Today was a day of firsts and lasts. Some noteables included:
1. The first snow day for TeenTuna. Yes, we were a part of the "midwest YOU'RE GOING TO DIE" mess, also known as, "hey, it's December and it's going to snow." Considering where we live and what month it is in the year, none of this should be a big surprise, but no big surprise equals NO DRAMA, and in the life of a 14 year old, it's Dramady Central (as opposed to Dramidary Central, which is Camel TV) all day, every day.
2. Being the first snow day, it was also the first day of firing up the snow blower after a long summer's nap. There is nothing harder than coaxing a pull-rope piece of equipment back into existence, and it was a fun time this morning, you betcha. Oh, and for the record, we didn't die. Not even a tiny bit.
3. Because it was the first snow day, falling conveniently on a Friday in December, you had to guess that it was also the Last Day of School before Christmas break. I don't want to give away trade secrets, but I had heard lots of rumors from several different school districts that they had already decided the day before that they were going to cancel school today. That's all fine and good, but for a kid who had a HUGE social studies paper due today, it would have been so much better if the schedule change would have been announced the night before so we wouldn't have had to play the "School or No School" board game.
4. Tomorrow is my neice's birthday celebration. In order to have some sort of functioning living space where people could come over and not burst into laughter, we decided that tonight would begin the first night of "Massive Living Room Purge, 2008. Where's it all going to go? Magic 8-Ball says answer unclear so I'll just have to figure it out on my own. I'm thinking things don't look too good for the basement...
5. Finally, tomorrow marks the last weekend before Christmas. Don't ask. Please. Just. Don't. Ask.
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Last Shall be First...or something
Today was a day of firsts and lasts. Some noteables included:
1. The first snow day for TeenTuna. Yes, we were a part of the "midwest YOU'RE GOING TO DIE" mess, also known as, "hey, it's December and it's going to snow." Considering where we live and what month it is in the year, none of this should be a big surprise, but no big surprise equals NO DRAMA, and in the life of a 14 year old, it's Dramady Central (as opposed to Dramidary Central, which is Camel TV) all day, every day.
2. Being the first snow day, it was also the first day of firing up the snow blower after a long summer's nap. There is nothing harder than coaxing a pull-rope piece of equipment back into existence, and it was a fun time this morning, you betcha. Oh, and for the record, we didn't die. Not even a tiny bit.
3. Because it was the first snow day, falling conveniently on a Friday in December, you had to guess that it was also the Last Day of School before Christmas break. I don't want to give away trade secrets, but I had heard lots of rumors from several different school districts that they had already decided the day before that they were going to cancel school today. That's all fine and good, but for a kid who had a HUGE social studies paper due today, it would have been so much better if the schedule change would have been announced the night before so we wouldn't have had to play the "School or No School" board game.
4. Tomorrow is my neice's birthday celebration. In order to have some sort of functioning living space where people could come over and not burst into laughter, we decided that tonight would begin the first night of "Massive Living Room Purge, 2008. Where's it all going to go? Magic 8-Ball says answer unclear so I'll just have to figure it out on my own. I'm thinking things don't look too good for the basement...
5. Finally, tomorrow marks the last weekend before Christmas. Don't ask. Please. Just. Don't. Ask.
1. The first snow day for TeenTuna. Yes, we were a part of the "midwest YOU'RE GOING TO DIE" mess, also known as, "hey, it's December and it's going to snow." Considering where we live and what month it is in the year, none of this should be a big surprise, but no big surprise equals NO DRAMA, and in the life of a 14 year old, it's Dramady Central (as opposed to Dramidary Central, which is Camel TV) all day, every day.
2. Being the first snow day, it was also the first day of firing up the snow blower after a long summer's nap. There is nothing harder than coaxing a pull-rope piece of equipment back into existence, and it was a fun time this morning, you betcha. Oh, and for the record, we didn't die. Not even a tiny bit.
3. Because it was the first snow day, falling conveniently on a Friday in December, you had to guess that it was also the Last Day of School before Christmas break. I don't want to give away trade secrets, but I had heard lots of rumors from several different school districts that they had already decided the day before that they were going to cancel school today. That's all fine and good, but for a kid who had a HUGE social studies paper due today, it would have been so much better if the schedule change would have been announced the night before so we wouldn't have had to play the "School or No School" board game.
4. Tomorrow is my neice's birthday celebration. In order to have some sort of functioning living space where people could come over and not burst into laughter, we decided that tonight would begin the first night of "Massive Living Room Purge, 2008. Where's it all going to go? Magic 8-Ball says answer unclear so I'll just have to figure it out on my own. I'm thinking things don't look too good for the basement...
5. Finally, tomorrow marks the last weekend before Christmas. Don't ask. Please. Just. Don't. Ask.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Welcome to the Underground
When TeenTuna told me she wanted to join the high school fencing team, I believe my first reaction was, "the WHAT?" It's not as if I have never heard of fencing. But I WENT to that same high school, and there sure wasn't a fencing anything -- be it swords of stolen goods -- back in the day. Her coach is the retired coach of the MSU Fencing Team. The WHAT? I went to that school too, and who knew they had a fencing team?
My knowledge of fencing is limited to Daffy Duck cartoons, late night ESPN watching, early episodes of ABC Wide World of Sports (in between agony-of-defeat ski jumping trials) and a movie or two. So in order to soothe the family disease of "having to know" I started trolling online for equipment sites, information, etc. I still don't know much, but feel as if I've learned all sorts of interesting things.
After mentioning our new fencing escapades a few days back, I was surprised to learn that several readers were themselves, fencers. WHAT? I mean other people do this? WHO KNEW? It's a secret fencing underground, known only to other secret fencers. I find it both baffling and wonderful that somehow I have discovered this new little subsection of humanity that participate in something nobody else would really imagine. Fencers. Swords. EnGarde and all that stuff. It's fabulous!
It reminds me of when I got involved in another rather retro activity: spinning. Spinning as in spinning wheel. Spinning as in turning wads of wool into yarn. As sure enough, as I started to get interested in spinning I discovered there were entire pockets of society who were spinners as well. Here I was thinking I was doing this really rather odd, old fashioned, Sleeping Beauty kind of thing, and I find out the mother of an elementary school classmate has three spinning wheels. And goes to spinning guild gatherings. But not the original gathering -- the NEW gathering because the original gathering became a bunch of not nice people, so there was a rift and the splinter group formed their own sub secret society. SERIOUSLY. So the sub secret society, which I seemed to have stumbled across also attends spinning and wool festivals. With their spinning wheels. Plural. Because if you only have one, you're a real rookie. Seriously. Who knew?
