I went to the movies with my kids this weekend. We saw The Lorax. Which was fine. Cute really. It's one Dr. Seuss book I never read with my kids so I have no idea how close the story - which seemed way to culturally salient to be lifted from the pages (?) - in the movie is to that in the book. But the movie was about all the ridiculous earth destroying, profiteering absurdities in our society. The town featured in the movie (Sneedville?) has no trees. They were all cut down to make the Sneeds (a weird scarf type thingamabob) and then some other profiteer decided to sell people air. So the town has no trees (other than the plastic ones that light up) and air is sold in plastic bottles (yes they are empty bottles), much like water we buy today. Something available for free, that we choose to pay for.
Of course it ends happily - everyone votes for trees. And the normalcy is hopefully restored. My too clever oldest son said he thought the movie was a farce because they probably hurt the earth making it. Touche. Smarty pants. Subversive. Green SF native.
But the part of this whole movie going experience that affected me the most was some silly promotional ad before the movie even started. I don't even know what it was for. I've seen it a million times. Some goofy guy is dancing on one of those video game dance machine things. He is super into it, in the way that people that love those things are. He's flamboyant and makes silly faces and dances way too seriously for a video game. I giggled. I do every time. My youngest said, "Dad always laughs at that part too." Yeah, I'm sure he does.
That man infuriates me. We should not be together. But I do miss that we shared a sense of humor in a very fundamental, slightly odd and askew kind of way. We laughed together at things no one thought were funny. Dark terrible things. We were politically incorrect on matters of race, gender, religion - perhaps the result of an inter-racial, non observant household. We were mean at times. But not in the world. We just let the meanness slip with each other. We made fun of people, the world, men, women, black people, white people, all people. No one was exempt.
Too bad that's not enough. Not even close. And maybe we were just too mean. Period.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
Hipster no more
Tonight I went to a reading at the Make Out Room in San Francisco's Mission District. "Reading" isn't really the right description. It was a hipster event featuring words, humor and music. A salon of sorts. The Make Out Room is a hipster joint, one I used to frequent in my 20s. They sell PBR in cans, there is tinsel hanging from the ceiling and everyone has a sloppy unkempt beard. Needless to say, I felt out of place. I had on a high shoe and was carrying a designer handbag. I was me.
But I was there to hear my old friend Mark Sundeen read from his new book The Man Who Quit Money so I put my discomfort aside (I was the enemy - I work in corporate America and drive a relatively new car with leather seats) and bellied up to the bar to order a beer. One not in a can. How is it this was my home not too many years ago? Is it terrible that I don't fit now? No. I'm grateful I fit in once... an old person who was never a hip/liberal is just a Republican. Yuck.
I sat alone at the bar checking my email, waiting for Mark to read. I endured a not so funny comedian / former meth addict (he admitted this) and a medium-ly funny humorist (Top 10 reasons why you shouldn't sleep with poets) awaiting my friend.
Mark is the real deal. He writes books from time to time. Good books that don't sell all that well (though I suspect this one might). He occasionally has a travel piece that shows up in the New York Times. He leads people down rivers, or he did once. He lives in a shack (one that he owns, mind you) and does yoga. He has a beard but not really the hipster kind, though he could pass. He still wears big chunky belt buckles and western style vintage shirts (he's done this for years - we used to say he was Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy - back in 1990). He's hip. But not because he's trying. Not anymore anyway, even if he once did, but I don't think he did. Mark is a unique blend of sweet, awkward, handsome and rugged. And smart and literary. He doesn't live in Brooklyn, he lives in Moab. And sometimes Missoula. He's not trying too hard. No one who tries too hard lives in Utah. Do they?
Boy did I used to have a crush on him in college. He's still charming no doubt. But since I'm not the Moab kind of girl and he's marrying a Buddhist, it's all well that he never liked me.
I sat at the bar feeling remarkably uncomfortable in a place I used to frequent, albeit fifteen years ago. I brought no friends. So I had no choice but to sit there, drinking my beer, waiting. I chatted with Mark. He said: Catch me up. I hear you're single. I'm sorry. And he meant it. He said: You'll be ok. You have a good heart.
It was hard not to cry at that one. Do I?
He left and chatted with some other friends. And then he read. He was quirky but confident. Comfortable on the stage. Utterly charming. I have my book here at my bedside. I can't wait to read it.
Congratulations Mark.
