Mothering and Writing and What-Not

Remember when John Travolta was on Welcome Back, Kotter, and his character used to describe his activities as "Rockin and rollin' and whatnot?"


Yes, I am old. Leave me alone

I am feeling like quite the on-top-of-it wunderkind mother. Of course all of this will fall to pieces in a couple of weeks, but for now I can sit gingerly on my laurels having...

...brought everyone for their summer teeth cleaning
...brought everyone for eye check-ups
...made everyone appointments for tooth sealing
...input a total of 32 soccer games on my iCal
...input dozens of soccer practices, fall ball practices, and jazz classes (note to brother: don't get excited—it's just the rec center)
...insured all uniforms, shoes, accessories, equipment, etc. has been obtained
...become fully cognizant of the 3rd grade and 5th grade school supply lists
...mapped out an attack plan for back-to-school shopping

*rubs hands together in gesture of semi-triumph*

In other mindboggling news, I submitted a little piece to a little place and we'll see if I have a little luck. I realized it had been a while since I last launched a story into the unknown, and this was making it a struggle to continue to think of myself as a writer. Easy enough fix, right? Write something, send it out. It doesn't have to be such a big freaking deal. She says to herself. Rhetorically.

And remaining on subject (for once), I shall now draw your attention to the exciting fact that the excellent Bamboo Ridge is soon to publish their 100th issue, and they have two fun ways to submit. From their recent e-newsletter:

Don't forget that the 100th issue of BAMBOO RIDGE is coming. There are two writing events running right now to celebrate the landmark 100th issue.

There are two writing possibilities here. The first is a 100 line max story or poem for possible publication in the upcoming 100th issue of BR. The second is The Great BR Short-Short Story Contest, 100 words max:

First, the submission guidelines for pieces submitted by mail for publication consideration in issue #100 of BR:

1. 100 lines maximum of poetry or prose. (Approximately 3 typed pages, double-spaced, 1" margins, 12 pt Times Roman font. Poetry may be single spaced and more than one poem may be submitted as long as the total number of lines is
100 or less.)

2. Submissions must be postmarked by Dec. 31, 2010.

3. Authors must include a legal size self-addressed envelope with sufficient postage for notification and return of your manuscript.

4. No online submissions will be accepted.

* * * * *

And here are the online only submission guidelines for the Great BAMBOO RIDGE Short-Short Story Contest:

1. The piece can be no more than 100 words long.

2. The piece must have a title, and the title does NOT count against the 100 words.

3. The piece must be submitted on the Bamboo Shoots page of the BR website between July 1, 2010 and December 31, 2010

http://www.bambooridge.com/bambooshootlist.aspx

and you must be registered on the BR site in order to submit an entry. You can use a "pen" name if you choose when you register : )

4. The author must write "BR 100 word contest" in the "A blurb about your piece or a good quote from your piece" section.

5. Only one submission per calendar month is allowed (six total submissions possible).

6. Any designated "winner" will receive a $10 Bamboo Bucks to use in the BR online store.

7. The winners may or may not be published in the 100th issue of BAMBOO RIDGE

I can swing 100 words or 3 pages, can't you? Let's shake on it.

The Post Wherein I Advise You Not To Look For Sesame Seeds at the Grocery Store in the Mountains

I am freshly returned from the mountains, and I carry the extra poundage to prove it. For what else is there to do in the mountains but find a comfy place to sit and...sit there? And eat fried foods (french fries, sweet potato fries, fried shrimp, fried fish)? And eat ice cream (the supremely evil Chips Galore chocolate chip and vanilla ice cream sandwich!)? Ack, the shame. But I think the view was extraordinarily beautiful this year:


Nothing of note happens at the lake in the mountains. Absolutely nothing. Or, more accurately, the only things of note that occur are things like this:

At the grocery store, I meandered about in search of sesame seeds. Out of luck, I approached a young man—let's say he was eighteen years old, or so—and said, "Excuse me, do you have sesame seeds?"

The young man looked terrified. He stared at me as if I'd asked if they carry human flesh in the meat department. He said nothing. I repeated my question. Then he said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

It was my turn to stare at him. How does one respond to such blankness? Finally I said, "You know those little white things on the outside of hamburger buns? Those are sesame seeds."

"Oh!" he said. He led me to another aisle, stopped in front of a selection of dry beans, and pointed.

"That's okay," I said. "I'll ask someone else."

"It's my first day," he explained. At which point I raised my eyebrows and performed a crisp about-face.

What will become of this young mountain man, my friends? WHAT WILL BECOME OF HIM?!

