I say ... And You Think:
1. Represent :: Stand for
2. Mumbling :: Watermelon watermelon watermelon
3. Meetup :: Hookup
4. Tantalizing :: Tempting
5. Fake :: False
6. Dale :: Chip n'
7. Deny :: Refute
8. Calories :: Food
9. Roll :: Dice
10. 44 :: Not it
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Unconscious Mutterings
I say ... And You Think:
1. Represent :: Stand for
2. Mumbling :: Watermelon watermelon watermelon
3. Meetup :: Hookup
4. Tantalizing :: Tempting
5. Fake :: False
6. Dale :: Chip n'
7. Deny :: Refute
8. Calories :: Food
9. Roll :: Dice
10. 44 :: Not it
1. Represent :: Stand for
2. Mumbling :: Watermelon watermelon watermelon
3. Meetup :: Hookup
4. Tantalizing :: Tempting
5. Fake :: False
6. Dale :: Chip n'
7. Deny :: Refute
8. Calories :: Food
9. Roll :: Dice
10. 44 :: Not it
Unexpected Blessings
This morning TinyTuna and I had another episode of "Good God, she's twelve, and neither one of us is going to see thirteen." What was wrong? You name it. The sky was blue. My car was red. I was breathing her air. I don't know, for sure. But everything was wrong in her universe, and she was darn sure that she would let everybody know that her perfect order was being disrupted by requests for politeness and doing what she was told. Around and around and around we went, butting heads until I was ready to remove her butting head from her hunched shoulders which sat atop of her angry, crossed arms.
It's SO HARD BEING 12. Or so I'm led to believe with every whiny chorus of, "What am I DOING?"
Where do I begin and how long do you have?
This afternoon while TinyTuna was in a marathon rehearsal for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, GramTuna and I spent several hours removing leaves, pine cones, weeds and other assorted nastiness from the flower beds. We were extra motivated today because tomorrow is free yard waste pick up day, and we wanted to make sure we contributed to the cause. Despite the fact that it has been several years since we've had these flower beds, we still stand there and look at clumps of green nubbins and try to figure out what the heck they are. It doesn't help that every year we keep moving things around, and when you combine that with a fairly solid case of Alzheimers, we're often staring at the ground wondering what it will be when it grows up.
The three-year rule of plant growth (first they sleep, then they creep, then they leap) is in full swing. Several plants have decided this is leap year, and have become, well, really good leapers. The clump of something that grows about 8-feet tall (we don't know the proper name, so we call it "Fred") has now spread far beyond his 3-feet boundary. We will be looking to move some Fred to various parts of the yard, and then give some away. The rambling rosebush (we used to call it Grandma's Rosebush, but have since renamed it "Ginger" since it sits next to Fred) that sat dormant for two year with nary a blossom, suddenly realized it was a thriving rosebush and sent roots everywhere, meaning that Ginger is going to get a little bit of tough love with a sharp shovel and several pots of dirt. We believe in sharing the love.
The most pleasant surprise was awarded to the trillium which not only survived, but have actually bloomed. Since trillium like to die the instant you plant them, it has been particularly gratifying to see these guys come back.
Most "whuh?" award went to a Scottish thistle. We planted Scottish thistle three years ago at the south edge of the bed. It promptly died. So we planted a new one next to it, and it thrived. And now the first one that was dead is now back again (was it only a flesh wound?), and the second one planted to replace the first one is also back, AND there is also a volunteer, which is a full three feet away from the original two near the lucky garden golf ball. How did it get there? Neither the thistle nor the golf ball are talking.
Fortunately for all parties involved, TinyTuna's morning mood improved drastically and she not only lived to enjoy Sunday Brunch at the Grill Dogs, she was also surprisingly pleasant company. This didn't used to be an note-worthy occurrence, but I've come to learn when you're TWELVE, it's an unexpected blessing when the Satanic side decides to chill out for an hour or two.
It was mentioned to her at lunch that she had done a nice job of singing the psalm that morning, and if she remembered the text it would serve her well for the rest of her life. At the time, I thought the comment just went over her head, but surprisingly we started talking about it in the car. "Which psalm was that?" I asked her, wondering if she had noticed. "The 23rd psalm," she replied. "Ahh, I said. That's a good one."
Suddenly, she started singing a spiritual version of the 23rd psalm that she had sung in Children's Choir. As she sang she started nodding at me and giving me the waving hand of "Good God woman, what are you doing just sitting there? So, I joined her. And there we were, one angst-ridden twelve year old and one extremely harried mother, driving down the highway singing the 23rd psalm as if we didn't have a care in the world, because this is what everybody does on a Sunday afternoon, right?
After the big spring garden cleanup, I'm always amazed at how much better everything looks. The before picture is such a disaster, you'd think there was nothing there. But once the mess is cleared away, you see the promise that lives in all the small bunches of new growth. It's a lot like living with twelve. A life full of unexpected blessings.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
It's SO HARD BEING 12. Or so I'm led to believe with every whiny chorus of, "What am I DOING?"
Where do I begin and how long do you have?
This afternoon while TinyTuna was in a marathon rehearsal for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, GramTuna and I spent several hours removing leaves, pine cones, weeds and other assorted nastiness from the flower beds. We were extra motivated today because tomorrow is free yard waste pick up day, and we wanted to make sure we contributed to the cause. Despite the fact that it has been several years since we've had these flower beds, we still stand there and look at clumps of green nubbins and try to figure out what the heck they are. It doesn't help that every year we keep moving things around, and when you combine that with a fairly solid case of Alzheimers, we're often staring at the ground wondering what it will be when it grows up.
