Steven Harper's Blog, page 80
June 21, 2017
Reasons Why I Stopped Watching 13 Reasons Why (And Why I Started in the First Place)
All my students were buzzing about the Netflix show 13 REASONS WHY. I'd heard of it, of course. I knew about the controversy. And I knew, even without watching, that it in no way portrayed suicide accurately, and I had no desire to watch it.
But then I found out a high school friend of mine, Brian d'Arcy James, was in it as the father of the suicide victim. Brian mostly does stage work on Broadway (he's currently playing King George in HAMILTON), so I rarely get to see his work. Most recently I saw him in the movie SPOTLIGHT, and it's always fun to see him perform. So I decided to give 13 REASONS a look.
I lasted about five episodes.
I suppose I should warn about spoilers in the following, though the show has been out for months, and I don't see it as my job to protect anyone from plot spoilers after that long. But I'll be nice. SPOILERS.
The show was absolutely awful. Part of it, I'm sure, is that it does cater completely and unabashedly to the teenaged crowd, and there's really nothing in it for adults. That's okay--I can enjoy a teen show on its own merits. But . . .
The premise: A teenage girl commits suicide (and the show was bad enough that I can't remember anyone's names, so I'm reduced to giving them epithets), and a few days after her death, a set of cassette tapes appears on the doorstep of the main character. The tapes are an audio diary from Suicide Girl explaining, in detail, how thirteen different people drove her to kill herself, and, she says on the first tape, if you don't listen to all of them all the way through, something awful will happen. "You're being watched," she says (feeding into the adolescent feeling of being the center of the world and that everyone is always watching you).
Okay, we all know suicide doesn't work this way. Netflix was even pressured into putting a little disclaimer at the beginning of the first episode to this effect. But a disclaimer doesn't stop me from thinking, "This would never happen" and "That would never work" and "This isn't remotely possible," which yanks me constantly out of the story and reminds me that I'm watching a fake for fake fakey-fake TV show. I can't even pretend it might possibly somehow be a little bit real, which wrecks the viewing experience.
Suicide girl, you see, goes through some world-wrecking bullying at school which culminates in graphic sexual assault (I didn't get that far, but I read about it) that is so bad it drves her to kill herself, but she somehow manages to hold it all together long enough to formulate and execute an extensive, Machiavellian postmortem revenge plan with dozens of moving parts that hold together without input from her. She narrates the tapes in a chipper, snarky tone with no sign of being upset or unhappy.
Seriously. I have an easier time believing in an magical island full of warrior women created by Zeus, or a skinny kid from Brooklyn being transformed by a mysterious drug into a super-hero than this. If Suicide Girl is so smart and savvy and together while putting this plan off, why doesn't she ask for help? Or get her revenge while she's alive to see it? Hell, why not just run away and leave the tapes behind as 13 Reasons Why I Ran Away? None of it makes any kind of sense. Easier to believe in giant apes living on an uncharted island than this.
The characters are also unlikable and uninteresting. Every one of them. There's Football Boy (the eventual rapist) who heads up a coterie of friends who hang out in his rich parents' pool house (which is bigger than most people's houses) and is for some reason worshiped by the entire student body (in reality, most students at a high school can't name the quarterback, nor would they care). He drinks, does drugs, and beats up smaller students. We also have Suicide Girl's Bitchy Best Friend, who gets into a fight with her over a boy (of course) and slaps her in the cafeteria. We have Camera Kid who peeps into windows and takes pictures of Suicide Girl while she's dressing. We have Asian Lesbian-in-the-Closet Girl who is being raised by two dads but is somehow too closeted to admit she is herself lesbian. (WTF? So being adopted and raised by two men turns you both gay and closeted. I was ready to punch the fucking screen at that one. Or just knock the writers' teeth so far down their collective throats that they could chew their own shit as it came out their asses.) We have Miscellaneous Teens who spread half-naked photos of Suicide Girl around with their phones and make fun of her about it. I wouldn't have wanted any of them in my classroom, let alone in my life--or on my iPad.
And we have Doormat Boy, the viewpoint character. He receives the tapes and starts listening, but can't bring himself to listen to more than five seconds at a time before anxiety takes over and he has to stop. Here's where things become even more unbelievable. Doormat Boy, we learn, is something like the ninth or tenth person to get the tapes. The tapes have been passed around from teen to teen, and everyone keeps asking Doormat Boy if he's listened to "his" tape yet (the tape that talks about his role in Suicide Girl's death). When he says he hasn't, the asker always shouts, "What are you waiting for? You have to listen!!" But Doormat Boy can't do it. And why? Because if he did, the show would be over. The show needs him to listen to one tape per episode. So, against human nature and every bit of reason in the universe, Doormat Boy listens to one bit at a time.
