THE QUEEN OF SHAKE SHAKE HAS RELOCATED!
I had to flash a lot of boob at my Back End Master, but the boxes are unpacked and there are even a few curtains up. I still have to organized the pantry (blogroll) and my underwear drawer (about me), and figure out the plumbing (switching over RSS feeds, yikes) but my first post is up at my brand new site.
Go take a look!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Friday, November 14, 2008
Can you feel summer?
"Mom, who is Beethoven?" Payton asks. He's recently begun a Charlie Brown phase and is intrigued by the character Schroeder.
"He's a very famous classical composer who wrote symphonies, which is a type of music, in the 1800s," I answer.
"What did the music sound like?"
"I have a cd of his music. We'll listen to it in the car when we go pick up your brother."
True to my word, I pop in a Beethoven cd later that afternoon. I didn't look at the cd, I simply put it in the player and let it begin playing the first song.
The first song is Beethoven's 6th symphony, which is titled Pastoral.
Payton and I listen to a couple of minutes of the symphony, and I then ask him what he thinks of Beethoven's music.
"I didn't know he wrote summer music!" he says.
"Summer music?" I ask. "What do you mean?"
"That song is about summer. It's in the medium notes," he explains. "Can you hear it?"
"Medium notes, huh? Is that something Ms. C (school music teacher) taught you?"
"No, I just know it."
"You just know it?"
"Yeah, I just know it. In the medium notes. I can feel summer. Can't you feel it, mom?"
"Feel it where?"
"In your ears. I can feel the summer inside my ears."
No, I don't feel summer in my ears. Beethoven's 6th symphony is just a song to my ears, albeit a beautiful one, of course.
Of all the possible therapies and diagnoses we've rejected and ignored, Payton's hypersensitive hearing is one I catch a good bit of flack for. It's one of the big bell ringers of autism.
On the other hand, it's also a bell ringer for gifted children, though we hear little of that in the news.
But in all my human faultiness, and probably because of current socialization, it's one thing about Payton that often leaves me questioning the wisdom of our decisions.
When a six year old is happily swinging outside and the next thing you know, he screams as if the Hound of Baskerville is eating his leg for lunch, you kinda wonder. You see him writhing on the ground with his ears covered, screaming over and over, you find no blood or bee stings, and you're looking and looking for WHAT ATTACKED YOUR KID!, and you finally realize a jet flew way overhead, a jet you heard but didn't notice because it wasn't that loud and you're used to tuning it out.
You can't help but wonder sometimes if you're crazy to sit back and let nature take its course with this.
Whereas social nonconformity can be open to subjective interpretation, his hearing has a measurable side effect given he can have severe headaches when his sensitive ears are bombarded with too much noise. It's right there, and the headaches aren't really open for interpretation other than a) this is a tylenol controllable headache or b) this is a dark, silent room and a two hour nap controllable headache.
Thankfully, interpretation B is very rare these days.
People want to know, respectfully so far, why we won't do any type of auditory therapies for Payton since this obviously can affect his day-to-day life.
I could debate the validity of such therapies since none are statistically proven to make a difference. I could, and sometimes do, raise the question of who is really causing Payton pain: us, the parents who won't do therapy or the other adults who don't give Payton the common courtesy of consideration without me repeatedly shoving his medical excuse up their ass.
Usually I don't go into that. My usual response is my fundamental belief that Payton was not born with highly-attuned hearing to be disabled by it, but instead was born with a gift.
I have no earthly idea how his exceptional hearing will serve him in the future, but my heart tells me there is higher purpose.
Will he finally discover the meaning of whale songs because he not only hears but feels notes others can't?
I don't know, but I believe in the possibility.
And why should I not?
After I told my boss what Payton said about this particular Beethoven composition incident, we did a little research on Beethoven's sixth composition and discovered this...
The connection of the importance and power of nature, and the summers he spent in Vienna's countryside. How did Payton know? How did an eight-year-old feel with his ears the nature in a 200 year old song?
"He's a very famous classical composer who wrote symphonies, which is a type of music, in the 1800s," I answer.
"What did the music sound like?"
"I have a cd of his music. We'll listen to it in the car when we go pick up your brother."
True to my word, I pop in a Beethoven cd later that afternoon. I didn't look at the cd, I simply put it in the player and let it begin playing the first song.
The first song is Beethoven's 6th symphony, which is titled Pastoral.
