The RedMolly Picayune-Democrat

Music notes

I got an e-mail from a previously-unbeknownst-to-me person the other day who'd stumbled across the Pic-Dem via a comment I'd left at another blog:

While scrolling down the page, I noticed the cover art of Mastodon’s Leviathan on display.  Can I take this to mean that you are personally endorsing this album? Would I be safe in assuming that you believe as I do that this album fucking rules?

Regards,
[redacted]

So I figured I had a great excuse to spend some time nattering on about music.

First of all: yes, in fact, Leviathan does in fact fucking rule. I listen to it a lot. It's loud. It's metally. It's about Moby Dick, for crying out loud. And Remission is almost as good. But I haven't had it as long, and it's growing on me.

After a lengthy-ish hiatus from metal--I dropped out when "nu-metal" became the misbegotten spawn of the day--I've been picking up the pieces recently and listening to a lot of, er, progressive metal. Seriously. It's like the best thing ever for listening to while writing. Except for film soundtracks... but see Fantomas' The Director's Cut for a doubleplusgood rendering of both, sorta, in an inimitable Mike Patton sort of way, featuring Slayer's Dave Lombardo on drums. And the two genres have quite a bit in common, what with the loud-quiet-loud intervals and the deeply atmospheric arrangements. (Hee hee. I said "deeply atmospheric arrangements." Whatta douchebag.)

Anyway. What I really wanted to tell you all about, in case you've been living deep under a rock and haven't heard yet, is the new Portishead album, Third. Oh. My. Heavens. Beth Gibbons' voice has gotten only more gorgeously anguished and shivery during their decade-long hiatus, and the new songs all feature a more brittle, less trippy edge that gives the whole record an incredible sense of nervous immediacy.

So basically, even if you just completely skipped over that whole semi-nonsensical last paragraph, you should go out and buy (or stay home and download) Third. That's Third, by Portishead, and it's their Third album.

Also: did you get your CD yet? I made it to the post office. Actually, that's a lie. Long-suffering Beloved Sweetie made it to the post office. I have been trapped in the midst of self-loathing deadline-looming depressive freakout and haven't really gone much of anywhere... except to Summerfest at Village Home today, where I worked the concession table and repeated the sentences "Pie is two tickets a slice" and "The drinks are in the cooler by your feet" approximately 10¹⁷ times each. Good times, good times.

In a world...

...without children, or at least without mine, what would I be doing? Unimaginable though it may seem, this scenario is the current Thinking Parents blog prompt.

Long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I roamed the D (history) section of McHenry Library at UC Santa Cruz, I spent an awful lot of time thinking about medieval Scandinavia. So much that I wrote a long, long paper on Viking/Scandinavian influences on medieval Irish art. (It wasn't very good.) So much that I taught a class called "Vikings and Medieval Scandinavia." (It was pretty good, and a hell of a lot of fun.) So much that I wrote another paper on a hypothetical excavation plan for a hypothetical thirteenth-century cemetery. (It was pretty good, too, despite the fact that my partner completely flaked out on me, grrrrr.) So much so that my purest and truest desire was to go to grad school and get my Ph.D. in medieval studies. I was primarily interested in the program at Cornell, though the Yale program was also pretty tempting, UCLA's had a great reputation (Jesse Byock! Rock on!) and the Stanford program was right in my backyard, figuratively speaking.

So, if I hadn't gone and gotten myself knocked up, I might well have become an Official Academic. I'd be spending my days surrounded by stacks of musty library books and mustier graduate students; my summers rifling through mustier-yet manuscripts in the collections of various universities in various far-flung exotic lands (York! Oooh!); my nights tap-tapping away on exhaustively well-researched fantasy/historical novels in the vein of Guy Gavriel Kay, which I would have to publish under a pseudonym so as not to taint my Serious Scholarly Reputation with something as low and tawdry as, y'know, popular fiction.

Also, I'd probably have more books, more cats and more of a drinking problem.