My friend assures me it was like that when her son started Ice Skating. The super secret ice skating underground was strong and deep, with skating moms freezing their axels off every morning at 5am. And there was drama. And intreague. And, considering we all know the whole "whack your opponent in the knee" drama, this particular underground is intense and filled with drama, to say the least.
I'm constantly wondering what other secret underground groups might there be? Midnight sports league? Scrabble tournament? Juggling? The options are only as limited as my imagination. So I'm keeping my eyes and ears open to new activities and new possibilities. You never know which tunnel of the Underground I'll discover next.
Fencing. What a classic. It's even better than Synchronized swimming. And wouldn't you know it, there is a huge underground array of gel-haired uber-lunged swimmers who love nothing better than to put on the costume and swim and dance upside-down underwater for 5-minutes a stretch. How do I know? Yeah. I was a member of that secret society as well. Who knew?
Welcome to the Underground.
My knowledge of fencing is limited to Daffy Duck cartoons, late night ESPN watching, early episodes of ABC Wide World of Sports (in between agony-of-defeat ski jumping trials) and a movie or two. So in order to soothe the family disease of "having to know" I started trolling online for equipment sites, information, etc. I still don't know much, but feel as if I've learned all sorts of interesting things.
After mentioning our new fencing escapades a few days back, I was surprised to learn that several readers were themselves, fencers. WHAT? I mean other people do this? WHO KNEW? It's a secret fencing underground, known only to other secret fencers. I find it both baffling and wonderful that somehow I have discovered this new little subsection of humanity that participate in something nobody else would really imagine. Fencers. Swords. EnGarde and all that stuff. It's fabulous!
It reminds me of when I got involved in another rather retro activity: spinning. Spinning as in spinning wheel. Spinning as in turning wads of wool into yarn. As sure enough, as I started to get interested in spinning I discovered there were entire pockets of society who were spinners as well. Here I was thinking I was doing this really rather odd, old fashioned, Sleeping Beauty kind of thing, and I find out the mother of an elementary school classmate has three spinning wheels. And goes to spinning guild gatherings. But not the original gathering -- the NEW gathering because the original gathering became a bunch of not nice people, so there was a rift and the splinter group formed their own sub secret society. SERIOUSLY. So the sub secret society, which I seemed to have stumbled across also attends spinning and wool festivals. With their spinning wheels. Plural. Because if you only have one, you're a real rookie. Seriously. Who knew?
My friend assures me it was like that when her son started Ice Skating. The super secret ice skating underground was strong and deep, with skating moms freezing their axels off every morning at 5am. And there was drama. And intreague. And, considering we all know the whole "whack your opponent in the knee" drama, this particular underground is intense and filled with drama, to say the least.
I'm constantly wondering what other secret underground groups might there be? Midnight sports league? Scrabble tournament? Juggling? The options are only as limited as my imagination. So I'm keeping my eyes and ears open to new activities and new possibilities. You never know which tunnel of the Underground I'll discover next.
Fencing. What a classic. It's even better than Synchronized swimming. And wouldn't you know it, there is a huge underground array of gel-haired uber-lunged swimmers who love nothing better than to put on the costume and swim and dance upside-down underwater for 5-minutes a stretch. How do I know? Yeah. I was a member of that secret society as well. Who knew?
Welcome to the Underground.
Welcome to the Underground
When TeenTuna told me she wanted to join the high school fencing team, I believe my first reaction was, "the WHAT?" It's not as if I have never heard of fencing. But I WENT to that same high school, and there sure wasn't a fencing anything -- be it swords of stolen goods -- back in the day. Her coach is the retired coach of the MSU Fencing Team. The WHAT? I went to that school too, and who knew they had a fencing team?
My knowledge of fencing is limited to Daffy Duck cartoons, late night ESPN watching, early episodes of ABC Wide World of Sports (in between agony-of-defeat ski jumping trials) and a movie or two. So in order to soothe the family disease of "having to know" I started trolling online for equipment sites, information, etc. I still don't know much, but feel as if I've learned all sorts of interesting things.
After mentioning our new fencing escapades a few days back, I was surprised to learn that several readers were themselves, fencers. WHAT? I mean other people do this? WHO KNEW? It's a secret fencing underground, known only to other secret fencers. I find it both baffling and wonderful that somehow I have discovered this new little subsection of humanity that participate in something nobody else would really imagine. Fencers. Swords. EnGarde and all that stuff. It's fabulous!
It reminds me of when I got involved in another rather retro activity: spinning. Spinning as in spinning wheel. Spinning as in turning wads of wool into yarn. As sure enough, as I started to get interested in spinning I discovered there were entire pockets of society who were spinners as well. Here I was thinking I was doing this really rather odd, old fashioned, Sleeping Beauty kind of thing, and I find out the mother of an elementary school classmate has three spinning wheels. And goes to spinning guild gatherings. But not the original gathering -- the NEW gathering because the original gathering became a bunch of not nice people, so there was a rift and the splinter group formed their own sub secret society. SERIOUSLY. So the sub secret society, which I seemed to have stumbled across also attends spinning and wool festivals. With their spinning wheels. Plural. Because if you only have one, you're a real rookie. Seriously. Who knew?
My friend assures me it was like that when her son started Ice Skating. The super secret ice skating underground was strong and deep, with skating moms freezing their axels off every morning at 5am. And there was drama. And intreague. And, considering we all know the whole "whack your opponent in the knee" drama, this particular underground is intense and filled with drama, to say the least.
I'm constantly wondering what other secret underground groups might there be? Midnight sports league? Scrabble tournament? Juggling? The options are only as limited as my imagination. So I'm keeping my eyes and ears open to new activities and new possibilities. You never know which tunnel of the Underground I'll discover next.
Fencing. What a classic. It's even better than Synchronized swimming. And wouldn't you know it, there is a huge underground array of gel-haired uber-lunged swimmers who love nothing better than to put on the costume and swim and dance upside-down underwater for 5-minutes a stretch. How do I know? Yeah. I was a member of that secret society as well. Who knew?