Doormat Boy always does what the person next to him says. Suicide Girl orders him to be her friend, and so he does. Football Boy's friends pressure him into drinking, so he chugs a beer. And, of course, Suicide Girl orders him to listen to the tapes on the first cassette, and he does. I heard that later he starts standing up for himself, but I wasn't willing to wait for it.
Suicide Girl herself is a nasty little bitch. She's mean and snarky to her friends. She walks all over Doormat Boy. She calls him names (the fact that she calls him by a series of demeaning nicknames instead of his actual name turns into a running joke). Whenever she asks him for advice and he gives it, she says something cruel to him in return, and when he finally gets up the gumption to protest about it, she simpers at him and walks away. She starts arguments with her friends and parents over inconsequential matters just to have drama in the episode. Bitchy, nasty, unlikable. If I was supposed to feel sorry she was dead, by Episode 5 I wasn't.
I also couldn't swallow the idea that no one tells anyone else about the tapes. Ten-odd teens have gotten hold of these tapes, and they've told their friends about them, but NOT ONE PARENT has learned of them? No. Just no. Someone would talk about it to an adult. Or an adult would find the tapes by accident and give a listen. Or they'd stumble onto their teenager listening and demand to know what's going on. ("Why are you listening to a tape?") There's no way something like this would remain a secret when this many people know about it. I've seen it in action. Just last week at school, a kid kept spraying stink bomb aerosol in classes as a prank. It was supposed to stay a huge secret who was doing it. But within twenty minutes, someone ratted him out. Someone ALWAYS talks. Always. The tapes would be public knowledge in a matter of hours.
And why DOES everyone do what Suicide Girl says on the tapes? Sorry, hon, but you're dead. You don't get to reach out of your grave and tell other people what to do. If I got a bunch of cassettes from a dead person that said, "Go to Spot A in town and listen," I MIGHT continue listening, but I definitely wouldn't go to Spot A to do it. My overall instinct would be to return the tapes to Suicide Girl's parents, untouched, or maybe to erase them and throw them out. I certainly wouldn't obey orders from beyond the grave, if for no other reason than a feeling of "Fuck you." Yet on this show, every single person follows orders. Another point of disbelief. No one erases the tapes or throws them away or says, "Fuck this!"? Sure.
And Brian's role as Suicide Girl's father? Well, he was barely given enough screen time for me to form an opinion. He's an adult in a teen drama, so he'd shown up in maybe four scenes by the time I stopped watching. I'm glad he got the chance to be on what's inexplicably a hit show, though.
When I got halfway through Episode 5, I realized I was watching the show out of a sense of duty more than any enjoyment, and that I actively disliked bringing it up on Netflix. There was nothing redeeming in the show, nothing fun or interesting to watch, nothing that made me look forward to more. The show actively pissed me off, in fact. I decided to remove the show from my queue, and you know what? I felt a strange sense of relief.
No more banal adventures of Doormat Boy and Suicide Girl.
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But then I found out a high school friend of mine, Brian d'Arcy James, was in it as the father of the suicide victim. Brian mostly does stage work on Broadway (he's currently playing King George in HAMILTON), so I rarely get to see his work. Most recently I saw him in the movie SPOTLIGHT, and it's always fun to see him perform. So I decided to give 13 REASONS a look.
I lasted about five episodes.
I suppose I should warn about spoilers in the following, though the show has been out for months, and I don't see it as my job to protect anyone from plot spoilers after that long. But I'll be nice. SPOILERS.
The show was absolutely awful. Part of it, I'm sure, is that it does cater completely and unabashedly to the teenaged crowd, and there's really nothing in it for adults. That's okay--I can enjoy a teen show on its own merits. But . . .
The premise: A teenage girl commits suicide (and the show was bad enough that I can't remember anyone's names, so I'm reduced to giving them epithets), and a few days after her death, a set of cassette tapes appears on the doorstep of the main character. The tapes are an audio diary from Suicide Girl explaining, in detail, how thirteen different people drove her to kill herself, and, she says on the first tape, if you don't listen to all of them all the way through, something awful will happen. "You're being watched," she says (feeding into the adolescent feeling of being the center of the world and that everyone is always watching you).
Okay, we all know suicide doesn't work this way. Netflix was even pressured into putting a little disclaimer at the beginning of the first episode to this effect. But a disclaimer doesn't stop me from thinking, "This would never happen" and "That would never work" and "This isn't remotely possible," which yanks me constantly out of the story and reminds me that I'm watching a fake for fake fakey-fake TV show. I can't even pretend it might possibly somehow be a little bit real, which wrecks the viewing experience.
Suicide girl, you see, goes through some world-wrecking bullying at school which culminates in graphic sexual assault (I didn't get that far, but I read about it) that is so bad it drves her to kill herself, but she somehow manages to hold it all together long enough to formulate and execute an extensive, Machiavellian postmortem revenge plan with dozens of moving parts that hold together without input from her. She narrates the tapes in a chipper, snarky tone with no sign of being upset or unhappy.
