Don't Be Jealous Because Your Book Club Isn't As Cool As Mine

I realized something this week--blogs with no pictures? Boring! And my blog? No pictures! Eureka! Therefore I am on a quest to add a visual cog to my literary musings wheel. I really want to be a better photographer, so I took my camera to book club last night in an effort to photo journal the whole experience. Well, you know what they say about a room full of teachers: you'll be hardpressed NOT to learn something new and I ended up getting a photography lesson on the spot. These images come to you courtesy of my private tutorial with Ms. W (that's her with the book!).

Last month at our book club rendezvoux I was one of the only ones who had finished the book (shame on them!) so we just drank wine and talked about online dating and chronicled the various flaws of our significant others. This month we could have made a YouTube video on How to Maximize the Engagement of Your Book Club. It really was quite remarkable!

As a teacher of all things literary, I am constantly reminding my charges of the relationship between setting and mood. Setting and mood, setting and mood. It becomes a mantra of sorts. Attention to detail is everything and the setting at last night's meeting was perfect.

There were tie-ins with the food, the activities and the decor. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is set in New York City--which made this "Black" Pepper Cheese and "Sliced Big Apples" tray so endearing:

Oskar's adventure starts off with a blue vase (not unlike this one) in which hides a mysterious envelope with the word "Black" on it:

The centerpiece of the story is a key. The moral of the story is "never stop saying I Love You". These laminated key-shaped bookmarks brandishing the life motto "It is always necessary" are heart-warming:

The evening's events included eating a vegetarian meal (though not vegan--sorry Oskar), the sharing of pictures representing something significant to each of us (most of which had to do with love-- I think Oskar would be proud of that), and a discussion of "Things We Know About That We Wish We Didn't"--including, but not limited to all-men water parks in India, post-childbirth procedures, rooms at airports for unclaimed children, a plastic island in the ocean, and what happens to a dog's tail when it is stepped on too forcefully.

I also spent quite a bit of time trying to get a good picture of these glass Christmas trees. They are not related to the story, but are lovely nonetheless.

Though my photography skills may leave something to be desired, in the intellectual female conversation department, I'm doing OK.

The Boots Come Off...Reluctantly*

I finished this book as we drove to my parents' for Thanksgiving last week. I had to use a flashlight to read the last 30 pages or so. When I finished, I looked out the window for a long while, pretending not to be crying until Rhett asked, "Why the face?"

I'll tell you what, I love a novel that tells parallel stories. In Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, we get the story of Oskar and his journey to find a lock which will accept his key. But we also get the story of Oskar's grandparents, how they met, married, and never fell in love. The Older Schells came from Dresden, Germany after their town was bombed during WWII. There are many mysteries involving this side/back story that do not completely unfold until the end of the book, so I will not go into detail. You will have to discover them for yourself.

Though this book made me very sad, it also made me laugh out loud numerous times. One of those times involves Oskar's pet Buckminster, whose moniker resembles a certain female body part that, when said aloud, can sound very shocking. It rhymes with wussy.

It is bold of me to say so, but I will: This is one of my favorite books

of

all

time.

*This is part deux of my review for ELaIC. For the first part, see below.

Hugo's Big Adventure

The Invention of Hugo Cabret is a beautiful story told in both words and pictures that I read in a couple hours on Thanksgiving day. Hugo is a young boy who has lost his father (this seems to be a recurring motif in books I've read lately) in a tragic fire-related accident. Prior to his death, Hugo's father had been restoring an automaton--a mechanical man made from gears much like those of a clock--and now, Hugo has taken on his father's project. Automata are complicated machines and this particular man seems to be the most complicated and confounding one ever created. Through the course of the story, Hugo meets an old toy seller who also seems to have a mysterious connection to the automaton. The relationship that develops between this old man and this young boy is as complicated and wonderous as the machine itself. The images in the book are beautiful. It is worth picking up just to skim over the pictures:

Choose Your Own Theory of Craziness

Groundhog's Day it is! The final season of 'Lost', in which all of the universe's biggest questions are answered and we leave feeling warm and fuzzy for the rest of our days, will indeed commence on February 2nd, 2010. That is Groundhog's Day folks. What could it possibly mean? Probably nothing, but then again, it could mean SO many things. Here are some ideas from Doc Jensen (who is more verbose and has done more background research than me):

"A. ABC and the Lost producers were totally going for a Groundhog Day resonance! The choice of date affirms Time Loop Theory: that the castaways have been participating in a cycle of events that's been repeating for who-knows-how-long. But did someone (Ben? Jacob? The Man In Black? One of the castaways?) finally break that loop by producing a meaningful deviation during the course of this last cycle dramatized by the past five seasons of Lost?

B. Actually, ABC and the producers were winking at ''Veja Diena,'' an annual Latvian festival also held on Feb. 2 honoring the god of wind. The significance: The castaways were blown through time via the Jughead and the cosmic gameplaying of gods Jacob and the Man In Black.

C. ''Veja Diena''? No way! Feb. 2 is a link to Yemaja, the ocean/fertility goddess of the Yoruba religion, who is celebrated in Brazil on Feb. 2. This makes total sense, because Rodrigo Santoro, the actor who played Paulo back in season three, is also from Brazil. See? Paulo really was massively important to the larger Lost saga!

D. The Feb. 2-Groundhog Day-Veja Diena-Yemaja connections really are just total coincidences — a rare exception to the larger rule that each episode of Lost is layered with hundreds of thousands of clues, references, and allusions. I mean, that's right, right? RIGHT?!"

What the what!?! and Why the face!?! These are crazy ideas that illustrate why Jensen is one of my favorite pop-culture experts. Any way you look at it, February 2nd could not come soon enough for me.

New Gems in Television

You already know that I love TV. Now that 'Mad Men' is over and 'Lost' is so...far...away... I have more time to devote to other televised wonders. Here are some of my new favs (and one that is not new, but new to my favs). Allow me to tell you why I love them:

Glee:
So many reasons, where to start? Well, how about the fact that this show is loosely based on my husband's own high school experience. Finn=Rhett in so many ways. Not to mention the fact that this show might be single-handedly responsible for jumpstarting high school arts programs nation-wide. Take, for example, my school. We have had slim to no interest in the drama program since I started teaching here six years ago. Then, this fall, our choir director held auditions for a musical production and seventy (70!) kids tried out for a play with 17 roles. Holy why the face*. This show is taking the world, high schoolers and me by storm. I love, love, love it.

*See Modern Family entry below.

Modern Family:
Because Phil is a "cool dad" who knows all the hip adolescent lingo and text speak: "Lol is Laugh Out Loud; Wtf is Why the Face?" And because Jay's pre-teen stepson is a hybrid fencing-Columbian-gentleman who is trying to be 30. AND because, well, look at that baby with those creme puffs.

Parks and Recreation:
This show is so much funnier in its sophomore effort! All hail Aziz Ansari! He may be overly crass and abrasive on Twitter, but he slays me on P&R. My favorite Tom Haverford quote of the year to date: "On a scale of one to Chris Brown, how mad is he?" I tried to say it the other day to one of my co-workers and I accidentally said "On a scale of one to Chris Rock..." He was all, "Huh? Why the face?"


Flash Forward:
I'm actually not sure about this one. I want it to be good, because the cast is so great (Will Shakespeare/Joseph Fienes AND Charlie/The Hot Hobbit/Dominique Monaghan as a bad guy!). And in the pilot, I saw a billboard for Oceanic Airlines. But I'm not sure about the lifespan of this show, which would seemingly end on 04/29/10. And it is starting to come off as kind of cheesy (I'm a self-proclaimed cheese-o-meter). But I keep watching because I secretly hope that DM is actually Charlie and that maybe, just maybe, out of the shadows might step Benjamin Linus.