But I was there to hear my old friend Mark Sundeen read from his new book The Man Who Quit Money so I put my discomfort aside (I was the enemy - I work in corporate America and drive a relatively new car with leather seats) and bellied up to the bar to order a beer. One not in a can. How is it this was my home not too many years ago? Is it terrible that I don't fit now? No. I'm grateful I fit in once... an old person who was never a hip/liberal is just a Republican. Yuck.
I sat alone at the bar checking my email, waiting for Mark to read. I endured a not so funny comedian / former meth addict (he admitted this) and a medium-ly funny humorist (Top 10 reasons why you shouldn't sleep with poets) awaiting my friend.
Mark is the real deal. He writes books from time to time. Good books that don't sell all that well (though I suspect this one might). He occasionally has a travel piece that shows up in the New York Times. He leads people down rivers, or he did once. He lives in a shack (one that he owns, mind you) and does yoga. He has a beard but not really the hipster kind, though he could pass. He still wears big chunky belt buckles and western style vintage shirts (he's done this for years - we used to say he was Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy - back in 1990). He's hip. But not because he's trying. Not anymore anyway, even if he once did, but I don't think he did. Mark is a unique blend of sweet, awkward, handsome and rugged. And smart and literary. He doesn't live in Brooklyn, he lives in Moab. And sometimes Missoula. He's not trying too hard. No one who tries too hard lives in Utah. Do they?
Boy did I used to have a crush on him in college. He's still charming no doubt. But since I'm not the Moab kind of girl and he's marrying a Buddhist, it's all well that he never liked me.
I sat at the bar feeling remarkably uncomfortable in a place I used to frequent, albeit fifteen years ago. I brought no friends. So I had no choice but to sit there, drinking my beer, waiting. I chatted with Mark. He said: Catch me up. I hear you're single. I'm sorry. And he meant it. He said: You'll be ok. You have a good heart.
It was hard not to cry at that one. Do I?
He left and chatted with some other friends. And then he read. He was quirky but confident. Comfortable on the stage. Utterly charming. I have my book here at my bedside. I can't wait to read it.
Congratulations Mark.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
PTDD: Post traumatic divorce disorder
For the most part I am extracted from nearly all interaction with my ex. I wish there was more, I wish it was amicable. Maybe one day. For now, no. He barely makes eye contact with me when he drops the kids at my house. In fact, he usually walks away before I catch a glimpse. I don't think it's anger. I think it's still all just too hard. Or maybe he just doesn't care at all, feels no connection, no affection. But what do I know. Maybe he hates me. It's certainly possible. And even understandable. After years of unhappiness (mine, his, ours), endless vicious fighting, loneliness and tears (mine), I left. I had become so miserable and depressed in the last years of our marriage that I literally became someone else. I didn't know myself anymore. I was untethered, unhinged. I went to work and slowly, throughout the day, became a little bit more me. And then, on the ride home, in just 20 minutes, I retreated to this tentative, unsure, terrified person that was wholly unfamiliar. It made me so off-balance to not know myself in the place where I should have felt most me - my home.
I walked into the house and did what felt like groveling for any kindness from him. I talked around my thoughts, withheld feelings, stories of my day (talking about work too much was being self-obsessed or trying to make him feel bad about not working). I became a quiet angry introvert glued to the blackberry, no conversation possible in the room. I walked on eggshells to avoid threats and epithets. But I desperately wanted something anything a touch a smile a hug though I granted none myself at least not at the end. Still, I was hoping, dying for a hint of affection or gratitude. Or genuine wonder. Isn't that how spouses sometimes feel? They look at each other with wonder and go: how did I get this lucky? How did this person fall for me? I held him in such high esteem (and still admire him despite myself). And then I gave up. And sought (and found) kindness from another. They were virtual kindnesses across the world wide web but they were my lifeline. Any generosity - even of the email variety - felt like love.
I've felt guilty for a long time. But I've reconciled it. Sad people do desperate things. We become people we are not proud of. It is important to be happy for this reason alone.
I still mourn the loss of what I thought we were. Who I thought my husband was and would become. And who I still believe he may be. I dodge and weave trying to find 'the right way' to behave with him. His morality, intelligence and staunch ethics hold me in their sway. Even when there is sometimes hypocrisy woven throughout. And I'm afraid of him. It is so odd. I'm not afraid of anybody. CEO's, Board Chairmen, news anchors, reporters, rooms of 400 people that I have to stand up and speak to. Don't care. But him...he scares me. I'm left flat-footed never knowing what to say or how to say it. How to get the right response.
