Get Well Soon, Barbie!

Barbie wasn't at school today; she was home sick. I found out through Scarlett, though, that Barbie's babysitter is named Alex, just like me! What a coincidence.

Introducing...Barbie!

We have a new girl at school named Scarlett. Scarlett is three. Scarlett brings Barbie to school every day, and she talks through Barbie. I love it. "Alex, Barbie doesn't want to do the art project. Barbie wants to listen to We Will Rock You."

Sometimes Barbie gets a little too excited. That's when Scarlett says, "Barbie's gonna mess up your hair!" and Alex gets attacked in the head by Barbie. That's when Alex says, "Barbie needs to take a time out." and Scarlett takes her and puts her in a corner for a few minutes.

Yesterday Barbie got sick. Scarlett announced this, and very thoughtfully got a hand towel, draped it lovingly over her shoulder, and allowed Barbie to throw up the towel. It sounds cruel, but I asked Scarlett to do it again so I could take a picture. It was worth it, right? "Scarlett, make Barbie throw up again so I can take a picture." Sounds sick, but it was all in the name of creativity and so I could put it on this blog for Scarlett's parents and the world to enjoy.

There will be more Barbie posts, for sure. And by the way, Marco has gone to kindergarten.

Rose's Retort

I was talking to Rose, who was turning four, about her upcoming birthday party.

Me: I'm sorry, but I won't be able to go to your birthday party.

Rose, with a straight face: We didn't invite you!

Did I get into it with a four year old? Of course. I said, "Well, actually, your mom did invite me, but I can't go. Sorry." Sometimes I just have to get the last word in, especially with Rose, who seems much older than four. She's more like forty-four.

Just Another Day at the Gym

At the gym today it cleared out, so I had the opportunity to have my picture taken for my blog. Here I am during a typical workout. Well, actually, it's not so typical. Today was a light day. I was taking it easy; I mean, this plus yoga five days a week can do a number on you if you're not prepared. And those vitamin injections the substitute trainer has been giving me? Wow, they make me feel so...energized! And strong! And a little angry sometimes, but life isn't always a bed of roses, now is it? I'm gonna go hit someone...I mean, hit the hay. Good night, grrrr!

Fall in New England--Two Views

There is nothing quite like fall in New England. Here we have all the colors. On the left, Brookline. On the right, Cape Cod. Spectacular.

What's On Tonight?

I am so bummed. I get the Boston Globe delivered to my house every Sunday. I read most of the paper, but the original reason I subscribed was because of the TV Weekly insert. All of the shows for the week are clearly laid out. I can scan, highlight, and know every night what I'm going to watch.

Last week there was a message printed at the top of the TV Weekly. As of next week, the TV Weekly insert will cease to exist. It said something along the lines of "if you want a weekly TV listing, buy our newspaper every day or get a subscription to TV Guide". Dammit! I don't like TV Guide, even less now because they made it huge; it looks like a magazine. I don't like scanning on the TV to see what's on. I like to hold the paper in my hand and highlight. I might be forced to get a subscription.

Yes, I am a TV addict. So sue me. There are worse things.

Shelby Update

Shelby's lab results came back. They're all within the normal range, thank goodness. But now I wonder, what the heck is wrong with her?? I've learned that I'm an expert at popping pills down her throat, and she doesn't even get mad. She knows that Mommny just wants to help. We'll see how she does in the coming days. She's eating more, so things are looking up. Thanks for the good vibes!

Happy Halloween!

There's this place called Camp Sunshine. Last night they tried to break the world record for most lit Jack-O-Lanterns in one place. It was spectacular. It even got political.

Baby's Not Feeling Well

Poor Shelby. She's sick. She's had the runs for four days, and it got so bad I called the vet and they told me to bring her in. She was weighed, prodded,and poked, and had blood taken. She's lost one pound in two months, which is a lot for a cat.

First the doctor took blood from her front leg, and he said it wasn't enough for the tests he wanted to run. He tried her neck next--can you imagine the job of sticking a needle into a cat's neck to take blood?? Two people had to hold her while this was being done, and he couldn't get a good vein. Next, he tried her rear leg. Nothing. I told her if her veins were as big as her paws, we'd be fine, but no such luck. Finally, he tried her other leg and got some more blood, which he said would have to do.

