sunday, and Amazon delivered a package. I was out when it came. Apparently, Mothy was so excited that Amazon just sent him a free package that he didn't even look for any paperwork. It said it was for MothMan of the Dusty Aviary, so it was his!<br />
<br />
I came home to Dad and Stinky laughing. Apparently Moth had just put on The Shirt and worn it around. John said it reminded him of a Brady Bunch episode... <br />
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Upon seeing The Shirt, I had to agree. Unfortunately, I never got a picture of him in it, as I came home later.<br />
<br />
At one point, after I got the story of the Free Package From The Amazon Gods, I asked Tim to find the package The Shirt came in. He was convinced it was just a freebie from Amazon. Of course, it wasn't: <br />
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<br />
Then comes the awkward. Did granny and poppy really order The Shirt for Moth? I send a text with the picture saying something to the effect of "Hey, the shirt came! Thanks!" But before the text went through, the weekly phone call occurred. Talk about dancing around it. "Tim thought the shirt was really... neat! Thanks! Yeah, it fits fine." But Granny with her granny radar knew something was up. Thus began a text/mail dance until the picture finally got through. This is the email I received:<br />
<br />
"<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Tell me this is you two being evil parents again<br />
<br />
Sent from my iPhone"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span> <br />
and shortly later, when she had access to an actual keyboard:<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">OMG is this what Amazon sent????</span></span><br />
<br />
so, no, it was supposed to be a completely different shirt: an under-armor thingy that sporty Tim also loved. They have not gone the way of the grandparents from 16 candles. <br />
<br />
I just LOVED that he saw The Shirt as a gift and didn't care what it looked
like. He actually thought it was cool! (Until Stinky and Dad made the
ever-living fun of him that is. )<br />
<br />
There's some life outlook thing in there somewhere. I'm not deep enough to pick it up. Maybe you are?<br />
<br />
(*)> <br />
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</span></span>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-71527981957161911552017-05-16T07:22:00.000-05:002017-05-16T07:22:44.951-05:00Happy Mothers' DaySo my mom. She's a shell of who she used to be. She's in a home - and I thank God for them all the time. The folks there are amazing and taking great care of her.<br />
<br />
I spent a few hours with her, talking at her some, wheeling her around the place. Of course, it rained, so we couldn't go outside. I asked her about her childhood - that seems to be the clearest these days. I asked if they had pigs, and she answered yes. Asked about horses when we saw pictures of them. "Yes, we had two. One was a big black horse."<br />
<br />
"Did your horses have names? Or were they just the horses?"<br />
<br />
"We called the big black one Nigger."<br />
<br />
Whoops. Shouldn't have asked that question. It was a different time, of course, but darn. I'm still cringing at that one. <br />
<br />
All in all, it was a pretty good day.<br />
<br />
But.<br />
<br />
She wanted ANYTHING but this. Anything. She can't really talk. She can read but can't comprehend, really. I went up to see her this weekend - on Mother's Day. I took a bluetooth speaker and played all the old favorites. She had her hands tapping and strumming with Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. She sang along with Roger Miller, Elton Brit, and Tennessee Ernie Ford. I could almost see her in there.<br />
<br />
And then Big Rock Candy Mountain came on. And she started to sing along. And her eyes cleared. And she realized where she was. And she started to cry. Just a little. Took off her glasses and wiped her eyes then stopped singing and stared out the window.<br />
<br />
She's a prisoner in her own body.<br />
<br />
She does have some control - won't take her meds if she can help it. Doesn't eat much. They think it's because she's "distracted". I think it's because she's trying to get away in the only way she can now. Course, I've always been Debbie Downer.<br />
<br />
If I had my druthers, I'd go like my Dad. 59 years old. Good life, all in all (as John Denver said). Done in a flash, and it was nobody's fault. It was hard at the time - and it scarred some of my family members for a really long time. But people remember him as he was, and no one had to watch him suffer. No one had to feel guilty for allowing him to suffer.<br />
<br />
Crap.<br />
<br />
I know it's not about me. I know it isn't. But darn it, I wish I could do something. Anything. And I can't.<br />
<br />
Happy mothers day. birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-16657704387473534342017-02-15T20:28:00.000-05:002017-02-15T20:28:21.960-05:00Puberty StinksPuberty does stink! Sometimes, quite literally. And Moth is averse to showering.<br />
<br />
So, the news in the aviary.<br />
<br />
Stinky is a registered lifeguard and has his learning permit to drive.Yet, there is a story...<br />
<br />
After Stinks went through the gruelling training at the Y, the trainers really liked him. They offered him a job. At the Y! He was psyched. He just had to get a drug test done within 72 hours... So, after years of telling me I don't know how to use the internets, he couldn't figure out how to make an appointment or where to go... Mom to the rescue. I made the appointment, and Dad decided to drive him as it was early morning (before school).<br />
<br />
Of course, Mom got the wrong place, so Stinky corrected Dad... only to find out Mom was right. They rushed to the other place, got there in time, only to find that Stinky forgot to bring his photo ID. (that Mom left on the table).<br />
<br />
He lost the job. He can reapply in 6 months. Harsh and humbling. But he admitted it: it was totally his fault.<br />
<br />
Moth, on the other hand, is digging himself a grave that he doesn't seem to want to get out of.<br />
<br />
He seems to be hooked on social media - even though we don't allow it at home. His language has become roughly equivalent to a Merchant Marine with 25 years in. After Dad blocked Instagram from the chromebook, Moth wrote an email to his father calling him an unbelievably bad name. He's also called me a very Bad name. He's also been very sneaky lately, and just a misery to live with. As he's NEVER been this kind of kid, I have to hope it's the hormones.<br />
<br />
I did, however, get a bit of unplanned revenge. One morning, as I was prepping for work, I was watching a video on my computer. I couldn't hear the sound. I tried turning it up to max; still couldn't hear it. I stopped when I heard Moth scream yet another invective at his brother. Except his brother wasn't upstairs.<br />
<br />
You see, the heir has a bluetooth speaker and has taken to pranking the spare... playing spooky sounds or what not. Stinks was making his breakfast, nowhere near his phone. But somehow, Tim was saying all the crap that was coming out of that speaker. I was like, "I bet Dad did it, trying to get you up." "Dad's not a prankster." "You don't know your dad."<br />
<br />
Then, I started to realize the words Moth mentioned were ones that would probably have been on the video I was trying to play. After horsing around with Stinky the night before (I kept playing
Nickelback and he kept playing Radiohead), I inadvertently linked my
computer to his speaker. <br />
<br />
So, it ended up I pranked the little dirtball into getting up 20 minutes early. He was not amused. I SO was.<br />
<br />
Life with teenagers. Find the fun where you can!<br />
<br />
(*)><br />
birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-6348471541047591202016-12-04T20:11:00.003-05:002016-12-04T20:11:38.880-05:00Smells Like Baltimore!For myself this year, I bought tickets to 3 different Philly Pops concerts. The first was the Christmas Extravaganza, which took place today.<br />
<br />
For my music-enjoying partner in crime? I took Moth.<br />
<br />
Moth loves music. One time, Granny took us (the boys and me) to see South Pacific at a dinner theater. When the lead actor was singing Some Enchanted Evening, Stinky was leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes rolling. Moth was leaning forward, chin on fist, eyes glued. When it was over, he turned to me and said, "that was awesome!" (and it was!)<br />
<br />
Today featured, besides the Pops, the Pops Choir, an organist, the Philadelphia Boys Choir, a Gospel Choir, and a Feinstein/Connic Jr kinda guy.<br />
<br />
But, to make sure we weren't late to the show, as we were taking Septa, we went a bit early. Deciding to eat lunch at Moth's pick, we walked. And walked. (Pizza? No. Max Brenner Chocolate Place? No. Sushi? No. Chinese? No. It was like the "quit it - ow" refrains from Simpsons.) At one point, Moth sniffs the air.<br />
<br />
"It smelled like Baltimore just there."<br />
<br />
I quickly sniffed, but all I smelled was city.<br />
<br />
"I think that's just city, kid."<br />
<br />
So we walked and walked some more and finally found something that appealed (Wishbone chicken which was fantastic and had the coolest sodas evah). Upon leaving, we started walking (sigh) back to the Kimmel center. Along the way, my nose had cleared enough from the spices to smell, and BOY did I smell something. Someone was toking, big time.<br />
<br />
"There it is again! It smells like Baltimore!!"<br />
<br />
Granny and Poppy, where have you been taking my Moth when he visits? Inquiring minds want to know.<br />
<br />
The concert was great. Tim loved it, except when he didn't... which was only with the Gospel choir. Not a surprise. That one's a strong genetic component from the father.<br />
<br />
He even plugged his ears until I nudged him :).<br />
<br />
Happy Christmas season to all, and to all, a good night.birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-39577932598422007262016-12-01T08:01:00.001-05:002016-12-01T08:01:25.190-05:00Happy Birfday to Stinky!As is the tradition in the dusty aviary, we celebrated the recent natal day of Stinky by eating. We eat a lot - I especially eat a lot - but birthdays are a special occasion.<br />