Payton and I listen to a couple of minutes of the symphony, and I then ask him what he thinks of Beethoven's music.
"I didn't know he wrote summer music!" he says.
"Summer music?" I ask. "What do you mean?"
"That song is about summer. It's in the medium notes," he explains. "Can you hear it?"
"Medium notes, huh? Is that something Ms. C (school music teacher) taught you?"
"No, I just know it."
"You just know it?"
"Yeah, I just know it. In the medium notes. I can feel summer. Can't you feel it, mom?"
"Feel it where?"
"In your ears. I can feel the summer inside my ears."
No, I don't feel summer in my ears. Beethoven's 6th symphony is just a song to my ears, albeit a beautiful one, of course.
Of all the possible therapies and diagnoses we've rejected and ignored, Payton's hypersensitive hearing is one I catch a good bit of flack for. It's one of the big bell ringers of autism.
On the other hand, it's also a bell ringer for gifted children, though we hear little of that in the news.
But in all my human faultiness, and probably because of current socialization, it's one thing about Payton that often leaves me questioning the wisdom of our decisions.
When a six year old is happily swinging outside and the next thing you know, he screams as if the Hound of Baskerville is eating his leg for lunch, you kinda wonder. You see him writhing on the ground with his ears covered, screaming over and over, you find no blood or bee stings, and you're looking and looking for WHAT ATTACKED YOUR KID!, and you finally realize a jet flew way overhead, a jet you heard but didn't notice because it wasn't that loud and you're used to tuning it out.
You can't help but wonder sometimes if you're crazy to sit back and let nature take its course with this.
Whereas social nonconformity can be open to subjective interpretation, his hearing has a measurable side effect given he can have severe headaches when his sensitive ears are bombarded with too much noise. It's right there, and the headaches aren't really open for interpretation other than a) this is a tylenol controllable headache or b) this is a dark, silent room and a two hour nap controllable headache.
Thankfully, interpretation B is very rare these days.
People want to know, respectfully so far, why we won't do any type of auditory therapies for Payton since this obviously can affect his day-to-day life.
I could debate the validity of such therapies since none are statistically proven to make a difference. I could, and sometimes do, raise the question of who is really causing Payton pain: us, the parents who won't do therapy or the other adults who don't give Payton the common courtesy of consideration without me repeatedly shoving his medical excuse up their ass.
Usually I don't go into that. My usual response is my fundamental belief that Payton was not born with highly-attuned hearing to be disabled by it, but instead was born with a gift.
I have no earthly idea how his exceptional hearing will serve him in the future, but my heart tells me there is higher purpose.
Will he finally discover the meaning of whale songs because he not only hears but feels notes others can't?
I don't know, but I believe in the possibility.
And why should I not?
After I told my boss what Payton said about this particular Beethoven composition incident, we did a little research on Beethoven's sixth composition and discovered this...
In the program for its premiere, Beethoven famously noted that the "Pastoral" contained "more an expression of feeling than painting."Did the hairs rise on the back of your neck? Because mine totally did.
...it unquestionably offers eloquent testimony to the importance and power of nature in Beethoven's life. The composer reveled in walking in the environs of Vienna and spent nearly every summer in the country.
The connection of the importance and power of nature, and the summers he spent in Vienna's countryside. How did Payton know? How did an eight-year-old feel with his ears the nature in a 200 year old song?
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Before Twitter & Facebook, I wasn't a fart face.
Before I became a Twitter Ho and a Crackbook addict, I actually got things done.
But now that I've fallen from the state of motherly grace and into the pit of social networking hell, I feel like I'm always running around saying, "Shit! I need to cook! Shit! I need to work! Shit! What do you mean you are out of school uniform shorts?!"
Granted, I did do laundry on Wednesday and how in the hell my kid ran out of four shorts in 48 hours, I don't know. But the point is before social networking turned me into a fart face of a mother, I would have noticed Payton was out of school shorts before 7:50 am.
What's worse is that I'm becoming a fart face of a mom for something I don't even understand!
Facebook is a semi-mystery to me. I get the basic concepts of finding people, adding friends, commenting and squealing over pictures of each others' kids.
But some of this other stuff? What. The. Hell.
Take flair, for example. What the fuck are pieces of flair and why are you sending them to me?
People have hung ornaments on my Christmas tree and I don't even have my tree out yet. What the hell is that about?