Some Summer Reading

What's everyone reading this summer? As usual, I've committed to reading a classic during these warm months, namely In Search of Lost Time. Unfortunately, I brought it to the lake over the 4th of July weekend, and even though I know it returned safely to our home, I can't find it anywhere. So I am, in fact, in search of In Search of Lost Time. Maybe it's just as well because the more pages I consumed, the more it sounded like Proust was completely insane. But in a good way.

I secretly love Sarah Dunant's historical novels, and I've read two of them in as many months: In the Company of the Courtesan and Sacred Hearts. This is the intro to the latter, and I have to ask...wait, I'll ask after you read it:

By the second half of the sixteenth century, the price of wedding dowries had risen so sharply within Catholic Europe that most noble families could not afford to marry off more than one daughter. The remaining young women were dispatched—for a much lesser price—to convents. Historians estimate that in the great towns and city-states of Italy, up to half of all noblewomen became nuns. Not all of them went willingly...This story take place in the northern Italian city of Ferrara in 1570, in the convent of Santa Caterina.

Come on! How could you not want to read that?! I couldn't resist. Read the whole thing in like 48 hours.

As an aside...I'm kind of disturbed by the fact that I've pieced together bits of European history based on shows like Rome and The Tudors, films like Elizabeth and...A Knight's Tale (I'm kidding! Kind of!), and historical novels. Alas, what's to be done? Nothing. I shall live with the guilt.

Speaking of books, Vida is at a publishing camp for the next two weeks (hat tip to my pal J.). It's run by the formidable Klise sisters, a powerhouse author/illustrator team. So she gets to spend half the day writing, and the other half illustrating with a bunch of different materials. I'm as ecstatic for her as she is for herself, and I'm also super jealous. You've read that New York Times article, have you not, about French insurance companies footing the bill for spa visits? Well, we should have that in this country, but they should pay for grown-up camp. Yeah.

I have a copy of Ilustrado, but have so far been unable to crack the spine. Why is that? What am I waiting for? Well, if I can't find In Search of Lost Time in the next 24 hours, Ilustrado it is...

Oh, wait! I forgot that while at Kepler's the other day with the girls, I picked up this gorgeous edition of Keri Hulme's The Bone People, with cover art by tattoo artist Pepa Heller:


It's one of those books that I always meant to read, so I think it will come first. Then Ilustrado.

All By Myself. Don't Wanna Be. All By...

I'm all by myself.

It's weird. The SU and Risa are in San Diego for the Cal-State/Junior Olympic Games, where Risa will be swinging her bat and playing first base for her softball team. Vida is on day 4 of sleepaway camp (Risa was there, too, but we had to pull her out early for the San Diego jaunt), and Lea is at an overnight at her camp, as well. I will spare you an overwrought description of the dramatic maternal emotions I've cycled through in regards to all this sleeping-away business. Suffice it to say it's been a bittersweet week.

For two days now, my friends have been asking what I'm going to do tonight. "What are you gonna do? You'll be ALL BY YOURSELF." I felt compelled to plan something. Salsa dance class, anyone? A massage and/or facial? A movie? But then I came home from taking the SU and Ri to the airport, and the housekeepers had just finished their work, and the house is all clean, and my books beckon, and my moleskines send out their siren call, and the pillows on the couch in the den have been plumped up and then punched down perfectly in the center, and well, at heart I am a homebody. So I'm just gonna keep my body home.

As I type, I'm caramelizing onions. I'm doing this because I figure that if I get hungry later, they will provide a tasty base for whatever I eat. I think I will also fry some garlic. Is my life not fascinating? Am I not now FASCINATING you with the details of my FASCINATING life?

Speaking of fantastical (yes, I know, the word I was using was fascinating; stop quibbling), I'm reading a book by the late Italian children's author Gianni Rodari. It's titled The Grammar of Fantasy: An Introduction to the Art of Inventing Stories. It's amazing in that it outlines a sort of curriculum for the imagination of children. I'm fuzzy on the details, but it seems that the work in this book is part of the famed Reggio Emilia teaching method. Here is what Rodari has to say in his introduction:

I hope that this small book can be useful for all those people who believe it is necessary for the imagination to have a place in education; for all those who trust in the creativity of children; and for all those who know the liberating value of the word. 'Every possible use of words should be made available to every single person'—this seems to me to be a good motto with a democratic sound. Not because everyone should be an artist but because no one should be a slave.

*dramatic pause in which you realize the import of Rodari's message*

I'm here to say that the book doesn't just work wonders for children. Your Nesting Ground Mistress was so generally inspired by the ideas that she has begun to write a new story. Oh bless-ed happenstance...

