Still avoiding my dissertation…

ow operating dissertation-avoidance through some kid-centric products on my Etsy site. If you have a little one, whether a little boy or a little girl, I promise you I will have WAY TOO MUCH FUN procrastinating on my dissertation and customizing a journal or paper pack for your little peanut. A lot of the pics on my site focus on princesses because I just got a custom order for a friend’s daughter, but I have a large variety of themed papers and stickers (cars, sports, animals, Sesame Street, Harry Potter, etc.) just waiting to find a new home in a journal or paper pack.

I even have a new Go Green! journal for kids, which offers fun, creative ways to teach and encourage environmentalism and an appreciation of nature in your little one.

Some pics of my “For Kids” section, featuring a balanced mix of vintage and modern papers and lots of fun stickers and other prizes that I like to hide in the envelopes I include:

Unintentionally creepy pumpkins.

ach year around the first week of October, the local grocery stores start stocking up on their pumpkin inventory. I’m sure I’m not relaying any top-secret information here. I’m sure it happens near you, too. There are some choice, stellarly globular pumpkins to choose from with perfectly positioned “handle” stems, and I’m generally pretty impressed by the selection. Until I cock my head about 45 degrees and notice the Good Pumpkins’ bastard step-children (no offense) on the neighboring crate. And they scare the living SH*T out of me. And not in the appropriately ghoulish Halloweeny way, either.

I’m not sure who paints these pumpkins, but I’m pretty d@mn sure they should be served a restraining order from the entire child population. Hugely bulbous eyes, buck teeth ready to chomp, often some oddly colored tennis-ball-sized noses and freakishly shapened eyebrows… Pumpkins are meant to be carved, not to be painted. I mean… trick-or-treating occurs at night. It’s generally dark at night. Ergo, no one will see your freakshow pumpkin anyway (thank dog). But during the day… why should you induce nightmares in such a way?? It’s highly inconsiderate and cruel.

That being said, there are some acceptable ways to paint pumpkins. Most of them require a significant amount of artistic talent, un/fortunately, which just goes back to the fact that: pumpkins are meant to be carved, not to be painted.

Here’s why…

Cool painted pumpkins:

Source: http://bit.ly/ATNSY

Nightmare-inducing painted pumpkins:

Source: http://bit.ly/3cbc91

Cool Nightmare Before Christmas-inspired painted pumpkin:

Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rivernaiad/2993504572/

Creepily smiling pumpkin that has no business being near our neighborhood children:

Source: http://bit.ly/zmvbx

Awesomely crafted and painted (to an insanely perfect degree) Yo Gabba Gabba pumpkins:

Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pairadocs/2985953954/

Terrifying pumpkins that I can only assume are alcoholics due to their bulbous noses:

Source: http://bit.ly/LjCcZ

Overheard while grading papers in… Panera Bread #1058

 

 

reetings from Panera Bread store #1058!

OK, I just totally made up that store #. I guess I feel like the inclusion of a store # somehow grants my “Overheard” stories more legitimacy or something. Also, the mention of a store # propels me DeLorean-flux-capacitor-style back to the summer I spent living off of cereal and entering data from mystery shopper visits for roughly 2 pennies an hour (give or take), courtesy of Temp Agency Craptacular (TAC), Ohio. Actually, I still pretty much live off of cereal. It’s become a kind of religion, really. But, for all I know, my devotion to all things frosted and mini and wheaty just may have begun that great Mystery Shopper Summer of 2001. How can we possibly know the origin of such things? I mean, no matter how big things bang — whether from the heavens or from Stephen freakin’ Hawking — they’re still just educated guesses, right? 

But I digress. I have some serious eavesdropping to tell you about, for crying out loud!

So yeah, I’ve spent the past 4 hours here in the local Panera (#1058) establishment, perched at a 2-person table with my laptop, poring over student essays that take a ridiculous (and what should be totally illegal) amount of time to comment upon and grade. Because of the mind-numbing nature of the activity, occasional pauses prove crucial so as not to lapse into severe catatonic state (semi-severe catatonic state, on the other hand, is entirely acceptable, and even sometimes fun). My “occasional pauses” generally involve Mountain Dew refills and trips to grab more napkins, which will inadequately serve as makeshift Kleenex because, for some reason, my body temperature prefers to remain in the subarctic range and my blood likes to stage frequent coups against flowing freely. It happens. Blood can be a real b*tch sometimes. Anyway, my occasional pauses have also granted me admission to several entertaining conversations taking place within earshot. And, (un)fortunately for me — and, now, for you! — “within earshot” equates to about 8 different tables. SCORE!

