Dan got booted from the hospital last night - not too soon, considering the free side-show they call "roommates" in the hospital. ICU was great, but once you're in a regular room, it is like White Trash Meets Ghetto. Dan called it "free entertainment."
He was wheeled into the room at 6am Saturday morning - to find Fleck and Patty. Seems Fleck had given himself a bit of alcohol poisoning and Patty had rode in the ambulance with him. They'd spent 2 days in Emergency while he "got it outta his system" but then there was "trouble with the oxygen" in his blood so he had to stay. Patty made herself at home - climbing into the bed and snoring like a freight train, while Fleck, still attached to his tubes, IVs, and monitors, walked up and down the hallway yelling for "Nora" and "stepping out" for a smoke. They used the phone constantly (when she was awake) and discussed everything from money, drugs, "ak-ahol," "the damn kids," and how they were going to get back to Palmdale once Fleck was kicked loose. Patty also ordered food - thinking this was room service. The hospital provided a taxi voucher - probably to get rid of them.
Then there was John. He was in for his diabetes. He had family problems and we heard ALL about them during the plethora of phone calls to the mother of his daughter, ANNdrea, who had apparently made a terrorist threat at school and was suspended pending an expulsion hearing. Once daddy went into the hospital, it seems young ANNdrea needed funds to she emptied John's pockets, took his cell phone, and her whereabouts were unknown. John's older boys sauntered in for a visit and we were treated to details about their many shenanigans, including getting kicked out of school (but making up credits), losing jobs, "staying" at friends' houses that were loaded with dope and drug paraphenalia, and the best way for one of the boys' mama get disability.
During the height of what, at times, sounded like a rap concert, the nurse's assistant came in to drill Dan loudly and tenaciously about his potty habits. "IS THIS ALL YOU'VE PEED today? Since MY SHIFT? WHAT ABOUT A BM? YOU HAVE ONE OF THOSE YET?"
Turns out HER name was Nora, the one Fleck kept looking for during the early part of the day. I asked Nora if Dan could take a shower - if for my sake only since he was getting kind of ripe - all that testosterone and adrenaline. "OH NO, he can't shower... it'll shock him." (?? I didn't ask.)
Seems you can't shut the room door at night - "the nurse will want to keep an eye on you," which is funny since we can count using half a hand just how many times a nurse actually showed herself (or HIMself - "Michael" is another story) once Dan was booted from ICU.
So - all night long phones ring, hospital staff converses - loudly - and floors get mopped, waxed, buffed, and spit-shined. Need blood? Come and get it RIGHT when the patient finally drops off to sleep. Need to check on Potty Progress? Don't do it during the day when he is AWAKE. Jar him awake at night to demand details about the urinal levels. The answers will be more coherent then - especially if the patient has been given a sleeping pill in order to actually SLEEP during the cacophony that is called "night" at the hospital.
He was released with what looks like a thesis of post-instructions, plus a half page of prescriptions, each with varying sizes, instructions, and times for ingestion. The nice little pharmacist at Target took pity on me when I showed up at 10 minutes to 6 last night to fill them. She also got me a pill-splitter and a blood pressure cuff.
The boys are enjoying the blood pressure cuff very much. Well, Dustin is - he and I register as "Dead" on the machine while Danny's comes up higher than Dan's - something that is perplexing him to no end. He checks it every hour, certain a fate similar to his father's awaits him next Tuesday.
I've only tried to kill Dan twice. The first time I won't tell you about, but the most recent occasion concerns his plethora of pills - one of which is supposed to be a HALF pill twice a day and I gave him a whole pill this morning. He told me the "pretty colors" and other hallucinations were quite interesting.
So now - Dan is home, resting upstairs - right next to the phone, which is ringing about every 12.5 minutes. (It's always for him.)
I am letting him answer the phone - weaning him gently off the hospital routine is the kindest way, isn't it?
:-)Kim
Monday, January 29, 2007
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Trail Dog
Duke is a mountain goat.
I don't mean that literally, but the dog just loves to hike and there's no stopping him. He just goes and goes and goes. Pretty amazing for a miniature dachshund, huh?
Duke is the smallest of my dogs and runs on pure nervous energy. It's not that he's a barker or that he's neurotic or anything, he just seems perpetually wound up. He rarely relaxes and when he does, you can still see him twitching every 30 seconds or so.
Duke is one of the only dogs I've ever seen who can smile. He smiles in greeting, usually, and if you don't watch carefully, you're likely to miss it. Smiling is accompanied by much wiggling of the hindquarters and vocalizing about whatever it is that is making him so happy - like cheese. Or the prospect of a hike.
Duke just loves to hike and nothing slows him down. On general walks he stays right next to me but when hiking, he plays scout and runs off ahead or takes the rear and makes sure I don't get attacked by a bear or something. He's stepped on foxtails, sharp rocks, and pointy cockleburrs - he just keeps going, hobbling on 3 legs if necessary. I'd like to think he looks at me like the lion looked at Androcles when he removed the thorn - but it's hard to tell with Duke. He usually looks wide-eyed and nervous. Once he tangled with some red ants - they bit him on the paw, rear-driver's side... he didn't even pause. Just hitched up the back end and kept going.
Sometimes I wish I could get inside that little dog's head and figure him out.
When he was a puppy, he lived with Connie and Dave out in Mojave. They had this plan to breed and sell miniature dachshund puppies and Duke was to be the stud. No sooner had they adopted Heidi than the two of them took off for an 8-day adventure in the Mojave Desert. They crawled back to civilization without having learned their lesson - because after birthing 2 litters of pups, they up and did it again. Sadly, Heidi did not return that time and Duke was a bit worse for wear when he hobbled back to the Mojave spread. His hindquarters were very sensitive and he developed a slight hitch in his back leg.
When Connie and Dave moved to Antelope Acres, Duke was penned up and miserable. Dustin and I would often go out to the house when Connie and Dave were up in Washington - to take care of the plants, the house, and Duke. The sight of that little dog peering through the gate, praying for somebody to throw a ball for him really stuck with me. So when Connie and Dave decided to put Duke up for adoption because they couldn't pay him enough attention, Dustin and I leapt at the chance.
Duke seemed to remember Augie Doggie - one of the pups from Heidi's first litter. Even though he was, by all accounts, a terrible father to the puppies, Augie quickly forgave him and they became best friends. As long as Augie gets to be in charge, that is.
Sometimes I take just Duke out for a hike - in compensation for getting picked on by Seamus or bothered by Little Beans. He was the one I took when I first discovered the Pacific Crest Trail in San Francisquito Canyon. He really seems to strut when he is by himself.
I think his favorite hikes are with me and Augie - the two of them run off ahead, side by side, father and son - enjoying life and thinking about whatever trail dogs think about as they run up the trail toward the sun.
I don't mean that literally, but the dog just loves to hike and there's no stopping him. He just goes and goes and goes. Pretty amazing for a miniature dachshund, huh?
Duke is the smallest of my dogs and runs on pure nervous energy. It's not that he's a barker or that he's neurotic or anything, he just seems perpetually wound up. He rarely relaxes and when he does, you can still see him twitching every 30 seconds or so.
Duke is one of the only dogs I've ever seen who can smile. He smiles in greeting, usually, and if you don't watch carefully, you're likely to miss it. Smiling is accompanied by much wiggling of the hindquarters and vocalizing about whatever it is that is making him so happy - like cheese. Or the prospect of a hike.
Duke just loves to hike and nothing slows him down. On general walks he stays right next to me but when hiking, he plays scout and runs off ahead or takes the rear and makes sure I don't get attacked by a bear or something. He's stepped on foxtails, sharp rocks, and pointy cockleburrs - he just keeps going, hobbling on 3 legs if necessary. I'd like to think he looks at me like the lion looked at Androcles when he removed the thorn - but it's hard to tell with Duke. He usually looks wide-eyed and nervous. Once he tangled with some red ants - they bit him on the paw, rear-driver's side... he didn't even pause. Just hitched up the back end and kept going.
Sometimes I wish I could get inside that little dog's head and figure him out.
When he was a puppy, he lived with Connie and Dave out in Mojave. They had this plan to breed and sell miniature dachshund puppies and Duke was to be the stud. No sooner had they adopted Heidi than the two of them took off for an 8-day adventure in the Mojave Desert. They crawled back to civilization without having learned their lesson - because after birthing 2 litters of pups, they up and did it again. Sadly, Heidi did not return that time and Duke was a bit worse for wear when he hobbled back to the Mojave spread. His hindquarters were very sensitive and he developed a slight hitch in his back leg.
When Connie and Dave moved to Antelope Acres, Duke was penned up and miserable. Dustin and I would often go out to the house when Connie and Dave were up in Washington - to take care of the plants, the house, and Duke. The sight of that little dog peering through the gate, praying for somebody to throw a ball for him really stuck with me. So when Connie and Dave decided to put Duke up for adoption because they couldn't pay him enough attention, Dustin and I leapt at the chance.
Duke seemed to remember Augie Doggie - one of the pups from Heidi's first litter. Even though he was, by all accounts, a terrible father to the puppies, Augie quickly forgave him and they became best friends. As long as Augie gets to be in charge, that is.
Sometimes I take just Duke out for a hike - in compensation for getting picked on by Seamus or bothered by Little Beans. He was the one I took when I first discovered the Pacific Crest Trail in San Francisquito Canyon. He really seems to strut when he is by himself.
I think his favorite hikes are with me and Augie - the two of them run off ahead, side by side, father and son - enjoying life and thinking about whatever trail dogs think about as they run up the trail toward the sun.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
On the Topic of Christmas Bows
I'm wrapping presents today and started ruminating about bows. I wonder how many people really THINK about bows? I think bows get shortchanged.
