You may have heard of the terrible train wreck in LA. http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/train_collision;_ylt=Ane8GM5HNlx4dYrLxiheZL6s0NUE
This was the cause of some excitement at Casa Zen-Samoa; you see, this is right. where. the Hawaiian Hottie lives. And, the train line goes right past his apartment building. o_o
Fortunately, he popped onto Messenger a few minutes ago. He is fine, but as it turned out he would not have been if he still worked for the Suburbia Snooper, his old job. You see, that was the train he took every day to the Snooper offices. Some of his neighbors in the apartment complex are still unaccounted for. :( So, prayers for them and thanks that HH lives to sizzle another day.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Blog by Oldkeh
Caroline's old kitty, who lives with us, has advised me that she wishes to be known in "the Zen" as Oldkeh. She also says CHURR PURR MEW. Just thought you would all like to know that. :D
T-2 weeks and counting
Until Caroline's shower. I'm beginning to stock up on shower food supplies. Cooking here I come!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Notice the date
Seven years ago today, many sucky things happened. All at once. I trust I need not elaborate further, because we all got pounded with the images 24/7/365, so if you haven't figured it out by this time, you aren't going to.
I was in my first year of grad school at the time, teaching an introductory Spanish class to undergrads that was mainly freshmen. I should have known it was going to be one of those days when I was walking up the hill to my classes and I saw a flock of sheep. The Bugpit U. campus is in the middle of a small city. (As it turned out, the sheep were part of an alcohol-awareness campaign that flopped, but I digress.) I didn't think too much more about it; it was a beautiful, sunny day and I probably had plans for that evening.
My medieval Spanish lit class, from 8-10 AM, passed without incident, though I probably dozed off somewhere in there. Little did I know that people were dying less than a thousand miles away, while I was trying to pretend I was interested in Gonzalo de Berceo. That lack of realization was about to change
Class got out at 10, and I had an hour before I had to teach class. I was noodling around doing some last-minute preparations, when my office mate came in and called her husband. I heard her say something about "blah blah, plane hit the World Trade Center". Now it was a fairly routine occurrence for light aircraft to fly into the side of the building, so I just assumed that this was what had happened. I wasn't sure why she was calling her husband over such a thing, but I thought "hey, maybe it's not routine in Bolivia" and continued about my business.
Then I walked out into the hall, and everyone was crying. Every single person, including the Latino male grad students. The Latino men I have known do not cry. Ever. Even if you pull out their fingernails. I think someone punched the wall. I pretty well figured from that that something was horribly wrong, but I still hadn't connected the phone conversation and the horribly wrong something. So, I headed into the stairwell to go up a floor to teach class. The stairwell was set up such that you could see into classrooms, and every single TV in all the classrooms was showing the same thing. "Why are they all showing a Schwarzenegger movie?" I thought to myself. At that point, light began to dawn, and I was starting to associate the plane and the Very Bad Something. I remember I was running the rest of the way up the stairs.
I got into the classroom, and my supervisor was packing up from teaching the class before mine. My students were all there, watching the TV in frozen horror. "WHAT is going on??!!" I asked her. "You don't know?" she said. "Um, no!" I replied. She pointed at the TV and left, leaving me to explain to twenty-nine frightened teenagers what the hell was going on. :P Needless to say, we did not have class that day, though they all stayed and watched the news. That day was the one time in my life where I have badly wanted to cry and couldn't to save my life. It was that much shock.
We all found out soon enough what happened, of course. Also, what was going to happen, and what wasn't, some of which was almost as bad as what had happened before, but none of it could really compare to that day. I normally love true crime, disaster documentaries, etc. and I still to this day have not seen any of the ones about 9/11. I sure as hell did not go to see United 93. I just can't do it, and to be honest I don't think I ever will be able to. This morning when I was getting one of the residents dressed, someone had put a country station on her radio, and they were playing 9/11 themed country songs, of which there are a lot. I started bawling and had to turn off the radio. I apologized to the resident and explained briefly why I had to do it; she was quite understanding, as she usually is. She's not able to speak, but I think she remembered too.
I'll leave you with the prayer I said an awful lot that day; I think a lot of us did.