For all of these reasons, I'd put off telling him that I'd found a therapist for our youngest son, who is having panic attacks. He has been having them off and on for about 2 years. A terrible thing, to watch a 6 year old cry and rock and scream at the top of his lungs "I don't want to die mom!" Yeah that is no fun. It's like my heart is beating red and raw on the outside of my chest and it is all I can do not to descend into a puddle of tears with him. But I hold it together and calm him down and rock him softly til his breathing slows.
A therapist seems like a normal response to this, to me. But I knew that the ex wouldn't be supportive as he wasn't when we were together. He's not a fan of therapy or therapists, as many aren't. I myself am a believer. I look forward to what is now generally only a once a month session as "my time". Watching the attacks got too scary and painful and I thought: I'm going to take care of my kid. He doesn't need to suffer this way (apparently anxiety attacks in children are treatable 9 times out of 10, in a relatively short period of time). Perhaps it's me that is causing them. I need to find out what is going through his little mind so I can be of help. So I found a lovely woman who specializes in kids and anxiety. I was so afraid to tell the ex that I put it off. I convinced myself it would be fine. I'd shoot him a note and he'd say ok let me know how it goes. But it wasn't. I told him and he said no, not a good idea. Lets not. This will need to be discussed before I grant my agreement (not those words exactly, but that was the gist). I need to talk to her to determine if this is right. (I imagine this all in a stern angry voice, which may or may not be how it was written, who knows anymore). Like it's his choice and his alone. And it was. He said no. I said ok.
And here we are. I'm back on the eggshells. I'm divorced and still beholden. Still in his sway somehow. I need to find a way beyond this. I will. I am better. So much better. But not there yet.
I walked into the house and did what felt like groveling for any kindness from him. I talked around my thoughts, withheld feelings, stories of my day (talking about work too much was being self-obsessed or trying to make him feel bad about not working). I became a quiet angry introvert glued to the blackberry, no conversation possible in the room. I walked on eggshells to avoid threats and epithets. But I desperately wanted something anything a touch a smile a hug though I granted none myself at least not at the end. Still, I was hoping, dying for a hint of affection or gratitude. Or genuine wonder. Isn't that how spouses sometimes feel? They look at each other with wonder and go: how did I get this lucky? How did this person fall for me? I held him in such high esteem (and still admire him despite myself). And then I gave up. And sought (and found) kindness from another. They were virtual kindnesses across the world wide web but they were my lifeline. Any generosity - even of the email variety - felt like love.
I've felt guilty for a long time. But I've reconciled it. Sad people do desperate things. We become people we are not proud of. It is important to be happy for this reason alone.
I still mourn the loss of what I thought we were. Who I thought my husband was and would become. And who I still believe he may be. I dodge and weave trying to find 'the right way' to behave with him. His morality, intelligence and staunch ethics hold me in their sway. Even when there is sometimes hypocrisy woven throughout. And I'm afraid of him. It is so odd. I'm not afraid of anybody. CEO's, Board Chairmen, news anchors, reporters, rooms of 400 people that I have to stand up and speak to. Don't care. But him...he scares me. I'm left flat-footed never knowing what to say or how to say it. How to get the right response.
For all of these reasons, I'd put off telling him that I'd found a therapist for our youngest son, who is having panic attacks. He has been having them off and on for about 2 years. A terrible thing, to watch a 6 year old cry and rock and scream at the top of his lungs "I don't want to die mom!" Yeah that is no fun. It's like my heart is beating red and raw on the outside of my chest and it is all I can do not to descend into a puddle of tears with him. But I hold it together and calm him down and rock him softly til his breathing slows.
A therapist seems like a normal response to this, to me. But I knew that the ex wouldn't be supportive as he wasn't when we were together. He's not a fan of therapy or therapists, as many aren't. I myself am a believer. I look forward to what is now generally only a once a month session as "my time". Watching the attacks got too scary and painful and I thought: I'm going to take care of my kid. He doesn't need to suffer this way (apparently anxiety attacks in children are treatable 9 times out of 10, in a relatively short period of time). Perhaps it's me that is causing them. I need to find out what is going through his little mind so I can be of help. So I found a lovely woman who specializes in kids and anxiety. I was so afraid to tell the ex that I put it off. I convinced myself it would be fine. I'd shoot him a note and he'd say ok let me know how it goes. But it wasn't. I told him and he said no, not a good idea. Lets not. This will need to be discussed before I grant my agreement (not those words exactly, but that was the gist). I need to talk to her to determine if this is right. (I imagine this all in a stern angry voice, which may or may not be how it was written, who knows anymore). Like it's his choice and his alone. And it was. He said no. I said ok.
