Year Three Begins

I love her because she can extract honey from a hornet. Because she never dons a mask, even for protection. Because her eyes are pure windows, when most watch through mirrors. Because she finds the treasure among the trash. I hope I don't ruin her.

Less Diagnosis, More Prayer

Lately it seems wherever I am the background noise consists of women discussing and analyzing their kids. I use the term “discussing” liberally, however, because it’s really a series of monologues that teeter-totter from one woman to the other; These women are never really interested in anyone else’s kid, but if they nod their head and say, “uh-huh, right, yeah” a couple of times, they know their turn will come. Of course most women think their kids are genius, but I’ve observed that many of these same women also believe their children are abnormal or frightfully screwed-up in one way or another. Apparently there are all sorts of indicators when you’re a child that reveal the numerous problems you will surely have in adulthood. For example, a mother can be sure her child will become obese in due time based on the shape of his ankles (this seems to be true even if he is the thinnest kid in his second grade class), if a pre-school boy is caught playing with his older sister’s dolls, his mother can be certain he’s a homo, and if a child, when prompted, refuses to sing her uncle the oh-so-cute song her mother heard her singing from her room only days before, she probably has some severe social anxiety disorder. The list goes on, but the point is made. If I had realized when I was a child that so many women spend their time noticing and discussing these things, I definitely would have had a mental breakdown at recess. The fact that these women don't have anything else to talk about is bad enough, but the more troubling aspect that I’ve gleaned from my mostly unintentional eves dropping is that these women are actually taking action on their observations. The kids are sent to counseling, given psychological exercises disguised as games, served Kool-Aid made with Splenda. One may contend that the fact these women care about their children and want the best for them is a positive thing, which is true (though their underlying motivations may be called into question), and I do realize there are valid reasons for some kids to get help, but I also know this: If I had been forced to go to therapy because I liked playing on my own more than with other kids or because I thought pieces of trash got sad if I threw them away, it's more likely I would have become an insecure heroin addict than a gregarious leader or whatever they thought I should be. I'd probably even be in therapy.

Blimey!

I began my decent down the middle of an empty public staircase. I had only progressed about two steps when a skinny guy in his twenties, wearing shaggy blond hair, dark jeans, and a soccer jacket began to ascend the middle of the staircase. Naturally I veered to my right in order to let him pass uninhibited. At the same time, however, he veered to his left. We were now on course for an awkward collision, so I quickly moved to my left as he strode confidently ahead. Who moves to their left to let someone pass?! Then I heard him answer his cell phone. He had a British accent. It all made sense.

Makeover: Complete

This is basically the same bike I posted a few months ago, but I stitched some leather onto some new handlebars, got a new saddle, new pedals, new wheels, and most importantly, a new paint job. One of my students paints cars, so he sprayed it for super cheap. It's holding up much better than the rattle can job I did the first time. Hopefully I don't crash it.