So what would you be doing, were you sprogless and fancy-free? Check out some other interesting responses here.

*Edited to add: Damn. It seems like I'm the only homeschooler in the whole wide world who wasn't really technically planning on having kids. Seriously. Wow. Do I feel like a bad parent now. Um... kids, if you're reading this, which you shouldn't be: even though I had no intention of having you, I'm sure glad you're here now. You guys rock. And you're probably way more interested in all things medieval than 94% of my undergrad students would've been anyway.

**Edited again to add a link to Janet D. Stemwedel's thoughts on the difficulty, or near impossibility, of simultaneously balancing motherhood and an academic career. I especially like this part:

My mom told me a story about going to her 20th college reunion some years ago. She was struck by how many of her classmates seemed only to be able to have two out of three at a time of career, marriage, and kids. The women with solid marriages and careers had opted out of having kids. The women with careers and kids seemed not to have been able to make marriages work. And the women with kids and happy marriages could maybe squeeze in a job, but nothing they described as a career.

What do you think?

Once bitten, twice shy

This is my son Fisher. Have you met Fisher?


When he was a baby, he frequently screamed himself into red-faced fits. Someone (Herm?) nicknamed him "Mr. Furious." (Note to self: add Mystery Men to Netflix queue. Time we saw that one again.) And the name more or less stuck.

He is, not to put too fine a point on it, kind of an intense kid. He loves hard, hates hard, thinks hard and freaks out hard. And, unsurprisingly, this characteristic gets him into the occasional spot of trouble.

Were you around last year when Fisher bit Bopeep? Yes, Bopeep had just shoved Fisher into the bookcase, but the fact remains that it was Fisher's teeth and Bopeep's flesh.

Today, the boys were at class in the company of the unflappable Eryn. Jim and I were eating lunch at Lorenzo's. My phone rang. It was Eryn. It is usually not a good thing when the nanny calls (rather than texting something like "going to OMSI be back soon" or "kids havn fun @ park c u soon" which is the usual M.O.). So, adhering to my personal philosophy of never ever ever talking on the phone in a restaurant, I stepped outside and answered.

"We had a minor incident," Eryn said.

My heart sank. I envisioned bleeding children, a rampaging Fisher, angry administrators asking us to never ever darken the door of Village Home again.

"What happened?"

"Fisher got bitten."

"Fisher got bitten? Fisher didn't bite someone?"

"No... do you know L--? He was running around threatening other kids with a pointed stick, and I guess he hit Rhys with it, and Fisher took it away from him and L-- bit him on the arm."

"Did Fisher hit him back?"

"No, he didn't. He got pretty mad, but he didn't hit anybody."

My heart grew three sizes.

Fisher defended Rhys (and a bunch of other smaller kids). He recognized the danger inherent in waving a pointed stick around (he learned that one the hard way--I think I may have forgotten to blog about the scary incident of Fisher, Rhys and the sharp pointy bamboo stick). And he didn't hit or hurt anybody despite being hurt himself (a wounded Fisher is kind of like a wounded badger--snarly and red in tooth & claw).

"Will you give him a big hug for me and tell him I'm really proud of him for controlling himself?"

So apparently L--'s mom didn't fall all over herself apologizing to Fisher and/or reprimanding her kid as I would have done... but hey, that's really neither here nor there. Fisher's been working incredibly hard the last few weeks/months on controlling his temper, sometimes successfully and sometimes not. And so today, even though he's got toothmarks in his arm (L--'s sharp little incisors broke the skin!) and may well have let out a few choice curse words in front of the good families of Village Home, he is #1 on my list today. Good going, Fisher; I probably would've cracked the little stinker over the head myself.