I love bows, especially the real fancy ones that are tightly looped. Deep reds and greens make me salivate but I appreciate a good white, cream, silver, and gold bow too. Cheap bows annoy me. Why bother?
Some people THROW bows away after unwrapping a gift. I have never understood this. It's not like they wear out or anything - they are perfectly good!
I always dive for the bows and save them, but not after hawking out the situation to make sure the recipient isn't saving bows too. It's not very classy to snatch a good bow away from a bow-saver. It can get kind of embarrassing. I've recycled some bows several times. This is a matter of great pride.
You have to divide your bows into categories before wrapping. Some people, like my father-in-law, get the cheap bows because NOTHING in his house is allowed to hit the floor in the form of trash and bows fit this category. He just stuffs them in the bag and I learned long ago not to complain. (Just dig 'em out later.)
Some people KNOW you recycle bows and just remove the bow and hand it to me. This is quick and easy. Other people have to be told to give me the bow. If they put the bow in the box with the gift, I've learned to ask if they save bows too. Especially if it's a really, really GOOD bow, because they may not realize what they have. Heaven forbid they return home, stack the box and throw away the bow!
The more often you recycle your bows, the cheaper they get to use. If you take the cost of the entire bag of bows and divide it by the number of bows in the bag, you get the FIRST price. But then the price is HALVED each time you recycle it. Pretty soon your bows are costing you fractions of a penny and this HAS to be good for the universe.
If you buy bows one year but don't use them all, you will have them for the following year. Finding a bag of last year's bows is ALMOST as good as getting a bag of bows free! After all, the cost of the bag is depreciated from last year - so it's much cheaper.
Packages with good bows don't need ribbon - ribbon is redundant. The only time you should use ribbon is if you're curling it - and you have to work pretty darn hard to make a curling ribbon "bow" look half-way decent. A well-done curly bow is a work of art.
Bows should be dead-on center of the package - not placed in some obscure corner, throwing off the balance of things. Especially well-done curly bows. They need to cascade JUST SO.
:-)Kim
I love bows, especially the real fancy ones that are tightly looped. Deep reds and greens make me salivate but I appreciate a good white, cream, silver, and gold bow too. Cheap bows annoy me. Why bother?
Some people THROW bows away after unwrapping a gift. I have never understood this. It's not like they wear out or anything - they are perfectly good!
I always dive for the bows and save them, but not after hawking out the situation to make sure the recipient isn't saving bows too. It's not very classy to snatch a good bow away from a bow-saver. It can get kind of embarrassing. I've recycled some bows several times. This is a matter of great pride.
You have to divide your bows into categories before wrapping. Some people, like my father-in-law, get the cheap bows because NOTHING in his house is allowed to hit the floor in the form of trash and bows fit this category. He just stuffs them in the bag and I learned long ago not to complain. (Just dig 'em out later.)
Some people KNOW you recycle bows and just remove the bow and hand it to me. This is quick and easy. Other people have to be told to give me the bow. If they put the bow in the box with the gift, I've learned to ask if they save bows too. Especially if it's a really, really GOOD bow, because they may not realize what they have. Heaven forbid they return home, stack the box and throw away the bow!
The more often you recycle your bows, the cheaper they get to use. If you take the cost of the entire bag of bows and divide it by the number of bows in the bag, you get the FIRST price. But then the price is HALVED each time you recycle it. Pretty soon your bows are costing you fractions of a penny and this HAS to be good for the universe.
If you buy bows one year but don't use them all, you will have them for the following year. Finding a bag of last year's bows is ALMOST as good as getting a bag of bows free! After all, the cost of the bag is depreciated from last year - so it's much cheaper.
Packages with good bows don't need ribbon - ribbon is redundant. The only time you should use ribbon is if you're curling it - and you have to work pretty darn hard to make a curling ribbon "bow" look half-way decent. A well-done curly bow is a work of art.
Bows should be dead-on center of the package - not placed in some obscure corner, throwing off the balance of things. Especially well-done curly bows. They need to cascade JUST SO.
:-)Kim
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Franky's Gift Tag
Yesterday, the kindergarten kids made beaded necklaces for the mothers for Christmas. Once this fine jewelry was completed, the kids brought their creations over to one of the middle school helpers for wrapping. (We went through an entire roll of tape. More tape is better when you are five.)
The final link in this process was the creation of a gift card for Mom. The kids would dictate what they wanted to say on the card, Lupita would write it out on a white board, and the kids would copy it. (Except for Jasmine. "YOU write it," she ordered me.)
All the kids at the table were hard at work copying their personalized greetings:
"Merry Christmas Mom."
"This is for you, Mom."
"Feliz Navidad, Mami."
"Happy Holidays Mom."
"I love you Mommy."
So Lupita asks Franky what he wants to write on his mother's gift card.
"Happy Halloween," replies Franky.
"But Franky... it's Christmas," reminds Lupita.
Franky is unfazed and doesn't miss a beat.
"I'm okay with that."
The final link in this process was the creation of a gift card for Mom. The kids would dictate what they wanted to say on the card, Lupita would write it out on a white board, and the kids would copy it. (Except for Jasmine. "YOU write it," she ordered me.)
All the kids at the table were hard at work copying their personalized greetings:
"Merry Christmas Mom."
"This is for you, Mom."
"Feliz Navidad, Mami."
"Happy Holidays Mom."
"I love you Mommy."
So Lupita asks Franky what he wants to write on his mother's gift card.
"Happy Halloween," replies Franky.
"But Franky... it's Christmas," reminds Lupita.
Franky is unfazed and doesn't miss a beat.
"I'm okay with that."
Sunday, December 10, 2006
No Tip for the Newspaper Dude
Here is the note I plan to enclose in the fake Christmas card lodged into my L.A. Times when it arrives sometime this week:
Dear Newspaper Dude:
I am in receipt of your thoughtful and obviously "personalized" Christmas greeting and I bet you think that my response includes a cash gift, in acknowledgement of your "service" this year. I am a generous person and considered enclosing a crisp $10 bill - but cannot for the following reasons:
1. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, my "plastic wrapped" paper continues to land in the sprinklers at least 2 mornings out of 7. The plastic wrap does little good. Why do you bother? Call me a tree-hugger.
2. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, the paper ends up UNDER one of my vehicles at least once a week. This means that I, in my work clothes, must get down on my hands and knees at 6am on these currently frosty mornings, to shimmy under a vehicle to retrieve my paper. I don't like having to do this. Call me a wimp.
3. Wet papers are messy and often unreadable. My calls for replacement papers always mean that the readable version won't arrive until AFTER I've left for work. You know darn good and well I leave the house early - because when you deliver my replacement - I AM NOT HOME. Doofus. Call me cantankerous.
4. AND.. at least once a month my paper doesn't show up at all. This may not seem much to you - but I pay $52.00 every other month for this service and do appreciate timeliness. Call me picky and unreasonable.
When you remedy these issues I will enclose a cash gift commisurate with your improved service.
Sincerely,
KimKca
Dear Newspaper Dude:
I am in receipt of your thoughtful and obviously "personalized" Christmas greeting and I bet you think that my response includes a cash gift, in acknowledgement of your "service" this year. I am a generous person and considered enclosing a crisp $10 bill - but cannot for the following reasons:
1. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, my "plastic wrapped" paper continues to land in the sprinklers at least 2 mornings out of 7. The plastic wrap does little good. Why do you bother? Call me a tree-hugger.
2. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, the paper ends up UNDER one of my vehicles at least once a week. This means that I, in my work clothes, must get down on my hands and knees at 6am on these currently frosty mornings, to shimmy under a vehicle to retrieve my paper. I don't like having to do this. Call me a wimp.
3. Wet papers are messy and often unreadable. My calls for replacement papers always mean that the readable version won't arrive until AFTER I've left for work. You know darn good and well I leave the house early - because when you deliver my replacement - I AM NOT HOME. Doofus. Call me cantankerous.
4. AND.. at least once a month my paper doesn't show up at all. This may not seem much to you - but I pay $52.00 every other month for this service and do appreciate timeliness. Call me picky and unreasonable.
When you remedy these issues I will enclose a cash gift commisurate with your improved service.
Sincerely,
KimKca
Friday, December 08, 2006
Poinsettia Parts?
We have been making My Poinsettia Book in class, one page per day. This is part of our ELA and ELD lessons for the week.
Today, the kids had to cut out 4 poinsettia leaves from construction paper and glue them onto the page, then add the cut-up text: The leaves are green.
After several reminders, Dominique finally came over to my table and began cutting out the leaves. After gluing down the text, she arranged the leaves artfully on the page. I asked Dominique to come over to me and read the book to me - so I could check the correctness and her developing concepts of print. I noticed that she had glued the arch-shaped scraps from her cut-out leaves to the opposite page.
"Dominique," I asked patiently. "What part of the poinsettia are these?"
Dominique carefully caressed each one and then looked at me seriously, as if she felt very, very, sorry for me.
Then she leaned over and whispered: "The eyebrows."
Today, the kids had to cut out 4 poinsettia leaves from construction paper and glue them onto the page, then add the cut-up text: The leaves are green.
After several reminders, Dominique finally came over to my table and began cutting out the leaves. After gluing down the text, she arranged the leaves artfully on the page. I asked Dominique to come over to me and read the book to me - so I could check the correctness and her developing concepts of print. I noticed that she had glued the arch-shaped scraps from her cut-out leaves to the opposite page.
"Dominique," I asked patiently. "What part of the poinsettia are these?"
Dominique carefully caressed each one and then looked at me seriously, as if she felt very, very, sorry for me.
Then she leaned over and whispered: "The eyebrows."
