I am eager for soccer season to end, for I can take it no more. Much to my surprise and horror, I am far too attached to outcomes, when what I should really be concerned about is whether or not my girls are enjoying themselves. My idiot-ness is compounded by the fact that R & V's team has only lost one game this season, while I think L's team has only WON one. I need off the emotional rollercoaster, thanks. I need to get my own damn life.
I exaggerate, of course. I have my own damn life. For example, I am quite enjoying my tutoring work with Reading Partners. My little gap-toothed tu-tee to-ta-lly loves me. "We gonna do this every day, right?" he said. And I said, "Just twice a week." He then nodded sagely and said, "I love Reading Partners. It's so fun." At first I found this a little hard to believe, but then I recalled that we start every session lounging on beanbags while I read to him from whatever books he chooses. Once he chose a book about reptiles, and we just screamed the whole time. So maybe it is fun for him.
This year I once again have in my possession a group of five strong 4th grade writers, and this time I have them for a whole hour every week. I've decided to start every session with a 5-minute freewrite, and this one kid totally cracked me up because his freewrite sounded just like mine when I was his age (for some reason they all wanted to share their freewrites, and I'm not one to balk at such enthusiasm): "My hand hurts. Why do we have to do this? I wish it was over. When will it be over? Seriously, my hand is going to fall off..." etc. etc. I told them that if they ran out of things to write, to just keep writing, "I am, I am, I am" over and over again until something showed up. All four girls at some point wrote, "I am awesome." Isn't that hilarious?!
Also, I'm teaching art in two separate 4th grade classroom, and three combined 2nd grade classrooms. Um, a little bit of art overload, I'll admit. But there are plenty of other parents helping out this year, so while I am responsible for lecture, discussion, project demo, and prep, I don't have to do as much during the actual project time. So, yay for not having my face smudged with charcoal or whatever every Friday!
I'm fully back in the swing with Latino/Community Outreach work, as well. I hit a wall with our previous administration, the end result of which was me running full force into said wall, and then collapsing into an unattractive heap on the floor. However, the new power-that-is truly gets it (gee, could it be because he is a personne de couleur? Mais oui!), and we have tons of momentum going at the moment. I plan to wrangle all the good energy into bringing adult English and literacy classes directly onto our campus. It'll be a pretty sweet trick, what with everyone's budget disappearing, but you just watch. Watch me and my own damn life.
So, while all this is going on, I try to remember that I am a writer, and that a writer should, you know, write. I think the fact that I have two manuscripts out there at the same time (I don't even remember the last time that happened) shows that I'm doing okay with this. When they return to me, rejected, I will wear the rejections as a badge of honor. I'll attach them to a flagpole and salute them. I'll frame them for the mantle. Tattoo the text on my bicep. Quote them verbatim at every opportunity. I'll even use them as an ingredient in an energy drink which I will then consume in three gulps.
But for now, it's late and I'm sleepy. Sea of Poppies, here I come.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Good Reading
I was just speeding blissfully through the pages of Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies when I realized that if I didn't slow down, it would be over too soon. But then I remembered that it's only the first of the Ibis trilogy, and I worked back up to a regular reading pace. It's one of those novels that truly creates an entire world, one that's populated with the most unlikely but believable characters, and that takes you from elation to tears with nothing but a section break to let you catch your breath. A woman was just snatched from her dead, opium-addicted husband's funeral pyre, made love to by a rescuer (from a lower caste!) whom she promptly marries in a do-it-yourself ceremony and, in an attempt to escape her family (who will not rest! will not rest! will not rest until she and her true love are DEAD!), has boarded a boat headed to Calcutta (and indentured servitude) with her strapping new husband. And that's just one strand of the story! Smack in the middle of it all is the human and environmental wreckage created by colonialism. And coming soon: the Opium Wars. It's just killing me, this novel. It's only 10:58, but I'm headed to bed so I can read some more...
Friday, October 30, 2009
Hallowhiny
I'm officially exhausted by Halloween and all its attendant duties. Shame on the soccer powers-that-be who decided that it would be a good idea for the under 10 girls to play TWO games on the day-of! Risa and Vida play at 9:00 and 4:45, which will leave them exhausted by the time they don, respectively, their pirate and harlequin costumes. They will be a Miss Pissed Pirate and Miss Holy Hell Harlequin.
We have 1,000 pumpkins, but none of them are carved.
I am making pumpkin soup tomorrow, which is something of a solace.
Also, I think I will melt peanut butter cups into the caramel. Apple, meet your new dip.
I don't remember the last time I was so excited about daylight savings time. Oh blessed extra hour of sleep.
Lea wears glasses now, same as I did when I was her age. I found it vaguely traumatizing when it happened to me, but today the glasses are so cute. On her first day at school, her friends came running. "Wow, Lea, you got GLASSES! You look COOOOOOL!"
We ate at a Brazilian Meat Palace (not the official name, silly) last night, and I have yet to recover. 'Twas a festival of beefiness, a parade of protein. But they also had pork encrusted with parmesan cheese. And chicken wrapped in bacon. And endlessly filled little plates of crispy polenta. So sick. So wrong. So very right.
We have 1,000 pumpkins, but none of them are carved.
I am making pumpkin soup tomorrow, which is something of a solace.
Also, I think I will melt peanut butter cups into the caramel. Apple, meet your new dip.
I don't remember the last time I was so excited about daylight savings time. Oh blessed extra hour of sleep.
Lea wears glasses now, same as I did when I was her age. I found it vaguely traumatizing when it happened to me, but today the glasses are so cute. On her first day at school, her friends came running. "Wow, Lea, you got GLASSES! You look COOOOOOL!"