Bonus anecdote: Yesterday, Fisher and Rhys were playing in the Land Rover. Apparently, Rhys had had about enough of whatever they were playing, because he exited the back of the car, pursued hotly by a fiery-eyed Fisher. Rhys squeaked, as is Rhys' wont. Fisher yelled at him, "You HAVE to play with me, Rhys! Get back in the car!" Rhys demurred. Fisher bellowed, "Go run out into the street, RHYS!" Fisher was promptly banished to his room. I visited him fifteen minutes or so later and told him "I can't let you say things like that, because that makes me feel like Rhys is not safe around you. And it makes Rhys feel like he's not safe." Red-eyed and teary-voiced, Fisher responded "I hate it when people don't feel safe. I don't like it one bit." And he was nice to Rhys for the rest of the evening, tra la.

Why we homeschool, iteration 3725

Because my children will never be asked to stand up and describe what they don't like about a person, then participate in a vote on whether or not that person should be allowed to remain in the classroom.

A teacher in St. Lucie, Florida, did just this in her kindergarten class. As a five-year-old boy, who is in the process of being diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, was forced to stand at the front of the room, his classmates were each given a turn to say what they disliked about him. They described him with words including "disgusting" and "annoying," then voted 14-2 to make him leave the classroom; he spent the rest of the day banished to the nurse's office. The Florida state attorney's office says this treatment does not qualify as emotional abuse and is not pursuing criminal charges against the teacher. The district says it is "investigating" the incident (which teacher Wendy Portillo has admitted) but has not yet taken any action.

The boy has refused to return to school since then; and if I were his mother, I can't imagine why I would even try to make him go back.

Since our children are not (surprise!) completely socially isolated, we attend classes two days a week at Village Home. One of the most heartening things I've observed in our time there is the way that all kids--the loud ones, the quiet ones, the ones of varying cognitive and social ability, the ones who I am pretty sure have been or could be diagnosed as autistic--are treated as just part of the group. There are special friendships, sure; but I haven't seen poisonous cliques, I haven't seen shunning, I haven't seen my kids or anyone else's deliberately leave someone out because of personal differences.

And I know when I tell my boys about this little boy in Florida, they will be as horrified as anyone should be. As horrified as the students in that class should have been. Because no one's ever told them that you have to do what the grownup says just because the grownup is a grownup. Because no one's managed to convince them yet that different = bad and that cruelty = a good way of dealing with difference. And I hope to god that no one ever can.

Roll of thunder, hear my squeak

I'm not afraid of thunderstorms.

Even when I was a kid, they didn't frighten me much; rather, they signalled that it was time for my sister, my brother, my mom and me to crowd around the living room window and look out, waiting for the too-infrequent lightning bolts to jag across the sky. When one finally lit up the night, we'd count together: "One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three..." until the thunderclap unfolded in a long echoing snarl. "It's three miles away, Mommy! Only three miles!" we'd chorus in delicious half-fear... and on the rare occasions when the bolt and the crash came right on top of each other, we'd cling to each other like scared field mice and wait for the storm to roll on by. (And then the power would usually go out.)

Today was, per the forecasters, supposed to be grey and drizzly and meh. Kind of like the weather we've had for the last few days weeks months freakin' years. Instead, it dawned clear and lovely and so we went to Recycled Gardens (they're closing--waah! but all 1-gallon plants are only $2.50 and the lavenders are a buck a pop--hooray!) and then on a hike and then back home to putter about doing gardenly stuff. I got an Early Girl tomato and a pickling cucumber plant into the ground. (So looking forward to making refrigerator pickles this year. So hoping I can keep this wee cucumberlet alive.) And my personal splurge--a "Nick Shaylor" peony--has replaced my poor sun-hating "Endless Summer" hydrangea, which has been relocated to a nice shady spot.