The three-year rule of plant growth (first they sleep, then they creep, then they leap) is in full swing. Several plants have decided this is leap year, and have become, well, really good leapers. The clump of something that grows about 8-feet tall (we don't know the proper name, so we call it "Fred") has now spread far beyond his 3-feet boundary. We will be looking to move some Fred to various parts of the yard, and then give some away. The rambling rosebush (we used to call it Grandma's Rosebush, but have since renamed it "Ginger" since it sits next to Fred) that sat dormant for two year with nary a blossom, suddenly realized it was a thriving rosebush and sent roots everywhere, meaning that Ginger is going to get a little bit of tough love with a sharp shovel and several pots of dirt. We believe in sharing the love.
The most pleasant surprise was awarded to the trillium which not only survived, but have actually bloomed. Since trillium like to die the instant you plant them, it has been particularly gratifying to see these guys come back.
Most "whuh?" award went to a Scottish thistle. We planted Scottish thistle three years ago at the south edge of the bed. It promptly died. So we planted a new one next to it, and it thrived. And now the first one that was dead is now back again (was it only a flesh wound?), and the second one planted to replace the first one is also back, AND there is also a volunteer, which is a full three feet away from the original two near the lucky garden golf ball. How did it get there? Neither the thistle nor the golf ball are talking.
Fortunately for all parties involved, TinyTuna's morning mood improved drastically and she not only lived to enjoy Sunday Brunch at the Grill Dogs, she was also surprisingly pleasant company. This didn't used to be an note-worthy occurrence, but I've come to learn when you're TWELVE, it's an unexpected blessing when the Satanic side decides to chill out for an hour or two.
It was mentioned to her at lunch that she had done a nice job of singing the psalm that morning, and if she remembered the text it would serve her well for the rest of her life. At the time, I thought the comment just went over her head, but surprisingly we started talking about it in the car. "Which psalm was that?" I asked her, wondering if she had noticed. "The 23rd psalm," she replied. "Ahh, I said. That's a good one."
Suddenly, she started singing a spiritual version of the 23rd psalm that she had sung in Children's Choir. As she sang she started nodding at me and giving me the waving hand of "Good God woman, what are you doing just sitting there? So, I joined her. And there we were, one angst-ridden twelve year old and one extremely harried mother, driving down the highway singing the 23rd psalm as if we didn't have a care in the world, because this is what everybody does on a Sunday afternoon, right?
After the big spring garden cleanup, I'm always amazed at how much better everything looks. The before picture is such a disaster, you'd think there was nothing there. But once the mess is cleared away, you see the promise that lives in all the small bunches of new growth. It's a lot like living with twelve. A life full of unexpected blessings.
Unexpected Blessings
This morning TinyTuna and I had another episode of "Good God, she's twelve, and neither one of us is going to see thirteen." What was wrong? You name it. The sky was blue. My car was red. I was breathing her air. I don't know, for sure. But everything was wrong in her universe, and she was darn sure that she would let everybody know that her perfect order was being disrupted by requests for politeness and doing what she was told. Around and around and around we went, butting heads until I was ready to remove her butting head from her hunched shoulders which sat atop of her angry, crossed arms.
It's SO HARD BEING 12. Or so I'm led to believe with every whiny chorus of, "What am I DOING?"
Where do I begin and how long do you have?
This afternoon while TinyTuna was in a marathon rehearsal for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, GramTuna and I spent several hours removing leaves, pine cones, weeds and other assorted nastiness from the flower beds. We were extra motivated today because tomorrow is free yard waste pick up day, and we wanted to make sure we contributed to the cause. Despite the fact that it has been several years since we've had these flower beds, we still stand there and look at clumps of green nubbins and try to figure out what the heck they are. It doesn't help that every year we keep moving things around, and when you combine that with a fairly solid case of Alzheimers, we're often staring at the ground wondering what it will be when it grows up.
The three-year rule of plant growth (first they sleep, then they creep, then they leap) is in full swing. Several plants have decided this is leap year, and have become, well, really good leapers. The clump of something that grows about 8-feet tall (we don't know the proper name, so we call it "Fred") has now spread far beyond his 3-feet boundary. We will be looking to move some Fred to various parts of the yard, and then give some away. The rambling rosebush (we used to call it Grandma's Rosebush, but have since renamed it "Ginger" since it sits next to Fred) that sat dormant for two year with nary a blossom, suddenly realized it was a thriving rosebush and sent roots everywhere, meaning that Ginger is going to get a little bit of tough love with a sharp shovel and several pots of dirt. We believe in sharing the love.
The most pleasant surprise was awarded to the trillium which not only survived, but have actually bloomed. Since trillium like to die the instant you plant them, it has been particularly gratifying to see these guys come back.
Most "whuh?" award went to a Scottish thistle. We planted Scottish thistle three years ago at the south edge of the bed. It promptly died. So we planted a new one next to it, and it thrived. And now the first one that was dead is now back again (was it only a flesh wound?), and the second one planted to replace the first one is also back, AND there is also a volunteer, which is a full three feet away from the original two near the lucky garden golf ball. How did it get there? Neither the thistle nor the golf ball are talking.
Fortunately for all parties involved, TinyTuna's morning mood improved drastically and she not only lived to enjoy Sunday Brunch at the Grill Dogs, she was also surprisingly pleasant company. This didn't used to be an note-worthy occurrence, but I've come to learn when you're TWELVE, it's an unexpected blessing when the Satanic side decides to chill out for an hour or two.
It was mentioned to her at lunch that she had done a nice job of singing the psalm that morning, and if she remembered the text it would serve her well for the rest of her life. At the time, I thought the comment just went over her head, but surprisingly we started talking about it in the car. "Which psalm was that?" I asked her, wondering if she had noticed. "The 23rd psalm," she replied. "Ahh, I said. That's a good one."
