FeeFiFoto Blog

If You Can't Stand The Book, Try The Movie

You know how sometimes they make movies based on books so you can just watch the movie and pretend you know what you're talking about when someone mentions the book?  Or you can even show the movie to your kids because it's completely the same as reading the story? 

Not that I've ever done that, but I've heard of some careless, neglectful parents who do.

Well, back in the days when movie tickets cost a nickel and if you wanted to see the movie again you had to either pay another nickel or hide under the seats until the lights went back down and it was pointless to wait for the movie to come out on video because there was no such thing as video and recording a movie off of a television broadcast wasn't a reliable alternative since nobody owned televisions, you couldn't simply show your kids the movie to get them to stop nagging you to read them the story.  You might, however, be able to find stories on the radio (radio: it's that thing in the car dashboard that you can use to tune in to baseball games when you're not texting, emailing, shaving or snacking).

It just so happens that Orson Welles (remember him?  Citizen Kane?  any of this ringing a bell?) operated this intellectualistic theater company that broadcast productions on CBS radio.  One Sunday night, just before Halloween 1938, Orson and his colleagues broadcast a play based on H.G. Wells's (no relation) War of the Worlds, updated to present day and integrated into a seemingly innocuous fake ballroom music program.  The music was interrupted by fake news bulletins reporting the discovery of strange metal cylinders in New Jersey (of all places) and the subsequent rampage of Martians, until some mysterious virus brought them down in a way mere humans couldn't because Jeff Goldblum hadn't even been born yet.

Well.  Even though the program was introduced by an announcement that it was just a dramatization... and even though this announcement was repeated several times throughout the show... and even though radio listings in the newspaper for that evening announced an hour-long radio play called War of the Worlds...

People across the country went nuts.

Here's a long excerpt from a much longer article that appeared in the New York Times on October 31, 1938.

"A wave of mass hysteria seized thousands of radio listeners... last night when a broadcast of a dramatization of H. G. Wells's fantasy, "The War of the Worlds," led thousands to believe that an interplanetary conflict had started with invading Martians spreading wide death and destruction in New Jersey and New York.

The broadcast... disrupted households, interrupted religious services, created traffic jams and clogged communications systems... At least a score of adults required medical treatment for shock and hysteria.

In Newark, in a single block… more than twenty families rushed out of their houses with wet handkerchiefs and towels over their faces to flee from what they believed was to be a gas raid…

Throughout New York families left their homes, some to flee to near-by parks. Thousands of persons called the police, newspapers and radio stations… seeking advice on protective measures against the raids.

The radio play, as presented, was to simulate a regular radio program with a "break-in" for the material of the play. The radio listeners, apparently, missed or did not listen to the introduction, which was: "The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations present Orson Welles and the Mercury Theatre on the Air in `The War of the Worlds' by H. G. Wells."

They also failed to associate the program with the newspaper listening of the program, announced as "Today: 8:00-9:00--Play: H. G. Wells's `War of the Worlds'--WABC." They ignored three additional announcements made during the broadcast emphasizing its fictional nature.

Mr. Welles opened the program with a description of the series of which it is a part. The simulated program began... An announcer remarked that the program would be continued from a hotel, with dance music. For a few moments a dance program was given in the usual manner. Then there was a "break-in" with a "flash" about a professor at an observatory noting a series of gas explosions on the planet Mars.

News bulletins and scene broadcasts followed, reporting… the landing of a "meteor" near Princeton N. J., "killing" 1,500 persons, the discovery that the "meteor" was a "metal cylinder" containing strange creatures from Mars armed with "death rays"…

Telephone lines were tied up with calls from listeners or persons who had heard of the broadcasts. Many sought first to verify the reports. But large numbers, obviously in a state of terror, asked how they could follow the broadcast's advice and flee from the city, whether they would be safer in the "gas raid" in the cellar or on the roof, how they could safeguard their children…"

Tee hee.

Seventy years later it is kind of funny, although I definitely would have been among the first to run screaming from the room.

Anyway -- it just so happened that I own a recording of the original radio broadcast of War of the Worlds.  It looks like this:

And it sounds like this:

I don't know why I own this record.  I bought it a long time ago, probably around the same time I bought the soundtrack to Star Wars. Even though I've forgotten why I own it, though, I remembered that I own it, and even where it was, and I showed it to Cupcake and then took her to my parents' house so she could listen to the record on a real turntable, since I haven't had one of those for years.

Frankly, she was more interested in operating the turntable and asking questions about records (what do you mean you have to turn it over?) than listening to the recording, but I feel I've done my job and I'm finished with War of the Worlds in any form.

When the group chooses Moby Dick, I'm off duty.

