Adventures of Fast Turtle and Baby Bug

For me, school starts tomorrow. In a last minute waffling, I’m now signed up for 4 classes, with the intention of dropping one once I figure out which one to drop. At the last minute I added instructional design, thinking that it’s a pretty  practical choice as an elective. I’m sure I’ll go back, though, to my original schedule, after viewing the monster syllabus for the instruction design class. Not only are there many, many assignments (which is a different thing than a lot of work; I don’t mind the work, but having something due every 3 days is a little much), but the word “deliverable” popped up a little too often for my sanity. It sounds like the class is going to be more about the project management side–and the teamwork side,which, UGH, I do not like teams–than the theory side. Perhaps that only makes sense in instructional design, that it be more about the doing of it. I just can’t shake the heebie-jeebies that the word “deliverable” gives me. Scars of former employment under a wannabe fed to whom every activity was a deliverable. Personally, I don’t care for the noun-isation of verbs (haha, at least not institutionally, since I obviously have no compunction about making up my own words), but even more I don’t care for the “run everything as a business” mentality that this particular individual embraced. So, to me, the contant use of the D-word is a little warning bell that my philosophy of education and the philosophy of this particular instructor might not match very well. That’s not to say that you can’t learn from people you disagree with, but if their philosophy dictates the work (the “learning experiences”) you undertake, and you are at odds with that underlying philosophy, well, that seems to be a recipe for being annoyed and frustrated all semester.

Plus, I’ve already bought the books for the other class–the one I would keep if I dropped the instruction design class. But, we’ll see ow the first week goes!

From April, Come She Will.

I’m a little bummed today. Although I still have a week before classes start, and two weeks before Turtle and Bug head off to school, summer feels well and truly over.

[Yes! Bug is going to school! I can't believe it either. Only 2 days a week, mornings, and it's a co-op. But, school! She's excited, but I'm worried she thinks that she gets to go to school with Turtle...she will not be pleased when she realizes that isn't the case.]

I am self-medicating with a big ol’ piece of chocolate cake. Not surprising, it’s not really making me feel better.

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On the way to work this morning, I heard the “Toes in the Water” song by the Zac Brown Band on the radio. It has quite a catchy tune, but when I started listening to the lyrics, I was more than a little disappointed:

Adios and vaya con dios/ A long way from GA
Yeah, and all the muchachas they call me “big poppa” when I throw / Pesos their way
Adios and vaya con dios / A long way from GA
Hey boss do me a favor and pass me the Jaeger / I’ll grab my guitar and play

Adios and vaya con dios / Going home now to stay
The senoritas don’t care-o when there’s no dinero / I got no money to stay
Adios and vaya con dios / Going home now to stay

Why is it entertainment to throw a little zenophobia and misogynism into a song? Why didn’t anyone involved with the production of the song–from the writers all the way to the record executives who approved it to the radio DJs playing it–stop for a moment and think, “Gee, this is really reinforcing some pretty negative stereotypes right here. Maybe we shouldn’t be involved in it or play it on our station.”

Granted, there are doubtless many, many worse songs out there in terms of pandering to really hateful stereotypes. My guess is that the majority just happen to be on stations I don’t much listen to, so they haven’t come to my attention lately. It’s just getting a little frustrating to have all the radio stations I do like to listen to playing music that I wouldn’t want to have to explain to my kids. Much less have to worry about the thousands of subtle ways that stereotypes about different groups of people are inculcated in their minds.

I *really* don’t want the only station I can safely have on be the Christian station.

If an adult making minimum wage and working 40 hours per week can’t earn enough money to keep her family out of poverty, what does “minimum wage” even mean?