Seriously. I have an easier time believing in an magical island full of warrior women created by Zeus, or a skinny kid from Brooklyn being transformed by a mysterious drug into a super-hero than this. If Suicide Girl is so smart and savvy and together while putting this plan off, why doesn't she ask for help? Or get her revenge while she's alive to see it? Hell, why not just run away and leave the tapes behind as 13 Reasons Why I Ran Away? None of it makes any kind of sense. Easier to believe in giant apes living on an uncharted island than this.
The characters are also unlikable and uninteresting. Every one of them. There's Football Boy (the eventual rapist) who heads up a coterie of friends who hang out in his rich parents' pool house (which is bigger than most people's houses) and is for some reason worshiped by the entire student body (in reality, most students at a high school can't name the quarterback, nor would they care). He drinks, does drugs, and beats up smaller students. We also have Suicide Girl's Bitchy Best Friend, who gets into a fight with her over a boy (of course) and slaps her in the cafeteria. We have Camera Kid who peeps into windows and takes pictures of Suicide Girl while she's dressing. We have Asian Lesbian-in-the-Closet Girl who is being raised by two dads but is somehow too closeted to admit she is herself lesbian. (WTF? So being adopted and raised by two men turns you both gay and closeted. I was ready to punch the fucking screen at that one. Or just knock the writers' teeth so far down their collective throats that they could chew their own shit as it came out their asses.) We have Miscellaneous Teens who spread half-naked photos of Suicide Girl around with their phones and make fun of her about it. I wouldn't have wanted any of them in my classroom, let alone in my life--or on my iPad.
And we have Doormat Boy, the viewpoint character. He receives the tapes and starts listening, but can't bring himself to listen to more than five seconds at a time before anxiety takes over and he has to stop. Here's where things become even more unbelievable. Doormat Boy, we learn, is something like the ninth or tenth person to get the tapes. The tapes have been passed around from teen to teen, and everyone keeps asking Doormat Boy if he's listened to "his" tape yet (the tape that talks about his role in Suicide Girl's death). When he says he hasn't, the asker always shouts, "What are you waiting for? You have to listen!!" But Doormat Boy can't do it. And why? Because if he did, the show would be over. The show needs him to listen to one tape per episode. So, against human nature and every bit of reason in the universe, Doormat Boy listens to one bit at a time.
Doormat Boy always does what the person next to him says. Suicide Girl orders him to be her friend, and so he does. Football Boy's friends pressure him into drinking, so he chugs a beer. And, of course, Suicide Girl orders him to listen to the tapes on the first cassette, and he does. I heard that later he starts standing up for himself, but I wasn't willing to wait for it.
Suicide Girl herself is a nasty little bitch. She's mean and snarky to her friends. She walks all over Doormat Boy. She calls him names (the fact that she calls him by a series of demeaning nicknames instead of his actual name turns into a running joke). Whenever she asks him for advice and he gives it, she says something cruel to him in return, and when he finally gets up the gumption to protest about it, she simpers at him and walks away. She starts arguments with her friends and parents over inconsequential matters just to have drama in the episode. Bitchy, nasty, unlikable. If I was supposed to feel sorry she was dead, by Episode 5 I wasn't.
I also couldn't swallow the idea that no one tells anyone else about the tapes. Ten-odd teens have gotten hold of these tapes, and they've told their friends about them, but NOT ONE PARENT has learned of them? No. Just no. Someone would talk about it to an adult. Or an adult would find the tapes by accident and give a listen. Or they'd stumble onto their teenager listening and demand to know what's going on. ("Why are you listening to a tape?") There's no way something like this would remain a secret when this many people know about it. I've seen it in action. Just last week at school, a kid kept spraying stink bomb aerosol in classes as a prank. It was supposed to stay a huge secret who was doing it. But within twenty minutes, someone ratted him out. Someone ALWAYS talks. Always. The tapes would be public knowledge in a matter of hours.
And why DOES everyone do what Suicide Girl says on the tapes? Sorry, hon, but you're dead. You don't get to reach out of your grave and tell other people what to do. If I got a bunch of cassettes from a dead person that said, "Go to Spot A in town and listen," I MIGHT continue listening, but I definitely wouldn't go to Spot A to do it. My overall instinct would be to return the tapes to Suicide Girl's parents, untouched, or maybe to erase them and throw them out. I certainly wouldn't obey orders from beyond the grave, if for no other reason than a feeling of "Fuck you." Yet on this show, every single person follows orders. Another point of disbelief. No one erases the tapes or throws them away or says, "Fuck this!"? Sure.
And Brian's role as Suicide Girl's father? Well, he was barely given enough screen time for me to form an opinion. He's an adult in a teen drama, so he'd shown up in maybe four scenes by the time I stopped watching. I'm glad he got the chance to be on what's inexplicably a hit show, though.