Suddenly, she started singing a spiritual version of the 23rd psalm that she had sung in Children's Choir. As she sang she started nodding at me and giving me the waving hand of "Good God woman, what are you doing just sitting there? So, I joined her. And there we were, one angst-ridden twelve year old and one extremely harried mother, driving down the highway singing the 23rd psalm as if we didn't have a care in the world, because this is what everybody does on a Sunday afternoon, right?
After the big spring garden cleanup, I'm always amazed at how much better everything looks. The before picture is such a disaster, you'd think there was nothing there. But once the mess is cleared away, you see the promise that lives in all the small bunches of new growth. It's a lot like living with twelve. A life full of unexpected blessings.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
It's SO HARD BEING 12. Or so I'm led to believe with every whiny chorus of, "What am I DOING?"
Where do I begin and how long do you have?
This afternoon while TinyTuna was in a marathon rehearsal for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, GramTuna and I spent several hours removing leaves, pine cones, weeds and other assorted nastiness from the flower beds. We were extra motivated today because tomorrow is free yard waste pick up day, and we wanted to make sure we contributed to the cause. Despite the fact that it has been several years since we've had these flower beds, we still stand there and look at clumps of green nubbins and try to figure out what the heck they are. It doesn't help that every year we keep moving things around, and when you combine that with a fairly solid case of Alzheimers, we're often staring at the ground wondering what it will be when it grows up.
The three-year rule of plant growth (first they sleep, then they creep, then they leap) is in full swing. Several plants have decided this is leap year, and have become, well, really good leapers. The clump of something that grows about 8-feet tall (we don't know the proper name, so we call it "Fred") has now spread far beyond his 3-feet boundary. We will be looking to move some Fred to various parts of the yard, and then give some away. The rambling rosebush (we used to call it Grandma's Rosebush, but have since renamed it "Ginger" since it sits next to Fred) that sat dormant for two year with nary a blossom, suddenly realized it was a thriving rosebush and sent roots everywhere, meaning that Ginger is going to get a little bit of tough love with a sharp shovel and several pots of dirt. We believe in sharing the love.
The most pleasant surprise was awarded to the trillium which not only survived, but have actually bloomed. Since trillium like to die the instant you plant them, it has been particularly gratifying to see these guys come back.
Most "whuh?" award went to a Scottish thistle. We planted Scottish thistle three years ago at the south edge of the bed. It promptly died. So we planted a new one next to it, and it thrived. And now the first one that was dead is now back again (was it only a flesh wound?), and the second one planted to replace the first one is also back, AND there is also a volunteer, which is a full three feet away from the original two near the lucky garden golf ball. How did it get there? Neither the thistle nor the golf ball are talking.
Fortunately for all parties involved, TinyTuna's morning mood improved drastically and she not only lived to enjoy Sunday Brunch at the Grill Dogs, she was also surprisingly pleasant company. This didn't used to be an note-worthy occurrence, but I've come to learn when you're TWELVE, it's an unexpected blessing when the Satanic side decides to chill out for an hour or two.
It was mentioned to her at lunch that she had done a nice job of singing the psalm that morning, and if she remembered the text it would serve her well for the rest of her life. At the time, I thought the comment just went over her head, but surprisingly we started talking about it in the car. "Which psalm was that?" I asked her, wondering if she had noticed. "The 23rd psalm," she replied. "Ahh, I said. That's a good one."
Suddenly, she started singing a spiritual version of the 23rd psalm that she had sung in Children's Choir. As she sang she started nodding at me and giving me the waving hand of "Good God woman, what are you doing just sitting there? So, I joined her. And there we were, one angst-ridden twelve year old and one extremely harried mother, driving down the highway singing the 23rd psalm as if we didn't have a care in the world, because this is what everybody does on a Sunday afternoon, right?
After the big spring garden cleanup, I'm always amazed at how much better everything looks. The before picture is such a disaster, you'd think there was nothing there. But once the mess is cleared away, you see the promise that lives in all the small bunches of new growth. It's a lot like living with twelve. A life full of unexpected blessings.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Where I'm From
Many memes are short responses to simple questions.
This one is different.
Deceptively straightforward, I found the more I worked on it,
the more I worked on it.
And in the process I remembered more things
more answers led to more stories
and help explain the simple question
Where am I from?
Thanks to Bozoette, where I first saw this meme.
The original template can be found here.
Deceptively straightforward, I found the more I worked on it,
the more I worked on it.
And in the process I remembered more things
more answers led to more stories
and help explain the simple question
Where am I from?
Thanks to Bozoette, where I first saw this meme.
The original template can be found here.
I am from the white house at the fork in the road, from a sunny yellow kitchen with the ominous three-legged chairs, from an old climbing tree in the back yard and dinners announced by the clanging bell down the street.
I am from daffodils in the spring and dandelions in the summer, lovingly picked, presented and displayed in an old-fashioned juice glass.
I am from breakfast before Christmas presents and uncontrollable laughter at the dinner table. I am from Nellie and Hazel and Emma, lovely old-fashioned names that remind me of mountainside cabins, beautiful artistic creations, and picture puzzles done on the floor at the tender age of 88.
I am from a wicked wit and a strong opinion. I am from having to stop everything in order to look it up, because not knowing simply will not do.
From Brer Rabbit in da' briah' patch, Andy Panda, and a daily reading of Play with Me.
I am from the Glorious traditional Episcopal heritage. From religious pomp and circumstance, from good music, sacred aerobics and Sunday brunch.
I am from the Motor City, Motown and the land of The Lions and the Tigers. I am from little boy salad, black-eyed peas on New Years and cinnamon toast when you're sick.
From the sled that went down the mountain in the Black Forest. From bears at Yosemite. From Topo Gigio and Larry the Lion. From Snoopy and his red scarf. From twirpy birds and garbanzo beans.