And here we are. I'm back on the eggshells. I'm divorced and still beholden. Still in his sway somehow. I need to find a way beyond this. I will. I am better. So much better. But not there yet.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Portlandia - my new obsession
This weird little show - Portlandia - is my latest TV obsession. They mock the hipster like no other. What's not to love. I love a kind mock. And while I love the hipsters I recognize their sometimes unbearable foibles and self-congratulatory/egomaniacal superior-ism.
I was part of a hipster crowd back in the day. Early '90s San Francisco was riddled with the fuckers. It was before the dot com boom made San Francisco impossible to afford for anyone but hedge fund managers and tech dudes from Google/Facebook/name the latest internet behemoth. San Francisco was populated with artists, musicians, non-profiteers and young people who liked to go to a lot of Raves. I made about $900/month at my entry level advertising agency job and was fine. I shared an apartment with other hipster girls (remember Manic Panic hair dye? That was our favorite Saturday night activity pre-Rave) and we had plenty of money for used hipster clothing at the Wasteland and keg beer for parties. I somehow think that would be impossible in today's San Francisco where the young cash challenged hipster has been overrun by what would have been called the Yuppie back in the 90s. Which I guess I qualify as now. From hipster to Yuppie. What a long strange trip it's been. I don't think they're called Yuppies anymore. What do we call them now? David Brooks would call them Bobos as in bourgeois bohemians.
Back to the show. The hipster still thrives in Portland, apparently, where the cost of living has remained reasonable. The show mocks every variety - the overly bearded suspender wearing artisanal cheese maker, the women's bookstore owner (I'm surprised they don't call the store "Womyn's Books") who thinks everything is a phallic offense, the self-satisfied savers of the world and dogs that all the while treats the people right in front of them like shit. Ahhh I love this one. The outfits are perfect here - Teva sandals, Patagonia vests and cargo pants. They should be carrying NPR tote bags. Their voices are always too loud. They have no children but want to tell everyone how to raise theirs. Oh and there are others. The agro bike messenger with a tufted chin beard and those African style ear things that stretch out the lobes, with one pant leg rolled up and one of those funny little cycling caps.
The show is pitch perfect. Fred Armisen (Saturday Night Live) and Carrie Brownstein (Sleater-Kinney band) play a host of different annoying Portland hipsters in a collection of vignettes. One of my favorites being about a "hide and seek league" that plays in the library. They have ironic tee-shirts and team names, they wear American Apparel style sweat socks and gym shorts to play this stupid made up game. Oh this could have been a thing at Stanford. An alternative activity for all the Ultimate frisbee players and hackey sackers (though the hackey sackers were more Hippie than Hipster).
The funny part is my 8 year old son loves the show. I don't know why. He can't possibly get all the references. Maybe there is enough obvious humor in it for him to get. Maybe he was born into hipster heaven (there are still some here in SF...just not as many as once upon a time) so it's in his bones to get it. Whatever it is, he likes singing the theme song - "The dream of the 90's is alive in Porland!"- and watching episodes with me repeatedly. He probably tells his friends in school about it. Kids that mostly like watching iCarly and Hannah Montana. That makes him a little weirdo which I love. It means he'll grow up to be an annoying hipster! A far better plight than a boring banker dude.
I was part of a hipster crowd back in the day. Early '90s San Francisco was riddled with the fuckers. It was before the dot com boom made San Francisco impossible to afford for anyone but hedge fund managers and tech dudes from Google/Facebook/name the latest internet behemoth. San Francisco was populated with artists, musicians, non-profiteers and young people who liked to go to a lot of Raves. I made about $900/month at my entry level advertising agency job and was fine. I shared an apartment with other hipster girls (remember Manic Panic hair dye? That was our favorite Saturday night activity pre-Rave) and we had plenty of money for used hipster clothing at the Wasteland and keg beer for parties. I somehow think that would be impossible in today's San Francisco where the young cash challenged hipster has been overrun by what would have been called the Yuppie back in the 90s. Which I guess I qualify as now. From hipster to Yuppie. What a long strange trip it's been. I don't think they're called Yuppies anymore. What do we call them now? David Brooks would call them Bobos as in bourgeois bohemians.
