Man! I Needed That!

Thank God for Hike Day!

We went up to Red Pine Lake in Little Cottonwood Canyon. The mountains are melting off late this year; there was still quite a bit of snow on the trails, but not enough to deter me, in spite of the fact that I hiked in an old pair of running shoes instead of my Foot Wreckers. I was also able to sneak a little nap on a boulder by the side of the lake.

A Poetic Interlude

When I was a kid watching TV, K-Tel records used to offer the greatest hits of music "legend" ("has-been") Connie Francis. She'd croon:

I'm sorry/
So sorry...

I never learned the rest of the song, 'cause that was the extent of that clip. But it comes to me now, and in my head, I sing:


I'm tired/
So tired...

Then I stop. How does the rest of the song go? Beats me. So a few seconds later, I'm back to:

I'm tired/
So tired...

Tired enough that, when I kissed Simon good-bye this morning, I said, "Good-night, Honey. See you in the morning." Sleepy enough to doze off in my chair at the supper table. It shouldn't be a big deal: to get Sara to Guadalupe Summer Camp on time, I just have to set the alarm for about 45 minutes earlier than usual. However, since I was generally on pretty tight sleep-rations, I am now realizing just how much those 45 minutes meant to me.

BUT! I'm taking tomorrow off. It's my July hike-date with Si. I wan't cait. I mean I can't wait. And even sooner than tomorrow, I'm looking forward to tonight. I have a HOT date with my bad. I mean bed. I need to be a leeeeetle bit more rested before I can think about "bad".

Oh for Pete's sake! I've just remembered, as I sit here in a fog that, if I'm going hiking tomorrow, I need to do something about my boots. I wonder if I can squeeze in a trip to REI after supper tonight. I either have to deal with the fit issues in my boots or....suck it up and buy new boots.

Now I'm rambling as well as slurring. Just to make sure that this posting is irredeemable, I'll conclude with some Redneck Haiku. I have to say that these are not as funny as Spamku, but they're all right.

Beauty
Naked in repose
Silvery silhouette girls
Adorn my mudflaps

Desire
Damn, in that tube-top
You make me almost forget
You are my cousin

Deprived
In KMart toy aisle
Wailing boy wants 'rassling doll
Mama whups his butt

Vocabulary Builders

In a bizarre synaptic burst a couple of days ago, I invented two new words.

you' tha-nize, v. trans. To seek actions, language and dress that give outmoded person on the cusp of middle-age the illusion of youth and hip-ness.
Should I buy that tie-dye tee shirt to youthanize myself?

kni' ti-ot, n. Person with poor aptitude for knitting.
This so-called scarf looks like crap! I'm such a knitiot.

Photo Journal: Regular Day

OK, this is an experiment inspired by JYankee and a posting she did last week with images of a regular day. I used to do this - take pictures at regular intervals through a random day and put them in a little album for the kids. They like to look at them and talk about the "old days", when they were "little".


Wake up, Sara! We need to get going early today.


It's the first day of Guadalupe's Summer Camp, and Sara's going. We need to be there by 8:00 AM.


A lot of the teachers have known Sara forever, but she has never met most of the kids. Have a good day, Sara! Breakfast is in the cafeteria.


Check a couple blogs...


This is the view for most of the day, I'm afraid. This week and next, I'm closing the books for the year and getting everything ready for the next school year, which starts on July 15. Reports to write, files to clean up, etc... No students, sadly.



Sara finishes Camp at 3:00. She gets a few minutes on americangirl.com while I do a little more work.

C'mon, Mom. Let's get going.

Time for a run before supper. Barely.

Too hot to eat in the house.

I choose clothes for tomorrow the night before. I'm not a morning person. Better not to have to make too many tough decisions at 6:30 AM.

When will they start putting their own stuff away? Good Night!

Sexy, in a Parallel Universe

We should have a name for this. Like... "weeder's back" or "short shirt hell" or something. I remembered to screen up all the rest of me, but forgot this bit. Because I have vitaligo, I can crisp up like a tasty bacon bit in 10 minutes or less.

OMG! Of course! I have discovered my gift! Albinism!

There is an up-side to this. (Quick! Buy aloe vera futures!) It's a trial "slut-tat". That's what my friend Moira calls tattoos on the small of the back; but, despite my fear of her low opinion, I have always been tempted. Maybe that would look good.... I asked Simon for his feedback on my sunburn-as-trial-tattoo. He looked at me as if I were a specimen recently acquired by the Mars Rover. "It's a sunburn." "OK, OK, yeah. But squint at it." He gave me one of his "get back on your ship and return to your own kind" looks and picked up the newspaper.

I tried out my concept on my coworker Becca, when I asked her to take the photo. She pondered my ass for a moment then said, "Wait for this one to clear up, and then do it again. But next time, I'll come over and do, like, a tribal pattern with sunscreen before you start, so you can really get the effect."

Maybe a press-on would be good enough.

Gifted

[Drum roll...] The envelope, please!

