Coffee and Drivel, please...

Cool Public Art in...Concord?!

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 14:27:00 +0000

Proof that the little sleepy town of Concord, NC can have something cool to see, too:

Downtown Concord has become more eye appealing over the past year or so... with the restoration of the Coca-Cola sign and the amazing Frida Kahlo that greets you as you come up Cabarrus Avenue toward downtown. If you hop over onto McGill Avenue, you will pass three other large, public art pieces: a peacock, a Caribbean scene, and, currently in progress--an Indian inspired Elephant scene. Coming soon, a Roy Lichtenstein inspired piece for downtown proper... completely funded on kickstarter.

In fact, this awesome new art is the brainchild of Liz Gray, who details each project on her website. Go see pics of all the awesome art now in Concord and check out her I like ART of Concord NC facebook page to get updates.

Usually, B. and I head SOMEWHERE ELSE to take pictures and explore... but now I am itching to take my camera and actually document Concord. :)

Food: a 3 course discussion

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 03:18:00 +0000

So, food for thought:

USDA Cost of Food for December 2012

From time to time I critique my food purchases: do I *need* 2 cartons of ice cream? Is the brand name truly better tasting than the generic? (Note: I am fine with generic tomato products but I balk at generic cereals. Eww. And generic beans seem exploded and full of that weird bean syrup.) Still, when I'm standing in SuperTarget with my phone calculator out, trying to determine the unit price of toilet paper, I sometimes wonder if I am just a spendthrift, tossing money around willy nilly, wantonly purchasing soft toilet paper (damn you, Charmin Ultra Soft!) and springing for the delicious addiction of whole bean Dunkin' Donuts coffee....or if I am fairly "on point" with the average family of five shopper.

Turns out I still don't know. Are these numbers reasonable? They are average, so I imagine one has to take into consideration that the cost of living varies tremendously, depending on where in the US you happen to reside.

* * *
On a related note, S. and I decided to try something new tonight and made a vegetarian potato and bean enchilada dish that I found on allrecipes.com. I only made a few changes: mixed white and sweet potatoes, subbed jarred Pace Lime and Garlic Verde sauce for the tomatillos and onion, and added garlic and onion powder to the pinto beans... and it was DELICIOUS. Definitely a keeper!

Pic from allrecipes.com

Potato and Bean Enchiladas

* * *
Lastly, I just purchased Salt, Sugar, Fat: How the Food Giants Hooked Us and I am both excited and nervous to read it... when I read Fast Food Nation I swore off fast food for approximately one month. Maybe. I think I caved over McDonald's french fries (sweet little pieces of salty, crisp-soft heaven). Still, I heard a blip of an interview with the author, Michael Moss, and I was instantly intrigued... so much so that I actually paid REAL MONEY for the book. Having been brought up on the public library, I have a hard time coughing up cash for reading material. Seriously. It feels...wrong. Thus, it better be good. Or at least scare me into eating healthier. ;)

Thrift Shopping at the Gates of Possibility: or, how I get told I'm old--but young!--and end up with more than a new lamp

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 19:31:00 +0000

So today I was in Value Village, the "department thrift store" that reigns all over my region, when an older woman walked up to me. She admired E. in the sling, and then asked, "Were you born around here? If you were born at Cabarrus Memorial Hospital, then I probably helped deliver you. I am 96 years old and was a maternity nurse for 35 years, and it was just me back then! We didn't have the help, it was just one girl on the whole floor..." and she was off. She smiled, seemed sharp as the proverbial tack, and told me all about working in the 1940s, how she was paid 80 dollars a week and that wasn't enough.
"Is this your first?" she inquired, gesturing at E. who was gaping at her and chewing on a teether. I explained no, I have three. "How old are you?" she demanded. When I told her 37, she gaped. "Wow. You look too young to be that old!"

(internal dialogue: is this a compliment? Doesn't everyone look young when you yourself are practically an centenarian?)