I am from the Spanish turtle that rings, the small wooden chair with the secret compartment and the purple marble grapes -- perfect for hiding the purple Easter Egg. I am from The Pink Sheets, the Family Cookbook, two enormous brown photo albums and a closet full of slides. I am from all those Sunday dinners where the only thing better than the food is the stories.
This is where I'm from.
Where I'm From
Many memes are short responses to simple questions.
This one is different.
Deceptively straightforward, I found the more I worked on it,
the more I worked on it.
And in the process I remembered more things
more answers led to more stories
and help explain the simple question
Where am I from?
Thanks to Bozoette, where I first saw this meme.
The original template can be found here.
Deceptively straightforward, I found the more I worked on it,
the more I worked on it.
And in the process I remembered more things
more answers led to more stories
and help explain the simple question
Where am I from?
Thanks to Bozoette, where I first saw this meme.
The original template can be found here.
I am from the white house at the fork in the road, from a sunny yellow kitchen with the ominous three-legged chairs, from an old climbing tree in the back yard and dinners announced by the clanging bell down the street.
I am from daffodils in the spring and dandelions in the summer, lovingly picked, presented and displayed in an old-fashioned juice glass.
I am from breakfast before Christmas presents and uncontrollable laughter at the dinner table. I am from Nellie and Hazel and Emma, lovely old-fashioned names that remind me of mountainside cabins, beautiful artistic creations, and picture puzzles done on the floor at the tender age of 88.
I am from a wicked wit and a strong opinion. I am from having to stop everything in order to look it up, because not knowing simply will not do.
From Brer Rabbit in da' briah' patch, Andy Panda, and a daily reading of Play with Me.
I am from the Glorious traditional Episcopal heritage. From religious pomp and circumstance, from good music, sacred aerobics and Sunday brunch.
I am from the Motor City, Motown and the land of The Lions and the Tigers. I am from little boy salad, black-eyed peas on New Years and cinnamon toast when you're sick.
From the sled that went down the mountain in the Black Forest. From bears at Yosemite. From Topo Gigio and Larry the Lion. From Snoopy and his red scarf. From twirpy birds and garbanzo beans.
I am from the Spanish turtle that rings, the small wooden chair with the secret compartment and the purple marble grapes -- perfect for hiding the purple Easter Egg. I am from The Pink Sheets, the Family Cookbook, two enormous brown photo albums and a closet full of slides. I am from all those Sunday dinners where the only thing better than the food is the stories.
This is where I'm from.
Unconscious Mutterings
I say ... And you think:
1. Out of place :: Uncomfortable
2. Helicopter :: Chopper
3. Francis :: Drake
4. Ryan :: Seacrest
5. Wedding :: Crashers
6. Appalled :: Horrified
7. Historian :: Academic
8. Powerful :: Strong
9. Sex Symbol ::
10. Uncomfortable :: Sitting here not being able to think of a sex symbol.
Seriously. Who would you choose? There is a difference (in my world) between people who are sexy and people who are a sex symbol. I'm at a complete loss. But then again, it's Sunday morning, and I don't think I'm supposed to be thinking of those kind of things.
Mutter along HERE.
1. Out of place :: Uncomfortable
2. Helicopter :: Chopper
3. Francis :: Drake
4. Ryan :: Seacrest
5. Wedding :: Crashers
6. Appalled :: Horrified
7. Historian :: Academic
8. Powerful :: Strong
9. Sex Symbol ::
10. Uncomfortable :: Sitting here not being able to think of a sex symbol.
Seriously. Who would you choose? There is a difference (in my world) between people who are sexy and people who are a sex symbol. I'm at a complete loss. But then again, it's Sunday morning, and I don't think I'm supposed to be thinking of those kind of things.
Mutter along HERE.
Unconscious Mutterings
I say ... And you think:
1. Out of place :: Uncomfortable
2. Helicopter :: Chopper
3. Francis :: Drake
4. Ryan :: Seacrest
5. Wedding :: Crashers
6. Appalled :: Horrified
7. Historian :: Academic
8. Powerful :: Strong
9. Sex Symbol ::
10. Uncomfortable :: Sitting here not being able to think of a sex symbol.
Seriously. Who would you choose? There is a difference (in my world) between people who are sexy and people who are a sex symbol. I'm at a complete loss. But then again, it's Sunday morning, and I don't think I'm supposed to be thinking of those kind of things.
Mutter along HERE.
1. Out of place :: Uncomfortable
2. Helicopter :: Chopper
3. Francis :: Drake
4. Ryan :: Seacrest
5. Wedding :: Crashers
6. Appalled :: Horrified
7. Historian :: Academic
8. Powerful :: Strong
9. Sex Symbol ::
10. Uncomfortable :: Sitting here not being able to think of a sex symbol.
Seriously. Who would you choose? There is a difference (in my world) between people who are sexy and people who are a sex symbol. I'm at a complete loss. But then again, it's Sunday morning, and I don't think I'm supposed to be thinking of those kind of things.
Mutter along HERE.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Pluses and Minuses
Another Saturday lived at 125 rpm.
The Tuna household is in the midst of its springtime conversion, which is full of pluses and minuses. For example, my voice teaching is done for the academic year. Big plus. But this means my voice teaching paychecks are also done for the academic year. Big ouchie minus.
Without the time commitment of teaching, I am home more often during the week. HUGE PLUS! This time, however, must be spent evicting Satan from my bathroom, his cousin Fred from my basement, various lesser demons from the kitchen, refrigerator, living room and bedroom, and (dum dum DUM) the bunny cage. Minus factor 666.
I have finally finished the mind-numbing carpal tunnel-inducing job of spending out my various budgets for the year. Definite plus. Now my activities are limited to solving old heinous problems or cleaning my office, meaning I'll uncover more problems; even older and more heinous-er. Redundantly speaking. Definite minus.