We ate at a Brazilian Meat Palace (not the official name, silly) last night, and I have yet to recover. 'Twas a festival of beefiness, a parade of protein. But they also had pork encrusted with parmesan cheese. And chicken wrapped in bacon. And endlessly filled little plates of crispy polenta. So sick. So wrong. So very right.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Messy Nest
I could, if it were my nature, spend the entire day picking up after my children: shoes under the table, cardboard bits from class project, library book on the mantle, party favors, backpacks, lip balms, change purses, socks, shin guards, ponytail holders, hats, colored pencils, gluestick, homework folder. But it is not my nature. I do, however, shuffle the most offending items (backpack under the dining room table, for example) to their proper place. Why do I do this? Because sometimes I can't bear to order them around for the 276th time in 24 hours. Some would scoff, I suppose. Yes, children should learn to pick up after themselves. But also, children should not only be spoken to in an unbroken string of do-this and do-that and don't-do-this and don't-do-that. Sometimes I just need to let them be.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Day that Came Out of Left Field
Yesterday was weird. First of all, I actually submitted a story, an occurrence which happens about as often as a solar eclipse. Here's my modus operandi: I get ready to submit, and then I read over the piece, and then—for a variety of reasons, some ridiculous and some not so ridiculous—I demur. I repeat this many times as the deadline looms ever and ever closer. And then nine times out of ten I decide I'm a horrible writer, and I don't send the piece. Today, though, I was in an inexplicable throw-caution-to-the-wind mood, a start-living-or-start-dying mood, a get-over-it-you-dork mood, a what's-the-worse-that-could-happen mood. Like that. So, almost without thinking, I sent a little story out into the mean, mean world.
Also yesterday, while meeting with a non-profit group to discuss (yet again) ways to engage our Spanish-speaking parents more fully with our school culture, I was offered a job. This gave me great pause. "Your kids are older now," said the job-offerer, a lovely woman whose personality can convince an entire room filled with less-than-inspired people that their greatness is yet to be revealed. She knows this about my kids because she also offered me a job four years ago. "You gotta move on, girl," she added, one eyebrow raised.
And there is something to what she says. Really, how much longer do I remain in the rabid school-volunteer phase of my life? Soon the kids will be off to scary Middle School, where parent services are not so in-demand, and then what will I do with myself? The obvious answer is: write, stupid. But the truth is that I write more when my schedule is constricted. Leave me free and easy, and I will loll about doing very little. Fill up my calendar, and I grow determined to squeeze in writing time. Frankly, a job would help—not hinder—my output (it would do little for the state of my house, but that's another subject altogether).
Later, I broached the subject of Mothers Who Work Somewhere Besides Home with my children. The two older ones thought it would be "cool" for me to work. "Mom," said Vida, "I want you to be excellent."
I almost asked, "What do you mean? Am I not now excellent?" But then I decided that was a can of worms best left unopened. I turned to my youngest, and she squeezed her face up as if someone had pinched her really hard, began to cry, and said, "No, mama, no..."
Then one of the twins berated her, and she ran off weeping to her room. The other twin then berated the berating twin, and went to comfort her crying sister.
I ate some potato chips.
It was all too much for me, really.
And then later in the evening, I attended a PTA meeting at which much of the Latino outreach work we've done so far this year bore fruit. Big, fat, delicious, low-hanging fruit. I went to sleep very happy.
Still, weird day.
Also yesterday, while meeting with a non-profit group to discuss (yet again) ways to engage our Spanish-speaking parents more fully with our school culture, I was offered a job. This gave me great pause. "Your kids are older now," said the job-offerer, a lovely woman whose personality can convince an entire room filled with less-than-inspired people that their greatness is yet to be revealed. She knows this about my kids because she also offered me a job four years ago. "You gotta move on, girl," she added, one eyebrow raised.
And there is something to what she says. Really, how much longer do I remain in the rabid school-volunteer phase of my life? Soon the kids will be off to scary Middle School, where parent services are not so in-demand, and then what will I do with myself? The obvious answer is: write, stupid. But the truth is that I write more when my schedule is constricted. Leave me free and easy, and I will loll about doing very little. Fill up my calendar, and I grow determined to squeeze in writing time. Frankly, a job would help—not hinder—my output (it would do little for the state of my house, but that's another subject altogether).
Later, I broached the subject of Mothers Who Work Somewhere Besides Home with my children. The two older ones thought it would be "cool" for me to work. "Mom," said Vida, "I want you to be excellent."
I almost asked, "What do you mean? Am I not now excellent?" But then I decided that was a can of worms best left unopened. I turned to my youngest, and she squeezed her face up as if someone had pinched her really hard, began to cry, and said, "No, mama, no..."
Then one of the twins berated her, and she ran off weeping to her room. The other twin then berated the berating twin, and went to comfort her crying sister.
I ate some potato chips.
It was all too much for me, really.
And then later in the evening, I attended a PTA meeting at which much of the Latino outreach work we've done so far this year bore fruit. Big, fat, delicious, low-hanging fruit. I went to sleep very happy.
Still, weird day.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
I Want to Eat a Tootie in My Tootooooon
Today, in support of Jumpstart's "Read for the Record" campaign, a bunch of parents invaded the Preschool and Kindergarten classes to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to small groups of kids. In the opinion of your Nesting Ground Mistress, there are few activities more joyous. Plus, courtesy of one of our mom's generous employers, every kid received a brand new, shiny copy of the book.
I'm sure most of you know the story and are familiar with the stunning collages: there's a hungry caterpillar, and he eats a ton of fruit and snacks and gets, of course, a terrible stomachache. Then he eats through a big leaf and feels better. He builds himself a cocoon, goes to sleep for two weeks, and emerges a beautiful, gorge-a-mous butterfly.
While reading to my first group, I turned to the page with the large illustration of the cocoon, and this little girl started screaming and pointing. "A tootoooon! A tootooooon! It's...a... tootooooon!" And it was just so remarkably cute that I didn't even bother to correct her, and now there are five little kids skipping through their lives thinking a cocoon is a tootooooon. Somehow, I don't think it will ruin their lives.
Of course, I had to e-mail my little cousin (who is an educator), and she responded that there is a little girl in her Kindergarten that says "tootie" instead of "cookie."
So now all I want to do is eat a chocolate chip tootie in my tiny tootooooon. I'd invite you, but there's only room for one.