I was in my first year of grad school at the time, teaching an introductory Spanish class to undergrads that was mainly freshmen. I should have known it was going to be one of those days when I was walking up the hill to my classes and I saw a flock of sheep. The Bugpit U. campus is in the middle of a small city. (As it turned out, the sheep were part of an alcohol-awareness campaign that flopped, but I digress.) I didn't think too much more about it; it was a beautiful, sunny day and I probably had plans for that evening.
My medieval Spanish lit class, from 8-10 AM, passed without incident, though I probably dozed off somewhere in there. Little did I know that people were dying less than a thousand miles away, while I was trying to pretend I was interested in Gonzalo de Berceo. That lack of realization was about to change
Class got out at 10, and I had an hour before I had to teach class. I was noodling around doing some last-minute preparations, when my office mate came in and called her husband. I heard her say something about "blah blah, plane hit the World Trade Center". Now it was a fairly routine occurrence for light aircraft to fly into the side of the building, so I just assumed that this was what had happened. I wasn't sure why she was calling her husband over such a thing, but I thought "hey, maybe it's not routine in Bolivia" and continued about my business.
Then I walked out into the hall, and everyone was crying. Every single person, including the Latino male grad students. The Latino men I have known do not cry. Ever. Even if you pull out their fingernails. I think someone punched the wall. I pretty well figured from that that something was horribly wrong, but I still hadn't connected the phone conversation and the horribly wrong something. So, I headed into the stairwell to go up a floor to teach class. The stairwell was set up such that you could see into classrooms, and every single TV in all the classrooms was showing the same thing. "Why are they all showing a Schwarzenegger movie?" I thought to myself. At that point, light began to dawn, and I was starting to associate the plane and the Very Bad Something. I remember I was running the rest of the way up the stairs.
I got into the classroom, and my supervisor was packing up from teaching the class before mine. My students were all there, watching the TV in frozen horror. "WHAT is going on??!!" I asked her. "You don't know?" she said. "Um, no!" I replied. She pointed at the TV and left, leaving me to explain to twenty-nine frightened teenagers what the hell was going on. :P Needless to say, we did not have class that day, though they all stayed and watched the news. That day was the one time in my life where I have badly wanted to cry and couldn't to save my life. It was that much shock.
We all found out soon enough what happened, of course. Also, what was going to happen, and what wasn't, some of which was almost as bad as what had happened before, but none of it could really compare to that day. I normally love true crime, disaster documentaries, etc. and I still to this day have not seen any of the ones about 9/11. I sure as hell did not go to see United 93. I just can't do it, and to be honest I don't think I ever will be able to. This morning when I was getting one of the residents dressed, someone had put a country station on her radio, and they were playing 9/11 themed country songs, of which there are a lot. I started bawling and had to turn off the radio. I apologized to the resident and explained briefly why I had to do it; she was quite understanding, as she usually is. She's not able to speak, but I think she remembered too.
I'll leave you with the prayer I said an awful lot that day; I think a lot of us did.
Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia; el Señor es
contigo;
bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres,
y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús.
Santa María, Madre de Dios,
ruega por nosotros pecadores,
ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Skipping the important parts
So there's currently an ongoing debate about skipping children a grade in school on a board I frequent. I put a polite $.02 in and wandered off, because I had the distinct feeling that nothing I said could change anyone's mind in any case. But, that made me think of a piece I wanted to say.
Skipping a grade: Don't do it. Just don't do it, parents. Send 'em to private school, get them in gifted classes, homeschool them, get them tutors, send them off to join the circus, whatever. But don't skip them. My mother gets upset when I say this; I think she takes it as me blaming her for the problems I had later, but that is not so. They were doing the best they could with what information they had at the time. And, now I am informing current and future parents of schoolchildren that it is a bad idea.
It all began when I started school. Kindergarten, the teacher refused to believe I could read, which was a whole other mess. My cousin, who was in high school at the time at the same school, once said of it: "That was when I realized adults didn't always know best. It's a bizarre feeling when you're sixteen years old, and you're arguing with a forty-year-old teacher, and you know you're right!" First grade, they tried to give me "enrichment work". Read: More badly mimeographed worksheets. In ADDITION to still being required to do the regular work. There were not enough hours in the school day for me to get it all done, literally. So, I stopped doing any of it. This was when, at the end of first grade, it was decided that I would skip second grade.