Doing Food Penance

I am trying with all my Nesting Ground Mistress might to correct the terribly wrong nutritional turn our lives have taken. It's been weeks now since I became utterly overwhelmed and gave up on any attempt to bring at least SOME healthy food to the ballpark. Good-bye to fruits and carrots, and whassup to nachos, burgers, fries, polish sausage, etc. etc. ad nauseum. It's mortifying, really, to think of all the badness we've consumed. I didn't want to shock our systems by swinging too wildly back into the direction of a healthy diet, though, and so began easing our return to the world of proper living with a little Joe's Special tonight. Ground beef, yes, but with forty thousand pounds of spinach. Some potatoes on the side, yes, but roasted rather than fried. I hope this works or, frankly, WE ARE GONNA DIE.

In other news, I recently attended the 40th birthday party of my very sweet friend, J. at a shmancy locale in lovely Woodside. Let us discuss the appetizers. Why? Because they made me so happy I wanted to...sing. There were gougeres super-fresh from the oven; crunchy crostini with that super-milky mozzarella and tomatoes; demitasse cups of sweet corn chowder; prawns with some sort of spicy sauce, etc. I was so over-zealous (perhaps it was because of my near-constant diet of "snack shack" food) that by the time our actual dinner was served I was seriously regretting having Spanx-ed myself into my dress. My kingdom for a muumuu! Or at least something A-line.

Elsewhere in food...maybe things are not as gastronomically dire as I think. The other night (but when was it? Two weeks ago? Three? Everything is a huge softball blur...) I finally made the Slanted Door's Chicken in Caramel Sauce. I have a problem, though, with the name of this dish. Chicken in Caramel Sauce? Simply having brown sugar as an ingredient does not necessitate the use of caramel as descriptor, especially when the resulting dish tastes nothing like caramel. So, that's confusing. What's not confusing is the fact that it's so good and easy, and that the sauce over rice will make you dance a little dance, and that it's as satisfying as adobo in like a fraction of the time. I am a kind and thoughtful Nesting Ground Mistress, so I am cut and pasting the recipe here. If nobody currently loves you, you should make this, and then everyone will:

Chicken in Caramel Sauce

Serves 4 to 6

The inspiration for this dish that Charles Phan serves at his Slanted Door restaurant in San Francisco came from a street cart in Vietnam. It's a good example of the great food that is served from street stands throughout that country.

1/2 cup dark brown sugar
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup Asian fish sauce (see Note)
3 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 teaspoon minced garlic
1 teaspoon dark or regular soy sauce
1 teaspoon slivered ginger
1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
2 small Thai chiles (fresh or dried), broken in half
1tablespoon canola oil
1 shallot, sliced
1 3/4 pounds skinless, boneless dark-meat chicken, cut into bite-size pieces
1/4 pound skinless, boneless white-meat chicken, cut into bite-size pieces
Steamed white rice
Cilantro sprigs for garnish

Instructions: Combine the brown sugar, water, fish sauce, vinegar, garlic, soy sauce, ginger, pepper and chiles in a small bowl. Mix well, and set aside.

Heat the oil in a large pot over high heat. Add the shallot and saute until brown, about 3 to 5 minutes. Add the chicken and saute until it is slightly browned, about 5 minutes.

Add the sauce mixture and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium and cook, stirring occasionally, until the sauce has reduced by half, about 12 to 20 minutes depending on the pot size. Serve over rice and garnish with cilantro.

via the San Francisco Chronicle

Farewell.

Good Day, Mini Rant, 500 Books, and Softball

Yesterday was my definition of a pretty much perfect Summer day. Behold:

1) Slept in slightly, awoke, made chocolate chip pancakes, ate one too many
2) Pilates. Ouch.
3) Drove to Menlo Park with the kids, singing Journey songs super-loud while enjoying the scenic 280 route
4) Ate a shrimp melt on sourdough for lunch
5) Moseyed over to Kepler's Books, where we browsed for well over an hour. Purchased 12 books.
6) Left and had chocolate milkshakes at McDonald's (and we're still alive!)
7) Drove to Risa's softball practice and, since it went for FOUR hours, played at the park with the other two and read our books

Lovely day.

***

So, I've been disheartened by the constant barrage of complaints about President Obama. He's doing too much say some. But...isn't there an awful lot to do? And doesn't the list keep growing? He's not doing anything say others. Really? Maybe he'd get more done playing cowboy every other week at his Texas ranch like his predecessor? He's not doing exactly what I want him to do so he's an idiot others seem to be saying. I don't feel like there's an awful lot of time for special interests at the moment, do you? In the immortal words of LOST's Jack: "Live together or die alone." We can get to the special things when the not-so-special things have been resolved. He's going to be a one-term President scream the gloom-and-doom crew. Well, you know what? I hope he IS a one-term President just so he doesn't have to put up with this crap anymore. Jeeeezus.