Then they took her in the back and gave her some fluids. Then back to the exam table to get a giant blue pill stuck down her throat. I watched the doctor's technique carefully--lift the head all the way back to open the throat, pop the pill down, then put her head down for swallowing. She fought him, and it will take two people. I have to do this twice a day for the next 7-10 days. A picnic. I can't wait.

$217 dollars later, she's home resting from her traumatic morning.
I have to go buy human baby food so she'll eat something. Poor thing. It sucks getting old. I get the lab results on Monday. Fingers crossed that it's not too serious. Please send good vibes her way.

Quotable Kate

My friends are going away for the weekend, and I'm taking care of their daughter, Kate. I'll spend the night at her house on Friday and Saturday.

Last night Kate was talking with her mom about me spending time with her, and she said, "Mommy, I bet you're gonna be sad." Sounds like Kate was thinking her mom was gonna miss her, right? Sophie thought she'd check.

"Why do you think I'm going to be sad?" she asked.

"Because you and Daddy don't get to spend the weekend with Alex!" was her reply.

Next time I'm down in the dumps, I'll read this post. Thanks, Kate.

Katydid It Again

Photo on the left: second time I've seen a katydid in my life. Photo on the right: first time I ever saw one. I thought they were supposed to resemble a green leaf, but the ones I've seen have tried to camouflage themselves on asphalt. Are katydids dimwitted? Lost? On their way to greener pastures?

Maybe one day I'll see a rhino trying to hide in a field of grass.

Quote of the Day

Tate, 11, has just asked her mom for some Advil because she has a headache.

Tate: I can swallow pills now!

Alex: Wow, really?

Tate: Yeah, I learned it at camp.

So much for swimming and macrame.

This Won't Hurt a Bit

Last weekend I went to the Cape with friends. Diana made dinner the first night-- beer infused chicken. The idea was to stick an open beer can up the chicken's arse and the aroma of the beer would permeate the skin. I felt like the bird was being violated, but I took pictures anyway. I was grossed out and fascinated at the same time.

Here you can see before and after pictures. Did I eat it? Damn right I did, and it was good.

Get Used to It

I've lived in Boston for 16 years, and I still don't know the network channels here. To me, CBS is channel 2, NBC is channel 4, and ABC is 7. That's New York, of course. What channel is CBS in Boston?

Another thing I can't get used to here is pizza bags. I'll never forget the first time I got a slice of pizza to go in Boston. They laid the pizza flat and put it in a stationery bag! In New York, they use flat bags for cards you buy at the stationery store. For pizza, they fold the pizza slice in half and put it in a lunch bag like one of those brown paper bags kids put their lunch in.

I have gotten used to asking for a frappe when what I really want is a milkshake, and I use the words "wicked" (I'm wicked tired!) and "no, sir!" (I don't believe you) regularly. There's still hope.

Fire Alarm--Don't Panic!

The other night my friends and I went out to dinner before going to a movie. We went to this restaurant and had a good time, laughing, reminiscing, and catching up. Towards the end of the meal, the fire alarms went off. The first reaction of my friend Imke and myself? Ugh, stop that annoying noise! There was no visible smoke. Dawn was more proactive; she thought we should leave. We sat there for a few moments, and when we saw a line of guys from the bar start to walk out, we got up. It was like a wave--everyone eventually got up and walked out of the restaurant very calmly.

I remarked about this out loud, and some guy did a fake panic scream for me. We all gathered along the sidewalk and noticed that it was the whole building that had alarms going off, not just our restaurant. We looked at our watches and noticed that the movie would start in about 15 minutes, so we just went to the movie theater. Yay, a free meal! At the movie theater, we started seeing fire engines arriving. Was there really a fire?

The thing that struck me was the fact that so many people were desensitized to the alarm. Yes, we didn't panic, but we also didn't get moving. That's a little scary. I bet if we had seen smoke there would have been a mad dash, and people would have gotten hurt. Dawn was amazed that no one was in charge. No staff person ever came out to tell us to leave or stay put, or anything. That was also scary.

In the end, I hope it was just that a cook burned the fries or it was a false alarm. It was nice to have a free meal. It was delicious, too.

UNO!

When I do English conversation with kids, we often play card games. One favorite game is Uno; we play "the Japanese way", where you get to put down several cards in a row. For example, if the color is red and the number is 5, you can put down as many 5's as you have. You can also do this with any other card.

Here's one of my students who whittled down all of his cards until he had four left, all draw 4's. See his expression of glee? He won, because he went out with those four, and his poor brother had to draw sixteen cards.