Then, about half an hour ago, I was fixing dinner when a sudden burst of thunder came growling out of nowhere and made me jump. I put down the knife and went to look out the window. It was just the beginning of what's turning out to be one of the most spectacular storms I can ever remember. The lightning is dashing fast and furious, and the thunder is right on its heels. The rain is sluicing down like monsoon season; the underbellies of the clouds are glowing faint orangey-pink from the city lights, intermittently lit up by the lightning's vast crooked strobes. And I'm not frightened, exactly--more like exhilarated, tinged with that same shivery suspense I felt when I was nine and bundled up with my family in the rocking chair. It can rain all it pleases, so long as it thunders too.

(And now the power will probably go out. This post may be more ephemeral than most...)

Hey, these guys went and usurped my life mission, darn them

The Typo Eradication Advancement League (TEAL), that is.

They've even been to Portland, whacking errant uses of the possessive and correcting the too-frequent misspelling of "nonpareil" (a thoroughly nasty candy in its own right). And I didn't even know they were here! I could've given them an eyeful at WinCo, I'm sure.

Well, that does it. Someone else has taken my calling (and, er, my mom's, and I suspect my sister's and Helena's as well). I guess I might as well just retire to the front porch with a twelve-pack of PBR and consider myself washed up.

42

As of today, and for one year only, Jim is the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything.

Happy birthday, sweetie!

Notes on homeschooling

Rhys has his first-ever spelling list this week.

He, be, we, I, so, no, go, hi. ("We be hi, so he I no go." --Rastafarian explaining his and his brother's absence from a family function.)

We were hiking the Wildwood Trail the other day, and we decided to sit down for a brief restorative of apples, Ritz crackers and cheese. Rhys wanted to show off his spelling abilities for us as we munched.

"H-e." (Very good, Rhys.)

"S-o." (Very good again, Rhys. Now, can you spell "we?")

(thinks) "W-i-i."

After the snorts of laughter had subsided, we discovered that he can also spell "Nintendo." Hmm. (Please note that we do not own a Wii, nor any other game console. The kids are stuck with lame ol' free online games, ha ha. But hooray for Lego.com and its infinite panoply of clever marketing-related goodies!)

Also: it's once again that time of year when I start my quest for the impossible--solid, interesting, creative, 100% unabashedly secular homeschooling goodies. And once again I am struck by the lack of what I would consider to be the perfect science curriculum.

So I turn to you, my homeschooling (and otherwise) readers: in a perfect world, what would the perfect science curriculum contain? What would it look like? Would it have detailed lesson-by-lesson instructions, or would it be more of a central resource pointing you to books and experiments and suchlike? How would evolution and other "controversial" (snarl) topics be integrated into it? (If your answer is "by omitting them entirely," please keep it to yourself... I think there are already about eleventy-four curricula out there that would be perfect for you.) Would you be interested in one that spanned several grades (or grammar/logic/rhetoric stages, if you're of a classical bent) or one that was more specifically tailored for kids of particular age/ability level? Would it come as a book for the teacher, a teacher edition plus student work/textbook, a big box crammed full of shiny experimenty stuff?

Please let me know what you'd like to see... and if you have friends with an opinion on the matter, I'd love to hear from them too. Srsly.

Also also:



Three cousins snuggling at Grammy and Pa's house. Isn't it dee-lovely?

Whatever happened to the Picayune-Democrat?

Well, nothing. Yet. But that's going to change.

I'm redirecting my domain name (mollynewman.com, and I don't think it currently points to anything, but if it did it would most certainly be crap) to this domain, and as part of my ongoing effort to make enough money via writing to feed my children and even buy the occasional pair of shoes, you will be seeing an entirely different thing when you visit redmolly.typepad.com.

I've been working (ha, I said "working") on a blog about writing, organization, pitching, work-life balance and all those sorts of things. And, beginning in a few days, that is going to be my top-level blog. But I'm going to keep this one around (sadly neglected though it's been), and you'll be able to read it (and RSSify it) at redmolly.typepad.com/picayunedemocrat.

Just, y'know, FYI. And sorry about being all absentee lately. I know how empty and sad your life must have been without your daily dose of Portland-based maudlin self-loathing. Feh.