Welcome to the Underground.
My knowledge of fencing is limited to Daffy Duck cartoons, late night ESPN watching, early episodes of ABC Wide World of Sports (in between agony-of-defeat ski jumping trials) and a movie or two. So in order to soothe the family disease of "having to know" I started trolling online for equipment sites, information, etc. I still don't know much, but feel as if I've learned all sorts of interesting things.
After mentioning our new fencing escapades a few days back, I was surprised to learn that several readers were themselves, fencers. WHAT? I mean other people do this? WHO KNEW? It's a secret fencing underground, known only to other secret fencers. I find it both baffling and wonderful that somehow I have discovered this new little subsection of humanity that participate in something nobody else would really imagine. Fencers. Swords. EnGarde and all that stuff. It's fabulous!
It reminds me of when I got involved in another rather retro activity: spinning. Spinning as in spinning wheel. Spinning as in turning wads of wool into yarn. As sure enough, as I started to get interested in spinning I discovered there were entire pockets of society who were spinners as well. Here I was thinking I was doing this really rather odd, old fashioned, Sleeping Beauty kind of thing, and I find out the mother of an elementary school classmate has three spinning wheels. And goes to spinning guild gatherings. But not the original gathering -- the NEW gathering because the original gathering became a bunch of not nice people, so there was a rift and the splinter group formed their own sub secret society. SERIOUSLY. So the sub secret society, which I seemed to have stumbled across also attends spinning and wool festivals. With their spinning wheels. Plural. Because if you only have one, you're a real rookie. Seriously. Who knew?
My friend assures me it was like that when her son started Ice Skating. The super secret ice skating underground was strong and deep, with skating moms freezing their axels off every morning at 5am. And there was drama. And intreague. And, considering we all know the whole "whack your opponent in the knee" drama, this particular underground is intense and filled with drama, to say the least.
I'm constantly wondering what other secret underground groups might there be? Midnight sports league? Scrabble tournament? Juggling? The options are only as limited as my imagination. So I'm keeping my eyes and ears open to new activities and new possibilities. You never know which tunnel of the Underground I'll discover next.
Fencing. What a classic. It's even better than Synchronized swimming. And wouldn't you know it, there is a huge underground array of gel-haired uber-lunged swimmers who love nothing better than to put on the costume and swim and dance upside-down underwater for 5-minutes a stretch. How do I know? Yeah. I was a member of that secret society as well. Who knew?
Welcome to the Underground.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Dear Internet
I'm cold and tired and tired and cold. It's been an eventful day, but none of it is worth recounting, unless you like to read things like, "and then I went to Target!" which is impossible to make interesting. Plus, for the record...I didn't go to Target.
Luckily for me, I can solve cold and tired and tired and cold in one fell swoop (Right after I look up the origins of "one fell swoop" because, if you think about it...it's a really weird phrase. Shakespeare; Shakespeare and not-Shakespeare) I am going to crawl into bed sweatshirt socks and all and bury myself in blankets. There won't be any sugarplums, but there will be visions of things that need to be done in the next 7 days, tempered by nightmares of the HUGE snowstorm slated to hit us tomorrow night. And yes, I'd be scared, except this is Michigan, and this is the way it's SUPPOSED to be.
I'm not ignoring you, Internet. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't even get past one crossword puzzle tonight. The brain, she is dead. But I'm sure tomorrow will be better. In the meantime, please don't freak out. It's not you. It's me.
Talk to you tomorrow,k?
GreenTuna
Luckily for me, I can solve cold and tired and tired and cold in one fell swoop (Right after I look up the origins of "one fell swoop" because, if you think about it...it's a really weird phrase. Shakespeare; Shakespeare and not-Shakespeare) I am going to crawl into bed sweatshirt socks and all and bury myself in blankets. There won't be any sugarplums, but there will be visions of things that need to be done in the next 7 days, tempered by nightmares of the HUGE snowstorm slated to hit us tomorrow night. And yes, I'd be scared, except this is Michigan, and this is the way it's SUPPOSED to be.
I'm not ignoring you, Internet. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't even get past one crossword puzzle tonight. The brain, she is dead. But I'm sure tomorrow will be better. In the meantime, please don't freak out. It's not you. It's me.
Talk to you tomorrow,k?
GreenTuna
Dear Internet
I'm cold and tired and tired and cold. It's been an eventful day, but none of it is worth recounting, unless you like to read things like, "and then I went to Target!" which is impossible to make interesting. Plus, for the record...I didn't go to Target.
Luckily for me, I can solve cold and tired and tired and cold in one fell swoop (Right after I look up the origins of "one fell swoop" because, if you think about it...it's a really weird phrase. Shakespeare; Shakespeare and not-Shakespeare) I am going to crawl into bed sweatshirt socks and all and bury myself in blankets. There won't be any sugarplums, but there will be visions of things that need to be done in the next 7 days, tempered by nightmares of the HUGE snowstorm slated to hit us tomorrow night. And yes, I'd be scared, except this is Michigan, and this is the way it's SUPPOSED to be.
I'm not ignoring you, Internet. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't even get past one crossword puzzle tonight. The brain, she is dead. But I'm sure tomorrow will be better. In the meantime, please don't freak out. It's not you. It's me.
Talk to you tomorrow,k?
GreenTuna
Luckily for me, I can solve cold and tired and tired and cold in one fell swoop (Right after I look up the origins of "one fell swoop" because, if you think about it...it's a really weird phrase. Shakespeare; Shakespeare and not-Shakespeare) I am going to crawl into bed sweatshirt socks and all and bury myself in blankets. There won't be any sugarplums, but there will be visions of things that need to be done in the next 7 days, tempered by nightmares of the HUGE snowstorm slated to hit us tomorrow night. And yes, I'd be scared, except this is Michigan, and this is the way it's SUPPOSED to be.
I'm not ignoring you, Internet. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't even get past one crossword puzzle tonight. The brain, she is dead. But I'm sure tomorrow will be better. In the meantime, please don't freak out. It's not you. It's me.
Talk to you tomorrow,k?