I appreciate what Andrew Sullivan has to say in his Getting Shit Done post. Here's a piece of it:

I sure understand why people feel powerless and angry about the vast forces that control our lives and over which we seem to have only fitful control - big government and big business. But it seems to me vital to keep our heads and remain focused on what substantively can be done to address real problems, and judge Obama on those terms. When you do, you realize that the left's "disgruntleist" faction needs to take a chill pill.

And also:

[Obama's] refusal to pose as a presidential magician, and his resistance to taking the bait of the fetid right (he's president - not a cable news host) seems to me to show not weakness, but a lethal and patient strength. And a resilient ambition.

You can read the rest here. It's really good.

***

The kids have created a family goal of reading 500 books before school starts again. We have about ten under our belts so far, but these deserve special distinction:

Henry and Beezus by Beverly Cleary - read this out loud to Lea at bedtime.
The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet by Reif Larsen - I just finished this; I thought it was amazing. Go get it.
The Magician's Elephant by Kate DiCamillo - read this out loud to them. Another good one.
The Sisters Eight, Book 5 by Lauren Baratz-Logsted - Vida and Risa love this series.
Sophie The Awesome by Lara Bergen - Lea thought this book was pretty funny.

***

This coming weekend is yet another one devoted entirely to softball. But whenever I look at this picture of Risa with her teammates, I can't find the heart to complain. Look at her just right of center. Have you seen a happier kid?

The Post About Keeping Secrets, Nonsensical Cheering, and Random Photos

I have in my fevered possession some book galleys to look over, but...oh, gee, I can't tell you because the whole thing is a big huge secret. Sorry.

I have in my fevered possession some architectural drawings to peruse, but...oh, gee, I can't tell you because the whole thing is a big huge secret. Sorry.

I bear the very great burden of burning secrets, it's true. I am a bee trapped in honey, a bird with clipped wings, a guitar without strings, a wallet with no money. Mostly, I'm bad at rhyming. But that's a whole different topic. Let's just say that I've come to understand that having to keep these two secrets a secret has prevented more frequent blogging. In casting about for something I CAN blog about, I settled on the following:

1) Over the Memorial Day Weekend, Risa and her All-Star Slammers team played six softball games. They were the victors in all six, and thus crowned winners of the tournament, which was all very wonderful and all, but by the sixth game, it's fair to say that we (we being the rest of our family) were sun-drunk, covered in softball diamond dust (this begs the question: why do I shower? EVER?), and generally just OVER it. To amuse ourselves, the spousal unit and I began to yell nonsensical things any time our team displayed particularly noteworthy softball prowess:

"Uh-huh! That's how we do it in SAN MA-TAY-O, people!" (other teams in the tournament had come from all over the Peninsula, East Bay, and San Jose) I screamed this one while bobbing my head left to right, prompting Vida to cringe in embarrassment and mutter, "Mother..."

At one point, the spousal unit yelled, "Yes! Yes! That's how it goes down in GLOVE TOWN!" The gloriousness of this outburst, the inanity of it, almost made me fall through the bleachers, where I surely would have drowned in a sea of sunflower seed shells, coins, and corn nut wrappers.

2) About a month ago, I read a quote from someone somewhere that went something like this: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle." I've been trying to live by these directions ever since, but you know what? It's a difficult thing to remember in the heat of annoyance with people who...test me.

3) I think it was Sunny who shared this video via Twitter earlier this week. It made me cry, and I'm not even PMSing or anything like that. What? Too much information? Never mind—just watch the video:



And now...pictures! Here is Risa with the aforementioned trophy:


And here's one I've been meaning to post. This is when the spousal unit took the girls to Yosemite. The great outdoors is so lovely, especially when I'm not there and can enjoy them via pictures from the safety and comfort of my own home, free of bug bites, allergies, and the threat of being mauled by a bear:


I bid you good evening.

Shame Is My Middle Name

(Actually, VERONICA is my middle name. Prizes for those who know my first name! To enter this imaginary contest, you must not be related to your Nesting Ground Mistress)

I'm experiencing Blogger Shame. Why? Because I haven't posted since the beginning of the month.

I'm also experiencing Softball Mother Shame. Why? Because I'd like the season to be over immediately, thank you. Now that I've voiced this truth, the shame will increase tenfold if, per chance, the girls lose their quarterfinal playoff game tonight.