I smiled and thanked her. That's the best practice, I think. ;)

And as I wandered off to sort through other people's castoffs, I thought of how that is the beauty of the thrift shop--I always meet people, hear stories, talk with others...albeit sometimes crazy others. The people who shop second hand are as varied as the merchandise--there are the collectors, eager to discover a specific find. There are the chronic impulse buying hoarders, their wire carts stacked high with stuff that just might fit someone, or was too good to pass up, despite the lack of need or use for said item. Or the affected girls, their eyes a studied bored as they sift through ironic eighties (or insert a decade/style/fashion here) clothes, their impossibly trim little bodies a living hanger for the fashion time capsules of the past. There are the practical, people who realize that an investment of time may yield a decent new piece for their wardrobe or home...or it may just be an expenditure of time with nothing to show for it. Some are searching, a desperate look to them, as if hoping there is something more than old clothes or ceramic praying hands, or someone's leftover refrigerator meat drawer insert...hungry for more than a thrift store can sate.

And then there are people like me, who feel the siren song of the unloved, the undiscovered, the waiting-to-be-found. I can be practical. I can be a hoarder. I can be affected. But I am always, always thrilled by the thought of what might be lurking, hidden one row down, on a lower shelf, at the bottom of a beat up cardboard box. It is the hunt that sustains me: the methodical shifting of clothing from one side of the rack to another, the practiced scanning of dozens of little knickknacks to discover...what? That's the allure.

And so I love the story, be it the old woman who smiled and talked, or the untold past of the newly discovered pendant lamp that I am sure will be perfect in our downstairs den. (If you're reading this, honey, I swear it is retro-chic and not just somebody's MaMaw's lamp.) Over the years, I have learned not to take them all home, but sometimes, the story is worth saving. (Or at least retelling: Yeah, she was in her nineties... but I'm focusing on the fact that she said I looked young. ;)

Coloring Inside the Lines

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 19:44:00 +0000

As anyone who knows me well can attest, I am a true girly-girl, one who loves makeup and trying out different looks, whether it be my hair or my eyeliner. I am also near sighted, so I have often been able to do my makeup without contacts in, if I wanted. So, last year when I was pregnant and began to have trouble seeing myself in my vintage makeup mirror, I chalked it up to hormones, went to see the dr. just in case, and came home with the reassurance that my vision was the same and should resolve once the baby arrived.

So. Just like that, eh?

Well, here I am nearly eight months later and I am so.fricking.blind when I try to look in the mirror, bleary eyed and before coffee. Awake and caffeinated, I am squinting and hunching in close, trying to determine the line of my eyeliner.

Suck.

Is this what getting old feels like? Like I need someone else to put on my makeup or paint my toe nails? I guess that would be pretty awesome if this trivial inconvenience is the extent of my gripes, but let me say that it is weird to not be able to see. With glasses on. With contacts in. I just feel...squinty.

Thus, I ordered my new favorite item:
Amazing Makeup Mirror that Actually Allows Me to See My Eyes Again!!!

The Jerdon Makeup Mirror with Day-Office-Evening-Home settings! I love that it seems all 1980s, like I should be following Color Me Beautiful guidelines (note: Just googled them and had no idea that it is still alive and kickin'--you can order makeup in your seasonal pallete!). The Day and Home settings are good--nice bright, even light, but the office setting? Only if you work in the morgue! It is a weird, greenish scary movie/institutional green. Ick! I might use it for next Halloween, though.

(A book I studied religiously after purchasing it at Goodwill in my early teens)

Now, I can magnify the hell out of my eyes and pores (not recommended) or simply light up my vanity and see, gloriously, every imperfection of my face. Spectacular! ;) Actually, it is pretty spectacular. Once I fix all the little things up close with the light on, I cut off the switch and tada--my makeup looks great.

Nothing says lovin' like something from the oven? Or something like that.