What's this about creating my own city? People, I run an entire island already, what more do you want from me?!
I've been nominated as the most beautiful person on Facebook. Clearly they've never seen me fresh out of bed or smelled my morning breath because that shit? Is ugly.
And the cupcakes? Don't even get me started on the cupcakes, mostly because I don't understand what that means either and I wouldn't know where to start.
I've been invited to join a mob and fight in their mob war. A mob war, people! What the fuck is wrong with you? Don't you people get your fill of violence on HBO?
One of my old friends from high school nominated me for some Sweetest Person Contest, but then had the audacity to write on my wall that I have officially lost it when I wrote on her wall that her jacket has Stockholm syndrome.
What kind of Crackbook shit is that, calling me crazy when she nominated me for Sweetest Person? Between the two of us, it's obvious she's the one who's lost it.
Is this what it is, the addictive quality of Facebook people talk of? No one really understand this stuff, but they do it anyway in hopes that one day they will understand.
Don't you think it's a bit, I don't know, INSANE, grown adults sending cupcakes that aren't even REAL and hanging ornaments on nonexistent Christmas trees?
But now that I've fallen from the state of motherly grace and into the pit of social networking hell, I feel like I'm always running around saying, "Shit! I need to cook! Shit! I need to work! Shit! What do you mean you are out of school uniform shorts?!"
Granted, I did do laundry on Wednesday and how in the hell my kid ran out of four shorts in 48 hours, I don't know. But the point is before social networking turned me into a fart face of a mother, I would have noticed Payton was out of school shorts before 7:50 am.
What's worse is that I'm becoming a fart face of a mom for something I don't even understand!
Facebook is a semi-mystery to me. I get the basic concepts of finding people, adding friends, commenting and squealing over pictures of each others' kids.
But some of this other stuff? What. The. Hell.
Take flair, for example. What the fuck are pieces of flair and why are you sending them to me?
People have hung ornaments on my Christmas tree and I don't even have my tree out yet. What the hell is that about?
What's this about creating my own city? People, I run an entire island already, what more do you want from me?!
I've been nominated as the most beautiful person on Facebook. Clearly they've never seen me fresh out of bed or smelled my morning breath because that shit? Is ugly.
And the cupcakes? Don't even get me started on the cupcakes, mostly because I don't understand what that means either and I wouldn't know where to start.
I've been invited to join a mob and fight in their mob war. A mob war, people! What the fuck is wrong with you? Don't you people get your fill of violence on HBO?
One of my old friends from high school nominated me for some Sweetest Person Contest, but then had the audacity to write on my wall that I have officially lost it when I wrote on her wall that her jacket has Stockholm syndrome.
What kind of Crackbook shit is that, calling me crazy when she nominated me for Sweetest Person? Between the two of us, it's obvious she's the one who's lost it.
Is this what it is, the addictive quality of Facebook people talk of? No one really understand this stuff, but they do it anyway in hopes that one day they will understand.
Don't you think it's a bit, I don't know, INSANE, grown adults sending cupcakes that aren't even REAL and hanging ornaments on nonexistent Christmas trees?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Things I hate about the blogosphere
#1 NaBloPoMo.Need I say more?
This is a blog, of course I need say more!
I had hoped NaBloPoMo died the slow, painful death every evil thing should die. I didn't hear/read near the amount of buzz about it this year compared to last, and I thought, oh yes! Someone killed the evil motherfucker! I thank you, dear killer, and so does my Google reader!
My elation was short-lived.
I had my reader down to 55 unread blogs on Friday. 55! Do you know how rare that is?
Monday morning, it was pushing 200 again.
Save me from the evil!
If you'd like to join NeeNerHaHa, which is also known as SuMaReButt (Support the Marked As Read Button month), email me through this blog and I'll send you the code.
#2 Blog Titles
I hate it when I come up with a perfect kick ass title for a blog post only to discover a big blogger used the exact same title the week before, and now it looks like I can't think up a kick ass title on my own and I have to think of another one.
I hate coming up with titles to begin with and to then be forced to come up with more than one? Hate. it.
#3 Long-term writers
When I read another blogger or author I admire and they say something like how they've been writing for 20 years, or they've wanted to be a writer since 6, and I'm all like um, 2 years? I hate that because it makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing, starting this writing stuff at 34 when clearly you have to start it when you're six.
#4 Everyone has a better kitchen than mine.
