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I’m working furiously on my fiction manuscript.
I need an unusual name for a babysitter.
Got any suggestions?
Give me a name, and I’ll tell you one interesting fact about this person.
Image by Patricia Drury via Flickr
Do you wear reading glasses? If so, don’t forget to enter my reading glasses giveaway which ends December 16th. Details HERE.
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Over the last twenty years, societal attitudes have fostered an expectation that all students should go to college.
Currently, 71% of graduating high school students in the United States go directly from high school to college. And while financial aid has made college accessible for nearly everyone, not all students are ready for college (or the college experience).
Right now over 50% of incoming first-year students require some kind of remediation to help retroactively prepare them for college-level work.
So I am wondering: Are we putting too much emphasis on going to college? Is it possible that the pressure and increasing “requirement” that everyone go to college is an unjust expectation? Is it really necessary that everyone have a college degree? To get entry-level work? Or tradesman status? Because it seems like that’s where we are today. People are paying extraordinary amounts of money to attend college, only to find that upon graduation there are very few well-paying jobs.
Should everyone be expected go to college right out of high school? What else could kids who aren’t hard-wired to continue with formal education do rather than menial labor? Or do you believe that college is the only way to a better life?
A while ago, I posted an email I received from a colleague about sexing up grammar so that people will use it more. I called it “Grammar is a Hussy.”
Since then we have even gotten into interrobanging. Can you imagine?!
Well, these cool kids seem to love them some semi-colons; I think that’s fantastic.
What’s your favorite punctuation mark and why? Or, for the love of Pete, show me that you know how to use a semi-colon properly. Go on; impress me!
Image via Wikipedia
When my husband suggested we take our 12-year old son to see Steely Dan, live, in concert, I tried to gently suggest it might be a bad idea.
“He’ll love it,” Hubby insisted, in that clueless way that husbands sometimes insist on things.
What Hubby really meant was: “I want to see Steely Dan in concert.”
We were not trying to punish our son, but to a child who has a strong preference for techno, I’m pretty sure three hours with Donald Fagen and Walter Becker felt like something akin to water-boarding.
Here is the way the night played out in numbers:
6. PM: the time we left our house so we would get “good” parking.
10. Dollars spent so we could park as close to the exit as humanly possible.
22. Minutes spent in the bathroom for Break #1. This is where Monkey first learned that women’s lines really are 3 times slower than men’s.
30. The difference in the number of years between Monkey’s age and the age of the average concert goer.
5. Dollars spent for a sleeve of kettle corn in an attempt to distract Monkey from noticing the balding men and folks in wheelchairs toting oxygen tanks.
8. PM: The time Steely Dan was supposed to start playing. Except they didn’t. The opening band was a whacked-out jazz ensemble featuring a bass guitar, a drummer and an organist.
2. Number of songs Monkey sat through before he decided he needed to go to the bathroom.
Again.
87. Degrees Fahrenheit outside as people filed in under the shell to take their seats.
9. PM. The time Steely Dan actually started their show. Monkey and I were in the bathroom, so we missed the beginning of the opening number. We returned to our seats where Hubby pointed to the four vacant seats in front of us. “Awesome!” he shouted, sticking his thumbs up.
Our "awesome view" of the man in front of us.
Suddenly, the incarnation of Andre the Giant arrived and sat right in front of us. He was 8 feet tall, and his head was bowling bowl big. His cranium completely eclipsed our view.
Oh, and Andre brought his wife Chatty McChatter and her friend Ima B. Talkintoo.
Monkey tolerated 3 more songs before he asked to go to the bathroom.
Again.
Once outside, my boy confessed he didn’t like the music. The lights were too bright. He couldn’t see anything. He was getting a headache from the people in front of us who wouldn’t stop talking. I suggested we go to the darkest, blackest, most deserted corner of the lawn and lie down on the grass. I rubbed my son’s hair, which had grown long. I looked at the clouds which appeared gray in the night sky.
“Sixty-three!” said Monkey.
“What?” I asked.
“I counted 63 people playing with their phones.” And he was right. Everywhere I looked, people’s phones flickered like little rectangular fireflies as folks plugged into their favorite apps. The sight actually made me a little sad. I mean, I remember going to concerts and really watching. Really listening.
