Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Plaid - New Family (2006 Version)
Missing your college years? I'm not, really, but I thought I'd share some of the music I thought was the greatest at the time. More to come.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A very Human-like Birthday Party
Daniel found this on one of his websites, listed as one of the most viewed pictures of the year. His expression is oddly human.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Happy New Year!
Daniel and I had a wonderful Christmas vacation together. I got a cold on Monday that has varied in severity each day since and still hasn't completely gone. Nonetheless, we excitedly packed a giant suitcase of winter clothes on Monday and drove 3 hours (well, 2 1/2 if you drive at 80 miles/hour) to Wisp Ski Resort in Garrett County in Western Maryland. Unfortunately, the masseuses at the spa were completely booked, so Daniel had to endure a day of skiing without the comfort of knowing that someone would ease him through his post-ski muscle pain. Rest assured, however, that I did not let him lumber around tenuously for too long afterwards. Soon after we returned I found a spa nearby where he could get a massage and the Christmas pampering was able to continue. He skied like a true champ--for over 6 hours for the first time in many years and on very little sleep at that. The resort was bustling with unmanaged teenagers up to no good, Shaun White snowboarder types, and families with toddlers taking ski lessons . It provided for a fun atmosphere and I enjoyed hanging out it the lodge and the pool. Needless to say, I subsisted on carbs and unhealthy fare for most of the week, but that will soon come to an end.
My champ all geared up.
Here are some pictures from Christmas dinner at mom and dad's and some others I took with my phone at the resort.
With Charlotte, who I don't get to see nearly enough.
Here are Daniel's photos from Wisp . He got some good shots of the mountain while he was skiing.
My champ all geared up.
Here are some pictures from Christmas dinner at mom and dad's and some others I took with my phone at the resort.
With Charlotte, who I don't get to see nearly enough.
Here are Daniel's photos from Wisp . He got some good shots of the mountain while he was skiing.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Laugh Out Loud
I have read this about three times. Truly hysterically funny, this article brought images of angry trantrum-throwing toddlers and shopping malls to mind. The way he describes the game contrived by the children as a sort of relay race amongst them in which they "pass the baton of anguish," each time they punch eachother. Brilliant.
The two last paragraphs, on the strengths and weaknesses of the male and female genders and Sarah Palin's infamous rhetoric, are a little out of place, but funny nonetheless. Comparing her speaking abilities to the Bard himself, Sarah Palin's humility has no limits. I'm not watching Dancing with the Stars, but I hear Bristol is doing well. I'm supporting her. Who says a baby mama can't dance?
Enjoy!
From:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/7899801/Ah-now-I-know-why-all-you-parents-are-useless.htm
l
Ah, now I know why all you parents are useless
I have for years groaned at the inability of parents to prevent their snot-smeared progeny bawling in restaurants, running in shops and singing in libraries - until now, writes Michael Deacon.
To the childless, parenting seems like a breeze
Are you a useless parent? If so, I owe you an apology. Childless myself, I have for years groaned at your inability to prevent your snot-smeared progeny bawling in restaurants, running in shops and singing in libraries. I have always thought you weak and ineffectual.
I was right, of course. But in future, I shall be tolerant of your ineptitude because, having spent Saturday at the birthday party of a two-year-old niece, I see that, if I were to have children, I'd be just
as inept.
The parents had arranged party games. The children, though, showed more interest in a game of their own devising. At least, I assumed it was a game. It definitely had a game-like pattern. It was a kind of relay race of hysterics. Player A would burst into tears over some perceived injustice, then run up to Player B and, like a 4 x 400m sprinter passing a baton to a team-mate, transfer the hysterics to that player – by, say, punching him or her in the arm.
Instantly, Player A would stop crying and Player B would start crying. Player B would then run tearfully up to Player C and, just as Player A had done, pass on the baton of anguish – by, say, pushing Player C over. Instantly, Player B would stop crying and Player C would start crying.
And so the game continued. A boy – possibly the one in a T-shirt bearing the phrase "Mummy's little hero" – cried because another boy broke his gingerbread man. A girl cried because another girl was playing with her toys. "Come on, angel," cooed her father, "we know how to share, don't we?"
"No-oooo," bellowed the angel.
Not only am I clueless when children cry, I'm clueless when they misbehave. Children sense this, and act accordingly. One girl trod a lump of Play-Doh into the patio, and then, realising I'd seen her commit this crime, fixed me with a forbidding glare.
"Grandad did it," she said sternly. I didn't dare disagree.
Drained by the chaos, I flopped on to a swing in the garden. Immediately, I was surrounded by a swarm of scandalised infants.
"You can't go on the swing," piped a three-year-old girl indignantly. "It's for little ones."
"I am a little one," I said, feigning insouciance. "It was my fourth birthday last week."
"No it wasn't," she squeaked, cutting pitilessly through my façade. "You're a daddy!"
I'm not, in fact. But given the ease with which the swarm ejected me from the swing, it's probably wise that I don't become one.
...