Honeymoon Over -- When The Book Club Picks A Book You Hate

Marvin

Cupcake's latest subject for the online book discussion group was H.G. Wells's War of the Worlds.  I was surprised at the choice of this challenging late-19^th Century science fiction novel, since some participants in the group are only nine years old; still, the membership includes students all the way up to high school level so it's the members' choice whether they read any month's selection.  My tentative suggestion that she might want to consider skipping this month's book fell on rejecting ears. 

Before she'd finished the first chapter, however, Cupcake got bogged down in Wells's archaic style of storytelling, and asked me to read the entire thing to her in one day so she'd be ready when the discussion group became active online.

I groaned and pleaded that we just continue with Emma and I'd tell her what happened in WOTW, but she claimed that she couldn't PARTICIPATE in the discussion INTELLIGENTLY without having read the BOOK but the book was too HARD to read on her own and I'm always telling her to ask for help aren't I so now she's asking for help and how can I not help her? 

How can you tell your kid not to read a classic?

Turns out, War of the Worlds is way tiresome.  The writing, I mean.  The story itself is interesting: 

Indestructible metal cylinders fall to earth, which turn out to be occupied by large, leggy Martians intent on incinerating everything in their path with no clear goal aside from world domination.  Eventually, after frying nearly everyone in Britain (but seemingly no where else; jingoism, anyone?) the Martians keel over for unknown reasons which the author attributes to microbes, whose link to disease had been only relatively recently identified by Louis Pasteur.

H.G. Wells was one of the first writers of modern science fiction; his stories laid the foundation for modern science fiction books and film, even the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  War of the Worlds is a groundbreaking piece of literature.  Nevertheless, in spite of the book's importance as a foundation of the genre of science fiction, its tone is stilted and pompous.  Wells employs a tired technique of telling, not showing: first I did this, then I did the other thing; I didn't know it at the time but later learned that...; he told me he'd seen the following...; I think this technique was tired even when he used it in 1898. 

Finally I just couldn't make it through one more chapter describing the exodus from one insignificant English village to another and the narrator's condescending conversations with characters he clearly believes are inferior to him intellectually and socially. 

I declared myself off duty, spoiled the ending, and loaded Independence Day, pointing out that the main difference between the book and the film was that in the book the Martians caught their own cold and dropped dead without any assistance from the human race or Jeff Goldblum, which may or may not be the same thing.

There, I announced.  Done!

Incidentally, according to Cupcake, most of the discussion about War of the Worlds consisted of how much the book club members hated it.

Summer Is A Time Of Self Esteem

My daughter and son came home from camp a couple weeks ago and we still have a few days before school resumes.  This year she'll be in 5th grade and he'll be in 8th.  She completed much of the summer math packet before leaving for camp, and she read way more than the minimum required number of books; now she has to write a couple of essays.  And it's hard.  It's hard to read a challenging book and interpret it on command.  It's hard to solve complex word problems.  It's hard to force yourself into the confining space of school -- can I type my essays or do I have to write them out by hand?  Do I have to write about something from the reading list or can I substitute books I like better?

This summer my kids went to camp.  They swam, hiked, did arts and crafts, hung out with friends, toasted marshmallows.  They did their best and competed only against themselves.  If they passed a swimming or boating test they got to move to the next level if they felt like it; along the way they got to keep trying until they passed or decided to stop trying -- no grades, no competition, no judgments.  The rules they followed focused on mostly safety and kindness.

Now that school is imminent, my kids have to follow a different set of rules in addition to those governing safety and kindness.  For the next ten months any reading they do for school will be followed by assignments, tests, vocabulary lists and instructions to identify themes, characters and relationships.

Summer for my kids is about feeling good and self-esteemish.  Whatever they accomplish comes about because they set their own goals and work towards them.  Now that school is coming, that hard won self image is going to take a beating.  They'll question themselves -- am I getting the idea?  Did I say that right?  Will I get all the points?  Did I write what the teacher wants to read?

While in law school I feverishly wrote down every word my teachers said, even if I didn't understand it, frequently losing sight of the big picture in my scramble to record a professor's every cough and sniffle.  I stressed myself so drastically that during one exam period I landed in the emergency room with chest pains; the doctor put me on tranquilizers and suggested I go home and get some rest because I was toeing the line of a heart attack.

School is work, and while it can deliver gigantic rewards, school is also a source of major vexation and anxiety.  Summer is a time for feeling good about what you're doing, and if it doesn't feel good, you don't have to do it.

Summer, the time when pretty much anything you do is okay as long as it doesn't interfere with anyone else, is over. 

In An Effort To Conquer The Imminent Coming Academic Year With Preemptive Organization...