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The "Little P.E. Lady"
Most of you know that my school has been under Nazi-review the past few years and in addition to the usual Nazi Crew coming in to wag fingers at us, we had a state team come in to do a once-over on our overall program. They used to call it Program Quality Review but now it has a new name and a new acronym.
So Janice, my principal, has been sweating bullets because she knows that our P.E. "program" (rolling on the floor trying not to lose my liver here) leaves a lot to be desired. Not that she really wants to DO anything about it, but she is tired of being "dinged" for stuff. She went to some meeting to let administrators know in advance what this Gestapo Review team is looking for - and she came away quaking in her pointy shoes over the "little P.E. lady."
Apparently this lady wants to see lesson plans, in plan books. She wants a prescribed curriculum that adheres to the California State Standards and she wants those kids SHIP SHAPE and having P.E. every waking minute they aren't learning to read or using the bathroom.
So you know what rolls downhill and the next thing we know there is a fire-drill of the "P.E. in the Planbook" sort. Whether or not you actually DO it seems open to interpretation - but it needs to be in the book and done often enough that the kids don't say "huh?" when asked about P.E.
I have worried about this myself - feeling less than exemplary as a teacher of P.E., I have asked for a curriculum or at least a Binder o' Suggestions. But nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about S.P.A.R.K. P.E.... they have handy little binders chock full of suggestions. Nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about Sue, my sister the P.E. Guru who is willing to come down here FREE and inservice the staff. I sensed a great big YAWN from Janice's office. At least I think it was a yawn since I never heard from her about it.
I sat down with Janice and waved my arms wildly about the crap that is served to our students disguised as school lunches - and was told this was "a battle you will not win." Not that she doesn't agree. But she doesn't eat school lunches.
So, we all had to live in fear today that the "little P.E. lady" would come in with her Nike sweatsuit and $100 running shoes and brightly colored lanyard with a great big shiny whistle attached. I pictured a cross between some Asian dominatrix and Richard Simmons, 5'1" and all of 100 pounds soaking wet - with buns of steel and a finely cut bicep. I figured she would make us all drop and give her twenty.
Well, friends, I gotta tell you.... if I'd been drinking a soda it would have shot out my nose when I saw this "little P.E. lady." If this lady is little, then I'm Thumbelina. I think it would be generous of me to say that this lady's pants size probably rivals the age range of my two sons. She didn't have a whistle - only a clipboard and she apparently loves to count minutes because our kids only got 10 minutes of actual movement time during their hour of P.E. today. (Heaven help poor Kenny tomorrow.) I have to admire her for standing out there for an hour during an icy windstorm, painstakingly counting minutes.
We will be "dinged" she reported in her most severe voice, because 85% of our 5th graders are at risk for heart disease. We do a crappy job of teaching P.E. and she really wants us to know about it.
My mind flashed back to Arroyo Seco Junior High School and my P.E. teacher, Mrs. Hammond, who had a pot belly that rivaled any solid 8-month pregnancy, and liked to scream at us during calisthentics in between drags on her Pall Mall.
If this lady has had ANY exercise in the past year, it has been a walk through the parking lot when everybody and their mother decided to beat her to the grocery store.
I did speak up, of course. I talked about the poor food choices and the necessity for staff development. I didn't mention the apparent dichotomy between HER and her JOB.
She "thanked me for sharing" and then wrote something on her clipboard.
I went an extra ten minutes on the treadmill tonight - just for good measure.
So Janice, my principal, has been sweating bullets because she knows that our P.E. "program" (rolling on the floor trying not to lose my liver here) leaves a lot to be desired. Not that she really wants to DO anything about it, but she is tired of being "dinged" for stuff. She went to some meeting to let administrators know in advance what this Gestapo Review team is looking for - and she came away quaking in her pointy shoes over the "little P.E. lady."
Apparently this lady wants to see lesson plans, in plan books. She wants a prescribed curriculum that adheres to the California State Standards and she wants those kids SHIP SHAPE and having P.E. every waking minute they aren't learning to read or using the bathroom.
So you know what rolls downhill and the next thing we know there is a fire-drill of the "P.E. in the Planbook" sort. Whether or not you actually DO it seems open to interpretation - but it needs to be in the book and done often enough that the kids don't say "huh?" when asked about P.E.
I have worried about this myself - feeling less than exemplary as a teacher of P.E., I have asked for a curriculum or at least a Binder o' Suggestions. But nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about S.P.A.R.K. P.E.... they have handy little binders chock full of suggestions. Nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about Sue, my sister the P.E. Guru who is willing to come down here FREE and inservice the staff. I sensed a great big YAWN from Janice's office. At least I think it was a yawn since I never heard from her about it.
I sat down with Janice and waved my arms wildly about the crap that is served to our students disguised as school lunches - and was told this was "a battle you will not win." Not that she doesn't agree. But she doesn't eat school lunches.
So, we all had to live in fear today that the "little P.E. lady" would come in with her Nike sweatsuit and $100 running shoes and brightly colored lanyard with a great big shiny whistle attached. I pictured a cross between some Asian dominatrix and Richard Simmons, 5'1" and all of 100 pounds soaking wet - with buns of steel and a finely cut bicep. I figured she would make us all drop and give her twenty.
Well, friends, I gotta tell you.... if I'd been drinking a soda it would have shot out my nose when I saw this "little P.E. lady." If this lady is little, then I'm Thumbelina. I think it would be generous of me to say that this lady's pants size probably rivals the age range of my two sons. She didn't have a whistle - only a clipboard and she apparently loves to count minutes because our kids only got 10 minutes of actual movement time during their hour of P.E. today. (Heaven help poor Kenny tomorrow.) I have to admire her for standing out there for an hour during an icy windstorm, painstakingly counting minutes.
We will be "dinged" she reported in her most severe voice, because 85% of our 5th graders are at risk for heart disease. We do a crappy job of teaching P.E. and she really wants us to know about it.
My mind flashed back to Arroyo Seco Junior High School and my P.E. teacher, Mrs. Hammond, who had a pot belly that rivaled any solid 8-month pregnancy, and liked to scream at us during calisthentics in between drags on her Pall Mall.
If this lady has had ANY exercise in the past year, it has been a walk through the parking lot when everybody and their mother decided to beat her to the grocery store.
I did speak up, of course. I talked about the poor food choices and the necessity for staff development. I didn't mention the apparent dichotomy between HER and her JOB.
She "thanked me for sharing" and then wrote something on her clipboard.
I went an extra ten minutes on the treadmill tonight - just for good measure.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Dad's Birthday
Today is my dad's birthday. On this day in 1938, my grandparents welcomed into the world, gave him a good family name, and proceeded to give him a good childhood.
How does anyone really determine what a "good life" is? Did he live a good life or did he not? How to measure such a thing - that indeterminable quality that defines a life as having been well-lived?
If we measure by accomplishments, we could balance positives by degree. A good job, a loving wife, children, and a head full of hair. But is that enough?
If we measure by pursuits, we can look at life-long literacy that translated into a love of books and curiosity about many things. He loved a good conversation and could entertain people for hours with his wit, knowledge, and good humor. He loved the "manly pursuits" modeled for him by his father and uncle - strong, decent men of integrity who worked hard all their lives and enjoyed outdoor pursuits and working with their hands.
My father certainly didn't lack for looks. Until the day he died that man looked good. Women watched him and on what he would say were too many occasions in his life, he watched back. His weight problem just wasn't an issue. He still looked good - and therein lies one of the differences between men and women.
Did he courageously fight his demons? Those addictions that dogged him relentlessly his whole life? I think he did put up the fight - but something inside him just couldn't be convinced that tenacity needed a hold here - that sticking to something required more than good-looks and a winning smile. He had been beaten by them all his life - and not tasted success. To taste that success might have made all the difference. But how are we to know?
My father was a man of voracious appetite, telling one of his best friends that he "just couldn't stop" and push the plate away. When he was briefly successful, he was miserable - the demons just kept gnawing. So he opted for pills and surgery - what he perceived to be the "reasonable" way out. Medically speaking, I suppose it was - but was it the right way? The only way? In the end, did those drugs for weight loss contribute to his death? They are easy to blame.
And the drugs and alcohol - now there's an elephant in the livingroom! Drugs and alcohol - twin demons who took up residence with my father early in his life and steered him away from the very accomplishments he would have used to gauge his life in years to come. Drugs for pain, alcohol for release - from what?
Did my dad think he didn't measure up to my grandfather's standards? Did my grandfather ever take him to task for being weak in this way? Or did he remain taciturn and take refuge in his garage? These things I do not know. He certainly couldn't have been pleased - these were never behaviors the firefighter and cabinet maker pursued. He liked fast cars - but gave them up when one damn near killed his son. (Did he blame my dad for crashing that Austin-Healy? Or did he blame the car? Did my father feel blamed? By the time the story got to me it was a family legend. Humorous. Innocent.)
My father battled depression his whole life. Nobody discussed it. Nobody talked about it. Nobody petted or dressed the elephant in the living room. This depression was chemical and he came by it naturally - his mother assuaged hers with alcohol every evening of her life. (But always after 5:00pm.) His maternal grandfather was apparently quite the drinker and left deep and abiding wounds that his family will never discuss. To discuss it would be admitting weakness - moral weakness, not physical - after all, if you ask God to cure your affliction and it isn't cured, then you just didn't ask hard enough.
He was the most intelligent man I know. This sounds grandiose - after all, I've met many intelligent people. So take it with a grain of salt. But he was extremely smart in so many ways. What options this man had! Talk about the path not taken! A true scotsman lament - the would have beens. The coulda-shouldas. My father regretted many things. He told me this. He promised me he would wean off the pain-killers and I do believe he was trying. He supposedly stopped drinking but I have heard otherwise - and this is something best not discussed, right? What about that other road? The road that would have him sitting in his chair in South Pasadena right now and some pile of ash in a livingroom shrine.