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 14:51:00 +0000

So, after years of neglect, I decided to dust off the old blog for old times sake, rework the atrophied writing muscles, and attempt to reflect and write again. This old thing? Yeah. I know. But there is within the husk of the old the seeds of the new, and as corny as that sounds (and as bad a metaphor as it may be, here I go with it): I want to plant it and see where it goes...grows? ;)

***
Ahem.

So, where does 2013 find me? Currently we are without a stove, a condition I haven't lived with since I was a college student living in a dorm. Even then, the first floor lobby had an old model, good enough for batches of cookies that I handed out freely to anyone walking by. I remember the dark smokiness of its interior, a beat up, unclean electric oven of questionable origin, on its last leg or heating element at the very least, and blackened with the remnants of countless frozen pizzas and leftovers gone wrong. Still, I would take my little electric hand mixer and Pyrex bowls and get to it: baking chocolate chip cookies was a necessity for me.

Then, and now, it isn't so much about the cookies themselves (though, as I told a friend the other day, I only eat about 8-12 cookies while baking, which sounded perfectly normal in my head but turned out to sound overindulgent out loud) as it is the process, the tastes of dough, the satisfaction of watching disparate ingredients go from individual to delectably whole: when my life feels out of control, when I am overwhelmed or stressed, the physical act of baking grounds me, reconnects me to something simple, direct, true: Baking is my therapy, and the lack of an oven is no small thing.

I first began my love affair with baking, cookies, specifically, when I was around 4th or 5th grade and joined 4-H. Seemingly antiquated by today's standards of after school activities--at least in my kids' eyes, that is--my experiences in 4-H had a profound influence on my skills in the kitchen and taught me the science behind cooking long before I had ever heard of Alton Brown. By high school, I comforted myself with cookies--bad day? Time to make cookies. I comforted others with cookies--baking umpteen batches to deliver to a nursing home. In fact, my wedding had a cookie table, heavily laden with cookies baked by friends, family, and me. At work, I bring rubbermaid containers of cookies for the workroom. Fast forward to recently: I overheard my son confidentially telling his friend as they played Minecraft: "My mom will make something sweet because you're here. She always does when I have friend over." And he's right.
I show love with food, specifically baked goods.

So, when my oven crapped out less than a week before my husband's birthday and I couldn't make his cake, it felt wrong. Not to him--he obliges me by eating my baked goods, but they don't hold the emotional significance, the power of being comfort and love wrapped up in homemade yumminess. My sister saved the day--she baked a delectable cheesecake, creamy and rich and delivered mid snow storm. I was grateful, but missed the process that I have come to associate with birthdays, with surprises, with you-just-got-off-the-bus-and-guess-what-mom-made: the ritual, the making. The baking.

Love.

* * *
So, in a few weeks when my shiny new all equipped convection oven arrives in all its unmarred glory, I will make my man a cake. Whether he likes it or not.

--

Amber

July.

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 18:36:00 +0000

Can it really be July 4th? It seems like the days flow out from under me too fast, regardless of my efforts to slow them down. In 26 days, my little I. will be nine. NINE!

I won't get too sentimental, but it is impossible to think that nine years could have passed in such a seemingly short time. If I logically untangle the years, I can see the vast ways that both he and I have changed... but the gloriously mixed up prism of memories has him playing Thomas Trains, ecstatically jumping in his johnny jump up in the kitchen doorway... coloring Transformers and playing his toy guitar.

Now, we discuss global warming and play Wii. He draws Phineas and Pherb and takes guitar lessons. Afternoons find him lazing about, reading voraciously... quite my son.

I am humbled and infinitely fortunate to have my children--but I will never again be unaware of the swift hand of time.

As the dust settles...

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 01:04:00 +0000

...this new year comes on tennis shoed feet, the parade of boxes and bags and the motley mix of furniture and random stuff that used to be my home.