<br />
We went to Iron Hill - something for everyone. Interesting foods and beers for Dad (who is quite the epicurian), tasty alcohol for Mom (who, apparently, had to give up several sips in "birthday boy" tax last night. Apparently, he likes raspberry lemonade :) ), and fatty, greasy food for two gargantuan "boys."<br />
<br />
They don't get along at all, my boys. Not sure why. I think it's spoiled child syndrome. Since I fought like a tiger with my sibs when I was little, but think the absolute WORLD of them now (really, I have the coolest family ever), I hold out hope for my two sprogs. Maybe someday they'll see that they have things in common. Maybe.<br />
<br />
Anyway, going out for the birthday meal (we don't do presents, as, well, they're spoiled already. Don't really need anything!) we got to reminiscing about old times.<br />
<br />
The original birthday restaurant was Chili's - called Chucks because the only time we used to see Chuck was when we'd meet up with him for dinner. As he's moved to the left side of the country, we don't even see him there anymore :( Think of him often, though.<br />
<br />
Is this getting old? Remembering more and doing less? Except we're not doing less... we're just remembering as we're doing. So I guess that's the middle.<br />
<br />
And now, I have to grade before going to a meeting. It's Thursday, I'm listening to Christmas music in school, and it's a Beautiful Day In Pennsylvania! So... on this Throwback Thursday, enjoy, enjoy!<br />
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<br />birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-58761127324477684072016-11-24T09:18:00.001-05:002016-11-24T09:18:14.194-05:00poor little meSo, Birdman has been quite the handyman of late. He googles and youtubes and channels Bob The Builder (can he fix it? yes he can! mostly!) whenever we have something break in the dusty aviary. So, two weeks ago, the stuff, it started breaking again. He Was On It!<br />
<br />
Broken whack job hinge that is out of warranty? Fixed! (after much swearing). Weird lights coming on in the cars? Fixed! Medicine cabinet door snaps off? Fixed!<br />
<br />
Except, this presents a new problem for me...<br />
<br />
See, he had to replace the medicine cabinet. And he did a fantastic job. But. The medicine cabinet is child proofed. It's waaaaay up high in the bathroom. The handle is, I crap you not, over my head.<br />
<br />
I am the only one who in this house who has to tippytoe to open the damn thing. Sometimes, I hate living with giants. Moth has taken to calling me the imp or Tyrrrion or midget... definitely Harvey genes there. Stinky just looks down on me, gets his Larry glint in his eyes, and grins. I know what he's thinking. He knows I know what he's thinking. Point to giant.<br />
<br />
~~~~~<br />
<br />
Another thing John has gotten into as of late is Words With Friends - or rather frienemies. I have heard much of the might and wrath of Thundarian and his ilk. Today, Moth challenged Dad to a game of scrabble. There was much going back and forth, but with the strategically placed "hats," Moth pulled into the lead. And Dad had to go take a shower. So, Tim officially won the match. Poor Dad.<br />
<br />
And now, we're off to the original Birdland to be birdibles (like cannibals only eating a great, big bird) and hang with the Harvey crew. (or cr<span class="fullname js-action-profile-name show-popup-with-id">ΓΌ</span>e, if you're from the 80's, as we are. )<br />
<br />
Happy Thanksgiving! <br />
<br />
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<br />birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-11264582702373498922016-11-06T16:51:00.000-05:002016-11-06T16:51:04.351-05:00Doo Dah Doo DahSo, I was over on the Book, the FaceBook today. One of my high school fellow alumni posted from Stevensville.<br />
<br />
Stevensville.<br />
<br />
Now, some years ago, I got quite interested in genealogy. Of course, my interest was sparked after most (if not all) of my aunts, uncles, and grandparents had passed on, but I got bitten nonetheless. I do wish, all of the time, that I had listened to the oldsters' stories when I was a younger brat. Alas. Regrets.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, one of the things I learned in research (knew from the stories, if I thought about it) was that my grandmother was a Stevens from Stevensville. Never quite knew if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Stevensville was named for Peter or Aden stevens... can't remember which one... who came down round about revolutionary war time to settle the area. See, NorthEastPA (how natives refer to it?) wasn't settled by whites until the early 1800's - it was still Indian territory and quite a number of settlers found that out the hard way.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I have always wanted to take the time to track down Stevensville to see where it is. So he told me where when I asked, and I googled it. Sure enough, there it is, too small for the map, next to Camptown.<br />
<br />
Now that's a story I remember: either Grandma or Aunt Florence telling me about Camptown - the big town next to Stevensville, and of Camptown Races fame.<br />
<br />
30-35 years later, I'm like, yeah right. There have to be a dozen Camptowns in the US. What are the chances the fly speck on the map of PA is the one Steven Foster wrote his song about.<br />
<br />
Guess what? I should trust Aunt Florence's stories more. <a href="http://explorepahistory.com/hmarker.php?markerId=1-A-2FA">It really was</a>.<br />
<br />
And I should have known. She's been proven disturbingly correct before. I remember back in high school, I was sitting at their kitchen table doing my homework. Aunt Florence came out to talk to me.<br />
<br />
"Whacha doing there?" (this is my memory of her voice, though I could be making it up)<br />
<br />
"French."<br />
<br />
"French? Why would you study that? They don't even have running water over there."<br />
<br />
(at this, I stopped copying my 4th copy of conversation blah blah... Philippe nage a la picine. Phillipe plonge! and looked up, quizically) "What do you mean?"<br />
<br />
"When Jerry was there, they didn't have running water."<br />
<br />
Now, Jerry was Aunt Florence's second husband. (As opposed to Dick Bohner, her first, much lamented, infelicitously named and short-lived husband. I shall leave it to you, dear reader, to decide if the lamentations were due to the name or the importune passing.) Jerry was much older than Aunt Florence. He had, in fact, served in the war. The Great War. World War I. In France. <br />
<br />
So, yeah, in 1917, the war-torn area that he... visited didn't have running water. I'm sure I did the teenaged eye-roll. "I don't think many people had running water in 1917. They probably have it by now."<br />
<br />
"Them French are dirty. Don't know why you'd study French. Heh heh." My memories of Aunt Florence are of her often laughing at strange moments. Again, I may be imagining this in retrospect, but I don't think so. <br />
<br />
I just shook my head and studied my French. Mademoiselle Marshall was quite the taskmaster, after all.<br />
<br />
Fast forward 20 years. Mr. Birdwoman and I went on our Big Trip Before Kids. We spent a fortnight in Britain. One of our last days there, we decided to take the new fancy-schmancy chunnel tunnel train over to Paris. One day in Paris to end out or adventures would, as Ma Bennet might say, set us up just right. <br />
<br />
So we got over there, and Mr. Birdwoman had to pee. And he could find nowhere to pee. Nowhere. Found a urinal at a museum, finally, but it was a few hours.<br />
<br />
Eventually, we decided to buy a meal before heading back to London.<br />
<br />
In the restaurant, I asked the waiter where the WC was. He smiled, gave me directions and a coin. I looked at the coin and then at him. "You need to pay to go." So I did, and I did. To open the door, you had to pay. It was a tiny litle toilet, hardly worth the fee, but I really had to go.<br />
<br />
A minute later, John asks where the men's room is, and if he can borrow a coin. The waiter smiled and said, "Men don't pay."<br />
<br />
Oh, I was too astonished to be angry. But as I waited for John to come back, it really started to bug me.<br />
<br />
And then, he came back. And he was pale and looked quite disturbed.<br />
<br />
I asked what was wrong, and he said, "later..."<br />
<br />
So, when we were safely ensconced back in the train, heading back to England, I asked what the problem was.<br />
<br />
"Well, men didn't have to pay for a reason. There was no urinal, no toilet, and no sink. Just a trough running down the wall. The #2's sat there waiting to be washed down by #1's. Worst thing was, while I was leaving, the cook went in. I can't believe they didn't have running water!"<br />
<br />
Oh, my. Aunt Florence was right. Dirty birdies, real rap.<br />
<br />
(*)<<br />
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(Of course, I'm sure this is not most of Paris. And I'm sure my brain has exaggerated this story in the last 15 years. Whatever. It's a blog and hyperbole is allowed.)<br />
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<br />birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-30918312440269868792016-11-03T07:26:00.000-05:002016-11-03T07:26:07.513-05:00Living in Union TownSo, we're in the middle of a transit strike here in Philly. Bad for birdwoman: I take the public transport. Sigh. This week, I've been forced to upgrade to the big trains. Moth would be in heaven. I must admit, I get a bit of a thrill taking the big trains; especially on foggy, dark mornings. It's like something out of a Bogart movie - not that I've ever seen one. However, on top of my already kinda expensive monthly transit pass, I have to pay an extra $7 a day for the privilege of going to work. In the end, it's fine, though, because I really love walking through the city, especially in the morning.<br />
<br />
