Who knew that your donations to a campaign might be put toward outfitting the candidate in designer duds?!? The headline today read: "RNC Spends Thousands on Palin Clothes" and the article began by revealing that they (the Republican National Committee) have spent over $150,000 in under two months to dress Gov. Palin up for the campaign trail.
To put it in a perspective I can relate to personally, that's more than most teachers earn in a year...maybe two or three times as much.
The campaign issued a statement saying they can't believe that with the serious economic issues facing the country right now people are fussing over pantsuits and blouses, and tried to justify the excessive spending by saying it was always their intention that the clothing "go to a charitable purpose" after the campaign.
So I should feel better that she'll only be wearing the outfits once or twice before passing them on to some other less fortunate soul? What's she going to wear if (or, God help us, when) she becomes Vice President? Her old Alaskan Governor clothes? Or will she borrow something from the infamous emperor of fairy tales when she holds a press conference?
Oh, that's right. She doesn't hold press conferences.
22 October 2008
03 October 2008
If You Do One Thing Today...
With thanks to Leta Joy's blog, which I connect to through Bab's blog...see? That exponential thing is happening already (think Prell commercial). If you care about the election, go to this link and watch THIS!
(I tried to embed the video, but apparently I have not yet attained that level of blogger sophistication...)
I think I have five friends...
(I tried to embed the video, but apparently I have not yet attained that level of blogger sophistication...)
I think I have five friends...
Did Palin's Performance Pass the Test?
That depends on which test you mean...
After last night's vice presidential debate, the buzz among those interviewed as part of post-debate coverage was that Palin had exceeded expectations. Not a hard thing to do when those expectations are set barely an inch above an absolute disaster. What happened to the high standards constantly called for by educators, politicians, and the general public, the high standards espoused by supporters of No Child Left Behind?
Political leanings aside, if we grade Governor Palin's debate performance on the standards used to grade the average essay test or English paper, she hardly earns a passing mark.
Here's how I would score Palin's performance using the criteria by which I evaluate my students' writing:
Voice: she might earn the high marks in this category if I were looking solely to hear her authentic voice. Clearly, in her responses peppered with gems like "heckuva," "doggone," and "you betcha," she was speaking with the voice that we believe to be authentically hers from the few brief unscripted appearances she's made in the past few weeks. I would have to question, however, whether such down home, folksy, and informal remarks -- beginning with her pre-debate question to Biden, "Can I call you Joe?" -- are appropriate fare for a national debate. I mean, come on. If Biden had called her Sarah, who wouldn't have taken him to task for being utterly condescending?
Word Choice: Palin's trademark words --the same ones mentioned above -- earn her a low mark on Diction. I almost felt like I was sitting around Mayberry or eavesdropping on a conversation from one of those good, clean, family-oriented TV shows that were so popular in the 1950's. "You betcha, darlin', now why dontcha just quit frettin' and go on out and have yourself a good ol' time like we do in Alaska?" Is that how she would sit down and give her buddy Vlad in Russia a talking to?
Tone: for snide, sneering attacks on Obama's and Biden's records punctuated with a wrinkle of her nose or a syrupy sweet smile, I give her high marks. On the other hand, at times I wasn't sure if I was listening to a vice presidential candidate or my mother scolding me for coming home after curfew.
Answering the Question: there's no question she'd fail an essay test based on her inability -- or unwillingness -- to respond to the questions asked. Allow me to provide some supporting evidence for this claim:
1) Halfway through Palin's response to the question about her "Achilles heel," I forgot what the original question was and had to ask my husband, who had also forgotten.
2) When asked whether she believes the Vice President is part of the Executive Branch or if she subscribes to Dick Cheney's broader definition of the VP's powers, she gave her opinion (the latter), and then proceeded to discuss her qualifications for VP based on her executive experience as governor of Alaska. A valid segue in a contest of word association, but hardly relevant to the meaning of "Executive" in the context of Gwen Ifill's question.
3) Her response to the question about Iran or Pakistan being the greatest threat to our national security turned into a pandering plea for the pro-Israel vote. Florida, anyone?
4) The time she basically told Gwen and the American people that she didn't want to address whatever subject had been posed by the question; she wanted to (and did) talk about energy (translation: oil).
Overall in this category, an A for redirecting the questions to fit her prepared remarks; an F for staying on topic.
Ideas and Development: for the sake of clarity, I've divided this area into three subtopics.
1) Specifics: the words I (and other English teachers) write most often in the margins of their students' papers are "Be more specific" or the self-referential "Vague." The only time Palin got close to offering any specifics was when she talked about drilling for oil.
2) Repetition: Palin began to recycle her main points not more than 20 minutes into the debate; most noticeable was the repetition of age old catchwords like "raise taxes" and "reform," not to mention her favorite word to describe herself and her running mate: "mav-rick." As I tell my students, asserting the same point repeatedly, even in different words, does not necessarily make it so.
3) Regurgitation: An A+ to Palin's coaches, who spent the past five weeks preparing her in virtual isolation. But if my students spat back textbook answers in the manner that Palin recited her scripted answers, their grades would surely suffer. Is critical thinking not still held to be one of the cornerstones of an American education?
Conventions: Let's start with punctuation. Yes, it still counts in speeches, and it was notably lacking in some of Palin's 90-second responses. There is a difference between a long sentence that employs multiple clauses or parallel structure and a run-on. Also, too, where redundancy is concerned, Palin tended to repeat herself and say the same thing more than once throughout the night during the whole debate.
Presentation: The one place I'd say Governor Palin earned an A+. She looked sharp and played to the camera like a pro, which I would expect of anyone with telejournalism experience on their resume. But could she do as well speaking extemporaneously, without a script or five weeks of coaching, which her duties as Vice President would likely require?
Her final grade? A "C" by the most generous of standards; a borderline pass based on NCLB standards. But then we've been here before.
After last night's vice presidential debate, the buzz among those interviewed as part of post-debate coverage was that Palin had exceeded expectations. Not a hard thing to do when those expectations are set barely an inch above an absolute disaster. What happened to the high standards constantly called for by educators, politicians, and the general public, the high standards espoused by supporters of No Child Left Behind?
Political leanings aside, if we grade Governor Palin's debate performance on the standards used to grade the average essay test or English paper, she hardly earns a passing mark.
Here's how I would score Palin's performance using the criteria by which I evaluate my students' writing:
Voice: she might earn the high marks in this category if I were looking solely to hear her authentic voice. Clearly, in her responses peppered with gems like "heckuva," "doggone," and "you betcha," she was speaking with the voice that we believe to be authentically hers from the few brief unscripted appearances she's made in the past few weeks. I would have to question, however, whether such down home, folksy, and informal remarks -- beginning with her pre-debate question to Biden, "Can I call you Joe?" -- are appropriate fare for a national debate. I mean, come on. If Biden had called her Sarah, who wouldn't have taken him to task for being utterly condescending?
Word Choice: Palin's trademark words --the same ones mentioned above -- earn her a low mark on Diction. I almost felt like I was sitting around Mayberry or eavesdropping on a conversation from one of those good, clean, family-oriented TV shows that were so popular in the 1950's. "You betcha, darlin', now why dontcha just quit frettin' and go on out and have yourself a good ol' time like we do in Alaska?" Is that how she would sit down and give her buddy Vlad in Russia a talking to?
Tone: for snide, sneering attacks on Obama's and Biden's records punctuated with a wrinkle of her nose or a syrupy sweet smile, I give her high marks. On the other hand, at times I wasn't sure if I was listening to a vice presidential candidate or my mother scolding me for coming home after curfew.
Answering the Question: there's no question she'd fail an essay test based on her inability -- or unwillingness -- to respond to the questions asked. Allow me to provide some supporting evidence for this claim:
1) Halfway through Palin's response to the question about her "Achilles heel," I forgot what the original question was and had to ask my husband, who had also forgotten.
2) When asked whether she believes the Vice President is part of the Executive Branch or if she subscribes to Dick Cheney's broader definition of the VP's powers, she gave her opinion (the latter), and then proceeded to discuss her qualifications for VP based on her executive experience as governor of Alaska. A valid segue in a contest of word association, but hardly relevant to the meaning of "Executive" in the context of Gwen Ifill's question.
3) Her response to the question about Iran or Pakistan being the greatest threat to our national security turned into a pandering plea for the pro-Israel vote. Florida, anyone?
4) The time she basically told Gwen and the American people that she didn't want to address whatever subject had been posed by the question; she wanted to (and did) talk about energy (translation: oil).
Overall in this category, an A for redirecting the questions to fit her prepared remarks; an F for staying on topic.
Ideas and Development: for the sake of clarity, I've divided this area into three subtopics.
1) Specifics: the words I (and other English teachers) write most often in the margins of their students' papers are "Be more specific" or the self-referential "Vague." The only time Palin got close to offering any specifics was when she talked about drilling for oil.
2) Repetition: Palin began to recycle her main points not more than 20 minutes into the debate; most noticeable was the repetition of age old catchwords like "raise taxes" and "reform," not to mention her favorite word to describe herself and her running mate: "mav-rick." As I tell my students, asserting the same point repeatedly, even in different words, does not necessarily make it so.
3) Regurgitation: An A+ to Palin's coaches, who spent the past five weeks preparing her in virtual isolation. But if my students spat back textbook answers in the manner that Palin recited her scripted answers, their grades would surely suffer. Is critical thinking not still held to be one of the cornerstones of an American education?
Conventions: Let's start with punctuation. Yes, it still counts in speeches, and it was notably lacking in some of Palin's 90-second responses. There is a difference between a long sentence that employs multiple clauses or parallel structure and a run-on. Also, too, where redundancy is concerned, Palin tended to repeat herself and say the same thing more than once throughout the night during the whole debate.
Presentation: The one place I'd say Governor Palin earned an A+. She looked sharp and played to the camera like a pro, which I would expect of anyone with telejournalism experience on their resume. But could she do as well speaking extemporaneously, without a script or five weeks of coaching, which her duties as Vice President would likely require?
Her final grade? A "C" by the most generous of standards; a borderline pass based on NCLB standards. But then we've been here before.
22 September 2008
A Farewell to Summer
Well, it's officially over. Summer, that is. Today at 3:44 p.m., we say goodbye until June 21, 2009 at 5:45 a.m.
Of course, for students and teachers, summer ended nearly a month ago, when the first bell rang on the first day of the new school year. And their anticipation (or perhaps, dread) of that day began sometime in July when the first back-to-school commercials hit the airwaves. Before you know it, those ads will start in mid-June, as soon as the school year ends, kind of like the way Christmas ads begin around Halloween.
And for those who spend their summers, or a good deal of them, poolside, summer ended officially the Tuesday after Labor Day weekend when the pools closed down for the winter months. Never mind that there will still be plenty of days warm enough for a dip in the water...the lifeguards had to get back to school.
And for those who work year round, with only a number of weeks of vacation to last them the whole year, summer is air-conditioning season. They'll know it's not summer anymore when the building's temperature control system switches over to the furnace, especially on those unusually hot days of Indian summer when there's no AC to be had and no windows in the cubicle to open.
For those of us who prefer the more temperate climes of fall and spring to the humid scorchers of mid-summer, it's not such a sad goodbye. Sure, I'll miss going barefoot in the grass, wearing sleeveless shirts and open-toe sandals, doing my morning pages on the front porch, and eating fresh watermelon, strawberries, corn, and tomatoes. But I won't miss mowing the lawn or 90 degree days with 90% humidity.
To those who live for three months in the middle of the year, here's a little reminder of the joys of the other three seasons: in the fall, the changing leaves against a backdrop of blue skies, temperatures in the 70's, and a new fall line-up instead of endless reruns; in the winter, snow days, down comforters, and snuggling up in front of a warm fire; and in the spring, a rainbow of colorful blossoms, cleansing April showers, and (if you're lucky) spring break.
So be sure to dedicate a few moments today to a last hurrah for Summer, whether it be savoring a soft-serve ice cream cone, swinging at the playground, or sneaking outside when nobody's watching for a ten-minute break.
And remember, it's not really good-bye -- it's just so long for now.
Of course, for students and teachers, summer ended nearly a month ago, when the first bell rang on the first day of the new school year. And their anticipation (or perhaps, dread) of that day began sometime in July when the first back-to-school commercials hit the airwaves. Before you know it, those ads will start in mid-June, as soon as the school year ends, kind of like the way Christmas ads begin around Halloween.
And for those who spend their summers, or a good deal of them, poolside, summer ended officially the Tuesday after Labor Day weekend when the pools closed down for the winter months. Never mind that there will still be plenty of days warm enough for a dip in the water...the lifeguards had to get back to school.
And for those who work year round, with only a number of weeks of vacation to last them the whole year, summer is air-conditioning season. They'll know it's not summer anymore when the building's temperature control system switches over to the furnace, especially on those unusually hot days of Indian summer when there's no AC to be had and no windows in the cubicle to open.
For those of us who prefer the more temperate climes of fall and spring to the humid scorchers of mid-summer, it's not such a sad goodbye. Sure, I'll miss going barefoot in the grass, wearing sleeveless shirts and open-toe sandals, doing my morning pages on the front porch, and eating fresh watermelon, strawberries, corn, and tomatoes. But I won't miss mowing the lawn or 90 degree days with 90% humidity.
To those who live for three months in the middle of the year, here's a little reminder of the joys of the other three seasons: in the fall, the changing leaves against a backdrop of blue skies, temperatures in the 70's, and a new fall line-up instead of endless reruns; in the winter, snow days, down comforters, and snuggling up in front of a warm fire; and in the spring, a rainbow of colorful blossoms, cleansing April showers, and (if you're lucky) spring break.
