Although my summer vacation is a mere five days old, already I have been a good reader. In theory, this is the summer in which I will actually begin work on my "murder mystery" novel, which isn't really quite a murder mystery at all. Consequently, all reading activities are officially classified as "studying".
I am providing reviews for the books I read, since I was solicitous for reviews and recommendations myself. (I'll still take more, if anyone has ideas.)
The first book I read was Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits by (I think) Laila Lalani. I picked it up because the title was marvelous, and it seemed like it was about Muslims (which it was, I guess), and there's a lot that I still don't understand about Islam. My view would be that the best part about the book was the title. This book gave me hope for my own novel being published, and I wouldn't categorize myself as naturally hopeful.
I also read The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields, on the recommendation of my dearest Kristen. (If you come to visit me here in Virginia, I'll probably do something exciting like take you to the library. That's what happened to Kristen, anyway.) This book was richly constructed, both in prose and overall structure. I guess this makes sense, since it won a Pulitzer Prize and all. I would read more of her work, enthusiastically.
I also finished the audio recording of Maeve Binchy's Circle of Friends. The radio stations around here are abysmal, and books on tape are my way of entertaining myself in the car these days. I chose this book because I'd seen the movie ages ago, and remembered being unsatisfied with it. Now I know why I was unsatisfied. They changed the ending. Stupid, stupid movies. You won't find any mouth-watering language in this book, but if you're stuck with awful radio stations, it's not a bad listen on tape, especially if you like listening to Irish people talk for sixteen odd hours. It's also full of Important Moral Lessons. And there are lots of nuns in it! I like nuns.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Goodby Panda!!!!
This is Radr with a quik note abot my freind, Panda.
Iv had Panda as a toy fur a long time. Mom throes him, and I bring him bak!
Today I chood off his leg and pulld out his stufing. It wuz fun!
I hop I git a nu Panda. My brithday is offishly June 30th, and I lik presints!
lov,
RAdr
Iv had Panda as a toy fur a long time. Mom throes him, and I bring him bak!
Today I chood off his leg and pulld out his stufing. It wuz fun!
I hop I git a nu Panda. My brithday is offishly June 30th, and I lik presints!
lov,
RAdr
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Wild Kingdom
In what will be a rare break from the domestic and yet oh-so-solitary bliss that will be my summer, here is a story about death.
It's pretty gross.
I'm just letting you know in advance, so if you're sensitive, you can skip it and read all my cute baby animal stories where nothing dies.
Okay.
I was taking Radar out for a walk yesterday evening. Our general practice is to walk down the road, since I (typoed "we," but since dog is deaf...) can hear a vehicle coming about two minutes in advance of its arrival. Walking toward the road, with our neighbors' dog, Budro, following us, I noticed a brown lump in the middle of the driveway.
"Hmm," I thought. "What's that? Grass?"
Then I realized that it had pointy ears. A diamond-shaped face. Tiny hooves. And a big chunk missing out of its spotted side.
I stopped and tried to figure out what to do. How does a dead fawn get in the middle of the driveway? More importantly, how was one to get it off the driveway? I had some thoughts about both the first and second questions, but I didn't really want to think about either.
Because I was sad, and didn't want to look at it any closer, Radar and I took a short cut through the grass out to the road. After taking a longer-than-usual walk to the stream and back, I had finally steeled myself to getting the snow shovel from the shed, placing the body in the woods, and covering it with some of the branches my landlord has piled all over the property.
We arrived back at the house just in time to see my neighbor's dog grab the fawn by the neck, drag it into the grass, and begin eating it. I could hear bones snap in his mouth.
My feelings about this were not at all what I would have expected. I wasn't repulsed or disgusted. If anything, I registered mild anger, and surprise that our mild-mannered neighbor dog would be acting this way.
My first thought was relief that I didn't have to move the body on my own. The second was that I was right in my initial suspicion that the neighbor's dog had killed the deer, which was, as much as I hated it, the only logical explanation I had for how it had come to be in the driveway. The third thought was that I was reminded very much of all those nature shows I watched as a child, except that, instead of a lion and a gazelle, it was a dog and a fawn. I thought about how easy it is to forget that the line between domesticity and wildness is so thin.