The trees and flowers this spring have been unbelievably gorgeous and long-lasting due to chilly nights and warm days. Double daffodil plus because I am not allergic to any of them. However, I am allergic to the sun, which always proves annoying over the summer. SPF minus 60.
On the plus side, the family calendar is our anchor of organization.
On the minus side, it's a big fat visual representation of our insanity.
Warm spring days invite us to go outside and shake off the winter blahs. But spring also brings activities, rehearsals, concerts, homework, final projects, field trips, recitals and the like. Despite a to-do list longer than my arm and deeper than my wallet I try not to complain. Despite a calendar that tells me I have one free evening in the next 25, I look at this as a time management and scheduling challenge rather than a losing cause. Today I didn't finish everything I hoped I would, but I did manage (among many other things) to perform a successful bathroom exorcism, take a short bike ride and discover three new trillium covered by leaves in my garden. Despite being buried, they were making their springtime transition without complaint.
I hope I can do the same.
The Tuna household is in the midst of its springtime conversion, which is full of pluses and minuses. For example, my voice teaching is done for the academic year. Big plus. But this means my voice teaching paychecks are also done for the academic year. Big ouchie minus.
Without the time commitment of teaching, I am home more often during the week. HUGE PLUS! This time, however, must be spent evicting Satan from my bathroom, his cousin Fred from my basement, various lesser demons from the kitchen, refrigerator, living room and bedroom, and (dum dum DUM) the bunny cage. Minus factor 666.
I have finally finished the mind-numbing carpal tunnel-inducing job of spending out my various budgets for the year. Definite plus. Now my activities are limited to solving old heinous problems or cleaning my office, meaning I'll uncover more problems; even older and more heinous-er. Redundantly speaking. Definite minus.
The trees and flowers this spring have been unbelievably gorgeous and long-lasting due to chilly nights and warm days. Double daffodil plus because I am not allergic to any of them. However, I am allergic to the sun, which always proves annoying over the summer. SPF minus 60.
On the plus side, the family calendar is our anchor of organization.
On the minus side, it's a big fat visual representation of our insanity.
Warm spring days invite us to go outside and shake off the winter blahs. But spring also brings activities, rehearsals, concerts, homework, final projects, field trips, recitals and the like. Despite a to-do list longer than my arm and deeper than my wallet I try not to complain. Despite a calendar that tells me I have one free evening in the next 25, I look at this as a time management and scheduling challenge rather than a losing cause. Today I didn't finish everything I hoped I would, but I did manage (among many other things) to perform a successful bathroom exorcism, take a short bike ride and discover three new trillium covered by leaves in my garden. Despite being buried, they were making their springtime transition without complaint.
I hope I can do the same.
Pluses and Minuses
Another Saturday lived at 125 rpm.
The Tuna household is in the midst of its springtime conversion, which is full of pluses and minuses. For example, my voice teaching is done for the academic year. Big plus. But this means my voice teaching paychecks are also done for the academic year. Big ouchie minus.
Without the time commitment of teaching, I am home more often during the week. HUGE PLUS! This time, however, must be spent evicting Satan from my bathroom, his cousin Fred from my basement, various lesser demons from the kitchen, refrigerator, living room and bedroom, and (dum dum DUM) the bunny cage. Minus factor 666.
I have finally finished the mind-numbing carpal tunnel-inducing job of spending out my various budgets for the year. Definite plus. Now my activities are limited to solving old heinous problems or cleaning my office, meaning I'll uncover more problems; even older and more heinous-er. Redundantly speaking. Definite minus.
The trees and flowers this spring have been unbelievably gorgeous and long-lasting due to chilly nights and warm days. Double daffodil plus because I am not allergic to any of them. However, I am allergic to the sun, which always proves annoying over the summer. SPF minus 60.
On the plus side, the family calendar is our anchor of organization.
On the minus side, it's a big fat visual representation of our insanity.
Warm spring days invite us to go outside and shake off the winter blahs. But spring also brings activities, rehearsals, concerts, homework, final projects, field trips, recitals and the like. Despite a to-do list longer than my arm and deeper than my wallet I try not to complain. Despite a calendar that tells me I have one free evening in the next 25, I look at this as a time management and scheduling challenge rather than a losing cause. Today I didn't finish everything I hoped I would, but I did manage (among many other things) to perform a successful bathroom exorcism, take a short bike ride and discover three new trillium covered by leaves in my garden. Despite being buried, they were making their springtime transition without complaint.
I hope I can do the same.
The Tuna household is in the midst of its springtime conversion, which is full of pluses and minuses. For example, my voice teaching is done for the academic year. Big plus. But this means my voice teaching paychecks are also done for the academic year. Big ouchie minus.
Without the time commitment of teaching, I am home more often during the week. HUGE PLUS! This time, however, must be spent evicting Satan from my bathroom, his cousin Fred from my basement, various lesser demons from the kitchen, refrigerator, living room and bedroom, and (dum dum DUM) the bunny cage. Minus factor 666.
I have finally finished the mind-numbing carpal tunnel-inducing job of spending out my various budgets for the year. Definite plus. Now my activities are limited to solving old heinous problems or cleaning my office, meaning I'll uncover more problems; even older and more heinous-er. Redundantly speaking. Definite minus.
The trees and flowers this spring have been unbelievably gorgeous and long-lasting due to chilly nights and warm days. Double daffodil plus because I am not allergic to any of them. However, I am allergic to the sun, which always proves annoying over the summer. SPF minus 60.
On the plus side, the family calendar is our anchor of organization.
On the minus side, it's a big fat visual representation of our insanity.