That day the kids also learned Spanish; they had no idea that "Uno" meant "One".

People at the Gym

Dear Readers,

You may have been wondering why I haven't blogged about the gym lately. It's because I haven't been. Before yesterday, I hadn't been in 11 days. I also don't train as regularly with Steve, because I've graduated to doing it myself. Consequently, I don't go as often. This is probably how I should have started in the first place, slowly, then working up to more days. I'm kind of doing things backwards.

In any case, I was at the gym yesterday, and the first person I saw was this woman whose husband wanted to take nude photos of me about ten years ago. Say what??? Yeah. I was working as a puppeteer at a child's birthday party, and afterwards, one of the dads said he was a photographer and he'd love to do a photo shoot with me. At the time I had a bleach blond crew cut and an earring in my eyebrow, so I guessed he was after my alternative look.

I went to his house, met his wife and young son, and saw his work: naked women. They were tastefully done, artistic, and all, but still. He told me he did nudes and he wanted me to shave my head. Uh, no thanks. I was creeped out, but agreed to take some photos with all my clothes on, thank you very much. I haven't ever seen him in town, but I see his wife occasionally, and I always get an icky feeling when I see her. She didn't remember me, thank god.

Later on, I saw this guy I've seen a few times before. He has curly black hair, very long, pulled back into a ponytail, and he wears a white sweatband around his forehead like he's living in the 70's. He was walking with a chain belt around his waist, and attached to the belt was a kettle bell. It looked like a cannonball with a handle. He was walking with this thing inbetween his legs, and I wanted to shout, "You got balls!", but I restrained myself. What he did was grab this bar and did pull ups with this thing attached to him. So strong and macho! Maybe I'll try it next time.

I got on the bike and didn't pedal quite as fast as the old man on the bike next to me, but I'm working my way up to it. Gotta protect myself from injury.

Watercolor Class--Any Better?

My friend Chris told me she was taking a one-time watercolor painting class, and when I said, "Oooh!", she asked me if I'd like to join her. I'd always wanted to take a watercolor class. It was just one night, two hours of our time. Perhaps this was the class I should have taken instead of Linguistics for the Linguistically Challenged. We got our supplies at the art store, and arrived in the basement of the library ready to learn.

There were five people in the class, including us. The teacher didn't introduce himself; he just pulled up a table and told us we could sit there. The three other people were already painting. It turned out that this was a two-part class, and we were at the second part. Perhaps these students had already been schooled for two hours?

We sat down and waited for instruction. And waited. Finally, the teacher told us to sketch the scene and then to paint it. I looked at the still life and groaned inside. It was so cliche--a wine bottle, a loaf of bread with one slice cut, and two brown eggs, all on a cloth, draped dramatically and taped to the wall. Look, it's France in the basement of a library in Boston!

Chris and I started sketching, and the teacher walked out of the room. Huh? He came back a few minutes later and looked at everyone's work. "Very nice shading", he said to the man next to Chris. "I like what you've done", he said to someone else. He came to me and said, "Why don't you erase all of this and turn the paper the other way?" I replied, "Check this out!" and I just flipped the paper to a new one. He sketched the whole scene for me, looked at Chris's work, and then left again.

We wondered why the teacher kept leaving, and why no one was talking. They were all so serious. The man painted one French scene after another, whipping them off his pad as if it was a new sport--Watercolor Racing, first one who uses his whole pad wins! I fell back into my comfort zone, and starting making wisecracks just loud enough for Chris to hear so that she'd laugh. We felt like the bad kids in school; I had to stop myself from passing her a note.

The teacher came back and announced that there was an art show upstairs and if we needed a break we could go get free refreshments. So that's where he'd been! Scarfing cookies and juice while we waited for some interaction. Technique? Tips? Answers to questions? He leaned over me and said, "How you doin', Kiddo?" He didn't know that one nickname I happen to hate is "Kiddo." I am forty years old, I am nobody's Kiddo. I told him I didn't know what I was doing. He told me that it was all about dark and light, the draping, the shadows. He told me where it was dark and where it was light, complimented Chris, and then left again. At least that time we knew where he was going.

I didn't see dark and light. I saw a vacant bottle of wine, probably emptied by our fearless non- leader, a loaf of stale bread, and eggs with samonella. I realized that I was not a watercolor artist, I was a photographer and an anthropologist. I liked watching the teacher interact with the different people in the room, and making assumptions about him based on the stories he told us about how people had seen his work and bought his paintings on the spot for lots of money.