So be sure to dedicate a few moments today to a last hurrah for Summer, whether it be savoring a soft-serve ice cream cone, swinging at the playground, or sneaking outside when nobody's watching for a ten-minute break.
And remember, it's not really good-bye -- it's just so long for now.
05 September 2008
Out of the Mouths of Pit Bulls...
I watched the big speeches of the Democratic Convention last week -- Hillary, (missed Bill for yoga class), Joe Biden, and Obama -- so I thought it was only fair to give the Republican Convention equal time this week. Although I missed Tuesday night's speakers, I tuned in for Guiliani (on the radio as I drove home from yoga), the surprise VP candidate Sarah Palin, and McCain. What follow are a few moments from this week's coverage that stuck with me.
1) Guiliani's dig at the Democrats (or one of many). He took them to task for not mentioning the words "Islamic Terrorists" all week at their convention and mocked them for trying to do what he termed "the politically correct thing." He then went on to wonder out loud what was so bad about calling a spade a spade, since surely the Terrorists deserve that label. (Clue: No, Rudy, I think it has more to do with implying that the whole nation of Islam is comprised of radical terrorists...)
2) "Drill, baby, drill!" The delegates repeated this chant throughout Palin's speech on Wednesday night. What the heck? Screw the environment -- even though it's been widely acknowledged that drilling more won't have any effect on the ridiculously high gas prices at all for at least ten years -- let's drill. So much for conserving our natural resources for future generations. Let's just rape and pillage mother Earth for the immediate gratification of our own selfish needs.
3) Palin's tag line (not at all ad-libbed): "What's the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull? Lipstick." Ha ha. Honestly, after 8 years of Dick Cheney occupying the Vice Presidency, I really don't want another pit bull in that position. I'd be content with a Collie (Lassie would do) or a Saint Bernard, or at most, a German shepherd.
With an all-star line-up of pit bulls preceding him on stage, McCain was able to take a bit more of the high road last night, and I acknowledge him for that. I'd take him over Giuliani any day. But I still prefer the other candidate's message of change.
I just hope that we won't let our junior high instincts take over (see May 19 entry) when we go to the polls in November. I hope we will remember that this is more than a popularity contest -- the war hero vs. the celebrity, the old white guy vs. the young African-American, the pragmatist vs. the idealist. I hope that, in the end, we will make this a contest that is more about issues than personalities.
1) Guiliani's dig at the Democrats (or one of many). He took them to task for not mentioning the words "Islamic Terrorists" all week at their convention and mocked them for trying to do what he termed "the politically correct thing." He then went on to wonder out loud what was so bad about calling a spade a spade, since surely the Terrorists deserve that label. (Clue: No, Rudy, I think it has more to do with implying that the whole nation of Islam is comprised of radical terrorists...)
2) "Drill, baby, drill!" The delegates repeated this chant throughout Palin's speech on Wednesday night. What the heck? Screw the environment -- even though it's been widely acknowledged that drilling more won't have any effect on the ridiculously high gas prices at all for at least ten years -- let's drill. So much for conserving our natural resources for future generations. Let's just rape and pillage mother Earth for the immediate gratification of our own selfish needs.
3) Palin's tag line (not at all ad-libbed): "What's the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull? Lipstick." Ha ha. Honestly, after 8 years of Dick Cheney occupying the Vice Presidency, I really don't want another pit bull in that position. I'd be content with a Collie (Lassie would do) or a Saint Bernard, or at most, a German shepherd.
With an all-star line-up of pit bulls preceding him on stage, McCain was able to take a bit more of the high road last night, and I acknowledge him for that. I'd take him over Giuliani any day. But I still prefer the other candidate's message of change.
I just hope that we won't let our junior high instincts take over (see May 19 entry) when we go to the polls in November. I hope we will remember that this is more than a popularity contest -- the war hero vs. the celebrity, the old white guy vs. the young African-American, the pragmatist vs. the idealist. I hope that, in the end, we will make this a contest that is more about issues than personalities.
25 August 2008
Call Me Professor
It all happened rather suddenly, starting with an email that landed in my box last Tuesday. The director of the Maryland Writing Project forwarded a message about unstaffed sections of English 102 and a handful of other electives to all of us T-C's (teacher consultants, i.e. graduates of the Invitational Summer Institute). The next morning, I sent an email to the English Department Chair expressing my interest and mentioning Barbara's name (at her instruction), and 24 hours later, was offered the job. I signed the contract on Friday morning, ordered books that afternoon, and have a little over a week to prepare a syllabus and be ready to greet my class on Sept. 2.
I'll be teaching one section of English 102 (otherwise known as Freshman Composition) at Towson University this fall. Twenty students, two mornings a week from 8:00 to 9:15 A.M. Yes, it's a dreaded 8:00 class...but it's better than my old start time of 7:25! And, as the department chair reminded me when I went in to fill out paperwork last week, if a student says "I don't want to be in this class anymore," just hand him/her a drop slip and say, "So long!" No obligation to keep students who just don't want to be there, unlike high school protocol.
As I was filling out the requisite paperwork, I came upon a question that asked what "salutation" I preferred. Scanning the choices on the list, which went far beyond the usual Mr./Ms./Mrs., I noticed that Professor was an option. I didn't dare check it at first, thinking there had to be something else I had to do to earn that title, but it turns out that having a Masters degree and teaching a university class is enough. Later on I went to order books, and when the woman assisting me picked up the phone to confirm the order and began, "I have Professor Heller here..." something inside of me lit up. Just like the first few times I heard other people call me Mrs. Heller after the wedding.
Mrs. Heller?
That's Professor Heller to you!
I'll be teaching one section of English 102 (otherwise known as Freshman Composition) at Towson University this fall. Twenty students, two mornings a week from 8:00 to 9:15 A.M. Yes, it's a dreaded 8:00 class...but it's better than my old start time of 7:25! And, as the department chair reminded me when I went in to fill out paperwork last week, if a student says "I don't want to be in this class anymore," just hand him/her a drop slip and say, "So long!" No obligation to keep students who just don't want to be there, unlike high school protocol.
As I was filling out the requisite paperwork, I came upon a question that asked what "salutation" I preferred. Scanning the choices on the list, which went far beyond the usual Mr./Ms./Mrs., I noticed that Professor was an option. I didn't dare check it at first, thinking there had to be something else I had to do to earn that title, but it turns out that having a Masters degree and teaching a university class is enough. Later on I went to order books, and when the woman assisting me picked up the phone to confirm the order and began, "I have Professor Heller here..." something inside of me lit up. Just like the first few times I heard other people call me Mrs. Heller after the wedding.
Mrs. Heller?
That's Professor Heller to you!
19 August 2008
A Bad Day at the Office
I had a really bad writing day last week.
Spectacularly bad.
The Judge (my pet name for the critical voice in my head) was on a tear, thriving on the energy of comparison and scarcity, stoking my self-doubt. So loud was the Judge's ranting that it drove away every other idea that tried to break through to consciousness. In the end, I walked away from my notebook feeling drained and disgusted.
It wasn't until I attempted to relate just how bad my writing had been to my husband later that evening that the revelation hit me: My bad day wasn't a sign that I should drop the pen and never pick it up again. It was just a "bad day at the office." I had plenty of them as a teacher -- days when a lesson plan fell flat, when reviewing the reading felt like slogging through a pit of quicksand, when a student's bad behavior or sour attitude made me want to quit. Why shouldn't the same hold true for the writing life?
Somewhere along the way, I had bought into the fantasy that if I was doing what I loved, there would never be any ups and downs. Just one up after another. It was the Judge at work again. The one who convinces me that everything in life is either good or bad and that the "bad" parts are to be avoided at all costs.
But without those days when the writing is hard, when it feels like the words have to be squeezed through the nib of the pen one letter at a time, how would I develop an appreciation for those blessed days when the muse visits, or even just the ones when days or weeks of revision result in a poem or essay ready for the public eye?
When I sat down to write the next morning, the Judge was silent. My words flowed from the pen to the page in a steady stream, and the bad writing of the day before receded into memory.
Spectacularly bad.
The Judge (my pet name for the critical voice in my head) was on a tear, thriving on the energy of comparison and scarcity, stoking my self-doubt. So loud was the Judge's ranting that it drove away every other idea that tried to break through to consciousness. In the end, I walked away from my notebook feeling drained and disgusted.
It wasn't until I attempted to relate just how bad my writing had been to my husband later that evening that the revelation hit me: My bad day wasn't a sign that I should drop the pen and never pick it up again. It was just a "bad day at the office." I had plenty of them as a teacher -- days when a lesson plan fell flat, when reviewing the reading felt like slogging through a pit of quicksand, when a student's bad behavior or sour attitude made me want to quit. Why shouldn't the same hold true for the writing life?
Somewhere along the way, I had bought into the fantasy that if I was doing what I loved, there would never be any ups and downs. Just one up after another. It was the Judge at work again. The one who convinces me that everything in life is either good or bad and that the "bad" parts are to be avoided at all costs.
But without those days when the writing is hard, when it feels like the words have to be squeezed through the nib of the pen one letter at a time, how would I develop an appreciation for those blessed days when the muse visits, or even just the ones when days or weeks of revision result in a poem or essay ready for the public eye?
When I sat down to write the next morning, the Judge was silent. My words flowed from the pen to the page in a steady stream, and the bad writing of the day before receded into memory.
07 August 2008
Apple Fritters
During the Invitational Summer Institute that I taught, we began each day with a half hour of writing and sharing. The fellows took turns leading the circle, and one day Marlene (an art teacher) brought us fresh herbs picked from her garden -- basil, cilantro, lavender, and lemon thyme. When we rubbed them between our fingers, they gave off wonderful fragrances, and we used those smells to kick off our writing that morning. My unedited entry, inspired by a sprig of lemon thyme and an entry my sister-in-law had written about a month earlier on her blog, follows:
Mostly, lemons remind me of apple fritters on Sunday nights -- they became a Josenhans tradition over the years. Sliced apples, coated with a pancake-like batter and deep-fried in a 1/4-inch of Crisco. The apples get warm and soft, if sliced thin enough, and the batter bubbles up, becoming light and fluffy in texture.
The proper way to eat them is sprinkled with sugar and fresh lemon -- the sweet and the sour give the dough and apples just the right flavor. I can taste them even now.
They taste best right out of the pan, so mom would fry them up as we ate, only joining us at the table when the last three had been served. Tea was our drink of choice -- another bitter to offset the sweet, or complimented by a dash of lemon itself.
Just last month on my sister-in-law's blog, she described her and the children's first experience with apple fritters for dinner. My brother had been going on about apple fritters for quite some time, which is why she asked him to make them for everyone. The pictures of my niece and nephew captured their sheer joy and delight with the sweet and sour treat -- hands sticky with sugar and lemon raised in the air. And so apple fritters will live on for at least another generation in our family.
And I wonder if maybe someday I'll be serving apple fritters to children of my own.
Mostly, lemons remind me of apple fritters on Sunday nights -- they became a Josenhans tradition over the years. Sliced apples, coated with a pancake-like batter and deep-fried in a 1/4-inch of Crisco. The apples get warm and soft, if sliced thin enough, and the batter bubbles up, becoming light and fluffy in texture.
The proper way to eat them is sprinkled with sugar and fresh lemon -- the sweet and the sour give the dough and apples just the right flavor. I can taste them even now.
They taste best right out of the pan, so mom would fry them up as we ate, only joining us at the table when the last three had been served. Tea was our drink of choice -- another bitter to offset the sweet, or complimented by a dash of lemon itself.
Just last month on my sister-in-law's blog, she described her and the children's first experience with apple fritters for dinner. My brother had been going on about apple fritters for quite some time, which is why she asked him to make them for everyone. The pictures of my niece and nephew captured their sheer joy and delight with the sweet and sour treat -- hands sticky with sugar and lemon raised in the air. And so apple fritters will live on for at least another generation in our family.
And I wonder if maybe someday I'll be serving apple fritters to children of my own.
04 August 2008
Clap on! - - Clap off!
You've heard it...the cheesy jingle for the miracle product that can be yours for just 9.99 (or some such bargain price): The Clapper. My husband was given one as a gift some years ago, and we have finally found a use for it, but it doesn't work exactly as advertised.
Shortly after moving in, we discovered that our new house does not have a light switch within reach of the door from the garage to the kitchen. The nearest switch is 6-8 feet away, enough distance to trip over a well-meaning cat who has come to welcome you home. Solution? The Clapper.
It should be noted here that The Clapper comes with very specific instructions in a 7-page mini-manual.
Having read the instructions, my husband installed our Clapper, and at first, it seemed to work just fine. Open the door, clap twice, and voila--instant light! So long as your hands weren't full and you produced two claps of a sufficient decibel, the attached lamp lit up on cue.
However, it wasn't long before we began to notice that the lamp attached to The Clapper came on at times without our clapping at all. Even after my husband adjusted it to a lower sensitivity, the light seemed to be turning on and off at will. The explanation was simple: three words in the instruction booklet that we had overlooked on our first reading: "Each clap detection light will glow when a proper clap (or similar sound) is detected."
That is, if a sneeze is at all similar in sound to a clap. Or if two dishes clanking together as they are removed from the dishwasher (at least 20 feet away from the Clapper's sensor) and returned to the cabinet is similar in sound to a clap. Or if laughing at Leno's late night jokes is similar in sound to a clap. Turns out when they say similar, they mean that in the broadest sense of the word.