Warm spring days invite us to go outside and shake off the winter blahs. But spring also brings activities, rehearsals, concerts, homework, final projects, field trips, recitals and the like. Despite a to-do list longer than my arm and deeper than my wallet I try not to complain. Despite a calendar that tells me I have one free evening in the next 25, I look at this as a time management and scheduling challenge rather than a losing cause. Today I didn't finish everything I hoped I would, but I did manage (among many other things) to perform a successful bathroom exorcism, take a short bike ride and discover three new trillium covered by leaves in my garden. Despite being buried, they were making their springtime transition without complaint.
I hope I can do the same.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Unconscious Mutterings
I say ... And you think :
1. Rising :: Sun
2. Third :: Base
3. Disruptive :: Attention-grabber
4. Surround :: Sound
5. Distant :: Planet
6. Suction :: Cup
7. Fried :: Chicken
8. Nuggets :: Chicken
9. Clip :: Excerpt
10. San Antonio :: Texas
It seems that once I start these I get bogged down in a certain mind-frame and can't get out. It's quite obvious that this morning I want to eat some chicken, watch a baseball game and go to the planetarium ... in Texas.
Hey! I have some heavenly leftover Tex-Mex in the fridge. Chicken burrito, here I come!
1. Rising :: Sun
2. Third :: Base
3. Disruptive :: Attention-grabber
4. Surround :: Sound
5. Distant :: Planet
6. Suction :: Cup
7. Fried :: Chicken
8. Nuggets :: Chicken
9. Clip :: Excerpt
10. San Antonio :: Texas
It seems that once I start these I get bogged down in a certain mind-frame and can't get out. It's quite obvious that this morning I want to eat some chicken, watch a baseball game and go to the planetarium ... in Texas.
Hey! I have some heavenly leftover Tex-Mex in the fridge. Chicken burrito, here I come!
Unconscious Mutterings
I say ... And you think :
1. Rising :: Sun
2. Third :: Base
3. Disruptive :: Attention-grabber
4. Surround :: Sound
5. Distant :: Planet
6. Suction :: Cup
7. Fried :: Chicken
8. Nuggets :: Chicken
9. Clip :: Excerpt
10. San Antonio :: Texas
It seems that once I start these I get bogged down in a certain mind-frame and can't get out. It's quite obvious that this morning I want to eat some chicken, watch a baseball game and go to the planetarium ... in Texas.
Hey! I have some heavenly leftover Tex-Mex in the fridge. Chicken burrito, here I come!
1. Rising :: Sun
2. Third :: Base
3. Disruptive :: Attention-grabber
4. Surround :: Sound
5. Distant :: Planet
6. Suction :: Cup
7. Fried :: Chicken
8. Nuggets :: Chicken
9. Clip :: Excerpt
10. San Antonio :: Texas
It seems that once I start these I get bogged down in a certain mind-frame and can't get out. It's quite obvious that this morning I want to eat some chicken, watch a baseball game and go to the planetarium ... in Texas.
Hey! I have some heavenly leftover Tex-Mex in the fridge. Chicken burrito, here I come!
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Just Another Manic Saturday
Today the town of Tunaville was a bundle of contradictions. In one location there were celebrations of diversity. In another, there were detractors, shaking their fists and howling at the moon. Miles of chain link fences allowed freedom of speech and assembly while protecting the overwhelming majority from a message they did not want to hear.
I chose to stay away from the mess on both sides of the fence.
Instead...
I delivered sandwiches for a blood drive.
Instead...
I dropped off my recycling.
Instead...
I celebrated spring by buying TinyTuna some fun, kicky sandals.
Instead...
I donated clothes to the less fortunate.
Instead...
I joined some choir folk and sang to shut-ins whose average age was about 236.
Instead...
I watched TinyTuna become the Tito Puente of the tambourine during Rock of Ages.
Instead...
I listened -- over a slice of pizza -- to an incredibly moving acapella performance of a thanksgiving chant written by one of the choir folk.
and as always,
Instead...
I started my morning with breakfast at the Grill Dogs.
It may have been a bundle of contradictions everywhere else.
But for us, it was just another Saturday in Tunaville.
I chose to stay away from the mess on both sides of the fence.
Instead...
I delivered sandwiches for a blood drive.
Instead...
I dropped off my recycling.
Instead...
I celebrated spring by buying TinyTuna some fun, kicky sandals.
Instead...
I donated clothes to the less fortunate.
Instead...
I joined some choir folk and sang to shut-ins whose average age was about 236.
Instead...
I watched TinyTuna become the Tito Puente of the tambourine during Rock of Ages.
Instead...
I listened -- over a slice of pizza -- to an incredibly moving acapella performance of a thanksgiving chant written by one of the choir folk.
and as always,
Instead...
I started my morning with breakfast at the Grill Dogs.
It may have been a bundle of contradictions everywhere else.
But for us, it was just another Saturday in Tunaville.
Just Another Manic Saturday
Today the town of Tunaville was a bundle of contradictions. In one location there were celebrations of diversity. In another, there were detractors, shaking their fists and howling at the moon. Miles of chain link fences allowed freedom of speech and assembly while protecting the overwhelming majority from a message they did not want to hear.
I chose to stay away from the mess on both sides of the fence.
Instead...
I delivered sandwiches for a blood drive.
Instead...
I dropped off my recycling.
Instead...
I celebrated spring by buying TinyTuna some fun, kicky sandals.
Instead...
I donated clothes to the less fortunate.
Instead...
I joined some choir folk and sang to shut-ins whose average age was about 236.
Instead...
I watched TinyTuna become the Tito Puente of the tambourine during Rock of Ages.
Instead...
I listened -- over a slice of pizza -- to an incredibly moving acapella performance of a thanksgiving chant written by one of the choir folk.
and as always,
Instead...
I started my morning with breakfast at the Grill Dogs.
It may have been a bundle of contradictions everywhere else.
But for us, it was just another Saturday in Tunaville.
I chose to stay away from the mess on both sides of the fence.
Instead...