So how to measure the man - this very fallible man born on this day 68 years ago in Glendale, California, to very loving parents and a warm, extended family?
I can only measure him by the depth of my love for him. I always forgave him - from the first days of my life he was never held accountable. I adored the man would forgive him anything. I miss him terribly and want to call him up almost everyday and tell him something, relate some tidbit to him, share a book, tell a joke. I miss him with a pain and a void that is unending.
I watch these psychic shows on television and fantasize that he is around me, watching me, wanting to tell me things. What would he tell me?
I wait for inevitable dreams of the man, since I have dreamed a lot in the past few years. But he has shown up twice. Once comically - the details I won't divulge but it was vintage dad, telling me he "couldn't go." The other was more recent - he drove up looking like my favorite professor and then put on sunglasses and became my dad - who walked by me without looking at me while those sunglasses got bigger and bigger and I'm thinking "Hobo Kelly" glasses. But this wasn't a funny dream.
I wish a happy birthday to the memory of the man because I can't tell him directly anymore. He is a pile of ash sitting in a shrine in a dark and sad apartment. He is surrounded by the detritus of his life - his things - the possessions that somehow link him this world in some tenuous and sad way. These things that we hold and caress in an attempt to conjure up the essence of the man, thinking, "He touched this. He touched this."
I am sad, bitter, and angry. I am these things because he should have been with me a lot longer. He shouldn't have died when he did. He was killed by his weaknesses - and what kind of justice is that? Where is the justice in the world when a man unable to control his appetites, his addictions, his needs - is done in by these very things? Definitely a human condition.
I miss my dad. I love him still. I wish a happy, happy birthday.
How does anyone really determine what a "good life" is? Did he live a good life or did he not? How to measure such a thing - that indeterminable quality that defines a life as having been well-lived?
If we measure by accomplishments, we could balance positives by degree. A good job, a loving wife, children, and a head full of hair. But is that enough?
If we measure by pursuits, we can look at life-long literacy that translated into a love of books and curiosity about many things. He loved a good conversation and could entertain people for hours with his wit, knowledge, and good humor. He loved the "manly pursuits" modeled for him by his father and uncle - strong, decent men of integrity who worked hard all their lives and enjoyed outdoor pursuits and working with their hands.
My father certainly didn't lack for looks. Until the day he died that man looked good. Women watched him and on what he would say were too many occasions in his life, he watched back. His weight problem just wasn't an issue. He still looked good - and therein lies one of the differences between men and women.
Did he courageously fight his demons? Those addictions that dogged him relentlessly his whole life? I think he did put up the fight - but something inside him just couldn't be convinced that tenacity needed a hold here - that sticking to something required more than good-looks and a winning smile. He had been beaten by them all his life - and not tasted success. To taste that success might have made all the difference. But how are we to know?
My father was a man of voracious appetite, telling one of his best friends that he "just couldn't stop" and push the plate away. When he was briefly successful, he was miserable - the demons just kept gnawing. So he opted for pills and surgery - what he perceived to be the "reasonable" way out. Medically speaking, I suppose it was - but was it the right way? The only way? In the end, did those drugs for weight loss contribute to his death? They are easy to blame.
And the drugs and alcohol - now there's an elephant in the livingroom! Drugs and alcohol - twin demons who took up residence with my father early in his life and steered him away from the very accomplishments he would have used to gauge his life in years to come. Drugs for pain, alcohol for release - from what?
Did my dad think he didn't measure up to my grandfather's standards? Did my grandfather ever take him to task for being weak in this way? Or did he remain taciturn and take refuge in his garage? These things I do not know. He certainly couldn't have been pleased - these were never behaviors the firefighter and cabinet maker pursued. He liked fast cars - but gave them up when one damn near killed his son. (Did he blame my dad for crashing that Austin-Healy? Or did he blame the car? Did my father feel blamed? By the time the story got to me it was a family legend. Humorous. Innocent.)
My father battled depression his whole life. Nobody discussed it. Nobody talked about it. Nobody petted or dressed the elephant in the living room. This depression was chemical and he came by it naturally - his mother assuaged hers with alcohol every evening of her life. (But always after 5:00pm.) His maternal grandfather was apparently quite the drinker and left deep and abiding wounds that his family will never discuss. To discuss it would be admitting weakness - moral weakness, not physical - after all, if you ask God to cure your affliction and it isn't cured, then you just didn't ask hard enough.
He was the most intelligent man I know. This sounds grandiose - after all, I've met many intelligent people. So take it with a grain of salt. But he was extremely smart in so many ways. What options this man had! Talk about the path not taken! A true scotsman lament - the would have beens. The coulda-shouldas. My father regretted many things. He told me this. He promised me he would wean off the pain-killers and I do believe he was trying. He supposedly stopped drinking but I have heard otherwise - and this is something best not discussed, right? What about that other road? The road that would have him sitting in his chair in South Pasadena right now and some pile of ash in a livingroom shrine.
So how to measure the man - this very fallible man born on this day 68 years ago in Glendale, California, to very loving parents and a warm, extended family?
I can only measure him by the depth of my love for him. I always forgave him - from the first days of my life he was never held accountable. I adored the man would forgive him anything. I miss him terribly and want to call him up almost everyday and tell him something, relate some tidbit to him, share a book, tell a joke. I miss him with a pain and a void that is unending.
I watch these psychic shows on television and fantasize that he is around me, watching me, wanting to tell me things. What would he tell me?
I wait for inevitable dreams of the man, since I have dreamed a lot in the past few years. But he has shown up twice. Once comically - the details I won't divulge but it was vintage dad, telling me he "couldn't go." The other was more recent - he drove up looking like my favorite professor and then put on sunglasses and became my dad - who walked by me without looking at me while those sunglasses got bigger and bigger and I'm thinking "Hobo Kelly" glasses. But this wasn't a funny dream.
I wish a happy birthday to the memory of the man because I can't tell him directly anymore. He is a pile of ash sitting in a shrine in a dark and sad apartment. He is surrounded by the detritus of his life - his things - the possessions that somehow link him this world in some tenuous and sad way. These things that we hold and caress in an attempt to conjure up the essence of the man, thinking, "He touched this. He touched this."
I am sad, bitter, and angry. I am these things because he should have been with me a lot longer. He shouldn't have died when he did. He was killed by his weaknesses - and what kind of justice is that? Where is the justice in the world when a man unable to control his appetites, his addictions, his needs - is done in by these very things? Definitely a human condition.
I miss my dad. I love him still. I wish a happy, happy birthday.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Seamus and the Trash Can
My long-haired dachshund, Seamus, has a fascination with the downstairs bathroom trash can. Once upon a time, he found treasure in there and that was enough to compel him to knock the can over every single day of his life.
I don't know what the treasure was, but - knowing Seamus, it was probably something disgusting. Each day he seeks this elusive treasure by knocking the can over and rifling the contents before walking away, tail between his legs in disapointment.
The can is round and metal - with raised designs to emulate something antique. It is a cream color and very attractive. It is also very loud when it topples - so we are clued in right away that the bathroom floor is littered. But it holds very little on a daily basis - used tissue, an occasional soap wrapper, and dryer lint. The really good stuff is upstairs in the master bathroom or the boy's bathroom - but for some reason known only to Seamus and his cognitive deficits - he doesn't bother those.
Seamus is my dog with little brain. I always say that this is probably a blessing for him since No Brain = No Headaches and Seamus is a very happy dog. Happy, but tenacious. He always looks for lizards when we hike, cats when we walk, and treasure in the downstairs bathroom trash can every single morning.
He rarely finds either - but that never stops him from trying.
I don't know what the treasure was, but - knowing Seamus, it was probably something disgusting. Each day he seeks this elusive treasure by knocking the can over and rifling the contents before walking away, tail between his legs in disapointment.
The can is round and metal - with raised designs to emulate something antique. It is a cream color and very attractive. It is also very loud when it topples - so we are clued in right away that the bathroom floor is littered. But it holds very little on a daily basis - used tissue, an occasional soap wrapper, and dryer lint. The really good stuff is upstairs in the master bathroom or the boy's bathroom - but for some reason known only to Seamus and his cognitive deficits - he doesn't bother those.
Seamus is my dog with little brain. I always say that this is probably a blessing for him since No Brain = No Headaches and Seamus is a very happy dog. Happy, but tenacious. He always looks for lizards when we hike, cats when we walk, and treasure in the downstairs bathroom trash can every single morning.
He rarely finds either - but that never stops him from trying.
Friday, October 20, 2006
You want fries with that?
Considering the gosh-awful week I've had with my Kinders, I am considering a change of profession. I have until June to practice asking patrons if they would like fries with that. What do you think?
****
Concerned: "Would you REALLY like fries with that? Or are you eating AT something?"
Annoyed: "Don't tell me... you want FRIES with that."
Incredulous: "You want FRIES with THAT?"
Sweet: "Okay, hon.. you want some fries to go with that?"
Motherly: "Honey, you may want some fries to go with that."
Grandmotherly: "Look dear... some fries would go nicely with that."
Bitter and Motherly: "You don't REALLY want fries with that, right?"
Righteous: "Um.. you don't NEED fries with that."
Prissy: "Fries? French fries? With THAT?"
Condescending: "I suppose that you want Fatty Old Fries with that?"
Terse: "Fries?"
Overbearing: "Okay, you want some fries to go with that. And a shake. And one of those lovely salads. And you need extra napkins. And some wipes for your hands because heaven knows you need wipes for those hands and here is an extra lid in case you lose the first one and DON'T forget to get a straw. Here. Here's a straw."
Surprised: "You WANT fries with that? REALLY?"
Elated: "Stupendous! You DO want fries with that! Wonderful! I am so very pleased! Fries it will be. With that."