As for the 1/2 to 1 second pause between claps, turns out that's not so accurate either. My mom, on a recent visit, had no trouble getting the lamp to turn on with two claps in rapid succession, which could spell trouble for Clapper users who summon their dog for a walk with a couple of good claps.
In the end though, while it is annoying to be in the middle of reading a good book when the light goes off just because someone inadvertently makes a noise that triggers The Clapper, there is some good news in all of this. When I come through the door into a dark house with my hands full, if I can just muster a big sneeze, the light will come on anyway. I guess "Sneeze on! -- Sneeze off!" just didn't make as catchy a jingle.
Shortly after moving in, we discovered that our new house does not have a light switch within reach of the door from the garage to the kitchen. The nearest switch is 6-8 feet away, enough distance to trip over a well-meaning cat who has come to welcome you home. Solution? The Clapper.
It should be noted here that The Clapper comes with very specific instructions in a 7-page mini-manual.
"The clapping sequence," it says, "is more important than how loudly you clap: CLAP (pause) CLAP (pause) (pause) (pause) where each pause is approximately 1/2 to 1 second long."(For those who are not as well versed in Clapper operation, the long pause at the end indicates that you want the 2-clap appliance to turn on as opposed to the 3-clap appliance.)
Having read the instructions, my husband installed our Clapper, and at first, it seemed to work just fine. Open the door, clap twice, and voila--instant light! So long as your hands weren't full and you produced two claps of a sufficient decibel, the attached lamp lit up on cue.
However, it wasn't long before we began to notice that the lamp attached to The Clapper came on at times without our clapping at all. Even after my husband adjusted it to a lower sensitivity, the light seemed to be turning on and off at will. The explanation was simple: three words in the instruction booklet that we had overlooked on our first reading: "Each clap detection light will glow when a proper clap (or similar sound) is detected."
That is, if a sneeze is at all similar in sound to a clap. Or if two dishes clanking together as they are removed from the dishwasher (at least 20 feet away from the Clapper's sensor) and returned to the cabinet is similar in sound to a clap. Or if laughing at Leno's late night jokes is similar in sound to a clap. Turns out when they say similar, they mean that in the broadest sense of the word.
As for the 1/2 to 1 second pause between claps, turns out that's not so accurate either. My mom, on a recent visit, had no trouble getting the lamp to turn on with two claps in rapid succession, which could spell trouble for Clapper users who summon their dog for a walk with a couple of good claps.
In the end though, while it is annoying to be in the middle of reading a good book when the light goes off just because someone inadvertently makes a noise that triggers The Clapper, there is some good news in all of this. When I come through the door into a dark house with my hands full, if I can just muster a big sneeze, the light will come on anyway. I guess "Sneeze on! -- Sneeze off!" just didn't make as catchy a jingle.
21 July 2008
Back in the Saddle...
I finally invite you to read, and then I disappear from the radar for a month....So my apologies to you, my neglected readers, if you have checked in only to be disappointed by the absence of any new entries. On the bright side, there is a glut of future entry topics stored up in my mind, and they should be appearing soon.
This past month has been a whirlwind...and not the kind that allows for any blogging time. We closed on our new house and completed phases 1 and 2 of the move the next day -- phase 1: getting my stuff out of storage and phase 2: moving my boxes, our wedding presents, and the first load of Paul's stuff from his house. Some things will have to stay behind for "staging" when we get through the renovations we want to do before putting it on the market. So there is more painting and scraping in my immediate future. In the meantime, it's nice to finally be able to use all of those nice gifts we got for our wedding a year ago!
The bulk of my energy this past three weeks has gone to coordinating the Maryland Writing Project's Invitational Summer Institute. We had a wildly talented group of teachers who met all of our expectations and then some. Our class time began at 8:30 and ended at 3:30, but stretched into the early and late hours of the day with homework and preparation time added. In the end, everyone left with 20+ fabulous lessons for enriching writing instruction in their classrooms and an anthology of the personal and professional writing of the institute's participants. The results of all of our hard work confirmed for me again that this is the best professional development opportunity out there for teachers -- of any grade or discipline (shameless plug)! It is a truly transformative experience. I look forward to staying in touch with all of this year's fellows throughout the year as a mentor and as a fellow writer.
But for now, I return to the domestic front where, not surprisingly, there is still much unpacking to be done. There are boxes of books calling to be put on shelves, clothing to be shelved or given away, and pictures to be hung. And there is still furniture to be bought before we'll be able to give a proper home to everything. Which is why I will keep it short for today....
This past month has been a whirlwind...and not the kind that allows for any blogging time. We closed on our new house and completed phases 1 and 2 of the move the next day -- phase 1: getting my stuff out of storage and phase 2: moving my boxes, our wedding presents, and the first load of Paul's stuff from his house. Some things will have to stay behind for "staging" when we get through the renovations we want to do before putting it on the market. So there is more painting and scraping in my immediate future. In the meantime, it's nice to finally be able to use all of those nice gifts we got for our wedding a year ago!
The bulk of my energy this past three weeks has gone to coordinating the Maryland Writing Project's Invitational Summer Institute. We had a wildly talented group of teachers who met all of our expectations and then some. Our class time began at 8:30 and ended at 3:30, but stretched into the early and late hours of the day with homework and preparation time added. In the end, everyone left with 20+ fabulous lessons for enriching writing instruction in their classrooms and an anthology of the personal and professional writing of the institute's participants. The results of all of our hard work confirmed for me again that this is the best professional development opportunity out there for teachers -- of any grade or discipline (shameless plug)! It is a truly transformative experience. I look forward to staying in touch with all of this year's fellows throughout the year as a mentor and as a fellow writer.
But for now, I return to the domestic front where, not surprisingly, there is still much unpacking to be done. There are boxes of books calling to be put on shelves, clothing to be shelved or given away, and pictures to be hung. And there is still furniture to be bought before we'll be able to give a proper home to everything. Which is why I will keep it short for today....
15 June 2008
That Reminds Me...
It is sometimes said that boys marry women like their mothers and girls marry men like their fathers. As an English major, I’ve read the Oedipus story a few too many times to think that any good could come of that. As much as I love my dad, I certainly did not go looking for a clone of him to marry, but it turns out that my husband of one year shares more with my father than just his name.
For starters, both are tall, handsome men with full heads of hair (no inherited male pattern baldness here) who maintain their slim builds despite a shared penchant for ice cream. But the similarities go beyond the physical.
Both are practicing Catholics who attend church regularly, which may be due in part to several years of Catholic schooling. Dad attended a Jesuit high school and college, while my husband was taught by nuns from kindergarten through eighth grade. Both occasionally merit the moniker of St. Paul for their extreme patience, which may mean they are headed for either sainthood or martyrdom (depending on whom you ask).
While their Catholic upbringings may account for similarities in their values, it is wholly unrelated to some of the other similarities I’ve noticed over the past few years. For example, neither one is an avid swimmer. Dad grew up in Brooklyn, my husband in a small town in western Iowa; thus, neither had easy access to the kind of pool at which I spent the better part of my summer days. Dad prefers spending his time around water sailing a Sunfish (a source of many fond memories), and my Paul gets by with the help of a kickboard or flippers. Just don't ask them to put their heads under water for very long.
And while we’re on the topic of sports, neither Paul is a big sports fan. Sure, Dad is a diehard Ohio State Buckeyes fan and enjoys his breakfasts at Wimbledon, but you won’t find him glued to football games every weekend with his feet up and a beer in hand. Thankfully, I won’t ever find my husband doing that either; memories of his own father talking to (or shouting at) the tv to encourage the players on his favorite teams pretty much ensures that.
Where money is concerned, my father and my husband take a similar approach. They are good savers and shrewd investors. They also share a belief about the stock market – namely, that they have an adverse affect on the stocks that they purchase. If they buy shares of a particular stock, look out – it’s likely to take a dive, they’ll tell you.
And finally, there’s music. While both Paul’s have some musical talent, they are largely tone deaf when it comes to singing. Dad is a self-taught piano player – he learned to “fake” the chords of the left hand by learning some basic chord progressions and plays the melody as written with his right. His playing of the Christmas carols each year was always more reliable than his singing (sorry, dad!). My husband played the clarinet in his school’s marching and concert bands and has been known to sing along with the radio in the car. Although he can carry a tune on his own, he has a knack for singing exactly a half-step off whenever I join in. Strangely, he can sing any church song on pitch (see paragraph 3 above).
So did I marry my father after all? Nope, in the end, the differences far outweigh the similarities. Safe to say that I do not suffer from an Oedipal complex. But there is one last thing my husband and father have in common, one that I am most grateful for: a kind and loving heart. I am lucky to be loved by both!
For starters, both are tall, handsome men with full heads of hair (no inherited male pattern baldness here) who maintain their slim builds despite a shared penchant for ice cream. But the similarities go beyond the physical.
Both are practicing Catholics who attend church regularly, which may be due in part to several years of Catholic schooling. Dad attended a Jesuit high school and college, while my husband was taught by nuns from kindergarten through eighth grade. Both occasionally merit the moniker of St. Paul for their extreme patience, which may mean they are headed for either sainthood or martyrdom (depending on whom you ask).
While their Catholic upbringings may account for similarities in their values, it is wholly unrelated to some of the other similarities I’ve noticed over the past few years. For example, neither one is an avid swimmer. Dad grew up in Brooklyn, my husband in a small town in western Iowa; thus, neither had easy access to the kind of pool at which I spent the better part of my summer days. Dad prefers spending his time around water sailing a Sunfish (a source of many fond memories), and my Paul gets by with the help of a kickboard or flippers. Just don't ask them to put their heads under water for very long.
And while we’re on the topic of sports, neither Paul is a big sports fan. Sure, Dad is a diehard Ohio State Buckeyes fan and enjoys his breakfasts at Wimbledon, but you won’t find him glued to football games every weekend with his feet up and a beer in hand. Thankfully, I won’t ever find my husband doing that either; memories of his own father talking to (or shouting at) the tv to encourage the players on his favorite teams pretty much ensures that.
Where money is concerned, my father and my husband take a similar approach. They are good savers and shrewd investors. They also share a belief about the stock market – namely, that they have an adverse affect on the stocks that they purchase. If they buy shares of a particular stock, look out – it’s likely to take a dive, they’ll tell you.
And finally, there’s music. While both Paul’s have some musical talent, they are largely tone deaf when it comes to singing. Dad is a self-taught piano player – he learned to “fake” the chords of the left hand by learning some basic chord progressions and plays the melody as written with his right. His playing of the Christmas carols each year was always more reliable than his singing (sorry, dad!). My husband played the clarinet in his school’s marching and concert bands and has been known to sing along with the radio in the car. Although he can carry a tune on his own, he has a knack for singing exactly a half-step off whenever I join in. Strangely, he can sing any church song on pitch (see paragraph 3 above).
So did I marry my father after all? Nope, in the end, the differences far outweigh the similarities. Safe to say that I do not suffer from an Oedipal complex. But there is one last thing my husband and father have in common, one that I am most grateful for: a kind and loving heart. I am lucky to be loved by both!
11 June 2008
Excuses, Excuses
As you may have noticed, I haven't written an entry for a while. It's not that I haven't been writing -- there are pages in my notebook that will attest to that -- I just haven't put anything here for a while. I have a whole lot of reasons why not...whether you choose to believe them is up to you.
1) I am saving my fingers for the painting I'm doing around the house.
2) The cat sat on the keyboard of my laptop and refused to move.
3) I was on the phone all day trying to solve the problem of the painted firebox at the new house -- before closing date arrives.
4) I didn't want the computer's fan to contribute to the ongoing heat wave.
5) I spent an entire afternoon trying to figure out how to burn pictures to a CD so I could get reprints and get the wedding album together before our first anniversary.
6) I was fighting off giant spider crickets so I could mop under the stairwell in the basement.
7) I was standing on my head trying to increase the time I can spend in that pose.
8) I was trying to beat my Pac-Man record.
9) The computer ate it.
10) I got distracted....
1) I am saving my fingers for the painting I'm doing around the house.
2) The cat sat on the keyboard of my laptop and refused to move.
3) I was on the phone all day trying to solve the problem of the painted firebox at the new house -- before closing date arrives.
4) I didn't want the computer's fan to contribute to the ongoing heat wave.
5) I spent an entire afternoon trying to figure out how to burn pictures to a CD so I could get reprints and get the wedding album together before our first anniversary.
6) I was fighting off giant spider crickets so I could mop under the stairwell in the basement.
7) I was standing on my head trying to increase the time I can spend in that pose.
8) I was trying to beat my Pac-Man record.
9) The computer ate it.
10) I got distracted....
29 May 2008
In Print!
My letter to the editor was published in today's Baltimore Sun! To read it online, click on the link (the underlined words). It's my first step in getting teachers' voices heard by a broader audience....
27 May 2008
Coming Soon...in Black and White!
There was an article in The Baltimore Sun's commentary section last week titled "Teaching to the test: Good teachers do it" which, as you might have guessed, caught my eye. My husband braced himself for my reaction as I read through the piece, and was surprised when I didn't blow up or start spouting expletives. I handed him the front page section so he could read it for himself and went on to the comics.
Turned out he was the one who was not fully satisfied with Walt Gardner's defense of teaching to the test. The discussion that followed reminded me that although Gardner (a former teacher himself) had made some valid points, he had also made some statements that got my teacher hackles up. I made a mental note to dedicate some of my morning's writing time to drafting a letter to the editor.