I am apprehensive, excited: ready? Yes. But taking deep breaths all the same.

The kids are a mix, as varied as my things. S. is of course ecstatic--ready for the new. I. is more reluctant, clinging to the only home he has ever known.

Tonight I sit amid... nothing and everything, the memories of the past beaten back to faint lurkers in my mind. Bits of tinsel litter the wood floor; endless stray legos lie amid the newspaper and forgotten piles.

How do you pack up an old life? In jumbled boxes, in bits and pieces. In bags and crates and baskets. The reconfiguration is the release, the renewal.

I am happy and sad and it is okay: the new year begins.

Almost Thanksgiving...really? And other musings...

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 23:26:00 +0000

As I watched the kids playing with sharpened sticks and kicking up the multitude of leaves, I had one of those gripping thoughts: Another year has come and gone. Here are my babies, one with shaggy hair and a penchant for Harry Potter; the other a pipsqueak powerhouse, her singsong voice telling tales of mermaids and castles as she colors and draws.

I. asked me today: "Will I be sixteen when you're forty?"

Yes, baby. You will.

Tucking S. in on Friday night, I sang as I picked up toys--"Turn around, and you're two, turn around, and you're four... turn around, and you're a young girl, walking out of my door." That song gets me every time. I remember my own mother singing it, and the forlorn tone of it both captivated and puzzled me. Isn't the point of life to get older, grow wiser, move on? And yet, my mothering heart understands: how quickly pass the years.

Behold: PROMETHEA!

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 22:56:00 +0000

Well. I did it. Or rather, my sister did it. I finally achieved Promethea, minus her caduceus. A goddess worthy time was had, if I do say so. My sister went golden as well, channeling her inner Artemis, minus the bow. We figure our glitter was enough to make up for our lack of weaponry.

To see the "real" incarnation of Promethea, check out Alan Moore's "Promethea," from America's Best Comics.

It's a Blanket! WITH SLEEVES!

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 12:52:00 +0000

So, while, watching The Soup last night, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a blanket... but not just any blanket, my friends. Blankets themselves are troublesome; difficult. Using one might mean accidentally uncovering your feet or exposing an arm while you fumble with the remote. You might have to--gasp--get up off your cozy ass and walk to the kitchen for a snack.

But now you don't have to. Yep. That's right. And I can't say it any better than geekologie.

Here's the commerical:

AND YOU GET A PRESS AND OPEN BOOK LIGHT! Gee whiz, Betty, let's order today!

Of course, this is not a new level of laziness. I am always creeped out by the grown up "sleeper sacks."
Some have little cuffed feet, like the "Couch Sacks" from Fleece Corner. Nothing says sexy like the words "Couch" and "Sack" combined into one plaid fleece garment. Rrrrrrrr.

Hogwarts Happenings...

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 19:40:00 +0000

10 kids, six boys sleeping over, and a roomful of popcorn kernels later, I's Harry Potter Party was officially a hit.

Granted, I feel like I've been hit by the Hogwarts Express, but then, motherhood involves martyrdom, eh?

Party highlights: Most of the kids came dressed up in robes or witch hats, which was adorable... we had a "Potions Class" that involved Exploding Potion, Swirling Prismatic Potion, and Bouncing Black Beetles Potion. (The first: vinegar, food color, and baking soda...the second, milk with food color and a drop of dish soap, and lastly, craisins and Sprite.) They LOVED it--and thank god we did the activities outside! It was a glorious, foamy, vinegar-y mess. My hands still smell like I dyed a vat of easter eggs.
The boys had a "Bertie Botts Challenge" that involved closing their eyes, chosing a bean from the bag, and eating it, sight unseen. One boy cried, it tasted so awful... and I have to say, having played a similar game with my first box of beans, Jelly Belly has accurately captured some truly horrific flavors... soap being foul and long lasting, much like the real thing... and vomit making one feel, well, like vomiting. Earthworm has a lingering, dry, dirt taste that is only masked by eating something equally intense, like grape jelly. Thank the gods for the jelly and tuti fruitti mixed in!