Analytical: "Okay. I am thinking that you might like some fries to go with that. Am I right? Have you examined WHY you want fries to go with that? I mean, really THOUGHT about it?"
Bossy: "Fries with that."
Victimly: "Yeah, YOU could have fries with that. ME, I could never, ever, get fries with that."
Militarily: "You're gettin' fries with that."
;-)Kim
****
Concerned: "Would you REALLY like fries with that? Or are you eating AT something?"
Annoyed: "Don't tell me... you want FRIES with that."
Incredulous: "You want FRIES with THAT?"
Sweet: "Okay, hon.. you want some fries to go with that?"
Motherly: "Honey, you may want some fries to go with that."
Grandmotherly: "Look dear... some fries would go nicely with that."
Bitter and Motherly: "You don't REALLY want fries with that, right?"
Righteous: "Um.. you don't NEED fries with that."
Prissy: "Fries? French fries? With THAT?"
Condescending: "I suppose that you want Fatty Old Fries with that?"
Terse: "Fries?"
Overbearing: "Okay, you want some fries to go with that. And a shake. And one of those lovely salads. And you need extra napkins. And some wipes for your hands because heaven knows you need wipes for those hands and here is an extra lid in case you lose the first one and DON'T forget to get a straw. Here. Here's a straw."
Surprised: "You WANT fries with that? REALLY?"
Elated: "Stupendous! You DO want fries with that! Wonderful! I am so very pleased! Fries it will be. With that."
Analytical: "Okay. I am thinking that you might like some fries to go with that. Am I right? Have you examined WHY you want fries to go with that? I mean, really THOUGHT about it?"
Bossy: "Fries with that."
Victimly: "Yeah, YOU could have fries with that. ME, I could never, ever, get fries with that."
Militarily: "You're gettin' fries with that."
;-)Kim
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Why Be Redundant?
Every year the kids and I create The Tactile Alphabet Book. This is a book created by gluing something touchable to the page and accompanying it with a sentence strip that is framed like this: "___ is for ____." For example, 'Gg is for grass'. We generally complete one page a day.
So, you have to picture it. Each day the kids make their way to my table during our Group Time. We have already reviewed the letter of the day, sang UP to the letter of the day, and acted out the sentence with word cards. We've counted the words in the sentence, looked for letters we know, and practiced the sound that is spelled by the letter. We do this almost every day. This means I cut up almost 20 sentences per day and repeat the process 26 times, not including the cover title.
So last week one of our letters was Qq. It was a big hit, since Dominique, the Class Queen, has a 'q' in her lovely and long name. The kids cut out photocopies of quarters and glued them down to the page, then carefully placed the cut up sentence at the bottom: Q q is for quarters. We discussed how using one quarter would change the word to 'quarter.'
As luck would have it, 5 kids were seated at the table and all 5 happened to finish at the same time. Each day the kids have to read the sentence back to me before setting it on the floor to try. This means I listen to and watch 20 kids read aloud 20 sentences to me each day for 26 pages.
"Okay, Ethan. Read it back to me."
As expected, Ethan dutifully touched once under each word and recited, "Q q is for quarters."
"Alex? Read it back to me."
"Q q is for quarters."
"Carlos?"
"Q q is for quarters."
"Bernie?"
"Q q is for quarters."
"Genevieve?" (No response. Her head is in her hand. She looks put-upon, which is interesting since I am the one engaging in the repetitive behavior.)
"Gena? Genevieve? What does yours say?"
Gena dramatically shrugs her shoulders. Then she responds in her most put-upon of voices,
"The same as theirs!"
;-)Kim
So, you have to picture it. Each day the kids make their way to my table during our Group Time. We have already reviewed the letter of the day, sang UP to the letter of the day, and acted out the sentence with word cards. We've counted the words in the sentence, looked for letters we know, and practiced the sound that is spelled by the letter. We do this almost every day. This means I cut up almost 20 sentences per day and repeat the process 26 times, not including the cover title.
So last week one of our letters was Qq. It was a big hit, since Dominique, the Class Queen, has a 'q' in her lovely and long name. The kids cut out photocopies of quarters and glued them down to the page, then carefully placed the cut up sentence at the bottom: Q q is for quarters. We discussed how using one quarter would change the word to 'quarter.'
As luck would have it, 5 kids were seated at the table and all 5 happened to finish at the same time. Each day the kids have to read the sentence back to me before setting it on the floor to try. This means I listen to and watch 20 kids read aloud 20 sentences to me each day for 26 pages.
"Okay, Ethan. Read it back to me."
As expected, Ethan dutifully touched once under each word and recited, "Q q is for quarters."
"Alex? Read it back to me."
"Q q is for quarters."
"Carlos?"
"Q q is for quarters."
"Bernie?"
"Q q is for quarters."
"Genevieve?" (No response. Her head is in her hand. She looks put-upon, which is interesting since I am the one engaging in the repetitive behavior.)
"Gena? Genevieve? What does yours say?"
Gena dramatically shrugs her shoulders. Then she responds in her most put-upon of voices,
"The same as theirs!"
;-)Kim
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Dominique and the Sweater
We were having a very productive "big book" session this morning - the kids were extremely involved and 'reading' with me with much enthusiasm. I was pleased with this on-task behavior and visible interest of the children.
Except for Dominique, who was enamored with her lovely lavendar sweater - worn for picture day but much too hot, as she loudly complained, to actually WEAR. So, I asked her to hang it up. She did. Slowly. The first time.
But somehow, the sweater ended up in Dominique's possession again - and she was twisting it, turning it, manipulating it, swinging it, and just generally ENJOYING the sweater WAY too much. I have learned to NOT ask her to go hang anything back up once she is on the rug. The chances are real good I won't see her again for a long, long time. The drinking fountain, the bathroom, the scented soap, the paper towels, the cubbies - temptation is far too great.
"Dominique. Hold the sweater on your lap," I instructed. She did. For 8 seconds.
We proceeded to read about the adventures of Mrs. Wishy-Washy and her constantly dirty animals that needed to be washed. While the kids read with much enthusiasm about the dirty pig, cow, and duck, Dominique proceeded to 'wear' the lavendar sweater so that the sleeve was covering her eyes like a blindfold. Then she began bobbing her head around, in a perfect Stevie Wonder imitation.
I had a choice: Interrupt the flow of the dirty animals and their daily scrub, or deal with Dominique. Snapping my fingers at her did no good. Hissing "DOMINIQUE!" only caused her head to bob in my general direction. So, we kept reading. It was a pragmatic decision.
We finished the book and the kids begged for another one. I chose this transition time to hiss again at Dominique, "DOMINIQUE! Give me that sweater!"
Then several of the children began pawing the cover of the book to enthusiastically point out the letters they know - and Dominique resumed her Ray Charles routine with the sleeve of her sweater draped dashingly across her eyes.
Throughout the next book the kids were engaged and pretty much ignored Dominique's head-bobbing with the sweater. At times she was up on her knees - the climax of her performance.
When the book was finished I put my head in my hands and quietly said to Dominique, the child I am constantly redirecting, "Dominique. What do you think I am going to say to you now?"
She bobbed her head in my general direction and then loudly replied, "I don't know! I can't SEE!"
Except for Dominique, who was enamored with her lovely lavendar sweater - worn for picture day but much too hot, as she loudly complained, to actually WEAR. So, I asked her to hang it up. She did. Slowly. The first time.
But somehow, the sweater ended up in Dominique's possession again - and she was twisting it, turning it, manipulating it, swinging it, and just generally ENJOYING the sweater WAY too much. I have learned to NOT ask her to go hang anything back up once she is on the rug. The chances are real good I won't see her again for a long, long time. The drinking fountain, the bathroom, the scented soap, the paper towels, the cubbies - temptation is far too great.
"Dominique. Hold the sweater on your lap," I instructed. She did. For 8 seconds.
We proceeded to read about the adventures of Mrs. Wishy-Washy and her constantly dirty animals that needed to be washed. While the kids read with much enthusiasm about the dirty pig, cow, and duck, Dominique proceeded to 'wear' the lavendar sweater so that the sleeve was covering her eyes like a blindfold. Then she began bobbing her head around, in a perfect Stevie Wonder imitation.
I had a choice: Interrupt the flow of the dirty animals and their daily scrub, or deal with Dominique. Snapping my fingers at her did no good. Hissing "DOMINIQUE!" only caused her head to bob in my general direction. So, we kept reading. It was a pragmatic decision.
We finished the book and the kids begged for another one. I chose this transition time to hiss again at Dominique, "DOMINIQUE! Give me that sweater!"
Then several of the children began pawing the cover of the book to enthusiastically point out the letters they know - and Dominique resumed her Ray Charles routine with the sleeve of her sweater draped dashingly across her eyes.
Throughout the next book the kids were engaged and pretty much ignored Dominique's head-bobbing with the sweater. At times she was up on her knees - the climax of her performance.
When the book was finished I put my head in my hands and quietly said to Dominique, the child I am constantly redirecting, "Dominique. What do you think I am going to say to you now?"
She bobbed her head in my general direction and then loudly replied, "I don't know! I can't SEE!"
Monday, October 02, 2006
Following Directions
Following directions is always a huge issue for young children. Listening skills take a long time to develop and kindergarten teachers really need the patience of saints.
Today I found that the children DO listen, at least some of the time. Maybe the problem isn't so much the directions as the GIVING of the directions. This was obvious today.
The children are working on an autobiography. Our page today listed their favorite color. I passed out the clipboards and crayons and asked the children to look at the nice black outline of a crayon - so artfully placed on the page. At the top of the page is the sentence frame, "My favorite color is ________________."