The draft incubated over the long holiday weekend, and I looked at it with fresh eyes this morning. At 337 words, it was a bit longer than the usual letter to the editor, but after a few revision passes, it was holding steady at 301 words and there was nothing more I could cut without compromising my message.
I copied it into an email and sent it on its way. No more than five minutes later, the phone rang and the voice on the machine was saying he would like to use my letter. I grabbed the phone and verified that it was indeed my letter and that I had sent it in, and the person on the other end told me it would appear later this week! How's that for instant results?! Would that every acceptance (or even rejection) came so quickly....
I hung up the phone and did some celebratory jumping around the kitchen before calling my husband to tell him the news. "They're going to publish my letter to the editor in the Sun!" While there are some who would say it's just an editorial, I have long been a believer in taking baby steps to make your dreams come true.
It may not be the novel, but it's a step in the right direction!
To read Gardner's piece, click on the link (underlined words). And of course, there will be a link to the printed version of my letter as soon as it appears in print! (I'll figure out how to do it by then.)
Turned out he was the one who was not fully satisfied with Walt Gardner's defense of teaching to the test. The discussion that followed reminded me that although Gardner (a former teacher himself) had made some valid points, he had also made some statements that got my teacher hackles up. I made a mental note to dedicate some of my morning's writing time to drafting a letter to the editor.
The draft incubated over the long holiday weekend, and I looked at it with fresh eyes this morning. At 337 words, it was a bit longer than the usual letter to the editor, but after a few revision passes, it was holding steady at 301 words and there was nothing more I could cut without compromising my message.
I copied it into an email and sent it on its way. No more than five minutes later, the phone rang and the voice on the machine was saying he would like to use my letter. I grabbed the phone and verified that it was indeed my letter and that I had sent it in, and the person on the other end told me it would appear later this week! How's that for instant results?! Would that every acceptance (or even rejection) came so quickly....
I hung up the phone and did some celebratory jumping around the kitchen before calling my husband to tell him the news. "They're going to publish my letter to the editor in the Sun!" While there are some who would say it's just an editorial, I have long been a believer in taking baby steps to make your dreams come true.
It may not be the novel, but it's a step in the right direction!
To read Gardner's piece, click on the link (underlined words). And of course, there will be a link to the printed version of my letter as soon as it appears in print! (I'll figure out how to do it by then.)
19 May 2008
The Truth about Real Life
"Real life is not college. Real life is not high school. Here is a secret no one has told you: Real life is junior high."
-Tom Brokaw, in a graduation address at Emory University
I came across this gem as I was reading the latest issue (June 2008) of the Funny Times, a paper dedicated to "humor, politics, and fun." And it's so true. Think about it.
You don't have to go far before encountering a real life example of Brokaw's maxim. Case in point, AOL's sports news yesterday(and it's not the first time they've broached the subject) featured a photo gallery of "The Hottest Olympians" -- with over 80 photographs. Good thing we're paying attention to what really matters in sports, eh? Okay, I admit that I had a teenage crush on Greg Louganis (the diver) and Mitch Gaylord (parallel bars) when they appeared on the Olympic scene, but since when have athletes' looks trumped their skills and abilities when it comes to newsworthy media coverage?
Real life is junior high (or middle school for the younger generation). Take the ever-increasing popularity of social websites like MySpace and Facebook. I haven't actually taken the step of joining such a site yet, so my understanding may be somewhat limited. But I've heard stories about people who become obsessed with how many "friends" they have on their list and how many people have "friend-ed" them lately. (Yes, I believe it's officially become a verb now.) It's a bit too close to the popularity contests that beset my junior high days. I found it easier to revel in being a brainy orchestra nerd...
Real life is junior high, and if you don't believe it, check out a website like Rate My Teacher.com or juicy campus (the college campus gossip site recently featured on a Dateline report). At the former, students gripe about (or rarely praise) their teachers publicly; at the latter, students make the private lives of their peers public (including a girl's rape and the outing of homosexuals). It's middle school behavior, and I know that, most recently, from several years of teaching eighth grade. I had long ago erased the viciousness of middle schoolers from my mind, so I was shocked by the degree of nastiness with which my students treated their fellow classmates.
Real life is junior high, and if you're still not convinced, just look at the coverage of the current presidential election. In yesterday morning's headlines, Obama took on members of the Tennessee Republican party, who went after Obama's wife for a comment that, taken out of context, they consider "unpatriotic." Celebrity endorsements take on the weight of gospel truths, as people wait with baited breath to find out who their favorite star will support. (Are there really people out there who will vote for Obama just because Oprah's on his side or for McCain because Bush is on his?). Candidates make SNL appearances chock full of self-deprecating humor, which as we all know, makes him or her seem more human, more relatable (who really uses this word in real life?), and thus -- sadly -- more electable. (How else do you think W. got to the oval office?) It's all a bit too similar, in my opinion, to the student government elections in junior high and high school where the most popular kids --rather than the most qualified -- were the ones elected, nine times out of ten.
The irony of Brokaw's comment is, of course, that most people surveyed wouldn't want to relive their junior high or middle school years if you paid them. The adolescent insecurities, the changing allegiances of friends, the awkwardness of puberty, the struggle for popularity...who would willingly go there again? And yet, somehow, that seems to be the kind of life we've created for ourselves in the "real world."
15 May 2008
Thoughts on Closing the Gap...
Disclaimer: what follows is an as yet unpolished rant
Perhaps the reason we haven't found the answer to the problem, and perhaps it makes me a bleeding heart liberal or even a socialist to even suggest this, is that we are relying too heavily on our public school system to make up for inequalities that are rooted deep within our society.
Sure, education is supposed to be the great leveller in a democracy where, in theory, you can move up the socioeconomic ladder if you just work hard....and having taught in the classroom for 12 years, I am a big believer in the power of a good education.
However, any teacher who has worked with students who live in poverty will tell you that the solution to the achievement gap lies beyond the scope of a school's powers. Remember that saying, "It takes a village..."? (Note: it doesn't say "It takes a school...") So where is the rest of the village???
The villagers who can afford it have fled for the hills, put their children in private schools that cost (at least in the DC area) upwards of $15,000 a year (and that was ten years ago when I was teaching at a private school in Potomac, MD). The leaders of the village, led by the articulate George W. himself, are pointing fingers, blaming inadequate teachers for setting standards that are too low and thus failing our children, particularly those of the African-American or Latino variety. Their solution was to make a law (NCLB) saying that every student would be able to read by grade level by the year 2014 just because they said so; and if it doesn't happen, heads will roll (but not theirs, of course).
There is much research to suggest that the achievement gap begins even before children reach the hallowed halls of our public institutions of learning. Children who grow up in literate-rich environments start with an advantage over their peers from literate-poor environments. The gap exists before teachers even get into the picture. And yet, somehow, teachers are held responsible for making miracles happen -- like closing that gap by teaching literate-poor children to read proficiently in classes of thirty or more -- in the 6 hours a day (or fewer in middle and high school) that they work with them.
So what to do? If we are serious about closing the achievement gap, we may first have to tackle some of the social inequalities that have been woven into the American fabric over the last several centuries. Or we can just keep pointing fingers at our hard-working teachers, who struggle to contribute enough to make up for the rest of the village.
"'No one, on a large scale, has figured out how to solve the achievement gap,' Pensis said. 'Everybody's looking for that answer.'"-Foch "Tut" Pensis, Superintendent
Coachella Valley Unified School District
from "School Districts to Face NCLB Sanctions"
Teacher Magazine, The Associated Press
Perhaps the reason we haven't found the answer to the problem, and perhaps it makes me a bleeding heart liberal or even a socialist to even suggest this, is that we are relying too heavily on our public school system to make up for inequalities that are rooted deep within our society.
Sure, education is supposed to be the great leveller in a democracy where, in theory, you can move up the socioeconomic ladder if you just work hard....and having taught in the classroom for 12 years, I am a big believer in the power of a good education.
However, any teacher who has worked with students who live in poverty will tell you that the solution to the achievement gap lies beyond the scope of a school's powers. Remember that saying, "It takes a village..."? (Note: it doesn't say "It takes a school...") So where is the rest of the village???
The villagers who can afford it have fled for the hills, put their children in private schools that cost (at least in the DC area) upwards of $15,000 a year (and that was ten years ago when I was teaching at a private school in Potomac, MD). The leaders of the village, led by the articulate George W. himself, are pointing fingers, blaming inadequate teachers for setting standards that are too low and thus failing our children, particularly those of the African-American or Latino variety. Their solution was to make a law (NCLB) saying that every student would be able to read by grade level by the year 2014 just because they said so; and if it doesn't happen, heads will roll (but not theirs, of course).
There is much research to suggest that the achievement gap begins even before children reach the hallowed halls of our public institutions of learning. Children who grow up in literate-rich environments start with an advantage over their peers from literate-poor environments. The gap exists before teachers even get into the picture. And yet, somehow, teachers are held responsible for making miracles happen -- like closing that gap by teaching literate-poor children to read proficiently in classes of thirty or more -- in the 6 hours a day (or fewer in middle and high school) that they work with them.
So what to do? If we are serious about closing the achievement gap, we may first have to tackle some of the social inequalities that have been woven into the American fabric over the last several centuries. Or we can just keep pointing fingers at our hard-working teachers, who struggle to contribute enough to make up for the rest of the village.
11 May 2008
Mom Sweet Mom
They say that men become more and more like their fathers and women more and more like their mothers as they grow older. I know some people who resist this truth with every fiber of their being, but I'd have to say there are far worse things that could happen to me.
If the saying is true, here are a few of the things I can expect in the coming years:
1) I will develop a love of the color red. My mother has always had a penchant for all things red, as evidenced by the many items of that color in her wardrobe (including shoes, coats, and handbags) as well as the shiny VW Passat she drives. Signs of this tendency are already arising in my own life -- my new laptop, for one, which is a vibrant shade of garnet red, as opposed to the usual black, white, or titanium hues of most laptops.
2) I will become an uber-volunteer and supporter of the arts. My mother remains an active docent at both the Wexner Center and the Columbus Museum of Art, and has also been a volunteer for the symphony and opera at various times over the past several decades. It does not require a great stretch of the imagination to see where this one fits into my life either. An amateur violinist and avid music fan, I play with community groups and support the local symphony orchestra (even if only by being a subscriber at the moment), and I learned great appreciation for the visual arts at my mother's side as we visited the museums and galleries of every city and town we ever went to on a family vacation.
3) I will become ever more strong-headed in my opinions and desires (some may choose to call it stubborn, others outspoken, and still others flat out bossy; I prefer to call it discriminating and independent). Mom knows what she thinks and does not hesitate to share those thoughts with those who are closest to her. She is not one to sugarcoat the truth, which can occasionally result in some hurt feelings, but she generally means well and just wants the best for all involved. I've had an independent streak since my childhood -- my brother and sister love to tell stories about how I would boss them around, parroting my mother's instructions, and my aunt loves to tell stories about how I would insist that I could do everything myself, even at an early age. Guess that's never gonna change...
4) I will be able to make a mean streusel pie, potato salad, and rouladin, not to mention meatballs of both the Italian and Swedish varieties. My mother kept us well fed with home cooked meals; nights out were special occasions in our house and ordering takeout was virtually unheard of. After years of practice, I have mastered the streusel and the meatballs, but I am still working on getting the flavoring of the potato salad just right, and have not yet dared to try rouladin on my own. Oh, and I'll also be able to make delicious gravies to accompany any meal -- with no lumps!
5) I will have friends in just about every corner of the world, or at least in a great variety of places where my husband/family and I will be able to go and visit in our travels. Mom and Dad have stayed with friends and relatives all over Germany, as well as Grenada, Mallorca, and Montreal, just to name a few. Not sure how this one will happen with me, as I've lost touch with the friends I made during my junior year abroad in England, though I do have good friends all over the U.S. Perhaps I'll make future contacts through my writing...
6) I will take great pride in the traditions of my upbringing...including real candles on the Christmas tree (much to my husband's dismay). I am only now beginning to appreciate the way my mother's German culture seeped into many aspects of our upbringing even though we grew up in suburban Ohio, the "heart of it all" as they claim. A slice of average American life. And yet, we grew up with an appreciation of other cultures that sticks with us today. My husband also comes from German roots, so perhaps we will be able to pass on similar values and traditions to our own children.
I only hope that I will inherit half of my mother's passion and zest for life. In her seventies (sorry, mom, if you didn't want that published), she is still going strong, touring at the museum, travelling widely, visiting her grandchildren often, and squeezing as much joy as she can out of her day-to-day experiences.
Yes, mom, if I become more and more like you as I grow up, I think I'll turn out just fine!
If the saying is true, here are a few of the things I can expect in the coming years:
1) I will develop a love of the color red. My mother has always had a penchant for all things red, as evidenced by the many items of that color in her wardrobe (including shoes, coats, and handbags) as well as the shiny VW Passat she drives. Signs of this tendency are already arising in my own life -- my new laptop, for one, which is a vibrant shade of garnet red, as opposed to the usual black, white, or titanium hues of most laptops.
2) I will become an uber-volunteer and supporter of the arts. My mother remains an active docent at both the Wexner Center and the Columbus Museum of Art, and has also been a volunteer for the symphony and opera at various times over the past several decades. It does not require a great stretch of the imagination to see where this one fits into my life either. An amateur violinist and avid music fan, I play with community groups and support the local symphony orchestra (even if only by being a subscriber at the moment), and I learned great appreciation for the visual arts at my mother's side as we visited the museums and galleries of every city and town we ever went to on a family vacation.