I'm sure most of you know the story and are familiar with the stunning collages: there's a hungry caterpillar, and he eats a ton of fruit and snacks and gets, of course, a terrible stomachache. Then he eats through a big leaf and feels better. He builds himself a cocoon, goes to sleep for two weeks, and emerges a beautiful, gorge-a-mous butterfly.
While reading to my first group, I turned to the page with the large illustration of the cocoon, and this little girl started screaming and pointing. "A tootoooon! A tootooooon! It's...a... tootooooon!" And it was just so remarkably cute that I didn't even bother to correct her, and now there are five little kids skipping through their lives thinking a cocoon is a tootooooon. Somehow, I don't think it will ruin their lives.
Of course, I had to e-mail my little cousin (who is an educator), and she responded that there is a little girl in her Kindergarten that says "tootie" instead of "cookie."
So now all I want to do is eat a chocolate chip tootie in my tiny tootooooon. I'd invite you, but there's only room for one.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
The Post In Which I Reveal the Reason Why I'm Once Again Engaged In a Scorching Love Affair with Writing
It's hard to believe that I've never taken a class at Kearny Street Workshop, but there you go: I've never taken a class at Kearny Street Workshop. Until this weekend, that is. And it is SO good. Which leaves me to wonder, of course, if it's ALWAYS so good. I already know that the answer, though, is no. Because there are too many variables at play. First, the instructor must be wonderful (generous, brilliant, accessible, truly present), the space must be conducive to creativity (clean, pleasant, generally distraction-free, with natural light, and let's see, what else...white walls), and—this is the trickiest thing of all—the group must be a pitch-perfect mix of writers.
All three of those heady requirements have been met by the workshop I'm attending (today was day 1), and this despite the fact that the other half of the space at PariSoMa was taken over by something called the Arse Elektronika festival. "You might walk out of this room and see, I don't know, robots fucking or something," said our teacher. See why I so enjoy her? Her name, by the way, is Minal Hajratwala.
I won't continue, as one of our group agreements is "confidentiality." (Do you think this post breaches it? I hope not) I will just add, though, that it helps so very much that your Nesting Ground Mistress is an old lady now, as this workshop would have been wasted on the young version of me. And whaddayaknow: that confession works well with the theme of the workshop, which is—of course it is—"Lost & Found."
All three of those heady requirements have been met by the workshop I'm attending (today was day 1), and this despite the fact that the other half of the space at PariSoMa was taken over by something called the Arse Elektronika festival. "You might walk out of this room and see, I don't know, robots fucking or something," said our teacher. See why I so enjoy her? Her name, by the way, is Minal Hajratwala.
I won't continue, as one of our group agreements is "confidentiality." (Do you think this post breaches it? I hope not) I will just add, though, that it helps so very much that your Nesting Ground Mistress is an old lady now, as this workshop would have been wasted on the young version of me. And whaddayaknow: that confession works well with the theme of the workshop, which is—of course it is—"Lost & Found."
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
From Helpless to Helpful
Well, September '09 has ended in a disconcerting flurry of island disasters, and they are all heartbreaking. It's easy to fall into despair, what with all the videos, photographs, ostensible government indifference and/or ineptitude, and individual stories of devastation. But why loll about in the quicksand Pit of Despair when you are perfectly capable of doing something? Send money? Sure! Send a little more? Why not! And then, of course, you can fill up a box with your used clothing and shoes and blankets and whatnot, and bring it to one of these drop-off spots. It will then be delivered—in most cases FREE—to the victims of Typhoon Ondoy in the Philippines.
Here's a list of drop-off points especially for all you Filipino and Filipino-friendly Californians. I pulled this directly from Moongirl, whose extensive list includes several ways for those of us who are not Philippine-based to help. You can check here whole list out here, but this is the California section:
California (Burlingame): MANILA BOX USA is now accepting donations in kind & will provide FREE shipping to Manila. Items will be sent by Sea Cargo and will delivered to the Whitespace Relief Center/Mar Roxas Headquarters in Cubao. Please drop them off at their warehouse: 361 Beach Road Burlingame , CA 94010 or call (650)342-2858. Please pack them in boxes for easier handling. Business hours Mon-Fri 9am-6pm
California (Carson/Hermosa Beach): We are collecting donations to send to flood victims in Manila. Our goal is to fill up a 40ft container in one week with new or used clothing,shoes, blankets,medicines,canned food items, etc. Dropoff Location : 205 West Torrance Blvd, Carson, CA 90745. We will be setting up a booth on Oct 3, 2009 at the Substance event in Hermosa Beach CA.
California (Cerritos): Our house is temp drop off point while we find a bigger venue. We’ll facilitate immediate shipment to Manila. Thank you in advance for your help. Pls pass. Dino & Jan Home:16622 Amberwood Way Cerritos, CA 90703; (562)404-0625
California (Hayward): Fil-Am Invitational BasketballLeague(FIBL) will send out relief goods in the philippines for the victims of the floods cause by typhoon ondoy…. if you want to make a donation clothing,canned goods or money please bring it on sunday 10/04/09 @ el rancho gym 541 blanche st. hayward ca. from 2:00 – 6:00pm please visit our website for direction
California (Daly City): Please contact Ryan Leano (626)534-4971. Liwanag Cultural Center, Hillside Park Clubhouse, 222 Lausanne Ave., Daly City, CA 94014.
California (LA): Relief goods accepted in LA! ANSWER ofc, 137 Virgil St, Rm 203, Los Angeles, CA
California (LA): TULONG SA PILIPINAS (STP): Accepting donations cash or check. Send to People’s CORE, 1610 Beverly Blvd. Suite No 2, Los Angeles, Ca 90026. Donations more than $50 is tax deductible. Material donations drop off ( donations; shoes, clothes, canned goods. medicines etc. ) at ANSWER LA office at 137 Virgil St. Room 203 , Los Angeles, CA 900042.