When I got halfway through Episode 5, I realized I was watching the show out of a sense of duty more than any enjoyment, and that I actively disliked bringing it up on Netflix. There was nothing redeeming in the show, nothing fun or interesting to watch, nothing that made me look forward to more. The show actively pissed me off, in fact. I decided to remove the show from my queue, and you know what? I felt a strange sense of relief.
No more banal adventures of Doormat Boy and Suicide Girl.
comments
June 19, 2017
The Noise, Noise, Noise!
I'm starting to despise our neighbors. I mean really loathe, hate, and despise them.
They're inconsiderate, selfish, and downright stupid.
And it all comes down to their lawns.
Every single day--and I mean EVERY SINGLE DAY--my neighbors in my subdivision are outside working on their lawns or their decks or their gutters. They must have golf-course level lawns. If a leaf falls, alarms go off.
Normally I wouldn't give a shit. You want to waste your life on this? Go for it. When you die, you can have "He kept a nice lawn" engraved on your tombstone.
The trouble is, they're all so fucking noisy about it. They do nothing by hand. Ever. Everyone has a giant lawn mower that can harvest corn to mow their weensy yards with, and they're LOUD. Then they whip out the leaf blowers, which scream a high-pitched whine for hours and hours and hours. I once timed a particular offender and discovered she worked her leaf blower for over three hours one afternoon. As a write this, yet another neighbor is power-washing his driveway, which apparently requires an air compressor louder than a North Pacific chainsaw. I have a neighbor who drags a machine out to bleach her gutter every so often. Bleach! I'm not making this up.
It wouldn't be so bad if these things happened all at once, for an hour or so a week. But no--they happen every fucking day. When one neighbor finally finishes, the next revs up his rusty toy. It's like they wait. "No, I can't do mine now--Fred over there is already making noise. I'll wait until he's done to keep it going."
It's the leaf blowers that baffle me the most. I watched the leaf-blower neighbor chase a pair of leaves across her lawn with her blower. TWO LEAVES. It would have been faster and more efficient for her to pick them up. It would absolutely be faster and more efficient for her to just rake the lawn. It would take maybe an hour to run a leaf rake over her bit of green, but she uses a leaf blower for three instead.
Last February, the weather became unseasonably warm--70s all around. The snow vanished. My neighbors all rushed outside the get a jump start on their spring cleanup. Leaf blowers! Lawn mowers! Power washers! Vroom! Rrrruum! Fweeee! All day long. We had to shut the windows instead of airing out the house with the nice, warm air. And the next day? We had a windstorm and blizzard. Branches came down everywhere. Snow covered everything. And when it all melted in March, it looked like nothing had been done. An utter waste of time and gasoline, and my neighbors ruined a nice respite from the winter's cold with all the noise.
My neighbors are boorish twats, and the awful, rotten machine noise that ruins the tranquility of the neighborhood is the biggest factor in our decision to move away once Maksim has finished school. We love the house. We hate the neighbors.
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They're inconsiderate, selfish, and downright stupid.
And it all comes down to their lawns.
Every single day--and I mean EVERY SINGLE DAY--my neighbors in my subdivision are outside working on their lawns or their decks or their gutters. They must have golf-course level lawns. If a leaf falls, alarms go off.
Normally I wouldn't give a shit. You want to waste your life on this? Go for it. When you die, you can have "He kept a nice lawn" engraved on your tombstone.
The trouble is, they're all so fucking noisy about it. They do nothing by hand. Ever. Everyone has a giant lawn mower that can harvest corn to mow their weensy yards with, and they're LOUD. Then they whip out the leaf blowers, which scream a high-pitched whine for hours and hours and hours. I once timed a particular offender and discovered she worked her leaf blower for over three hours one afternoon. As a write this, yet another neighbor is power-washing his driveway, which apparently requires an air compressor louder than a North Pacific chainsaw. I have a neighbor who drags a machine out to bleach her gutter every so often. Bleach! I'm not making this up.
It wouldn't be so bad if these things happened all at once, for an hour or so a week. But no--they happen every fucking day. When one neighbor finally finishes, the next revs up his rusty toy. It's like they wait. "No, I can't do mine now--Fred over there is already making noise. I'll wait until he's done to keep it going."
It's the leaf blowers that baffle me the most. I watched the leaf-blower neighbor chase a pair of leaves across her lawn with her blower. TWO LEAVES. It would have been faster and more efficient for her to pick them up. It would absolutely be faster and more efficient for her to just rake the lawn. It would take maybe an hour to run a leaf rake over her bit of green, but she uses a leaf blower for three instead.
Last February, the weather became unseasonably warm--70s all around. The snow vanished. My neighbors all rushed outside the get a jump start on their spring cleanup. Leaf blowers! Lawn mowers! Power washers! Vroom! Rrrruum! Fweeee! All day long. We had to shut the windows instead of airing out the house with the nice, warm air. And the next day? We had a windstorm and blizzard. Branches came down everywhere. Snow covered everything. And when it all melted in March, it looked like nothing had been done. An utter waste of time and gasoline, and my neighbors ruined a nice respite from the winter's cold with all the noise.