Related: Hoping Risa's All-Star Team Doesn't Make It to the Nationals in Arizona Shame. Or maybe this is actually secret pride? Because I will not spend money in that damned state; not one cent. Then again, I'll miss a prime opportunity to wear a "Reasonably Suspicious" tee shirt. Hmmm. This requires more thought.

Then there's my ongoing Haven't Been to the Doctor in Quite Awhile Shame. Thankfully, I have an appointment today at 3:00.

Also ever-present is...Fail To Sweep the Kitchen Floor More Often Shame. Well, maybe this isn't really shame, since in the scheme of things I actually don't give a twisting piece o' taffy about a few crumbs beneath my feet.

And I have a new one: Playing Wurdle When I Should Be Grocery Shopping Shame. This soft addiction, like others, should dissipate soon. *fingers crossed*

So, I'm happy I've taken a few moments to check in with my blog, but I have to go because I am now, of course, experiencing Blogging While I Should Be Prepping for the 4th Grade Art Lesson I'm Teaching In an Hour Shame.

I apologize in advance to those of you who download Wurdle as a result of reading this post.

Humor Me.

It is Mother's Day, and I decree that I shall blog! And I further decree that in this post I shall exercise any and all maternal bragging rights. You might want to make sure your seatbelt is tight and, of course, have your discreet vomit bag at the ready.

1) Vida—along with twelve other classmates—qualified to represent their school at the National Math Bee in Indianapolis. Ours was one of only 3 schools from California, and it was the only PUBLIC school (rep.re.sent!). Add to this that the team was 99% students of color, and you have a situation over which the entire school community was ecstatic. Everyone donated time and money to get the kids to Indy. In one extreme example, a small cadre of parents sold $1500 worth of nachos, lemonade, and homemade tamales.

The kids, some parent chaperones (including my intrepid SU), two teachers, and our principal left at 4:00 in the morning on Thursday, spent the afternoon at the impressive Children's Museum, went swimming, and dropped off to sleep. The following day they walked to the competition at the Indianapolis Zoo, and the computers promptly crashed. After a few hours of fruitless tinkering, the damn National Math Bee was CANCELLED. Oh, the sadness. Apparently there was a team of 61 kids from Alabama who not only arrived in completely color-coordinated attire, but who had endured an ELEVEN HOUR bus ride. Oh, the sadness.

There are many different levels of disappointment: several Math Bee parents sacrificed quite a bit to get their kids to Indy; many teachers worked hard to prepare them for competition; the kids themselves drilled and drilled; and our parents and administration worked a small miracle to raise all the necessary funds. In the end, the kids had a great time (about half had never been in a plane or stayed in a hotel before); they just didn't get to do what they'd gone to do.

But getting back to Vida. Of course the fact that she made the team = she will one day be a Nobel Prize winner in Economics. Here she is solving incredibly complex math problems with a couple of her teammates. Or maybe she's just having a great time? I'm not sure:



2) While Vida was at the Bee, Risa decided she would try out for the All-Star softball team. You know those All-Star girls, right? The ones with the fancy embroidered jackets and equipment bags? The ones who walk a little taller, look a little more smug, and seem to know something that you have no hope of ever knowing because they are freaking ALL-STARS, man! And you? You are not.

The tryouts, which kept us at the field until 9:30 pm on a school night—hello!—was stress-inducing (not only that, I was bummed to miss Miguel Syjuco's reading at the Ferry Building). Risa had to run the bases and slide; she had to bunt twice and swing away three times; she had to catch pop flies; and she had to field grounders in left field and throw all the way to first base. She's a strong player, but I really had no idea how she did. I mean, she ran fast, yes. She can slide. She hit both bunts, she fouled twice and then hit a scorcher into left field. She caught all the pop flies. She missed one grounder, but whipped every ball off super-accurate to first base.

Well, she made it. I have already instructed her not to be smug. Walking taller and brandishing her fancy embroidered jacket is fully acceptable, however. Of course the fact that she made the team = she will one day win a gold medal in softball (once it's reinstated as an Olympic sport, that is).

Here she is, about to hit a homerun that propels her team into first place for the season (never mind that there's another team that has yet to lose a single game). Or maybe she's just having fun playing ball? I'm not sure:



3) Lea has invented her own language. It has no verbs, but that's not the point. Also, her chalk, El Greco-inspired drawing, was chosen for an art show. Of course the fact that she has invented her own, verb-less language and had a drawing that was chosen for an art show = she will one day become a multimedia artist whose work will be featured at the 2030 Whitney Biennial.