Then I thought, "I'm pretty sure this is illegal in Pennsylvania."
Dogs killing deer is also illegal in West Virginia, but not, apparently, in Virginia.
Here is my dilemma. I feel fairly confident that my neighbor has no idea what Budro is up to. Should I tell her? It's apparently common for dogs that chase deer to be shot by landowners, and I'm also nervous that he might try to take down one of the calves who live nearby.
So, do I tell her? And, how does one go about telling their neighbor that their dog eats baby deer?
Advice is appreciated, needed.
It's pretty gross.
I'm just letting you know in advance, so if you're sensitive, you can skip it and read all my cute baby animal stories where nothing dies.
Okay.
I was taking Radar out for a walk yesterday evening. Our general practice is to walk down the road, since I (typoed "we," but since dog is deaf...) can hear a vehicle coming about two minutes in advance of its arrival. Walking toward the road, with our neighbors' dog, Budro, following us, I noticed a brown lump in the middle of the driveway.
"Hmm," I thought. "What's that? Grass?"
Then I realized that it had pointy ears. A diamond-shaped face. Tiny hooves. And a big chunk missing out of its spotted side.
I stopped and tried to figure out what to do. How does a dead fawn get in the middle of the driveway? More importantly, how was one to get it off the driveway? I had some thoughts about both the first and second questions, but I didn't really want to think about either.
Because I was sad, and didn't want to look at it any closer, Radar and I took a short cut through the grass out to the road. After taking a longer-than-usual walk to the stream and back, I had finally steeled myself to getting the snow shovel from the shed, placing the body in the woods, and covering it with some of the branches my landlord has piled all over the property.
We arrived back at the house just in time to see my neighbor's dog grab the fawn by the neck, drag it into the grass, and begin eating it. I could hear bones snap in his mouth.
My feelings about this were not at all what I would have expected. I wasn't repulsed or disgusted. If anything, I registered mild anger, and surprise that our mild-mannered neighbor dog would be acting this way.
My first thought was relief that I didn't have to move the body on my own. The second was that I was right in my initial suspicion that the neighbor's dog had killed the deer, which was, as much as I hated it, the only logical explanation I had for how it had come to be in the driveway. The third thought was that I was reminded very much of all those nature shows I watched as a child, except that, instead of a lion and a gazelle, it was a dog and a fawn. I thought about how easy it is to forget that the line between domesticity and wildness is so thin.
Then I thought, "I'm pretty sure this is illegal in Pennsylvania."
Dogs killing deer is also illegal in West Virginia, but not, apparently, in Virginia.
Here is my dilemma. I feel fairly confident that my neighbor has no idea what Budro is up to. Should I tell her? It's apparently common for dogs that chase deer to be shot by landowners, and I'm also nervous that he might try to take down one of the calves who live nearby.
So, do I tell her? And, how does one go about telling their neighbor that their dog eats baby deer?
Advice is appreciated, needed.
Hey, Lynn. That bamboo steamer you gave me? I finally used it.
I am officially immersed in that time-honored American tradition, Summer Vacation. Nearly the entire reason (plus that whole issue of wanting to make a difference in the sea of stupidity that is our public education system) that I decided to be a teacher was summer vacation. "I'll write," I told myself.
Weirdly enough, I have been writing. I have a novel project, and perpetual poetry projects. I'm a bit more confident in my abilities since nearly hitting pay dirt in the Lynda Hull Memorial Poetry Prize. I'm trying to squeeze out about a page in the novel a day, and am currently researching police procedures for homicide investigations. I feel studious. It's absorbing work.
I have also been cleaning. And cooking. Today, I cooked two meals. Granted, the first one came out of a box, but the second I made all by myself. While I was visiting my parents for Christmas break, my father showed me a recipe for salmon cooked in a bamboo steamer that he'd found in a grocery ad.
"I have a bamboo steamer," I said, congratulating myself. Of course, I hadn't used it. The recipe called for leeks, and other vegetables, but, as is typical, I could remember only the leeks.