Our kids at school have it much, much worse. I'm not in a neighborhood school, I teach at what's called a magnet school. Most of our kids come in from FAR away, so attendance is in the cellar.<br />
<br />
The first day, I had 2 kids in one class; my max class was 11. Generally, all of my classes (except last period) have 30. We have, generally, a 95%+ attendance rate for all of the students. In the city, that's pretty amazing. So, this week has been really quite strange.<br />
<br />
The second day of the strike, my bad class almost all came. Yes, I have a bad class. I teach 9th grade this year, and some of these freshmen are so immature... like they get up and dance in the middle of class. NOTHING about my classes is exciting enough to inspire dance. I have one student who, whenever he has a question, gets up from his seat, walks over to where I am, and no matter what I'm doing, shoves his paper in my face and asks his question. I could be talking to another student. I could be lecturing. It matters not to chappie.<br />
<br />
So, I'm like, great. My good class is empty and my headache class is full. I was at the door when I heard one boy (the dancer) talking to a girl. (no-filter girl - always says EXACTLY what she's thinking, all the time, REALLY loudly. It's like my class has a soundtrack of her thoughts.) "Yeah, Mom made so-and-so take me to school. She had to pay and everything. But she said she couldn't stand me being home anymore."<br />
<br />
A. Whole. Class. Full. Of. Them.<br />
<br />
Not really - just 6 of them; 4 really obnoxious. The rest are just our regular students - awesome kids who are trying to make the best of their lives. I really love my school.<br />
<br />
One of the interesting things about teaching in the city is trying to get the names right. At my old school, I did have a student named Shithead (that's shi-th-eed). Imagine trying to pronounce that the first time! This school has an interesting mix of city names - which are really neat and creative, cultural names (as we have lots of first gens here), and traditional names. They seem to follow patterns. Last year was the year of Destiny (3 in one grade), this year is Jaylyn/Jaylah/Jaila/Jayla. I once had 4 Jasmines in one class, all spelled differently: Jazzmyne, Jasmine, Jazmen, Jasmyn. But it's the rarity that I have more than one traditional name.<br />
<br />
In one class this year, I have Erin and Aaron. They don't like it when I
say their names and they don't know which one I'm calling on. Usually,
I'll say Mr. so and so or Mademoiselle so and so. But as his last name
makes the immature 9th graders giggle (eyeroll) and her name is two huge
hyphenated names, this is a pain. So one day, I called on him by
calling him A-a-ron. And we all laughed. Did you? If not, watch this
video, stat. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Dd7FixvoKBw/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Dd7FixvoKBw?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
(yes, there are teachers like this in the city. they are a bit scary.)<br />
<br />
~~~~~<br />
<br />
<br />
Part of the coolness of not having blogged in two years is that I have stories... if I can remember them. One story is one you should thank me for.<br />
<br />
Really.<br />
<br />
Back when I was still posting, we had had a huge winter storm that had knocked out our power for three or so days. It was quite awful. The next year, Sandy hit, and we went another three? four? days without power. We had some tricks from the last time on keeping the ambient temp in the house not frozen. We had to bail our sump pump in the dark - egads that was awful.<br />
<br />
So, being the lazy sods we are, we invested in a whole house generator. It's housed behind our abode and it supposedly will come on in any power interruption of longer than a minute.<br />
<br />
We've not even had a bad snow storm since we got it, almost two years ago now. :) You're welcome.<br />
<br />
And the bell rang. There are a total of 10 kids in the hallway. :( Have a nice day! <br />
<br />birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-13850971205735216692016-10-29T07:41:00.002-05:002016-10-29T07:41:31.796-05:00She's Not Dead YetSo, this is my blog. I haven't been here in a while. Mostly, my thoughts are too short and scattered to do an entire blog post. Sadly, I'm more a facebook blurb kinda girl these days.<br />
<br />
But I have a story! One I can share! One too long for facebook! One I want to haunt my child with in years to come!<br />
<br />
The Moth, the Moth. I love my kid. He's cool and clever and 13. He smells bad but won't shower unless I nag. He loves to burp, fart, and poo, and make sure you know he's doing those things. He always puts things in the most convenient place for him at the time. He's a boy. He's also a pig.<br />
<br />
Several years ago, my husband instituted an extra homework policy for the boys. Every week, he assigns additional math, grammar, and writing for them through an online application. In order for them to complete this, he purchased (originally) a chromebook for them to share. Being spoiled first-world kids, they, of course, could not share nicely. Cue: fights. Smack-down, apocalyptic fights.<br />
<br />
Enter chromebook 2. Stinky, being the older and more responsible boy (not that it's hard to be more responsible than Moth, and Stinks can't claim credit for the age), got the new chromebook.<br />
<br />
Now, you might think this would be a post about internets abuse. Not if you know Mr. Birdwoman. This man has a key-lock on the television. The sole television we have in the house. He has a firewall on the internet so that he can track (and lock down) every site the boyos go to that is not Wikipedia, research, or IXL (the learning software). Every time they find something new, he locks it down. Of course, he proudly announced to me when both of the boys started searching out pictures of boobies.<br />
<br />
Men.<br />
<br />
So, back to the Chromebook Saga. Within a few weeks of Moth Abuse, the chromebook started looking worse for wear. See, he would drag it around by the screen. He would leave it on the arm of a chair, bravely challenging the laws of gravity. Often losing to the laws of gravity.<br />
<br />
I wish we had taken a picture. Really I do. But I was so embarrassed / angry at the time. Within six months, the chromebook was held together with duct tape. The screen was no longer attached, but by some miracle was still functioning. It looked like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies.<br />
<br />
For more than a year, frankenbook trudged along, getting a few new scars along the way. Tim saved money doing chores around the house. Finally, the little chromebook that could couldn't anymore.<br />
<br />
Tim ordered a new chromebook and worked diligently (!) doing dishes, mowing yards, picking up dog doo, etc until he had it paid off. Yes!<br />
<br />
It is about a year later.<br />
<br />
Through this year, chromebook II, wrath of chromebook, could be found in all the wrong places: on the seat of the couch. On the floor next to Moth's bed. But it stayed intact! It looked fine!<br />
<br />
About five months ago, the boys found out two of their favorite games were being released to the new game system. They saved money and pre-ordered. The first came out last Friday; the second yesterday. Moth was going to have all the video game time last weekend as Stinks was out camping with the scouts. So, it was all going swimmingly. He just needed to get the codes from the email Daddy sent to him.<br />
<br />
I'm sitting at the table, doing some nonsense, and Moth hesitantly approaches me. "Mom... my computer doesn't work."<br />
<br />
The screen has a fatal injury. You can't see it from the outside, but the machine has been toasted.<br />
<br />
And when Dad found out? Hell Toupee!<br />
<br />
So now, Moth is doing all the dishes and laundry and no video games for 3 weeks. (this might not seem like much, but remember, two new games that he has been waiting for over 5 months, and paid quite a bit of cash for!) Every time he does a MothLikeThing - not making his bed, leaving his socks in the middle of the floor, etc - he gets a strike. 3 strikes = 1 more day sans Battlefield and Skyrim. He had to walk to the library every night to do his extra homework this week. He will now have use of Dad's old chromebook only at the kitchen table for the next 3 months, until he pays off a new chromebook. And then, he'll get dad's old chromebook. He'll be able to take it back to his room then, but if it is seen anywhere but on a desk or table, he will be back at the kitchen table for 3 months.<br />
<br />
The saddest part is that he will no longer be able to find websites with boobies for Dad to check out before he locks them down.<br />
<br />
First world problems.<br />
<br />
(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-32519075068082060282015-10-04T12:51:00.000-05:002015-10-04T12:51:08.178-05:00How do you take your salvation?So, our priest is stepping down. He's youngish, he's a good priest, but he wants to be more involved in teaching than preaching. He gave a sermon in explanation today, and he said that his salvation had come to him through the mind. He'd been a high school dropout (as he's a PhD, I never would have guessed), and he found his way back to church through college courses.<br />
<br />
Strange, but completely understandable from that POV.<br />
<br />
Strange to me that the same sort of epiphany came to me during church today. The second reading had a quote from a psalm (8, if it matters to you) in it:<br />
<br />
"<span class="text Ps-8-5" id="en-NIV-14018">You have made them a little lower than the angels<sup> </sup></span><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span><span class="text Ps-8-5">and crowned them<sup> </sup>with glory and honor<sup> </sup></span></span><span class="text Ps-8-6" id="en-NIV-14019">You made them rulers over the works of your hands;</span><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-8-6">you put everything under their<sup> </sup>feet"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6">I spent a good portion of the prayers and readings trying to figure out where this was in my own memory. I knew it wasn't the reading, and then I started hearing a melody, and a harmony. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6">Before the end of the service, it had all come back, including the magnitude of feelings this piece bring in me. </span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6"><br /></span></span>