3) I will become ever more strong-headed in my opinions and desires (some may choose to call it stubborn, others outspoken, and still others flat out bossy; I prefer to call it discriminating and independent). Mom knows what she thinks and does not hesitate to share those thoughts with those who are closest to her. She is not one to sugarcoat the truth, which can occasionally result in some hurt feelings, but she generally means well and just wants the best for all involved. I've had an independent streak since my childhood -- my brother and sister love to tell stories about how I would boss them around, parroting my mother's instructions, and my aunt loves to tell stories about how I would insist that I could do everything myself, even at an early age. Guess that's never gonna change...
4) I will be able to make a mean streusel pie, potato salad, and rouladin, not to mention meatballs of both the Italian and Swedish varieties. My mother kept us well fed with home cooked meals; nights out were special occasions in our house and ordering takeout was virtually unheard of. After years of practice, I have mastered the streusel and the meatballs, but I am still working on getting the flavoring of the potato salad just right, and have not yet dared to try rouladin on my own. Oh, and I'll also be able to make delicious gravies to accompany any meal -- with no lumps!
5) I will have friends in just about every corner of the world, or at least in a great variety of places where my husband/family and I will be able to go and visit in our travels. Mom and Dad have stayed with friends and relatives all over Germany, as well as Grenada, Mallorca, and Montreal, just to name a few. Not sure how this one will happen with me, as I've lost touch with the friends I made during my junior year abroad in England, though I do have good friends all over the U.S. Perhaps I'll make future contacts through my writing...
6) I will take great pride in the traditions of my upbringing...including real candles on the Christmas tree (much to my husband's dismay). I am only now beginning to appreciate the way my mother's German culture seeped into many aspects of our upbringing even though we grew up in suburban Ohio, the "heart of it all" as they claim. A slice of average American life. And yet, we grew up with an appreciation of other cultures that sticks with us today. My husband also comes from German roots, so perhaps we will be able to pass on similar values and traditions to our own children.
I only hope that I will inherit half of my mother's passion and zest for life. In her seventies (sorry, mom, if you didn't want that published), she is still going strong, touring at the museum, travelling widely, visiting her grandchildren often, and squeezing as much joy as she can out of her day-to-day experiences.
Yes, mom, if I become more and more like you as I grow up, I think I'll turn out just fine!
26 April 2008
The Simple Life
I like Real Simple. I'm a big fan. Love their ideas about double duty household items and their tips for how to get things clean and organized. I'm just not so sure how simple Real Simple is anymore.
I was browsing through the April issue when I came upon a special feature in their style section about colorful handbags, subheaded: "12 vivid purses to light up your life." I scanned the pictures first. Colorful indeed -- there were purses in every color of the rainbow, and one in hot pink to boot. They came in all shapes and sizes, in designs fit for formal and informal occasions.
There was one on the last page of the spread that I really liked -- a cute little green one that would match the color of my Beetle -- until I took a peek at the price. It was a Marina Rinaldi and came in at a cool $620.00. Okay, so it's "beautifully crafted of ostrich-embossed leather" and made by a designer whose name sounds Italian (translation: expensive). I should have known.
And while the kelly green shoulder bag was the most expensive on its page, it was not the most expensive in the four-page spread. No, that distinction belonged to a bright turquoise blue Miu Miu (not to be confused with the oversized colorful house dresses of a similar name), made of "luxurious Italian leather." Sure, the blurb acknowledged that it was a "splurge," but I can't say I understand just what makes this bag "supremely special," besides the fact that it costs more than most major kitchen appliances.
As I kept looking, I discovered that $50.00 would land me a "seriously spacious" patent-leather carry-all in lipstick red (the cheapest on their list), and after that I could get a matching Banana Republic clutch in shiny red patent-leather big enough to hold my keys and driver's license for just under $100.00. Another real bargain! (Not!)
The average price of a purse in these four Real Simple pages? $375.50! Even without the unreasonable Miu Miu and the cheapest purse skewing the figures, the average remains above the $300.00 mark. Could the editors be suggesting that the simple life includes a $300.00+ purse?
So when I spend $19.00 on a designer (or no brand) handbag on the discount racks at TJ Maxx, am I committing a venial sin against rampant consumerism? Or am I just keeping it simple, for real?
I was browsing through the April issue when I came upon a special feature in their style section about colorful handbags, subheaded: "12 vivid purses to light up your life." I scanned the pictures first. Colorful indeed -- there were purses in every color of the rainbow, and one in hot pink to boot. They came in all shapes and sizes, in designs fit for formal and informal occasions.
There was one on the last page of the spread that I really liked -- a cute little green one that would match the color of my Beetle -- until I took a peek at the price. It was a Marina Rinaldi and came in at a cool $620.00. Okay, so it's "beautifully crafted of ostrich-embossed leather" and made by a designer whose name sounds Italian (translation: expensive). I should have known.
And while the kelly green shoulder bag was the most expensive on its page, it was not the most expensive in the four-page spread. No, that distinction belonged to a bright turquoise blue Miu Miu (not to be confused with the oversized colorful house dresses of a similar name), made of "luxurious Italian leather." Sure, the blurb acknowledged that it was a "splurge," but I can't say I understand just what makes this bag "supremely special," besides the fact that it costs more than most major kitchen appliances.
As I kept looking, I discovered that $50.00 would land me a "seriously spacious" patent-leather carry-all in lipstick red (the cheapest on their list), and after that I could get a matching Banana Republic clutch in shiny red patent-leather big enough to hold my keys and driver's license for just under $100.00. Another real bargain! (Not!)
The average price of a purse in these four Real Simple pages? $375.50! Even without the unreasonable Miu Miu and the cheapest purse skewing the figures, the average remains above the $300.00 mark. Could the editors be suggesting that the simple life includes a $300.00+ purse?
So when I spend $19.00 on a designer (or no brand) handbag on the discount racks at TJ Maxx, am I committing a venial sin against rampant consumerism? Or am I just keeping it simple, for real?
22 April 2008
The Poem Lady
Sorry I've been away, neglecting my bloggerly duties. It's not that I've given up hope on finding an audience or that I've decided that maintaining a blog AND a notebook are mutually exclusive, as some earlier entries may have implied. No, that's not what's kept me away. So where have I been?
I went back to school. Back to the high school I taught at for seven years, that is. But not as a full-time teacher. (I sent in my official resignation a few weeks ago.) For the past two weeks, I played the role of poet-in-residence at Montgomery Blair High School. April being National Poetry Month, it seemed a fitting thing to do.
Last spring, when I announced that I was leaving Blair to concentrate on my writing, one of the librarians approached me to ask if I would be at all interested in coming back to do a guest stint teaching poetry to students for two weeks in April. The poet who had done such a good job for the past two years (Carol Peck), would not be available, and they needed someone to take her place. Much to the librarian's surprise, I jumped at the chance. After all, I'd been telling everyone that my dream job would be doing creative writing with students without all of the grading that came with teaching it full time.
I'll admit I was more than a little nervous as the time drew near. The librarian sent me a class list that included everything from ESOL 4 to 12th grade Honors students. As I made my plans, two voices competed in my head: Poetry with high school students? What makes you think you can make them enjoy poetry? VS. You can do this in your sleep. Your creative writing students always loved what you did with poetry -- even the reluctant poets. I blocked them out as I planned four different activities to generate poems with the students, and I hoped for the best.
By the end of week one, I had worked with 10 different classes in 16 sessions, and I was more than satisfied with the quality of the poems the students were producing. The second week brought 10 new classes and 16 more sessions, which resulted in more than a few terrific poems. Even the class of 13 freshman boys and 1 girl -- the one I was most worried about -- seemed to be engaged. (I would post some of my favorites so you could see their creativity, but I have to get their permission first.)
I was pretty sure the students were enjoying our time together as much as I was, but it was something I overheard at lunchtime of week two that confirmed my suspicions. I was walking down the hall to return a stack of poems to one of the teachers, when I heard a student interrupt a conversation with his friend to say, "Hey, that's the poem lady!"
The poem lady!?! I could get used to that...
I went back to school. Back to the high school I taught at for seven years, that is. But not as a full-time teacher. (I sent in my official resignation a few weeks ago.) For the past two weeks, I played the role of poet-in-residence at Montgomery Blair High School. April being National Poetry Month, it seemed a fitting thing to do.
Last spring, when I announced that I was leaving Blair to concentrate on my writing, one of the librarians approached me to ask if I would be at all interested in coming back to do a guest stint teaching poetry to students for two weeks in April. The poet who had done such a good job for the past two years (Carol Peck), would not be available, and they needed someone to take her place. Much to the librarian's surprise, I jumped at the chance. After all, I'd been telling everyone that my dream job would be doing creative writing with students without all of the grading that came with teaching it full time.
I'll admit I was more than a little nervous as the time drew near. The librarian sent me a class list that included everything from ESOL 4 to 12th grade Honors students. As I made my plans, two voices competed in my head: Poetry with high school students? What makes you think you can make them enjoy poetry? VS. You can do this in your sleep. Your creative writing students always loved what you did with poetry -- even the reluctant poets. I blocked them out as I planned four different activities to generate poems with the students, and I hoped for the best.
By the end of week one, I had worked with 10 different classes in 16 sessions, and I was more than satisfied with the quality of the poems the students were producing. The second week brought 10 new classes and 16 more sessions, which resulted in more than a few terrific poems. Even the class of 13 freshman boys and 1 girl -- the one I was most worried about -- seemed to be engaged. (I would post some of my favorites so you could see their creativity, but I have to get their permission first.)
I was pretty sure the students were enjoying our time together as much as I was, but it was something I overheard at lunchtime of week two that confirmed my suspicions. I was walking down the hall to return a stack of poems to one of the teachers, when I heard a student interrupt a conversation with his friend to say, "Hey, that's the poem lady!"
The poem lady!?! I could get used to that...
31 March 2008
On Inspiration
From a Wired article about where certain people got their inspiration from...
#4 was J.K. Rowling on how she got the idea for her wildly successful series of Harry Potter books. She says it came to her as she was riding in a train car between Manchester and London.
I was doing it religiously last fall, until I got discouraged by people (mostly non-writers) who would ask, "So, what are you working on?" and when I didn't have a specific project to answer with, "Well, what's your genre then?" and wouldn't take "I'm just writing" for an answer. I know, it's a convenient excuse now that time is no longer an issue for me, and if it weren't that one, it would probably be another.
So it's time for me to get back to those morning pages in my notebook. To spend time each morning listening for those voices in the universe, the ones that want their stories to be told, the ones that want to be heard.
#4 was J.K. Rowling on how she got the idea for her wildly successful series of Harry Potter books. She says it came to her as she was riding in a train car between Manchester and London.
It was extraordinary, because I had never planned to write for children. Harry came to me immediately, as did the school and a few of the other characters such as Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost whose head is not quite cut off. The train was delayed, and for hours I sat there thinking and thinking and thinking... The irony is I almost always have pen and paper; I write all the time. And on this one occasion when I had the idea of my life, I didn't have a pen. For four hours my head was buzzing. It was probably the best thing, because I ednded up working the whole thing out before I got off the train.Crazy! But I really do believe that there are stories out there, floating somewhere in the energy of the universe -- that want to be written. And that if you can keep your channels open (as Georgia Heard says), one of them might find you and speak through you. Which is why it is so important to follow the advice of Julia Cameron (or was it Natalaie Goldberg -- sorry if I've got the wrong person) who says it is vital for writers to spend time each morning writing what she calls "Morning pages." Three pages (or was it three hours?) of writing every day about anything so long as you are putting words on the page.
I was doing it religiously last fall, until I got discouraged by people (mostly non-writers) who would ask, "So, what are you working on?" and when I didn't have a specific project to answer with, "Well, what's your genre then?" and wouldn't take "I'm just writing" for an answer. I know, it's a convenient excuse now that time is no longer an issue for me, and if it weren't that one, it would probably be another.
So it's time for me to get back to those morning pages in my notebook. To spend time each morning listening for those voices in the universe, the ones that want their stories to be told, the ones that want to be heard.
27 March 2008
We Try...
I was reading the beginning of Julia Cameron's The Right to Write again this morning (thanks to my friend CF who reminded me that this book existed and that I already owned a copy of it), when I came across the following passage. Well, "came across" is putting it too lightly -- it was more like the words jumped off the page at me, waving white flags and shouting "hello" and "this means you" to get my attention. She writes:
Thank you, Julia, for helping me remember this!
...most of us try to write too carefully. We try to do it 'right.' We try to sound smart. We try, period. Writing goes much better when we don't work at it so much. When we give ourselves permission to just hang out on the page. (3)It's what happens to me when I write entries for this blog vs. what happens when I write in the pages of my notebooks. Something happens and suddenly I'm trying too hard. Worrying about making sense and finding just the right word and whether to use a semicolon or a dash at a particular junction of thought instead of just letting the words and thoughts flow. Writing becomes work instead of play. Maybe I just need to try to impress less and "hang out" more in these entries.
Thank you, Julia, for helping me remember this!
25 March 2008
Color Me Happy
A little experiment...can I successfully put an image in today's blog? Or will it just look like a lot of code?
Click here to create your own painting.
Hey, it worked!