My neighbors are boorish twats, and the awful, rotten machine noise that ruins the tranquility of the neighborhood is the biggest factor in our decision to move away once Maksim has finished school. We love the house. We hate the neighbors.
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June 18, 2017
Strawberry Festival, Without Strawberries
Last weekend, Darwin and I went down to Ypsilanti to visit Sasha. We had lunch, we discovered a really BAD buffet (and got our money refunded for it when we complained), and we went shopping.
After we dropped Sasha back at his place, Darwin and I decided to drive to Belleville, one town over, and check out their annual Strawberry Festival. I'd visited it once about 15 years ago and remember liking it, and it sounded fun. Street fairs are usually kind of cool, and we could get some strawberries and/or strawberry treats.
When we arrived, we got parking at the local high school, which was right next to what we assumed was the Strawberry Festival. It turned out to be more like a county fair, with rides and games and animals and such. What we didn't see were strawberries. Finally Darwin found a building labeled FOOD BARN, which was selling strawberry-themed items: strawberry sundaes, shortcake, shakes, and so on. They also sold hamburgers, hot dogs, tacos, and other foods.
That seemed to be the extent of the strawberries.
Eventually, we realized the carnival was separate from the actual festival, and it was a bit of a hike toward town. Gamely, we struck out and, after about a ten minute walk, we found the real festival. It was a lot of booths selling arts and crafts, and LOTS of churches who wanted to convert passers-by, and local businesses who wanted to re-do your gutters, and food trucks selling barbecue and junk food and lemonade and smoothies.
No strawberries. I mean, NOTHING.
I was thinking we'd find strawberry pies and jams and salsas and gelatins and ices and strawberry-themed crafts and . . . well, you know. But, nope! Not one strawberry anything in sight. Why they bothered naming it a strawberry festival, we couldn't tell.
We also noticed that downtown Belleville is . . . dumpy. Almost all the buildings took the worst of 1954's blocky, dull brick and lumped them together into a string of boring offices, with a few liquor stores and tattered bait shops mixed in. The city hall, which stands on the corner of the downtown, should be an arresting piece of architecture, since it's the first thing people see when they arrive in downtown Belleville, but it's nothing more than a dull pile of brown brick. A good chunk of the main street sweeps past a magnificent lake, which begs to sport a boardwalk and a boat rental place and some delightful pub/restaurants and at least one night club. Instead, we have a guardrail, a dead parking lot, one bored-looking restaurant, and a run-down liquor store that looks like it deals heroin out the back door. What a waste!
We did score a few burping cloths from a craft booth for the upcoming baby shower, and we had supper at an antique A&W, which was giving away free root beer floats in honor of the strawberry festival. And I got to spend an afternoon with my dear husband and see Sasha. So the day wasn't a total loss!
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After we dropped Sasha back at his place, Darwin and I decided to drive to Belleville, one town over, and check out their annual Strawberry Festival. I'd visited it once about 15 years ago and remember liking it, and it sounded fun. Street fairs are usually kind of cool, and we could get some strawberries and/or strawberry treats.
When we arrived, we got parking at the local high school, which was right next to what we assumed was the Strawberry Festival. It turned out to be more like a county fair, with rides and games and animals and such. What we didn't see were strawberries. Finally Darwin found a building labeled FOOD BARN, which was selling strawberry-themed items: strawberry sundaes, shortcake, shakes, and so on. They also sold hamburgers, hot dogs, tacos, and other foods.
That seemed to be the extent of the strawberries.
Eventually, we realized the carnival was separate from the actual festival, and it was a bit of a hike toward town. Gamely, we struck out and, after about a ten minute walk, we found the real festival. It was a lot of booths selling arts and crafts, and LOTS of churches who wanted to convert passers-by, and local businesses who wanted to re-do your gutters, and food trucks selling barbecue and junk food and lemonade and smoothies.
No strawberries. I mean, NOTHING.
I was thinking we'd find strawberry pies and jams and salsas and gelatins and ices and strawberry-themed crafts and . . . well, you know. But, nope! Not one strawberry anything in sight. Why they bothered naming it a strawberry festival, we couldn't tell.
We also noticed that downtown Belleville is . . . dumpy. Almost all the buildings took the worst of 1954's blocky, dull brick and lumped them together into a string of boring offices, with a few liquor stores and tattered bait shops mixed in. The city hall, which stands on the corner of the downtown, should be an arresting piece of architecture, since it's the first thing people see when they arrive in downtown Belleville, but it's nothing more than a dull pile of brown brick. A good chunk of the main street sweeps past a magnificent lake, which begs to sport a boardwalk and a boat rental place and some delightful pub/restaurants and at least one night club. Instead, we have a guardrail, a dead parking lot, one bored-looking restaurant, and a run-down liquor store that looks like it deals heroin out the back door. What a waste!