In a rare twist, I have been reading so much lately that I haven't had time to watch TV and need to do some catch-up. Luckily the weekends come quickly when your job is as hilarious and your kids are as adorable as mine.

Question Me Not

This post is an extention of my previous post. Here are some questions I have been asked today:

Is the old guy's disability that his leg is broken? Is he blind? Is being old a disability?

Can we make Indian headresses? Can we make those turkeys where you trace your hand and glue feathers on? Can I take a nap?

Do you know any gang signs? Does this look like B-L-O-O-D?

Do you want to hear a song I just wrote? Do you want to read my poetry?

Did you watch 'Family Guy' last night? Did you watch 'American Dad'? How about 'The Clevelands'?

Do you have a pencil? Do you have a different pencil? Do you have a different pencil sharpener?

Can I go to the bathroom? I know, I need to go again.

Thankful For Weekends

One of the best things about being a teacher is getting to go away from it all for various increments of time. Such as three-day weekends. Or, in this case, four-day weekends. Now that might seem brusque, but this is an emotional job--dealing with kids every day whose frontal lobes are not yet fully developed, resulting in their making terrible decisions and ridiculous statements such as: "Why was Hoover Jackson responsible for the Great Depression?" Blurgh.

In honor of being away from it all, these are the things I will not do this weekend:

1. Talk about the new 'Twilight' movie.
2. Really, talk about vampires in general.
3. Explain why, actually, that is not a complete sentence.
4. Erase pictures of giant animated mushrooms from table surfaces.
5. Overuse hand-sanitizer.
6. Respond to non-sequiters. (Student:"What day does Christmas Break start?" Me: "George and Lennie don't get a Christmas Break.")
7. Make up crazy stories about my personal life. (I was gone yesterday because I am actually working on a new reality show. It is about cat whispering. I am going to be the Cat Whisperer.)
8. Explain what "pants rabbits" are or why Curley has that glove full of vaseline.

Looking forward to a weekend full of intelligent adult conversation and over-the-top sarcasm. And I am not going to worry about whether or not people get it.

The Heaviest Boots Ever

Sometimes a story is just really, really hard to tell. Often, when this is the case, the story is also really, really hard to read. This is one of those stories. But it is also really, really lovely and wonderful to read as well. It is a conundrum of sorts.

I am in a book club with a group of incredibly loud and extremely close women who also happen to be remarkably intelligent and astonishingly interesting. This is the book we are reading in November and boy oh boy it is so very addicting. In the story, Oskar Schell (shell=a hard outer coating or structure) is a struggling through life as a survivor. His father was killed in the World Trade Center, something Oskar knows to be true, but still Oskar can't stop looking for his father everywhere he goes. He finds a key in an envelope labeled "Black", comes to the conclusion that the key must have something to do with a person whose name is Black, then proceeds to find and interview every person in New York with the last name Black.

Ahhh!!!#@$%*&^@ This book is so good and I am growing increasingly frustrated with my inability to locate time to finish it. My 2009 Top 10 list is going to be a doozy.

Who Reads That Much?

I went to a Young Adult Literature conference this week and the presenter (a high school librarian who does this on the side) told us she reads roughly 400 books a year. Yes, you heard me correctly. That is crazy, right? Now, granted, she reads almost exclusively young adult lit., which means some of the things she reads you could finish in one sitting, but you would have to be able to if you were going to read more than one book a day! I read a lot, but not that much. At one point someone asked her about a movie and she commented on how she doesn't have time to watch TV or movies since she reads so much. This is where she and I parted ways on the Reading Express. I toted my books along to the sitcom car, where I can read during the commercials.

One thing I like to do is read local authors and debut novels. I found both in The Last Town on Earth, a novel by Thomas Mullen. The story takes place in 1918, in a small town called Commonwealth, just northeast of Everett, WA. Commonwealth is a self-sustaining mill town, and it's people are proud of what they have made there. When the Spanish flu breaks out in surrounding areas, the townsfolk are desperate for a strategy to keep it at bay and away from Commonwealth. They decide to set up a reverse quarantine. No one can enter the town and if one wants to leave, he'd better be prepared to stay away until the flu outbreak dies down. The men volunteer to stand guard on the road into town, determined to protect their families and friends. Not long after they start, a soldier wanders toward town, cold and starving, and begs for entry. The men refuse, the soldier persists, and the resulting scuffle ends with a dead soldier and a new plague on the men of Commonwealth.

This book was particularly interesting to read during an "outbreak" of the flu. Worried for the safety of my own children, I have learned to spot a cough or a headache from a distance and carry anti-bacterial hand-sanitizer in every satchel I own. I felt that, on some crazy level, I could relate to the characters' fear, even if I can't relate to their irrational behaviors. This book gave me an interesting historical perspective on a local area too, and I really liked that.

Words Abound

I've been experimenting with wordle.net. Lots of fun, but difficult to manipulate. This is one I intend to share with my 9th graders currently reading Of Mice and Men. The whole exercise could potentially become addicting.

Some Favorite Firsts

First impressions are important. They are often the glue by which we stick to something. At times they are Super Glue (the strength of which should not be underestimated) and other times they are the generic brand glue sticks that, upon removing the cap, you find empty.

What follows is a list of first lines (or two) from a sampling of some of my favorite books. To say that they ARE my favorite books would be wrong. Like when I tell James he is my favorite boy (something he loves to no end). I do not love him more than his brother. It is just that, simply put, he happens to be my favorite boy that I can see at that moment. So it is with these books. They, like the fruit of my womb, do not appear in any sort of ranked order. They just so happen to be books that I love that I can see at this moment.

1. "If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth."

2. "When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him."

3. "My suffering left me sad and gloomy. Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly brought me back to life."

4. "The library is cool and smells like carpet cleaner, although all I can see is marble."

5. "A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green."

6. "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much."

7. "My father’s name being Pirrip, and my christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip."

8. "It was 7 minutes after midnight. The dog was lying on the grass in the middle of the lawn in front of Mrs. Shears’s house."

9. "My brain was drowning in grease."

10. "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow."

There is something special about seeing these lines out of the context of the story. They are both wholly representative and entirely wrong. Some of them I want to change, to say, "No, that's not how the story goes!" Others I want to cuddle like a baby (which, in case you were wondering, is the time when Griffin gets to hear about how HE is, indeed, my favorite boy). But they are what they are--an entrance to a strange and wonderful land where you just never know what will happen next.

An Answer Key (what's that? You didn't know this was a quiz?)
1. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
2. McCormac, The Road
3. Martel, Life of Pi
4. Niffenegger, The Time Traveler's Wife
5. Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men
6. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
7. Dickens, Great Expectations
8. Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightime
9. Alexie, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
10. Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

The World Through Someone Else's Camera

I wish I saw the world the way this woman does. I'm pretty sure she is the most incredible artist ever to have graced a camera with her lovely dainty fingers. It just so happens that she actually photographed our wedding (all those years ago!). I have been wanting to have her take some family photos of us for a while now, but I would have to plan about two years in advance to book her and to save up for the experience. I stumbled upon her blog again today and couldn't resist sharing it.

BEWARE! Before you click on the link, make sure you have enough time to get completely lost in the images. The entire experience with suck you in and leave you breathless.

You can learn a lot about a person...

Yesterday I had to rush out of school quickly, due to an emergency call about my 9-month-old. He is fine, don't worry. But in my wake, a colleague stepped in to watch my class. Here is the note he left me:

Things I Learned in Your Class:
1. You love yourself some Harry Potter.
2. Gnomes are creepy.
3. Alfred Higgins is a thief (at least according to pg. 1--I didn't get past the 1st page).
4. I should have brought a laptop.