Within 4 hours’ time, though, the rotation taking place among those 8 tables ultimately equals some crazy-@ss permutation of patrons and conversation topics that range from sexually inquisitive fifth-graders to an abnormally loud sexagenarian conversing with herself (and, unbeknownst to her, the entire patron population of store #1058) about the mysterious identity of another Panera patron at a neighboring table. Yeah… not at all awkward. Stomach ache.

Oh, sometimes I just say “stomach ache” in reference to embarrassing, awkward situations that cause me to have sympathy pains for whomever I am embarrassed for. Whoa. Did I seriously just write “for whomever I am embarrassed for”??? ISSUES.

Anyway. I had a total stomach ache for that sexagenarian. And for the mystery dude she was rambling about for a solid 15 minutes, who patiently sat with his family and pretended not to pay attention to the fact that an elderly woman was verbally stalking him from 2 feet away:

“Did I run into him at the library? Or maybe he works at the hospital. Or it’s possible he was in line with me at the post office. Or maybe we had a hot ‘n steamy love affair in a past life, but he was a really awful tipper.”

OK, I made up that last one. But hey, a reincarnation-prostitution link seems equally as likely as the other options, don’t you think?

Then, for about 35 of my 240 Panera minutes, I had the pleasure of deciphering the political viewpoints of a trio of Frenchies seated to my right. I love eavesdropping on francophones in America… mostly because I know how I acted as an anglophone in France, and how sometimes — just sometimes — I wrongly assumed that no one around me could understand English, so I’d naively divulge some utterly embarrassing and/or personal piece of information. Or, worse, I’d make some sarcastic, smart-@ss comment about a certain odor being emitted from the dude violating pressed up against me in the metro. And then he’d turn to me and be like, “F*ck you,” in English. And then I’d be all, “Oh sh*t — no, no — I didn’t mean YOU, I meant–,” but he was already gone. Stomach ache. Anyway, so I like the She-Raesque power that I possess as a bilingual eavesdropper, ready to lay the smack-down on anyone who so much as HINTS at a negative comment toward me or anyone around me. Though, the truth of the matter is that I’m a non-confrontational wuss that would NEVER have even a paltry fraction of the balls the metro dude had when he called me out and made me feel like A. And I mean metaphorical balls, just to clarify. I don’t have literal ball envy, just to clarify. Where was I?

Yeah, so this French trio was heatedly discussing Obama and “le bonheur” (happiness) and closed-minded pricks and all that good stuff. At certain points of the conversation, I had the distinct impression that Française 1 (the lead Frenchwoman of the threesome, which consisted of one dude, two women) felt that le bonheur and Obama supporters are mutually exclusive. I could be wrong. Regardless, I despise talk of le bonheur as the ultimate end to justify the means. Or just as the ultimate end in general. The pursuit of happiness and all that kind of stuff. I mean, what does that even MEAN? “The pursuit of happiness.” Pff. As if some box-’o-happiness sits there, mocking us humans at some super top-secret, undisclosed locale, and we each have “Amazing Race”-style clues that may help or hinder us in our trek. Whatever. Also, what if I’m in the pursuit of UNhappiness, huh? because it definitely seems that way more often than not. So what does THAT mean? that I’m not exercising one of my inalienable rights? or that I’m just an alien? On second thought, don’t answer that.

Maybe I should have saved this for Tuesday’s “Random Thoughts” post. Cr@p. Oh well.

OK, one more overheard conversation. And I promise you: this one’s a doozy. So, toward the end of my 240 Panera minutes, 2 adorable little fifth-graders tumbled into the booth in front of me. I know that they were fifth-graders because they couldn’t help themselves from inserting “fifth grade” into just about every other sentence/question. Proof:

1. “Are you gonna go to our fifth-grade dance?”

2. “How will you wear your hair?”

3. “What fifth-grade boys are you going to dance with?”