I delivered sandwiches for a blood drive.
Instead...
I dropped off my recycling.
Instead...
I celebrated spring by buying TinyTuna some fun, kicky sandals.
Instead...
I donated clothes to the less fortunate.
Instead...
I joined some choir folk and sang to shut-ins whose average age was about 236.
Instead...
I watched TinyTuna become the Tito Puente of the tambourine during Rock of Ages.
Instead...
I listened -- over a slice of pizza -- to an incredibly moving acapella performance of a thanksgiving chant written by one of the choir folk.
and as always,
Instead...
I started my morning with breakfast at the Grill Dogs.
It may have been a bundle of contradictions everywhere else.
But for us, it was just another Saturday in Tunaville.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Friday's Feast
Time for a Friday feast (under-the-wire version)
Appetizer: List three things you keep putting off
1.
2.
3.
Soup: What do you feel is your greatest responsibility?
The twelve-year old in the next room. Too easy.
Salad: If you could have starred in any movie, which one would you have wanted to be in and why?
The best movie in the history of ever has to be, hands down, Waiting for Guffman. To mock the world of community musical theatre would be like ... well, like every day of my regular life. Only with better jokes and compensation. (Everybody dance!)
Main Course: What is an expectation you had as a child about being an adult and, now that you are grown up, you realize you were wrong?
Evidently I led an unbelievably shallow life as a child. I wasn't full of expectations. I was full of grape popsicles. My concerns most likely were concerned with how many grape popsicles were left in the box.
Dessert: When was the last time you had your car serviced?
Serviced? Now I sound like a Madame for the Geo Prizm.
Appetizer: List three things you keep putting off
1.
2.
3.
Soup: What do you feel is your greatest responsibility?
The twelve-year old in the next room. Too easy.
Salad: If you could have starred in any movie, which one would you have wanted to be in and why?
The best movie in the history of ever has to be, hands down, Waiting for Guffman. To mock the world of community musical theatre would be like ... well, like every day of my regular life. Only with better jokes and compensation. (Everybody dance!)
Main Course: What is an expectation you had as a child about being an adult and, now that you are grown up, you realize you were wrong?
Evidently I led an unbelievably shallow life as a child. I wasn't full of expectations. I was full of grape popsicles. My concerns most likely were concerned with how many grape popsicles were left in the box.
Dessert: When was the last time you had your car serviced?
Serviced? Now I sound like a Madame for the Geo Prizm.
Friday's Feast
Time for a Friday feast (under-the-wire version)
Appetizer: List three things you keep putting off
1.
2.
3.
Soup: What do you feel is your greatest responsibility?
The twelve-year old in the next room. Too easy.
Salad: If you could have starred in any movie, which one would you have wanted to be in and why?
The best movie in the history of ever has to be, hands down, Waiting for Guffman. To mock the world of community musical theatre would be like ... well, like every day of my regular life. Only with better jokes and compensation. (Everybody dance!)
Main Course: What is an expectation you had as a child about being an adult and, now that you are grown up, you realize you were wrong?
Evidently I led an unbelievably shallow life as a child. I wasn't full of expectations. I was full of grape popsicles. My concerns most likely were concerned with how many grape popsicles were left in the box.
Dessert: When was the last time you had your car serviced?
Serviced? Now I sound like a Madame for the Geo Prizm.
Appetizer: List three things you keep putting off
1.
2.
3.
Soup: What do you feel is your greatest responsibility?
The twelve-year old in the next room. Too easy.
Salad: If you could have starred in any movie, which one would you have wanted to be in and why?
The best movie in the history of ever has to be, hands down, Waiting for Guffman. To mock the world of community musical theatre would be like ... well, like every day of my regular life. Only with better jokes and compensation. (Everybody dance!)
Main Course: What is an expectation you had as a child about being an adult and, now that you are grown up, you realize you were wrong?
Evidently I led an unbelievably shallow life as a child. I wasn't full of expectations. I was full of grape popsicles. My concerns most likely were concerned with how many grape popsicles were left in the box.
Dessert: When was the last time you had your car serviced?
Serviced? Now I sound like a Madame for the Geo Prizm.
Otanjou-bi Omedetou Gozaimasu!
Unbelievable as it may seem, the littlest of the extended Tuna clan is a whopping one year old today. Here he is showing off the best present in the whole wide world ... the box. "Forget that educational stuff," he says. "All I need is a box and some peanuts and I'm living large and in charge."
"...Good thing..." thought the dog, who took permanent ownership of one of the more colorful educational toys.
Happy Birthday big guy. And many, many congrats, Mom and Dad. He's a keeper.
Otanjou-bi Omedetou Gozaimasu!
Unbelievable as it may seem, the littlest of the extended Tuna clan is a whopping one year old today. Here he is showing off the best present in the whole wide world ... the box. "Forget that educational stuff," he says. "All I need is a box and some peanuts and I'm living large and in charge."
"...Good thing..." thought the dog, who took permanent ownership of one of the more colorful educational toys.
Happy Birthday big guy. And many, many congrats, Mom and Dad. He's a keeper.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Songs in the Key of Strife
I can remember teaching several years ago and having an extremely eagerly naive student explain to me in long rambling bouts of puffiness how he could sing this, that and the other song regardless of range or appropriateness to age or gender. I let him talk himself out, and then peering over my glasses I said, "just because you can, doesn't mean you should."
I thought that was pretty good for an impromptu nugget of wisdom, and have uttered that phrase many times since.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
And in that phrase lies my annual American Idol rant.
Every week is theme week. So far we've had songs of Stevie Wonder, The 50's, The 21st century, Country, Queen, and this week, The American Songbook. The resulting performances have been painful, awful, hideous, yeehawwwwrrible, just plain wrong, and what the hell, let's go for six.