GreenTuna
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Shoe! Fly! (Don't Bother Me)
So there is a big brouhaha over the shoe throwing over in Iraq. But over the span of time, shoes have held an important place in history:
Follow the shoe! Follow the shoe!
Sparkly Ruby Slippers! They just want to go home!
Khrushchev! Russian Shoes of Burying!
The Beatles! Moptop Shoes!
Every episode of Sex and the City!
Surprise visit! Now with flying leather!
How many more days until Saturday Night Live?
Follow the shoe! Follow the shoe!
Sparkly Ruby Slippers! They just want to go home!
Khrushchev! Russian Shoes of Burying!
The Beatles! Moptop Shoes!
Every episode of Sex and the City!
Surprise visit! Now with flying leather!
How many more days until Saturday Night Live?
Shoe! Fly! (Don't Bother Me)
So there is a big brouhaha over the shoe throwing over in Iraq. But over the span of time, shoes have held an important place in history:
Follow the shoe! Follow the shoe!
Sparkly Ruby Slippers! They just want to go home!
Khrushchev! Russian Shoes of Burying!
The Beatles! Moptop Shoes!
Every episode of Sex and the City!
Surprise visit! Now with flying leather!
How many more days until Saturday Night Live?
Follow the shoe! Follow the shoe!
Sparkly Ruby Slippers! They just want to go home!
Khrushchev! Russian Shoes of Burying!
The Beatles! Moptop Shoes!
Every episode of Sex and the City!
Surprise visit! Now with flying leather!
How many more days until Saturday Night Live?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Lights, Camera, Christmas!
This Christmas I have noticed a definite decline in the number of "lit" houses. I didn't really know why (I haven't exactly made a scientific habit of observing holiday displays in the wild) but I was chalking it up to the economy, as opposed to the weather. The upshot of all this was that up the road at The Clampetts, it was lights out rather than Christmas in Vegas.
Alas, it was too good to be true. When I got home tonight there was enormous blow-up Santa on the lawn next to a giant candy cane, a sled, a number of other electronic doodads and rows upon rows of multicolored lights on every conceivable horizontal household surface. So much for calm and bright. I hope the astronauts in the International Space Station enjoy the show. Maybe tomorrow night they'll try landing a couple of planes in between the 8 reindeer.
Alas, it was too good to be true. When I got home tonight there was enormous blow-up Santa on the lawn next to a giant candy cane, a sled, a number of other electronic doodads and rows upon rows of multicolored lights on every conceivable horizontal household surface. So much for calm and bright. I hope the astronauts in the International Space Station enjoy the show. Maybe tomorrow night they'll try landing a couple of planes in between the 8 reindeer.
Lights, Camera, Christmas!
This Christmas I have noticed a definite decline in the number of "lit" houses. I didn't really know why (I haven't exactly made a scientific habit of observing holiday displays in the wild) but I was chalking it up to the economy, as opposed to the weather. The upshot of all this was that up the road at The Clampetts, it was lights out rather than Christmas in Vegas.
Alas, it was too good to be true. When I got home tonight there was enormous blow-up Santa on the lawn next to a giant candy cane, a sled, a number of other electronic doodads and rows upon rows of multicolored lights on every conceivable horizontal household surface. So much for calm and bright. I hope the astronauts in the International Space Station enjoy the show. Maybe tomorrow night they'll try landing a couple of planes in between the 8 reindeer.
Alas, it was too good to be true. When I got home tonight there was enormous blow-up Santa on the lawn next to a giant candy cane, a sled, a number of other electronic doodads and rows upon rows of multicolored lights on every conceivable horizontal household surface. So much for calm and bright. I hope the astronauts in the International Space Station enjoy the show. Maybe tomorrow night they'll try landing a couple of planes in between the 8 reindeer.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Mr. Rockwell, I'm Ready for my Closeup
You all have your tree, don't you?
You should just admit it. You went out to the local farm. You took your adorable children, packed them onto a horse-drawn sleigh and rode through the tree farm until you found the perfect tree. You sawed it down and brought it out of the woods, with the horse hooves clip-clip-clopping and the sleigh bells jingling. When you were finished your cheeks were ruddy and you warmed yourselves with hot chocolate. When you came home, you decorated your tree with beautiful ornaments, and strung popcorn and holly berries.
You should just admit it. Your presents have been carefully selected, purchased and wrapped in lovely holiday paper. There are bows and curly-cue ribbons and a smartly placed gift tag on each one. They are all ready to be placed under the tree on Christmas morning.
You should just admit it. Your holiday meal is planned. You have stocked up on flour, sugar and sugar sprinkles in every color under the rainbow. Your recipes have been chosen, and you have special, decorative holiday tins for each handcrafted gift from your kitchen.
OK, then.
I'll admit it. I have a tree. I got it last night in a last second "better do it now before the weather becomes unmanageable." I drove out to the lot (buy a tree, send a kid to camp) and picked one in record time, which was approximately 4 minutes, 35 seconds. I brought it home but left it in the trunk while I prepared the home...which I did by picking up piles of stuff and piling it up somewhere else. I grabbed the old Christmas tree stand because I couldn't find the new Christmas tree stand. I dragged the tree in the house, plopped it in the stand and found some cardboard to wedge under the foot so the tree would stand up straight.
I'll admit it. My holiday isn't picture perfect. Norman Rockwell wouldn't look at my house for any sort of inspiration. So far there are no presents, wrapped or unwrapped. There are no holiday goodies to be found. But I have a tree in a corner. There may not be any lights or decorations on it yet, but I see it as an blank canvas; an invitation. It's not just a sad, plain tree, it's the hope and promise for beauty to come. And that speaks more of the season than anything else.
You should just admit it. You went out to the local farm. You took your adorable children, packed them onto a horse-drawn sleigh and rode through the tree farm until you found the perfect tree. You sawed it down and brought it out of the woods, with the horse hooves clip-clip-clopping and the sleigh bells jingling. When you were finished your cheeks were ruddy and you warmed yourselves with hot chocolate. When you came home, you decorated your tree with beautiful ornaments, and strung popcorn and holly berries.
You should just admit it. Your presents have been carefully selected, purchased and wrapped in lovely holiday paper. There are bows and curly-cue ribbons and a smartly placed gift tag on each one. They are all ready to be placed under the tree on Christmas morning.