Mother likes to say "You chose it!" Um, not exactly. I was called down to the principal's office one day, and Mom, my LD teacher (yes, you can be gifted and have an LD folks, not explaining further), and the principal were all there. I about coded right there. The LD teacher was the only one who realized this and said "You're not in trouble or anything!" I believe my exact thoughts were "Yeah, right!" (Oh, did I mention I was all of seven?) Then they asked me if I wanted to skip second grade. I would have agreed to cut off my arm if it meant I could get out of there, so I agreed to do it. Not my idea of voluntary. But anyway, that's how it all got started.
Disaster. Oh, I could do the third grade work, no problem. Socially, I don't think I was even on par with my age-mates, never mind kids a year older. And it showed. And we all know the kindness, tolerance, and patience shown by the typical elementary schooler to the different and/or immature. (I'll stop for a minute while you all finish rolling around on the floor laughing.) Meanwhile back at the ranch, other parents were mad that their speshul snowflakes didn't get skipped, so they told their children that I was snotty, stuck-up, etc. Which their children, all predisposed to believe the worst, lapped up. The absolute worst was seventh grade. We'd all left school at the end of sixth and everyone was normal. Then we all came back to junior high (this was when dinosaurs roamed the earth, before "middle schools") and WHOOOOOAAAHHHH all the other girls were into boys, boobs, and Tiger Beat, and I was still stuck back on Barbie. Yeah. Not fun. I think that year was pretty much what cemented my hatred for 99% of the rest of the human race. :P
While we're at it, let's not forget the part where teachers and other people who should have known better took every. single. opportunity to announce that I was a year younger. Did I mention I was a year younger? Because I was a year younger, you know. Remember that I was a year younger! And so on and on and on until I thought my head was going to explode. I had been one of the older kids in my "right" class, so it extra-special sucked. Let's not forget doing drivers ed a year later than everyone else! And still needing permission slips for field trips during fall quarter of freshman year of college! (I turned 18 in December, college started in September.) Oh, and lots and lots of boys want to date girls in HS that they see as a bratty kid! It's quite the turn-on! Or, you know, not. :P Honestly, the best part of grad school was NOT being younger than everyone else for once, having taken two years off in between undergrad and grad.
I did get to "save" one little girl, though. About three or four years after I graduated, a colleague of my mom's was offered the opportunity to skip her daughter. Said child, Abigail, had gone to Montessori kindergarten, and as a result was way ahead, so the school POTB were looking to have her skip first grade. Mom's colleague being a bit more forward-thinking, she decided to research the idea before telling them yea or nay, so she came to me. I told her all of the above, and added that it's not worth having your child be out-of-sync for the rest of their academic career (or life!) just to get them ahead a little. She took my advice to heart, sent Abigail to Montessori first grade and then to private school. Abigail's in high school now, and very normal, in-sync and happy. It does make me feel better to know I was able to help someone else avoid it, if I couldn't.
So, I guess my point is this. Parents, school only lasts 12 years (well, 16 for the college bound, but the point still stands). Your children are going to have to deal with people for at least 80 years. Which is more important, making sure they have the social skills they need to succeed or entering MIT at 16? You be the judge. I'll be at the prom, thanks.
Skipping a grade: Don't do it. Just don't do it, parents. Send 'em to private school, get them in gifted classes, homeschool them, get them tutors, send them off to join the circus, whatever. But don't skip them. My mother gets upset when I say this; I think she takes it as me blaming her for the problems I had later, but that is not so. They were doing the best they could with what information they had at the time. And, now I am informing current and future parents of schoolchildren that it is a bad idea.
It all began when I started school. Kindergarten, the teacher refused to believe I could read, which was a whole other mess. My cousin, who was in high school at the time at the same school, once said of it: "That was when I realized adults didn't always know best. It's a bizarre feeling when you're sixteen years old, and you're arguing with a forty-year-old teacher, and you know you're right!" First grade, they tried to give me "enrichment work". Read: More badly mimeographed worksheets. In ADDITION to still being required to do the regular work. There were not enough hours in the school day for me to get it all done, literally. So, I stopped doing any of it. This was when, at the end of first grade, it was decided that I would skip second grade.