I appreciate singers needing to be flexible, but I don't see the point in shackling wannabe Idols to a vocal style they would most likely never tackle. What's next? Milli-Vanilli Unplugged? Opera week? Great Methodist Hymns Grandma loved to sing at the pie social? Only The Shadow -- or I fear, The Spanish Inquisition -- knows.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
If the theme isn't bad enough, most of the songs being performed are so ridiculously excerpted they bear little resemblance to the original. Think about it: is it really Bohemian Rhapsody if it's only 45 seconds long? If Chopin's waltz takes a minute, and instant rice takes five, a proper fandango must take longer than that.
(Although I must admit here that had Pickler's Bohemian massacre lasted one second longer, I would have had Galileo poke out my eyes with thunderbolt and lightning)
And still, I tune in when I can. Not so much for the train-wreck value, which seems to be in ample supply. Certainly not for the vapid comments of the judging panel. I think I watch because hope springs eternal. Every week I wonder if one of these singers will find a song and really get it. It's really not as easy of a task as you might think.
I don't know if every American Idol can. But I do know that every musician should.
I thought that was pretty good for an impromptu nugget of wisdom, and have uttered that phrase many times since.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
And in that phrase lies my annual American Idol rant.
Every week is theme week. So far we've had songs of Stevie Wonder, The 50's, The 21st century, Country, Queen, and this week, The American Songbook. The resulting performances have been painful, awful, hideous, yeehawwwwrrible, just plain wrong, and what the hell, let's go for six.
I appreciate singers needing to be flexible, but I don't see the point in shackling wannabe Idols to a vocal style they would most likely never tackle. What's next? Milli-Vanilli Unplugged? Opera week? Great Methodist Hymns Grandma loved to sing at the pie social? Only The Shadow -- or I fear, The Spanish Inquisition -- knows.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
If the theme isn't bad enough, most of the songs being performed are so ridiculously excerpted they bear little resemblance to the original. Think about it: is it really Bohemian Rhapsody if it's only 45 seconds long? If Chopin's waltz takes a minute, and instant rice takes five, a proper fandango must take longer than that.
(Although I must admit here that had Pickler's Bohemian massacre lasted one second longer, I would have had Galileo poke out my eyes with thunderbolt and lightning)
And still, I tune in when I can. Not so much for the train-wreck value, which seems to be in ample supply. Certainly not for the vapid comments of the judging panel. I think I watch because hope springs eternal. Every week I wonder if one of these singers will find a song and really get it. It's really not as easy of a task as you might think.
I don't know if every American Idol can. But I do know that every musician should.
Songs in the Key of Strife
I can remember teaching several years ago and having an extremely eagerly naive student explain to me in long rambling bouts of puffiness how he could sing this, that and the other song regardless of range or appropriateness to age or gender. I let him talk himself out, and then peering over my glasses I said, "just because you can, doesn't mean you should."
I thought that was pretty good for an impromptu nugget of wisdom, and have uttered that phrase many times since.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
And in that phrase lies my annual American Idol rant.
Every week is theme week. So far we've had songs of Stevie Wonder, The 50's, The 21st century, Country, Queen, and this week, The American Songbook. The resulting performances have been painful, awful, hideous, yeehawwwwrrible, just plain wrong, and what the hell, let's go for six.
I appreciate singers needing to be flexible, but I don't see the point in shackling wannabe Idols to a vocal style they would most likely never tackle. What's next? Milli-Vanilli Unplugged? Opera week? Great Methodist Hymns Grandma loved to sing at the pie social? Only The Shadow -- or I fear, The Spanish Inquisition -- knows.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
If the theme isn't bad enough, most of the songs being performed are so ridiculously excerpted they bear little resemblance to the original. Think about it: is it really Bohemian Rhapsody if it's only 45 seconds long? If Chopin's waltz takes a minute, and instant rice takes five, a proper fandango must take longer than that.
(Although I must admit here that had Pickler's Bohemian massacre lasted one second longer, I would have had Galileo poke out my eyes with thunderbolt and lightning)
And still, I tune in when I can. Not so much for the train-wreck value, which seems to be in ample supply. Certainly not for the vapid comments of the judging panel. I think I watch because hope springs eternal. Every week I wonder if one of these singers will find a song and really get it. It's really not as easy of a task as you might think.
I don't know if every American Idol can. But I do know that every musician should.
I thought that was pretty good for an impromptu nugget of wisdom, and have uttered that phrase many times since.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
And in that phrase lies my annual American Idol rant.
Every week is theme week. So far we've had songs of Stevie Wonder, The 50's, The 21st century, Country, Queen, and this week, The American Songbook. The resulting performances have been painful, awful, hideous, yeehawwwwrrible, just plain wrong, and what the hell, let's go for six.
I appreciate singers needing to be flexible, but I don't see the point in shackling wannabe Idols to a vocal style they would most likely never tackle. What's next? Milli-Vanilli Unplugged? Opera week? Great Methodist Hymns Grandma loved to sing at the pie social? Only The Shadow -- or I fear, The Spanish Inquisition -- knows.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
If the theme isn't bad enough, most of the songs being performed are so ridiculously excerpted they bear little resemblance to the original. Think about it: is it really Bohemian Rhapsody if it's only 45 seconds long? If Chopin's waltz takes a minute, and instant rice takes five, a proper fandango must take longer than that.
(Although I must admit here that had Pickler's Bohemian massacre lasted one second longer, I would have had Galileo poke out my eyes with thunderbolt and lightning)
And still, I tune in when I can. Not so much for the train-wreck value, which seems to be in ample supply. Certainly not for the vapid comments of the judging panel. I think I watch because hope springs eternal. Every week I wonder if one of these singers will find a song and really get it. It's really not as easy of a task as you might think.
I don't know if every American Idol can. But I do know that every musician should.
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