Math & Musicals

The Boy is taking part in some kind of math competition today, and since it’s being held here on campus, I went up to the student union to see if I could have a peek and wish him well. I found him in the ballroom, surrounded by hundreds of kids with huge calculators sitting at round tables, fidgeting, swinging their feet, pulling their hair, sucking their teeth, and sniffling. I love my kid and his friends, but I could never stand to be a teacher. Gah!

I got there as the final questions were going on, so I sat with some other adults along the wall, chit-chatting in a respectfully low tone, so as not to disturb the young mathletes at work. Do you know that one of the women running the show grabbed a microphone and chastised the adults—not only for making too much noise (which we weren’t, but which would have been understandable if we had been), but because she said she could hear numbers coming from the sidelines! Like we were cheating! The man and woman I was sitting with were equally surprised and put off. I started whisper-shouting, “Five! Five!” The man laughed, and the woman started (softly) banging her foot off the floor, counting like a trained horse. Another lady came over and said, “If we wanted to cheat, we’d text them the answers. Duh.” Duh, indeed.

I’m glad I went up, though, as The Boy was happy to see me.

I’ll see more kids tonight, as The Boy and I will be meeting some other kids and parents to have dinner and then go to the opening performance of Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, this year’s Middle School musical. The Boy is not in it, and wanted nothing at all to do with it, but is excited to go see it. I don’t think I’ve seen kids this age perform since I was but a poor Catholic school kid in many an impoverished production of those incredibly horrible musicals specifically composed to be performed by school kids, so this will be a treat. I think.

I mean, it would have to be. One of our school productions (held in the cafeteria that also served as our gym) included a medley of songs from commercial jingles (around the time Coca Cola wanted us to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony). In addition to the Coke song (we ended the show by dimming all the lights and HOLDING LIT CANDLES as we sang), we covered Band-Aids and Kodak. Why? No idea. The most memorable shows—for me, at least—were actual musicals, rather than just concerts. Once we traveled through time exploring . . . transportation, singing songs about cave people Rock and Martha and their wheel, Henry Ford and his Model T, and perambulating babies in The Baby Buggy Boogie. The absolute best (worst), though, was The Greatest Christmas Card, featuring G.T. G.T., you see, stood for Glad Tidings. The girl who played G.T. had to sing:

Mr. Glad
Mr. Tidings
Mr. Messenger
I’m a real go-getter
When you get to know me better
You can call me
G.T.

Ugh! Terrible! G .T. escorted hallucinating children through time to check out various Christmas cards, teaching about wassail bowls, and ending up at the nativity, where the camels sang an Eeyore-like song called Poor Us, and then shepherds sang a sort of barbershop quartet song about how a shepherd has a very hard life (a very lard life). Shudder. But here's proof that it existed as more than a bad dream:



I can’t believe our poor parents had to just sit there and take it.

There’s a Tear in My Beer

Actually, I don’t have a beer, but The Boy has a sty on his eye. I have been walking around for days singing, “There’s a sty on my eye, and I cannot tell you why . . .” and then reverting back to the proper song lyrics, “You are on my lonesome mind.” Over and over and over . . .

***

So Thursday night I talked to the aunt for whom I had made the Arthritis Scarf. She had a doctor’s appointment here in the city Friday afternoon, and wanted to have dinner that evening. I said that would be great, and then bailed on a party I really didn’t feel like going to anyway . . . and then Friday evening my aunt bailed on me. Was I left feeling lonely and dejected? Did I go to the party after all? Hell no. I shipped The Boy off to his dad’s and then settled in for an evening of staying up too late watching Friday Night Lights on Hulu. I’m halfway through the first season, and I truly can’t recommend it enough.

In fact, I can’t remember the last time I watched a program featuring so many well developed characters with such complexity and heart. Buffy and my beloved Veronica Mars are the only two that come to mind. But FNL is different from those shows, because there’s not a vampire or a slayer or a wunderkind detective in sight; it’s about regular people. The remarkable thing, though, is that these characters aren’t just transplants from 90210 who’ve been turned into “regular people” based on costume changes and the fact that they drive crappy old pick-up trucks: They’re are fully realized people, with thoughts and ideas and fears and flaws and goodness and meanness and kindness and stupidity. And even senses of humor.

They go to school and work and shop for groceries and go to church and take casseroles to the neighbors. They talk and they don’t talk. They fight and cry and laugh. They do things they know are wrong without understanding why they do them anyway. And there isn’t a wise-ass, precocious child or crackling, snappy dialogue anywhere. It’s certainly well-written dialogue—don’t get me wrong—but it’s not overwritten. You never get caught up in the actor’s clever lines because they aren’t speaking as writers, if that makes any sense.

It’s just good TV. Please, if you have a fast internet connection and a spare 45 minutes, go to Hulu and watch the pilot. I love this show and its characters, and I’m dying to have someone to share it with.