We did score a few burping cloths from a craft booth for the upcoming baby shower, and we had supper at an antique A&W, which was giving away free root beer floats in honor of the strawberry festival. And I got to spend an afternoon with my dear husband and see Sasha. So the day wasn't a total loss!
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Street Fair Ambush, Deflected
At a street fair today, a woman approached and asked if I would sign a petition to let So-and-So run for governor in 2018, since Snyder is term-limited.
"What party is he?" I asked.
"Republican," she said. "And he--"
"No, thank you" I interrupted. "I'm married to a man, and the Republican party isn't supportive of that. I can't sign your petition."
"Oh." She looked taken aback. "Er . . . yes. I support civil unions."
"I don't," Darwin put in.
"Thank you," I added, and we walked away.
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"What party is he?" I asked.
"Republican," she said. "And he--"
"No, thank you" I interrupted. "I'm married to a man, and the Republican party isn't supportive of that. I can't sign your petition."
"Oh." She looked taken aback. "Er . . . yes. I support civil unions."
"I don't," Darwin put in.
"Thank you," I added, and we walked away.
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June 11, 2017
My Summer Office
When summer comes, I like to move outside to my summer office. It's the front porch of our lovely house. It faces north, so it's always cool and shady. We've installed some comfortable porch furniture out there, along with a porch rug so I'm not on bare cement. We aren't far from a pond, so I can hear red-wing blackbirds sing and mourning doves call, both birds I remember from my childhood in Wheeler.
Although the porch looks out onto the street, bushes and trees surround it, giving me a fair amount of quiet privacy. I've put up hanging baskets of flowers and other plants around, and also put more plants on the rail for more greenery and privacy. If I don't move, no one even notices I'm out there. :) This is my view:
When it rains, it's even more beautiful. The porch stays perfectly dry, and I can admire the rain while I write.
When I was a child, we lived in a big farmhouse. Next to it was a small milk house for storing fresh milk in the days when the place was a working dairy farm. It was the size of a garden hut and hand a concrete-lined pit in the bottom that you filled with cold water from the nearby well. Then you put the big metal milk cans down in the water to keep the milk cool. The house was also shaded by pine and lilac trees to keep it cooler still.
My mother covered the pit over with a wooden platform and converted the milk house into a playhouse for my sister and brother and me. We played house and created fairy tales and other games of pretend in there.
And I wrote in it. I had a pile of notebook paper in a blue folder and a lap desk, and I often sat out there to write. I remember sitting out there in the rain and once even a thunderstorm with my papers and pencil. I felt adventurous and secretive and cozy all at the same time while I put those words on paper out in the little house among the trees and the rain. I don't have the old manuscripts anymore, but I have the memories.
Sitting on the front porch to write on my laptop makes me feel like I did when I wrote in the milk house, and I like it very much.
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Although the porch looks out onto the street, bushes and trees surround it, giving me a fair amount of quiet privacy. I've put up hanging baskets of flowers and other plants around, and also put more plants on the rail for more greenery and privacy. If I don't move, no one even notices I'm out there. :) This is my view:
When it rains, it's even more beautiful. The porch stays perfectly dry, and I can admire the rain while I write.
When I was a child, we lived in a big farmhouse. Next to it was a small milk house for storing fresh milk in the days when the place was a working dairy farm. It was the size of a garden hut and hand a concrete-lined pit in the bottom that you filled with cold water from the nearby well. Then you put the big metal milk cans down in the water to keep the milk cool. The house was also shaded by pine and lilac trees to keep it cooler still.
My mother covered the pit over with a wooden platform and converted the milk house into a playhouse for my sister and brother and me. We played house and created fairy tales and other games of pretend in there.
And I wrote in it. I had a pile of notebook paper in a blue folder and a lap desk, and I often sat out there to write. I remember sitting out there in the rain and once even a thunderstorm with my papers and pencil. I felt adventurous and secretive and cozy all at the same time while I put those words on paper out in the little house among the trees and the rain. I don't have the old manuscripts anymore, but I have the memories.
Sitting on the front porch to write on my laptop makes me feel like I did when I wrote in the milk house, and I like it very much.
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The Final Week
It's the last week here at Wherever Schools. It's been a long, long year this time, not in the least because we had to add (unpaid) days due to new state laws. The seniors have already graduated and left. I only have a few seniors this year, so it didn't affect my teaching much. After a year of four sections of English 9, though, I'm eager for summer break.
I'm getting the annual last-minute begging. This student wants to make up an assignment from six weeks ago. That one wants just a few more points so his grade can go from a B- to a B. This other one wants a list of every missing assignment for the entire semester so she can make them up. I give them all my standard answer: "The time to ask about this was three weeks ago. It's too late now."