Here she is displaying her quirky, artistic nature. Or maybe she's just at Disneyland trying on the Mad Hatter hat/wig? I'm not sure:



Because it is Mother's Day, you just have to go with me on all this, okay?

Solo

A strange silence. The spousal unit, in a heroic back-to-nature attempt, has taken our children to Yosemite for the weeekend. They left at about 12:30. It is now 7:14, and here is what I have done so far:

1) watched the Madonna episode of Glee on hulu.

2) answered a bunch of e-mails.

3) checked in on FB and typed a response to my brother's posted photo of an A & W, where we used to eat ten cent Coney Dogs on...Tuesdays? Wednesdays?

4) in The Normal School, read an epistolary story by Susan Straight titled, "Dear Mr. Atende." Thumbs up.

5) in The Normal School, read a report by R.B. Moreno titled, "The Hair in Your Texas Garlic Toast," which was all about how, yeah, we're probably eating human hair. Thumbs up. I guess?

6) in The Normal School, read a gorgeous fairytale-type story by Maud Casey titled, "The Prince Who Wanted To See the World." Thumbs extraordinarily up.

7) In The Normal School, read a story by Steve Almond titled, "Old Glory," which was about some guy who wakes up with guacamole on his balls, or maybe this was a metaphor? Thumbs down, down, down.

8) became annoyed by Steve Almond's heartless ruination of my Normal School reading experience.

9) sat in the sun.

10) took a nap.

And now I write. Epic afternoon.

Tilting at (Non-Imaginary) Windmills

You know what's depressing? The "achievement gap" is depressing. It's the kind of thing that makes me want to put my chin on the table and just...sigh. But instead—in one of your Nesting Ground Mistress' typical Don Quixote moments—I decided I would recruit friends to help teach our Spanish-speaking Kindergarten parents (many of whom are not literate in any language) letter sounds, beginning and final consonants, blends, and sight words. To teach them, in other words, the things their children are learning in Kindergarten. My logic was that regardless of their own level of schooling, our parents could learn these basic things. And that by learning these things, they could help their children—at least to some extent—with reading; or they could, by example, show their children that reading is important; or they could realize that by partnering with their child, they can help their child to be more successful; or etc. etc. etc.

My hilarious pal M. jumped aboard, as did two of my go-to, bilingual outreach moms, L. and E. We dove into this project thinking of it as something we HAD to do, SHOULD do, and COULD do. What we didn't realize is that it would be...pretty fun. It's fun to create an atmosphere where parents don't have to feel shy about yelling out letter sounds (and believe me, we make them yell)—even if they're the wrong sounds. We create said atmosphere via our willingness to be as ridiculous as possible. M., for example, pretends to be a dj scratching vinyl to demonstrate the sound of "w," or Tarzan swinging on a rope for the short "o." And I whip out my high school Spanish for comic relief and to prove that I will readily climb out on a limb if they will. Throw in some donuts, coffee, and fruit, and you've got one helluva morning.

So I don't know if these workshops will amount to much when it comes to bridging the achievement gap at our school. Maybe? Not likely? Yes? I'll keep my fingers crossed. Or my...how shall I say it?...dedos cruzados. *laughter ensues*

Sure Is Quiet Around Here

I'm alone in my house for the first time in I don't know how long. Just me and the clanking of a sweatshirt zipper as the dryer spins 'round and 'round. This is quite a change for me, as your Nesting Ground Mistress has endured and/or enjoyed several weeks of pure lunacy. Highlights are as follows:

1) Our acacia tree tried to kill me, but it only succeeded in causing debilitating allergies that morphed into a sinus infection. For twelve days, I could not taste or smell at all (I also couldn't hear very well). Because eating held no attraction for me, I ate only to relieve that little knot that forms in my stomach when hungry. And what did I learn? I learned that I clearly overeat in my regular life because all it took to relieve said knot was four almonds, say, or half an apple. Now that my senses have returned, do you think I continue to sate my hunger with four almonds? Of course not, you silly. In fact, I just ate an It's-It.