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6">So, if I am at all spiritual, it is musical. Only music can make me feel so small and so miraculous at the same time. </span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6"><br /></span></span>
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6">And if you like choral music, you may want to really listen to this one. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5oRLx_lsGCM">It's profound</a>. </span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6"><br /></span></span>
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6"><br /></span></span>
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-8-6">(*)></span></span><br />
<br />
birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-60281343385953946502015-04-09T19:04:00.000-05:002015-04-09T19:04:15.571-05:00A better way to say goodbye?Warning: this is not going to be a pretty, funny, or possibly even sane post.<br />
<br />
I think I'm losing it. Or maybe it's menopause.<br />
<br />
<br />
A terrible, terrible thing happened in my community recently. A young man... a boy took his own life.<br />
<br />
It started (for me) on facebook. I was asked to re-post a link to a site where folks were looking for this kid. It was right after the only really big snowfall of the season. And I remember thinking, oh gosh, either he's dead in the snow or he's been taken by a pedophile. And I don't know which is worse.<br />
<br />
A day or so later, the search page became a "celebration" page, celebrating his life. A life he had ended, apparently, because of an email he got. From a teacher.<br />
<br />
He was 13.<br />
<br />
I don't know why this has so absolutely devastated me. I remember opening the paper on the way to work that day and seeing that they had found his body. I remembered thinking oh no oh no oh no.<br />
<br />
And then I made the mistake of listening to his dad's speech at his memorial service. The boy had not been bullied and had, to all accounts, a blessed life. There were no signs. There was no warning. Just one afternoon he went out for a walk and he never came back again.<br />
<br />
I see my own boys - they're his age, and had he not gone to private school might have been in the same class. Could they do something like that?<br />
<br />
How does his mother live with this?<br />
How does his father, who spoke with such love and respect, live with this?<br />
<br />
I see a boy walking down a path to the woods and I think of that kid, walking alone, plotting his own demise.<br />
<br />
I think of him lying in that snow. All alone. For days.<br />
<br />
And I don't know why, but this has brought me to tears just so many times. I didn't even know that kid. But the thought of it just slays me. I want to go find him that afternoon. I want to save him.<br />
<br />
I think it's because I'm getting old. Or maybe it's because I see my boys and know it could so easily be one of them. Or maybe it's because of some similar stuff that's happened with some of my students this year. All I know is, just yesterday, this song came on my ipod, and I've been in a funk ever since. Hopefully writing this out will cleanse it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KhOkpJVjBkA">Patty Griffin: Goodbye</a><br /><div class="_UZe kno-fb-ctx">
<div>
Occured to me the other day<br />You've been gone now a couple years<br />well, I guess it takes while<br />For someone to really disappear<br />And I remember where I was<br />When the word came about you<br />It was a day much like today<br />the sky was bright, and wide, and blue</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
And I wonder where you are<br />And if the pain ends when you die<br />And I wonder if there was<br />Some better way to say goodbye</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Today my heart is big and sore<br />it's tryin' to push right through my skin<br />I won't see you anymore<br />I guess that's finally sinkin' in<br />'Cause you can't make somebody see</div>
<div>
With the simple words you say<br />All their beauty from within<br />Sometimes they just look away</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
But I wonder where you are<br />And if the pain ends when you die<br />And I wonder if there was<br />Some better way to say goodbye</div>
</div>
birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-35578146876147906752015-03-03T19:38:00.002-05:002015-03-03T19:38:34.529-05:00What's More Scary?I work in this crazy-old building. It's got "character." It's got so much old/crazy about it that it was used as a haunted school in a rather big movie. (I'm still a little leary of walking past the gym for fear of seeing dead people.)<br />
<br />
One of the charms is its plumbing (or lack thereof). We have a bathroom for teachers on my floor. It's this long room (doubles as a server room, HA!) and has a little closed-off water closet. This is co-ed.<br />
<br />
So, on my lunch break today, I had to make a call on nature. The light was on, which is our signal for "in use."<br />
<br />
I hate that.<br />
<br />
So, what's more scary? Going in after a dude has come out, the toilet seat is down and quite warm? Or going in after a chick (who's been in there for a rather large amount of time) and finding the seat up?<br />
<br />
Both have happened to me in the last week or so.<br />
<br />
<br />
Next time you complain about the temperature in your office, think of me, with my room either 90 or 50 because our antiquated boilers can only imitate rings of Dante's inferno. Think of me sharing that crappy (pun intended) bathroom with all and sundry because the only other teacher bathroom in the top 3 floors of the building has sewage backups.<br />
<br />
And know that I'm still having more fun at my job every day than most people have in a month!<br />
<br />
not that I won't take another 2 hour delay, if that's what this ice brings us.<br />
<br />
Over and out!<br />
<br />
(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-23773053383488146712015-01-31T09:25:00.000-05:002015-01-31T09:25:42.311-05:00Kids are the Most Fun Ever.So, I don't know if you know, but we had Snowmageddon this week. Well, not really.<br />
<br />
We were possibly maybe sortof gonna get hit by the Storm That Buried Boston. But it went east, so it missed us. Of course, it went east AFTER it stirred up a major brouhaha (and didn't I have to google THAT spelling!) amongst our local weather agents.<br />
<br />
Monday afternoon, my school district sent us all home at noon - in flurries. By evening, every school in the region had closed, based upon the certain impending snowpocalypse. But we'd received no official word from our schools here in the dusty aviary.<br />
<br />
So, the phone rings. Of course, it's the auto-dialer from the school announcing closure. But I answer it, interjecting a "no" or "not really" here and there. Stinks wasn't fooled until I said, "Look, please take me off your call list," well after the auto-message was over.<br />
<br />
Then John moved in with part two of the prank. He sent me an email, subject: "Not So Fast," saying he "found" this on the local news website:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><br /></b>
<b> From Philly.com:<br /><br /> (BlahBlah Township, PA) Most Philadelphia
suburban schools will close Tuesday in preparation for a massive
snowstorm that threatens to cause commuting headaches from Philadelphia
to Boston. <br /> But one area principal is taking a stand, declaring
that schools are too quick to close in inclement weather, angering and
inconveniencing parents . <br /> Dan BlahBlah, principal of BlahBlah
Middle School in BlahBlah PA, has declared that his school will be open
Tuesday, even if snow accumulations reach over a foot.<br />
"Basically, we have faith in our township clean-up teams can keep the
roads clear and make sure that our students won't miss a day of school"BlahBlah said. <br /> BlahBlah's stand is not popular with the students</b></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
(of course, I he had the real principal's name and the real school and area name)<br />
<br />
Now, you can tell by reading this that my spouse is a journalist at heart. He's also a bigger tease than ANY Harvey. He's just quieter about it. <br />
<br />
We eventually, after much guffawing, did give up that we were faking it and school had called out. Stinks insisted that he saw right through Dad's email, but that I had him with the telemarketer scheme.<br />
<br />
Next morning, when a grand total of 1.5 inches had fallen (thank the Lord), John got the kids up and said that they'd changed the closure to a 2 hour delay, because the storm missed us.<br />
<br />
They hadn't, of course.<br />
<br />
Whatever will we do to entertain ourselves when the grow up? Of course, if they're like us, they'll never grow up.<br />
<br />
(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-33043412774999504372014-12-27T12:23:00.002-05:002014-12-27T12:23:36.937-05:00Mary ChristmooseThe semi-chronicles of the Rogers clan - 2014.<br />
<br />
No pictures in this edition. Sorry. Also, not much of a year wrap-up, as we've done nothing of any note this year. Like every other year. So, dig up one of the old letters and read that if you want.<br />
<br />
Stinks has entered the high-profile-exec-who-was-caught-doing-wrong phase: "No pictures. No Comments." He's in the 8th grade and is convinced that everyone is watching him, but no one gives a crap about him. Ah, the delusions of adolescence. Much to Dad's chagrin, Stinky has 0 hobbies except boy scouts, camping, and video games. We did send him to computer programming camp this summer, which he liked and continues to fiddle with. Maybe he'll be a little nerd like his mom? Doubtful. But he is now as tall as his dad and loves to point that out.<br />
<br />