You should just admit it. Your holiday meal is planned. You have stocked up on flour, sugar and sugar sprinkles in every color under the rainbow. Your recipes have been chosen, and you have special, decorative holiday tins for each handcrafted gift from your kitchen.
OK, then.
I'll admit it. I have a tree. I got it last night in a last second "better do it now before the weather becomes unmanageable." I drove out to the lot (buy a tree, send a kid to camp) and picked one in record time, which was approximately 4 minutes, 35 seconds. I brought it home but left it in the trunk while I prepared the home...which I did by picking up piles of stuff and piling it up somewhere else. I grabbed the old Christmas tree stand because I couldn't find the new Christmas tree stand. I dragged the tree in the house, plopped it in the stand and found some cardboard to wedge under the foot so the tree would stand up straight.
I'll admit it. My holiday isn't picture perfect. Norman Rockwell wouldn't look at my house for any sort of inspiration. So far there are no presents, wrapped or unwrapped. There are no holiday goodies to be found. But I have a tree in a corner. There may not be any lights or decorations on it yet, but I see it as an blank canvas; an invitation. It's not just a sad, plain tree, it's the hope and promise for beauty to come. And that speaks more of the season than anything else.
Mr. Rockwell, I'm Ready for my Closeup
You all have your tree, don't you?
You should just admit it. You went out to the local farm. You took your adorable children, packed them onto a horse-drawn sleigh and rode through the tree farm until you found the perfect tree. You sawed it down and brought it out of the woods, with the horse hooves clip-clip-clopping and the sleigh bells jingling. When you were finished your cheeks were ruddy and you warmed yourselves with hot chocolate. When you came home, you decorated your tree with beautiful ornaments, and strung popcorn and holly berries.
You should just admit it. Your presents have been carefully selected, purchased and wrapped in lovely holiday paper. There are bows and curly-cue ribbons and a smartly placed gift tag on each one. They are all ready to be placed under the tree on Christmas morning.
You should just admit it. Your holiday meal is planned. You have stocked up on flour, sugar and sugar sprinkles in every color under the rainbow. Your recipes have been chosen, and you have special, decorative holiday tins for each handcrafted gift from your kitchen.
OK, then.
I'll admit it. I have a tree. I got it last night in a last second "better do it now before the weather becomes unmanageable." I drove out to the lot (buy a tree, send a kid to camp) and picked one in record time, which was approximately 4 minutes, 35 seconds. I brought it home but left it in the trunk while I prepared the home...which I did by picking up piles of stuff and piling it up somewhere else. I grabbed the old Christmas tree stand because I couldn't find the new Christmas tree stand. I dragged the tree in the house, plopped it in the stand and found some cardboard to wedge under the foot so the tree would stand up straight.
I'll admit it. My holiday isn't picture perfect. Norman Rockwell wouldn't look at my house for any sort of inspiration. So far there are no presents, wrapped or unwrapped. There are no holiday goodies to be found. But I have a tree in a corner. There may not be any lights or decorations on it yet, but I see it as an blank canvas; an invitation. It's not just a sad, plain tree, it's the hope and promise for beauty to come. And that speaks more of the season than anything else.
You should just admit it. You went out to the local farm. You took your adorable children, packed them onto a horse-drawn sleigh and rode through the tree farm until you found the perfect tree. You sawed it down and brought it out of the woods, with the horse hooves clip-clip-clopping and the sleigh bells jingling. When you were finished your cheeks were ruddy and you warmed yourselves with hot chocolate. When you came home, you decorated your tree with beautiful ornaments, and strung popcorn and holly berries.
You should just admit it. Your presents have been carefully selected, purchased and wrapped in lovely holiday paper. There are bows and curly-cue ribbons and a smartly placed gift tag on each one. They are all ready to be placed under the tree on Christmas morning.
You should just admit it. Your holiday meal is planned. You have stocked up on flour, sugar and sugar sprinkles in every color under the rainbow. Your recipes have been chosen, and you have special, decorative holiday tins for each handcrafted gift from your kitchen.
OK, then.
I'll admit it. I have a tree. I got it last night in a last second "better do it now before the weather becomes unmanageable." I drove out to the lot (buy a tree, send a kid to camp) and picked one in record time, which was approximately 4 minutes, 35 seconds. I brought it home but left it in the trunk while I prepared the home...which I did by picking up piles of stuff and piling it up somewhere else. I grabbed the old Christmas tree stand because I couldn't find the new Christmas tree stand. I dragged the tree in the house, plopped it in the stand and found some cardboard to wedge under the foot so the tree would stand up straight.
I'll admit it. My holiday isn't picture perfect. Norman Rockwell wouldn't look at my house for any sort of inspiration. So far there are no presents, wrapped or unwrapped. There are no holiday goodies to be found. But I have a tree in a corner. There may not be any lights or decorations on it yet, but I see it as an blank canvas; an invitation. It's not just a sad, plain tree, it's the hope and promise for beauty to come. And that speaks more of the season than anything else.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
I Saw GreenTuna Dissing Santa Claus
At it is the holiday season, the time has come for the musical monkeys -- namely the entire Tuna clan -- to be gigging here, there and everywhere. Between the three of us, tomorrow is a five-performance Sunday. Today was slightly easier because it was only a two-rehearsal day.
The second rehearsal was a bit of a trial, as it involved singers and dancers and actors and jazz hands and ever-changing scripts. As the rehearsal was nearing the two-hour mark (and my patience was well-past the four-beer mark to make it better) we only had one set of lines and a company bow left. The lines were easy enough: I was to say, "Merry Christmas to All" and Miss Jazz Hands was supposed to say, "And to all a Good Night" and then the entire company of dancers was to shout "Goodnight!" Easy, right? Problem was, dancing Santa wasn't clear on the concept, and he kept saying my "Merry Christmas to All" line. After stopping for the umpteenth time to correct Mr. Claus, the director looked at me and asked me if I know what I was going to say.
Losing the all-important ability to censor myself, I answered way too loudly, "Yeah. STUFF IT, SANTA!"
Although the entire company -- directors and all -- doubled over with laughter, I probably went a bit too far. But let me tell you, even if my little outburst earns me a stocking full of coal, it will have been totally worth it.