Looking at my desk now, I am surprised the list didn't go something like this:

1. You hide coupons for free Junior Frosties under your keyboard.
2. It doesn't seem to bother you that there are cords running amuck every which way. Some do not even seem to be going anywhere.
3. You have three water bottles and four used coffee mugs.
4. You write your name on pretty much everything that is not glued or nailed to the floor.

In my defense, Alfred Higgins is not the only thief out there. And I am planning on giving those coupons out to students who do good deeds. Someday.

Turning in my (expired) passport

Ever since I finished reading The Poisonwood Bible last week, I can't stop feeling guilty for being American. All that beautiful prose and heart-slaying imagery has got me in a rut.

Turns out I bought the book almost ten years ago. I found the original reciept, keeping my place on page 36, with the purchase date of January 12, 2000. How do I know it was me that bought the book and not my mom (who, let's face it, still bought most things for me in the first year of the new millenium, regardless of the fact that I was 20)? Because the receipt was for one single item purchased from Costco. A paperback copy of The Poisonwood Bible. And what mother, let me ask you, goes to Costco and leaves with only one book? Huh? No mother, that's who.

And what, did I have better things to do that required me to put the book down after a meager 36 pages and not get back to it for 10 YEARS? Apparently. Maybe I was turned off by all the motherhood and whatnot. It's true that this book pricked me in a place that didn't exist ten years ago. Becoming a mother has changed me, you know. Given me emotions I did not previously have. Like the exasperation when my child refuses to do something I know is best for him (currently, that thing is pooping on the toilet. JUST DO IT ALREADY!). Or the pain I feel when my child is sick or hurting. Those are tough emotions to tap into when you don't have them. Not that you can't empathize with another person's pain unless you have children, but still.

TPB spans the lives of Orleanna Price and her four daughters. The Price girls travel to the Congo as children and leave (or don't) as much more. Their father is a Baptist preacher from Georgia on a mission to save the Dark Continent. At the expense of, well, anything really.

My favorite character in this story goes by the name of Brother Fowles. He is a former missionary who was kicked out of the Missionary League for too much "consorting with the natives". In other words, he fell in love with and married a local. He is only ever referred to for most of the story as the guy who "messed things up around here" and it is a well-known fact that Reverend Price is spending most of his time cleaning up the messes of Brother Fowles (which include a swearing and blaspheming parrot). Then one day Brother Fowles shows up in the village, having come along the river with his wife to deliver medication, food and vaccinations to people they pass by. Brother Fowles's perspective on "doing God's work" in the Congo stands out in stark contrast to Reverend Price's--whose primary goal is to dunk as many African children into the river as possible, a thought that terrifies the Africans on account of the many crocodile-related deaths that occur each year. It is Brother Fowles, I think, that changes the Price girls' feelings about Africa.

Needless to say, this book moved me.

There Goes the Unicorn's Horn

SO, I started off with a whole character/theme analysis comparison between MM and The Glass Menagerie (hence the title, which stands) and then I realized something about "Shut the Door. Have a Seat.": everyone is getting a divorce! So I changed courses. Plus, the first one was getting kind of boring. Here's my breakdown:

Divorce #1: Don and Betty. (Don + Betty forever!)

I don't really want to talk about this one. The whole scene where Don was wearing that V-neck sweater and the kids were begging him not to go. Actual real tears came out of me. I have to say I am holding out hope for their reconciliation. I don't see how the narrative can survive if Don doesn't have Betty from whom to conceal his many mysterious secrets. But then, she already knows so much. Way more than I thought she ever would. It's like the facade of Don has faded and now he is a fuzzy Dick/Don hybrid (Dick when he's telling the kids he has to leave, Don when he concocts the crazy plan to steal Sterling Cooper, but more on that later). The Betty/Don split is devastating, no doubt, but it serves as a springboard into Inspiration Lake for Don, who, like always, is determined to rise from the ashes of tragedy. It's like he thought, "You want a divorce? Now wait a minute, that gives me an idea..." Which leads me to:

Divorce #2: Sterling Cooper and the British

If Sterling Cooper was Don's first love--the one he stumbled upon when he was young and ignorant--then Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce is going to be his hot second trophy wife. It's a relationship founded on sneaking around at night, stealing other people's stuff, and hiding out in a hotel room ordering room service. Everyone is frenzied, fresh, and coming up with fantastic ideas--I loved the part where Roger (who we see actually working for the first time ever) says, "I'm so tired!" Divorce looks good on Work Don.

True to MM, we see one aspect of the theme protrayed in a positive light, while the other aspect is destroying Don's/Betty's/Peggy's/Joan's life. Home Don (Dick?) is distraught, fumbling, stuttering and OUT OF WORDS. While Work Don (there he is!) is thriving, glowing, well-kempt and all shiny-toothed. Betty's emotions, however, seem static regardless of her surroundings: quiet and stoic at home, passive and subdued at the lawyer's office, silent and pensive on the train* to Reno...with an empty seat** between she and Henry Francis. My guess? That seat may look empty, but it is really stuffed full of a whole lot of extra baggage.

And I'm a bit confused about Bobby and Sally--are we to assume they are staying home with Carla while their mom goes to Reno for six weeks?! I suppose Betty is not really angling for any Mother of the Year awards.

* and ** OK, so I have just been schooled about a couple of things. 1. They are on a plane not a train. Duh! They are going to Reno! What was I thinking? And 2. They don't have a seat between them, they are in first class and they just have really big seats. But for the sake of arguing, let's just say they have a metaphorical seat between them on the train to Reno.

Poetry for Tiny People

Finally, after three years, we are not bound (no pun intended!) to books made entirely of cardboard. We can read stories with pages made from paper, and boy howdy, do we ever. This is one I am particularly in love with. Polkabats and Octopus Slacks is a collection of 14 story-poems that are instantly endearing. Like when somebody makes really tasty tiny cookies and you eat like thirty because they are so good you just can't stop (plus, they're tiny!). Calef Brown is great at pairing word sounds made for out-loud recitation. Such as:

Fantastic plastic stretch elastic...

AND

...a sweet-smelling, soap-selling, tub dwelling guy and his one-legged duck named Alphonso...

AND

...a flapping flock of flying fury...

Trust me, it is fun for the whole family.

Woe to Poe

"The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge."--Montresor, "The Cask of Amontillado"

Oh Poe, it's as if you are married to Halloween. A twisted kind of marriage; one where you can't quite figure out who is wearing the pants. Sometimes I think you crafted this holiday in an effort to promote the hauntings of your mind. Other times I see how All Hallows' Eve may have pushed you over the edge, inspiring you to use your post-high school vocabulary skills to give people nightmares. In this marriage, do you make each other better or do you make each other worse?

Americans love horror. We are obssessed with it. And Poe (who would be the first to tell you this) is the master of horror. He found ways of creating terror that the average guy just gets. In "The Cask of Amontillado", Montresor is motivated by an all-consuming sense of jealousy and rage. Not only does Fortunato have what Montresor once did and now does not, but he flaunts it openly, taunting Montresor every chance he gets. So, what does Montresor vow to do? Get revenge, of course. And what's more American than a good old-fashioned plot for revenge set in Parisian catacombs?

Explore the many woes of Poe here.

Jobfulness

I'm a worker. I just love it. I love the feeling of being jarred into existence at 5:04, 5:13, and sometimes again at 5:29 am, scrounging under the couch in a desperate attempt to locate two matching toddler or baby-sized socks, and wondering how it could be possible that James does not have one single pair of clean pants. I love that, when I finally arrive at school, my students occasionally say, "We thought you were going to be gone today!" which I half-ignore while attempting to blot out the coffee stain on my freshly pressed white shirt.