2) Over spring break, we took a road trip to Disneyland, Santa Barbara, and Monterey. Disneyland was...Disneyland. But Santa Barbara? It was a revelation. We lived there for four or five years before we had kids, and though I thought it was lovely THEN, everything seemed to appear in technicolor this time around. There was much frolicking in the waves, there was much traipsing around the zoo, there was dinner with friends, and there was some seriously good eating (I'm so grateful that my sense of taste returned on Day 1 at Disneyland) at Jeannine's American Bakery, La Super-Rica (where I was almost brought to tears by my tamale), and even the humble hamburger joint called The Habit. Here is a picture of the charming Jeannine's (taken from their website):


3) Our trip ended in Monterey, where the spousal unit set us up with luxe accommodations at The Clement:


Pampering, though, was not the goal of our visit. The goal was to cross the threshold of the fabled Monterey Bay Aquarium, a place that none of us had ever been before (I know: losers). I was enthralled—like, ridiculously enthralled—with the jellyfish and the seahorses. I could have watched those creepy seahorses all day. I knelt down in front of one of the tanks and had the following silent, one-sided conversation with the seahorses: You are so creepy. How'd you get so creepy? Why do you all have your tails wrapped around that particular thing? You float around and float around and float around in the creepiest, creepiest way. You crazy, creepy seahorses. Like that. Anyways, here is Lea's silhouette against a tank of jellyfish:


4) Two days after we returned from our trip, my two brothers, two nephews (ages 16 and 14), and one niece (20ish) arrived to partake in a week of relaxed (hahahahahaha!) celebration in honor of my parents' 50th wedding anniversary. Translated, that means we ate a lot. One night, we stormed the doors of a restaurant and my eldest brother, my 16-year-old nephew, and the spousal unit ate this:


5) On Saturday, the I-Hotel Manilatown Center hosted a book launch for Growing Up Filipino II, and I had the pleasure of reading again with Tony Robles, Oscar Penaranda, Rashaan Alexis Meneses, and Marianne Villanueva. It was a well-attended event with a lovely vibe, and so what if a young man approached me afterwards and prefaced his question with the word, "Ma'am?" I am, indeed, a "Ma'am," and I should just get used to it.

6) Yesterday, we took the last of my family to the airport, and now I'm quite melancholy.

7) But then I learned that Philippine Speculative Fiction 5, in which I have a speculatively-told story, has just been released in the Philippines, and they are having a launch party this weekend. This makes me happy, as does the cover of the book:


You can read more about the collection at Dean Alfar's blog.

Rocking In My Rocking Chair & Staring Into the Distance

Remember when we used to blog a lot, and we used to comment on each other's blogs rather than commenting on each other's Facebook pages? At the risk of sounding like the old guys who used to "walk to school barefoot in the snow while being chased by wolves," I miss those halcyon days.

Last week while cleaning up after some sort of spambot that was leaving a trail of pornographic messages in its wake, I ran across some of said comments. And I was reminded of the funny little fact that we used to sign off with our word verification and a made-up definition. Here are a few, circa 2005 (!):

From Sunny - yecojk: flaky Lithuanian pastry similar to apple turnover
From Gladys - ovbzzv: go away, little fly
From me - dnmhipw: a hybrid dance form originating south of the Equator
From Bec - alvqhais: n. sneeze; v. to bless someone after they sneeze
From Bec - tvkdoxh: n. what penguins really wear
From Oscar - deaokrp: is the werd that ya heard

Perhaps I'm in a glorifying-the-past mood because my birthday is tomorrow. I think I will now churn butter and listen to some Andy Gibb on my record player.

Not So Stinky No More

Since I was so quick to out my 4th grade writers when they were being the Stinkiest Stinkers ever, I should be just as quick to praise them when they are the Loveliest Lovelies who ever sat writing in a little room. Since their Stinky episode, they have joyously tried their hand at writing a 12-line pantoum. In fact, most of them wrote several. One kid said, "Wow, almost no matter what you do, these turn out good." Hahahahahaha! Oh, and here's an actual exchange between the spousal unit and your Nesting Ground Mistress (NGM):

Spousal Unit: What're you doing?

NGM: Typing a pantoum.

Spousal Unit: What's a pantoum?

NGM: A...poetic form.

Spousal Unit: Oh. [pause] Tell me again: why did you marry me?

Hahahahahaha! My 4th grade writers also stepped up and did a fantastical job with my Where Are You From lesson, which I adapted from something I saw on the Teachers & Writers Collaborative site. First I asked them where they were from, and they offered up typical answers: from Stanford Hospital, from my mom, from San Mateo, etc. etc. Then I showed them this video I found on YouTube:



They were really into this video. I think I need to do this kind of thing more often, as they are, after all, the Childrens of the Internets. Afterwards, I passed out a hard copy of the poem, and we read it together. Then I asked them if they felt like Hughes' poem answers the question, "Where are you from?" Lots of chattering ensued. And then they wrote.

