Hey, Good Lookin’! What Ya’ Got Cookin’?

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In just a week my “full time/part time” job will be at an end. Yea! I will continue administering assessments to 2, 3, and 4-year-olds at various preschools in the area, but I’m stepping away from the intervention arena.

My new gig won’t pay as much, but it will truly be a flexible, part time role. Studly is fine with me making less money, as long as, (drumroll) I take on all of the cooking duties.

I don’t cook. It’s basically against my religion. Twice a year, on Thanksgiving and Christmas, I ignore the basic tenet (thou shalt not cook) of The No Cook Cathedral of the Coast and prepare a meal. This might not seem like a big deal to some, but in my religion it’s basically the same as ignoring the commandments against infidelity and idol worship.

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My culinary skills are pretty basic. I can boil water. I am qualified to operate a can opener. I’m surprisingly adept at microwaving. But, the stove is off limits unless I have adult supervision. And knives are a no-no. No–a NO-NO-NO!! If I had a dollar for every time I’d sliced into some portion of my hand I’d be able to retire comfortably to a remote Caribbean island, and perhaps purchase a prosthetic appendage.

But I’m going to take Studly up on his offer. I’m going to refute my no cooking religion and embark on a new adventure: Cooking for Studly. Heaven help us both. Speaking of which I’ll probably need to find a new religion, too.

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Peace, People!

Embrace Your Inner Beatle! Nowhere Man by John Lennon

Lengthy, but very good! Reblogged from Jackewilson.com on wordpress.

Jacke Wilson

nowhereman

THE SELECTION

Aha! This week we use the perfect randomizer: four spins of a Life board game dial. Szzzzzzzzz-tika-tika-tika…. and the gods of creativity have chosen!

NOWHERE MAN (LENNON-MCCARTNEY, RUBBER SOUL)

Oh, wow. Once again, the gods seem to have looked out for themselves. Here’s another divinely inspired song, or at least divinely delivered. More on that later.

“Nowhere Man,” from the album Rubber Soul, was written in what John later called his “fat Elvis” period, when he was unhappy, bitter, isolated, troubled, uncertain. Oh, you never knew that? You never knew he was suffering? Here’s Paul:

I think at that point, he was a bit…wondering where he was going, and to be truthful so was I. I was starting to worry about him.

(Gee, Paul, you think? I mean, the guy only wrote a song called Help!)

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Ocean

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Ocean

Messages of anger,
Hate, and despair
Tucked in blown glass
Riding atop
Waves of arguments:
He said!
But they were!
You should!
All rebuffed with
Words of hope,
Love, and peace.
Wrested from the
Brink of anguish
Cresting swells of
Sweet, sweet
Acceptance for
Ourselves and others,
Our lives and loves,
Without a care for
What any might
Think or say.

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Here Deer?

Some weird hunting season must be in full swing here in the Florida panhandle. My friend Lee Ann, visiting from Indiana, and I discovered this on our return from Apalachicola on Saturday afternoon.

We’d driven down to eat lunch at a little restaurant called The Owl (I highly recommend this charming place where the waitress said she’d be back to ‘water us’ before taking our order). After our wonderful meal–Lee Ann had a grouper sandwich; I had a crab and shrimp salad–we wandered around the quaint downtown area spending money and making witty repartee.

No trip to the Gulf would be complete without a visit to St. George Island, so even though the temps were in the mid-40’s Lee Ann and I walked on the beach for a bit before heading home.

Instead of taking my well-worn path back to Tallahassee through Sopchoppy and Crawfordville, I turned towards the tiny burgs of Sumatra, Wilma, and Clio. All three are one-blink towns: blink once and you’ll miss them. This road is almost completely enveloped in pine forest, with occasional glimpses of swampland.

Just past Sumatra we noticed a trio of 4-wheel drive pickup trucks being driven erratically on the grassy area beside the main road. Lee Ann and I both wondered aloud just what was wrong with those um, knot heads. A little further along we realized what was wrong: Hunting Fever.

Hound dogs, armed camouflage clad men, and pickup trucks abounded. The testosterone glimmered all around us, like hairy legged fairy dust. We even spotted one hunter standing on the tool box of his truck, rifle at the ready. Instinctively I ducked thinking we would feel a bullet whiz past at any minute. It was madness, I tell you, madness!

After stopping for a bathroom break in Hosford we turned north towards Tallahassee. Not far beyond the Hosford city limits sign we came up on a group of pickup trucks parked next to a bridge. A man wearing a bright orange hunting vest over the requisite camouflage ensemble stepped into the road and began gesticulating wildly. Even though his intended message wasn’t clear we slowed down just in case he was attempting to warn us about a large herd of elephants on the highway.

A reduction in our speed must have been his goal since we received a cheerful thumbs up from Mr. Orange Vest. We soon saw a hunting hound apparently hot on the trail of some prey, nose to the ground heading off the road and into the brush. Had we not slowed down we might have hit the little guy. Thanks Mr. Orange Vest!

Lee Ann and I never did figure out what was being hunted so exuberantly yesterday. We did see deer placidly grazing along our route, so that didn’t seem likely. Whatever it was I hope most of them successfully evaded the hunters, and that no dogs or hunters were injured in the process.

Peace, People!

Third Person Love and Laughter

A friend challenged me to take one of my more poetic posts and rewrite it in third person. Here’s the new version with the original at the end.

Love and Laughter

The market on love
Has been cornered
By those who know that
Sometimes the clouds threaten
And the sky goes sunless
Day upon day
And all that holds the storm at bay
Are the winds swept aloft
By shared laughter.