It's a computer-generated painting of my day from a site my friend RVW's blog pointed me to. Analyzer that I am, I'm still trying to interpret the resulting image, particularly that thick, curvy stripe that looks a bit like a rainbow-colored yellow-brick road. The road to nowhere? Or the path I am on? And why does it say "IT" in blue-green letters in middle of the landscape? The end of an expletive? Or a sign that I've arrived (an "it-girl" without even trying)? I wonder how it would have turned out if I had said I was feeling depressed instead of happy?
What does your day look like? Go ahead, give it a try...you know you want to!
Click here to create your own painting.
Hey, it worked!
It's a computer-generated painting of my day from a site my friend RVW's blog pointed me to. Analyzer that I am, I'm still trying to interpret the resulting image, particularly that thick, curvy stripe that looks a bit like a rainbow-colored yellow-brick road. The road to nowhere? Or the path I am on? And why does it say "IT" in blue-green letters in middle of the landscape? The end of an expletive? Or a sign that I've arrived (an "it-girl" without even trying)? I wonder how it would have turned out if I had said I was feeling depressed instead of happy?
What does your day look like? Go ahead, give it a try...you know you want to!
24 March 2008
Straight from Yesterday's News...
From an article in the Baltimore Sun's real estate section yesterday about clearing the clutter out of your house to make it more attractive to homebuyers, this surprising statistic:
Tawlk amongst yourselves...
Hmmm. There is so much more I could say, but I think I will leave it at that for now and let you arrive at your own conclusions. (Perhaps I'll publish a few of my own in a later entry.)"31 percent of respondents to an IKEA survey said cleaning their closet was more satisfying than sex."
Tawlk amongst yourselves...
18 March 2008
Perfect Match: On Dreamhouses and Soulmates
Three years ago, I used my computer to find a husband. These days, I'm using it to find a new house. Different goals, yes, but the process is strangely similar.
When my husband and I first signed up, we had to tell the computer exactly what we were looking for in a living space: location, style of house, number of bedrooms and bathrooms, and desired price range. (Thankfully, we didn't have to fill out a personality inventory with hundreds of questions first.) From then on, the database has emailed us daily updates with new property listings and changes in the status of houses on the market (i.e. withdrawn, under contract, sold, price changes).
When we click on a link in the message, voila! Each house appears on it's own page, complete with additional information that will help us determine if it matches our criteria. We check the address to see if it falls within our geographic preferences, read the description (chock full of flattering adjectives supplied by the realtor), glance at room dimensions to get an idea of the space, and then, if we are still interested, we click on the virtual tour button. That is, provided the seller has made pictures of the house available. For us, pictures are key. If you want us to come look at your house in person, we want a preview first to make sure that the description is not just filling our heads with pleasant lies to reel us in.
When I first started computer dating, I was adamant about not making my picture available until a later stage of communication (there are four in the eHarmony process). I wanted my potential matches to be more interested in my personality than my appearance. But it only took one experience of communicating with someone who then turned out to be far from my preference of body type to realize that it wasn't shallow of people to want to see you first. Appearance isn't everything, but it does matter. Just like with the houses. The way we figure it, if the seller isn't willing to post pictures, there must be something they want to hide.
There is an exception to every rule, and a house we visited last weekend was that exception. On the website, the seller (or agent) had posted only an exterior view of the house. But since it was in a neighborhood we were seeing several other homes in anyway, we decided to take a chance. It turned out to be not only much cuter on the outside than its internet photo revealed, but beautiful and meticulously maintained on the inside as well. Needless to say, we were pleasantly surprised.
When my husband and I first signed up, we had to tell the computer exactly what we were looking for in a living space: location, style of house, number of bedrooms and bathrooms, and desired price range. (Thankfully, we didn't have to fill out a personality inventory with hundreds of questions first.) From then on, the database has emailed us daily updates with new property listings and changes in the status of houses on the market (i.e. withdrawn, under contract, sold, price changes).
When we click on a link in the message, voila! Each house appears on it's own page, complete with additional information that will help us determine if it matches our criteria. We check the address to see if it falls within our geographic preferences, read the description (chock full of flattering adjectives supplied by the realtor), glance at room dimensions to get an idea of the space, and then, if we are still interested, we click on the virtual tour button. That is, provided the seller has made pictures of the house available. For us, pictures are key. If you want us to come look at your house in person, we want a preview first to make sure that the description is not just filling our heads with pleasant lies to reel us in.
When I first started computer dating, I was adamant about not making my picture available until a later stage of communication (there are four in the eHarmony process). I wanted my potential matches to be more interested in my personality than my appearance. But it only took one experience of communicating with someone who then turned out to be far from my preference of body type to realize that it wasn't shallow of people to want to see you first. Appearance isn't everything, but it does matter. Just like with the houses. The way we figure it, if the seller isn't willing to post pictures, there must be something they want to hide.
There is an exception to every rule, and a house we visited last weekend was that exception. On the website, the seller (or agent) had posted only an exterior view of the house. But since it was in a neighborhood we were seeing several other homes in anyway, we decided to take a chance. It turned out to be not only much cuter on the outside than its internet photo revealed, but beautiful and meticulously maintained on the inside as well. Needless to say, we were pleasantly surprised.
The question that has eluded us throughout our search for the perfect home is the same one that has plagued lovers throughout the ages: how do you know when you find the one? Not just a possibility, not just one that we like, but the one that we want to stick with for the rest of our lives (or at least a significant numbers of years)? Is there more than one perfect match for everybody? Or is this really the one?
In real estate, as in love, there is a danger in putting off a decision for too long. You can save the profile of the house or potential mate, tuck it away in your mailbox for future consideration, but if you don't act fast enough, your ideal candidate may be snatched up by someone else who is...hungrier? more decisive? more desperate? And one day, you'll open your box to find the profile closed, or worse, erased from your list. It's already happened with a couple of houses that we had serious crushes on. Each time, our hearts sank when we noticed the empty space in our saved list of properties.
I'm not sure when (or if) we will find the perfect home, but I do know that if we do as well finding our dream house as we did finding each other, we will be very happy in our new home.
11 March 2008
Cheating?
Does anybody really read this? Does it really matter?
Would I have more incentive to post entries in my blog if I knew hundreds of people were reading it every week? Or would that make me so careful of my words that my creativity would be paralyzed and my voice compromised?
Ever since I started this blog, I write less in my notebook. I used to set aside at least three hours each morning for writing, and if I ran out of words before the time had passed, I would pick up a book and lose myself in another writer's words, study someone else's craft. These days, if I've posted an entry, I can say I've done my writing for the day regardless of how much (or how little) time it took me to produce.
I feel like I'm cheating on my notebook, having an illicit affair with my desktop computer, even as my notebook sits beside me waiting for the familiar touch of my pen. Except where time spent with my notebook is a meandering walk through the park holding hands, the time spent on the computer is an afternoon quickie in a motel with red heart-shaped beds.
I guess they serve different purposes, fill different needs. In my notebook, I can jump from one topic to the next without providing any sort of logical segue. I can spew out thoughts in grammatically incorrect sentences if they are coming too fast to be interrupted by proper punctuation. I can try out an idea before it's ready for the eyes of the world. It doesn't have to make sense to anyone but me. There is a great freedom in the pages of my notebook. Room for the unexpected to surface unsummoned.
In my blog, I feel the need to have some sort of topic in mind as I write and to develop it to some extent before moving on to the next thought. I am conscious of the possibility that I am writing for an audience, but it is a big, faceless, nondescript audience (aside from known friends and family) that in fact may not now, or ever, exist anywhere beyond my imagination. I don't feel at liberty to ramble on for pages at a time because blog audiences, it is said, like to get in and get out, not find themselves elbow deep in a dissertation.
Part of this, admittedly, may be my fault, the result of expectations I brought to this writing endeavor. A hope that my voice might become part of a broader dialogue or conversation going on in the blogiverse and in the world. a subconscious seeking of approval or adulation from others to feed my ever-hungry ego. Perhaps I just need to give it more time, be patient, enjoy the journey, let my words find their own way into the world. Wouldn't be the first time the universe was trying to teach me that lesson. Maybe this time I'll learn.
Would I have more incentive to post entries in my blog if I knew hundreds of people were reading it every week? Or would that make me so careful of my words that my creativity would be paralyzed and my voice compromised?
Ever since I started this blog, I write less in my notebook. I used to set aside at least three hours each morning for writing, and if I ran out of words before the time had passed, I would pick up a book and lose myself in another writer's words, study someone else's craft. These days, if I've posted an entry, I can say I've done my writing for the day regardless of how much (or how little) time it took me to produce.
I feel like I'm cheating on my notebook, having an illicit affair with my desktop computer, even as my notebook sits beside me waiting for the familiar touch of my pen. Except where time spent with my notebook is a meandering walk through the park holding hands, the time spent on the computer is an afternoon quickie in a motel with red heart-shaped beds.
I guess they serve different purposes, fill different needs. In my notebook, I can jump from one topic to the next without providing any sort of logical segue. I can spew out thoughts in grammatically incorrect sentences if they are coming too fast to be interrupted by proper punctuation. I can try out an idea before it's ready for the eyes of the world. It doesn't have to make sense to anyone but me. There is a great freedom in the pages of my notebook. Room for the unexpected to surface unsummoned.
In my blog, I feel the need to have some sort of topic in mind as I write and to develop it to some extent before moving on to the next thought. I am conscious of the possibility that I am writing for an audience, but it is a big, faceless, nondescript audience (aside from known friends and family) that in fact may not now, or ever, exist anywhere beyond my imagination. I don't feel at liberty to ramble on for pages at a time because blog audiences, it is said, like to get in and get out, not find themselves elbow deep in a dissertation.
Part of this, admittedly, may be my fault, the result of expectations I brought to this writing endeavor. A hope that my voice might become part of a broader dialogue or conversation going on in the blogiverse and in the world. a subconscious seeking of approval or adulation from others to feed my ever-hungry ego. Perhaps I just need to give it more time, be patient, enjoy the journey, let my words find their own way into the world. Wouldn't be the first time the universe was trying to teach me that lesson. Maybe this time I'll learn.
10 March 2008
Zen and the Art of Wallpaper Removal
I have spent much of the last week in the closet. In the bedroom closet, that is. Somebody who owned this house before my husband thought it would be wise to put wallpaper, of all places, inside the closets of the bedrooms.
As it turns out, this is a fairly common practice among homeowners, as I first discovered when painting the inside of the coat closet in my previous home. Only I didn't realize I was dealing with wallpaper at all until it was already too late. I was in the middle of applying a new layer of paint when suddenly, instead of leaving a beige color behind, the roller revealed a blank spot of wall. The wallpaper, as it soaked in the moisture provided by the new layer of paint, was coming loose from the wall and peeling off in little flakes, much to my dismay. With a slight change of tools, I was able to get away with burying the old paper under yet another layer of paint. With any luck, the new owners won't discover what's hidden in the closet until years from now when they decide to freshen up the paint.
Removing the wallpaper in our bedroom closet has been much like an archaeological dig due to the fact that quite a lot of decorating has gone on in said closet over the years. Underneath the faded floral wallpaper which we could see, was a layer of pink paint, which in turn was hiding another layer of wallpaper. Thankfully, only one of the previous homeowners had deemed it necessary to decorate even the closet's ceiling with wallpaper. (Who thought that would be a good idea??)
If not for the layer of paint in between layers of paper, I suspect the job might have been a bit easier, though "removing wallpaper" and "easy" are not words that are often used in the same sentence.
After the first few hours spent with the wallpaper steamer in one hand and a scraper in the other, I arrived at a zen-like state of acceptance. I came to terms with the simple fact that this was not going to be a quick or easy job. It might be several days before all of the layers were removed. Instead of thinking about all of the other things I could be doing if I weren't stuck in the closet, I focused on clearing small sections of the wall, celebrating one square foot of achievement at a time.
This afternoon, I scraped off the last little bits, with some help from a solution of vinegar and water (better than any store-bought chemical solution you can buy). Then I spent another few hours sponging down the walls to remove the uneven coating of brownish glue that had been left behind. Once I've done a bit of spackling, I can finally get down to the business of painting, which I could have started days ago, if only...
Let's just say there should be a rule for would-be decorators: Before putting up any wallpaper in your home, you must have had at least one experience taking it down. I think it's safe to say that would save our walls from a lot of ugly paper and save ourselves a lot of trouble!
As it turns out, this is a fairly common practice among homeowners, as I first discovered when painting the inside of the coat closet in my previous home. Only I didn't realize I was dealing with wallpaper at all until it was already too late. I was in the middle of applying a new layer of paint when suddenly, instead of leaving a beige color behind, the roller revealed a blank spot of wall. The wallpaper, as it soaked in the moisture provided by the new layer of paint, was coming loose from the wall and peeling off in little flakes, much to my dismay. With a slight change of tools, I was able to get away with burying the old paper under yet another layer of paint. With any luck, the new owners won't discover what's hidden in the closet until years from now when they decide to freshen up the paint.
Removing the wallpaper in our bedroom closet has been much like an archaeological dig due to the fact that quite a lot of decorating has gone on in said closet over the years. Underneath the faded floral wallpaper which we could see, was a layer of pink paint, which in turn was hiding another layer of wallpaper. Thankfully, only one of the previous homeowners had deemed it necessary to decorate even the closet's ceiling with wallpaper. (Who thought that would be a good idea??)
If not for the layer of paint in between layers of paper, I suspect the job might have been a bit easier, though "removing wallpaper" and "easy" are not words that are often used in the same sentence.