I. requested a golden snitch cake, so S. and I obliged. We also had "Mexican Muggle Meat" (our HP version of tacos) and "Pumpkin Juice" (orange Koolaid dipped out of a tureen whilst dry ice bubbled and fogged below).

Now, the aftermath:

streamers and stickiness and the filth that occurs when your house is filled with 7-9 year old boys. Lucky me!

SHOUT AT THE DEVIL

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 02:20:00 +0000

Yep. I went to Crue Fest. And I am not ashamed to say it.

Yes. I got my picture taken with some shirtless tattooed drunk guy who reeked of sweat and cigarettes (so sexy) and who nearly tripped on me and my friend.

Yes, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. I think I'm still recovering.

Indie girl that I am, content to bob gently with the bass and nurse my imported beer, this was quite a new experience.

I sloshed american beer in a plastic cup and screamed along with the rest of the drunken, shirtless rednecks.

I kept my shirt on.

I have to admit, it was kind of a novelty to see fireworks and flames onstage... and I truly enjoyed their video screen accompaniment. When they played Same Old Situation, it was a medley of Bush, girl bush, and guns... images of war and explosions and oral sex. It was fairly political, which I didn't expect.

It was a very short set. I am used to the long encore, but they came back and played one song and they were done. D-O-N-E. I think Vince Neil was about to pass out from the sheer exertion of wearing those pants and trying to reach those notes, poor guy. Living a life of debauchery is hard on a fellow.

And, in case you're hankering for a little taste of the crue, enjoy this (via the impeccably tasteful Mr. Jones):

Holding on...

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sat, 10 May 2008 12:38:00 +0000

Complete immersion in the busyness of my life has left me worn, tired... barely treading water at times. UGG. This morning I got up, let the dog out, looked out on the back yard--the sun lit the top of the maple tree and the grass was still wet from the storms the night before... am I present in this moment? In this time? Sometimes I think I"m just managing to hold on, until... until I get it figured out, until school lets out in June, until I can juggle everything effectively to the standard I crave...

So. very. tired.

So I make cookies and mix tapes and drink too much coffee. Far too much diet Dr. Pepper. And I hope...

Meanwhile: EARWIGS ARE LIVING IN MY SCREEN DOOR. EGAD. I opened the door to put mail in the mailbox and a shower of huge, slick and crawly earwigs dropped on my head. ON MY HEAD!!! I still feel disgusting.

There IS a God!

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 01:27:00 +0000

Lo and behold, Bob Odenkirk and David Cross (of the legendary Mr. Show, which still warms the cockles of my heart when I wax nostalgic on the young Jack Black...sigh) are reuniting and filming a pilot sitcom for HBO, tentatively titled "David's Situation."

You can read the rest of the juicy news here at Paste Magazine, just like I did.

appropriate for the season...

Did you know that there are more than 7 deadly sins?

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 03:06:00 +0000

So, apparently the doctrine that inspired everyone from Dante to the run of the mill penitent has been revised for the new age: the seven deadly sins just got a heck of a lot longer.

Formally, the BIG seven--LUST, GLUTTONY, AVARICE, SLOTH, WRATH, ENVY, and PRIDE--could land you in boiling oil, freezing water, or with a mouthful of rats and snakes for all of eternity. Now, eternal damnation, like gramma's old sofa, has been repurposed for a new generation of sinners.

"The Vatican has overhauled its list of mortal sins, adding several more to cope with the age of globalisation.

The new sins take aim at those who undermine society in far reaching ways, including by taking or dealing in drugs, polluting the environment, and engaging in "manipulative" genetic science, The Times of London reports.

Also new to the list are paedophilia, abortion, and social injustices that cause poverty or 'the excessive accumulation of wealth by a few'." (via the age, via mark morford)

Catching Up...