Then the bell rings and I am on. My day is filled with the romance of literature: ideas, epiphanies, tragedies, allegories, parodies, comedies, and second chances. And the frustrations of technology that can't keep up, situations that have never before presented themselves, and, oh did I mention? TEENAGERS. And to boot, in the midst of it all, young minds ask questions like: "Are we allowed to wear wife-beaters here?" I laugh, cry, dance, sing, stutter, explicate, and lose my mind every day. It is not a boring job.

Sometimes, however, I fantasize about a different job. I find myself (usually at times, like now, when I am having a stand-off with a pile of ungraded Personal Narrative essays) searching CareerBuilder.com or Monster for something else. Something perfect. And usually I find it, but it is in New York City and requires seven years experience in publishing (which, technically, I have, btw). So I give it the test. The simple, simple, simple, simple test. The one I wish I could use to make all great decisions in my life. I ask, "Is it going to be hilarious?"

Because if it is not, then it is not as good as the job I have. For example, I just heard my BF across the hall say in a sing-song voice: "Please place your rough drafts on your desks. Lalalalala." Then a muffled response, and finally, from her: "Then I shun you."

And now I have the church giggles.

Thoughts on Traveling

I have put off writing about this book for months. Mostly because it was one of those reads that so profoundly affected me it left me speechless. Cormac McCarthy is not a writer; he is a man who makes love to words. Yes, I said it. And I feel, lacking this natural ability to seduce letters and make them bow to me, fall at my feet, beg me to shape them into something great and beautiful and monumental and MORE than they are on their own, my words just can't measure up.

The best I can offer you is this excerpt I found on BookBrowse. I think then you will see what I'm talking about and understand why I wouldn't see this movie if you paid me whatever sum of money seems large to you:

"He woke before dawn and watched the gray day break. Slow and half opaque. He rose while the boy slept and pulled on his shoes and wrapped in his blanket he walked out through the trees. He descended into a gryke in the stone and there he crouched coughing and he coughed for a long time. Then he just knelt in the ashes. He raised his face to the paling day. Are you there? he whispered. Will I see you at the last? Have you a neck by which to throttle you? Have you a heart? Damn you eternally have you a soul? Oh God, he whispered. Oh God."

Teach Me, Why Don't You...

I work with some brilliant people. Like sometimes I find myself waiting for the electricity to start flickering or the light bulbs to start spontaneously bursting brilliant. I believe that is what the Brits might call "bloody brilliant". But I think that may be a curse word, so let's move on.

Last week I took a page from a colleague's book and wrote my own idiosyncrasies essay. It was so much fun I challenged some of my colleagues to do the same. I charged them with an assignment, if you will. And, being the ardent lovers of school that they are, they came through. Here is a sampling of what I got back (names have been changed to protect myself from copyright infringement):

Professor McGonagall:
I will never eat a hotdog. Moreover, you will not find me eating anything stuffed into a casing. If my mother tries to show you a picture of me in a high-chair with a hot dog on the tray, cry “Fraud!” and don’t believe any subsequent tales of my adolescent endeavors.

You might find me sounding my barbaric yawp from the top of my desk wearing the latest fashions, leaping across rooms with my perfect jeté, tiptoeing around my kitchen so as not to disturb my prize-winning soufflé, or expertly solving Sunday’s crossword in a yellow taxi on my way to perform in the matinee show. Just don’t put me on a bike, in a luggage car or in a banana forest. If so, I might go all mimsy and slithy about your mome raths and you’d have to read about it all...

Professor Lockhart:
Growing up in harsh climate of these bitter, soul-crushing suburbs, the sweet milk of childhood soon curdled into the bitter cottage cheese of adolescence. Why couldn’t my fellow middle school students accept that I enjoyed wearing pantaloons and a cape?

And today, my life is like a sheet cake, made from sugar, unicorns, happy thoughts, and candy-colored rainbows. As I awoke this morning, and stood on my veranda, apostrophizing the dawn, I smiled inwardly at my dashing, idiosyncratic, and, dare I say, insouciant wittiness.

Professor Slughorn:
Born in L.A., raised in Electric City. And Pissed off about it until college. I wanted blond hair and a surf board. Instead I got a shotgun and friends wearing Wranglers. Half of my town was on a reservation which meant we had Native American Day once a year and suicides and drunk driving deaths year-round. Native American Day was a chance for native kids to celebrate their culture and a day off from school for the white kids. Wranglers and arrows and ne’er the two shall meet. Except for the occasional fistfight. The best thing I did in high school? Being Robert St. Pierre’s “favorite white boy.”

Professor Grubbly-Plank:
I love to go to the zoo and sit by myself and draw pictures of the animals. I love the pure beauty of their design. Sometimes I cry when I look at them because I am in awe of the artistry of evolution or God or aliens. Whatever force shaped life on this planet is miraculous.

My greatest lesson in life is that life can change in an instant. Sometimes it changes for the better. Sometimes it changes for the worse. It is what it is. What makes all the difference when these changes come? Family and friends. Surround yourself with friends and embrace their idiosyncrasies.

Professor Trelawny:
I always leave boxes in the cupboard even though I know that they are empty. I think it is because I was spoiled as a child.

Professor Sprout:
I was not an only child during my vicissitude of childhood – I had an older sister who was more than willing to trail blaze the abyss of mischief making and get in trouble first. She was, however, quite mean on occasion (as most older sisters are) and was prone to throwing forks at me – I’ve always thought my glorious naïve innocence was hard for her to abide. One hit me in the forehead – thank goodness it didn’t scar.

Professor Sinistra:
My lack of being able to see most of my childhood led me to have horrible hand-eye coordination. So, I was terrible at sports. I couldn’t hit a ball or catch one because I couldn’t see it flying at my head until it was a foot away. I became a runner.

Professor Flitwick:
My sneaking suspicion that I was a foundling was finally confirmed at the tender age of 11. My mother incorrectly referred to a faux lace tablecloth as white. It was the holidays. I was outraged. I adamantly insisted the covering was of a cream hue and impatiently demanded an explanation for her inability to make this simple distinction.

Madam Hooch:
I have a bilateral lisp; an unfortunate speech impediment that was diagnosed when I was 21 years old. I have not quite outgrown this condition; probably because I never quite finished therapy. There was something horribly uncomfortable and embarrassing about attending a group therapy lesson with a 60 year old thumb sucker and 7 year old mute. Two lessons sounded like progress to me. Ironically I love reading books out loud. I am now okay with admitting that I stutter after reading too many s-sounding words. Drew Barrymore has a bilateral lisp too.



Hats off to these fine folks. And a big thank you to the public school system.

A Dog's Life

I didn't want to read this book because I knew the dog was going to die. He says so right up front. That he is waiting for death. I almost put it down, gave it back to its rightful owner, and went back to looking for secret Lost plot leaks on the internet. Tropical polar bears or not, I'm glad I didn't give up on this one.

This is the story of Denny, an up-and-coming race car driver, his wife Eve, and their daughter Zoe, told from the perspective of their beloved canine, Enzo. I'll admit that a lot of the racing references and metaphors got away from me at the start, but by the end I was right there in the passenger seat, yearning for that checkered flag.

As Enzo tells, Eve is sick. Very sick. Dying sick. And Denny suffers one gut-wrenching blow after the next as he watches his life fall apart. Nothing is stable, consistent. Nothing stays the same. Nothing is predictible. Nothing except Enzo.

It's funny how sometimes we forget how to take care of one another. Forget that life is not easily lined out for us, just one dot after the next. Who better than a dog to teach us that, should we neglect the small nuances of life, we run the risk of losing the race? The car goes where your eyes go. Don't focus on the road.