Mother likes to say "You chose it!" Um, not exactly. I was called down to the principal's office one day, and Mom, my LD teacher (yes, you can be gifted and have an LD folks, not explaining further), and the principal were all there. I about coded right there. The LD teacher was the only one who realized this and said "You're not in trouble or anything!" I believe my exact thoughts were "Yeah, right!" (Oh, did I mention I was all of seven?) Then they asked me if I wanted to skip second grade. I would have agreed to cut off my arm if it meant I could get out of there, so I agreed to do it. Not my idea of voluntary. But anyway, that's how it all got started.
Disaster. Oh, I could do the third grade work, no problem. Socially, I don't think I was even on par with my age-mates, never mind kids a year older. And it showed. And we all know the kindness, tolerance, and patience shown by the typical elementary schooler to the different and/or immature. (I'll stop for a minute while you all finish rolling around on the floor laughing.) Meanwhile back at the ranch, other parents were mad that their speshul snowflakes didn't get skipped, so they told their children that I was snotty, stuck-up, etc. Which their children, all predisposed to believe the worst, lapped up. The absolute worst was seventh grade. We'd all left school at the end of sixth and everyone was normal. Then we all came back to junior high (this was when dinosaurs roamed the earth, before "middle schools") and WHOOOOOAAAHHHH all the other girls were into boys, boobs, and Tiger Beat, and I was still stuck back on Barbie. Yeah. Not fun. I think that year was pretty much what cemented my hatred for 99% of the rest of the human race. :P
While we're at it, let's not forget the part where teachers and other people who should have known better took every. single. opportunity to announce that I was a year younger. Did I mention I was a year younger? Because I was a year younger, you know. Remember that I was a year younger! And so on and on and on until I thought my head was going to explode. I had been one of the older kids in my "right" class, so it extra-special sucked. Let's not forget doing drivers ed a year later than everyone else! And still needing permission slips for field trips during fall quarter of freshman year of college! (I turned 18 in December, college started in September.) Oh, and lots and lots of boys want to date girls in HS that they see as a bratty kid! It's quite the turn-on! Or, you know, not. :P Honestly, the best part of grad school was NOT being younger than everyone else for once, having taken two years off in between undergrad and grad.
I did get to "save" one little girl, though. About three or four years after I graduated, a colleague of my mom's was offered the opportunity to skip her daughter. Said child, Abigail, had gone to Montessori kindergarten, and as a result was way ahead, so the school POTB were looking to have her skip first grade. Mom's colleague being a bit more forward-thinking, she decided to research the idea before telling them yea or nay, so she came to me. I told her all of the above, and added that it's not worth having your child be out-of-sync for the rest of their academic career (or life!) just to get them ahead a little. She took my advice to heart, sent Abigail to Montessori first grade and then to private school. Abigail's in high school now, and very normal, in-sync and happy. It does make me feel better to know I was able to help someone else avoid it, if I couldn't.
So, I guess my point is this. Parents, school only lasts 12 years (well, 16 for the college bound, but the point still stands). Your children are going to have to deal with people for at least 80 years. Which is more important, making sure they have the social skills they need to succeed or entering MIT at 16? You be the judge. I'll be at the prom, thanks.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Dog LOLz
So Mr. Samoa was walking the dogs just now. They started to fight while he was walking them along the road, so he bent over to separate them. Just then, a car came along, and the occupants were treated to the sight of Mr. Samoa's backside, and Dog WWF at the end of the leashes. They applauded. :D I don't know, I guess you kind of had to be there, but it was funny.
We found them!
I forgot to mention it, we finally found onesies for the crafts at Caroline's shower. I'm going to have everyone decorate onesies and bibs, using fabric markers. I was looking for somewhere that had them cheaper than Smiley Face Hell, and Target had them for ten cents cheaper. One thing I have noticed throughout this, however, is that parents really get bent over on the cost of stuff. $9.89 for what are basically five teeny pieces of T-shirt material? Oookayyyy!
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