Because I'm addled admirably organized I created a spreadsheet to remind me who likes to eat what for dinner.  I hope it might prevent me from having to endure protests preparing something that one of the kids hates because I've temporarily blanked.

All I hoped for was yes or no answers.

Here are the girl's ratings:

YUMS

The following menu choices earned some form of Yum, YUM, or YUM!:

Lemon Chicken, Roasted Chicken, Burgers, Steak, Waffles and Pizza

• Chicken Soup received a Yummy
• Meatloaf came in at YUM YUM YUM -- the food, not the singer, although I'm sure they'd like this:

  

YESES

Some entries received yes, YES, YES!, or YESSSSSSS, including:

Tilapia, Sushi, Spaghetti, Brisket, Beef Stroganoff, Vegetable Soup, Tomato Soup with Grilled Cheese Croutons, Hard Shell Tacos, Spinach Lasagna

• Barbecued Chicken received a qualified YES, so long as there was no burnt stuff
• Stir Fry garnered a TOTALLY YES, with a request for pineapple
• Pancakes scored a Yes with a side request for chocolate chips

LOVE AND / OR <3<3<3

Liberal <3<3<3 were awarded to Salmon, Tuna, White Chili, and Twice Baked Potatoes

LOATHING

Hatred was expressed for Cornish Game Hens, accompanied by the following wistful note:

• but I love the little wish bones!

BEYOND DESCRIPTION

• Crepes: *I start drooling*
• French toast: *My mouth is creating a baby pool*

At least she didn't request the dressing on the side.

Anyone know where I can get some tiny wishbones?

Smart Kids: They May Be Unpredictable, But At Least They're Smart

Testing over and not a moment too soon.  Who'd have thought someone could be so resistant to being told she's smart?  Really, does Angelina Jolie tirade when someone tells her she's beautiful?  Does Bill Gates squawk when reminded how wealthy he is?  Does Justin Bieber demur at being told he's talented?

Don't answer that last one.

The tests confirmed my suspicions -- Cupcake's one smart cookie -- but I was forbidden to speak of it because she was positive that being smart equaled being a freak.  Every time I even tried to mention it she was all:

got it here.

So academic tweaks were made.  Stakes were upped, challenges were increased, special projects were introduced, pleas for home schooling subsided.  But not a word was mentioned to my daughter.

While I was at it, I applied her to one of those national gifted educational thingies offering on site programs and remote stuff through summer school, publications and web sites.  I figured it might be a good weapon to have in my arsenal, but again, Cupcake would have none of it.  She assured me, not too congenially, that she would never NEVER participate in any such program and she didn't want to hear anything about it from me again ever.  Ever.

 

here it is.

So I quietly ignored email updates from the organization describing courses, seminars, meetings, conventions, publications, web sites and a book discussion group.

But...

I must have muttered about the book discussion group one evening after I'd fallen asleep on the couch from exhaustion.

W?HAT!!??  she bellowed.  Did you say BOOK DISCUSSION GROUP??!!

As I picked myself up off the floor and brushed Cupcake footprints from my abdomen, I explained that the organization she wanted to have nothing to do with did in fact have an online book discussion group and that the first book on the list was the Lightning Thief.

Well.

Cupcake joined that group the instant it came online.  She prepared her comments in advance.  She stalked other members.  She fretted and nagged that our trip to Israel would interfere critically with her ability to get online while the discussion group was in session.

Luckily for her, we had a hotel with WiFi and she'd just happened to bring along her laptop.

And all that invective about testing and gifted programs?

She was all:

Major Melodrama Over Aptitude Testing

Who could have predicted how torturous it would be to get Cupcake aptitude tested? 

It wasn't  convenience, because our school district offers all kinds of testing and I was willing to take her out of school any time the testers were available, offering substantial bribage if it would get her on the schedule before the school year ended.

Besides, if I had to I could have used one of those test your IQ web sites simply by providing my email address and selling my cybersoul to companies flogging penny stocks and V!@6R@. 

And it wasn't cost, because the tests are "free", where free means I'd pay nothing to have her tested because I've been grudgingly valiantly paying property taxes since I first owned property, possibly even including the vegetable garden I labored over when I was 12. 

No, the friction originated with the little lady herself.  Just as Miss Puppy can sense when I'm calling her inside so I can lock her up and leave the house, Cupcake could tell that this, ahem -- special attention -- wasn't just for entertainment purposes.

Image borrowed from here.