Monkey sniffed the air a few times which smelled like freshly cut grass – if your lawn was a giant field of green, sticky-bud marijuana.
“What is that stink?” my boy asked.
So while Hubby enjoyed the music, I got to school our child about marijuana. And concerts. And how they sometimes go together. Monkey looked for the source of the smell and found we were surrounded. Monkey announced he did not like the smell. I told him he did not have to. That smoking pot was not a requirement for going to concerts.
As the show wound down, Steely Dan played “Dirty Work,” a personal favorite of mine.
When the song ended, Monkey didn’t clap.
“It would be fake clapping.”
On the way home, Hubby asked if there was one thing about the concert that Monkey had liked.
“Having it end,” our son said unapologetically and fell asleep in the backseat.
Monkey will probably not remember his first concert. He will more likely remember the 16 mosquito bites he acquired from lying on the lawn without a blanket.
It’s okay; he has a whole lifetime to see concerts by musicians he really likes; to laugh in the darkness with friends; to cuddle on a blanket with someone he cares about and smooch while a fabulous song plays in the background.
On an up-note, I’m thinking that the number of times Hubby will question my judgment about things like this in the future: 0.
What was your first concert? Do you remember who you saw? What else do you remember about the experience? Or what was the worst show you ever attended? How underwhelmed were you? Explain.
- Image by alist via Flickr
A little while ago I received my roster for my fall Comp-101 writing class.
I scored a great building.
(No pole in the middle of the classroom this semester, people!)
And I have a full house, so there is no chance the class will be canceled.
Also reassuring.
And then I noticed it.
Assuming everybody shows on the first day, I should have four Ashleighs.
And an Ashley.
Four Zacharys.
And a Zach.
One Nathan.
And a Nate.
Oh, and two students with the last name “Johnson.”
With my luck, they will be identical twins.
Holy crowly!
I’m usually pretty good with names, but I’m thinking it is going to take me longer than usual to figure out who is who.
Several years ago, I repeatedly called a student Brennan. Problem was his name wasn’t Brennan; it was Brendan. By chance, Brendan chose to sit in the exact same seat that Brennan sat in one hour earlier. I tried moving Brendan’s seat, but I kept calling him Brennan. He was gracious at first – but eventually, he got annoyed.
Can you blame him?
But even if I goofed up my students’ names, I never confused their grades because my sound-alikes were in different sections.
But this year is going to be different.
All these students with the same-sounding names will be in the same section.
How are we going to have class discussion?
What will I do if 3 Ashleighs are simultaneously raising their hands because they want to respond to something?
Secretly, I find myself praying that one or more of my duplicates will drop my class before the semester starts. Or, in the very least, that each student will have dramatically different appearances and personality traits.
I’m hoping that Ashleigh #1 will be an amazing writer who loves to talk while Ashleigh #2 will be lazy and fall asleep at her desk each day. With any luck Ashleigh #3 will have tanning-booth bronze skin a la Snooki, and Ashleigh #4 will be an albino with red eyes and protective eyewear. I haven’t figured out what Ashley could be like. Maybe she will walk through the doors wearing a fabulous fuchsia pin. And maybe I can persuade her to agree to wear it every day Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the entire fifteen weeks of the semester.
I’m a little anxious about this. Can you tell?
What tricks do you use to remember people’s names? And what tactics do you recommend for a situation like this — other than a seating chart. Think creatively, people.
A friend of mine recently told me about the time her younger daughter accidentally cracked her head open on the doorknob at the top of a staircase. Of course this incident occurred the same weekend her daughter had a nasty sinus infection and was horking up greenish-brown lugies, thus earning her the nickname Snorky McStaplehead.
The name didn’t stick.
I’ve had many nicknames during the course of my life: I’ve answered to Ren, Renz, Renna, Nay, Nay-Nay, Née, She-Nay-Nay, Hools, Hoolie, Razz, RAS, RazzJ, RASJ, Teach. Each name is connected to the person that I am/was during a specific place and time. The memories attached to the names are inescapable — but not all were terms of endearment.
One summer, when I was 14-years old and enjoying my time at overnight camp, a few of the boys started calling me Kelloggs. I had no idea why. Finally, one of the guys fessed up.
“Because you’re flaky,” he said unapologetically and without a trace of irony.