Back to the show. The hipster still thrives in Portland, apparently, where the cost of living has remained reasonable. The show mocks every variety - the overly bearded suspender wearing artisanal cheese maker, the women's bookstore owner (I'm surprised they don't call the store "Womyn's Books") who thinks everything is a phallic offense, the self-satisfied savers of the world and dogs that all the while treats the people right in front of them like shit. Ahhh I love this one. The outfits are perfect here - Teva sandals, Patagonia vests and cargo pants. They should be carrying NPR tote bags. Their voices are always too loud. They have no children but want to tell everyone how to raise theirs. Oh and there are others. The agro bike messenger with a tufted chin beard and those African style ear things that stretch out the lobes, with one pant leg rolled up and one of those funny little cycling caps.
The show is pitch perfect. Fred Armisen (Saturday Night Live) and Carrie Brownstein (Sleater-Kinney band) play a host of different annoying Portland hipsters in a collection of vignettes. One of my favorites being about a "hide and seek league" that plays in the library. They have ironic tee-shirts and team names, they wear American Apparel style sweat socks and gym shorts to play this stupid made up game. Oh this could have been a thing at Stanford. An alternative activity for all the Ultimate frisbee players and hackey sackers (though the hackey sackers were more Hippie than Hipster).
The funny part is my 8 year old son loves the show. I don't know why. He can't possibly get all the references. Maybe there is enough obvious humor in it for him to get. Maybe he was born into hipster heaven (there are still some here in SF...just not as many as once upon a time) so it's in his bones to get it. Whatever it is, he likes singing the theme song - "The dream of the 90's is alive in Porland!"- and watching episodes with me repeatedly. He probably tells his friends in school about it. Kids that mostly like watching iCarly and Hannah Montana. That makes him a little weirdo which I love. It means he'll grow up to be an annoying hipster! A far better plight than a boring banker dude.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Thanks Mr. Policeman
Time for another birthday. Fantastic. I love birthdays but somehow their shine is wearing thin with age. I suppose mine is as well so it's fitting.
The best birthday gift I am sure to get happened today. I was racing to get my kids. I was late. I'd had to ask a favor of the ex to pick them up at school - which I don't relish doing (asking the favor, I mean; I love picking them up at school). I was going a tad too fast through the Broadway tunnel. I wasn't even aware (are we ever aware of speeding?) that I'd been 15 miles/hour above the speed limit when I got pulled over after exiting the tunnel. Truthfully I was so oblivious I couldn't really believe the motorcycled gent was waving his arms and flashing his lights at me. Where my head was I can't really say. Perhaps pondering the passing of another year, weighing the incredulity of being WAY closer to 50 years old than I am to 30 (I can barely see 30 from here). At any rate, my brain was in a fog. A fog that prevented me from looking at my speedometer, apparently.
I can't even remember ever getting a speeding ticket. I was remarkably calm considering.
Of course there were no hysterics, no theatrics, no fuck-you's and "ahh c'mon's". I sat patiently, handed him my license and registration and apologized. He went and did his little checking this and that thing back by his vehicle. When he returned and handed me back my license, he said: "Is this really your birthday? The one on your license?" Yes of course. Why would I lie on my license? "Yes."
"It's your birthday. I can't give you a ticket," he said.
"Well, it's not yet. It's tomorrow."
"Oh right well in that case, let me write this out." He smiled. "Kidding. Slow down a bit. They're cracking down in the tunnel."
"Of course. Really sorry. Thank you so much." And I was on my way.
What a lovely act of kindness. I deserved the ticket. I was apparently going 49 miles/hour in a 35 mile/hour zone. Who knew. Not me. But he cut me some slack. Thanks officer.
The best birthday gift I am sure to get happened today. I was racing to get my kids. I was late. I'd had to ask a favor of the ex to pick them up at school - which I don't relish doing (asking the favor, I mean; I love picking them up at school). I was going a tad too fast through the Broadway tunnel. I wasn't even aware (are we ever aware of speeding?) that I'd been 15 miles/hour above the speed limit when I got pulled over after exiting the tunnel. Truthfully I was so oblivious I couldn't really believe the motorcycled gent was waving his arms and flashing his lights at me. Where my head was I can't really say. Perhaps pondering the passing of another year, weighing the incredulity of being WAY closer to 50 years old than I am to 30 (I can barely see 30 from here). At any rate, my brain was in a fog. A fog that prevented me from looking at my speedometer, apparently.