California (LA): Manila Forwarder will provide free balikbayan box shipment to Philippine National Red Cross, churches, and other government agencies directly responsible with relief operations. Please drop off the relief goods at: Manila Forwarder Headquarters, 4249 Eagle Rock Blvd Los Angeles, CA 90065, 1.800.210.1019323.478.1599
California (Oakland): Please contact Ryan Leano (626)534-4971. Asian Pacific Islander Youth Promoting Advocacy & Leadership. Attn: Armael Malinis, AnakBayan-East Bay. 310 8th Street, Suite 215. Oakland, CA 94710
California (San Diego): Alas Cargo 3126 E Plaza Blvd National City, CA 91950 (619) 470-1023; Eastern Express 8965 Mira Mesa Blvd (858) 578-8567
California (San Francisco): Stanford’s Pilipino American Student Union (PASU) is also collecting donations to be sent to the Philippines to help victims of Typhoon Ondoy (international name Ketsana). If you would like to make a donation, please contact AV David at avhdavid@stanford.edu or (650) 491-4561.
California (San Francisco): Click here.
California (San Francisco): Manila Forwarder will provide free balikbayan box shipment to Philippine National Red Cross, churches, and other government agencies directly responsible with relief operations. Please drop off the relief goods at: Manila Forwarder Northern California, 5750 Mission Street, San Francisco, CA 94112. Tel: 510-750-3036 / Tel: 209-3499576 / Tel: 415-239-9576
California (West Covina): Bamboo Bistro, 1559 E Amar Rd, West Covina, CA 91792. (626) 810-6131
I eagerly await tonight's episode of Glee because Glee makes me impossibly gleeful. A tonic for the times, as it were. If only it weren't on FOX...
Here's a list of drop-off points especially for all you Filipino and Filipino-friendly Californians. I pulled this directly from Moongirl, whose extensive list includes several ways for those of us who are not Philippine-based to help. You can check here whole list out here, but this is the California section:
California (Burlingame): MANILA BOX USA is now accepting donations in kind & will provide FREE shipping to Manila. Items will be sent by Sea Cargo and will delivered to the Whitespace Relief Center/Mar Roxas Headquarters in Cubao. Please drop them off at their warehouse: 361 Beach Road Burlingame , CA 94010 or call (650)342-2858. Please pack them in boxes for easier handling. Business hours Mon-Fri 9am-6pm
California (Carson/Hermosa Beach): We are collecting donations to send to flood victims in Manila. Our goal is to fill up a 40ft container in one week with new or used clothing,shoes, blankets,medicines,canned food items, etc. Dropoff Location : 205 West Torrance Blvd, Carson, CA 90745. We will be setting up a booth on Oct 3, 2009 at the Substance event in Hermosa Beach CA.
California (Cerritos): Our house is temp drop off point while we find a bigger venue. We’ll facilitate immediate shipment to Manila. Thank you in advance for your help. Pls pass. Dino & Jan Home:16622 Amberwood Way Cerritos, CA 90703; (562)404-0625
California (Hayward): Fil-Am Invitational BasketballLeague(FIBL) will send out relief goods in the philippines for the victims of the floods cause by typhoon ondoy…. if you want to make a donation clothing,canned goods or money please bring it on sunday 10/04/09 @ el rancho gym 541 blanche st. hayward ca. from 2:00 – 6:00pm please visit our website for direction
California (Daly City): Please contact Ryan Leano (626)534-4971. Liwanag Cultural Center, Hillside Park Clubhouse, 222 Lausanne Ave., Daly City, CA 94014.
California (LA): Relief goods accepted in LA! ANSWER ofc, 137 Virgil St, Rm 203, Los Angeles, CA
California (LA): TULONG SA PILIPINAS (STP): Accepting donations cash or check. Send to People’s CORE, 1610 Beverly Blvd. Suite No 2, Los Angeles, Ca 90026. Donations more than $50 is tax deductible. Material donations drop off ( donations; shoes, clothes, canned goods. medicines etc. ) at ANSWER LA office at 137 Virgil St. Room 203 , Los Angeles, CA 900042.
California (LA): Manila Forwarder will provide free balikbayan box shipment to Philippine National Red Cross, churches, and other government agencies directly responsible with relief operations. Please drop off the relief goods at: Manila Forwarder Headquarters, 4249 Eagle Rock Blvd Los Angeles, CA 90065, 1.800.210.1019323.478.1599
California (Oakland): Please contact Ryan Leano (626)534-4971. Asian Pacific Islander Youth Promoting Advocacy & Leadership. Attn: Armael Malinis, AnakBayan-East Bay. 310 8th Street, Suite 215. Oakland, CA 94710
California (San Diego): Alas Cargo 3126 E Plaza Blvd National City, CA 91950 (619) 470-1023; Eastern Express 8965 Mira Mesa Blvd (858) 578-8567
California (San Francisco): Stanford’s Pilipino American Student Union (PASU) is also collecting donations to be sent to the Philippines to help victims of Typhoon Ondoy (international name Ketsana). If you would like to make a donation, please contact AV David at avhdavid@stanford.edu or (650) 491-4561.
California (San Francisco): Click here.
California (San Francisco): Manila Forwarder will provide free balikbayan box shipment to Philippine National Red Cross, churches, and other government agencies directly responsible with relief operations. Please drop off the relief goods at: Manila Forwarder Northern California, 5750 Mission Street, San Francisco, CA 94112. Tel: 510-750-3036 / Tel: 209-3499576 / Tel: 415-239-9576
California (West Covina): Bamboo Bistro, 1559 E Amar Rd, West Covina, CA 91792. (626) 810-6131
***
I eagerly await tonight's episode of Glee because Glee makes me impossibly gleeful. A tonic for the times, as it were. If only it weren't on FOX...
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Post In Which I Use A Bad Word. Twice.
You know which day I have enjoyed most in the past few days? Saturday. We had to wake up early for Lea's 8:00 soccer game, but never mind! The child scored three goals—three! her first ever!—an occurrence we probably could have predicted, considering she is a whole head taller than most of the other players. But never mind! Why must I place caveats everywhere?