The second rehearsal was a bit of a trial, as it involved singers and dancers and actors and jazz hands and ever-changing scripts. As the rehearsal was nearing the two-hour mark (and my patience was well-past the four-beer mark to make it better) we only had one set of lines and a company bow left. The lines were easy enough: I was to say, "Merry Christmas to All" and Miss Jazz Hands was supposed to say, "And to all a Good Night" and then the entire company of dancers was to shout "Goodnight!" Easy, right? Problem was, dancing Santa wasn't clear on the concept, and he kept saying my "Merry Christmas to All" line. After stopping for the umpteenth time to correct Mr. Claus, the director looked at me and asked me if I know what I was going to say.
Losing the all-important ability to censor myself, I answered way too loudly, "Yeah. STUFF IT, SANTA!"
Although the entire company -- directors and all -- doubled over with laughter, I probably went a bit too far. But let me tell you, even if my little outburst earns me a stocking full of coal, it will have been totally worth it.
I Saw GreenTuna Dissing Santa Claus
At it is the holiday season, the time has come for the musical monkeys -- namely the entire Tuna clan -- to be gigging here, there and everywhere. Between the three of us, tomorrow is a five-performance Sunday. Today was slightly easier because it was only a two-rehearsal day.
The second rehearsal was a bit of a trial, as it involved singers and dancers and actors and jazz hands and ever-changing scripts. As the rehearsal was nearing the two-hour mark (and my patience was well-past the four-beer mark to make it better) we only had one set of lines and a company bow left. The lines were easy enough: I was to say, "Merry Christmas to All" and Miss Jazz Hands was supposed to say, "And to all a Good Night" and then the entire company of dancers was to shout "Goodnight!" Easy, right? Problem was, dancing Santa wasn't clear on the concept, and he kept saying my "Merry Christmas to All" line. After stopping for the umpteenth time to correct Mr. Claus, the director looked at me and asked me if I know what I was going to say.
Losing the all-important ability to censor myself, I answered way too loudly, "Yeah. STUFF IT, SANTA!"
Although the entire company -- directors and all -- doubled over with laughter, I probably went a bit too far. But let me tell you, even if my little outburst earns me a stocking full of coal, it will have been totally worth it.
The second rehearsal was a bit of a trial, as it involved singers and dancers and actors and jazz hands and ever-changing scripts. As the rehearsal was nearing the two-hour mark (and my patience was well-past the four-beer mark to make it better) we only had one set of lines and a company bow left. The lines were easy enough: I was to say, "Merry Christmas to All" and Miss Jazz Hands was supposed to say, "And to all a Good Night" and then the entire company of dancers was to shout "Goodnight!" Easy, right? Problem was, dancing Santa wasn't clear on the concept, and he kept saying my "Merry Christmas to All" line. After stopping for the umpteenth time to correct Mr. Claus, the director looked at me and asked me if I know what I was going to say.
Losing the all-important ability to censor myself, I answered way too loudly, "Yeah. STUFF IT, SANTA!"
Although the entire company -- directors and all -- doubled over with laughter, I probably went a bit too far. But let me tell you, even if my little outburst earns me a stocking full of coal, it will have been totally worth it.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Covered in Bees!
Today TeenTuna got all her fencing equipment. This includes plastic chest plate, heavy white tunic shirt, glove (one), helmet and sword. Her sword is a sabre (not an épée, for all you crossword puzzle lovers) and just cool as hell. She came home tonight after her concert and donned her gay apparrel, as it were. Although from the waist up, she was 100% fencing worthy, from the waist down she was sporting black concert dress socks and bright blue and pink polka-dotted fleece pajama pants. It was as if Superman was unclear on the concept and wore he big "S" shirt, a cape and a suit coat and dorky glasses. The helmet and sabre were the best, though, because she totally looked like a Beekeeper with serious anger management issues.
Covered in Bees!
Today TeenTuna got all her fencing equipment. This includes plastic chest plate, heavy white tunic shirt, glove (one), helmet and sword. Her sword is a sabre (not an épée, for all you crossword puzzle lovers) and just cool as hell. She came home tonight after her concert and donned her gay apparrel, as it were. Although from the waist up, she was 100% fencing worthy, from the waist down she was sporting black concert dress socks and bright blue and pink polka-dotted fleece pajama pants. It was as if Superman was unclear on the concept and wore he big "S" shirt, a cape and a suit coat and dorky glasses. The helmet and sabre were the best, though, because she totally looked like a Beekeeper with serious anger management issues.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Fine
Fine (Italian) - "The End"
Another semester has come to an end, and I spent my last day listening to all my students sing for their supper, as it were. "Juries" are the musical version of a final, and after a semester of preparation, each student performs a portion of the pieces they have studied and theoretically learned. I have to be honest and say that as a student, juries never bothered me at all. My philosophy was that they provided me with a captive audience, and that was a very good thing. I know, however, that juries for many students are a terrifying experience, so I try to have a bit of compassion and sympathy for the students.
One of my real sticking points has little to do with singing and much to do with looks. I ask, beg, threaten and require that all students LOOK like singers. LOOK like performers. LOOK like professional musicians. In the olden days (she said, dating herself) it used to be easy. All I needed to say was, "church clothes" and students would come tastefully attired. Nowadays "church clothes" ranges from fancy-party-wear to fence-painting-wear, so that won't work.
Lately, I've tried to be more specific, explaining that dresses need not be as formal as...well, as a formal, and yes, pants are OK, provided they are dress pants with a dress shirt or sweater on top. This semester students did pretty well overall, with a few notable exceptions.
Herbie doesn't want to make toys. Neither does Schubert. - One student walked in with a short short red dress (body-hugging skirt and top, actually) and a pair of knee-high white Go-Go boots with white fur trim. She looked fabulous. If she were a Rockette. It was very difficult to concentrate on the beautiful German Lieder she was singing when all I wondered was if she was going to sing about the Island of Misfit toys.
One of these things is not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. Leggings because it's cold. Well, ok, I guess, because you're young and kicky. Acceptable top. Check. Four inch platform sandals with bare feet in 15-degree weather. SERIOUSLY?
Two of these things are not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. OK, leggings again? I suppose. Check. Acceptable top. Check. UGGS winter boots. Pass-a-rooni. There are a reason these things are called UGGS. It's because they are. They're UGG.