Fat Head

Someone sent this to my boss, who doesn't live in a dorm, and so doesn't have a place for it in his home:



Big Ben, Pittsburgh Steeler quarterback and public library card holder, now lives in our office. The thing is life-sized, which means it huge. And you probably can't tell from this crappy image, but it's remarkably clear and sharp. It's pretty darn cool.

I especially like the way this photo shows off how crappy our office is. Ah, the glamorous life of public radio.

Couched in Comfort

There are TWO couches, and they fit easily! My new living room looks like a life-sized game of Tetris, and will stay that way until I can figure out what to do with a cabinet that doesn't fit anywhere, but it's a COMFY game of Tetris, let me tell you. The couches are so deep that if I take off one of the enoromously puffy back cushions and sit with my legs straight out, only my feet hang off the end. (Granted, my legs are short, but still . . . )

I'm also going to have to come up with a new coffee table or some end tables, because the ottoman I had been using as a coffee table is now too short--it's inches lower than the edges of the couches, and it looks stupid. Plus, the couches are gree and the ottoman is dark purple, so there's that. It'll do until something new comes along, though.

I can't wait to take a nap this weekend!

She-Ra: Princess of Power

I may be getting a new couch today, courtesy of my mom's cousin, who's giving it away to make room for a new one. I say "may," because there's a slight chance it's too big to fit through my door. (My brother-in-law is picking it up for me, and he and my sister will take it if it won't fit.)

In preparation for this couch, which is cushier/larger/longer than my current couch (or, perhaps, than any other couch in the history of the world: It's quite a couch, and only a year old. She [Is she my second cousin? Is she a first cousin but once-removed? BB's husband explained that to me once, but now I can't remember]is getting rid of it because she wants DIFFERENT CHAIRS, which won't look right with the couch. Whatever. Her loss.), I moved the living room furniture into the dining room and the dining room furniture into the living room. It's a little dumb, I know, but I figured that we never use the dining room for anything other than as a place for The Boy to do his homework (we almost always eat in the kitchen), so it doesn't matter if it's next to the kitchen. The DR furniture looks really nice in its new room--it fits better, for one thing, and the color of the walls makes the furniture look less shabby. We'll see how it goes with the couch this evening.

By the way, I'm not going to move things back if it doesn't fit: I was sweating, straining, and exhausted last night, moving that furniture all by myself. The Boy was there, but his scrawny 85-pounds and noodly arms render him pretty useless when it comes to moving furniture. He carried lamps and unloaded the china cabinet and offered moral support. (Oh, and between my Trivial Pursuit performance Saturday night and my furniture-moving feat last night, The Boy now thinks I am the smartest and strongest woman in the world. He will probably never again hold me in such high regard as he does now.)

Anyway, the new set-up works fine with my (stupidawfuluglymiserableuncomfortable) current couch, so unless I get really tired of it, or The Boy and his friends sprout some muscles, things will stay where they are whether the new couch fits or not.

Cross your finger for me, though, as the new couch really is comfortable. Nap-tastic, even.

You Got to Know When to Hold 'Em

The weird warm snap is over, and it's unmistakably November again, which is a-okay with me. I made beef stew in the crock pot Friday, served with homemade rolls. Dinner may get better than that, but I'm not sure how.

This was a wonderful weekend all around (despite the heartbreaking Steelers loss to the Colts yesterday). Soccer is finally over, so The Boy and I spent Saturday and Sunday at my parents', where we baked and ate and watched football and hockey and played board games and knitted and just made my parents very happy by being there.

The Boy and I were scanning through radio stations on the way home last night, and I made him stop to listen to Kenny Rogers sing about The Gambler. (What? Everyone should know that song!) He said, "Is he talking about poker but referring to life? Because those are some good tips." I'll make an English major of him yet. We also discovered, in scanning across the radio dial, that the stupid station that plays nothing but Christmas music through the holidays has already started. Too soon! Too soon! The Boy doesn't think so, but I do. I'm a firm believer in No Christmas Until After Thanksgiving, which means that the radio station and Hallmark (who can stop it with their noisy, creepy No Peeking gift bags and Sheryl Crow's very first Christmas album) and Garmin (with their damn commercial sung to the evil Carol of the Bells (I hate the way it's so frantic: "Here come the bells! So many bells! Oh, God the bells! I hate the bells!") and all the other stores who are pushing their Christmas crap need to shut up and leave me alone.

Or else I need to avoid everything but PBS and NPR for another few weeks.

Oh, also: I spent a little time working on some GRE sample questions, and guess what! I'm not stupid! (Or, at least I don't think I'm any dumber than I was when I took the GRE a million years ago.) That's the good news. The bad news is that while I have a decent vocabulary and grasp of the English language, and still remember how to do much of the math I learned in high school, I continue to have the terrible habit of rushing through exams and making stupid mistakes because I haven't read the questions carefully enough. I blame my friend K, who used to race with me in grade school to see who could finish everything first. Damn K!

Never Happier to Have Been Wrong

Confession: I was braced for a loss, for four more years of the same, because I honestly didn't believe that America would elect a black man named Barack Hussein Obama. Shame on me for letting my faith in my country falter like that.