The tantruming was unrelenting.  I heard:

• These tests give me a headache
• My head hurts
• I'm not taking any more tests
• None of my friends have to take tests
• I'm missing something fun at school (I never heard this one if she was missing gym class)
• Have I told you my head hurts?
• You're not taking me out of school
• I'm not changing schools
• I'm not taking special classes
• I have a HEADACHE

Couldn't she understand that I was doing this for her own good?  Didn't she know that this was hurting me more than it hurt her?  Didn't she appreciate that I'd walked to and from school every day in blazing heat, dragging my school supplies behind me through the snow on a rusty shovel while toting a five gallon water jug on my head?  Or something like that?

I used to love taking standardized tests when I was Cupcake's age.  I could have sat there with that number 2 pencil all day every day, filling in bubble after bubble.  I did really well on them too.  There was no studying, no preparation.  I just filled in those little bubbles hour after hour. 

Cupcake hated it.  Despised it.  Feared it.  She tiraded when the questions got too hard for her to answer -- the hard questions made her feel dumb.

I ignored the complaints, dragged her to the tests, and treated her to copious amounts of ice cream afterwards.

Home Schooling? No Way.

Option Two:

Home Schooling

Yeah.  Enough about that.  I love my kids but one of the things I love most about my relationship with them is that little thrill I get when I see them in the carpool line after a long day of separation.  I'd have missed that twinge of excitement if we were together all day, every day, every week, all school year and all summer.

That's my story and I'm adhering to it.

Not to mention that part about well versed in art and literature and non-versed in math and gym.

Option One: A New School?

Option One:

Move Cupcake to a gifted program, either in a public school where she'd be singled out taken out of class a few times a week for personalized tutoring, or in a self-contained program where all the students yuk it up together over quantum physics jokes follow an accelerated curriculum.

Let me just say -- BLECH to both options, since either would necessitate contending with a kid who liked her friends and her school (except for the frustrating and boring part).  I sensed it was fairly unlikely I could convince her that her school that had just been repainted... and renamed... and relocated... and repopulated. 

Still, I had to explore all the options at once because I had no way of knowing which might flop and which might pay off.

In April I called the administrator of one of these programs to arrange a tour and learned that I was calling WAY too late in the season to have ANY hope of acceptance, there were NO spaces available, NOR would there be, as students simply NEVER withdrew from this PRESTIGIOUS program once accepted, and she wouldn't even CONSIDER allowing me to apply until AUTUMN.

Now, I recognize that this lady gets daily calls from parents who insist that their itsy-bitsy phenomena would be an asset to any educational program.  I realize that every potential student has x-ray vision that can melt away cellulite while giving a nice, even tan; or can recite Pi to 100,000 digits forwards and backwards in Aramaic; or can construct a working model of the USS Constitution out of matchsticks, dryer lint and maple syrup.  I get it.  I get that she's the gatekeeper for a program pursued by maniacal parents convinced that their children will develop a cure for tone deafness or homesickness before the age of 17. 

But I also know that, should Cupcake have been admitted to her precious program, this sentry lady would have instantly transformed into my bestest friend ever, inviting me over to enjoy a Nehi or YooHoo, house sitting when I traveled, and offering valuable advice on what to wear to the next American Idol concert.

Meanwhile, I had to scramble to get my ducks in a row before the beginning of the next school year.  If Cupcake was going to have to be relocated I was going to need to know that and prepare for it before the Gatekeeper started offering tours in the fall.

So. Transferring to a different school.  Can't even begin to apply until next fall.  Meanwhile, Cupcake frazzles herself daily.

Tune in next time for: Home Schooling? 

Spoiler Alert: No Way.

Smart Kids: Not So Easy, Actually

Third grade was not an easy year for the Cupcake. 

No, you're not in a time warp and no I'm not rerunning old posts.  You're right -- she did just finish fourth grade, but I have a point here.

One of her teachers, the poster child for the phrase salt of the earth, had recently moved up from teaching second grade and was accustomed to having to repeat each instruction eleventy times to guarantee getting through to the kids in the back who were busy shredding their shoelaces and drawing on their hands.  Cupcake couldn't stand it.  She didn't need to hear variations on the same instruction for the benefit of audio learners, visual learners, hands-on learners, and learners who learned only by being screamed at.  She didn't need to drill third grade spelling words like grass, smell or kitten.  She became frustrated to the point of nearly screaming in class (she saved the screaming for the ride home, bless her shrill little heart) because she rarely got called on even when she totally knew the answer. 

By second semester Cupcake moaned every morning about having to go to school, and implored me to teach her at home, which would have been fine with me except that the state might have cocked a few suspicious eyebrows upon discovering how well versed she was in art and literature and how non-versed she was in math and gym.

I tried to help her.  I asked her teachers to have the best spellers learn some of the vocabulary words in French or Spanish.  I asked them to call on her more often or try to give her more class responsibility or recognition; they swore all students were treated equally but I knew they were lying, the fiends.