I took a picture of the scene and compared it with my painting. My loaf of bread at first resembled a turkey, but once I added some shading, it turned out to be a hot dog. One of my eggs looked like a lemon, and the other one melted. My background just looked dirty. Chris's painting was much better than mine, but she kept blotting at it furiously in order to make it appear lighter. We agreed that what we both liked was watercolor outlined with black so that it was crisp and not flowy. We decided to look at children's books and admire what illustrators had done.

I gave up. I started sketching out the words for this blog post, I texted someone, and I went upstairs for free cookies and juice. I met a very nice artist and saw a book I wanted to borrow from the library.

At the end of the "space rented out so we could use the things we bought from the art store" session, because it turned out not to be a class after all, Chris and I met up with friends for dinner. Maybe she'll come to the "Dark Side of Boston" walk I signed up for at the end of the month. Whaddaya say, Chris?

Back to School

My school got a voucher for a free class at my alma mater, and after asking the rest of the staff if they'd like to use it, jumped at the chance when they said no. I was so excited to be taking a graduate course again, and I knew the professor, though I had never taken a class from her.

The class was entitled, "The Nature of Linguistic Language." I thought it would perfectly coincide with the work I was doing after school, teaching English conversation. We would learn how people learn language, how they acquire second language, and a host of other things.

The class was taught by two professors, and they had taught the course together for many years. They wrote a book, which was our textbook. I ordered that book as well as another book to read if we were interested.

In the first class, we talked about how to make plural nouns in English. We learned how to make plural nouns in Armenian. As always, I was quick to speak in class even if I didn't have the right answer. I figured out the young women to the left and right of me had the answers, and I made a deal with them: if we worked together, they could come up with the answers, and I'd be the spokesperson for the group. They agreed to do it.

The first class was hard, and the second class wasn't any easier. I learned this was a research course, and we'd be making hypotheses. I hypothesized how long I would last. I started making jokes under my breath, much to the delight of my new partners in crime. When one professor was talking about the soft palate in your mouth, I whispered, "I think my soft palate is up here", and I tapped my head.

I spent much of the class with a quizzical look on my face (see photo), and I talked a lot. Here's a sample of what we had to read in our textbook:

"The concept 'plural' is semantically interpreted at the NP level, as a result of the NP and the morpheme {plural} merging. However, the phonological form of the morpheme {plural} can be found on the head of the N of the NP, on the adjectives modifying the N, on the determiners, or on all of the above. Or on none of the above; that is, the morpheme {plural} does not have to be realized phonologically at all within the NP." (copied without permission from Honda and O'Neil, 2008)

Get it? Me neither. When the word "morpheme" came up in class, all I could think about was morphine, which I felt like I was on. I withdrew from the class and will now be watching Oprah on Thursdays instead of making my soft palate even softer with morphine.

iPod Fun

A lot of people put their iPod on "random" mode to get a good mix of music. Here's another way to do it: click on "songs", and just listen to them in alphabetical order. It's so much fun to see how they're organized.

How else could I listen to "White and Nerdy", a parody of a rap song by Weird Al Yankovic, followed by "White Lines", a classie rap song by Grandmaster Flash? How many songs begin with the word "Don't"? A lot.

Don't (Elvis Presley)
Don't Ask Me Why (Billy Joel)
Don't Be Cruel (Elvis Presley)
Don't Believe the Hype (Public Enemy)
Don't Break my Heart (UB40)
Don't Go Breaking my Heart (Elton John)
Don't Know Why (Norah Jones)
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me (Elton John, George Michael, David Archuleta)
Don't Play Me (Prince)
Don't Stop Till You Get Enough (Michael Jackson)
Don't Stop the Music (Yarbrough and Peoples)
Don't Stop--Planet Rock (Afrika Bambaataa)
Don't Take Your Guns to Town (Johnny Cash)
Don't Talk 2 Strangers (Prince)
Don't Worry, Be Happy (Bobby McFerrin)

Can't wait to get to the end of the list, where song names begin with numerals...

English is Stupid, part 52

I just read an article talking about a new store, and it said something like, "She clothes her new space in blacks and tans..."

It occurred to me that in that context, we pronounce the "th" in "clothes".

When we're talking about things we wear, it's pronounced "close".

Ridiculous.