After reminding them several times NOT to tap, bang, or snap their clipboards, I asked the kids to look into the crayon box and pull out their favorite color. "Don't TELL me," I said, "Show me!"
They did. I had them wave it around while I checked for complete compliance. Then I directed the children to color in the oversized black crayon outline.
Since it is the beginning of the year, I can't really expect them to write the color word in the sentence frame. But hey - I have high expectations and why not give it a try? Why not allow them to exceed their grasp, go for the gold, and really shine as STAR learners? Why not give them the opportunity to be successful - and copy the color word onto the sentence frame?
I set out huge color word cards. We had reviewed them before the activity started. I got a bunch of blank looks. Understanding just wasn't there.
Then I hit upon this marvelous idea.
"You know," I said in a conspiratorial tone, "the name of your favorite color is RIGHT THERE on the crayon."
I showed them on about a half dozen crayons where the color word could be found. A collective "ooh" and "ahh" went up from the rug and I was pleased. The busily began printing.
They put their finished papers on my table, as directed, and got ready to go home. After taking them to the bus, I returned to the classroom to see how well this little endeavor turned out.
Creatively printed in areas IN and AROUND the sentence frame on almost all my students' papers was one word:
"CRAYOLA"
Today I found that the children DO listen, at least some of the time. Maybe the problem isn't so much the directions as the GIVING of the directions. This was obvious today.
The children are working on an autobiography. Our page today listed their favorite color. I passed out the clipboards and crayons and asked the children to look at the nice black outline of a crayon - so artfully placed on the page. At the top of the page is the sentence frame, "My favorite color is ________________."
After reminding them several times NOT to tap, bang, or snap their clipboards, I asked the kids to look into the crayon box and pull out their favorite color. "Don't TELL me," I said, "Show me!"
They did. I had them wave it around while I checked for complete compliance. Then I directed the children to color in the oversized black crayon outline.
Since it is the beginning of the year, I can't really expect them to write the color word in the sentence frame. But hey - I have high expectations and why not give it a try? Why not allow them to exceed their grasp, go for the gold, and really shine as STAR learners? Why not give them the opportunity to be successful - and copy the color word onto the sentence frame?
I set out huge color word cards. We had reviewed them before the activity started. I got a bunch of blank looks. Understanding just wasn't there.
Then I hit upon this marvelous idea.
"You know," I said in a conspiratorial tone, "the name of your favorite color is RIGHT THERE on the crayon."
I showed them on about a half dozen crayons where the color word could be found. A collective "ooh" and "ahh" went up from the rug and I was pleased. The busily began printing.
They put their finished papers on my table, as directed, and got ready to go home. After taking them to the bus, I returned to the classroom to see how well this little endeavor turned out.
Creatively printed in areas IN and AROUND the sentence frame on almost all my students' papers was one word:
"CRAYOLA"
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Dominique and the Cow
Ethan, one of the boys in my new class, is not very impressed with the cafeteria. He will eat all the fresh fruit but often examines the entree and decides to leave well-enough alone.
One day last week he asked me about the origin of cafeteria food. I told him it comes to school on a truck. He then asked where the truck gets the food. (The way he said 'food' gives a good indication how he feels about the daily fare.) I told him they get it from the market.
A couple days later, Ethan asks me HOW the 'food' gets to the market. I told him about farms. AND.. seizing the teachable moment, I grabbed the Gail Gibbons Farming book and set the class down for an informative read-aloud session.
Now, these kids are real talkers and getting them settled down for a story takes an Act of Congress and a LOT of elegant body language on my part. Often, I experience success - and the kids tune in to the book. All at the same time.
The Farming book was a huge hit. Background information sprung forth as we discussed harrowing the fields and planting the crops and milking the cows.
COWS? Oh my goodness. If the Wilsona Kindergarten owned a cow it would be treated like the cows of India. The kids really, really, loved the discussion of the cows and their roles in bringing us milk, cheese, yogurt, and butter. You would think some of these kids actually OWNED cows, they were so enamored and so interested. (Eliza informed me that her family has "sheeps," not cows, unfortunately.)
The kids FINALLY settled down so I could continue my read-aloud. It was almost a perfect teaching moment, the kids were SO engaged.
All of the sudden a giant caterwaul of sound emerged from the rug. Since I was really into the book and the kids' responses to it, I was more than a bit annoyed to look up and see Dominique up on her knees, swaying around, making a long and dreadful "ooooooooooooo" sound.
"Dominique! WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING?" I asked in my most controlled teacher voice.
She looked at me like I was crazy. Like I hadn't been there the whole time.
"I'm being a cow!"
One day last week he asked me about the origin of cafeteria food. I told him it comes to school on a truck. He then asked where the truck gets the food. (The way he said 'food' gives a good indication how he feels about the daily fare.) I told him they get it from the market.
A couple days later, Ethan asks me HOW the 'food' gets to the market. I told him about farms. AND.. seizing the teachable moment, I grabbed the Gail Gibbons Farming book and set the class down for an informative read-aloud session.
Now, these kids are real talkers and getting them settled down for a story takes an Act of Congress and a LOT of elegant body language on my part. Often, I experience success - and the kids tune in to the book. All at the same time.
The Farming book was a huge hit. Background information sprung forth as we discussed harrowing the fields and planting the crops and milking the cows.
COWS? Oh my goodness. If the Wilsona Kindergarten owned a cow it would be treated like the cows of India. The kids really, really, loved the discussion of the cows and their roles in bringing us milk, cheese, yogurt, and butter. You would think some of these kids actually OWNED cows, they were so enamored and so interested. (Eliza informed me that her family has "sheeps," not cows, unfortunately.)
The kids FINALLY settled down so I could continue my read-aloud. It was almost a perfect teaching moment, the kids were SO engaged.
All of the sudden a giant caterwaul of sound emerged from the rug. Since I was really into the book and the kids' responses to it, I was more than a bit annoyed to look up and see Dominique up on her knees, swaying around, making a long and dreadful "ooooooooooooo" sound.
"Dominique! WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING?" I asked in my most controlled teacher voice.
She looked at me like I was crazy. Like I hadn't been there the whole time.
"I'm being a cow!"
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
How to Lose Your Mind in 11 Easy Steps
1. Type letter to parents and send it to print.
2. Walk to staff lounge to pick up letter and fill water bottle.
3. Fill water bottle from principal's private supply stashed in her office (but paid for by the school).
4. Leave water bottle on table while checking mailbox.
5. Leave cr*P in mailbox until tomorrow. Leave staff lounge.
6. Return to classroom door only to realize that water bottle is still on table.
7. Grumble to coworker about losing your mind and then go back to retrieve water bottle.
8. Return to classroom door and smack head in perfect "HEY I COULDA HAD A V-8!" motion. Grumble to different coworker about lost mind and return to staff lounge to retrieve the printed letter.
9. Search for paper to put in the empty paper tray so that letter can print. Wait patiently. When no letter appears, grumble to coworker about stupid computer, stupid printer, and inefficient, stupid networking system.
10. Find letter stashed in mailbox.
11. Return to classroom with letter, water bottle, and a look of complete chagrin upon face.
:-)Kim (who is bravely signing her name here.)
2. Walk to staff lounge to pick up letter and fill water bottle.
3. Fill water bottle from principal's private supply stashed in her office (but paid for by the school).
4. Leave water bottle on table while checking mailbox.
5. Leave cr*P in mailbox until tomorrow. Leave staff lounge.
6. Return to classroom door only to realize that water bottle is still on table.
7. Grumble to coworker about losing your mind and then go back to retrieve water bottle.
8. Return to classroom door and smack head in perfect "HEY I COULDA HAD A V-8!" motion. Grumble to different coworker about lost mind and return to staff lounge to retrieve the printed letter.
9. Search for paper to put in the empty paper tray so that letter can print. Wait patiently. When no letter appears, grumble to coworker about stupid computer, stupid printer, and inefficient, stupid networking system.
10. Find letter stashed in mailbox.
11. Return to classroom with letter, water bottle, and a look of complete chagrin upon face.
:-)Kim (who is bravely signing her name here.)
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Little Beans and Mom
My 71 year old mother has never been fond of animals. She put up with the occasional cat but always had this slight aversion to dogs. Dogs are messy and slobbery and mom abhors messes and slobberyness.
To her credit, she has tolerated my dogs very well. In keeping with dogly tradition everywhere, they adore her. When gramma comes to visit they bark greetings and then attempt to cover her with doggy smooches. She is a good sport about this. Then they sit on her and around her and gaze at her with pure canine devotion. If they are lucky, she MIGHT toss a ball or a squeaky toy.
What mom is never ready for is the rambunctious puppy. Luckily for her, Duke and Seamus were full-grown when they were adopted and Augie was such a mellow puppy there are times I am convinced that puppyhood just passed him by. She was with me when I picked up Max from a breeder in Canyon Country. But Max was neurotic from Day 1 - so that doesn't count. When Mom visited, Max hid behind the couch.
Little Beans was introduced to Mom while still in the holding stage - Shannon was holding him and Beans cowered and shot hateful glances at anyone and everyone who wasn't Shannon or Dustin. It took Beans almost a month to figure out that I was not an axe murderer and that I did, indeed, truly belong in my own house.
I wouldn't go so far as to say that Little Beans is unfriendly. He just doesn't like people. This goes for most people. So when Mom came for a visit I figured Little Beans would stay out of sight. In true dogly fashion, however, Beans figured out that his mere puppyness would make Mom frantic and he used it to his advantage. He LOVED Mom right away. He bounced right up to her and began the process of Dogly Devotion. Puppy smooches gave way to puppy bites all along the hair line. Since mom values her hair and hates puppy smooches you can imagine she wasn't thrilled.