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 21:51:00 +0000

SAW: Without giving too much away, let me just say that I thoroughly enjoyed the quirky sweetness of > Juno. The characters were too perfectly drawn to be real, but the fairytale-like self awareness of the film was endearing. With a stellar cast, the film is a true pleasure to watch both for performance and appearance... I loved the repeated theme of runners, the dark confines of the suburban homes, and the pristine innoculation of yuppiedom.

So worth a view, even if I weren't teaching pregnant teens and debating whether or not I'm too old to wear band t-shirts. ;)

HEARD: Can't get enough of Stars. Go buy some!

DID: I've got to say, being back in the classroom is both a blessing and a curse... but I love the individual spirit of some of my students. It makes up for the crap that I put up with on a day to day basis (can you move the sheet on the overhead? What page? I didn't know it was due! Can I have one more day? What are we doing? ARRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH)

ATE: You've got to eat the new Hershey's Nuggets Special Dark Truffles. Egad. Bliss in a tiny mouthful...

Get Behind me Satan

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 19:02:00 +0000

Nothing says merry christmas like getting rid of your devilish area code number, eh? Myself, I love calling the local Papa John's because the last part of the phone number? 666. SATAN'S PIZZA! No wonder it tastes so dang good, all covered with the mark of the beast...

We briefly looked at a house for sale with the house number "666"... we decided against it because, cute as a button, it was built out of asbestos. Nope. Even though I'm sure that would provide ample protection against the hellfire and brimstone, I was not interested in living in a possible carcinogenic abode. Recently, though, I drove by and noticed that the new owners had had the number changed to 669. Hmm. Interesting choice, is it not? Apparently Satan was no good, but spicy sexual practices? Right on.

Anyway, I was listening to the BBC the other night and heard this report about a town in Louisiana that struggled for FORTY years to get their area code changed from the dreaded prefix "666." Now residents can opt for the placid, non-Antichrist summoning "749." Yawn.

Their mayor explained that after four failed attempts, they are just so glad to have the new number because ""This is a good town. ... We're good Christian people.".

Happy Holidays

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 13:45:00 +0000

Christmas memories...
...lying under the Christmas tree, staring up into the branches and thinking it was like a little forest of lights, a magical world...
...the painful burn of hot peanut brittle under my hands as I stretched it, pulled it, making thin little threads of sugary goodness...
...dim-bright mornings, waiting for my sister to finish putting on her makeup so that we could open our presents...
...the first year I played Santa, staying up till 3 am wrapping and getting everything ready... and my son's eyes when he saw all the presents...
...candles in church, the hot wax dripping onto the circular cardboard protecter...

I hope you have a wonderful holiday.

Sweaters should not light up. No.

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 02:15:00 +0000

Ewww. As if the dreaded Christmas sweater couldn't get any worse: Now they light up.

Frickin' battery pack sweaters, with visions of migraines dancing in my head... I hoped the image would magically twinkle with lit up goodness... no such luck. Imagine those presents dancing amid little battery flashes of light. Isn't that festive? Don't you want one?

ACK! I stumbled upon them in the Steinmart flyer... but had to settle for this equally monstrous example from thesepurveyors of crap.

Wine with Everything, Please.

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 23:08:00 +0000

Since I drive the back roads of the county at wee morning hours, I have been craving something contemplative and lovely... and thus began my current obsession with Iron and Wine. I can't stop listening to Our Endless Numbered Days. I love the Calexico collaboration, In the Reins. The melancholy steadiness of that EP runs through my veins like a throbbing caffeine substitute... how strange to find clarity and awareness in what is essentially contemplative. In the past, I woke to the screams of Frank Black or the tongue twisting lyrical imperative of Steven Malkmus.

Somehow the gentle lullaby of Sam Beam permeates my darkened car and calls out the morning from the inevitable mist. Yawn. Coming awake in a quiet consciousness.