He's still mowing lawns and shoveling sidewalks, now to save toward a crazy-big camping excursion: <a href="http://www.philmontscoutranch.org/">Philmont scout camp</a>. He wants to go in 2016. Mom is a little scared about sending him way out there. He might get lost, and then there'd be paperwork to fill out.<br />
<br />
Unlike Tim, who really did get lost this year. (see october 12 blog). Fortunately, we found him before we called the fuzz. <br />
<br />
Moth is in middle school. He likes to push the envelope. Hell, he likes to push the entire mailbox full of envelopes. If I say, "be home at 5," he's all ready to negotiate, "how about 5:30?"<br />
<br />
To which I reply, "how about 5?"<br />
<br />
Rinse, lather, repeat, and then he concedes, grudgingly. And he gets home at 5:00:01.<br />
<br />
The boys both like to take trips to the library. This pleases their father greatly, as he believes they are reading many books of an academic bent. In this he could not be more wrong. They go to the library only to play video games, as we have never allowed them in the house. And when I say we, I mean John. I'm a bad parent at best who likes to keep the kids quiet by whatever means necessary. Video games are a relatively quiet way of keeping them out of my hair while I read fanfic. John thinks we can do better. Right.<br />
<br />
John purchased them both notebooks (computers that only allow internet access) and blocks every website except google, wikipedia and an educational (math and grammar) program. He assigns work on Monday for every night of the coming week. Every week of the year. <br />
<br />
Except Christmas. He did give them Christmas off. See, here are Moth's assignments for the week.<br />
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<br />
The boys did not find this humorous. They have taken to singing "you're a mean one Mr. Grinch" whenever he's in the room, as he's given them HOURS of school work over the break. <br />
<br />
Speaking of Grinch, we had no idea what to give the lads for Christmas. Two years ago, I broke the video game ban by purchasing DS's (think
gameboy if you're my age, and if you're older? meh, google it). (Dad's okay with them as he can confiscate
them, and does, until the extra work for the week is done.) Last year, we got them sunscreen, beach balls, travel kits, and to round it off, tickets to Curacao. It was the big family trip of the century. Seriously. We will be eating beans and weenies for approximately 2 more years, then we'll be done paying the loan shark off.<br />
<br />
But we didn't just present these presents. No siree. Two years ago, they opened socks and underwear first, and some other ridiculous gifts, then the DS's. Stunned joy.<br />
<br />
Last year, it was all of the silly presents. They really started to get suspicious when Aunt Mary sent them swimsuits and towels. The final present was a diving map of the place and pictures of the plane tickets. Stunned joy.<br />
<br />
This year, we had NO idea what to get. So I got a bunch of silly stuff, and, after JOHN suggested it, an XBOX. But how do you present this?<br />
<br />
I wrote up a letter which entitled each of the boys to a new, extra-long twin bed and one set of sheets. They've been complaining that their twin beds are too short, see. Really, it's an entree to "we need bigger beds in our own rooms!" Which will happen 2 minutes after never. I have 1 vermin-infested room. I will not have 2. But I figured they'd see the bed coupon and be like, "great." <br />
<br />
They opened everything, including the <a href="http://www.officeplayground.com/ProductImages_icohover.aspx?ProductId=225&index=0">flying monkey slingshots</a>. Seeing all the presents were silly (except the socks, which were useful), they were looking for "the Gift." Last, with building excitement (cause they're on to me) they got to the letter. They opened it, read it. They were like, "cool!!" All smiles and joy.<br />
<br />
They were actually excited about the fake present. Had I outfoxed myself?<br />
<br />
Hours later, well after lunch, and after Tim had crashed 3 of his <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003DSIBVQ/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o02_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1">Styrofoam gliders</a> and Sean had terrified Loki by chasing him around with the car Aunt Mary and Uncle Kim got him, I "found" a present for Dad. He opened it to find three distinctive green cases containing Madden whatever, some driving game, and some call of duty-type killer game. He was very excited.<br />
<br />
The boys were very confused.<br />
<br />
"Why does dad get them?"<br />
<br />
And out came the Xbox.<br />
<br />
Sean still doesn't believe we got it. "Mom, how did you get Dad to agree?"<br />
<br />
"It was his idea." And it was. See, our only TV is plugged into something called a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/VoltBolt-Power-Plug-Lock-out-included/dp/B002P6FQR4/ref=sr_1_16?ie=UTF8&qid=1419699867&sr=8-16&keywords=volt+lock">VoltBolt</a>. They will still not be able to play games, unless the emperor puts the thumbs up (and the key in). As soon as the boys keyed in to that (ha), they lost some of the video-game induced high. But they haven't started whistling Mr. Grinch, yet.<br />
<br />
I give it til Monday.<br />
<br />
That's my Christmas story, and I'm sticking to it.<br />
<br />
Wishing you a wonderful Holy-day season and a whacky new year, from bird land to your land (this land is, after all, your land. this land is my land... did I get it stuck in your head? Did I?).<br />
<br />
(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-53691937316177371472014-12-04T17:03:00.001-05:002014-12-04T17:03:19.855-05:00My Experience At The DMV...Well, that title should be enough to reel in a few readers.<br />
<br />
Sorry, it's been crazy busy this year. School is always busy, but this year, I feel like I live in Office Space. "Yeah, I'm going to have to go ahead and ask you to ....."fill in the blank with some ridiculous, time-consuming task. Several times.<br />
<br />
So, as per usual, I do as much as I can, and do it as well as I can, which is, specifically: not much, with overwhelming mediocrity. What can I say? Overachiever? Not it!<br />
<br />
But I am at school, most days, for about 10-11 hours. And attempting to go to the gym 3-4 times a week in the morning. And still raising (or trying to) two sprogs.<br />
<br />
So, something's gonna give. I'm simply too lazy to be this efficient.<br />
<br />
I forgot to renew my driver's license.<br />
<br />
I was all set to go last Friday, after Turkey day. I totally forgot. As I had done for WEEKS of Saturdays before this. My license expires tomorrow. So, I had to get it done this week.<br />
<br />
I left school with the kids on Monday (there's a shocker). Rushed home. Got to the DMV at 4:30. They closed at 4:15. What the heck kind of hours are 10:00-4:15, I ask you???<br />
<br />
We had parent-teacher conferences for report cards this week. I took the opportunity to leave 20 minutes early. (One irate parent called me while I was running to catch a train.) So, I get to the DMV.<br />
<br />
4:05. One person getting her picture done. Her attendant looks and sounds like Lurch. I was like, oh, man. He was SUPER slow, and I was afraid it would take until 4:15 for him to take her picture. (it did, btw).<br />
<br />
But another clerk comes out at 4:10. He looked normal. But my clue should have been his opening line.<br />
<br />
"Man, that potty break sure felt Gooooood!" with a big guffaw.<br />
<br />
I smiled, trying to keep my face calm. Those pictures are always so great to begin with. I don't need an "oh my gosh you're strange" look on my face.<br />
<br />
So, I answer the questions and fill in the organ donor thing and then he asks me to sign the signature box.<br />
<br />
He then proceeds to critique my signature. This doesn't look anything like your old signature. And it wasn't a second or two. He studied it, turned it sideways, upside down. Looks at me a few times like I'm trying to pretend to be me or something.<br />
<br />
I laugh nervously/frustratedly and say that I always have a hard time with the computer sign pads, and now that I sign papers all day, my writing's gotten worse.<br />
<br />
I do the signature again.<br />
<br />
Same thing.<br />
<br />
I'm getting super frustrated at this point. I go through the signature dance with him 4 - four - F-O-U-R times, and he still wasn't happy with it. Puts a demerit or some other horse hockey on my record. Then he takes my picture.<br />
<br />
I looked a bit like a homicidal maniac. Sadly, my glasses had too much glare, so he wanted to do the picture again.<br />
<br />
Reaching down for that one, tiny atom of Zen left in my system, I took off my glasses and attempted to "clear my mind" as Snape might say.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, my signature is just slightly more ridiculous than my picture which, sadly, is a good semblance of my everyday visual insanity. <br />
<br />
As the card is printing out, he comments on the fact that I'm a teacher. He states that he always hated school except math. And he only does math in his head. He doesn't like calculators. I asked if he could do trig in his head, because I was in one bitch of a mood at this point. He said that he wasn't allowed to take trig. He says he thinks the school discriminated against him. He couldn't be in sports either because they were afraid he would hurt himself. But he's had 24 fractures and none of them hurt. He doesn't even use Novocaine at the dentist. He doesn't feel pain.<br />
<br />
He's got a rather maniacal look in his eye as he says this. <br />
<br />
At this time, it's a bit after 4:15, and Lurch comes over and joins the conversation about pain. And they're holding my new license hostage, comparing their wound histories.<br />
<br />
I know I should have compassion, but THAT WAS THE MOST FRUSTRATING 10 MINUTES OF MY RECENT LIFE. And I teach in the inner city.<br />
<br />
And now, here I sit, laughing because that was such a surreal experience, how can you not? So, Lurch and NoPainMan? Thanks for the birthday laugh. It'll be a story for me to remember, and a reason to find a different DMV in 4 years.<br />
