Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
A raspberry is not a metaphor
So, I was in one of those moods, where I'm sick of being in my own head, but good and stuck there.
God: (to whom I wasn't especially talking at the time) You ought to go out back.
Me: Yeah, I guess You're right. Watching the weeds choke the life out of the strawberries won't put me in a worse mood, and I can put a hose on the tomatoes.
God: Whatever. Just go outside.
So I go outside and pull ugly weeds for a while.
Me: Hey, raspberries!
They've got viney weeds creeping up them, and they've developed an infestation of little black bugs I haven't seen before, but still I get a whole grundle—enough to eat AND share.
Me (working my way down a row of defunct broccoli): Whoa. Golden raspberries.
I bet I got a dozen—almost unheard of from this bush, whose raspberries are called "golden" for more than one reason.
God: Heh. Told you so.
Lots of Useful Mental Health Facts , and some Tedious Metaphors could be gleaned here. But a raspberry is not a metaphor. It's a very small gift from heaven. And a golden raspberry is an outright miracle.
God: (to whom I wasn't especially talking at the time) You ought to go out back.
Me: Yeah, I guess You're right. Watching the weeds choke the life out of the strawberries won't put me in a worse mood, and I can put a hose on the tomatoes.
God: Whatever. Just go outside.
So I go outside and pull ugly weeds for a while.
Me: Hey, raspberries!
They've got viney weeds creeping up them, and they've developed an infestation of little black bugs I haven't seen before, but still I get a whole grundle—enough to eat AND share.
Me (working my way down a row of defunct broccoli): Whoa. Golden raspberries.
I bet I got a dozen—almost unheard of from this bush, whose raspberries are called "golden" for more than one reason.
God: Heh. Told you so.
Lots of Useful Mental Health Facts , and some Tedious Metaphors could be gleaned here. But a raspberry is not a metaphor. It's a very small gift from heaven. And a golden raspberry is an outright miracle.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Confessions of a closet Cruella
Hammer and Buffy just got done participating in a children’s musical version of 101 Dalmatians (they were a stage hand and a boxer, respectively). Fortunately, they both loved it, so they didn’t notice me living vicariously through them. I did costumes and backstage “kid wrangling”: “Shh! Knock it off! The audience can hear you!” But my soul was sashaying onstage with Cruella, calling everyone nincompoop, boxing evil henchmen’s ears, and throwing fits over my beauuuuutiful Dalmatian-skin coat.
Okay, it was a children’s production, starring a 16-year-old Cruella in a fright wig. But my soul has always yearned for the stage, and ended up sewing costumes and managing props.
The community theatre is holding auditions for Harvey soon. It seems like a no-brainer, from certain points of view: Go for it, girl! You’re not getting any younger! At least you won’t have to sing!
Except for all those other dreams and goals. My soul specializes in yearning. With Henderson the Rain King, it wanders around murmuring, I want, I want... It doesn’t yearn for glory or attention, but it likes to create. And it has no sense of proportion, balance, or timing. It gets a fair bit of what it asks for, but it still wants.
So. Presupposing a theoretical modicum of talent, do I bundle up existing commitments and dreams to throw under the bus if I “make it”? Or do I acknowledge that the current batch are more than enough for any reasonable soul, and save the theatre dream for some future life? When does achieving balance turn into burying your (theoretical) talent?
O woeful, woeful, woeful! (That’s King Lear, just in case...)
Okay, it was a children’s production, starring a 16-year-old Cruella in a fright wig. But my soul has always yearned for the stage, and ended up sewing costumes and managing props.
The community theatre is holding auditions for Harvey soon. It seems like a no-brainer, from certain points of view: Go for it, girl! You’re not getting any younger! At least you won’t have to sing!
Except for all those other dreams and goals. My soul specializes in yearning. With Henderson the Rain King, it wanders around murmuring, I want, I want... It doesn’t yearn for glory or attention, but it likes to create. And it has no sense of proportion, balance, or timing. It gets a fair bit of what it asks for, but it still wants.
So. Presupposing a theoretical modicum of talent, do I bundle up existing commitments and dreams to throw under the bus if I “make it”? Or do I acknowledge that the current batch are more than enough for any reasonable soul, and save the theatre dream for some future life? When does achieving balance turn into burying your (theoretical) talent?
O woeful, woeful, woeful! (That’s King Lear, just in case...)
Saturday, August 1, 2009
1, 10, 100, 1000...
Hammer: Mom, I can’t sleep
Me: Try counting very slowly.
(5 minutes later)
Hammer: I tried counting, but I didn’t know what comes after septillion.
Me: This time, try counting by ones, not by orders of magnitude!
Me: Try counting very slowly.
(5 minutes later)
Hammer: I tried counting, but I didn’t know what comes after septillion.
Me: This time, try counting by ones, not by orders of magnitude!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Might as well face it...
Last night, my husband said,
"I think I'm addicted to reading. Right now, I want that good feeling that comes from reading a book, without actually reading a book."
"I think I'm addicted to reading. Right now, I want that good feeling that comes from reading a book, without actually reading a book."
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Happy Potter Day!
Instructions for awesome, cheap, and easy magic wands here. We made about a dozen.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Green Eggs and Ham Revisited
My friend Luisa blogged the other day about the "immersion" activities she's using to prepare her family for a trip to France. We're planning a trip to Boston, so we did a pared-down version of her plan, and on the way learned that Dr. Seuss was born in Boston. That, of course, meant we had to pull out Green Eggs and Ham.
While reading aloud, I had fun watching Hammer, age 12, and Buffy, age 10, revisit the book with new eyes—and love it in a new way. They laughed out loud at the silly rhymes and stopped me so they could study the funny expressions on the characters' faces. Dr. Seuss's bio said that he'd taken a bet that he couldn't write a book using only 50 words. So Buffy and I went through the whole book, writing down each new word as it occurred: 49 total, if we counted right.
It happens that I'd recently spent a minute or two mourning the passing of the old Green Eggs days. But when a kid becomes a seasoned old critic of 12 or 43, it turns out Green Eggs is still waiting patiently to be rediscovered—and loved all over again.
While reading aloud, I had fun watching Hammer, age 12, and Buffy, age 10, revisit the book with new eyes—and love it in a new way. They laughed out loud at the silly rhymes and stopped me so they could study the funny expressions on the characters' faces. Dr. Seuss's bio said that he'd taken a bet that he couldn't write a book using only 50 words. So Buffy and I went through the whole book, writing down each new word as it occurred: 49 total, if we counted right.
It happens that I'd recently spent a minute or two mourning the passing of the old Green Eggs days. But when a kid becomes a seasoned old critic of 12 or 43, it turns out Green Eggs is still waiting patiently to be rediscovered—and loved all over again.
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