Giving directions, coping with heartbreak – and now multi-tasking: all things at which women are better than men, according to recent studies. Affronted, I've been trying to list things men do better than women. After an hour, I've come up with one: paying at tills. Women shoppers behave at the till like members of some primitive Polynesian tribe confronted for the first time by the basics of economic transaction. They never have their purses ready, and once they do locate them, they insist on counting out the exact money, regardless of how long the queue behind them is growing, and of how audibly the men in it are seething.
Then again, this may just be evidence of another thing women are better at: not getting pointlessly wound up by microscopic inconveniences.
...
Sarah Palin, having twice in a week said "refudiate", points out that a fellow master of rhetoric, Shakespeare, "used to coin words too". True, but I'm not sure English is enriched by words that are clumsier versions of ones we already have, in this case "refute" and "repudiate".
To me, the silliest neologism is "fess up" for "confess". I long to see its users incarcerated. Or, if they prefer, "carced up".
The two last paragraphs, on the strengths and weaknesses of the male and female genders and Sarah Palin's infamous rhetoric, are a little out of place, but funny nonetheless. Comparing her speaking abilities to the Bard himself, Sarah Palin's humility has no limits. I'm not watching Dancing with the Stars, but I hear Bristol is doing well. I'm supporting her. Who says a baby mama can't dance?
Enjoy!
From:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/7899801/Ah-now-I-know-why-all-you-parents-are-useless.htm
l
Ah, now I know why all you parents are useless
I have for years groaned at the inability of parents to prevent their snot-smeared progeny bawling in restaurants, running in shops and singing in libraries - until now, writes Michael Deacon.
To the childless, parenting seems like a breeze
Are you a useless parent? If so, I owe you an apology. Childless myself, I have for years groaned at your inability to prevent your snot-smeared progeny bawling in restaurants, running in shops and singing in libraries. I have always thought you weak and ineffectual.
I was right, of course. But in future, I shall be tolerant of your ineptitude because, having spent Saturday at the birthday party of a two-year-old niece, I see that, if I were to have children, I'd be just
as inept.
The parents had arranged party games. The children, though, showed more interest in a game of their own devising. At least, I assumed it was a game. It definitely had a game-like pattern. It was a kind of relay race of hysterics. Player A would burst into tears over some perceived injustice, then run up to Player B and, like a 4 x 400m sprinter passing a baton to a team-mate, transfer the hysterics to that player – by, say, punching him or her in the arm.
Instantly, Player A would stop crying and Player B would start crying. Player B would then run tearfully up to Player C and, just as Player A had done, pass on the baton of anguish – by, say, pushing Player C over. Instantly, Player B would stop crying and Player C would start crying.
And so the game continued. A boy – possibly the one in a T-shirt bearing the phrase "Mummy's little hero" – cried because another boy broke his gingerbread man. A girl cried because another girl was playing with her toys. "Come on, angel," cooed her father, "we know how to share, don't we?"
"No-oooo," bellowed the angel.
Not only am I clueless when children cry, I'm clueless when they misbehave. Children sense this, and act accordingly. One girl trod a lump of Play-Doh into the patio, and then, realising I'd seen her commit this crime, fixed me with a forbidding glare.
"Grandad did it," she said sternly. I didn't dare disagree.
Drained by the chaos, I flopped on to a swing in the garden. Immediately, I was surrounded by a swarm of scandalised infants.
"You can't go on the swing," piped a three-year-old girl indignantly. "It's for little ones."
"I am a little one," I said, feigning insouciance. "It was my fourth birthday last week."
"No it wasn't," she squeaked, cutting pitilessly through my façade. "You're a daddy!"
I'm not, in fact. But given the ease with which the swarm ejected me from the swing, it's probably wise that I don't become one.
...
Giving directions, coping with heartbreak – and now multi-tasking: all things at which women are better than men, according to recent studies. Affronted, I've been trying to list things men do better than women. After an hour, I've come up with one: paying at tills. Women shoppers behave at the till like members of some primitive Polynesian tribe confronted for the first time by the basics of economic transaction. They never have their purses ready, and once they do locate them, they insist on counting out the exact money, regardless of how long the queue behind them is growing, and of how audibly the men in it are seething.
Then again, this may just be evidence of another thing women are better at: not getting pointlessly wound up by microscopic inconveniences.
...
Sarah Palin, having twice in a week said "refudiate", points out that a fellow master of rhetoric, Shakespeare, "used to coin words too". True, but I'm not sure English is enriched by words that are clumsier versions of ones we already have, in this case "refute" and "repudiate".
To me, the silliest neologism is "fess up" for "confess". I long to see its users incarcerated. Or, if they prefer, "carced up".
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I don't have favorites, but...
Teachers aren't supposed to have favorites, or at least we can't SHOW the students that we have favorites. I have one new comer this year who moved from India. He is from Nepal, went to school in India and has the sweetest, gentlest disposition. It sounds like a lot of the schooling he received in India was still influenced by the British Education system. He is so well behaved I think the hooligans in our school are going to corrupt him. His grammar is better than many of the "mainstream" students so sadly for me, I think he will exit this year. Sometimes I joke around with him and tell him he's so cute I'm going to take him home. I think I better stop though as I don't think Daniel or the student's parents would be too pleased if I did.
Old Photos
I have just started scanning some old family pictures. More to come, but in the meantime, I present...Der Wunderkind:
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