Big glorious kitchens with islands, double ovens and pretty, pretty cabinets. I hate feeling poor, especially when we're not poor. Please stop posting pictures of kitchens, unless you have a one-butt kitchen like me.
#5 Not only does everyone have a better kitchen than mine, but some people visit friends who have a view of the Eiffel tower from their kitchen.
Or maybe the view is from their living room. Who gives a shit, it's the Eiffel damn tower!
This time, I won't be outdone. Oh no! I have a tower view from my kitchen too.
Wait! Sometimes the sunrise makes it pretty.
Take that!
What do you hate about the blogosphere right now?
Monday, November 10, 2008
If NSA followed me through my Google searches, they would arrest me before I could finish my book
I worked on my book this weekend. And when I say worked on my book, I really mean I reread my first page and realized it's a heaping pile of hot, steamy dog shit. This is ironic because a month ago, it was supposedly the most awesome first page written in the history of the world.
This first page is such dog shit that it would ruin the tone of the entire book if I didn't rewrite it. So? I spent the weekend rewriting ONE DAMN PAGE.
But! That one damn page turned into an entire chapter, which then led into writing chapter two, so what the hey! Sometimes writing total shit is a good thing.
I also realized this weekend that after so many years of constant screeching and hooting from the juvenile baboons I call my children, I need their jungle racket in order to write. During the week when I have peace and quiet, I struggle to wring thoughts from my bone-dry brain. But when the weekend comes and I'm bombarded with male primate yelling, fighting and butt-sniffing, words flow from my brain to my fingers with little effort.
How's that for more irony? I wonder if Jane Goodall has put out a Sounds of Gombe nature CD with recorded sounds of primates raising the roof in the jungle. It might help me out Monday-Friday.
Anyway, during this rewriting, I had to do some Google research and it dawned me if the NSA followed me through my Google searches for this book, they would think I'm total freak with an unhealthy dash of dumb ass thrown in for good measure.
Take these back-to-back Google searches of mine...
"How do you spell tasmanein devil?" (I wasn't correct)
"Is Plexiglass breakable?"
"Is Obama really black?"
"How do you spell perenium?" (wrong again!)
and then...
"What instrument do they use to castrate cows?"
Yes, I really should be writing this book from behind the doors of a NSA-sponsored mental institute, but the thought of typing on my Precious while wearing a white jacket that ties my hands behind my back is just too much, which is why I'm on the run and living under the alias of Yolanda Pirado-Concha.*
I bet you are just chomping at the bit to read my book now, huh?
I thought so.
*English translation is Purple Crazy-Vagina, and that's fitting because purple is the color that denotes royalty, I'm crazy and I have a vagina.
This first page is such dog shit that it would ruin the tone of the entire book if I didn't rewrite it. So? I spent the weekend rewriting ONE DAMN PAGE.
But! That one damn page turned into an entire chapter, which then led into writing chapter two, so what the hey! Sometimes writing total shit is a good thing.
I also realized this weekend that after so many years of constant screeching and hooting from the juvenile baboons I call my children, I need their jungle racket in order to write. During the week when I have peace and quiet, I struggle to wring thoughts from my bone-dry brain. But when the weekend comes and I'm bombarded with male primate yelling, fighting and butt-sniffing, words flow from my brain to my fingers with little effort.
How's that for more irony? I wonder if Jane Goodall has put out a Sounds of Gombe nature CD with recorded sounds of primates raising the roof in the jungle. It might help me out Monday-Friday.
Anyway, during this rewriting, I had to do some Google research and it dawned me if the NSA followed me through my Google searches for this book, they would think I'm total freak with an unhealthy dash of dumb ass thrown in for good measure.
Take these back-to-back Google searches of mine...
"How do you spell tasmanein devil?" (I wasn't correct)
"Is Plexiglass breakable?"
"Is Obama really black?"
"How do you spell perenium?" (wrong again!)
and then...
"What instrument do they use to castrate cows?"
Yes, I really should be writing this book from behind the doors of a NSA-sponsored mental institute, but the thought of typing on my Precious while wearing a white jacket that ties my hands behind my back is just too much, which is why I'm on the run and living under the alias of Yolanda Pirado-Concha.*
I bet you are just chomping at the bit to read my book now, huh?
I thought so.
*English translation is Purple Crazy-Vagina, and that's fitting because purple is the color that denotes royalty, I'm crazy and I have a vagina.
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