Goodnight Maw, Goodnight Paw, Goodnight Mary-Ellen - I was most pleased to see my gentlemen singers in shirts and ties, and sometimes a full suit. It's fairly apparent, however, that this is not usual garb, because I was pretty sure at one point, I saw the ghost of my Grandpa walk across the stage wearing armpit-high belted pants.
Only a flesh wound - Only in college do you break your foot and limp on stage wearing one stilletto and carrying the other one in your hand and then proceed to cram the shoe on your broken foot because you just got the shoes and they look great on you.
London and France - No, I didn't see any underpants, but I did see everything else. One lovely dress? Cut down to Florida and slit up to New York City. Sleeveless. In winter. bare legs and sky-high WIGGLY TOED sandals. Yes, my comment sheet did include a listing of what is a necessary singers uniform, including boring but necessary plain pumps and a stylish but modest (and comfortable) dress with sleeves.
Am I being picky? Maybe. But better me than a total stranger. Am I being unreasonable? Not in the slightest. Graduate schools and potential employers are all going to make decisions that consciously or subconsciously take clothing into consideration. The more blatantly a nose is thumbed at the notion of wearing appropriate clothing for the appropriate occasion, the more that same nose opens itself up to criticism that has nothing to do with singing.
So the rule of thumb is, before you sing your first note, to put your best foot forward. Just be sure there aren't any wiggly toes hanging out at the end.
Another semester has come to an end, and I spent my last day listening to all my students sing for their supper, as it were. "Juries" are the musical version of a final, and after a semester of preparation, each student performs a portion of the pieces they have studied and theoretically learned. I have to be honest and say that as a student, juries never bothered me at all. My philosophy was that they provided me with a captive audience, and that was a very good thing. I know, however, that juries for many students are a terrifying experience, so I try to have a bit of compassion and sympathy for the students.
One of my real sticking points has little to do with singing and much to do with looks. I ask, beg, threaten and require that all students LOOK like singers. LOOK like performers. LOOK like professional musicians. In the olden days (she said, dating herself) it used to be easy. All I needed to say was, "church clothes" and students would come tastefully attired. Nowadays "church clothes" ranges from fancy-party-wear to fence-painting-wear, so that won't work.
Lately, I've tried to be more specific, explaining that dresses need not be as formal as...well, as a formal, and yes, pants are OK, provided they are dress pants with a dress shirt or sweater on top. This semester students did pretty well overall, with a few notable exceptions.
Herbie doesn't want to make toys. Neither does Schubert. - One student walked in with a short short red dress (body-hugging skirt and top, actually) and a pair of knee-high white Go-Go boots with white fur trim. She looked fabulous. If she were a Rockette. It was very difficult to concentrate on the beautiful German Lieder she was singing when all I wondered was if she was going to sing about the Island of Misfit toys.
One of these things is not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. Leggings because it's cold. Well, ok, I guess, because you're young and kicky. Acceptable top. Check. Four inch platform sandals with bare feet in 15-degree weather. SERIOUSLY?
Two of these things are not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. OK, leggings again? I suppose. Check. Acceptable top. Check. UGGS winter boots. Pass-a-rooni. There are a reason these things are called UGGS. It's because they are. They're UGG.
Goodnight Maw, Goodnight Paw, Goodnight Mary-Ellen - I was most pleased to see my gentlemen singers in shirts and ties, and sometimes a full suit. It's fairly apparent, however, that this is not usual garb, because I was pretty sure at one point, I saw the ghost of my Grandpa walk across the stage wearing armpit-high belted pants.
Only a flesh wound - Only in college do you break your foot and limp on stage wearing one stilletto and carrying the other one in your hand and then proceed to cram the shoe on your broken foot because you just got the shoes and they look great on you.
London and France - No, I didn't see any underpants, but I did see everything else. One lovely dress? Cut down to Florida and slit up to New York City. Sleeveless. In winter. bare legs and sky-high WIGGLY TOED sandals. Yes, my comment sheet did include a listing of what is a necessary singers uniform, including boring but necessary plain pumps and a stylish but modest (and comfortable) dress with sleeves.
Am I being picky? Maybe. But better me than a total stranger. Am I being unreasonable? Not in the slightest. Graduate schools and potential employers are all going to make decisions that consciously or subconsciously take clothing into consideration. The more blatantly a nose is thumbed at the notion of wearing appropriate clothing for the appropriate occasion, the more that same nose opens itself up to criticism that has nothing to do with singing.
So the rule of thumb is, before you sing your first note, to put your best foot forward. Just be sure there aren't any wiggly toes hanging out at the end.
Fine
Fine (Italian) - "The End"
Another semester has come to an end, and I spent my last day listening to all my students sing for their supper, as it were. "Juries" are the musical version of a final, and after a semester of preparation, each student performs a portion of the pieces they have studied and theoretically learned. I have to be honest and say that as a student, juries never bothered me at all. My philosophy was that they provided me with a captive audience, and that was a very good thing. I know, however, that juries for many students are a terrifying experience, so I try to have a bit of compassion and sympathy for the students.
One of my real sticking points has little to do with singing and much to do with looks. I ask, beg, threaten and require that all students LOOK like singers. LOOK like performers. LOOK like professional musicians. In the olden days (she said, dating herself) it used to be easy. All I needed to say was, "church clothes" and students would come tastefully attired. Nowadays "church clothes" ranges from fancy-party-wear to fence-painting-wear, so that won't work.
Lately, I've tried to be more specific, explaining that dresses need not be as formal as...well, as a formal, and yes, pants are OK, provided they are dress pants with a dress shirt or sweater on top. This semester students did pretty well overall, with a few notable exceptions.
Herbie doesn't want to make toys. Neither does Schubert. - One student walked in with a short short red dress (body-hugging skirt and top, actually) and a pair of knee-high white Go-Go boots with white fur trim. She looked fabulous. If she were a Rockette. It was very difficult to concentrate on the beautiful German Lieder she was singing when all I wondered was if she was going to sing about the Island of Misfit toys.
One of these things is not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. Leggings because it's cold. Well, ok, I guess, because you're young and kicky. Acceptable top. Check. Four inch platform sandals with bare feet in 15-degree weather. SERIOUSLY?
Two of these things are not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. OK, leggings again? I suppose. Check. Acceptable top. Check. UGGS winter boots. Pass-a-rooni. There are a reason these things are called UGGS. It's because they are. They're UGG.