So what if lovers can’t live
On love alone?
Better that they never even try.
Some days they may
Forget to remember
The grace of being saved
By a smile, seeing
The world created
From no more than a pair
Of long ago I do’s.

And here’s the original:

“Laughter and Love”

The market on love
Has been cornered
By those of us
Who know that
Sometimes the clouds threaten
And the sky goes sunless
Day upon day
And all that holds the storm at bay
Are the winds swept aloft
By shared laughter.

So what if we can’t live
On love alone?
Honestly we never even tried.
Some days we might have
Forgotten to remember, though
The importance of just looking
Into a smile and seeing
The world we’ve created
From no more than a pair
Of long ago I do’s
.

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Longing for Vanderbilt

I love this! Very fitting. Written by a blogger I follow: aroilinpain.wordpress.com

Aroil in Pain

What happened to them?
Those “Robber Barons” of old,
whose fortunes emerged
from building a modern world?
Have they been replaced,
one and all, by a new breed
of wealthy, fat cat,
shysters and con-men and thieves?
These “Liar Barons”
who never produce a thing
to benefit mere
common men! Is now the time
for new blood to rise,
maybe called “Savior Barons”,
who build their fortunes
undoing the harm of those
who profit at our expense?

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Observation and Evaluation

Observation and Evaluation. Two words capable of striking fear into the heart of even the most seasoned teacher.

The truth is that a great teacher can have an awful day and an awful teacher can fake a great day during an observation. I’ve been both great and awful and can attest to to the truthfulness of this statement.

In my current role as an interventionist for a literacy research project I’m observed frequently–at least once each week–to make sure I’m following the intervention protocol. Normally these observations don’t phase me. I’m either doing the intervention correctly or I’m not.

But today I pretty much bombed during an observation. Lack of preparation wasn’t the issue–I had all of my materials prepped and ready to go. I’d practiced the lesson with a co-worker as is our daily custom. The first 15 minutes of the lesson were perfect.

Then everything went to hell in a hand basket when the second graders decided to go slightly psycho. It’s a small group of four kids, three boys and one girl. The little girl was an angel and looked on with horror (along with yours truly) as the lesson went from perfect to putrid in 10 seconds flat.

One of the little boys began farting. Loudly. The smells accompanying the farts were horrendous. At first we simply ignored the sounds and smells, until it was impossible to pretend nothing was going on.

Of course the other two boys thought this was hysterical. I’m not afraid of farts; I’ve been known to pass gas on occasion, but I’d never experienced farts of this magnitude. They rated at least a 6.4 on the Richter scale.

While boy #1 was engaged in gas passing one of the other young men used the distraction to turn off my recorder–the one that has to be turned into the office at the end of the week. Boy #3 decided to roll on the floor in a fit of giggles.

The observer, who looked to be in her early 20’s, didn’t know which way to look as I scrambled over the table, reset the recorder, and scooped up boy #3. I then sternly sent Fart Boy to the bathroom.

By that time, our 30 minutes was up, and we were nowhere near completing the lesson. As I escorted our group back to their respective classrooms, picking Fart Boy up on the way, I gathered them together for a team meeting.

“Look,” I said. “I realize that sometimes things happen that cause us to laugh and that’s okay, but how could we have handled this situation better?”

Fart Boy raised his hand.

Good, I thought, he realizes that he has some responsibility here. “What do you suggest ‘Jon'” I asked.

His response? A resounding fart.

We can hope for a better day tomorrow. Prayers are appreciated.

Peace, People.

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Year 2: Day 92 – Cacophony Sisters

From one of my very favorite bloggers/authors, charlottecuevas.wordpress.com. Enjoy!

Charlotte Cuevas

Ten million wrought-iron women
march in Sephora and gold
lugging their wheeled makeup-carriages
behind.

Can’t run. Heels.
Can’t fight. Nails.
Thousands in the can
for all the chemicals they’re worth
and still not worth
that much.

And these are not the giant metallic idols
casting shadows over the land-
these are the cacophony sisters,
common as sand and just as brief,
born of insanity,
raised with just one hope:
to peal and rattle and sound.

They’re following the scent of roasting flesh,
they chat amongst themselves of artificial glory,
and the din of vanity is growing too much
for rational minds to bear.

Who could halt these daughters of discord,
who could stop their shrieking laughter in the streets?
Who with unwaxed eyebrows could get in a single word
to stifle the clamor of their wailing and empty decrees-

who could speak the truth to drones who will not hear…

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Do You Remember?

What is your very earliest memory?

Mine is an image of my mother carrying me early in the morning to my babysitter’s house. I wasn’t very old, perhaps not yet two, so I have a feeling that my memory is a conglomeration of many mornings of being carried; the repetition, as well as the feelings of warmth and love, firmly embedding the experience in my mind.

Studly’s earliest memory is of his mother trying to help him get over a case of the croup with a concoction of honey and whisky. He doesn’t recall how old he was, but he’s certain he wasn’t school age yet. I wonder, was it his mother’s love or the whisky that made the experience memorable? At any rate, he hasn’t had croup in years.

It isn’t surprising that for each of us our mothers play such an important role in our earliest memories. I would imagine that is most often the case, with memories of fathers coming in a close second. I could do some research, but who has the time for that? Unless, YOU could help me! Yes, YOU!

What is your earliest memory? (Notice how I made my first sentence work as my last sentence, as well?)

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Will she remember this epic Christmas of 2014?

Peace, People!