You should read this book.

An Idiosyncractic Affair

My good friend Sinibloggi recently referenced a William and Mary admissions essay prompt which asks students to creatively introduce themselves through a stream-of-consciousness activity. The student responses were so entertaining I thought I would attempt one myself. Here you go:

It is not easy to sum up one’s cleverness with a glimpse at her quirks. However, I’m known to possess a fastidious adulation for the written or spoken word, so I’ll give it a try.

In an effort to avoid hyperbole, I will say that I have spent what equates to at least 3 months of my life dreaming myself into the lead role of a Broadway, community, or high school musical. I’m a self-taught master of tap, jazz, and ballet dancing. As a young girl I would hole up in my room for hours (under the guise of organization) while Mariah Carey hit the high notes and I rehearsed. No one has ever seen me (that I know of) perform these amazing feats of dance, but trust me, I’m pretty good. I may have fallen down a few times in the shower practicing, but they say the road to success is paved with small, slippery missteps.

Which brings me to another point: I often misquote clichés. But let’s not go down that gopher hole, we could be here all day. The writing’s on the board, but sometimes I can’t see the forest for the rodents.

I want to be healthy so badly! I want to be that woman who wears spandex pants like there’s no next week and eats yogurt for a snack. By choice, not necessity (like if yogurt were the only snack left on the planet). Alas, I hate yogurt. And I love candy. And TV. Need I say more?

I bite my fingernails and (I’m SO embarrassed admitting this) I pick my toenails when I read. Every night before I go to bed I pick out my clothes for the next day. If I don’t, I will be in a bad mood, never fail. You don’t want to be married to me on those days.

I have a bottle of lemon juice in my fridge that expired in 2007, yet I maintain that it is still good. Something about how acid defrays the effects of fermentation. It has moved with me to a new house twice. I used it just recently and haven’t gotten sick, so there. Stick that in your cup and drink it.

Once, in college, I bleached a large streak of hair that fell across my forehead. The bleach didn’t set long enough, I looked like a Bengal tiger, and have feared hair color ever since.

In my household, I fulfill the role of Chief Disciplinarian, Canine Division. This job includes monitoring furniture usage and human food distribution between toddlers/babies/husbands and german shepards. I am very strict. But sometimes, when no one is looking, I let the dog lick my ice cream bowl.

And typos—ugg! Don’t get me started. I hate them in a book or on a test my students took. I do not like them on a box. I want to erase them with my socks. I cannot stand them on a bus, not even whilst talking to a guy named Gus. I wish I knew a guy named Gus.

I take up and put down hobbies like it's always in style. Often I will produce one round of the desired product, then move on to another, more interesting task. These hobbies have included, but are not limited to: painting (this lasted the longest); sewing stockings (this one ended mid-course when I lost the stockings for two years, then picked back up when I found them last December); sewing baby blankets (one round); knitting cute children's hats (I threw myself whole-heartedly into this task, learning as much as I could via the internet, then never got around to buying yarn); and gardening (I'll be honest, I really haven't done more than think about this one).

I’ve birthed two children and run (part of) a half marathon, but still hold on to the moment when, in a conference, a college professor I was madly in love with told me he “envied my ability to write the end.” That may have been the proudest moment of my life. The one that takes the taco.

Roger, Copy That

Today I entered into the sweet sanctum of success via a battle of wits between yours truly and a 300-lb. copy machine. It was close, and could possibly be subject to interpretation, but I'm calling it a win for me.

In an effort to get out of my house and escape at least 30 minutes of football fanfare (it's a fantasy!), I went to school to make some copies for Monday. Things started pretty much as they usually do--paper in, 2-sided, press the start button--but quickly took a turn for the worst when the copier said it had made six copies and I had yet to see any. This started a familiar dance we like to do where I find all the crumpled ones, turn all the levers, close all the doors, start over, repeat. We danced like this for a while before I inevitably gave up and wrote a witty note which I taped to the top of the clearly inoperable machine.

I walked down to the staff lounge (where I came across one lonely lemon bar left over from Friday's lunch treats--destiny, you ask? I like to think so), sat down for a minute (long enough to alleviate any long-term abandonment issues that lemon bar would have inevitably suffered from), and tried to decide whether I should go to a different building to make the copies. One more try, I thought, as I gathered any and everything that could possibly aid me in my quest toward mechanical-ism.

Armed with two forks, a plastic pair of tongs, and an extra-large paper clip, I returned to the scene of the accident. I pulled out all the drawers for at least the eighth time, and realized there was a section I had missed in my many cleanings. Right there, in a tiny corner of the machine, lay 8-20 pieces of accordion-crinkled paper. It was like a literary-analysis-themed Japanese fan shop in there. One where they set the fans on fire and dance around with them. Which is what I undoubtedly looked like as I attempted to remove them all from places in this copier where surely no human limb had gone before.

The end result? 150 beautifully copied Literary Analysis Workshop #1 packets. And I managed to employ each and every one of the tools I had gathered on my odyssey. Although, I will admit, they won't all be returning home to their loved ones...

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World

Because the boob tube feeds us constantly, like a parent generally unconcerned with her child's obesity, we feel obliged to view her as a societal outcast. But even this slovenly parent occasionally, albeit possibly unintentionally, puts something in front of us that is savory, succulent, and completely out of our price range. Mad Men is a seven-course meal at a five-star restaurant where you can't read the menu because it's in a different language, but you don't care because just holding it in your hands makes you feel ten times smarter and a million times more interesting.

In an attempt to be about ten steps behind the rest of the universe, we just finished watching MM Season 2 last night. As I lay in bed, I couldn't help but wonder: what will happen to Don Draper? Will he maintain a strong military offensive, or will he let down his guard and become yet another victim of a metaphorical nuclear holocaust?

One of my favorite aspects of this feat of televised literary genius is the steady thread of historical context woven throughout the story line. I love the use of actual news footage from the 1960s, especially the presidential addresses. The Season 2 finale gave the viewer a real-life look into the fear our nation experienced at the foot of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Kennedy "daring" the Russians to shoot; mass exodus from major metropolitan areas; women discussing the inevitability of the end of the world as they sat under the dryer at the beauty salon. The parallelism drawn between current world events and our unwilling epic hero Don Draper was nothing short of profound. Here's a guy who has, for reasons we still are not quite certain about, laid waste to his prior existence, built up an arsenal around himself in an effort to look strong and confident, yet daily lives with a paralyzing fear that it could all be destroyed in an instant. It's as if he's built himself a bomb shelter, crawled in, trembling, and is trying to carry it around Madison Avenue.

A similar note that cannot be ignored: upon typing "missile" into Google, I came across this site. Apparently you can buy your own authentic Cold War launch command center. Unbelievable, that Google.

Hanging Out With Harry, Again

It is generally dissatisfying to see a familiar tale brought to life on the big screen. The magic of fiction reading lies in the creation of our own storyboards. Imagining what characters look and sound like. And how they say words or names. I always feel, no matter how great the previews make it look, like I am, in some way, betraying those weathered pages I so enjoyed turning.

I've seen four movies in the theater since the birth of my first child almost three years ago. It's true what they say: you really don't go to the movies. Maybe it's just that, on the monumental occasion that we actually get a babysitter, we feel the need to sit across a table from one another and have a conversation that doesn't revolve around the bodily functions of those other than ourselves, and/or is not intermittently interrupted by the stern use of the word "no". But every once in a while (well, four times in the last three years) a movie comes along that we feel we cannot possibly live without seeing projected 2000% in a room full of strangers. Such an event happened a couple weeks ago in the form of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Now you may or may not know that Harry occupies a throne of honor in the Hall of Fame of My Heart. I have eagerly anticipated all six of the film adaptations, only to walk out of the cinema each time with my head hung and feet dragging, clutching my own original and now wounded mental images to my chest.

