Wildebeest’s Hair

Wildebeest is 15.
Wildebeest decided he wanted dreadlocks.
After several failed lunch-hour attempts by friends
to dread his hair, Wildebeest mentioned
another dread method: neglect dreads.

Wildebeest started sporting a snarled head of hair.
I assumed neglect dreads.
And said nothing.
Until he mentioned we needed to order the dreadlock kit
he’d researched online.
The kit with wax.

I said, “But you’re doing neglect dreads.”
He said, “No.”
I said, “Then what’s going on with your hair all snarled up?”
He said, “I’m too lazy to comb it.”

(Insert EXCLAMATION OF YOUR CHOICE)

Yesterday we spent several hours combing out the hair
we’d coated with a half-bottle of conditioner.

I’d comb for a while and then leave him to it,
all the while hoping he’d just give up and ask me to cut it all off.
But the next time I’d go in to where he sat in the bathtub in swim shorts,
he was still working on it.
Tears of pain and frustration in his eyes.

I’d comb some more, apologizing when I yanked his hair.
Still hoping he’d give up and have me cut it.

But then something happened.
I started to root for Wildebeest.
I wanted him to stick with the agony of the comb
until the very last snarl was smoothed from his head.
I didn’t want him to give up.  Give in.
I wanted Wildebeest to keep his long hair.
His major accomplishment.
His freak flag.

So at the end, it was me combing out the last snarls.
Him in tears.
Me crying for my stubborn son who always does stuff the hard way.
I wept, wondering if his life would always be this way.
Him choosing the rockiest path.

We finished. Both exhausted.
I wish I had after photos but I don’t.
Despite the abuse his hair was smooth and silky.

Wildebeest is reconsidering getting dreadlocks.
He has a whole new appreciation for the fact that
dreadlocks require hours of backcombing.

I’ll go with whatever he decides.

The Big Splash by Jack D. Ferraiolo – discuss!

The treacherous, hormone-soaked hallways of Franklin Middle School are the setting for this sharp, funny noir novel about tough guys and even tougher girls. “The Frank” is in the clutches of a crime syndicate run by seventh-grader Vinny “Mr. Biggs” Biggio, who deals in forged hall passes and black-market candy. Double-cross him and your number is punched by one of his deadly water-gun-toting assassins. One hit in the pants and you are in “the Outs” forever. Matt Stevens is a proud loner with his own code of justice. He’s avoided being pulled into Vinny’s organization until now: Mr. Biggs has offered him a job he can’t resist, one that leads to the surprising downfall of Vinny’s top assassin, the beautiful and deadly Nikki “Fingers” Finnegan, at the hands of an unknown assailant. Matt thinks he was used, and he becomes determined to find the trigger-guy or -girl, even if it means bringing down one of his oldest friends.

 

I just read this book.
I liked it very much. 
It made me laugh and remember how much I love reading Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler.
But.
This book wasn’t written for me, it was written for children (shelved as YA in my library).
Zebu, who is twelve, read it.
When I told him I’d finished it and thought it was great,
he replied, "Really?"
Wildebeest also read it.
He wasn’t all that thrilled with the book, either.

So I’m wondering if this is one of those children’s books that mostly appeals to adults.
Adults who love hard-boiled noir detective stories.
My kids haven’t read any of those stories so the sly references in The Big Splash went over their heads.

Have any of your children read this?  Have you read it?  What were your reactions?

EDITED:  I checked with Wildebeest and my memory was incorrect.  He liked the book just fine but didn’t get any of the hard-boiled detective references.  So maybe I’m off-base with my ponderings; either kids like the book or they don’t (same as any other book).             

Ooh, ooh that smell

Can’t you smell that smell?

I gave this dog three baths today.
Coco’s apparently the kind of dog who doesn’t just like skunk-stink on her face.
She likes the full-body experience.
She found leftover skunk-stench in the yard and rolled in it.  Twice.

Coco is Wildebeest’s dog.
Doesn’t that make perfect sense?

Anyway, he helped with this last bath.
When we finished he said, "That was no fun at all.  Not even a good bonding moment."

I didn’t say anything but between you and me, I felt a bond.

                

Make me laugh, please!

"Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion.  I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward." 
— Kurt Vonnegut

This evening Zippy and I go to the high school for Wildebeest’s parent-teacher conferences.
I’m not looking forward to it.
In fact, my neck and shoulder muscles and the top of my scalp are tight.  Very tight.

I could sure use some laughs about now.
So if you’ve got anything funny you’ve been waiting to share, now’s the time.

          

Bonding

Wildebeest considers me the enemy.  The Man.
His friends are nervous around me as a result of
the Wildbeest rants they’ve heard over the years.
I’m strict.  I’m controlling.  I’m a hippie freak.  I don’t
like video games about killing.  I make him take vitamins.

Friday night Wildebeest had his two best friends over for a sleepover.
One friend, D, is on the wrestling team.  D’s coaches told him
he needed to cut his Shaggy-do before the next day’s tourney or
they’d cut it afterward using the tape scissors.

After much consultation including me reminding everyone what
Wildebeest’s bangs looked like in sixth grade when I accidentally
chopped them off WAY too high on his forehead, we came up with a plan.

Wildebeest did the early work as he used the clipper’s #5 attachment
to remove inches of hair.  J snipped rogue strands. I offered suggestions
and swept the floor.  When it got to the final shaping stage, I took over
the clippers.

Two hours after we started the consultation, D had a new haircut.  And you
know what he said?

“My mom was right.  She kept telling me I’d look better with short hair.”

Did Wildebeest immediately ask for his haircut?
No.
Is that okay by me?
Hell, yes.  We choose our battles around here and hair ain’t one of them.

D looks good.  Wildebeest is actually proud of my help with D’s hair.
And yesterday when J overheard Wildebeest giving me some mild-mannered lip,
he admonished Wildebeest about being sassy.

Wow.

Bring the Cheese, I’ve Got the Whine

Zippy called yesterday afternoon to say he was sick and headed home.

Told my parents who were visiting they must leave so they don’t catch the plague from Zippy.
They need all their strength for their drive across the country to their winter home in Florida.

Zebu arrives home and hugs grandparents goodbye.
Then Zebu reveals he felt sick at school.

Parents rush out front door as Zippy enters from garage.
Parents swallow much Vitamin C before driving away.

Wildebeest arrives home with sniffles but says "I’m impervious to colds."

This morning – a workday, a school day – the house is quiet.
Zippy tucked into his bed.  Zebu reading in his bed.  Wildebeest snoring in his.

Mother calls me from my brother’s where she spent last night.
So far, so good.  Maybe they got out in time.

Me?  I’m still blowing my nose from the cold that started two weeks ago and hoping I don’t get sick again.
I’ve got a conference this weekend.
And JoNo writing goals.

Please pass the tissue.

         

            

Voices of Dissent

On Monday Zippy and Wildebeest entered a Tent State University lottery for today’s free concert featuring Rage Against the Machine.
This morning Zippy received an email informing him he had two tickets.
Zippy came home, changed out of his office attire, went to the high school where he pulled Wildebeest from class, and then drove to the Denver Coliseum.
At 3:45 Zippy called to say the concert was over and that he and Wildebeest had joined the three-mile march on the Pepsi Center, site of the Democratic National Convention.
I turned on the television and listened to the usual fear-mongering spin (“Some rumors of protesters carrying bottles of urine to throw” ; “No one knows what will happen when the protesters reach their destination” ; “A hundred armed police officers are waiting outside the Pepsi Center”)
Zippy called again. I asked if he’d spotted any bottles of urine and he said he didn’t think anyone had urine to spare since they were all so hot and dehydrated.
Any confrontations, Zippy?
No, just Code Pink women giving the police officers Make Out Not War stickers which the police affixed to their gear.

(This is only what Zippy and Wildebeest experienced.  I know there have been confrontations.)

            

Friday Feel-Goods

1)  Yesterday I sent a letter to the editor in support of paper ballots and hand-counts.  Today the Denver Post published my letter but edited out several key sentences (my letter was over the word count).  I called the letters editor to let him know I was unhappy with what he cut and that I would’ve preferred cutting the letter myself.  He offered his direct email address for submitting future letters and said he’d let me see edits before publishing my letters.  Then a couple minutes later I received an email from him letting me know that he’d restored my letter in its entirety for the newspaper’s online version.  Plus he let me know he’d like more letters from me regarding verifiable voting because it was an important issue, one of great concern to the Post.  I’m so glad I took the time to call.