And so I picked up Shepherd's Dog this weekend...

Still listening, still absorbing... the groove of sound is very similar and yet wildly more layered, more intricate.

I love this album as a whole entity: Each song leads into the next, building and creating a contemplative mood. "Carousel" hearkens back, sound wise, to Our Endless Numbered Days. "House by the Sea" is a steady building groove that details some Odysseus-like lover's triangle.
My favorite tracks are "Resurrection Fern" and "Flightless Bird, American Mouth." In the first, Beam weaves a melancholy story of two lovers, their lives apparently dried up and dead, living like ghosts...but underneath the outward appearance is the promise of resurrection, the unfurling of life returned.
"In our days we will live like our ghosts will live/pitching glass at the cornfield crows and folding clothes(....)" And we’ll undress beside the ashes of the fire/Both our tender bellies wound in baling wire/All the more a pair of underwater pearls/Than the oak tree and its resurrection fern"

"Flightless Bird, American Mouth" has a soaring quality that brings a catch to my throat no matter how often I hear it... just lovely. The progression of the music carries it from a quiet, introspective start into a blossoming ballad, the lyrics underlined by the instruments. It's the perfect closing song; cryptic, longing, and melodic. Sigh. I could listen to Sam Beam breathe (ala "Cinder and Smoke") and be happy.

Now I’m a fat house cat/Cursing my sore blunt tongue / Watching the warm poison rats/ Curl through the wide white fence cracks/ Kissing on magazine photos/ Those fishing lures thrown in the cold and clean/ Blood of Christ mountain stream/ Have I found you?/ Flightless bird, brown hair bleeding / Or lost you? / American mouth/ Big bill, stuck going down

(lyrics from www.sing365.com)

The Sound of Silence

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sun, 04 Nov 2007 16:38:00 +0000

"As cellphone use has skyrocketed, making it hard to avoid hearing half a conversation in many public places, a small but growing band of rebels is turning to a blunt countermeasure: the cellphone jammer, a gadget that renders nearby mobile devices impotent."

(New York Times Technology: "Devices Enforce Cellular Silence, Sweet but Illegal")

Apparently, many people, fed up with the constant onslaught of private conversations in public space, have resorted to purchasing illegal "jammers, " a device that sends out a powerful radio signal that renders nearby cell phones incapable of communicating with cell towers. Basically, you hit a button and the neighboring phones go dead. Some of the more expensive jammers can be left on to create a cell phone dead zone.

Though I understand the desire to instantaneously cut off people's self absorbed cell phone conversations, I also find it equally self absorbed to assume that by vigilante "jamming" you are somehow providing a public service of sorts. Umm, no... instead of tolerating others' rudeness, you are asserting your own agenda front and center.

I hate hearing other people's inane chats. But at the same time, cutting off phone function seems harsh...downright invasive, and bordering on tyrannical. Who are you to decide if someone's phone conversation is superfluous?

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 10:04:00 +0000

In honor of Halloween, I just have to give a nod to the incomparable Elizabeth Montgomery. SIGH.

Possible Insanity

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Sat, 20 Oct 2007 17:22:00 +0000

For those of you who are interested to know what's filling my time as of late (because I know you just sit around, waiting for me to ramble on about some mindless crap in my head): I am teaching again. I may be crazy. I may never surface from under a stack of Scarlet Letter copies. I may end up sniffing overhead pens and slowly, rhythmically banging my head into a concrete wall...

or hey, it might not be so bad. My optimism is boundless, is it not?

We DO NOT spank, shake, bite, pinch, push, pull, slap, etc.

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 02:08:00 +0000

So, I'm filling out forms for after school care for my son when I come across the sheet on "Discipline and Behavior Management Policy."