After the first few hours spent with the wallpaper steamer in one hand and a scraper in the other, I arrived at a zen-like state of acceptance. I came to terms with the simple fact that this was not going to be a quick or easy job. It might be several days before all of the layers were removed. Instead of thinking about all of the other things I could be doing if I weren't stuck in the closet, I focused on clearing small sections of the wall, celebrating one square foot of achievement at a time.
This afternoon, I scraped off the last little bits, with some help from a solution of vinegar and water (better than any store-bought chemical solution you can buy). Then I spent another few hours sponging down the walls to remove the uneven coating of brownish glue that had been left behind. Once I've done a bit of spackling, I can finally get down to the business of painting, which I could have started days ago, if only...
Let's just say there should be a rule for would-be decorators: Before putting up any wallpaper in your home, you must have had at least one experience taking it down. I think it's safe to say that would save our walls from a lot of ugly paper and save ourselves a lot of trouble!
06 March 2008
On a Webcast and a Prayer
The highlight of the last few days was undoubtedly -- no, not Oprah's much anticipated webcast -- but a visit with my niece and nephew.
They, and their parents (my brother and sister-in-law), were visiting their grandparents in VA this week, so I got to take a day off from wallpaper removal (more on that another time) to play with them. The most memorable moment (among many) was when Calvin, who is three, led the prayer before dinner. After reciting several verses of "God is good, God is great..." he then declared that we would conclude the prayer by joining him in singing Johnny Appleseed -- "at a medium tempo." His words. So that's what we did.
It's no wonder, having spent just 24 hours with them, that his antics, and his sister's, provide constant content and inspiration for my sister-in-law's blog (which, if you want to check it out is at www.babsland.blogspot.com!]
As for the big Oprah Webcast, it was indeed big, but a bit of a let down, as my technology was less than cooperative. I got to hear most of the first 10 minutes of the program, missing only a word or two here and there due to hiccups in the audio. I found out some interesting things about Tolle's background and his writing habits. But after that, it all went downhill. The picture kept freezing and the audio would disappear at the same time, leaving large gaps in the conversation. It went something like this: Pretend that you don't know...we're so trapped in this continuous...thought, I could say that's the new...so my question...ummm, the absolute...box because I grew up in the Baptist...eloquently put...when you read it. [It's okay, it's not supposed to make any sense.]
What made it more disappointing was that I ended a long distance call with my husband, who is away for a couple of weeks, in order to watch it. That'll teach me. Hopefully they'll get some of the technical problems ironed out before next week. Meanwhile, I'll have to settle for a download or a written transcript.
They, and their parents (my brother and sister-in-law), were visiting their grandparents in VA this week, so I got to take a day off from wallpaper removal (more on that another time) to play with them. The most memorable moment (among many) was when Calvin, who is three, led the prayer before dinner. After reciting several verses of "God is good, God is great..." he then declared that we would conclude the prayer by joining him in singing Johnny Appleseed -- "at a medium tempo." His words. So that's what we did.
It's no wonder, having spent just 24 hours with them, that his antics, and his sister's, provide constant content and inspiration for my sister-in-law's blog (which, if you want to check it out is at www.babsland.blogspot.com!]
As for the big Oprah Webcast, it was indeed big, but a bit of a let down, as my technology was less than cooperative. I got to hear most of the first 10 minutes of the program, missing only a word or two here and there due to hiccups in the audio. I found out some interesting things about Tolle's background and his writing habits. But after that, it all went downhill. The picture kept freezing and the audio would disappear at the same time, leaving large gaps in the conversation. It went something like this: Pretend that you don't know...we're so trapped in this continuous...thought, I could say that's the new...so my question...ummm, the absolute...box because I grew up in the Baptist...eloquently put...when you read it. [It's okay, it's not supposed to make any sense.]
What made it more disappointing was that I ended a long distance call with my husband, who is away for a couple of weeks, in order to watch it. That'll teach me. Hopefully they'll get some of the technical problems ironed out before next week. Meanwhile, I'll have to settle for a download or a written transcript.
03 March 2008
Online with Oprah
I have a confession to make. I have jumped onto the Oprah's Book Club bandwagon. This is somewhat unusual for me, because I am not typically a bandwagon person. You know the type I'm talking about. The people who want to be part of every trend, and not just part of it, but among the first to get on board so they can brag about being one of the first.
The truth is, I typically resist anything that qualifies as the latest trend. When all of my classmates in fifth and sixth grade were reading The Hobbit, I refused to read it (and not because I hated reading). How good can a book whose main character has a name like Bilbo Baggins be, I reasoned. (Pretty good, it turns out. I finally read it a few years back.) When cell phones were the new big thing, I swore I would never have one. Who wants to be available 24/7, I wondered. (Apparently I do. Turns out they're pretty useful. But mine doesn't have a camera, and I still haven't figured out how to send a text message. See? Resisting.)
So when Oprah started talking about this book A New Earth, I was skeptical. I am not one to read a book just because it has the little "O" sticker on the front. But when I heard that the subtitle was "Awakening to Your Life's Purpose" (something I've been wondering about since hanging up my teacher's hat), and when I found out that she and Eckhart Tolle (the author) were going to offer a free web class, my curiosity got the better of me.
I went to Barnes & Noble (or maybe it was Border's) to check it out. Sitting in the cafe, a caramel latte in hand, I read the first two chapters to make sure it would be worth buying a copy. With themes like increasing your consciousness, breaking free of the ego, being with a capital "B," and transformation, the book stoked my curiosity just enough to convince me to by a copy. But not because Oprah said so.
The first class -- a worldwide event -- is tonight. I received an email from Oprah's team yesterday telling me that I am to login and take my virtual seat twenty minutes before the broadcast begins. I have no idea what to expect. It could be a total bust for all I know. Or I could find myself connected to a community of people who think (with apologies to Eckhart for using that verb) like I do...a new experience indeed.
The truth is, I typically resist anything that qualifies as the latest trend. When all of my classmates in fifth and sixth grade were reading The Hobbit, I refused to read it (and not because I hated reading). How good can a book whose main character has a name like Bilbo Baggins be, I reasoned. (Pretty good, it turns out. I finally read it a few years back.) When cell phones were the new big thing, I swore I would never have one. Who wants to be available 24/7, I wondered. (Apparently I do. Turns out they're pretty useful. But mine doesn't have a camera, and I still haven't figured out how to send a text message. See? Resisting.)
So when Oprah started talking about this book A New Earth, I was skeptical. I am not one to read a book just because it has the little "O" sticker on the front. But when I heard that the subtitle was "Awakening to Your Life's Purpose" (something I've been wondering about since hanging up my teacher's hat), and when I found out that she and Eckhart Tolle (the author) were going to offer a free web class, my curiosity got the better of me.
I went to Barnes & Noble (or maybe it was Border's) to check it out. Sitting in the cafe, a caramel latte in hand, I read the first two chapters to make sure it would be worth buying a copy. With themes like increasing your consciousness, breaking free of the ego, being with a capital "B," and transformation, the book stoked my curiosity just enough to convince me to by a copy. But not because Oprah said so.
The first class -- a worldwide event -- is tonight. I received an email from Oprah's team yesterday telling me that I am to login and take my virtual seat twenty minutes before the broadcast begins. I have no idea what to expect. It could be a total bust for all I know. Or I could find myself connected to a community of people who think (with apologies to Eckhart for using that verb) like I do...a new experience indeed.
29 February 2008
So it's Leap Day. It only comes once every four years. An extra day to balance out the calendar.
But what if we didn't have leap day? How long would it take before spring slid backwards into winter and winter slid into the season we traditionally know as summer?
I'm no mathemetician, but wouldn't it take just 120 years (30 days multiplied by a 4 year interval) before our whole calendar backed up a full month? Of course, that means that the difference within the average person's lifetime would hardly be noticeable. Two, maybe three, weeks over the course of seventy-some years. But after three and a half centuries, school would start as winter moved in, and Washington DC's famous cherry blossoms would bloom closer to July 4th than April Fool's Day. Trick or Treaters would have plenty of daylight for making their rounds, and they wouldn't have to bundle up to keep out the fall chill.
It would take more like 700 years before people would start to associate Christmas with heat and humidity rather than frost and snow. (Would Santa have to trade in his red coat and hat for a summer suit? Could the reindeer handle the heat?) And how would fireworks look bursting in vibrant color over a snowy white landscape? People wouldn't give a second thought to trees shedding their leaves in April, and spring flowers blooming in October. Confused yet?
Such a shift would certainly do a lot for the public image of the dreary, cold winter months, not to mention the hot, steamy months at the peak of summer. Imagine a balmy, sun-filled day, perfect for spending an afternoon by the pool...in January! Or a blizzard that brought two feet of snow and freezing temperatures...in August. That might shut down the airports, but children (and teachers) would have to kiss their beloved snow days good-bye.
Letting time slide one day every four years might just do us all a bit of good. Shake us out of our daily routines, the false sense of security we get from the illusion of controlling time.
But until then, Happy Leap Day!
But what if we didn't have leap day? How long would it take before spring slid backwards into winter and winter slid into the season we traditionally know as summer?
I'm no mathemetician, but wouldn't it take just 120 years (30 days multiplied by a 4 year interval) before our whole calendar backed up a full month? Of course, that means that the difference within the average person's lifetime would hardly be noticeable. Two, maybe three, weeks over the course of seventy-some years. But after three and a half centuries, school would start as winter moved in, and Washington DC's famous cherry blossoms would bloom closer to July 4th than April Fool's Day. Trick or Treaters would have plenty of daylight for making their rounds, and they wouldn't have to bundle up to keep out the fall chill.
It would take more like 700 years before people would start to associate Christmas with heat and humidity rather than frost and snow. (Would Santa have to trade in his red coat and hat for a summer suit? Could the reindeer handle the heat?) And how would fireworks look bursting in vibrant color over a snowy white landscape? People wouldn't give a second thought to trees shedding their leaves in April, and spring flowers blooming in October. Confused yet?
Such a shift would certainly do a lot for the public image of the dreary, cold winter months, not to mention the hot, steamy months at the peak of summer. Imagine a balmy, sun-filled day, perfect for spending an afternoon by the pool...in January! Or a blizzard that brought two feet of snow and freezing temperatures...in August. That might shut down the airports, but children (and teachers) would have to kiss their beloved snow days good-bye.
Letting time slide one day every four years might just do us all a bit of good. Shake us out of our daily routines, the false sense of security we get from the illusion of controlling time.
But until then, Happy Leap Day!
28 February 2008
Seller, Beware
My husband and I find ourselves having frequent conversations about real estate these days, being that we are in the market for a new house. We have been looking for several months now, so we have seen quite a few houses firsthand, and even more on the web, thanks to daily updates of new or reduced-price listings.
A typical conversation goes somewhat like this:
"I really liked that one we saw last weekend."
"Which one? The one the daughter was showing for her parents?"
"No, the one across from the yard with the big goats."
"Oh, you mean circle drive."
(It has a circular driveway, one of P's favorite features.)
OR as we look through listsings...
"Isn't this the one with the awful wallpaper?"
"Oh no, this is the smelly house."
"I thought cat-pee house was in a different neighborhood."
"It is. I mean the other smelly house."
At times, it's like we are speaking a language of our own. I often wish sellers could listen in on our conversations, so they could get a quick picture of the impression their house left.
Here is an annotated sampling of the houses we have seen, as identified by their most memorable characteristics:
A typical conversation goes somewhat like this:
"I really liked that one we saw last weekend."
"Which one? The one the daughter was showing for her parents?"
"No, the one across from the yard with the big goats."
"Oh, you mean circle drive."
(It has a circular driveway, one of P's favorite features.)
OR as we look through listsings...
"Isn't this the one with the awful wallpaper?"
"Oh no, this is the smelly house."
"I thought cat-pee house was in a different neighborhood."
"It is. I mean the other smelly house."
At times, it's like we are speaking a language of our own. I often wish sellers could listen in on our conversations, so they could get a quick picture of the impression their house left.
Here is an annotated sampling of the houses we have seen, as identified by their most memorable characteristics:
- The manor house -- French provincial style, it had all the elegance of a little castle; it was love at first sight for us despite the very purple toilet...too bad the house needed so much work, including a new roof.
- Alarm house -- our realtor had the wrong code; the alarm went off the entire time we were there, bringing a cop to the front door. (At least we know the system works.)
- Tall house -- built at the bottom of a hill, it's three stories in the front and two in the back, which translated into two flights of steps up to the front door.
- Dripping drainpipes -- had at least three downspouts that didn't connect to the pipe leading it away from the house; we know because we could see the icicles hanging between sections.
- Sloping yard houses (there have been several) -- we've both had experience with this double whammy: water issues and hard-to-mow.
- Subdivided lot house (several of these too) -- one of our pet peeves; we prefer not to live in someone's backyard or have someone else living in ours.
- Bowling alley basement -- not literally, but the dimensions would have been perfect, and the other rooms in the house were built to a similar grand scale.
- Monster shower -- in the basement we found a full 90-degree shower with dual shower heads, 10 jets down the sides, and a computerized control panel that flashed "Welcome." Ironically the master bath had a plain old tub.
- Party in the master bathroom house -- seriously, enough room to move in a couple of overstuffed armchairs or to do a little ballroom dancing on the tile floor.
- And our personal favorite: Daughter-with-guest-not-expecting-us house -- Friday night, two cars in the driveway, a voice from upstairs saying "Um, it's not a good time."