The big girls' game wasn't until much later, leaving me plenty of time for the PAWA/Arkipelago Reading at the Bayanihan Community Center. The afternoon's stellar lineup included poets Oliver de la Paz, Mari L'Esperance, and Joseph O. Legaspi, and musician Theresa Calpotura. You can see video and pictures here at the PAWA blog. I've been waving to Oliver from cyberspace for years now, so it was especially nice to meet The Actual Him. And the same goes for Joseph, who is blindingly charming, and who read a poem about watermelon that made me happy. As usual, I was deprived of the chance to mingle, as I had to skedaddle back home to catch the second soccer game. But I was able to purchase copies of Oliver's Furious Lullaby, and Joseph's Imago, and so should you.
So, this was really weird: Risa and Vida's team went up 4 to 0 before the half, at which point their coach would no longer let anybody cross midfield. The girls would run, run, run, and then stop at the line as if there were some sort of invisible fence (just like in LOST!). We soon realized it was because he didn't want to run up the score and thus dishearten the opposing players. It was the right thing to do, but I don't think the other side was particularly happy when it became clear that R & V's team had basically stopped playing. Of course, this couldn't last for long, and both Risa and Vida and another girl ended up scoring, after which they were called to the sidelines and gently admonished by their coach. The other team never did score and, yes, some of their players were in tears at the end, but I don't know. The whole thing was a little icky.
The NOT icky thing was that my adored little cousin and her hubbbband came to cheer the girls on, and then we went to eat at Rave Burger. Yes to sweeeeeeet potato fries! Yes to garlic fries! Yes to my "Chicken on Grass" sandwich, which was just a chicken breast topped with sauteed spinach and garlic! Yes! Yes!
And then we all went home and watched the Mayweather/Marquez bout, and I STILL do not care for Mr. Floyd. Mr. Floyd is distinctly unpleasant, entitled, and rude. When he fights Manny Pacquiao, I will be curled up in a ball peeking at the screen through my fingers, and I will be screaming and carrying on and making all sorts of bargains with the powers-that-be ("I promise if Manny Pacquiao wins, I will never think badly of anyone's shoes ever again. I promise if Manny Pacquiao wins, I will never secretly smirk at women who have landscapes painted on their nails. I promise, I promise."). Mark me well, for I do not lie.
After Mayweather's win, we turned our attention to what is surely one of the worst Jason Statham movies ever, and CERTAINLY the worst Joan Allen film ever: Death Race. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more unintentionally hilarious, Jason would...I don't know...do a bunch of shirtless pull-ups FOR NO REASON AT ALL. Or Joan would call Jason a "cocksucker," and I would think, "My God, Joan Allen, you once acted alongside Daniel Day Lewis, and now you're standing in front of Jason Statham and calling him a cocksucker."
And then I went to sleep.
MISCELLANEOUS 1: You want to know what I loved about Trader Joe's today? They played the Hawaii 5-0 theme song, and for some reason it filled me with a sense of purpose, and I sped all over the store, menu-planning as I went, and now I do not have to go to the store for the rest of the week. Maybe. And also, there was a lovely senior citizen lady working there, and really she was such a senior citizen that she moved very, very, very slowly while straightening out the bags of tortilla chips, but it was obviously her birthday because she was wearing a birthday crown (like with candles sticking up and everything), and it made me want to cry. And also, because of Joseph O. Legaspi, I bought a watermelon.
MISCELLANEOUS 2: Don't hate my new shoes because they're beautiful:
The big girls' game wasn't until much later, leaving me plenty of time for the PAWA/Arkipelago Reading at the Bayanihan Community Center. The afternoon's stellar lineup included poets Oliver de la Paz, Mari L'Esperance, and Joseph O. Legaspi, and musician Theresa Calpotura. You can see video and pictures here at the PAWA blog. I've been waving to Oliver from cyberspace for years now, so it was especially nice to meet The Actual Him. And the same goes for Joseph, who is blindingly charming, and who read a poem about watermelon that made me happy. As usual, I was deprived of the chance to mingle, as I had to skedaddle back home to catch the second soccer game. But I was able to purchase copies of Oliver's Furious Lullaby, and Joseph's Imago, and so should you.
So, this was really weird: Risa and Vida's team went up 4 to 0 before the half, at which point their coach would no longer let anybody cross midfield. The girls would run, run, run, and then stop at the line as if there were some sort of invisible fence (just like in LOST!). We soon realized it was because he didn't want to run up the score and thus dishearten the opposing players. It was the right thing to do, but I don't think the other side was particularly happy when it became clear that R & V's team had basically stopped playing. Of course, this couldn't last for long, and both Risa and Vida and another girl ended up scoring, after which they were called to the sidelines and gently admonished by their coach. The other team never did score and, yes, some of their players were in tears at the end, but I don't know. The whole thing was a little icky.
The NOT icky thing was that my adored little cousin and her hubbbband came to cheer the girls on, and then we went to eat at Rave Burger. Yes to sweeeeeeet potato fries! Yes to garlic fries! Yes to my "Chicken on Grass" sandwich, which was just a chicken breast topped with sauteed spinach and garlic! Yes! Yes!
And then we all went home and watched the Mayweather/Marquez bout, and I STILL do not care for Mr. Floyd. Mr. Floyd is distinctly unpleasant, entitled, and rude. When he fights Manny Pacquiao, I will be curled up in a ball peeking at the screen through my fingers, and I will be screaming and carrying on and making all sorts of bargains with the powers-that-be ("I promise if Manny Pacquiao wins, I will never think badly of anyone's shoes ever again. I promise if Manny Pacquiao wins, I will never secretly smirk at women who have landscapes painted on their nails. I promise, I promise."). Mark me well, for I do not lie.
After Mayweather's win, we turned our attention to what is surely one of the worst Jason Statham movies ever, and CERTAINLY the worst Joan Allen film ever: Death Race. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more unintentionally hilarious, Jason would...I don't know...do a bunch of shirtless pull-ups FOR NO REASON AT ALL. Or Joan would call Jason a "cocksucker," and I would think, "My God, Joan Allen, you once acted alongside Daniel Day Lewis, and now you're standing in front of Jason Statham and calling him a cocksucker."
And then I went to sleep.