Cupcake's frustration endured and intensified.  She could hardly stand it when other students dilly-dallied.  She began to lash out and blame it on everyone else.  The low point came when she punched her on-again off-again BFF and then claimed it was the other girl's fault because she didn't get out of the way of Cupcake's oncoming fist.

Misguided?  Perhaps.  A little full of herself?  A bit.  Somewhat justified?  Decidedly, at least the frustration part, not the punching.

By spring break I was becoming desperate.  If Cupcake was this unhappy in third grade, what was I going to be able to offer her for fourth?  Stay in the same school situation and expect different results?  Keep her where she was but hire tutors to give her the stimulation she needed?  Move her to a public school where she'd be entitled to special services for gifted students?  Take out a deluxe library membership and dump her there every day, hoping her evolving interests would eventually even out her education? 

I began to investigate various local options for gifted students because there was not way I was going to survive all the whining and complaining for another academic year. 

And I didn't want to hear it from her, either.

Next: weighing options

Please Show You Care

Please visit Her Bad Mother and offer her some love and maybe some assistance.  Her 11-year-old nephew is terminally ill with a form of muscular dystrophy and the boy's mother is a single parent trying to care for him at home.

Bar Mitzvah Final Report -- Maybe

Try to read this:

cldn't blv tht cld ctll ndrstnd wht ws rdng. Th phnmnl pwr f th hmn mnd ccrdng t rsrch tm t Cmbrdg nvrst, t dsn't mttr n wht rdr th lttrs n wrd r, th nl mprtnt thng s tht th frst nd lst lttr b n th rght plc.  Th rst cn b ttl mss nd y cn stll rd t wtht prblm.  Ths s bcs th hmn mnd ds nt rd vr lttr b tslf, bt th wrd s whl.  Sch cndtn s pprprtl clld Typglcm.

All vowels (including the letter Y when used as a vowel) have been eliminated.  Do you have any idea what's being said?  Some of the words, such as "ndrstnd" and "mprtnt", make sense if you're the kind of person who abbreviates when taking notes or making a shopping list, but the rest of it is blah blah blather.

Now try it this way:

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to rscheearch taem at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the f!rist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae.  The rset can be a taotl mses an you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm.  Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.  Such a cdonition is arppoiately cllaed Typoglycemia.

The difference is that the second paragraph includes all the required letters in the wrong order; your brain rearranges the letters to form real words and make sense.

Why am I bothering telling you this?  Because the difference between the two above paragraphs illustrates the challenge Robespierre had to face in preparing for his Bar Mitzvah.

The highlight of a Bar Mitzvah comes when the boy reads from the Torah.  The Torah is formidable -- it's hand written in Hebrew by trained scribes who use a feather quill, special ink and specially prepared parchment.  Anything resembling a vowel is eliminated in the inking of the Torah, so the reader has to guess at pronunciation based on the context of the narrative. 

Why produce a document containing nearly 80,000 words and a total of 304,805 letters (how many more would it be with the vowels thrown in?) without providing any vowels to help you along the way?  I don't know -- maybe G-d really wanted to make sure the Jews were truly committed to being Jewish before laying on them all the benefits (matzah balls) and drawbacks (plain matzah - blech) that come with being a Jew.  Maybe G-d didn't want the Hebrew scribes to suffer from carpal tunnel or writer's (scribe's?) cramp. 

I wish I could say I'd figured out this next part myself; let's just say I'm proud I remembered reading about it somewhere so I could dig it up and quote it here:

Alphabets with vowels tend to be written from left to right. Those, like biblical Hebrew, that contain only consonants but not vowels, tend to be written from right to left.

The left brain is analytical, detached, linear and logical. It splits things into their components. The right brain is holistic, integrative, even intuitive. It is good at recognising patterns and handling personal relationships, including nonverbal expressions. It plays a big part in emotional intelligence.

The left hemisphere controls the right side of the body, and vice versa. When we move our head to the right, we are using the left hemisphere. When we move it to the left, we are bringing the right hemisphere into play.

When we read something written in an alphabet, like English, that contains vowels, each word is more or less intelligible on its own. So we can use the linear, sequential left brain, which controls rightward movement, which is why English is written from left to right.

Not so when we read a text written in an alphabet without vowels. Imagine English without vowels. The letters ht, for example, might mean any of hot, hat, hit, hut, heat or hate. How do you tell which? Only by understanding the context, and perhaps even how the sentence ends. For that you need to use the integrative and holistic right brain, which controls leftward motion. That is why vowel-less alphabets tend to be written from right to left.