That being said, once again I planned (and re-planned) our date to see #6. I arranged to hand off our kids to some very kind (yet generally unsuspecting when it comes to my 3-year-old) friends. I bought our favorite candy and switched all of my things over to my big movie theater purse. I put on make-up and counted down the minutes until Rhett would get home from work and we could get on with the inevitable imagination slaughtering.

And then, there we were: sitting in our tiny home-town theater as the opening scene flashed and the music began to swell; I, waiting for the disappointment to roll over me, clinging to my Milk Duds. And you know what? It never happened. As if, by some kind of magical means, I was able to appreciate the movie as a separate and wonderful narrative. It was exciting. It was funny. It was aesthetically amazing and audibly inspiring. Walking to the car, my arms were free to happily dangle at my sides.

Apparently it took me six films to let go and trust that Jo (as the Brits and I call her) would never let anything bad happen to Harry.

Mr. Pip Goes To the Tropics

Imagine Charles Dickens and J.J. Abrams decided to collaborate on a project. Then, once they had gotten started, felt stuck and asked for help from the guy who wrote Hotel Rwanda. There, now you are ready to talk about this story.

The children of a small village on an ambiguous, tropical island somewhere in the Pacific are left without a teacher when rebel invasions drive away all but one of the "whites". The only one to stay behind is Mr. Watts, an eccentic recluse best known for pulling his sad, obese wife around in a wagon whilst wearing a clown nose. The kids call him "Popeye" and live with a healthy fear of his strangeness.

Then, one day, they show up to the dilapitated schoolhouse (knowing it will be empty, but hoping differently anyway) to find Mr. Watts wearing a suit and holding a book at the front of the class. He doesn't claim to have much to offer them, but gives them the only thing he feels he has; he begins to read to them from Great Expectations. And here, a group of children just trying to survive on a war-torn island, and a young boy from 18th-century London who is reaching out for more than birth has given him, begin a journey together.

Lloyd Jones' Mr. Pip is a gift reminding you that literature is powerful, that something known silmply as a "story"can actually change one's life. This book was just what I needed to steer me out of the Nora Roberts aisle and keep me looking for "the one".

For the Love of the Doughnut

Rhett maintains that should a decent doughnut place or drive-in (dare I say the combination sounds irresistible?) be introduced to our little community, it would flourish. I maintain that we have the ability to financially back either a dozen of the doughnuts, or a single round of burgers. Not including the condiments. Alas, the dream remains in a box.

On a similarly-related train of thought, I came across this place yesterday while participating in one of my favorite summer activities: the watching of the television. All I can say is, "I want to go to there!" Also, if you are getting married anytime soon, don't rule out the possibility. Think about the pictures...

Rediscovering My Will To Blog

It is exceedingly ironic, but summer has a tendency to turn me into a crazy, lazy, unproductive, non-creative, generally uninteresting blah. I am one of those people who thrives on routine. I don't sleep-in on Saturdays (well, no one with kids does, but I would choose not to); I can eat the same thing for lunch 180 days a year, then find myself at a deli counter with endless palatable ecstasies from which to choose and say, "I'll have a turkey sandwich on wheat with mustard, lettuce, and tomato. Please." I am not spontaneous in the least. I need to know what I'm doing when I finish doing what I'm currently doing, before I start doing it. Oh, and I'll need to know how much it will cost. Including tax.

It works for me, though. Somehow I find the time to fit in workouts, new recipes, laundry, etc. It is as if going to work in the morning actually makes me function. Don't get me wrong, I love being able to hang around in my pj's with my kids until lunch time. And we have been doing some great exploring of the island and all. What I'm trying to say is that I've been meaning to post about my summer reads for some time now, but have not been able to fit it into my busy schedule. Somewhere between researching the interesting lives of others via Facebook and becoming addicted to Hannah Montana, I have lost the will to blog.

Coming up: a look at my love-affair with Mr. Pip.

First Sunburn of the Summer

Alas, I have been reading. However, the end of school seemed to approach this year with the tenacious vengeance of a rarely prodded mythical beast. Or maybe a two-and-a-half-year-old. Either way, the laundry list of literature I've consumed since last writing is unremarkable and nothing has really made me feel the need to report up to this point. But this afternoon (dare I say my first real day of Summer vacation?) I finished a lovely and noteworthy tale which will mark the beginning of my summer reading odyssey.

Stephanie Kallos' Broken For You chronicles the final years of Margaret Hughes' life as she seeks redemption for the sins her father (a Nazi sympathizer whose tremendous wealth was built upon priceless antiques stolen from the homes of interned Jewish residents during WWII) committed and a lifetime of guilt and shame associated with these sins. Margaret has locked herself in her grand old Seattle mansion (great local references in this one!) for most of her adult life, with the sole duty of caring for these incredible and incredibly sad treasures. After receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis, Margaret decides to take in a boarder, and here meets Wanda, a young woman whose broken heart is almost as fascinating as her cooky demeanor. Together, dare I say, they face their dragons.

Something about the "need for redemption" piece of this read reminded me of The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield--which I completely loved. This would be a great book for a group as it is accessible yet multi-layered. 

Things About Which I Am Illiterate vol. 1: iTunes

Only recently did I even venture into the realm of the iPod. I've had one for a while, but since I tend to shy away from new things until the majority of the population has successfully integrated them into their lives, I have been ignoring it. Like when I was in middle school and everyone had CD players, but I still used tapes. Don't get me wrong, I had a CD player, but it was almost like I felt sorry for the three thousand cassette singles I had purchased at Camelot Music. What would happen to them?

Since giving birth four months ago, I have slowly started to get into working out again. Before I got pregnant with Griffin, I was running and loving it, so I am working toward that goal again. The iPod tends to be a bit easier to carry than a Discman (which I have), so I've decided it was time to get to know him. The problem is, that it seems to be so easy to use that I get confused. And iTunes, well now, wait, what do I do?

Since Rhett's music collection consists of a wide variety of what I can only label as loud guitarry music, I have been searching for something to run to. Long story long, my BFF Allison made me a super-awesome mix and I am very excited to utilize it but I spent OVER AN HOUR last night trying to figure out how to get the songs (which are now on my computer) onto my iPod. And by the time Rhett got home, I had given up and forgotten about the task altogether. What is wrong with me?!?! Why can't you just set the thing on top of the CD or point it at the screen and have them magically appear? Everthing else about the darn thing might as well be magic.

Poetry Analysis, the Spring, and My Over-Crowded Desk

Welcome to Spring-time at the relaxing retreat-away-from-home affectionately known as My Desk. Spring means Literary Analysis. Which means essays. And poetry analysis. And essays analyzing poetry.

The result, as you can see, is that my desk looks like this. Some people might think, "Wow! I could never leave my desk like that on a Friday. She'll be there all night getting through that pile. I'll bet it's all she can think of..."

But you know what? Not true. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I am looking forward to the weekend. In fact, I've thought of about 30 other things just in the last 5 minutes. And I'm 95% sure my desk will still look like this when I leave today.

Peace Montag.

Nothing says "summer's almost here" like a celebration of book-burning. After I get over the creepy photo of Ray Bradbury on the back cover of the book, I always enjoy a good romp through Fahrenheit 451. In 1953, Bradbury wrote about a future overrun by technology, where children no longer care about the validity of information, but consume what is set before them without question, quickly moving on to destroy things at the local theme parks.