<br />
(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-47910159491986935072014-10-22T14:56:00.002-05:002014-10-22T14:56:48.805-05:00Wednesday AbsurditiesSo, it's hump day. Now that it's done, the week is more than half done. Right? In celebration, I wore a shirt that has camels on it.<br />
<br />
One person noticed all day. :P<br />
<br />
To be fair, I was guiding my students through a documentary on anthropogenic climate change. It was made back in 2008 and is sufficiently scary. Not in the way you think. Taking the viewer through a history of the treaties and protocols, the PBS mocumentary blames the senate for not signing the Kyoto protocol (Clinton was pres) and the president for sticking to that decision four years later (that's Bush). There are also lots of clips about how the US attitude and deportment toward CO2 control is changing now that the house and (at that point - soon) the white house are all dem controlled.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I've noticed a lot of hopey changey stuff since 2008. How about you? Ummm, I think we got some new windmills. Yeah. That's about it. Still burning coal. Digging for gas now.<br />
<br />
<br />
What's really sad is that all these people who are railing about climate change want to blame Americans. They want to blame us because we use too much stuff. Great. I'll admit it. I use too much stuff. Now, who's up for pulling an "Into The Wild" life, where you just dump everything and live off the "land" Little House style? I can bet none of the ppl behind this mocumentary are. It's good enough for you and me, but they're IMPORTANT people. In fact, the show went so far as to say that the only good change in attitude about global climate change has been caused by the morons in Hollywood. Hell, if those people, who have footprints 1000times mine, tell me to change my life? I'm going to ask them to LIVE my life, then tell me how to change.<br />
<br />
Hypocrites drive me bananas.<br />
<br />
And yet, I'm spewing this to my students.<br />
<br />
The fact is, I do believe in anthropogenic climate change. I do believe that we need to seriously think about how we spend our resources and I do believe that I need to get that idea across to the next generation. It's important. It's a big thought that will haunt future generations. <br />
<br />
I just wish I didn't feel slimy when I use these pre-produced republican and american bash fests. Sad thing is, straight up science will not convince anyone. People care more about Kim Kardashian and that rap dude she married than about climate change. So we need to sexy it up, make a villain of the piece. The unwary will look at this video and say "It's all the Republican's faults!" not realizing that who is really being blamed is the viewer, the slobbish, selfish, greedy American viewer.<br />
<br />
Enough. I'm gonna go eat a pizza, throw out half, play the TV, radio, keep on the lights, heat the house but open the windows, and leave the car running in the driveway for a few hours. I need the guilt for the penance I'm paying.<br />
<br />
(*)> birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-48305690961373472592014-10-12T09:14:00.000-05:002014-10-12T09:14:07.086-05:00They Mysteries of MothmanTim continues to confound us.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, he missed his bus home from school. To be clear, his school is about 2 miles from home. But it's horrific miles with highly trafficked roads and no sidewalks.<br />
<br />
So, I got the call but had my phone off (on a precious day off, I had gone to the movies with a friend). For some reason, toward the end of the movie, I turned on my phone to check the time and saw the missed phone calls and texts. This was about 3:15. He missed the bus at 2:45.<br />
<br />
I "rushed" home through Friday afternoon traffic, but the fastest I could get to the school was 4.<br />
<br />
He didn't wait.<br />
<br />
I looked for well over an hour: at the school and through its grounds, on the most likely route home, through our neighborhood. No moth. I was now completely freaked out and had been texting/calling John. We decided to call the police. I headed back toward the school with the idea of "one more try" and there he was, stomping down the road, crying.<br />
<br />
He'd gotten lost trying to find his way home.<br />
<br />
We came up with a plan if this ever happened again. The key component to the plan is "stay.,"<br />
<br />
Fast forward a week. John is late picking him up from soccer. He didn't wait. He walked home. John freaked out because he couldn't find him. Lather rinse repeat except this time, Moth didn't get lost. So we gave the "hug a tree" lecture again.<br />
<br />
Last night, when I had the boys out, we stopped at a rest stop and hit the bathrooms first. Our adventure had left us grimy and I wanted them to wash up before we got food. Well, I said wait outside the bathrooms. I come out, and he's nowhere to be found.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
He likes to flutter. What can I say? He's a moth. <br />
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<br />
Last night's adventure was a local spook-fest called Field Of Screams. I took Stinky and the Moth and a friend of Mothy's as this is a part of his birthday present late. (we like to go places or do things instead of giving presents). Anyhow, we went through the Den of Darkness which was creeptastic. Then we went through the Asylum which was also terrorlicious. The boys were sufficiently startled, scared, and just plain excited. We stopped for a snack so it could get dark enough to do the outdoor activities. There were a bunch of yellow jackets at the picnic tables.<br />
<br />
I think that the swarming bees scared them more than anything else last night.<br />
<br />
Speaking of scary, Sean is now almost 14. He's actively talking about driving. Crazy, right? He's a good kid, pretty responsible and respectful. I think he'll be a decent driver -better than I am anyway. Not saying much. But he has a bit of an appearances issue.<br />
<br />
He is totally embarrassed by his parents and our circumstances. In fact, he won't go to the eighth grade dance - the big social fest for his peers - because I said he could only go if I took him.<br />
<br />
Now, if I were my mother, I'd be upset that I embarrass him. Instead, I like to use it. Oh, yes, I'm Sean's weird mother. Embrace it.<br />
<br />
But it's not just my strangeness that embarrasses him. It's the house we have. The clothes we wear. (though this is the child who has 3 shirts he likes, and he wears them over and over again.) The cars we drive. <br />
<br />
So, anyhow, he's talking about how, when it's time for junior prom, he'll be old enough to date (16 in our house). I said, "yeah, and you'll be driving, too! I won't need to take you!" He smiled. I then added the sauce to the pudding: "And you can drive the Prius to pick up your date. It's a total chick-magnet kind of car."<br />
<br />
Smile erased. Instantly.<br />
<br />
Poor stinky. He's going to have to swallow the idea that he's not going to be Prince Charming. He's just an average joe, and trying to be something you aren't is a key ingredient to being miserable. But I guess he'll learn that in time. Don't we all? <br />
<br />
I'd love to add a picture of the big galoot here, but he has become allergic to getting his picture taken. If I sneak one in, maybe I'll edit. Instead, picture what he used to look like, only 6 feet tall now. :)<br />
<br />
<br />birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-718986031021513532014-08-05T08:58:00.003-05:002014-08-05T08:58:49.690-05:00Give it all to charity?I am a selfish person. I know this. I am also judgmental. These are two of my major flaws, and I do try to work on them. (Laziness, I just accept and go with).<br />
<br />
A friend posted a link to this video - of course it's only on Facebook, so I can't put a link here. The summary: a dude goes through a rich, suburban foodcourt asking for food. He's clean, polite, and everybody says no. Cut to a park where a homeless guy is sleeping. Dudes 2 and 3 offer said homeless guy a bag of food - not a huge amount, but a good sized meal. Dude 1, from the food court, comes along and asks homeless dude for some food, which homeless dude happily shares.<br />
<br />
Lessons? I guess there are a lot of them. Mostly, though, I think, is that having stuff makes you afraid of losing stuff. We're afraid to share with the beggar because we're afraid he has an ulterior motive and will try to take us for more. That's usually the reason people say no to beggars. It's not usually judgment, though sometimes it is. It's fear.<br />
<br />
I have three examples in my past that I remember where I tried to be generous.<br />
<br />
The first was when I was accompanying some of my dorm-mates to the Owl's Nest. I went to Temple in the height of the crack epidemic. It was a rather... interesting time to live on a middle-class island in the middle of North Philadelphia. So, crossing Broad Street at night in winter to go to a pizza joint was not something this farm-raised girl was used to. Also, please note, I was just going. I had no money to spend on pizza.<br />
<br />
So, we're jay-walking across the 4 lane road. On the median, there was a woman, shivering and crying. Her heat had been turned off. Her kids were cold. She needed help.<br />
<br />
I had no money, but I gave her my only scarf and gloves.<br />
<br />
The next night, I was coming back from the library, or someplace... I don't remember where. But she was on a different corner, shivering, crying, scarfless, gloveless, begging for money. I was also shivering, scarfless, and gloveless. And I felt like a complete rube. It was the last time I gave anything away when I was in college. I remember feeling justified in this selfishness when I was walking down broad street to my home in South Philly (LOOOOONG walk, but saved me the SEPTA token) and I saw the woman who begged for quarters at the SEPTA stop getting into her car. Her car. <br />
<br />
<br />