So the reading of Hebrew is more arduous than just studying letters and learning how to pronounce the words they form, since in Hebrew the vowels on which we English readers depend to give words much of their kick and personality, are left up to the reader's best guess.  This challenge is even more pronounced if the reader is a left brain kind of guy who's unaccustomed to reading between the lines to pin down the meaning of a story (Robey, put your hand down).

Many people who prepare for a Bar Mitzvah learn a Torah portion, rattle it off from memory, thank their parents and then head off to the bank to deposit checks.

Now Robespierre, whatever he may be, is not what I'd call inherently intuitive.  He's a concrete thinker: a math guy.  If you ask him about a story he's read he'll regale you with all sorts of details about what happens and then what happens and what happens next, and very likely will never get to the end.  If you ask him to discuss the theme or interpret the meaning he'll change the subject.  Reading Hebrew, a right to left language that requires a lot of creative speculation, would not seem to come naturally to him.

But he did it, and not only did he do it but he absolutely blew it away.  He chanted his Torah portion and all the related Hebrew prayers and readings confidently and fluently, speaking out boldly and bravely with no hesitation.

Is it because he's so brilliant that he pulled it off splendidly, without a hitch?  Is it because young people's flexible brains are better able to pick up unfamiliar concepts than a brain like mine, for instance?  Is it because he has a hidden and previously untapped resource of right braininess?

Who knows?  I'm not even sure I want to know.  I do know that Robey has an awful lot to be proud of.

Cupcake's next.

Not That I'm Complaining...

...but does anyone have any idea what makes my readership bounce from 28 to 50 to 34 to 68 in the span of a few days?  Does my fascinatingness change with the weather?

In other news -- Bar Mitzvah was successfully achieved a week ago; more news coming soonish.  You'll notice that the Ferrari countdown has disappeared from the blog and I don't have the fortitude to post one for the Cupcake yet, so downcounting has been suspended for the moment.  Tomorrow morning the perpetrator and his young accomplice head out for four to eight weeks of camp, depending on gender and age.  The dog and I will be all alone.

All alone.

Fedex Breaks Guitars

Remember this video from this cute guy, Dave Carroll?

Well, United isn't the only carrier that breaks guitars. Fedex breaks them too! Just look:

A little background:

My kids (and everyone else's) come home from Bar and Bat Mitzvah parties schlepping armloads of deplorable plastic rubbish that inevitably winds up in landfills, causing me to cringe with guilt when I trash it while the kids are at school so they won't notice it's gone, which they never do, which proves how meaningless all this debris is to them in the first place.

I swore not to commit the same environmental sin in connection with Robespierre's Bar Mitzvah party, much to Robey's annoyance.  Despite his protests I held firm and advocated for more useful giveaways than Kanye West glasses or pimp hats or glow sticks. 

Such as lollipops.

Handmade lollipops, to be precise (from Vintage Confections, via Etsy) in the shape of sports balls, Robey's initials, and electric guitars.  

Vintage Confections offers barley sugar lollipops and candies in 49 flavors,

(really -- 49?  You couldn't spring for one more to make it an even 50?)

including (ready?): Amaretto Apple Blackberry Blueberry Blue Raspberry Bubble Gum Caramel Champagne Cheesecake Cherry Cinnamon Cinnamon Roll (with or without "icing") Clove Coconut Coffee Cotton Candy Cranberry Creme de Menthe Eggnog Fleur de Sel Grape Grapefruit Honey Horchata Irish Creme Juicy Pear Keoke Coffee Key Lime Lemon Lemonade Mango Maple Marshmallow Orange Peppermint Pineapple Pomegranate Prickly Pear Raspberry Root Beer Salt Water Taffy Strawberry/Kiwi Strawberry Tangerine Teaberry Tropical Punch Tutti Frutti Vanilla AND Watermelon.

The manufacturer was delightful to deal with -- prompt and helpful, and the candies look almost too pretty to eat.

Don't they look yummy?

 

And aren't they pretty?

Two hundred lollipops arrived yesterday in a cardboard box snugly packed with shredded paper. 

But four of the guitars arrived BROKEN!  Their necks were cleanly shattered and we had no choice but to end their misery by eating them.

They were delicious.

Alas Fedex -- I blame you.  How could you fail me so severely?

If I had any musical talent to speak of, I'd write a song.

Superhero Or Super Villain -- Choose Wisely

Today was Robespierre's final meeting with his Hebrew tutor before his Bar Mitzvah next week.  He's taken classes from this lady since he was in third grade; he's entering 8th in the fall.  His final session was a joint practice with another 13-year-old boy whose Bar Mitzvah will be the same day as Robey's, so before the first boy's session was over and Robey began his rehearsal she gave them both her standard speech about how Bar Mitzvah means that you're an adult and for the first time you have the ability and responsibility to make adult decisions and stand up against peer pressure.  Once she'd finished her speech and dismissed the first boy, it was Robey's turn for his private rehearsal of speeches and prayers.