2)  Today is sunny and warm.  For the first time in forever, I’m going out on the trails to run.  It might be muddy in places but I’m willing to risk running in 15-pound shoes just to get off the streets and into the open space.

3)  Revisions are moving slowly on my middle-grade but I’m making progress.  I’ve read the opening pages about a billion times and whenever I read a certain line on page four, I crack up.  I might be the only one who thinks it’s funny but for the time being, I consider it a good sign.

4)  My shoulder and back muscles are sore because last night I did circuit training for the first time in about three weeks.  Sore is good because it reminds me I did all those push-ups.

5)  Wildebeest wasn’t turning in assignments so now has to have a weekly progress report signed by all teachers.  Last night he checked the online portal to make sure he had everything done but discovered a science assignment incorrectly marked “missing.”  He immediately wrote a note to himself and stapled it to the blank progress report so he’d remember to straighten out the no-name mix-up with his teacher.  Believe me, that’s a big WOW coming from him.

Here’s wishing lots of feel-good moments for everyone this weekend.

                 

Random Stuff

I just watched a great blue heron wading in the run-off pond near my house.  That’s what I want to be in my next life.  (Um, a heron, not a run-off pond).

The Bolder Boulder photographers just sent the link for me to check out my race day photos.  Yikes.  The photo of me running in the stadium toward the finish line shows one very tired woman.  Zippy had five photos taken of him and I’m in three of them, running behind him like some oxygen-deprived stalker.

The official race results are now available and I discovered my time was nine seconds faster than I thought.  Woo Hoo!  But even more exciting, out of the 448 44-year-old women in the race, I had the 26th fastest time. (Technically I’m 27th but one of the women is listed as “Steve” which Zippy insists is a mistake.  I pointed out there was a female character named Ralph on “Green Acres” but he insists that fact is not germane to the discussion).  Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by my race position and it took the sting out of getting a much slower time than I’d hoped for.

I’m trying to sort out plot issues for my middle-grade WIP but started feeling overwhelmed by all the possibilities.  I was writing ideas, many of which were “maybe X does this because such-and-such…”, and I started to feel panicked by not having anything to hold onto.  So I started a THINGS I KNOW list.  I’m writing one-liners about story details I know for sure, and it’s helping me figure out what else I know.  Now I don’t feel like I’m drowning! 

Wildebeest had his last day of 7th grade on Wednesday and Zebu finishes 5th grade today.  We’re all quite happy putting this school year behind us.  We plan to celebrate tonight with some dinner and bowling.

This morning I went to the nearby tech school and bought a bunch of perennials from the student greenhouse which means I need to get outside and figure out where to put them in my various flower beds.  I bought two forget-me-not plants because they remind me of Alaska.  Now if only I could get a moose to come hang out in my yard………

Wishing you all a wonderful weekend.

 

My Sunday

Sunday is our cleaning day.

Wildebeest and Zebu cleaned their rooms, vacuumed, and “scoured” the downstairs bathroom. 

Zippy Ramone vacuumed and cleaned the two upstairs bathrooms.

Guess what I did?

Here’s a close-up in case you need another hint:


I’d forgotten you’re supposed to be able to see the contents of the fruit and veggie bins. 
(Visibility!   What a concept!)

So long, expired vitamin powder.  Farewell, fossilized chile relish.  Ta-ta, coagulated strawberry syrup.

Oh my .  Get outta here, half-cup of sauerkraut.  And take that furry whatever it is with you.

(Confession:  I keep opening the fridge to admire my handiwork.  That tells you a little something about my worth as a domestic goddess).