*

The story goes that the fireman's duty is to destroy knowlege and promote ignorance, all in an effort to equalize this futuristic society. The setting is full of over-stimulating images of fast cars, giant and ever-blaring television screens, and 200-fo0t long billboards. Reading has given way to faster means of consuming information; important and accurate information has given way to tidbits of purposeless banter. This cryptic novel is full of thought-provoking paradoxes such as "not empty" yet "empty indeed" and "dead" yet "alive" or "there" yet "not there". These paradoxes serve to further the certainty that, without substance, life would be uncertain indeed.

*

This book becomes increasingly interesting to me as we plunge deeper and deeper into the Age of Technology. My mind was especially blown yesterday when 3 of my 90 honors students had heard of Maya Angelou, yet 90% of them picked right up on a reference I made to Nazi Zombies (apparently a level in Call of Duty 5).

*

Missing my Lost rundowns? Don't worry, I'm getting to the finale.

But, I can make time! (an old draft, but finally finished)

RIP Daniel Faraday. Last night marked the end to my second favorite Lost character ever (Charlie being my 1st).

Danny Boy pleads with his mom to let him continue with the piano, but she insists that he must give it up "for the Greater Good" (read: Dumbledore and Grindewald, i.e. Deathly Hallows). Dan's reward for being diligent with his studies and becoming Oxford's youngest Doctoral candidate? More criticism from his mother. If it were me, at age 11 (? I'm terrible at guessing ages), I would have gladly given up the piano lessons. However, I was not a genius (contrary to popular belief) and I had a piano teacher who would kick my shin if I was off-tempo or missed a note. And his name was Ken. Enough said?

I just realized something: Penelope! Penelope is Odysseus' wife who waited 20 years for him to return home from Troy, and all the while he was drifting around at sea, encountering innumerable obstacles on a quest to return home to his wife. Sounds like...Desmond and Penelope? Why yes, it does.

Lost Without You

Since there is no Lost this week, I would like to recommend an alternate viewing option that will knock your socks off. And maybe even your pants. But not your underpants--it's not like that. Of course, you could use the time to read a book. But you probably won't, so how about this brilliant televised event of the past:

Slings and Arrows

Leave it to the Canadians to come up with something so good that goes so unnoticed. This is one of my favorite shows of all time. The show centers around Geoffrey, a once highly-acclaimed stage actor who seven years previously had a mental breakdown in the middle of a production of Hamlet, jumped into Ophelia's grave, and ran away. When the series begins, Geoffrey is directing at a hold-in-the-wall theater in Toronto and is constantly trying to avoid bill collectors, but is inspired by the art of it all. Then he gets a drunk-dial call from Oliver, his former partner at the New Burbage Festival, which is shrouded in mystery and followed by Oliver's untimely death by "Canada's Best Hams" truck. Geoffrey ends up taking over Oliver's job "temporarily" and there you have the series.

I could list ten reasons why this series is so brilliant, but I won't do that to you. I'll just say this: each of the three seasons follows the production of one of Shakespeare's major plays (Hamlet, Macbeth, King Lear), events in the show mirroring important themes and motifs from the plays. A fan of Shakespeare? You will love this. Not a fan? You will still find it hilarious.

***Side Note***I tried to show a portion of Season 2 (Macbeth) to my students last year while we read The Scottish Play and it was a disaster because I could not navigate around the flurry of f-bombs. Needless to say, we had to have a conversation about "mature television viewing."

Battle of the Books

Tuesday got the lucky priveldge of hosting the culminating event of a four-month reading fest that has taken place with our ninth grade students. All ninth-graders participated in Battle of the Books (albeit, some more enthusiastically than others) by choosing a team and reading or becoming knowledgeable about fourteen novels. The first day teams competed in classrooms to answer a variety of questions about these fourteen books. One team from each classroom (17 total) moved on to the Finals, which was nothing short of awesome. Here is a taste:

Quit looking at my answer (Pirates, arrg.)!

Stumped.

Wait for it...

Success is so sweet! And apparently bitter.

In addition to the good times had in the competition, we had a visit from Jim Lynch, the author of The Highest Tide, which was one of the students' book selections. He provided my students with the perfect combo of nerdy-cool writer guy and mysterious sea-life-lover. Plus he dropped a couple f-bombs, which didn't hurt his presentation one bit. The book is now flying off my shelf.

"That douche is my dad."

I knew it! During the first episode of the season, when we saw Pierre Chang and his little baby, I said, "Hey, I think that baby is Miles." Well, for once, my theory has panned out. In "Some Like it Hoth," we got to see the deeply conflicted child and adolescent Miles who turned out to be the deeply conflicted and moderately grumpy adult Miles. And now we get it.

Despite the seven thousand Star Wars references, this episode was totally enlightening. The premise seemed to revolve around the classic time-travel argument over whether the future can be altered by time travelers--something Hurley is convinced of as he hopes to write The Empire Strikes Back three years before its time. And we were treated to an endless stream of Hurleyisms that were laugh-out-loud funny. Like:

"How do you spell 'bounty hunter'?"

"Dude, that guy's a douche."

"Because, let's face it, Ewoks suck, dude."

"Polar bear poop, got it."

But Miles is not sure he buys into Hurley's theory. He has figured out who his daddy is, yet he is reluctant to approach him, choosing instead to "leave things alone." Oh Miles, who doesn't, on some level, want to talk to his once-thought-dead dad who apparently kicked his mom and he off the Island for a yet-unknown ( but we can assume it is that he found out about the Purge) idea? Doc Jensen seems to think that Miles will be the one to tip off his father about the coming Purge, and therefore set his own sucky life in motion. Not a bad idea, if you ask me.

My favorite part: seeing that guy chisel the fateful numbers (4 8 15 16 23 42) into the unassembled hatch. Hurley: "Dude, that's our hatch."

A Fly on the Wall in a High School Computer Lab

I feel compelled to share a conversation I just overheard between a math teacher and a student. It may help you to know that the teacher has a thick Texan accent:

Teacher: What are you doing?
Student: I am choosing not to participate today.
Teacher: If you do not participate, you will fail.
Student: Not necessarily true.
Teacher: Yes, necessarily true. There is pass and there is fail. That is all.
Student: Well, in school, yes, but not in life.
Teacher: Yes, in life too. You either pass or you fail.
Different Student: I can't believe I have to listen to this.
(teacher walks away for a minute, but comes back by)
Student: For example, if I don't play my video game, I can't fail at it. I am only neutral.
Teacher:

Some things cannot be transcibed. Like the look on her face. Priceless.

Speaking of Redemption--Ben You've Lost Me

As I blahblahed on and on today about the power of redemption in literature, and a hero's quest and journey, I kept thinking about Benjamin Linus and last week's mind-blowing episode of Lost. I was on the edge of my computer chair seat with my face practically pushed up to the screen for this entire episode. And the result? I felt a human connection to Ben.

Maybe it's that I have recently Mothered, but something about Ben's weakness for the mother-child connection got me. It reminded me of all the literarily orphaned characters I love: Harry Potter, Pip, Anne of Green Gables, Peter Pan, Jane Eyre, Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, Pippi Longstocking, Annie... And I started to think about the significance of Ben's own motherless journey through adolescence. His mom died in childbirth and not only did he never know her, but his father was a total jerk to him because of her death. So he has to have an elaborate fantasy about what his life would have become had she survived, and in this fantasy, surely she is a bright and wonderful mother who makes him egg salad sandwiches and never lets his father raise his voice or a finger toward Ben. And this fantasy is surely projected onto every mother he meets, which exlpains his obsession with the Island's Dying Baby Syndrome and Juliet, who became a mother-figure to him when she took care of him in the 1970s Dharma Initiative. Hence they all said, "She looks just like her..."

Oh Ben, let the cycle of redemption begin again.