When he'd completed his run-through the tutor said she had something else to say to Robey.  Here is the gist of her speech for his ears only:

"Robey, I've been tutoring Hebrew for 18 years and I figure I must have taught at least a thousand students.  Most of them I don't remember, but there are a very few that stick in my mind. 

Robespierre, YOU are one of those students. 

I remember when I first had you in class and you were not interested and not paying attention.  I knew you were very smart but you didn't want to sit still or channel your energies into learning if the subject wasn't something that interested you.

But in the past six months you transformed into someone who took responsibility for your work and obligations.  Not only did you study and learn responsibly, you brought a positive attitude to every session and helped set a constructive example for other B'nai Mitzvah students.

Robey, I can tell that when you grow up, you'll be exceptional at whatever you do and everyone will know about you.  No matter what profession you choose, you'll be an outstanding leader, a smashing success, and famous for being the best in your field.  I only hope you channel your energies for good."

I say things like that about my son.  My parents say things like that about my son.  We know that what we say is true but we also know that nobody would take our word as gospel because of our inherent partiality.

Today a practical stranger paid my son a phenomenal compliment undiluted by bias, encouragement, or ulterior motive.  As she spoke I tried to appear nonchalant, as if any sudden moves from me might scare her away like a rabbit in the garden; at the same time, my heart celebrated the joy of my son's well-deserved accolades.

I can't tell him I'm writing this; he'd be embarrassed.  But I have to brag on him -- it's my duty as a mother.

Besides -- she was completely right.

Choir Robes

Comes the end of Cupcake's third year in the Children's Choir and she's reached the next level.

Since when did choir begin to operate like a video game?  I suppose while I wasn't paying attention. Maybe I was drunk that night. 

So from now on, instead of performing dressed as a waiter,

Image here.

now she gets to wear the red choir robe so she'll look like a cardinal.

St. Louis Cardinals, of course.

Well, not that kind of cardinal -- the kind that's a person.

Pujols photo here.

::grrrrr::  I meant a Catholic Cardinal, duh. 

This is my payback for outsourcing my blog.

 

So she looks kind of like this, except without the mustache, goatee, white hair, yarmulke and extremely out of whack nose.  Cupcake is way cuter than Cardinal Richelieu.

She's really happy about this promotion.  From now on she doesn't have to wear the tight waiter pants and the choky tuxedo shirt to performances.  This aspect is positive for her, and for me since I don't have to listen to the complaining about pinching or choking any more.

On the other hand, her rehearsals, which used to occur once a week for 90 minutes, now increase to two and a half hours, in addition to homework, Greek school, Hebrew school, religious school, and piano lessons.  I suspect I'm going to have to sell my soul to the devil to obtain enough hours in the week to get her everywhere she needs to go and make sure she gets fed and washed regularly.

But aren't the red robes nice?

 Believe it or not, this image came from www.robes.com.  Yes way.

Time To Kvell

This morning I was privileged to see both of my kids shining like brand new pennies, although by the end of the morning I was gasping from the exertion of beholding all this dazzlingness.  It wasn't exactly the beholding that wore me out, but the shuttling from one event to the next that made my hair stand on end.  I swear, I'm still waiting for "Beam Me Up, Scotty" to hit the fan; or how about apparition like in Harry Potter?  That would be nice -- or maybe a portkey.  I'd even try floo powder if it meant I could get from one place to another without driving, even with all the fireplace ash to contend with.

Where was I...?

Ah yes -- kvelling.  Kvell is a Yiddish word that means "to be extraordinarily proud"; you could look it up at Merriam-Webster but don't bother because I just gave you their definition and saved you the trouble of clicking over and clicking back.

This morning Robespierre was the only seventh grader to receive a school pin for clocking at least 100 hours of community service in the past year.  He accomplished this by working three straight weeks last summer refurbishing school computers and getting them ready for the next academic year; he also worked behind the scenes at upper school wrestling matches, and helped load hundreds of grocery bags at the Jewish Food Bank.

Before attending his school's two hour awards assembly, however, I attended Cupcake's fourth grade poetry breakfast; all the students memorized and recited poems of their choosing and displayed the maps of the United States they'd drawn from memory after a month's practice and study.  When I get her map home I might post a photo of it; take my word for it -- it's beautiful.