***
MISCELLANEOUS 1: You want to know what I loved about Trader Joe's today? They played the Hawaii 5-0 theme song, and for some reason it filled me with a sense of purpose, and I sped all over the store, menu-planning as I went, and now I do not have to go to the store for the rest of the week. Maybe. And also, there was a lovely senior citizen lady working there, and really she was such a senior citizen that she moved very, very, very slowly while straightening out the bags of tortilla chips, but it was obviously her birthday because she was wearing a birthday crown (like with candles sticking up and everything), and it made me want to cry. And also, because of Joseph O. Legaspi, I bought a watermelon.
***
MISCELLANEOUS 2: Don't hate my new shoes because they're beautiful:
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Post In Which I Weigh In On Weighing In
A few days ago I was enjoying my weekly magazine flip-fest at a nearby bookstore, when I happened upon an article in a women's magazine (I think it was Allure), that displayed side-by-side, passport-style photos of female twins. Out of each pair, there was one twin who looked much younger than the other. Regardless of whether the twins were in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s or 60s, the older-looking one was inevitably lax about sunscreen, or was a smoker, or had been through a divorce or some other type of stressful situation. No real surprise, there. Ho hum. Yawn, scritch, daydream. BUT it turns out there was an additional factor at play. It was the big bang of the article, if you like, or its Ripley's believe-it-or-not moment. And here it is: in those twins who were UNDER the age of 40, it was inevitably the thinner one who appeared younger. But for those who were OVER the age of 40, it was always the heavier one who seemed kissed by the morning dew.
So I'm gonna go ahead and have a brownie now, thanks.
I kid! I prank! I am NOT going to have a brownie because I still experience some residual weight terror. You see, during my 6 weeks or so of mononucleosis misery, I lost 10.6 (look how ridiculously important it is to me to include that ".6"; that is how fraught with fraughtiness this subject remains) pounds. I know this because after the ordeal, it felt for all the world like I was walking out of my pants. Like I was in serious danger of leaving my pants behind me on the street. And so I hooked up the dusty iFit (we don't have a scale) to check my weight, and there it was in high definition: I'd lost 10.6 pounds. It was obviously all water and muscle, but did that realization keep me from feeling elated about the whole thing? No, it did not. All I knew is that I could wear ANYTHING in my closet. My friends joked that they, too, wanted to go on the "Mono Diet."
But then you know what happened? For the next 4 weeks—and I do not exaggerate here; not one bit—I was terrified to eat. Which is SUCH a bullshit thing. I love to eat. I love to cook. And I am an active person who dutifully records her hours of Intentional Movement (laugh if you like, but doesn't it sound more fun than "Exercise?") over at Daytum.com. And here are some other reasons why it was SUCH a bullshit thing: I don't particularly care for butter or margarine or sour cream or whipped cream or any kind of cream, really, including ice cream. I have the Asian Flu, so therefore I do not drink alcohol of any kind. It's true that fried and/or crispy foods add a dimension of delight to my life, however I keep them to a manageable minimum. In short, I should NOT be terrified to eat.
I slowly got over it, and with the exception of an occasional day when the aforementioned residual terror rears up and screams at me, I am back to eating like a normal person. I haven't weighed myself again, but I would imagine that I've probably gained back five pounds or so. And that's fine. I was fine before, and I'm fine now, and I really don't ever want to think about this again because it is SUCH bullshit.
Bullshit.
So I'm gonna go ahead and have a brownie now, thanks.
I kid! I prank! I am NOT going to have a brownie because I still experience some residual weight terror. You see, during my 6 weeks or so of mononucleosis misery, I lost 10.6 (look how ridiculously important it is to me to include that ".6"; that is how fraught with fraughtiness this subject remains) pounds. I know this because after the ordeal, it felt for all the world like I was walking out of my pants. Like I was in serious danger of leaving my pants behind me on the street. And so I hooked up the dusty iFit (we don't have a scale) to check my weight, and there it was in high definition: I'd lost 10.6 pounds. It was obviously all water and muscle, but did that realization keep me from feeling elated about the whole thing? No, it did not. All I knew is that I could wear ANYTHING in my closet. My friends joked that they, too, wanted to go on the "Mono Diet."
But then you know what happened? For the next 4 weeks—and I do not exaggerate here; not one bit—I was terrified to eat. Which is SUCH a bullshit thing. I love to eat. I love to cook. And I am an active person who dutifully records her hours of Intentional Movement (laugh if you like, but doesn't it sound more fun than "Exercise?") over at Daytum.com. And here are some other reasons why it was SUCH a bullshit thing: I don't particularly care for butter or margarine or sour cream or whipped cream or any kind of cream, really, including ice cream. I have the Asian Flu, so therefore I do not drink alcohol of any kind. It's true that fried and/or crispy foods add a dimension of delight to my life, however I keep them to a manageable minimum. In short, I should NOT be terrified to eat.
I slowly got over it, and with the exception of an occasional day when the aforementioned residual terror rears up and screams at me, I am back to eating like a normal person. I haven't weighed myself again, but I would imagine that I've probably gained back five pounds or so. And that's fine. I was fine before, and I'm fine now, and I really don't ever want to think about this again because it is SUCH bullshit.
Bullshit.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Post In Which I Somehow End Up Referencing Firefighters
Now that the school auction is over, I've turned my attention back to hearth and home just in time to prevent the five-foot-high pile of laundry from toppling over and injuring one of the children. It's been like this every year for the past six years and it's comforting, in a way, to know ahead of time that this portion of September will be spent rescuing my house from itself and re-calibrating the rhythm of daily family life.
Speaking of family life, it's come to my attention that I no longer have a baby. Lea may still pronounce her name "Waya," and people may still sometimes have difficulty deciphering her sentences ("park" is still "pahk," for example), but there is no denying her newly acquired second-grade swagger. She's been asking if maybe she should visit the speech therapist, and her instinct is probably right, but it makes me so sad.