Dribbles and blips

Ah, disconnected malcontented ramblings... the Andy Rooneys (Roonies?) of the blogosphere.

• Spring has sprung! Well, not spring. Summer. It was like 85 degrees today, and it's like 307 degrees up here in my wee airless office, and it's supposed to be hotter tomorrow.
• Warm weather means fleas! I think an entire generation of fleas has hatched in my office carpet this evening. Yes, our cats are indoor cats. Yes, they escape whenever they can (well, one of them does... ahem... JEAN) and return with new six-legged pets in tow. And now their pets' progeny are BITING my freaking FEET. Disgust wars with horror and they both team up and pull a sneak attack on surly resignation.
• Remember those CDs I was going to send out? Yeah. I made them. I even made a special little individual cover/inlay card for each one. And tonight I even got them in envelopes--addressed envelopes, to boot! Perhaps a miracle will happen and I will get them to the P.Off. tomorrow, or maybe Saturday is a more realistic goal.
• Now I'm not sure at all about that playlist. 'Cos I downloaded like four thousand Silver Mt Zion/Thee Silver Mt Zion Memorial Orchestra and Tra-La-La Band tracks and now I am so so sad that I am not sharing any of them with you, especially the beautiful and highly disturbing "Sit in the Middle of Three Galloping Dogs."
• On Saturday, I got to meet up with the lovely and talented azureavian and meet her crew of amazingly well-behaved children. Astonishingly well-behaved. Astoundingly, even. I am wondering if her kids can give my kids lessons. (They are also cute and smart. Trifecta!)
• I think I need another root canal. But I am going to ignore this toothache for as long as I possibly can.
• We went to our Campfire gathering tonight, and our leader (actually, our co-leader's husband) had the boys doing a wide array of entertaining "team building" activities. One of them involved pairing off, blindfolding one member of each pair and having the blindfolded boy's partner walk him through a "minefield" of randomly distributed floor tiles using only verbal cues. It went well at first. Then Fisher wandered off from the group, still blindfolded, to amuse his co-Campfirists with his stumbling-about-type antics. They thought it was funny. Then they stopped paying attention to him. Then he walked directly, face first, hard, into a large tree. The good part: I was able to get over to him and clap a hand over his mouth in time to stifle the shrieks of "Fuckin' tree!" enough that none of his co-Campfirists could hear his inappropriate language. The bad part: he was teary and miserable for about ten minutes afterward, and I quickly ran out of steam for jollying him out of it. The sort of funny part: when Fisher insisted that I go get a chainsaw so he could cut down the tree and I was able to convince him that we should do it with a herring instead.
• I made a split pea soup recipe (featuring half a smoked "picnic ham," which is actually made from pork shoulder, and looks a little nasty on first coming out of the package, but which cooks up into like the tastiest tenderest and coincidentally cheapest thing ever) which was supposed to serve six. Ha! I laugh at Cook's Illustrated's idea of what six people can eat! We are going to be eating this pot of soup until August. But that's probably good, because it took like a month to make the soup in the first place.
• My office is about hip deep in envelopes, the little "Remove to Expose Adhesive" tab thingies that come off of envelopes, myriad pens, discarded photo corners and suchlike. But because it is The Way, I can't clean anything up 'til I meet my deadline tomorrow. Also because I am very tired and my tooth hurts.
• I have lots of cute rubber stamps. Why? I never make anything cute. Cute makes me twitchy.
• One of these days I will remember to put sunscreen on some part of my body other than my face, but I'm not counting the days. My arms and shoulders and ahem cleavage are steadily withering into leather.
• I love that I can look down upon a stoplight when I look out my window. There is no earthly reason for this to make me as happy as it does. But it always reminds me of the shot in the intro to "Twin Peaks" where the stoplight is hanging on a wire, swaying in the wind, and cycling from green to red silently and without cause on its timed schedule. No one goes through the light; no one is waiting for it; but it changes when it needs to change.