He thinks I’m stupid, I thought to myself. I’m not stupid.
In college, I worked my butt off. Graduated cum laude. Learned a secret handshake and got a gold key when I was initiated into Phi Beta Kappa.
No one ever called me Kelloggs again.
Tell me a nickname you’ve picked up during your life? Who gave it to you? Do you like it? And what’s the story behind name?
Image via Wikipedia
Recently, I learned about a new punctuation mark: the interrobang. Sounds naughty doesn’t it. Sure you can Google it, if you’d like. But you don’t have to, silly. That’s why I’m here.
Actually, the interrobang is a nonstandard punctuation mark used in various written languages and intended to combine the functions of the question mark (also called the “interrogative point”) and the exclamation mark or exclamation point (known in printers’ jargon as the “bang”).
When a sentence asks a question in an excited manner, expresses excitement or disbelief in the form of a question, or asks a rhetorical question.people layer two different punctuation marks one after the other.
For example: “Can you believe how awesomely delicious this piece of chocolate cyber-cake tastes?!”
See the “?” followed directly by the “!”
That’s the interrobang!
Some people even layer them on top of each other!
According to Wikipedia:
In 1966, Richard Isbell of American Type Founders issued the Americana typeface and included the interrobang as one of the characters, and in 1968, an interrobang key was available on some Remington typewriters.
That said, the interrobang failed to amount to much. It has not become recognized as a standard punctuation mark; although, it has not disappeared completely: Microsoft actually provides several versions of the interrobang character with Microsoft Office.
I don’t usually get into hardcore kinky punctuation, but I have to admit, I definitely enjoyed learning about it and I plan to use it. Not excessively. Just once in a while.
If you really want to lord a little insignificant piece of trivia over your English teacher this year, interrobang her. See what happens.
So go ahead, give me your best sentence using mixed punctuation. Interrobang me; you know you want to.
When I hear this song, I picture my best friends from high school wearing our father’s boxer shorts to school. We wore black rubber bracelets twisted around our wrists and learned how to grapevine.
I wanted to be Madonna.
(Or at least I wanted to be her friend.)
What song immediately brings you back to high school?
“Mom,” Monkey asked one morning while hunched over a bowl of cereal, “If you could have one non-traditional super power what would it be?”
“What do you mean ‘non-traditional’?”
“You know, no flying or super strength or x-ray vision. Something different. Like the ability to shoot Nerf pellets from your fingers!”
He was awfully perky for 6:50 am.
I thought for a while, but it was before 7 am, and my mind isn’t used to thinking non-traditionally at that hour. At that hour, my brain is generally in more of a bed and pillow mode. If necessary, I can force it to fast-forward to toast and tea mode. But after a few minutes, I figured it out.
Monkey gets some pretty bad migraine headaches.
“I would like to have the ability to take headaches from people and deposit them into soil where they would turn them into purple flowers.”
“That’s cool,” he said, “But weird. Very weird.”
“You said non-traditional!” I protested.
Monkey swirled his Lucky Charms around in his orange Fiesta-ware bowl.
“What about you? What power would you like to have?”
“I’d barf rainbows.”
It was a little early to be talking vomit. Still, Monkey felt compelled to continue.
“You know how throw-up is stinky? I figure, at least if I barfed rainbows, the clean-up part would be kind of beautiful.”
“Dude,” I asked. “Have you ever heard of the saying ‘Apples don’t fall from pear trees’?”
Monkey nodded.
“Let’s just say that’s cool. But weird. Really weird.”
Monkey and I had a good breakfast laugh over that one. And, of course, it got me thinking: This question would be a fantastic new ice breaker activity for the first day of classes in the fall! And it also got me wondering:
What non-traditional super-hero power do you wish you could possess?
Image from art.com
My friend Carl D’Agostino and I often have Vulcan mind-melds. This week while I was tapping away about how much my Monkey loves his Ticonderogas, Carl simultaneously posted a pencil related comic on his blog, “I Know I Made You Smile.”
Check out Carl’s funny here, then come back and tell me about a mistake that could not be erased.
I’ll start: Congressman Anthony Weiner’s decision to send photos of himself in his grey underwear via Twitter. Whooopsie! Good luck with that one, dude.
Related articles
- In Praise of the Pencil (rasjacobson.wordpress.com)