These are real, people. I had to sign this form. There was a benign, touchy feely section on the things they "DO"--ie, listen to the children, praise, reward, stay consistent, etc. The opposite side was thus:

WE:
1. DO NOT spank, shake, bite, pinch, push, pull, slap, or otherwise physically punish the children.

2. DO NOT make fun of, yell at, threaten, make sarcastic remarks about, use profanity, or otherwise verbally abuse the children

3. DO NOT shame or punish the children when bathroom accidents occur.

4. DO NOT deny food or rest as punishment.

5.DO NOT relate discipline to eating, resting, or sleeping.

6.DO NOT leave the children alone, unattended, or without adult supervision.

7.DO NOT place the children in locked rooms, closets, or boxes as punishment.

8.DO NOT allow discipline of children by children.

9.DO NOT criticize, make fun of, or otherwise belittle children's parents, families, or ethnic groups.

Umm. Okay. Doesn't this stuff go without saying? I mean, BOXES?!

However, they are missing my mother's crucial behavioral device: the venerable FLYSWATTER.

Adventures in Children's Books

noreply@blogger.com (a.) — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 23:40:00 +0000

Lately, going to the library with Miss S. has been an adventure in controlling my temper. She is just so THRILLED to be surrounded by books, she can't contain herself... or her urge to push them off the shelf, grab them out and flip through them, or bounce about on the little book stool as if it were some kind of trampoline. SIGH. She is still learning library etiquette (although she does say "Shhhhh!" in a dramatic stage whisper when we reach the children's room).

So sometimes we get well chosen, age appropriate tomes with lovely illustrations and thoughtful stories. Other times we just get whatever crap we can and get out of there as quickly as possible.
Today was a lesson in survival; we ended up with Laurent De Brunhoff's Babar's Little Girl.

Now, I didn't grow up with Babar the Elephant. As I recall, I checked out one Babar story when I. was a baby and was disturbed that Babar marries his cousin, Celeste. Nice. Incestuous elephants. The perfect bedtime story!

So I wasn't expecting much in the way of charm when I brought this one home. Still, I wasn't expecting creepy, vaguely penile child molester camel characters to appear and "play" with Babar's precious little runaway daughter, Isabelle.
The story, condensed:

The book opens with big ole pregnant Celeste lying in the forest. A baby appears beside her: Isabelle. Everyone loves Isabelle because she is just so charming and active and darling. One day, she comes across a turtle stuck under a very large hippopotamus. She and her siblings ask the hippo to move, and when he refuses, they push him away, saving the grateful turtle. Awww. Isabelle has a big birthday party and gets headphones and roller skates. Yay. She takes off on her skates, finds a kitten, and doesn't come home for dinner, earning her the admonishment to not run off again. Woo. Then, one day, while the family is in the forest, little Isabelle wanders off on her own. She finds an old man in a boat and asks him to give her a ride; he obliges. Then, she marches up to a large house and knocks on the door of two weird old men who look strangely penile and imposing. Boover and Picardee can't wait to "play hide and seek" with Isabelle and she entertains herself in a room that is covered in mirrors. Um, okay? Then she does yoga with the two dudes, after which they decide to teach little innocent Isabelle how to play poker. Yeah. Nothing is more refreshing than a jazz trio and a little tap dancing, so they do that, too. Finally, they watch tv in their basement and there is Babar onscreen, pleading for the safe return of his daughter. Since the two men are having their car fixed, they decide to hang glide Isabelle back to her palace. Yep, hang glide. Both men kiss her goodbye and make excuses and leave quickly before meeting her parents. Isabelle is the envy of her siblings because of her marvelous adventure. The end.

Umm. This book is so wrong on so many levels. I felt creepy just thinking about these pedaphile men wanting to hang out with some strange, lost little girl, and the message of the book is, Look what a fabulous life Isabelle has, running off from home and doing her own thing! How cute she is! How adventurous! (Now, according to Amazon, these creepy men are "old family friends." Hmm. The book is definitely not a stand alone piece, then!)