"I will pet you if you just sit there," Mom intoned in her best Great-Gramma voice. I had to laugh. Beans has many positions: Jump, Bounce, Leap, Run, Canter, Crawl, and Backstep - but SIT? No way. It never happens.
When Little Beans finally settled down a BIT - there are gradients of Puppy Serenity - Dustin came into the room. Beans LIVES for Dustin. (Well, Dustin, Shannon, and Augie - in order of preference.) Dustin is a 21-year old college student. He is very mature. Most of the time.
But on this day, when Mom needed calm and tranquility after an hour of doggy greetings and doggy attention and hyper-attentions of Little Beans, Dustin began playing with his puppy. Balls were thrown. Chases ensued. More toys were strewn about. High-pitched, ecstatic barks filled the air. Mom looked a bit stressed.
Our conversation was constantly punctuated by the leaping and bouncing antics of Little Beans, who found it more than necessary to stop by and smooch Mom about 2.5 minutes - and then bite at her hairline. Each time Mom reacted the same way - shrieking and saying, "No, no, no" as if Little Beans understands English. Seamus decided to get into the act by defending Mom and this involved much posturing and growling. Mom didn't feel defended at all. She was convinced that Seamus would just as readily attack HER.
When Mom left, Dustin and I were embarking on a walk - to help Little Beans expend some of this energy.
I think Mom went home and showered.
To her credit, she has tolerated my dogs very well. In keeping with dogly tradition everywhere, they adore her. When gramma comes to visit they bark greetings and then attempt to cover her with doggy smooches. She is a good sport about this. Then they sit on her and around her and gaze at her with pure canine devotion. If they are lucky, she MIGHT toss a ball or a squeaky toy.
What mom is never ready for is the rambunctious puppy. Luckily for her, Duke and Seamus were full-grown when they were adopted and Augie was such a mellow puppy there are times I am convinced that puppyhood just passed him by. She was with me when I picked up Max from a breeder in Canyon Country. But Max was neurotic from Day 1 - so that doesn't count. When Mom visited, Max hid behind the couch.
Little Beans was introduced to Mom while still in the holding stage - Shannon was holding him and Beans cowered and shot hateful glances at anyone and everyone who wasn't Shannon or Dustin. It took Beans almost a month to figure out that I was not an axe murderer and that I did, indeed, truly belong in my own house.
I wouldn't go so far as to say that Little Beans is unfriendly. He just doesn't like people. This goes for most people. So when Mom came for a visit I figured Little Beans would stay out of sight. In true dogly fashion, however, Beans figured out that his mere puppyness would make Mom frantic and he used it to his advantage. He LOVED Mom right away. He bounced right up to her and began the process of Dogly Devotion. Puppy smooches gave way to puppy bites all along the hair line. Since mom values her hair and hates puppy smooches you can imagine she wasn't thrilled.
"I will pet you if you just sit there," Mom intoned in her best Great-Gramma voice. I had to laugh. Beans has many positions: Jump, Bounce, Leap, Run, Canter, Crawl, and Backstep - but SIT? No way. It never happens.
When Little Beans finally settled down a BIT - there are gradients of Puppy Serenity - Dustin came into the room. Beans LIVES for Dustin. (Well, Dustin, Shannon, and Augie - in order of preference.) Dustin is a 21-year old college student. He is very mature. Most of the time.
But on this day, when Mom needed calm and tranquility after an hour of doggy greetings and doggy attention and hyper-attentions of Little Beans, Dustin began playing with his puppy. Balls were thrown. Chases ensued. More toys were strewn about. High-pitched, ecstatic barks filled the air. Mom looked a bit stressed.
Our conversation was constantly punctuated by the leaping and bouncing antics of Little Beans, who found it more than necessary to stop by and smooch Mom about 2.5 minutes - and then bite at her hairline. Each time Mom reacted the same way - shrieking and saying, "No, no, no" as if Little Beans understands English. Seamus decided to get into the act by defending Mom and this involved much posturing and growling. Mom didn't feel defended at all. She was convinced that Seamus would just as readily attack HER.
When Mom left, Dustin and I were embarking on a walk - to help Little Beans expend some of this energy.
I think Mom went home and showered.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
The Sharpener Boy
Let me tell you about Andrew. He had a possessive and obsessive relationship with the pencil sharpener - an electric one I bought at Staples when I noticed the classroom didn't have a sharpener. Andrew's affair make it necessary for me to buy a SECOND sharpener.
Brand new pencils became stubs within hours at the hands of dear Andrew, who would sharpen morning, noon, and night if I allowed it. Only dedication and tenacity on my part saved a grove of trees and reined in the unsated passions of dear, pencil-loving Andrew.
Andrew LOVED pencils and bought them constantly. He wheedled money from mom, dad, his grandparents, siblings, friends, neighbors, relatives, and perfect strangers. His collection was almost inspiring. And each morning, after arrival, Andrew began the long and loving routine of sharpening. And sharpening. And sharpening.
EACH pencil had to have a pinpoint, dagger-like sharpness. And EACH pencil he owned had to be sharpened. There was no rest or serenity for Andrew or any of us unless the entire collection was JUST SO.
I took to foraging in his desk at night for pencils in order to reduce his collection. I told him that only ____ pencils could be sharpened at a time and that he was hogging the sharpener. HE took to coming in earlier in order to use the sharpener while it was unattended and gloriously HIS alone. He took to counting his pencils because TOO MANY of them, in his opinion, ended up in the pencil basket and in the desk of classmates. He found this suspicious and unsettling.
His mother began coming into the classroom to reclaim the quarters Andrew liberated from her purse in order to feed his habit. She berated him, threatened him, grounded him, and even bought him a PEN. Andrew didn't miss a beat. Quarters, for a resilient and fixated kid like Andrew, were always obtainable.
I took to hiding the pencil machine, which was located in a nearby hallway. People complained. I didn't care. The PTO sent out a search party. I had to get devious. Several sympathetic teachers and I played "Musical Pencil Machine." Andrew began to get pale and shaky. He began foraging for pencils on the ground and in his classmates' desks. He lined them up by size and sorted them by color. The withdrawals were downright painful for him. But I was determined!
The day I caught him washing his pencils, I conceded defeat.
I bought a second sharpener and told everybody this was just for ANDREW. The class was relieved. I told Andrew he could sharpen before school, before recess, after lunch, and after school. He agreed that cutting down was a good thing. He also agreed to buy only one pencil a week. We shook on it.
When Andrew moved to 2nd grade, I sent the sharpener with him.
The teacher looked perplexed. She has NO idea.
:-)Kim
Brand new pencils became stubs within hours at the hands of dear Andrew, who would sharpen morning, noon, and night if I allowed it. Only dedication and tenacity on my part saved a grove of trees and reined in the unsated passions of dear, pencil-loving Andrew.
Andrew LOVED pencils and bought them constantly. He wheedled money from mom, dad, his grandparents, siblings, friends, neighbors, relatives, and perfect strangers. His collection was almost inspiring. And each morning, after arrival, Andrew began the long and loving routine of sharpening. And sharpening. And sharpening.
EACH pencil had to have a pinpoint, dagger-like sharpness. And EACH pencil he owned had to be sharpened. There was no rest or serenity for Andrew or any of us unless the entire collection was JUST SO.
I took to foraging in his desk at night for pencils in order to reduce his collection. I told him that only ____ pencils could be sharpened at a time and that he was hogging the sharpener. HE took to coming in earlier in order to use the sharpener while it was unattended and gloriously HIS alone. He took to counting his pencils because TOO MANY of them, in his opinion, ended up in the pencil basket and in the desk of classmates. He found this suspicious and unsettling.
His mother began coming into the classroom to reclaim the quarters Andrew liberated from her purse in order to feed his habit. She berated him, threatened him, grounded him, and even bought him a PEN. Andrew didn't miss a beat. Quarters, for a resilient and fixated kid like Andrew, were always obtainable.
I took to hiding the pencil machine, which was located in a nearby hallway. People complained. I didn't care. The PTO sent out a search party. I had to get devious. Several sympathetic teachers and I played "Musical Pencil Machine." Andrew began to get pale and shaky. He began foraging for pencils on the ground and in his classmates' desks. He lined them up by size and sorted them by color. The withdrawals were downright painful for him. But I was determined!
The day I caught him washing his pencils, I conceded defeat.
I bought a second sharpener and told everybody this was just for ANDREW. The class was relieved. I told Andrew he could sharpen before school, before recess, after lunch, and after school. He agreed that cutting down was a good thing. He also agreed to buy only one pencil a week. We shook on it.
When Andrew moved to 2nd grade, I sent the sharpener with him.
The teacher looked perplexed. She has NO idea.
:-)Kim
Friday, September 01, 2006
My "Flex" Day
Today I decided to work at home. I brought home a TON of work to prep for next week. I also brought the book binding machine, my new RED plan book, and loads of good intentions. I've never had a RED plan book before. I feel very festive about this.
As you know, the classroom was packed to the gills with mostly-useless stuff and I spent a lot of time last summer cleaning it out. The end of last school year is a huge haze to me - so when I left the last day of school I expected that ML would take her stuff and leave.
Well.......she did LEAVE. The stuff ? Nooks, crannies, boxes, tubs, bags, shelves... full of STUFF. That giant 'windy' sound you heard in mid-August was ME realizing that YET AGAIN I have to clean out a room before preparing for a school year.
The good news is that it is almost done. The lone exception is the top of MY filing cabinet (who has time to file your own stuff when HER stuff is permeating the place?), and the tops of the storage cabinets in the workroom. And I'll get to those when I get to them. AND I have a new room partner, Lupita, who is about as organized as my mother - so I will be having stress dreams about MY messes from now on. I only hope that Lupe doesn't own any white gloves. From one extreme to the other, huh?