But that’s not the “doozy” part. Here’s the “doozy” part: suddenly, Girl A launched into an enthusiastic description of a heated, verbal fight that had occurred among four of their fifth-grade friends the other weekend. Girl A couldn’t seem to contain herself with the back-and-forth, hilarious zingers that her friends pelted one another with. Girls A and B then proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh (and so did I, albeit nonverbally). Once the laughs abated, Girl B understandably entered Skeptic Land and demanded the authenticity of this information. Truth be told, I was wondering the exact same thing — Girl A seemed oddly omniscient and an unsettlingly skilled storyteller/fabricator from my vantage point. But Girl A was quick to state that their friend Maggie was the all-knowing source of all this priceless information: as it turns out, Maggie was at the scene of the fight-crime with her girlfriend Abby, “because Maggie’s a bisexual,” she nonchalantly added, as though bisexual fifth-graders are just as common as gossipy fifth-graders. By the time I had digested this fascinating piece of information (Maggie and Abby — who knew?!), Girls A and B had already begun dissecting the outcome of the fight and who was still friends with whom among the four fifth-grade hellions. 

AWESOME.

I love Love LOVE that fifth-graders find bisexuality as common as gossip. Isn’t that one of the best “doozies” you’ve heard of in a very long time?!? You’re welcome.

I am so thankful for generationally increasing acceptance and openmindedness.

Hey, everyday is Thanksgiving, right?

Blue and Pink and Gender-Specific Baby Clothing

irst, I just wanted to say that my poggy silence for the past several days directly represents both my internalized and my externalized celebration of our new President-Elect (which, by the way, YAY!), but the silence has also resulted from the preparations being made for my sister’s upcoming baby shower, which is now less than a week away. But who’s counting. 

Although I have quite a few friends with babies, I have never attended a baby shower, nor have I spent much time in the “Infant” department of retail stores. And I’ve certainly never patronized an all-baby-all-the-time store such as Babies ‘R Us. Now, I’m well aware of the gender-specific binaries that run rampant throughout Western culture, for their flame has had centuries of fueling. Girl = pink, Boy = blue, blah blah blah. 

(*Sidenote: There’s a fabulous French movie called Ma vie en rose (1997), which craftily employs the pink/blue binary through set design and clothing in order to illustrate various characters’ evolving relationships with this type of dualistic thinking as they relate –or DON’T relate– to the main character, who is a little girl born in a little boy’s body. Umm…was that just a major run-on? Yeah, I’m a writing instructor. Sheesh.)

Media packaging of the pink/blue binary through television and advertising is one thing; however, the attempted reenforcement of this binary by parents proves doubly alarming for me. Example: When I was nine or ten years-old, all I wanted for my birthday was a 10-speed bicycle. But not just any 10-speed bicycle: I desperately wanted a RED 10-speed bicycle. And my mother knew this. So, once it came time for my birthday party and my presents were to be festively filtered into our living room, I was pretty much dancing in my pants, aching with anticipation for the big red reveal. Finally, my mom wheeled in my new 10-speed………..gasps from the audience……….rather than purchasing me my desired red, regal wonder, all I saw was…PINK. Pink, seemingly everywhere: from the seat to the handlebars to the wheels to the freakin’ pedals. PINK. And not just any pink, either: PEPTO-BISMOL PINK (which I suppose was somewhat fitting considering the indigestion I felt upon seeing this barftastic contraption on wheels). GAG. It was like Paris Hilton barfed a bike.

And, I mean, yes, OK, pink is a derivative of red. Fine. But… if that was my mom’s line of thinking, she was taking some major creative license there. How was I ever supposed to be taken seriously on such a thing?!? 

For whatever reason, my mom refused to exchange the Pepto-speed for the color I had actually desired. I was not particularly well-versed in expressing my distaste/disapproval of certain things when I was a child (umm…I’m still not), but I’m pretty sure that the pink Huffy inspired some pretty vehement, objectionable words. But still, my mom wouldn’t budge. And that pink Huffy became the bane of my existence, from elementary school right through junior high.

God, I’m still embarrassed for myself just thinking about it.