With my own house on the market, it wasn't long before it dawned on me that prospective buyers might be walking away labelling it in a similar fashion. I particularly feared that they might dub it the red-wall house due to the rather brightly colored accent wall in the smallest bedroom. (In my own defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time, and I didn't think it would look quite as bright as it did.) I decided to paint it the neutral linen color of the other walls in the room, and while I was at it, bought enough paint to de-green the master bedroom as well.
Note to sellers: the house sold two weeks later. Some might say it was because we lowered the price and hit the magic "price point," but I still maintain the investment in a couple of gallons of paint was well worth it.
27 February 2008
Keys
I am down to two keys.
The key to the my husband's house -- he owned it long before I came along -- which since our wedding has become the key to our house. Small and silver, with a rounded head and pointy teeth. And the key to my trusty, green Beetle. A black plastic rectangle with a VW logo and a silver button that releases a narrow grooved bar that slides into the ignition.
Two keys. My keychain feels so empty. And so light.
I feel naked.
I sold the first and only house I've ever owned a few weeks ago. It became official somewhere between 5 and 6:00 p.m. on February 7, as I signed my name -- the married version -- on multiple sheets of paper. When all was said and done, I removed the keys to the house from my keychain, two for the front door and one for the back, and handed them across the table. But it wasn't until I went to leave the house the next morning that I noticed the emptiness.
I used to have a second keychain on its own lanyard for my school keys. The one that opened the English office, the ones to my various classrooms, the one to the faculty bathrooms. The lanyard hung around my neck while I was at work and hung around the stick shift of my Beetle at night. I turned those keys in last June when I decided to hang up my teacher hat and try my hand at writing. I don't need any keys for that, except the ones that I use to type.
So here I am. Stripped down to the bare necessities. And perhaps that's cause for celebration. No more drives down the interstate just to water the plants and check on the house. No more worries about the mess in the neighbor's backyard or the two defunct cars in front of her house or the rain overflowing from her mulberry-clogged gutters down the hill to my basement windows.
Instead, my husband and I get to search for new keys. The ones to the house that we will buy together when the right place comes along.
But for now, I'll just enjoy travelling light.
Note: Neither spellcheck nor Dictionary.com recognize the word "keychain" as one word, despite the gaggle of advertisers who do. I decided I liked it better as one word myself...
The key to the my husband's house -- he owned it long before I came along -- which since our wedding has become the key to our house. Small and silver, with a rounded head and pointy teeth. And the key to my trusty, green Beetle. A black plastic rectangle with a VW logo and a silver button that releases a narrow grooved bar that slides into the ignition.
Two keys. My keychain feels so empty. And so light.
I feel naked.
I sold the first and only house I've ever owned a few weeks ago. It became official somewhere between 5 and 6:00 p.m. on February 7, as I signed my name -- the married version -- on multiple sheets of paper. When all was said and done, I removed the keys to the house from my keychain, two for the front door and one for the back, and handed them across the table. But it wasn't until I went to leave the house the next morning that I noticed the emptiness.
I used to have a second keychain on its own lanyard for my school keys. The one that opened the English office, the ones to my various classrooms, the one to the faculty bathrooms. The lanyard hung around my neck while I was at work and hung around the stick shift of my Beetle at night. I turned those keys in last June when I decided to hang up my teacher hat and try my hand at writing. I don't need any keys for that, except the ones that I use to type.
So here I am. Stripped down to the bare necessities. And perhaps that's cause for celebration. No more drives down the interstate just to water the plants and check on the house. No more worries about the mess in the neighbor's backyard or the two defunct cars in front of her house or the rain overflowing from her mulberry-clogged gutters down the hill to my basement windows.
Instead, my husband and I get to search for new keys. The ones to the house that we will buy together when the right place comes along.
But for now, I'll just enjoy travelling light.
Note: Neither spellcheck nor Dictionary.com recognize the word "keychain" as one word, despite the gaggle of advertisers who do. I decided I liked it better as one word myself...
26 February 2008
What's in a Name?
When I set out to create a blog, I didn't realize that the hardest part would be coming up with a name. Actually, I needed three names to get started: my username for signing my posts, my url by which others would be able to find me on the web, and the title of the blog itself.
The first came fairly easily. I just shortened my first and last name, put them together, took a little poetic license with the last syllable, and voila! Valhellah, deliciously close to Valhalla. Not that I'm a fan of Norse mythology or of Richard Wagner (though the ride of the Valkyries as they escort the slain warriors into Valhalla is, to say the least, a catchy tune)...I just liked the way it sounded. Despite my past as an English teacher -- and all high school students will tell you that English teachers live for finding hidden meanings in things -- no symbolism intended.
Finding an unclaimed url proved a bit more challenging. I came up with a whole page of possibilities in my notebook, checking each for availability as I went. Among those already taken: WhatSheSaid, LivingOutLoud, ItsMyVoice, OnPurpose, SottoVoce, Valerieana (sorry, mom), and PenIsMightier (open to misinterpretation when written all lower case anyway). Among the finalists in the available column: OnceMoreWithVoice (just too long), Valerini (what my quartet-mates have dubbed me), ThoughtRamblings (the journal writing we used to do in elementary school), PurposeQueen (a nickname bestowed upon me by co-teachers of a summer workshop), BentPinkies (for those who have seen my hands), and the eventual winner, VIsForVoice (easy and memorable in an acrostic sort of way).
I returned to my list of possible url's as I searched for a name for the blog. In the end, it came down to two choices. The runner-up was It's a Passion, a tribute to my love of writing and the title of a favorite Luka Bloom song. But the winner (at least for now) was Herding Commas. Why? It's what writing feels like some days -- when the words all want to come out at once in a big uncontrolled stream (or spew if you want a more vulgar image), or when they don't want to fall in line in neatly organized sentences, or when they ramble on for half a page taking all sorts of detours and digressions (much like this one) before finally arriving at a point or at least coming to a full stop at a period.
Herding Commas seemed to me more memorable and eye-catching than the other possiblities. It struck me as more original, even though it's a variation on "herding cats" (an expression best illustrated by some company's Super Bowl commercial several years ago), an activity which is acknowledged by most to be a futile pursuit, or at least a highly challenging one, as cats are not, by personality, as agreeable as cows when it comes to doing anything on your schedule. It's a lot like writing that way -- the words don't necessarily come when you're sitting with notebook in lap, pen in hand, or in the case of a blog, with fingers poised over the keyboard and eyes fixed on the monitor. No, words usually come at a more inconvenient moment -- when you're driving down the interstate or in the middle of Sunday's sermon or halfway through a long, relaxing soak in the tub -- bad times for writing, all.
Commas, like cats, are notoriously evasive when it comes to following any sort of fixed rules. They never made sense to the majority of my students, and they only began to make sense to me after some sort of comma epiphany I had sometime during my eleventh grade year, no thanks to my tenth grade English teacher's propensity to read to us from the dreaded light blue Warriner's Grammar book every day.
In the throes of first love (or perhaps just good old teenaged infatuation), Juliet asks, "What's in a name?" (Can't help it...English teacher, remember?) And she goes on to propose that a rose by any other name "would smell as sweet." By her reasoning, I've given entirely too much thought and significance to the task of giving names to things which would exist just the same regardless of what I decided to call them. Maybe so, but at least I had some fun along the way.
The first came fairly easily. I just shortened my first and last name, put them together, took a little poetic license with the last syllable, and voila! Valhellah, deliciously close to Valhalla. Not that I'm a fan of Norse mythology or of Richard Wagner (though the ride of the Valkyries as they escort the slain warriors into Valhalla is, to say the least, a catchy tune)...I just liked the way it sounded. Despite my past as an English teacher -- and all high school students will tell you that English teachers live for finding hidden meanings in things -- no symbolism intended.
Finding an unclaimed url proved a bit more challenging. I came up with a whole page of possibilities in my notebook, checking each for availability as I went. Among those already taken: WhatSheSaid, LivingOutLoud, ItsMyVoice, OnPurpose, SottoVoce, Valerieana (sorry, mom), and PenIsMightier (open to misinterpretation when written all lower case anyway). Among the finalists in the available column: OnceMoreWithVoice (just too long), Valerini (what my quartet-mates have dubbed me), ThoughtRamblings (the journal writing we used to do in elementary school), PurposeQueen (a nickname bestowed upon me by co-teachers of a summer workshop), BentPinkies (for those who have seen my hands), and the eventual winner, VIsForVoice (easy and memorable in an acrostic sort of way).
I returned to my list of possible url's as I searched for a name for the blog. In the end, it came down to two choices. The runner-up was It's a Passion, a tribute to my love of writing and the title of a favorite Luka Bloom song. But the winner (at least for now) was Herding Commas. Why? It's what writing feels like some days -- when the words all want to come out at once in a big uncontrolled stream (or spew if you want a more vulgar image), or when they don't want to fall in line in neatly organized sentences, or when they ramble on for half a page taking all sorts of detours and digressions (much like this one) before finally arriving at a point or at least coming to a full stop at a period.
Herding Commas seemed to me more memorable and eye-catching than the other possiblities. It struck me as more original, even though it's a variation on "herding cats" (an expression best illustrated by some company's Super Bowl commercial several years ago), an activity which is acknowledged by most to be a futile pursuit, or at least a highly challenging one, as cats are not, by personality, as agreeable as cows when it comes to doing anything on your schedule. It's a lot like writing that way -- the words don't necessarily come when you're sitting with notebook in lap, pen in hand, or in the case of a blog, with fingers poised over the keyboard and eyes fixed on the monitor. No, words usually come at a more inconvenient moment -- when you're driving down the interstate or in the middle of Sunday's sermon or halfway through a long, relaxing soak in the tub -- bad times for writing, all.
Commas, like cats, are notoriously evasive when it comes to following any sort of fixed rules. They never made sense to the majority of my students, and they only began to make sense to me after some sort of comma epiphany I had sometime during my eleventh grade year, no thanks to my tenth grade English teacher's propensity to read to us from the dreaded light blue Warriner's Grammar book every day.
In the throes of first love (or perhaps just good old teenaged infatuation), Juliet asks, "What's in a name?" (Can't help it...English teacher, remember?) And she goes on to propose that a rose by any other name "would smell as sweet." By her reasoning, I've given entirely too much thought and significance to the task of giving names to things which would exist just the same regardless of what I decided to call them. Maybe so, but at least I had some fun along the way.
25 February 2008
Blank Pages, Blank Screens
Funny...
It's just like starting a new notebook -- pen in hand, a clean, crisp, white page staring back at you. The fact that it's the glow of a blank screen reflecting on your face doesn't make it any easier to choose the first words.
Actually, it makes it harder. I can go back and erase the words that appear on the screen tens, hundreds, thousands (let's hope it doesn't reach that point) of times before saving them for you, whoever you may be, to read. Whereas in my notebook, once I write the words in pen, they are there for good. Sure, I can cross them out and write over them, or in the case of a real train wreck, I can tear out the entire page, feed it to the shredder, and start fresh on the next blank sheet. But being somewhat of a notebook purist, I could never bring myself to do that.
The nice thing is, I'm pretty sure that I'm not alone. That most bloggers have experienced a similar feeling when composing their first post and preparing to release it into the big, wide blogiverse (more than 110 million strong according to Sunday's Baltimore Sun). I imagine it's the way parents feel when they drop off their child on the first day of kindergarten. I don't know what will happen to my posts -- who will read them, how they will be received, what they will be when they "grow up." But I do know that I want my voice to be heard. That I want my words to venture beyond the bound pages of my writer's notebooks.
Before I end this post, I want to say a special thanks to friends and family who have encouraged me over the years to put my writing out there, to my husband who has given me the gifts of space and time for writing, and especially to my sister-in-law, whose bold leap into the blogiverse last year has inspired my own.
So welcome to my blog, dear reader. I hope you find something here that speaks to you --mind, heart, or soul. Something that inspires you to think, feel, or experience something new. Something that makes you laugh, cry, or just say "aha!" But mostly, something that stays with you, long after you've logged out.
It's just like starting a new notebook -- pen in hand, a clean, crisp, white page staring back at you. The fact that it's the glow of a blank screen reflecting on your face doesn't make it any easier to choose the first words.
Actually, it makes it harder. I can go back and erase the words that appear on the screen tens, hundreds, thousands (let's hope it doesn't reach that point) of times before saving them for you, whoever you may be, to read. Whereas in my notebook, once I write the words in pen, they are there for good. Sure, I can cross them out and write over them, or in the case of a real train wreck, I can tear out the entire page, feed it to the shredder, and start fresh on the next blank sheet. But being somewhat of a notebook purist, I could never bring myself to do that.
The nice thing is, I'm pretty sure that I'm not alone. That most bloggers have experienced a similar feeling when composing their first post and preparing to release it into the big, wide blogiverse (more than 110 million strong according to Sunday's Baltimore Sun). I imagine it's the way parents feel when they drop off their child on the first day of kindergarten. I don't know what will happen to my posts -- who will read them, how they will be received, what they will be when they "grow up." But I do know that I want my voice to be heard. That I want my words to venture beyond the bound pages of my writer's notebooks.
Before I end this post, I want to say a special thanks to friends and family who have encouraged me over the years to put my writing out there, to my husband who has given me the gifts of space and time for writing, and especially to my sister-in-law, whose bold leap into the blogiverse last year has inspired my own.
So welcome to my blog, dear reader. I hope you find something here that speaks to you --mind, heart, or soul. Something that inspires you to think, feel, or experience something new. Something that makes you laugh, cry, or just say "aha!" But mostly, something that stays with you, long after you've logged out.
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