As for the twinkers, they are obsessed with...cartwheels. Have I mentioned this before? That they turn at least a hundred cartwheels a day? WHY do they do this? It forces me to sound like The Crankiest And Most OCD Woman Alive: "Wash your hands. Go wash your hands. You need to wash your hands. You better wash your hands. Wash your hands, wash your hands, wash your hands."
Hey, guess what we bought at the auction? We bought firefighters. They come to your house in their firetruck, and they BBQ stuff for you, and then they chase you around with their, um, firefighter hose while you scream.
You are so very jealous right now.
Speaking of family life, it's come to my attention that I no longer have a baby. Lea may still pronounce her name "Waya," and people may still sometimes have difficulty deciphering her sentences ("park" is still "pahk," for example), but there is no denying her newly acquired second-grade swagger. She's been asking if maybe she should visit the speech therapist, and her instinct is probably right, but it makes me so sad.
As for the twinkers, they are obsessed with...cartwheels. Have I mentioned this before? That they turn at least a hundred cartwheels a day? WHY do they do this? It forces me to sound like The Crankiest And Most OCD Woman Alive: "Wash your hands. Go wash your hands. You need to wash your hands. You better wash your hands. Wash your hands, wash your hands, wash your hands."
Hey, guess what we bought at the auction? We bought firefighters. They come to your house in their firetruck, and they BBQ stuff for you, and then they chase you around with their, um, firefighter hose while you scream.
You are so very jealous right now.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A List Written While Watching Anderson Cooper
In the time since I last updated my blog, the following things have occurred:
1) Gray hair popped up all over my head. I have had no time to correct this grave mistake of Mother Nature, but I have managed to waste several minutes musing on the fact that post-40 personal upkeep is annoying, time-consuming, and expensive. *waves fists at the heavens*
2) Some joker in Congress called our President a liar. Not only is this bad form, it's...bad form. And there's nothing worse than bad form. Plus, it just really, really, really pissed me off.
3) I purchased an iron. We have not had an iron in this house for at least a year. I'm staring at it now; it's like sculpture. Home sculpture.
4) I read A Mouse and His Motorcycle to Lea.
5) I squealed with delight when Risa's teacher informed us that the class would be reading Island of the Blue Dolphins.
6) I successfully ignored several phone calls from my dentist's office because I don't want to go to my cleaning, and I don't want a new crown (unless it sits on my head, is jewel-encrusted, and indicates that people must kneel before me), and I don't want to be miserable.
7) I wrapped prosciutto around asparagus and grilled it on the stovetop.
8) I surprised myself by being mentally prepared for the inevitable meltdowns each of my children undergoes as they get used to being in school for seven hours a day. I breathed in, I breathed out, I breathed in, I breathed out.
9) I became distracted by that slightly nuts CNN war correspondent with the crooked nose.
10) I bought a hat.
I'm lying! I'm lying! I did not buy a hat.
1) Gray hair popped up all over my head. I have had no time to correct this grave mistake of Mother Nature, but I have managed to waste several minutes musing on the fact that post-40 personal upkeep is annoying, time-consuming, and expensive. *waves fists at the heavens*
2) Some joker in Congress called our President a liar. Not only is this bad form, it's...bad form. And there's nothing worse than bad form. Plus, it just really, really, really pissed me off.
3) I purchased an iron. We have not had an iron in this house for at least a year. I'm staring at it now; it's like sculpture. Home sculpture.
4) I read A Mouse and His Motorcycle to Lea.
5) I squealed with delight when Risa's teacher informed us that the class would be reading Island of the Blue Dolphins.
6) I successfully ignored several phone calls from my dentist's office because I don't want to go to my cleaning, and I don't want a new crown (unless it sits on my head, is jewel-encrusted, and indicates that people must kneel before me), and I don't want to be miserable.
7) I wrapped prosciutto around asparagus and grilled it on the stovetop.
8) I surprised myself by being mentally prepared for the inevitable meltdowns each of my children undergoes as they get used to being in school for seven hours a day. I breathed in, I breathed out, I breathed in, I breathed out.
9) I became distracted by that slightly nuts CNN war correspondent with the crooked nose.
10) I bought a hat.
I'm lying! I'm lying! I did not buy a hat.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
See Ya, Summer
We're in the middle of back-to-school week, and the going has been refreshingly smooth. Of course, with all the preparation we did, I wouldn't have expected less. There was, first of all, The Great Sprinkles Event:
During this event, we consumed pricey, calorie-laden cupcakes and stuck the famous Sprinkles polka dots on the tips of our noses. Like so:
Treat gorging was quickly followed by The Afternoon de Appliques:
This afternoon consisted of much quiet cursing on my part, as I did not have the best scissors for cutting felt. But never mind! We succeeded in elevating the average lunchbox into...the average lunchbox with felt glued to the front of it. Yay us!
There was also the Infamous Day of Sartorial School Shopping. I have no pictures of this day, as I was too fully engrossed in the task at hand. I took the girls one at a time (switching off with the SU, who was in charge of procuring soccer cleats and shin guards), and I ended up clocking in 6 hours. That's a lot of...retail.
And then there was The Great Hair Adventure:
Isn't that creepy? Seeing those three ponytails laying there like that? They are currently sitting in a bag on my dresser, but I will shortly (haha!) send them as a donation to Pantene's Beautiful Lengths program. There are 26 inches of it, after all.
This frenzy of generally pleasant activity culminated in..ta-da!...The First Day of School:
And we're off...
During this event, we consumed pricey, calorie-laden cupcakes and stuck the famous Sprinkles polka dots on the tips of our noses. Like so:
Treat gorging was quickly followed by The Afternoon de Appliques:
This afternoon consisted of much quiet cursing on my part, as I did not have the best scissors for cutting felt. But never mind! We succeeded in elevating the average lunchbox into...the average lunchbox with felt glued to the front of it. Yay us!
There was also the Infamous Day of Sartorial School Shopping. I have no pictures of this day, as I was too fully engrossed in the task at hand. I took the girls one at a time (switching off with the SU, who was in charge of procuring soccer cleats and shin guards), and I ended up clocking in 6 hours. That's a lot of...retail.