I can't even remember ever getting a speeding ticket. I was remarkably calm considering.
Of course there were no hysterics, no theatrics, no fuck-you's and "ahh c'mon's". I sat patiently, handed him my license and registration and apologized. He went and did his little checking this and that thing back by his vehicle. When he returned and handed me back my license, he said: "Is this really your birthday? The one on your license?" Yes of course. Why would I lie on my license? "Yes."
"It's your birthday. I can't give you a ticket," he said.
"Well, it's not yet. It's tomorrow."
"Oh right well in that case, let me write this out." He smiled. "Kidding. Slow down a bit. They're cracking down in the tunnel."
"Of course. Really sorry. Thank you so much." And I was on my way.
What a lovely act of kindness. I deserved the ticket. I was apparently going 49 miles/hour in a 35 mile/hour zone. Who knew. Not me. But he cut me some slack. Thanks officer.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Go Katniss!
I took my kids to their first archery lesson yesterday. I found a place in Golden Gate Park, out near the ocean, right next to a golf course. We arrived at 9 a.m. I had no idea what to expect but the kids were giddy, had been for a weeks since I'd told them I'd found a place.
There were three instructors. Various forms of nerds. Fat smoking nerd, introverted Asian guy and slightly off but super nice white guy. They exchanged nerdy boy knowledge on all manner of weaponry while we waited in the drizzle for the rest of the students to arrive. My kids were going to love this. They too are obsessed with weapons. Not in a Columbine-building-explosives-in-the-garage kind of way. In a history kind of way. They construct weapons - of the bladed variety - out of cardboard, wood, electrical tape and silver paint; these Katanas, longswords, rapiers and daggers are harmless. They rarely even play fight with them. But they do learn all about history in the process of obsessively crafting them. They can tell you which side used what kind of blade (single, double, long, short, blah blah blah) in every battle up until the point where blades weren't used in battles anymore. Nerds.
They've incorporated bows into their lexicon of weaponry of late. Not least of all because of Katniss Everdeen, the star archer of the "Hunger Games". Love Katniss. And yes I let them read these books. True they're a bit violent. But the kids want to read. So I say, have at it boys. Certainly no worse than "Lord of the Flies" which we all read as kids.
The lesson lasted 2 hours. They start by learning basic form utilizing a short circle of red surgical tubing. They place their feet at a slight angle, pull the tubing taught towards the ground, raise it up to aim, release. They are taught to aim low because we automatically aim high (our eyes being above the target or some such thing... I missed some, didn't want to hover). After about 20 minutes of tubing shot into the bushes they graduate to real bows and arrows, aiming at a not too distant target.
They were wobbly at first. But they got the hang of it pretty quickly, hitting the target (not the bullseye) most every time. There were about 20 people there all together. Mostly adults, only four children including my two. Everyone shoots their 10 or so arrows, the targets at varying distances depending on the skill of the archer. Then a whistle is blown twice by the lead instructor and the archers collect their arrows. They return them to their designated orange cones, the whistle is blown again, indicating that it is time to resume your place behind the line and begin shooting again. It also means, don't wander around out by the targets anymore or you'll get hit. Time to shoot.
They shot (is it even called that?) for about 90 minutes. They would have kept going. I was amazed by their focused diligence. Each listened to the instructor provide helpful tips, each hit the bullseye a few times. Neither got frustrated. Wyatt didn't cry if Virgil did a bit better. He stayed in his own world, trying only to do a bit better each time than he did the one before. Given that he is prone to frustration if he isn't perfect and especially prone to frustration when he perceives his brother to be better at anything, I found this to be a small triumph.
We'll be going back.
There were three instructors. Various forms of nerds. Fat smoking nerd, introverted Asian guy and slightly off but super nice white guy. They exchanged nerdy boy knowledge on all manner of weaponry while we waited in the drizzle for the rest of the students to arrive. My kids were going to love this. They too are obsessed with weapons. Not in a Columbine-building-explosives-in-the-garage kind of way. In a history kind of way. They construct weapons - of the bladed variety - out of cardboard, wood, electrical tape and silver paint; these Katanas, longswords, rapiers and daggers are harmless. They rarely even play fight with them. But they do learn all about history in the process of obsessively crafting them. They can tell you which side used what kind of blade (single, double, long, short, blah blah blah) in every battle up until the point where blades weren't used in battles anymore. Nerds.