Look at that hiney, so scanlalous! A look into the mock-epic

Of late I've been reading Sophie Gee's Scandal of the Season, a historical novel based on the events leading up to Alexander Pope's 1712 writing of The Rape of the Lock. Pope was a poet and a Roman Catholic, which during the early 18th centrury meant he was an outsider and a victim of Protestant rule in England. Growing up in the country, Pope was mostly self-taught and spent years translating the works of Homer and Virgil, fascinated with the profound morals and larger-than-life epic heroes.

The Rape of the Lock is considered one of the greatest examples in the English language of the mock-epic. Modeled after the serious epic tales of Homer and Milton, The Rape of the Lock pokes fun at the vanities and idleness of 18th century high society. The poem was inspired by an incident among Pope's acquaintances in which Lord Petre cut off a lock of Arabella Fermor's hair, and the young people's families fell into strife as a result. Pope was encouraged by another mutual friend to write something light and humorous in an effort to reconcile the two families. Thus, the birth of The Lock of the Rape.

Gee manages to create deep and sympathetic characters while maintaining vigilant historical accuracy. A great read for anyone interested in poetry, lofty ideals, and the Brits.

An Ode to Working Mothers

My husband has been out of town for about a week and a half now, and the storm that is my existence has slowly been rising. It peaked this morning in a hallway blitzkrieg between myself and a male colleague of mine:

Male Colleague: Wow! Did you just wake up Butler? That's why I don't have hair! Hahaha!

Me (actual): Ha.

Me if there weren't students around: No, actually, I was up at 3 am when my 2-month-old decided he was starving to death, then again at 4 am when my 2-yr-old wanted to talk about his dad and sleep in my bed. Then I was peed on right before we left the house and I didn't change my clothes because we were running late and I felt my time would be better spent getting coffee since we had run out of milk and coffee. And bread for that matter. So read between the lines buddy (that is when I hold up three fingers-this is a family show).

And for the record, that is not why he doesn't have hair.

BlogBlogBlog

Every once in a while I am blown away by how differnt high school is today than it was just twelve years ago when I was there. For example, the internet. I remember my friend Shannon's family first getting the internet (before any of the rest of us) and that we literally thought the sole purpose of it was to make up fake identities and talk to people in chat rooms. No joke. We spent hours in her basement doing just this. And it probably cost a fortune at the time. Then there is research--I used books and encyclopedias, sat at a table in the library copying down information onto 3x5 notecards. That seems like a lifetime ago.

Now, life without the world wide web seems impossible. And school? Forget it--I would be lost without this resource. This week my students started a literary analysis project in which they blog from the perspective of a character in a classic novel. I was prepared for it to take a full week just to set up the blogs and get students familiar with the format. But in 55 minutes or less, everyone had created a blog, done a bit of internet-based research, and written and published their first post. And that was the moment I realized that life without paper is a definite possibility.

The Luxury of Libraries and Lady-bloggers

I totally get now why some women in possession of more than one child would choose not to leave their houses. Allow me to elaborate. I was very excited to be home on Spring Break this week and packed my schedule accordingly--including one of my favorite things, a trip to preschool story-time at our local library. Now, this has been a special tradition for James and I since I started taking him when he was about four months. He could barely hold his head up, but you had better believe he was going to get some stories read to him. I think he cried and I think I was embarassed. Which is utter crazy talk in light of the fact that I now have two children.

Well, let me just say that this week's Library Story-Time Fiasco involved an over-crowded tiered parking lot with an abundance of stairs and no ramp, a two and a half-year old who recently discovered that he has the ability to jump (something we have been trying to keep hidden from him for some time now), sideways rain (if you live in the NW you need no further explanation), and an elaborately landscaped fountain and zen rock garden with a tiny railing and a long, at the moment raging, stream.

This is the story of how I became that lady who is screaming at her selectively deaf child to get out of the road while she struggles to pull a huge stroller up four flights of cement stairs.

After the Library Story-Time Fiasco of 2009, I ditched the kids (and by ditched I mean left them with their very responsible father who had explicit instructions on how to care for them) and went to Seattle with my good friend Allison to a book reading event by one of our favorite lady-bloggers Heather Armstrong. The evening included margaritas, adults, and frozen yogurt. Don't get me started on my love of FroYo (when and why did this fad die?). It was wonderful. Even though I had to employ my breastpump in the front seat of Allison's car while she held my coat up.

So, all-in-all, not a boring day.

Lost and Loving It

Some things only get better as the years go by. Like my favorite red velour pajama pants. Or Neil Patrick Harris. Or Sawyer from Lost. Oh Sawyer, you have really come into your own as the moody, intimidating tough guy/Head of Dharma Security. And I am so happy that you finally got a new pair of reading glasses.

Oh Sawyer. You might be my favorite villain-turned hero ever. The great thing about an on-going narrative is that the characters have a chance to redeem themselves. Or in Ben's case, redeem themselves and then negate this redemption, and then do it again.

In this new setting--1977 Dharma--Sawyer commands respect like my 11th grade Pre-Calc teacher Mr. Brafalaut (so scary!). I love the irony that Jack's fabricated apptitude test indicated he was best suited for janitorial work. Was this Sawyer's way of getting back at him for being such a pretentious know-it-all? I don't know, but something about Jack fumbling around Dharmatown trying to come up with a plan and getting shut down gave me such satisfaction. Sawyer is a thinker, Jack is a do-er, and having to be submissive to Sawyer's plan-to-be is making Jack wish he had never come back. (Jack, don't forget that just months ago you were standing in the rain with a crazy beard screaming, "We have to go back!!")

Did you know that Winston Churchill said he read a book every day? Well, Sawyer did. He said it helped him to think. Shame on you Jack for implying that reading is a waste of time. "Oh really? You're working on it? Because it looks like you are reading a book."

For the Love of the Sea

When I was in 9th grade, I went on a week-long Biology class field trip to Spieden Island--a bus, a ferry, and a motor boat away from land-locked Eastern Washington where I grew up. It was during this trip, I now believe, that I first felt the draw of the sea.

As our caravan of eight-man motor boats pulled up to the island, a group of awkward and giddy adolescents clamored over each other onto a wobbly wooden dock. It was at this point that someone dropped their flashlight into the water and James Comer, without so much as a second's hesitation, dove right in, Air Jordans and all. That's just the kind of guy James Comer is: he wouldn't think twice about fully submerging himself in the freezing cold Puget Sound water to save someone's four-dollar flashlight. Amazing. Plus, it was like one o'clock in the afternoon--arguably the furthest point in the day from when one might need to have a flashlight out. I saw James Comer two years ago at my ten-year high school reunion, and I am confident that if the situation presented itself again, his reaction would be identical.

I was catapulted into nostalgia-dom over this phenomenal week of fascinating sea-life discovery while I read, no, devoured, The Highest Tide.  Jim Lynch's Puget Sound-based novel features Miles O'Malley, whose internal conflict over the sea and all of her creatures would give even Melville a run for his money. Miles is an abnormal 13-year-old who spends his days and nights combing the flats of Skookumchuck Bay for sea-faring creatures of all varieties. Something about this kid reminds me of Pi Patel (Life of Pi), what with his voracious thirst for scientific knowledge. But instead of a tiger for a friend, Miles has Kenny Phelps, an air-guitar-playing kid obsessed with girls and sneaking into places he's not allowed. You know, normal teenage stuff--which makes him a perfect foil for our pal Miles. Anyway...this book not only charmed the pants off of me, it reminded me of the vastness of the ocean and all that lies beneath. It made me glad I live so close to the beach--not a SoCal beach with bikinis and beach umbrellas and a freeway running close by, but a rocky, isolated, Pacific Northwest beach literally just down the street from my house.