I'm proud, and I'm happy, and I'm hopeful.

I heard a man on NPR say, "Rosa sat so Martin could walk, so Obama could run, so our children could fly." Amen.

Election Day

I dragged The Boy out of the house early this morning despite the fact that we were both up until nearly midnight watching the Steelers beat the Redskins. (Did you know that every time [save one] the Redskins have lost their last home game before an election, the incumbent's party has lost? Rock ON, Steelers!)

I left The Boy to doze in the car when I went into my polling place at about 6:50, where I discovered I was the 59th person in line! I was out in about 30 minutes, and we made it to school and work in plenty of time.

We switched to the electronic touch screens at my polling place a few years ago, and I have to say that I still dislike them--they don't have the same gravitas as the booths. I loved having the curtain slide closed, leaving me in private with my ballot. I loved flicking the levers, and I loved the finality of the ka-chunk sound that meant my vote was registered.

Where can I register my vote for wanting to go back to voting old school?

Korny, Happy & Jaws

Sounds like a children's book, doesn't it? The Steelers are playing the Redskins in tonight's Monday Night Football game, which means I will spend three hours putting up with these three:



The Boy and I call Mike Tirico Happy, because the smile never leaves his face.



This is Ron Jaworski, AKA Jaws. Much to my surprise, I sort of like him. He knows what's going on (of course they all do, even Mr. Crazy Mumbles, John Madden) and he knows how to talk about it in a way that makes me able to understand and learn something, without feeling like I'm being talked down to. He does tend to get on my nerves a bit, but not nearly as much as this guy:



Tony Kornheiser drives me absolutely bananas. He's a sportswriter, not a former player, which in theory might be a good thing, as he might be able to discuss the game in ways us mere mortals might better relate to. His writing skills, however, (specifically, the fact that he tends to speak the way he writes) make him all wrong for broadcast. He tends to speak in a flowery, poetic, fanboy way that reads well on paper but makes me want to kick him the moment I hear his voice.

I don't usually watch MNF because it's on ESPN and I don't have cable anymore, but Disney graciously allows ABC affiliates to simulcast home games, which means I'll be spending the evening with Happy, Jaws, and Korny. Sigh.

Sometimes it's hard to be a fan.

PS--Notice that I didn't mention the MNF women: BECAUSE THEY MAKE ME SAD. I'm all for ladies being involved in football if they want to be, and I'm very much for knowledgeable women getting a chance to discuss the game, but . . . these people are relegated to standing on the field (often in bad weather, either wearing really girly hats or getting their over-sprayed hair blown around in odd masses), talking to players and coaches who usually don't want to be bothered. And then the fellas in the booth ignore them and do their best to pretend the whole thing never happened.

Creepy, wrong, resentful, and very poorly done. Boo.

Let Us Eat Cake

Getting ready for Tuesday . . .

Halloween 2008

The Boy decided he didn't want to dress up this year, because he's never been big on trick-or-treating (a trait he inherited from me) and the Halloween parade and party at his school are only for the little kids, so we he and his dad (who loves Halloween and refers to it at least once a year as The Gay Christmas) decided they would stay at my place (C lives on a quieter street), decorate my porch, and pass out candy. We invited one of The Boy's friends and a few other people who don't get many trick-or-treaters of their own, ordered pizzas, and had an odd but very fun little party for ourselves. C bought candy, I bought candy, and the two other adults (a wizard and a Mrs. Lovett) who came brought candy and goodies, and we still ran out a few minutes before the official end--we had to turn kids away. (It was either that or give them the only other thing in my cupboards I could think of that came individually wrapped--tea bags.) I'm sure there were close to a hundred kids, and very few of them were teenagers in lame non-costumes, just looking for candy. In fact, the two who actually were in lame non-costumes were very funny and friendly once we called them on it.

The Boy and his friend did the official candy-handing-out duties, so we got to pretty much sit around, eating, drinking, talking to the neighbors, and checking out costumes. There were many store-bought Hanna Montanas and High School Musical cheerleaders (which Mrs. Lovett pointed out to us parents of boys who had no clue), and there were more than a few Pittsburgh Steelers, but there were also a lot of creative and/or well made costumes. One of The Boy's friends, who is a very quiet, creative girl who always looks meek and a bit frightened, attached a whole bunch of those small, individualized cereal boxes to herself and then jammed plastic knives into them: She was, of course, a cereal killer. One set of boys were in very cute Mario and Luigi costumes their mom had made out of red and green t-shirts, ball caps, and creative sewing. One family was dressed as a moon, stars, and planets (but the planet couldn't fit through the walkway in my hedges and had to entrust his bag to someone else while he waited on the street).

A kid from The Boy's soccer team dressed all in black and covered himself with glow sticks, while his little brothers were race car drivers. There were plenty of baby pumpkins and Tiggers in strollers, the cutest, fattest baby Superman I've ever seen, and more Spidermen (Spidermans?) than I could count.

It was a very good night. I'm not a big Halloween person, but this one was a very good time.