So today is what the district calls a "flex" day. For some reason, you don't HAVE to work today but if you don't come in you are supposed to tell Janice - for what reason, I don't know. Maybe she adds and subtracts points. I should get extra points because of all the extra cleaning and de-cluttering I am doing. So today I am "flexing" but I forgot to tell Janice. I wonder if she will notice I am not there today.
The lone holdout in the PackRat Crowd is poor Charles. His room looks like a dang bomb went off and I am living in FEAR that Janice will ask ME to go in and clean it out. I think Charles is worried too - when I came over to his side of the building yesterday, he ran inside and locked the door.
:-)Kim
As you know, the classroom was packed to the gills with mostly-useless stuff and I spent a lot of time last summer cleaning it out. The end of last school year is a huge haze to me - so when I left the last day of school I expected that ML would take her stuff and leave.
Well.......she did LEAVE. The stuff ? Nooks, crannies, boxes, tubs, bags, shelves... full of STUFF. That giant 'windy' sound you heard in mid-August was ME realizing that YET AGAIN I have to clean out a room before preparing for a school year.
The good news is that it is almost done. The lone exception is the top of MY filing cabinet (who has time to file your own stuff when HER stuff is permeating the place?), and the tops of the storage cabinets in the workroom. And I'll get to those when I get to them. AND I have a new room partner, Lupita, who is about as organized as my mother - so I will be having stress dreams about MY messes from now on. I only hope that Lupe doesn't own any white gloves. From one extreme to the other, huh?
So today is what the district calls a "flex" day. For some reason, you don't HAVE to work today but if you don't come in you are supposed to tell Janice - for what reason, I don't know. Maybe she adds and subtracts points. I should get extra points because of all the extra cleaning and de-cluttering I am doing. So today I am "flexing" but I forgot to tell Janice. I wonder if she will notice I am not there today.
The lone holdout in the PackRat Crowd is poor Charles. His room looks like a dang bomb went off and I am living in FEAR that Janice will ask ME to go in and clean it out. I think Charles is worried too - when I came over to his side of the building yesterday, he ran inside and locked the door.
:-)Kim
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
The Mary Hills and Bird Dogs
The dogs and I have been enjoying a local hike lately. It is a trailhead for the Pacific Crest Trail, located about 20 minutes from my house in San Francisquito Canyon. Usually we hike UP for about an hour and then come back. It is a steady climb but not too strenuous.
Today I decided to hike a bit further up the trail, since we had an earlier start. The dogs were all for it - especially since the area is covered with dove and quail - who love to tease and lead the dogs on - then fly away with much noise and disturbance. This does not dissuade the dogs, who would have NO idea what to do with a quail if they cornered one.
Now, the part of the trail that is an hour UP has what looks like a small hill. I am going to tell you that looks are deceiving. This particular hill is what I would call an OH MY GOD hill. But hikes are full of these hills and getting over them makes you feel very virtuous. Especially if you don't wheeze, moan, or land on your knees at any point during the ascent. Had I known what was BEYOND this hill, however, I just might have taken the adjacent off-road vehicle road instead. But NO. I stuck to the trail, just like a dedicated and responsible PCT hiker.
Cresting this trail is very invigorating because it is flat - for about 50 paces. Then there is another hill. This one is rutted and sandy and full of rocks. It is definitely an OH MY GOD Hill. Getting to the top, while huffing and puffing in a decidedly UNfeminine way, is a sure-fire way to give yourself a heart attack.
(And what is it with that old saying about men perspiring but women only "glistening?" It's running down my NOSE for heaven's sake!)
But guess what you see when you get to the top of this hill? YES! Another hill!
Friends, these are the HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD HILLS because once you see the third hill and begin ascension, you realize that you are GOING TO DIE. It will be an ignoble and lonely death - witnessed by three very dusty and slobbery weinie dogs who will immediately root around in the back pack for water and used kleenex - once you're dead.
It is at this point, as certain death looms and exploded lung will scatter along the trail, the dogs see more BIRDS. Despite the wheezing, hacking, huffing, puffing, and muscle-screaming climb, off they RUN at full dachshund speed to CATCH THE BIRDS. When they dejectedly return a few minutes later, completely chagrined and utterly birdless, I decide to go back before we lose the light.
EVERY single bird, rabbit, lizard, and potential bird, rabbit, and lizard is fair game. These short dogs do not understand the limits of human endurance and OFF THEY GO, careening down the HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD Hills with little to no regard for my safety, comfort, or well-being. The fact that I have the car keys means NOTHING. There are BIRDS!
This weekend I plan to return and see what is beyond the three hills. It is my fervent hope that they aren't quadruplets. But with my luck, it will be a mountain - home to a pack of wild turkeys.
:-)Kim
Today I decided to hike a bit further up the trail, since we had an earlier start. The dogs were all for it - especially since the area is covered with dove and quail - who love to tease and lead the dogs on - then fly away with much noise and disturbance. This does not dissuade the dogs, who would have NO idea what to do with a quail if they cornered one.
Now, the part of the trail that is an hour UP has what looks like a small hill. I am going to tell you that looks are deceiving. This particular hill is what I would call an OH MY GOD hill. But hikes are full of these hills and getting over them makes you feel very virtuous. Especially if you don't wheeze, moan, or land on your knees at any point during the ascent. Had I known what was BEYOND this hill, however, I just might have taken the adjacent off-road vehicle road instead. But NO. I stuck to the trail, just like a dedicated and responsible PCT hiker.
Cresting this trail is very invigorating because it is flat - for about 50 paces. Then there is another hill. This one is rutted and sandy and full of rocks. It is definitely an OH MY GOD Hill. Getting to the top, while huffing and puffing in a decidedly UNfeminine way, is a sure-fire way to give yourself a heart attack.
(And what is it with that old saying about men perspiring but women only "glistening?" It's running down my NOSE for heaven's sake!)
But guess what you see when you get to the top of this hill? YES! Another hill!
Friends, these are the HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD HILLS because once you see the third hill and begin ascension, you realize that you are GOING TO DIE. It will be an ignoble and lonely death - witnessed by three very dusty and slobbery weinie dogs who will immediately root around in the back pack for water and used kleenex - once you're dead.
It is at this point, as certain death looms and exploded lung will scatter along the trail, the dogs see more BIRDS. Despite the wheezing, hacking, huffing, puffing, and muscle-screaming climb, off they RUN at full dachshund speed to CATCH THE BIRDS. When they dejectedly return a few minutes later, completely chagrined and utterly birdless, I decide to go back before we lose the light.
EVERY single bird, rabbit, lizard, and potential bird, rabbit, and lizard is fair game. These short dogs do not understand the limits of human endurance and OFF THEY GO, careening down the HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD Hills with little to no regard for my safety, comfort, or well-being. The fact that I have the car keys means NOTHING. There are BIRDS!
This weekend I plan to return and see what is beyond the three hills. It is my fervent hope that they aren't quadruplets. But with my luck, it will be a mountain - home to a pack of wild turkeys.
:-)Kim
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Bug Parts and Red Dye
Just why, exactly, are RED things so appealing? Would we feel the same way about something that is bright green? Or ebony black? Or deep purple? How about bright yellow? If they remove the red dye, the taste remains "red" but the color does not. Why does the red make it more appealing?
And why, exactly do we hate to eat bugs anyway? We eat cow muscle, chicken parts, and soda pop that POPS because we add an ingredient that we breathe OUT on a regular basis. We eat fish eggs and grind all kinds of ingredients together to create fatty delicacies like corn chips, jolly ranchers, and fake-butter popcorn. We actually eat PORK RINDS which, in essence, is the skin of a pig, deep fried - but we turn our collective noses up at BUG PARTS?
It doesn't make sense.
Think about it: Morgan Spurlock got horribly SICK after eating McDonald's food for a month. Ground up cow muscle with iceberg lettuce, wilted tomatoes and some gosh-awful sauce - everyday! Plus, deep-fried remnants of what were once potatoes and gallons of coca cola, which is loaded with refined sugar. But bug parts? We turn out noses up at bug parts?
See the commercial with the overweight guy going around the world sampling ingredients for Kashii - the fencepost cereal? He turns his nose up at grasshoppers on a stick, but digs his hand into some kind of grain that looks like mashed up wheat stalks. The grasshoppers are obviously cooked - probably slow-roasted over some open fire somewhere in the third world. They look crunchy don't they? But this guy, who looks like he could USE a steady diet of health food, won't touch them. The lady offering them? She looks healthier than HE does.
Something is topsy-turvy here.
And why, exactly do we hate to eat bugs anyway? We eat cow muscle, chicken parts, and soda pop that POPS because we add an ingredient that we breathe OUT on a regular basis. We eat fish eggs and grind all kinds of ingredients together to create fatty delicacies like corn chips, jolly ranchers, and fake-butter popcorn. We actually eat PORK RINDS which, in essence, is the skin of a pig, deep fried - but we turn our collective noses up at BUG PARTS?
It doesn't make sense.
Think about it: Morgan Spurlock got horribly SICK after eating McDonald's food for a month. Ground up cow muscle with iceberg lettuce, wilted tomatoes and some gosh-awful sauce - everyday! Plus, deep-fried remnants of what were once potatoes and gallons of coca cola, which is loaded with refined sugar. But bug parts? We turn out noses up at bug parts?
See the commercial with the overweight guy going around the world sampling ingredients for Kashii - the fencepost cereal? He turns his nose up at grasshoppers on a stick, but digs his hand into some kind of grain that looks like mashed up wheat stalks. The grasshoppers are obviously cooked - probably slow-roasted over some open fire somewhere in the third world. They look crunchy don't they? But this guy, who looks like he could USE a steady diet of health food, won't touch them. The lady offering them? She looks healthier than HE does.
Something is topsy-turvy here.
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