Years later, I was in the UK with my husband. It was our trip for ourselves - we had saved, we hadn't had kids yet. One of the things we did was stay in Birmingham (a total pit) because it was a train hub and we got trailpasses. Next to the train station was a Burger King. Outside the BK was a girl - probably my age at the time, maybe 5 years younger. She had a dog with her. She was hungry, wanted a milk shake. Now, I had been burned before. But the dog looked hungry. So I said, yeah, I'll get you a meal. What do you want? Fish sandwich and a milkshake, please, she replied. So, I went in and got her a fish sandwich and a bottle of water. Because I figured the dog could drink the water, but milkshakes are bad for dogs.<br />
<br />
She yelled at me that I couldn't even take an order, then tried to go in and exchange what I had gotten for a milkshake. The BK manager gave me a very dirty look, as though it was my fault this woman was making a scene because I had purchased food and given it to her.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The last incident was the only time I did direct charity was through my church. We have this thing going with a bunch of other churches. Interfaith Hospitality. One of the churches donates the building - a former rectory. The rest of us provide chaperones and food. They invite families who are down on their luck. Missed a rent payment, had an unexpected bill, whatever the situation. They are families with young children who are temporarily homeless. We provide food and shelter for a few weeks until they get on their feet.<br />
<br />
So, we volunteered to do a meal. It was December, and it was really, really cold. I remember being pregnant for Tim. Sean was 2 years old. He "helped" me make cookies and homemade bread. John made a huge lasagne and a big salad. The lady from church who had done this before and was going to show us the ropes made a big ham and green beans. It was a good spread for the 2 or 3 families who were in residence.<br />
<br />
We got there, and the one mother proceed to sneer at our food, saying she was Muslim and didn't eat no pork products. She then went over to the thermostat and turned up the heat to a very high temperature, saying she was cold. Except, it was at least 75 degrees in there already, because it was a lot warmer than my house.<br />
<br />
The families eventually all came in, ate the lasagne (it had sausage in it, but the other two families were ok with that), the first family heated up frozen entrees in the microwave since they didn't eat no pork, then they took all the cookies, took the bread, and left the room. We were told we were supposed to encourage socialization - eat with them, watch television or play games - but they didn't want anything from us. Not really. And they really, really didn't like us much. I guess they felt we were judging them, and to be truthful, I was. I didn't fault them for bad economic luck. I faulted them for bad manners and lack of respect for what they had been given. I was mostly angry because they had been so rude to that little old lady from my church.<br />
<br />
I guess what it comes down to is that these folks all acted as though they were owed a certain something, and when I tried to give them something, they were angry - not necessarily with me, but just angry. I took it personally. <br />
<br />
Mostly, now, I've stopped giving directly to people because I don't like feeling foolish. I don't like feeling that I've been somebody's mark. I'll take being called a selfish white bitch (that happened twice this school year alone) because you know what? I am. <br />
<br />
Sadly, I'm more okay with being called that than feeling like I've been used. Sadly, I am surprised when I say hello or good morning to the folks in the soup kitchen or free breakfast line say hi back, with no ulterior motive. Sadly, I feel like I have to justify to myself that I do give away blah blah blah as I sit in my nice house on my personal computer with wifi.<br />
<br />
Guess I have some more work to do.<br />
<br />birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-6626865587171429592014-07-28T05:59:00.005-05:002014-07-28T05:59:49.655-05:00My Dog, the NutMy dog is nuts. He wants to play ball or frisbee ALL THE TIME. Yes, he's a Border Collie.<br />
<br />
I think they're all nuts.<br />
<br />
But he's so sweet, such a nice little thing. Doesn't bark (unless he wants to play ball and you don't... err....), doesn't run away, doesn't jump on people, and is house trained.<br />
<br />
Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
You see, we have a basketball net at the end of our yard, on the street. It's kid bait. Most of the kids on our side of the block, at one point or another in the week, come over to shoot hoops. Sometimes with my kids, sometimes without. It's all good.<br />
<br />
But not for Loki the Dog.<br />
<br />
See, they're all playing ball. Yes, it's a really big ball that he can't catch. Could probably get really hurt if he played with them. But it DOESN'T MATTER. They're Playing Ball. Without Him!!<br />
<br />
No matter that this has been happening for the better part of 2 years now, he still, as my husband says so eloquently, "loses his shit:" every time kids are ballin, he's bawling.<br />
<br />
Cut to yesterday. I chased him out of our side room - we used to have a useless garage; we turned it into a suite for my mom when she stayed with us. Now John mostly uses it, in his big-honking chair next to the windows he reads the internets. The windows look over our driveway, toward the street court. I got home from my Long March of the day and wanted to sit and play video games there. It's a comfy chair! Loki was in there - I usually don't let him be in there because his hair stands out even worse in there than in the rest of the house. AND he'd been in John's chair. Sheesh.<br />
<br />
So I sit down, and I notice a wet spot on the arm of John's chair. The chair Loki had been sitting in. And the wet spot on the carpet, next to the window. Great. Now, he's peed in the house.<br />
<br />
Benefit of the doubt, I call John in. Were you drinking in here, and your glass either condensed on or spilled on the chair and floor? No, he says. And he looks at the chair arm in disgust. Then Loki comes into the room and stands at the window, crying.<br />
<br />
While I'm down sniffing at the stain, figuring out it's NOT pee, Loki's going nuts at the window - and drooling on the spot on the floor at his feet. The boys playing ball got him so excited, he DROOLED enough to leave big marks on the floor and the chair.<br />
<br />
Now, that's what I call obsession.<br />
<br />
He's a good dog, truly. But don't get between him and spherical objects. The results aren't pretty.birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-88553292399034564602014-06-22T08:47:00.001-05:002014-06-22T08:47:31.841-05:00This was some weekSo, this week was a crazy one. I thought since grades went in last week, it'd be easy peasy fresh and breezy....<br />
<br />
except, I'm no cover girl.<br />
<br />
<br />
Monday, I decided to try to update my OS on my mac, since I could no longer run ANYTHING. Firefox and such wouldn't update, so I couldn't even get in to my gradebook anymore... sigh. So, I ended up having to go to the Geniuses, because I wasn't about to let the tech at school wipe my computer.<br />
<br />
So, Apple wiped my computer.<br />
<br />
I spent all of Tuesday making sure all of my apps still work (thank god for time machine, and wow, upgrading was time consuming but EASY. Not like the old days where you'd have to reinstall everything. To note: My OS was from early 2008. And all my stuff still works after a wipe. LOVE it.)<br />
<br />
Wednesday was Moth's graduation from Elementary School. Yes. I said that right. Graduation. From Elementary school. Whatever.<br />
<br />
I went, because he's a sentimental sap, and he wanted me to. (rewind 2 years - stinky wanted me far, far away from the festivities. Mom embarrasses him by her very existence.)<br />
<br />
Wednesday was also our school's very first National Honors Society induction. I was on the committee. We selected 24 kids from the 60 or so that qualified by GPA. (not bad in a school of 500). School had closed at noon due to heat, and we still had a good turn out for the ceremony.<br />
<br />
Thursday was graduation, and I left 2 hours in. They hadn't e'en started handing out diplomas yet. I remember at good old TAHS we had a separate "senior awards night" and now I know why. As my students are wont to say, "it's too much, miss".<br />
<br />
Friday, I got up to go running, fell off my stairs, and hit my head/neck on the corner of my couch. Hard. Really, really hard. Gave myself a minor concussion. Scared the poop out of me, I tell ya. Having blood run from your ear is not cool. I had to go to school because it was close out day, but I spent the whole day wondering, why do athletes do it? Especially football players? I mean, I felt like I was gonna boot all day. And mine was MINOR. How do those guys - more WHY do those guys - put themselves at risk like that? Weird.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I delivered Stinky to my sister, who will show him what a nice mom is like. One he wouldn't be embarrassed of by her very existence. Alas. He'll find out that she hugs, and he'll be glad to return to me!<br />
<br />
That was my week. Somewhere in there, Comcast came and FINALLY (after 2+ weeks) turned the phone and internet back on. And now I can blog away! Right.<br />
<br />
(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-23023035621744043012014-06-17T09:29:00.000-05:002014-06-17T09:29:14.345-05:00What a Fiasco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
So, I've been a complete Basket Case lately. I missed Father's Day. I even missed my kid's piano recital. How did I get the video above? Well...<br />
<br />
I was 4 minutes late. FOUR. She had him go first, I suppose to reinforce to me that I ought to get to things on time. Shoot. If my mom didn't get that in my head, no piano teacher will succeed. And, generally, I'm on time. Even early. But, I was doing soccer mom x4 duty on Saturday. And, I've been a complete Basket Case lately.<br />
<br />