 
 

A Laugh and a Sob

First the laugh:

I got tired of referring to my guys as Elder, Younger, Mate, etc. when posting on LJ and so asked them to supply me with identities for my journal.  Please allow me to introduce:

Zippy Ramone (formerly known as the Mate)

Wildebeest (formerly known as the Elder son)

Zebu (formerly known as the Younger son)

There, won’t that be so much easier to keep straight?!  (I’m a little disappointed Zebu chose that name.  Earlier, he’d opted for Phenomenon which has a certain lyricism when combined with Wildebeest –  try saying Wildebeest and Phenomenon aloud.  See?  But then Zippy Ramone, Zebu and I played BOGGLE and Zippy Ramone formed “zebu” and, well, the rest is history).

So what if my LJ will read like some bizarre hybrid of African safari and punk?!

Okay, now for the sob:

I’m computer illiterate.  But I’m a functioning illiterate.  When I’ve learned how to do something, I follow those directions each and every time.  I don’t necessarily understand what I’m doing when I save a file to a certain place but as long as it’s worked before, I keep doing it.  Each and every time.

For instance, I save my file throughout the day and then when I’m done working, I “Save As” to another location.  For some reason I don’t understand, this drives Zippy Ramone crazy.  Last night he wanted to show me a new method for saving my file since we have a new computer, new backup thingies, upgraded Word program, etc.  He likes the click and drag approach.

Somehow in the process (in case you haven’t guessed, here comes the climax of the Sob portion of this post), he overwrote the HOURS AND HOURS of revisions from yesterday with the file from the day before yesterday.  All my revisions are gone.  GONE!

Why couldn’t Zippy Ramone let me Save and Save As?  Why, I ask you?  Why?

(Okay, I don’t really want to know the why so please don’t try explaining it to me.  If I haven’t grasped it yet in all these years, it ain’t gonna sink in now).

SOB.

I’ll stop whining now, seeing as I need to get back to work on my revisions.  Thanks for listening.

 

Gals Write for Gals Read – ?


I bought this book at my son’s school book fair and everyone in the household (me plus the three males living here) has read at least portions of it.  (For those even more behind the times on their reading lists than me, GUYS WRITE FOR GUYS READ edited by Jon Scieszka (2005), is a compilation of stories/memories from 90 male children’s writers and illustrators, including our own[info]davidlubar). The project is part of Scieszka’s literacy initiative designed to encourage boys to read.

It’s a great book.  Now that I’ve finished all the stories, I plan on taking it to the library and looking up some of these writers’ books so I can expand our household reading horizons.

But . .

This book makes me wonder what a GALS WRITE FOR GALS READ compilation would look like.  Guys’ childhood experiences are by no means universal (okay, maybe farts are a common thread) yet there’s this underlying “guy code” in the book that makes every male a member of the club. Even those boys who weren’t classic guys’ guys knew what was expected of them, and while some didn’t speak the language, they all understood it.    

Would it be possible to have a gal edition of this book?  Do gals have a universal language?  Universal expectations? 

 While society does place all sorts of expectation on females, females have much more leeway than males in terms of sports (athletic girls are admired but it’s no big deal to be unathletic); the cars they drive (Hummers or VW Beetles are equally acceptable); the clothes and colors they wear (pants or dresses are fine, black, brown,  pink, purple – every color in the spectrum is okay); make-up (women are free to wear it or not but men are denied one of society’s greatest inventions – lipstick!).  In terms of careers, plenty of men are still intimidated by female doctors, scientists, and race car drivers, but there isn’t a majority unspoken opinion that a woman embarrasses herself by being, say, an astronaut.  However, there is a prevalent attitude that men shouldn’t be nurses or dancers.

I grew up with two brothers and two sisters.  I was a “tomboy” who threw a better spiral than most boys on the playground but also played with dolls.   I climbed trees and sledded, built forts, pushed my cat around in a baby buggy, played dress-up, had pinecone fights, sang into my hairbrush along with the radio, wore lip gloss, laughed at fart jokes, read books.

Maybe my childhood is a representative snapshot of what a GALS WRITE FOR GALS READ story would offer: girls exploring different interests and attitudes.        

And perhaps the GUYS WRITE participants would disagree with me, but as I read their stories I wished for a little more flexibility in their lives.  Opportunities for them to be true to the real guys inside, whether that meant jumping off barns, composing musicals, designing clothes, or Xeroxing their butts. 

Either way, I absolutely want that flexibility for my guys.