And then there was The Great Hair Adventure:
Isn't that creepy? Seeing those three ponytails laying there like that? They are currently sitting in a bag on my dresser, but I will shortly (haha!) send them as a donation to Pantene's Beautiful Lengths program. There are 26 inches of it, after all.
This frenzy of generally pleasant activity culminated in..ta-da!...The First Day of School:
And we're off...
Monday, August 24, 2009
At Least There Won't Be a Quiz
I'm 200 pages into From Dawn to Decadence: 1500 to the Present by the late Jacques Barzun (he was born in 1907, so I assume he is no longer with us, but who knows? Perhaps he is sitting in a recliner somewhere with a wool blanket over his legs writing a thousand more pages that I will feel compelled to purchase), but I may as well be two pages in because as soon as I finish a page I immediately forget everything I've just read. Or almost everything I've just read. I recall the odd details, the tiny things that are not of much consequence. The fact (and one that I've mentioned here before) that Montaigne's father kept a musician on the payroll so that his son might awake each morning to the gentle strains of a flute, for example. Or that the use of all caps was stopped during Medieval times which proves, I guess, that Medieval times weren't all that Medieval. Also, it wasn't easy to make chainmail armor, you know.
And that's basically all I have to show for 200 pages. I am so awesome.
There are other things I must read. My fellow writing group member has completely overhauled his novel, and I must read it. Soon.
I, too, have completely overhauled something, and I must read it. Also soon.
John Crowley's Aegypt Cycle has just been reissued by Overlook Press, and I must purchase all four volumes and read them. Sooner rather than later.
I periodically re-visit Entering the Stream, and that period has arrived, so I must read it. Which I am, right now.
To reassure myself that I am not inadvertently engineering the destruction of my beloved daughters, I have just purchased So Sexy, So Soon, so I must read it. Yesterday.
I should probably get going now.
And that's basically all I have to show for 200 pages. I am so awesome.
***
There are other things I must read. My fellow writing group member has completely overhauled his novel, and I must read it. Soon.
I, too, have completely overhauled something, and I must read it. Also soon.
John Crowley's Aegypt Cycle has just been reissued by Overlook Press, and I must purchase all four volumes and read them. Sooner rather than later.
I periodically re-visit Entering the Stream, and that period has arrived, so I must read it. Which I am, right now.
To reassure myself that I am not inadvertently engineering the destruction of my beloved daughters, I have just purchased So Sexy, So Soon, so I must read it. Yesterday.
I should probably get going now.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
I Wish & I Fish
I've come to think of summer as a sort of standing-in-line for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, with Mr. Toad's Wild Ride being—of course—school. Here are some things I wish:
I wish I could, in good conscience, let my kids eat their school's hot lunch offerings, but since I cannot, I wish someone would invent a Rube Goldberg-inspired sandwich-making machine.
I wish the powers-that-be would stop hatch-hatch-hatcheting the education budget, but since they will not, me and my fellow parents will keep giving, raising, giving, raising, and giving money.
I wish I had not promised to make Aranzi Aronzo felt appliques for the girls' lunchboxes, but since I did, I will have to follow through. So far, I've completed a ram (a ram?!) for Lea's. It will be monkey for Ri and a fox for Vi.
There's been a little lull in my writing. I'm not a prolific writer in the first place, so I'm used to these fallow periods when I just collect stuff in my head—images, people, situations, etc.—without committing anything to paper/screen. It's been awhile, though, and still nothing is truly bubbling up, so I'm starting do to the antsy-pantsy dance (it's a dance that leaves much to be desired, complete with deeply pained facial expressions and much unattractive twisting and turning of the body). I was fishing around for a push when I saw Dan Chaon's guest post over at Well-Read Donkey. I love the way he has actual photographs of the places his characters live. Such a simple but smart thing to do, and so easy in this age of camera phones.
And then there's the Significant Objects Project, which is k-i-l-l-i-n-g me. The project bought various items from thrift stores and garage sales for a total of about $48 thus far. They then commissioned writers to create stories about the items, with the idea being that the stories will up the value of the items. To prove their hypothesis, they put the objects up for sale on eBay and included the story in the item description. And so far they've made more than $1,000. I love this.
Finally, my cousin Luj linked to yet another inspiring project called Mysterious Letters, in which two friends write one-of-a-kind handwritten letters—467 of them—to everyone who lives in a particular Irish village. Swoon.
I wish I could, in good conscience, let my kids eat their school's hot lunch offerings, but since I cannot, I wish someone would invent a Rube Goldberg-inspired sandwich-making machine.
I wish the powers-that-be would stop hatch-hatch-hatcheting the education budget, but since they will not, me and my fellow parents will keep giving, raising, giving, raising, and giving money.
I wish I had not promised to make Aranzi Aronzo felt appliques for the girls' lunchboxes, but since I did, I will have to follow through. So far, I've completed a ram (a ram?!) for Lea's. It will be monkey for Ri and a fox for Vi.
***
There's been a little lull in my writing. I'm not a prolific writer in the first place, so I'm used to these fallow periods when I just collect stuff in my head—images, people, situations, etc.—without committing anything to paper/screen. It's been awhile, though, and still nothing is truly bubbling up, so I'm starting do to the antsy-pantsy dance (it's a dance that leaves much to be desired, complete with deeply pained facial expressions and much unattractive twisting and turning of the body). I was fishing around for a push when I saw Dan Chaon's guest post over at Well-Read Donkey. I love the way he has actual photographs of the places his characters live. Such a simple but smart thing to do, and so easy in this age of camera phones.
And then there's the Significant Objects Project, which is k-i-l-l-i-n-g me. The project bought various items from thrift stores and garage sales for a total of about $48 thus far. They then commissioned writers to create stories about the items, with the idea being that the stories will up the value of the items. To prove their hypothesis, they put the objects up for sale on eBay and included the story in the item description. And so far they've made more than $1,000. I love this.
Finally, my cousin Luj linked to yet another inspiring project called Mysterious Letters, in which two friends write one-of-a-kind handwritten letters—467 of them—to everyone who lives in a particular Irish village. Swoon.
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