I have to do a little more sorting and putting away than usual this year. The building is undergoing some construction over the summer, and my stuff has to be out of the way. In fact, they're kicking all us teachers out of the building the moment exams are over to start the work and telling us we can't come back into the building until fall, when the work is done.
You'll find me at home, writing on my front porch!
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I'm getting the annual last-minute begging. This student wants to make up an assignment from six weeks ago. That one wants just a few more points so his grade can go from a B- to a B. This other one wants a list of every missing assignment for the entire semester so she can make them up. I give them all my standard answer: "The time to ask about this was three weeks ago. It's too late now."
I have to do a little more sorting and putting away than usual this year. The building is undergoing some construction over the summer, and my stuff has to be out of the way. In fact, they're kicking all us teachers out of the building the moment exams are over to start the work and telling us we can't come back into the building until fall, when the work is done.
You'll find me at home, writing on my front porch!
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Maksim and Highway Driving
Last weekend, Maksim said he wanted to try some highway driving. As it happened, I had some errands to run south of town, so Maksim could be my chauffeur.
He told me he was nervous. He hadn't driven on the highway since driver's ed class. I told him he'd be fine once he got on the road and that I wasn't worried.
As is usual with these things, the anticipation was far worse than the event. Maksim made several minor mistakes on the way to the highway--lane drifting, hesitating on turns, being unaware of the speed limit--which clearly came from nerves. Once we pulled onto the highway and he matched speeds with the other cars, however, he calmed down. He drove perfectly fine. When he got off the highway, his nervousness came back and he made more minor mistakes.
We ran the errands--Darwin's coffee maker needed to be replaced, as did some of the box fans. I needed a new computer stylus. We got lunch at Qdoba, Maksim's favorite restaurant.
And Maksim said I could drive home. He'd had enough of the highway for the day!
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He told me he was nervous. He hadn't driven on the highway since driver's ed class. I told him he'd be fine once he got on the road and that I wasn't worried.
As is usual with these things, the anticipation was far worse than the event. Maksim made several minor mistakes on the way to the highway--lane drifting, hesitating on turns, being unaware of the speed limit--which clearly came from nerves. Once we pulled onto the highway and he matched speeds with the other cars, however, he calmed down. He drove perfectly fine. When he got off the highway, his nervousness came back and he made more minor mistakes.
We ran the errands--Darwin's coffee maker needed to be replaced, as did some of the box fans. I needed a new computer stylus. We got lunch at Qdoba, Maksim's favorite restaurant.
And Maksim said I could drive home. He'd had enough of the highway for the day!
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Jubilee!
It's cherry season! I love cherries and will eat them like popcorn when they come in. So will Darwin. But last week, I bought two pounds and told Darwin to keep his hands off!
"I'm making Cherries Jubilee," I told him.
I've always wanted to make Cherries Jubilee, and I decided to go whole hog. I took down my ice cream maker and whipped up a batch of home made vanilla ice cream, though I found to my dismay I was nearly out of vanilla extract. I used almond extract to make up the difference, and discovered that vanilla almond ice cream tastes fantastic!
While that was in the final stages of freezing, I pitted the cherries and put them in a frying pan with some sugar and lemon juice. I cooked them down until the juices ran tart and scarlet, then hosed it carefully with rum. With Darwin and the boys watching, I flicked a long lighter over the pan. Blue flame fired upward. I swirled it all around until the flames died down and spooned this over chilled bowls of vanilla almond ice cream.
Aran looked askance at the whole thing, but once he tried a taste, he said, "Wow!" He kept saying "wow" all the time he was eating. The tart, hot cherries mixed with the sweet, cold ice cream into a delicious dessert.
Oh, yeah!
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"I'm making Cherries Jubilee," I told him.
I've always wanted to make Cherries Jubilee, and I decided to go whole hog. I took down my ice cream maker and whipped up a batch of home made vanilla ice cream, though I found to my dismay I was nearly out of vanilla extract. I used almond extract to make up the difference, and discovered that vanilla almond ice cream tastes fantastic!
While that was in the final stages of freezing, I pitted the cherries and put them in a frying pan with some sugar and lemon juice. I cooked them down until the juices ran tart and scarlet, then hosed it carefully with rum. With Darwin and the boys watching, I flicked a long lighter over the pan. Blue flame fired upward. I swirled it all around until the flames died down and spooned this over chilled bowls of vanilla almond ice cream.
Aran looked askance at the whole thing, but once he tried a taste, he said, "Wow!" He kept saying "wow" all the time he was eating. The tart, hot cherries mixed with the sweet, cold ice cream into a delicious dessert.
Oh, yeah!
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Poker Night
Over the weekend, we hosted poker night. We have a revolving poker tournament that takes place at different people's houses, though in reality it mostly happens at three people's houses. Our house is specifically designed for entertaining large groups, so we hold the tournament here fairly often.