So, I walk in while he's playing his second song. I waited til the end of the recital, when everyone else left, and asked if he could play this one again. So, it's staged. And it's here because I can't mail it because it's Too Darn Big.<br />
<br />
<br />
In other news, um... there is no other news. I haven't had internet or phone service at home for 2 weeks now. Comcast customer service is a JOKE. When I called to reschedule an appointment after they failed to show, the rep had the utter gall to COMPLAIN about my cell phone line quality. I started talking like I was dealing with a foreign, mentally-challenged child. "THAT'S... BECAUSE... MY... REAL... PHONE... HAS... BEEN... OUT... FOR... A... WEEK." By the time I was giving my cell phone as a call back number (they apparently tried to confirm our appointment on the phone that is out... morons), practically yelling each number distinctly, Stinky was in stitches at my antics. <br />
<br />
Summer is rapidly approaching. We've got plans, though not evil ones. Unfortunately. And school police just ran down the hall - a NEVER occurrence at this school - so I have to go be newsy. Have a nice day, and pass it on.<br />
<br />
(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-89041177995831008162014-05-18T18:56:00.001-05:002014-05-18T18:56:06.504-05:0060's hits for 60's folksToday, I went to see the Philly Pops. I've always wanted to go see them, and it was a fun show. They had 4 dudes from Jersey Boys (not Jersey Shore) who call themselves the <a href="http://themidtownmen.com/">Midtown Men</a>. They were jammin. They sang all sorts of stuff from the 60's, backed by the Philly Pops orchestra. I couldn't help but wonder if some of those orchestral dudes weren't cursing at fate: they studied at Curtis to perform Rachmaninoff and Schoenberg, now they play Robinson and Spector. On the stage where the Philadelphia Orchestra plays, but still...<br />
<br />
Alas.<br />
<br />
As I was saying, it was a lot of fun. As I looked at the audience, I saw a lot of hair a bit greyer than mine, hips a lot stickier than mine. I saw one couple who was TOTALLY into the show, much to the chagrin of their stuck-up seat neighbors. That was quite a lot of fun to watch, actually. But still, I suppose that music is for the generation above mine - specifically that of my oldest siblings and cousins.<br />
<br />
I remember, as a kid, those cousins making fun of my Aunt Fannie and Uncle Don listening to muzak-type stuff: pops orchestras, like Arthur Feidler and the Boston Pops, performing radio hits. And now, those kids are paying for the privilege of watching what they used to dis. I think that's ironic, but ever since people started making fun of that song, I've never been certain what irony really is.<br />
<br />
Speaking of, I wonder, will Alanis will ever be muzaked? (you-you-you outta know; tune carried out by the french horn.) Will Smells Like Teen Spirit will ever be carried over into "pops" territory? Probably not, but some of my kid music, like Come On Eileen or We Got The Beat, seems to be custom-made. When I'm in the crowd listening, as an oldster, will I be the dancer across the way, or the stuck-up seat neighbor? I hope I'll be the dancer, but find myself rather empathetic with the snob.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should stick with Rachmaninoff!<br />
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(*)<birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-55062934098928888592014-05-11T18:05:00.000-05:002014-05-18T18:58:25.157-05:00the opiate of the massesToday was a Big Day for the boys.<br />
<br />
They got confirmed.<br />
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The Bishop raised hands over them, and lightning Did Not Hit The Church. I think this is headline worthy.<br />
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<br />
So as you may or may not know, John and I decided on a middle-of-the-road Episcopal church when we moved to the current aviary. I was raised Methodist; John is a recovering Catholic. We figured the Anglican church was a happy medium.<br />
<br />
We generally like our church. They mostly leave us alone and we do the same. We're not huggers; we're not joiners. Our church is okay with that. But in the last few years, our boys have been asked to acolyte. Our boys. Our little pyromaniacs. Carrying fire through the church.<br />
<br />
Still, there are so few kids their age the priest was stuck. And acolytes have to wear dresses, also known as robes. Humiliations galore, which fits in with our parenting style. So, we agreed. It, unfortunately, has the side effect of forcing John to go to the smells and bells service at least once a month.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, these confirmation classes started sometime this spring and have been going on for a while. This confirmation mass, which would be longer than the normal 1.5 hour mass, was looming over us like a cumulonimbus. We knew this service was going to be a doozy, with the bishop presiding over 3 confirmations and 2 baptisms (thank god Bishop Windbag retired a few years back... We still shudder about the 2 hour service that jabbermouth presided over a decade ago.) We knew we'd get through it, though. After all, it's all on the kids at this point.<br />
<br />
But on Thursday, the priest sends an email reminding us that our boys had to be in coat and tie.<br />
<br />
Our boys. Formal.<br />
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Great. Did I know this? I did not. It's Thursday, I am in the last crazy quarter at school, and we're having company all day on Saturday. What's a hag to do?<br />
<br />
So, I walked to Burlington Coat Factory after school. Thank God For Burlington Coat Factory (ha). I get home and say, "Boys, I have presents for you!"<br />
<br />
They were all jazzed. Then they saw suits. And dress shirts in bright colors. And ties. They whined. They grumbled.<br />
<br />
They acted like I do when I'm told I have to wear a dress.<br />
<br />
<br />
But once I got the suits ON them this morning, and they saw the mirror? Straightening of jackets. Squaring of shoulders.<br />
<br />
"Hey, I look pretty good!" Stinky says in amazement. (of course he does. He looks like his dad.)<br />
<br />
So Moth puts his on and says "Hey, I like suits!"<br />
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Still, they act like ratfinks:<br />
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<br />
Now, they're confirmed. My job is done. I think I'm going to become a wiccan: they have better holidays. They have holidays like every 1.5 months. There's equinoxes and solstices and samhain (halloween) and beltane (may day) and some crazy ones I've never heard of and are nigh impronouncable: imbolc and lughnasadh. Who doesn't want to celebrate St. Bridget's day? Or Walpurgis? It's gotta be better than Groundhog's day, even if it is the same time.<br />
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Anyway, now that I've got my religious jealousy under control, I'm signing off. I have all of 3 hours before I turn into a pumpkin and the weekly cycle of insanity begins again.<br />
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Later, gaters.birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9212409.post-32465880747349384422014-03-28T12:33:00.000-05:002014-03-28T12:33:26.942-05:00Environmental wasteSo, we have a guest speaker coming in today. She's going to talk to the kids about environmental conservation and her research in Antarctica.<br />
<br />
I find this dichotomy disturbing. If you truly wish to perform environmental conservation, stay the heck away from the last pristine biome in the world.<br />
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But there's recently been a tendency among us middle class ed-u-ma-cated folk to worship the "environmental" solutions, when common sense tells you: that's worse than what we were doing!<br />
<br />
case 1: my "green" dishwasher. If I use the "saver" cycle, I must completely wash my dishes first, and they don't go through a sanitization cycle. Then, they don't dry, so water just stands in the dishwasher. Talk about a "green" cycle. In order to actually get clean dishes, we have to use the "high heat" setting. Which is no longer green. :(<br />
<br />
case 2: the stupid CFL lightbulbs. Talk about a scam. GE and the rest couldn't compete with the Chinese when it came to making incandescent lightbulbs. Since their profit margin was dying, they decided to do what any honest American entrepreneur would do: legislate their problem away! They got congress to pass a law that all of us Yanks have to use CFL lightbulbs. You know them, the spiral bulbs that are supposed to last something like 5 years (NOT) and are full of TOXIC MERCURY SALTS. Nice. A bulb breaks, you need an EPA clean up kit. Additionally, they take for freaking EVER to warm up. God bless you if you put one of these crappy things outside. By the time the thing warms up enough to create light, it's morning. We've started buying LED lightbulbs, which are supposed to last 10 years (Right. Have they even had one for 10 years to test this?) but at least they're not toxic. And darn are they bright. I feel like the gestapo is questioning me when I turn one on in the morning.<br />
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I'm sure there are more. But thinking about the silliness and hypocrisy makes my teeth itch. Like that "Into the Wild" book. Just the idea of reading about some suburban kid who decided to "live off the land" and proceed to starve to death seems like an exercise in futility. I can't believe they made a movie out of that crap. I thought I was alone in this thinking, but <a href="http://www.alaskadispatch.com/article/chris-mccandless-example-20-years-later">apparently I am not</a>. Perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps there are more voices in the not-wilderness who respect the wilderness enough to leave it be.<br />
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But meanwhile, I'm sitting in an assembly, encouraging my kids to think about visiting Antarctica. Whatever.<br />
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(*)>birdwomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03430027415614308875noreply@blogger.com0