The streets of NYC, of course! I <heart> New York in a major way. Maybe it would be different if we lived there full-time–surely it would be, if only because we probably couldn’t afford to live in an apartment large enough for all of us to not be on top of each other all the time! But, assuming that we could somehow magically afford a 3 (preferably 4) bedroom apartment in a building with an elevator (because climbing stairs carrying kids and groceries has got to be a circle in mommy-hell) in a location with a good public school and near a park (the last part actually seems pretty doable, just judging from our jaunts this weekend)…well, I think that it would be great fun. NYC reminds me a lot of two of my favorite places–Paris and Istanbul. Having a bakery around the corner. Access to fresh fruits and vegetables without having to trek to a supermarket. Many independent shops and restaurants providing variety and quality. Ample people-watching opportunities. CUPCAKE SHOPS. Whole shops devoted to cupcakes. And buttercream frosting. Need I say more??

Enjoying our delicious desserts!

*I say quality because I believe that having a variety of small, independent shops and restaurants provides the consumer with higher quality and better value. This is how: a small restaurant in a city like the ones mentioned above has to provide quality and value; if it doesn’t, patrons have a multitude of other places to patronize, and there are many other restaurateurs waiting to take over the location if you fail. With lower population density in the suburbs, there are fewer owners–or landlords–wanting to take a chance on small businesses. Thus, chains–restaurants, stores, supermarkets–abound.

This one time is time enough only to stay planted for a life time OR to wander around and end up in paradise.

Although I might disagree with “this one time” being truly our only one chance at life on earth, I was really stuck by this line, written by an old acquaintance, comparing her life living abroad to her father’s living in one town for much of his life. I grew up somewhat wander-y, and am surprised to realize that I’ve been living in the same place–not house, but general location–for seven years now. Very surprised. Of course a lot of stability-engendering things (grad school, kids, home-buying) have happened in those seven years. With having kids, I have thought a lot about how I wanted ours to grow up. I’ve always had a this romantic notion that I wanted my kids to grow up in one house, that we’d chart their growth with pencil marks on a door jamb, that summers would be full of cookouts with the neighbors, and that the kids would have wonderful, lifelong friends living only blocks away. A few weeks ago, our neighbors across the street moved away. It made me realize that they were the only family in the neighborhood that we ever spoke to, and that it had been nearly a year since we had them over. I’ve not once marked up a door jamb with a height line. And in our neighborhood, even if we were to stay here, enough people will be moving in and out that it’s pretty unlikely that our kids will have “lifelong friends” from the area.

The other event that has had me questioning my romantic notions of home and roots is our trip to Turkey. My husband’s family has roots, and even more than roots, branches. They are connected and interwoven among the generations and siblings and cousins in a way that I never have been. And while it does require a shift in thinking about how loyalities and alliances and space/time planning should go–it is much simpler to think about these things in relation to a nuclear family of 4 than in relation to a family as large as ours–I wouldn’t trade our large family for anything. They are the ones we will have cookouts with. They are the lifelong friends for my children.

So, this summer I have really been questioning the whys of living where we are. Although I love our house, love that we (in large part) built it with our own hands, that we picked the bathroom tile, designed the floor plan, painted, put up curtains, and (now!) have planted a garden–and in many ways it would break my heart to leave this house we have worked so hard to make a home, in the end “home” will come with us wherever we go. And I can always pick out new tile, and see it as a good thing, to be able to reinvent our conception of home and how we breathe life into that idea and flesh it out into walls and floors and paint colors.

A friend over at The Nuthouse shared a link to www.walkscore.com, which purports to show how walking-friendly your neighborhood is by charting the distance (as the crow flies, btw, which is not equal to walking distance) to various amenities. My neighborhood received a very respectable 77 out of 100, rating it as “Very Walkable.” I was, frankly, shocked. Looking at the list of “amenities” they cite within 1 mile, however, shows where the disconnect exists. For “grocery stores,” 3 separate 7-11 stores make up 3 of the 8 they list. The others consisted of several small ethnic markets and a now-closed supermarket 0.7 miles away. While I love–and shop at–at least one of the small markets, they don’t offer any fresh foods or staples like milk. For milk I’d have to go to one of the 7-11s, and pay at least $1 more gallon.

To me, this does not make our neighborhood such a great walkable place when doing errands.

Grocery Stores