Cupcake chose to recite "If" by Rudyard Kipling, and she nailed it.  She dedicated it to her brother:

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

The instant Cupcake finished her piece I snaked through the crowd toward the exit, knocking aside a foolish couple of grandparents who had ill-advisedly planted themselves between me and the door.  I bolted through the parking lot and hustled through traffic, arriving at Robey's school with no more than three minutes to spare before his name was called to receive his award.

And my contribution to the day's pride?  That I made it from one school to the other without having an accident or getting a speeding ticket.  Yay me.

A Poem To Noms - Oops - Moms

...with a tip of the hat to Upchuck Gluck, who planted the seed of the idea for acrostic poetry in Robespierre's subconscious.  See the acrostic?  Below?  See what it spells?

OKAY -- okay!  It says M.O.M.  That stands for "Mom."

sheesh.

A Poem To Moms

M.aking sure that you never forget to give a kiss to everyone at night

O.verly eccentric when it comes to planning parties, bringing friends in and always making sure that you are well fed

M.aking enough food to feed the whole Israeli army with leftovers

Mom, thanks for all that you have been doing for my Bar Mitzvah. The planning, the setup, the invitations and the t-shirts. I wouldn't be able to be having this without you. Love you lots and Happy Mother's Day. Love, Robespierre

_________________________________________

Does the Israeli Army eat leftovers?

Thought From Someone At A Loss To Produce Coherent Thoughts

• Seriously, why do TV baseball announcers feel compelled to talk 100% of the time?  The worst part, aside from the stultifying boringness of everything they say, is that they rarely describe what's actually going on.  So what are they talking about Every. Single. Minute?

• Bar Mitzvah planning is continuing apace, and now that the invitations are out I can safely reveal the Top Secret details for which I took a vow of silence nearly a year ago:

1. We're having a New Orleans-style Jazz brunch, complete with Bananas Foster and beignets*; the shrimp remoulade*, however, will be displaced by smoked salmon because eww, we're not kosher but still -- eww -- shrimp at a Bar Mitzvah?  Noooo.
   
2. The invitations to the kids' dance party were silk screened in fluorescent green paint on black tee shirts and mailed to each guest, with RSVP information on attached laminated lime green cards.  This approach presumably cuts down the amount of glowing plastic rubbish we'll have to supply to guests at the actual dance party.
3. The celebratory video is still under construction, with estimated completion date some time before June 12, 2010.

• Shouldn't the phrase "Years of Age" have been abolished after Jane Austen died?

• Speaking of Jane Austen, Cupcake and I are reading Pride and Prejudice together and I am utterly thrilled to be sharing one of my favorite books with one of my favorite readers.

• Cupcake is attending a summer school program at a boarding school in Boston for three weeks after her month at camp has ended.  She'll take classes and seminars, go on field trips, and live in the dorms like a Hogwarts student.  I might be a little bit jealous.

• Today is my father's birthday.

* Spellcheck wanted dragnets, remonstrate or remodel

Funeral For Four Friends

My daughter is picking violets and daffodils to bring to a funeral for four dearly departed brine shrimp named Fred, Fred, Fred and Fred, respectively, until recently the darling pets of her schoolmate. She's also prepared a carefully monogrammed cardboard gravestone bearing the following epitaph:

"R.I.P. Fred, Fred, Fred & Fred. Though their lives were short, their love was powerful.

b. 2010

d. 2010

Fred 1,2,3, & 4, we will miss you."

 

Burial will take place tomorrow at the big tree on the playground, at recess.  All the mourners are planning on wearing black, and will listen to funeral music from the chief mourner's iPod.

How Do You Describe How Something Tastes?

I made this:

1/2 cup packed fresh mint
1/2 cup packed fresh parsley
1/3 cup packed fresh basil
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 scallions, white and green parts, sliced
1 1/2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
Pinch kosher salt, more to taste
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese
1/2 cup Greek yogurt
1/4 cup mayonnaise, optional
Raw chopped vegetables or pita chips, for serving.

1. Place dill, mint, parsley, basil, garlic, scallions, lemon juice and salt in a food processor and process until finely chopped.
2. With motor running, drizzle in the olive oil until incorporated. Add feta and process until smooth; pulse in yogurt. Taste dip and add more salt, if desired. If you like a creamier, richer dip, add mayonnaise and pulse to combine.
3. Serve dip immediately with vegetables or pita chips or cover and store in refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings.

____________________________________________________________________

It looked like this:

 

Told you I didn't like food photographs.

____________________________________________________________________

It tasted like all of this mixed together:

 

 

 

___________________________________________________________________

Cupcake tried it.  Once I could finally get her to stop hogging it, she remarked that it made her think of a beautiful dress that looked like this:

 

Make this recipe and then let me know what you think of when you eat it.