Goodnight Maw, Goodnight Paw, Goodnight Mary-Ellen - I was most pleased to see my gentlemen singers in shirts and ties, and sometimes a full suit. It's fairly apparent, however, that this is not usual garb, because I was pretty sure at one point, I saw the ghost of my Grandpa walk across the stage wearing armpit-high belted pants.
Only a flesh wound - Only in college do you break your foot and limp on stage wearing one stilletto and carrying the other one in your hand and then proceed to cram the shoe on your broken foot because you just got the shoes and they look great on you.
London and France - No, I didn't see any underpants, but I did see everything else. One lovely dress? Cut down to Florida and slit up to New York City. Sleeveless. In winter. bare legs and sky-high WIGGLY TOED sandals. Yes, my comment sheet did include a listing of what is a necessary singers uniform, including boring but necessary plain pumps and a stylish but modest (and comfortable) dress with sleeves.
Am I being picky? Maybe. But better me than a total stranger. Am I being unreasonable? Not in the slightest. Graduate schools and potential employers are all going to make decisions that consciously or subconsciously take clothing into consideration. The more blatantly a nose is thumbed at the notion of wearing appropriate clothing for the appropriate occasion, the more that same nose opens itself up to criticism that has nothing to do with singing.
So the rule of thumb is, before you sing your first note, to put your best foot forward. Just be sure there aren't any wiggly toes hanging out at the end.
Another semester has come to an end, and I spent my last day listening to all my students sing for their supper, as it were. "Juries" are the musical version of a final, and after a semester of preparation, each student performs a portion of the pieces they have studied and theoretically learned. I have to be honest and say that as a student, juries never bothered me at all. My philosophy was that they provided me with a captive audience, and that was a very good thing. I know, however, that juries for many students are a terrifying experience, so I try to have a bit of compassion and sympathy for the students.
One of my real sticking points has little to do with singing and much to do with looks. I ask, beg, threaten and require that all students LOOK like singers. LOOK like performers. LOOK like professional musicians. In the olden days (she said, dating herself) it used to be easy. All I needed to say was, "church clothes" and students would come tastefully attired. Nowadays "church clothes" ranges from fancy-party-wear to fence-painting-wear, so that won't work.
Lately, I've tried to be more specific, explaining that dresses need not be as formal as...well, as a formal, and yes, pants are OK, provided they are dress pants with a dress shirt or sweater on top. This semester students did pretty well overall, with a few notable exceptions.
Herbie doesn't want to make toys. Neither does Schubert. - One student walked in with a short short red dress (body-hugging skirt and top, actually) and a pair of knee-high white Go-Go boots with white fur trim. She looked fabulous. If she were a Rockette. It was very difficult to concentrate on the beautiful German Lieder she was singing when all I wondered was if she was going to sing about the Island of Misfit toys.
One of these things is not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. Leggings because it's cold. Well, ok, I guess, because you're young and kicky. Acceptable top. Check. Four inch platform sandals with bare feet in 15-degree weather. SERIOUSLY?
Two of these things are not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. OK, leggings again? I suppose. Check. Acceptable top. Check. UGGS winter boots. Pass-a-rooni. There are a reason these things are called UGGS. It's because they are. They're UGG.
Goodnight Maw, Goodnight Paw, Goodnight Mary-Ellen - I was most pleased to see my gentlemen singers in shirts and ties, and sometimes a full suit. It's fairly apparent, however, that this is not usual garb, because I was pretty sure at one point, I saw the ghost of my Grandpa walk across the stage wearing armpit-high belted pants.
Only a flesh wound - Only in college do you break your foot and limp on stage wearing one stilletto and carrying the other one in your hand and then proceed to cram the shoe on your broken foot because you just got the shoes and they look great on you.
London and France - No, I didn't see any underpants, but I did see everything else. One lovely dress? Cut down to Florida and slit up to New York City. Sleeveless. In winter. bare legs and sky-high WIGGLY TOED sandals. Yes, my comment sheet did include a listing of what is a necessary singers uniform, including boring but necessary plain pumps and a stylish but modest (and comfortable) dress with sleeves.
Am I being picky? Maybe. But better me than a total stranger. Am I being unreasonable? Not in the slightest. Graduate schools and potential employers are all going to make decisions that consciously or subconsciously take clothing into consideration. The more blatantly a nose is thumbed at the notion of wearing appropriate clothing for the appropriate occasion, the more that same nose opens itself up to criticism that has nothing to do with singing.
So the rule of thumb is, before you sing your first note, to put your best foot forward. Just be sure there aren't any wiggly toes hanging out at the end.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Throw the Yule Log On
There is something to the notion of a long winter's nap. It's been so cold and damp lately, it seems impossible to get warm. If I had a fireplace, I'd throw the Yule log on, and anything else laying around that might provide heat, including (but not limited to) errant elves and Reindeer poop. This is a strange feeling for me (the being cold part, not the elf incineration part), because I tend to be the one who is always hot and looking for a window to open. Lately, though, I'm just the opposite. I'm chilled and I can't get warm, so I walk around in pajamas that are layered with sweatshirts and finish off the look with enormous fuzzy socks. It's times like this that I wish my cats were a little more social and snuggly of their own accord, because they don't like it very much when I rubber-band them to my body, and I get tired of dousing myself in tuna and catnip just to entice a warm, purring fuzzbucket to take a long winter's nap next to my shivering self.
Throw the Yule Log On
There is something to the notion of a long winter's nap. It's been so cold and damp lately, it seems impossible to get warm. If I had a fireplace, I'd throw the Yule log on, and anything else laying around that might provide heat, including (but not limited to) errant elves and Reindeer poop. This is a strange feeling for me (the being cold part, not the elf incineration part), because I tend to be the one who is always hot and looking for a window to open. Lately, though, I'm just the opposite. I'm chilled and I can't get warm, so I walk around in pajamas that are layered with sweatshirts and finish off the look with enormous fuzzy socks. It's times like this that I wish my cats were a little more social and snuggly of their own accord, because they don't like it very much when I rubber-band them to my body, and I get tired of dousing myself in tuna and catnip just to entice a warm, purring fuzzbucket to take a long winter's nap next to my shivering self.
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