Six months later, I finally managed to steam salmon. After copious research, I discovered the length of time for the salmon that I had. I bought a leek. I also bought asparagus, broccoli, and carrots, but opted for just the asparagus, since I swear that I have a full pound of it, and only myself and Radar to feed it to. (Radar, unfortunately, is not known to eat asparagus, which, yes, I have tried to feed to him.)
I decided to put some lemon juice and salt in the water for the steaming, since I'd read a recipe that put ginger and anise in the water for flavor. Because my mother always includes a starch with dinner, I defrosted some basmati rice (I freeze everything sooner or later), and heated up some Light Smart Balance and dill in the microwave, intended for the fish, but inevitably mixed into the rice.
About twelve minutes later, there was dinner. The fish wasn't fishy, and the asparagus wasn't bitter, and I have enough leftovers to last six months until I steam something again. I was happy, at least until I realized that I'd managed to mildly burn the edge of the steamer. No, I don't know how I did it.
Welcome to a summer of boring updates on writing and domesticity. You've been warned.
Weirdly enough, I have been writing. I have a novel project, and perpetual poetry projects. I'm a bit more confident in my abilities since nearly hitting pay dirt in the Lynda Hull Memorial Poetry Prize. I'm trying to squeeze out about a page in the novel a day, and am currently researching police procedures for homicide investigations. I feel studious. It's absorbing work.
I have also been cleaning. And cooking. Today, I cooked two meals. Granted, the first one came out of a box, but the second I made all by myself. While I was visiting my parents for Christmas break, my father showed me a recipe for salmon cooked in a bamboo steamer that he'd found in a grocery ad.
"I have a bamboo steamer," I said, congratulating myself. Of course, I hadn't used it. The recipe called for leeks, and other vegetables, but, as is typical, I could remember only the leeks.
Six months later, I finally managed to steam salmon. After copious research, I discovered the length of time for the salmon that I had. I bought a leek. I also bought asparagus, broccoli, and carrots, but opted for just the asparagus, since I swear that I have a full pound of it, and only myself and Radar to feed it to. (Radar, unfortunately, is not known to eat asparagus, which, yes, I have tried to feed to him.)
I decided to put some lemon juice and salt in the water for the steaming, since I'd read a recipe that put ginger and anise in the water for flavor. Because my mother always includes a starch with dinner, I defrosted some basmati rice (I freeze everything sooner or later), and heated up some Light Smart Balance and dill in the microwave, intended for the fish, but inevitably mixed into the rice.
About twelve minutes later, there was dinner. The fish wasn't fishy, and the asparagus wasn't bitter, and I have enough leftovers to last six months until I steam something again. I was happy, at least until I realized that I'd managed to mildly burn the edge of the steamer. No, I don't know how I did it.
Welcome to a summer of boring updates on writing and domesticity. You've been warned.
Friday, June 02, 2006
My Life as a Smurf (and a baby animal story)
Today was Field Day at my Institution of Learning.
What Field Day entails is taking first the entire eighth grade, and then the entire rest of the school (900 children) out to the football field, and letting them play sports, dunk teachers, etc. ALL DAY. I signed up for gate duty, because I am not a joiner.
Actually, Field Day would not have been all day, were it not for the fact that 80% of the eighth grade passed their SOL (Standards of Learning for Virginia) Writing tests. Last year, 68% passed them. The administration thinks that we all are geniuses. Secretly, I think that standardized testing of writing is wrong, since the judgement of writing is inherently subjective. Case in point, my student who began every paragraph of his essay with "This paragraph is going to be about..." passed the test. (A former teacher told him to do this, and he wouldn't stop. We begged him.) Regardless, I successfully taught some kids how to pass a test. Hooray.
Back to Field Day.
I had a good time at gate duty, making sure that children didn't leave. It was a blast. I got to hang out with my hallway neighbor, Mr. S., a veteran teacher and former military man. He's actually very funny. You'd never guess by looking at him.
To top the day off (because running around outside and eating barbecue was not reward enough) children who read a lot of books and accumulated points for it through the Accelerated Reader program got to throw whipped cream pies in the faces of chosen teachers.
Flashback (an important SOL term!):
Me: Mea.