They've incorporated bows into their lexicon of weaponry of late. Not least of all because of Katniss Everdeen, the star archer of the "Hunger Games". Love Katniss. And yes I let them read these books. True they're a bit violent. But the kids want to read. So I say, have at it boys. Certainly no worse than "Lord of the Flies" which we all read as kids.
The lesson lasted 2 hours. They start by learning basic form utilizing a short circle of red surgical tubing. They place their feet at a slight angle, pull the tubing taught towards the ground, raise it up to aim, release. They are taught to aim low because we automatically aim high (our eyes being above the target or some such thing... I missed some, didn't want to hover). After about 20 minutes of tubing shot into the bushes they graduate to real bows and arrows, aiming at a not too distant target.
They were wobbly at first. But they got the hang of it pretty quickly, hitting the target (not the bullseye) most every time. There were about 20 people there all together. Mostly adults, only four children including my two. Everyone shoots their 10 or so arrows, the targets at varying distances depending on the skill of the archer. Then a whistle is blown twice by the lead instructor and the archers collect their arrows. They return them to their designated orange cones, the whistle is blown again, indicating that it is time to resume your place behind the line and begin shooting again. It also means, don't wander around out by the targets anymore or you'll get hit. Time to shoot.
They shot (is it even called that?) for about 90 minutes. They would have kept going. I was amazed by their focused diligence. Each listened to the instructor provide helpful tips, each hit the bullseye a few times. Neither got frustrated. Wyatt didn't cry if Virgil did a bit better. He stayed in his own world, trying only to do a bit better each time than he did the one before. Given that he is prone to frustration if he isn't perfect and especially prone to frustration when he perceives his brother to be better at anything, I found this to be a small triumph.
We'll be going back.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
My new favorite item of clothing
I just got this new hoodie from a new company called American Giant. I love hoodies. There is no better item of clothing. If I could wear a hoodie and jeans every single day I would. Well, I'd probably want to mix in a dress every now and then with a cute pair of patent leather red Ferragamo wedges just to feel cute. But my go to outfit is jeans and a hoodie. Much to my ex's chagrin. (We had a huge fight the day before our wedding - harbinger of doom? - because he hid my favorite gray hoodie; he was sick of looking at me in it. Understandable. Not exactly sexy.)
I digress. I got this new hoodie. Black. A men's small. I'm not a fan of the girly too small shrunken hoodies ala Juicy Couture. Yuck. Defeats the purpose of a comfy hoodie! So I have this new small men's black hoodie from American Giant. It is so old school in that awesome Champion/Russell standard issue college athletic department sweatshirt kind of way. I miss those. The ones you buy now at Gap or Old Navy or even Abercrombie (expensive!) are so disappointing. I love it when the fabric is heavy, gets a little stiff with washing while remaining soft on the inside, big cuffs, sturdy zippers. Like the one I used to have from the Stanford Athletic Department. Love those.
These are those. Awesome. They aren't cheap. They are American Made. And they'd cost more if they sold in department stores - mark up and all that. But because they only sell on-line ... well they aren't AS expensive as they could be given the quality.
I officially have my new favorite item of clothing. Nostalgia in a warm comfy perfect little sweatshirt. Yay.
I digress. I got this new hoodie. Black. A men's small. I'm not a fan of the girly too small shrunken hoodies ala Juicy Couture. Yuck. Defeats the purpose of a comfy hoodie! So I have this new small men's black hoodie from American Giant. It is so old school in that awesome Champion/Russell standard issue college athletic department sweatshirt kind of way. I miss those. The ones you buy now at Gap or Old Navy or even Abercrombie (expensive!) are so disappointing. I love it when the fabric is heavy, gets a little stiff with washing while remaining soft on the inside, big cuffs, sturdy zippers. Like the one I used to have from the Stanford Athletic Department. Love those.
These are those. Awesome. They aren't cheap. They are American Made. And they'd cost more if they sold in department stores - mark up and all that. But because they only sell on-line ... well they aren't AS expensive as they could be given the quality.
I officially have my new favorite item of clothing. Nostalgia in a warm comfy perfect little sweatshirt. Yay.
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