We tidied up the house during the day. I also went shopping for party food. The menu this time:
Crudités with French onion dip
Hummus
Pita chips
Corn chips
Cookies
Pizza rolls just like Mom used to buy
Home made macaroni and cheese
Soda variety
Birthday cake
The macaroni and cheese came from a recipe Darwin found. "You should make this," he said. "It looks good."
You'll notice he didn't say, "I think I'll make this. It looks good." My husband has many wonderful talents and qualities. Kitchen skills don't lie among them.
I was actually skeptical. The recipe looked good, but it made a LOT of mac and cheese, and I didn't think mac and cheese would appeal at a poker game, where people would want finger food. However, I decided to give it a try. We could have a chunk of it for supper beforehand, in any case.
I made the recipe. It calls for a cup of butter, two and a half pounds of cheese, and a pound of macaroni. (!) Everyone agreed it was absolutely wonderful!
We set up the food and the playing tables, and people started to arrive. We had 11 players and two observers, so it was quite a crowd! And people snarfed down the mac and cheese! Darwin felt vindicated. :)
It was Darwin's sister Cindy's birthday, too, which was why we had the birthday cake.
The game began. It was an exciting evening, actually, with a great deal of suspense surrounding several high-stakes hands. We actually played two games. I won the first. Go me! It was great fun.
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We tidied up the house during the day. I also went shopping for party food. The menu this time:
Crudités with French onion dip
Hummus
Pita chips
Corn chips
Cookies
Pizza rolls just like Mom used to buy
Home made macaroni and cheese
Soda variety
Birthday cake
The macaroni and cheese came from a recipe Darwin found. "You should make this," he said. "It looks good."
You'll notice he didn't say, "I think I'll make this. It looks good." My husband has many wonderful talents and qualities. Kitchen skills don't lie among them.
I was actually skeptical. The recipe looked good, but it made a LOT of mac and cheese, and I didn't think mac and cheese would appeal at a poker game, where people would want finger food. However, I decided to give it a try. We could have a chunk of it for supper beforehand, in any case.
I made the recipe. It calls for a cup of butter, two and a half pounds of cheese, and a pound of macaroni. (!) Everyone agreed it was absolutely wonderful!
We set up the food and the playing tables, and people started to arrive. We had 11 players and two observers, so it was quite a crowd! And people snarfed down the mac and cheese! Darwin felt vindicated. :)
It was Darwin's sister Cindy's birthday, too, which was why we had the birthday cake.
The game began. It was an exciting evening, actually, with a great deal of suspense surrounding several high-stakes hands. We actually played two games. I won the first. Go me! It was great fun.
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June 10, 2017
Buying
I've realized we don't talk about buying pets much anymore. Have you noticed that?
For some reason, everyone has decided it's wrong to say they bought a dog or bought a cat. You have to say you adopted it. Shelters don't charge you--they ask for an adoption fee. Animal rescue groups ask for compulsory donations. Neither groups say you're buying a pet.
Fifteen years ago, the last time I got a dog, we answered an ad from a woman who had puppies. She asked for a twenty dollar "donation." She clearly felt like she couldn't charge, even though that's what she was doing. We bought the dog and brought him home.
I don't feel entirely comfortable with saying I adopted a pet. After the difficulty and heartache I went through to adopt two children, I have a hard time with the idea of applying that word to a cat or dog.
Requiring a donation is a misnomer anyway. Donations are given freely, with nothing accepted in return. It's a complete fiction that you hand over $100 to an animal group as a "donation" and mysteriously receive a pet in return. Would the organization give you the pet without the donation? They certainly wouldn't. You have bought a pet.
People have no trouble saying they bought a chicken for a farm. Or bought a horse, or a cow, or a pig, or a goat. But dog and cats? They have to be adopted, for some reason.
People are strange.
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For some reason, everyone has decided it's wrong to say they bought a dog or bought a cat. You have to say you adopted it. Shelters don't charge you--they ask for an adoption fee. Animal rescue groups ask for compulsory donations. Neither groups say you're buying a pet.
Fifteen years ago, the last time I got a dog, we answered an ad from a woman who had puppies. She asked for a twenty dollar "donation." She clearly felt like she couldn't charge, even though that's what she was doing. We bought the dog and brought him home.
I don't feel entirely comfortable with saying I adopted a pet. After the difficulty and heartache I went through to adopt two children, I have a hard time with the idea of applying that word to a cat or dog.
Requiring a donation is a misnomer anyway. Donations are given freely, with nothing accepted in return. It's a complete fiction that you hand over $100 to an animal group as a "donation" and mysteriously receive a pet in return. Would the organization give you the pet without the donation? They certainly wouldn't. You have bought a pet.
People have no trouble saying they bought a chicken for a farm. Or bought a horse, or a cow, or a pig, or a goat. But dog and cats? They have to be adopted, for some reason.
People are strange.
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