Mea (the top reader in the school, my student, and a swell kid): Yes.
Me: I was wondering. Since you're throwing the first pie, maybe you could pick me, so I could get it out of the way. And then maybe a not-nice child wouldn't pick me.
Mea: Okay.
Me: Because I was thinking, maybe you could miss.
To the present:
I noticed right away that the whipped cream was actually...blue. I smiled at Mea.
Me: I love you, Mea.
She didn't miss, but she was very gentle. It tasted like raspberries, and if it hadn't been on my face, I would have really enjoyed it. Some day, I can post some pictures, once they're all developed. It should be noted that some teachers refused to be pied.
Those teachers are lame.
I was very blue (although it finally came off, after my shower). The kids all said, "You look like a SMURF!"
"I'm short enough," I retorted.
***
Otherwise: have you ever seen a baby groundhog? Groundhogs aren't naturally the cutest of creatures (unless it's in a tree, in which case, it's adorable). The other day, driving home from work, I saw two bumps in the road--a big bump, and a little bump. I thought it might be some wood or hay, since those are the most common road obstacles. As I got closer, I recognized the groundhog's shape. And the little bump? A teensy tiny puff of groundhog baby.
I stopped the car. They turned around, and retreated into the grass by the side of the road.
I have decided to quit teaching, and devote myself to the breeding of miniature groundhogs. Please let me know your opinions on this field of employment, and whether or not you would be interested in purchasing tiny pet groundhogs.
Thank you.
What Field Day entails is taking first the entire eighth grade, and then the entire rest of the school (900 children) out to the football field, and letting them play sports, dunk teachers, etc. ALL DAY. I signed up for gate duty, because I am not a joiner.
Actually, Field Day would not have been all day, were it not for the fact that 80% of the eighth grade passed their SOL (Standards of Learning for Virginia) Writing tests. Last year, 68% passed them. The administration thinks that we all are geniuses. Secretly, I think that standardized testing of writing is wrong, since the judgement of writing is inherently subjective. Case in point, my student who began every paragraph of his essay with "This paragraph is going to be about..." passed the test. (A former teacher told him to do this, and he wouldn't stop. We begged him.) Regardless, I successfully taught some kids how to pass a test. Hooray.
Back to Field Day.
I had a good time at gate duty, making sure that children didn't leave. It was a blast. I got to hang out with my hallway neighbor, Mr. S., a veteran teacher and former military man. He's actually very funny. You'd never guess by looking at him.
To top the day off (because running around outside and eating barbecue was not reward enough) children who read a lot of books and accumulated points for it through the Accelerated Reader program got to throw whipped cream pies in the faces of chosen teachers.
Flashback (an important SOL term!):
Me: Mea.
Mea (the top reader in the school, my student, and a swell kid): Yes.
Me: I was wondering. Since you're throwing the first pie, maybe you could pick me, so I could get it out of the way. And then maybe a not-nice child wouldn't pick me.
Mea: Okay.
Me: Because I was thinking, maybe you could miss.
To the present:
I noticed right away that the whipped cream was actually...blue. I smiled at Mea.
Me: I love you, Mea.
She didn't miss, but she was very gentle. It tasted like raspberries, and if it hadn't been on my face, I would have really enjoyed it. Some day, I can post some pictures, once they're all developed. It should be noted that some teachers refused to be pied.
Those teachers are lame.
I was very blue (although it finally came off, after my shower). The kids all said, "You look like a SMURF!"
"I'm short enough," I retorted.
***
Otherwise: have you ever seen a baby groundhog? Groundhogs aren't naturally the cutest of creatures (unless it's in a tree, in which case, it's adorable). The other day, driving home from work, I saw two bumps in the road--a big bump, and a little bump. I thought it might be some wood or hay, since those are the most common road obstacles. As I got closer, I recognized the groundhog's shape. And the little bump? A teensy tiny puff of groundhog baby.
I stopped the car. They turned around, and retreated into the grass by the side of the road.
I have decided to quit teaching, and devote myself to the breeding of miniature groundhogs. Please let me know your opinions on this field of employment, and whether or not you would be interested in purchasing tiny pet groundhogs.
Thank you.
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