And....yes! The test results show that Nathan! is! gifted! I glance up from the missive on Jordan School District letterhead and observe my son blissfully picking his nose and wiping the boogers on the wall.

Gifted? Sure. At swiping cookies. At holding his crotch. At flirting with the dental hygienist.

I sigh and return my attention to the letter. His test results were interesting. They rated his performance in reading and math as compared to kids one year ahead of him in school (so, kids finishing first grade). For reading, he was in the 56th percentile, which doesn't strike me as astounding, even though it is in comparison with older kids. Not if we're talking about [in an ominous tone] "GIFTED". Math is a little more interesting. 99th percentile compared to kids a year older. Ahhh... now that's a suitably freakish statistic. This all means that he qualifies for the district's special program, which involves attending a "magnet school", rather than his neighborhood school. As we were walking up the steps of the testing center he stopped and said, "Mom, I'm NOT leaving my friends and my school!" (His little wheels started turning. I could see them.) "Even if I have to do wrong answers on this test." Hmmmm... clever.... I told him that there was no point in even talking about it until we saw the test results, and that we just wanted to see how smart he is.

I must digress a little here and comment on the othermothers! OMG! There was an informational meeting while the kids were testing, and honestly! "Well, when my little Georgie was found to be gifted, I had to fight so hard to get the resources that he needed. Luckily, with my two other gifted children, it has been easier..." Yeah, Honey. Genius breeds genius. Whatever. Or, "I just don't know what to do about little Jimmy. No program can contain him. He's been figuring out square roots since the age of two. Dear me." These ladies were bleary-eyed from the long hours of making flash-cards and waking their kids up at 4:30 AM to practice the cello. These ladies live to be the mothers of brilliant children.

We aren't going to send him. All the advantages of having a neighborhood school, in which your neighbors are you classmates are your soccer teammates would be lost. Anyway, during the next couple of years, the district has mandated that all schools put an accelerated learning program in place for kids who, although maybe not gifted, could benefit from a faster pace. That sounds more our style.

All this got me thinking, though, about the nature of being "gifted". Nate's smart, but don't gifted people do things like... compose minuets? Nate still pees his pants, for heaven's sake. He's into Star Wars, not quantum physics.

So what is it to be gifted? To me, it means you need to have exceptional, innate abilities. Take my coworker, Emile. At the school picnic the other night, we were playing music and practicing dance steps: Salsa; Cumbia; Marengue. She patiently demonstrated these to me and offered pointers; first while I danced alone, then with my student Carlos. But when Carlos asked her to dance, the truth came out. She's awesome! An amazing dancer! I was slack-jawed. Driving back to school afterwards, I asked her how hard she had to work to achieve that level of skill. She pretty much shrugged it off. "Weeelll... I have always been able to pick up dance steps really quickly..."

I don't have gifts. I have skills. I appreciate them, but they're different. I'm working on not letting that bother me. My friend Diane thinks that maybe some of us have gifts that we haven't discovered, because the right opportunity has not brought them to the forefront. That's a bit "tree falls in the forest", though, isn't it?

How about you? How would you define "gifted"? Did you get a gift? What is it? Or are are you like me: skilled, but giftless? Does it bother you?

Hot Dish

Or, as people from places more elegant than the Mid-West call it, "casserole".

Last night was our annual school picnic. We have a couple of pot-luck parties every year, and I often make my mom's Three-Bean Hot Dish. It is easy and yummy: a variation on baked beans steeped in a long tradition of church basement triumph. For Mom, not for me. Invariably, I get busy and distracted, so I do have a tradition, but of a different sort.

Every year:

1. I concoct the hot dish the night before, then bring it to work and put it in the fridge until about 5:00 PM.
   
2. I put it in the oven at 350 degrees.
   


3. A while later, I peek at it and think, "Well, I'd like to to be more bubbly, and I have to leave for the park in a few minutes, to help set up the picnic."


4. I turn it up to 450 degrees.
   


5. I scrutinize our picnic checklist to see that we have done the things we need to do: label the large utensils that belong to the school; make a 5-gallon jug of punch and another of ice water; make sure we have enough BINGO counters; pack two coolers with ice; put up a sign on the door, explaining that we're out of school. I check off certain items that we often forget: a lighter for the grill; the picnic permit; hot dog buns; an extension cord for the CD player.


6. I go to the park and help set up.
   


7. Everyone arrives, including my family.
   


8. About an hour later, Simon says, "Well, Honey, looks like your hot dish was a big success. I wanted some, but it's all gone."
   


9. Gasp.


10. Experience wave of nausea. And deja vu.
    


11. Run for my car and speed back to school, relieved to find that it is not engulfed in flame.
    


12. Unlock the school and savor the aroma of scorched brown sugar.
    


13. Rush to rescue the hot dish.


14. Return to park to discover that my parking spot has been taken.

As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be. World without end, Amen.

Later, after the picnic, we were all back at school cleaning up and my co-worker Diane looked first at the dessicated hot dish, then at me. "How many times have you done that, now? Two?" "Three. Look! If you dig down a few layers, it's edible..."