This little girl has moved around a lot, and she became visibly upset while writing. Her classmates were supportive, though, and she ended up with this:

I am from the hot dogs of New Jersey
I am from the colorful, spotted peacocks of Arcadia
I am from the fresh air of North Carolina
I am from the humid temperature of Simi Valley
I am from my friends and family
I am not from the crowds of San Francisco

This girl is obsessed with fighting with her brother. She writes about it almost every week, and I was afraid she was going to turn out yet another piece entirely devoted to how "lame" he is, but she managed to restrain herself:

I am from chocolate that my mom makes me. I am from the fights I have with my brother. I am from the books I read; they change me. I am from my loving family. I am from the ice skating we do in Lake Tahoe, I am from Tom and Jerry, I am from the bright city that I live in. I am from lots of colorful ice cream. I am not from jail, where the bad people are.

And this is from my own Risa, who almost finishes writing things before I even give direction. She's so fast. The bad part is she has no interest in editing her work. But her first drafts are usually pretty good:

I am from the letters in my name
I am from the colors I wear
the lines on my skin
and the words that come from my mouth
I am from the people before me and
The people before them
I am from the numbers in my age, which you do not know
I am from the words my teacher speaks
And from the lines my pencil makes
I am a Filipina princess
I am from the world

Here are a few lines from a girl who is reluctant to write when things get too serious. She's from a broken family, and it's so easy to see the different ways it affects her. Her short piece ends with a stab to the heart, pretty much:

I am from the stories that my mom tells. I am from the recipes my family writes. I am from the fierce animals that are inside me. I am from Utopia. It’s perfect there.

And this is from our only boy. He's kind of all over the place when he writes, and this is a good snapshot of his work in general:

I am from the tall grass of England
The buttery smell of lobster
From my dog Brandy
I am from the tall redwoods
The flying football and baseballs
A huge mountain
A lasting friendship
A cookie factory
I am the Christmas spirit.

So I am happy for now. But they are like a dam fixing to burst. Sooner or later we're headed back to fart-talking, crush-revealing, test anxiety, and who knows what else. I must hunker down and plan my offensive NOW...

So Close, And Yet...

The other night the Spousal Unit and I somehow ended up watching a show on the Discovery Channel that recounted several instances in which people, via absolutely ZERO work or dedication to craft, became suddenly "rich." A meteorite shower in a small Illinois town resulted in several neighbors picking meteorites up off their grass, and then selling them to a museum for anything from $2,000 to $40,000 dollars. The SU looked at me incredulously. "Who sets the price?" he asked. I nodded in silent agreement with his unvoiced sentiment. Any of those people would have been happy to take $50, so...bad on you, museum.

In another story, an older couple were clearing out their antique store when the lady-half of the couple found an old baseball card. She put it up on eBay for $9, but then her son and husband realized it was extraordinarily rare. They begged her to remove it from auction, but she refused because she'd never before taken anything off auction. After much cajoling, she finally agreed to part ways with her auction principles, and it's a mighty fine thing she did, too, because she ended up selling the faded card for $75,000.

And then a woman found an abstract painting in a garbage can in New York. She brought it home and eventually discovered that it was the work of a famous Mexican artist, that it had been stolen 20 years before, and that a Sotheby's auctioner had been obsessed with finding it for lo those many years. Blah, blah, blah, the woman was granted a finder's fee and some kind of financial thank you from Sotheby's.

During a commercial break, I remembered that earlier in the week I'd raided the change bowl for parking meter money and found a Wisconsin state quarter from 2004. I'd never seen anything like it, so I tossed it in with my jewelry and forgot about it until this crazy show came on. Said I to the Spousal Unit, "That reminds me. I found a Wisconsin state quarter in the change bowl, and I meant to google it."

"They made a bunch of state quarters," said the Spousal Unit. He readjusted his lounging position. "It's nothing."

"Well, with that attitude young man, I will not be sharing whatever riches come my way."

"Okey dokes," he said. "Go to town."

And I marched into my room and opened my jewelry drawer and pulled out my Wisconsin state quarter, and googled it.

AND YOU KNOW WHAT?

Some of the Wisconsin state quarters contain a flaw which makes them valuable to collectors.

These flawed quarters came from the Denver mint, and they are worth up to $500.

AND YOU KNOW WHAT?

My Wisconsin state quarter came from the Denver mint.

I reported these facts to the Spousal Unit. "What? Really?"

I began to laugh hysterically. After calming down, I reported that the flawed quarters have an extra corn husk leaf protruding from the left side of the corn. Sometimes it points up, sometimes it points down.

AND YOU KNOW WHAT?

My Wisconsin state quarter did not contain the flaw.

So this is not the best blog post ever. But you have to admit: it was close.