Anyway, my point with all this is: despite the progress that has been made with gender and sexual stereotypes for the past couple of decades, my recent trips to various retail outlets’ children’s departments (both online and not) have proven that much progress still remains. MUCH progress. I think I’ve mentioned that my sister’s having twins, right? One boy, one girl. I have been chomping at the freakin’ bit to rampage around baby clothes and pick out super cute outfits for my future niece and nephew… but when I finally got to Target, I was ready to throw a temper tantrum. Growing up, I always felt like boys had it made when it came to clothing — they always had more comfortable, versatile stuff, as far as I was concerned. And then I’d go to the girls’ section and there’d be a bunch of pastel garbage that was closer fitting to the body (and, therefore, WAY uncomfortable as far as I was concerned). It sucked. But I had just assumed that things had changed, and that my future niece would have way cooler options to stand out in a comfortable, non-frilly way alongside her brother. But instead, what I found was a bunch of pink bullsh*t, generally with some floral pattern and/or a reference to princesses. COME ON!!! Haven’t we advanced past this woe-is-me, save-me-I’m-dainty-and-helpless type of gender restriction?!? Ugh. It drives me nuts. Meanwhile, all the boy clothing has super cool animals and modern technological references… I mean, why can’t “girl clothing” have some doggies or something? Rather than cats? Since when did girls = cats and boys = dogs?!? I despise cats. I am therefore a boy.

I could go on and on forever about this, but I’ll stop. I would love to tell you the items that I ended up purchasing for my sister/the twins, but my sister might read this, so… maybe I’ll clue you in after the shower on Saturday. Because I’m sure you’ll all be white-knucklin’ it until then, dying from suspense.

Hope you’ve all enjoyed your weekend.

Wet suckers and bears (a.k.a., why kids rule)

he Great Pumpkin provides me with endless amounts of joy and wonderment. Nothing satisfies me more around Halloween than “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!” and, more specifically, Linus. Linus has always been my favorite. Not just because of his timidity and frequent scribbled-pink cheeks to show signs of blushing, but also because of his omnipresent blankie-’o-comfort. I love Linus. I feel for Linus. He is the tragic optimist. A Peanuts version of Sisyphus. And I love him. (have I mentioned that?) He also has arguably the most enlightening freakin’ quotes on that show.

Some examples of Linus’s brilliance:

~ “Never jump into a pile of leaves with a wet sucker.”

~ “I’ve learned there are three things you don’t discuss with people: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin.”

~ “You’ve heard of the fury of a woman scorned, haven’t you? Well, that’s nothing compared to the fury of a woman who has been cheated out of trick-or-treats” (to Charlie Brown)

~ “He’ll come here because I have the most sincere pumpkin patch and he respects sincerity. The Great Pumpkin always picks the most sincere pumpkin patch to rise out of. He’s just gotta pick this pumpkin patch. He’s just gotta! Look around. You can see that there’s not a sign of hypocrisy anywhere. Nothing but sincerity reaching out as far as the eye can see.”

~ “STUPID? What do you mean “stupid”? Just wait ’til next year, Charlie Brown. You’ll see! Next year at this same time, I’ll find the perfect pumpkin patch that is really sincere and I’ll sit in that pumpkin patch until the Great Pumpkin appears. He’ll rise out of that pumpkin patch and he’ll fly through the air with his bag of toys. The Great Pumpkin will appear and I’ll be waiting for him! I’ll be there! I’ll be sitting there in that pumpkin patch and I’ll see the Great Pumpkin. Just wait and see, Charlie Brown. I’ll see the Great Pumpkin.” (the screen fades out and the show ends)

Needless to say, Halloween and The Great Pumpkin (and trick-or-treating) are a couple of my top reasons for my impatience regarding my niece and nephew’s impending arrival into the world. Little costumes and candy? SIGN ME UP!

Another reason for my impatience would be the breathy, excited, and imaginative conversations that I will get to witness. While sitting and waiting for my prescription to be ready at the Walgreen’s yesterday, I overheard the following dialog between a brother and sister who were both, I’d say, around the ages of 6 or 7:

Boy: “Mom, how old is Nancy?”

Mom: “Nancy? Umm… I don’t know, maybe 70?”

Boy: “WHOA! That’s OLD! I like her… but I don’t like her THAT much. (turns to sister) Nancy is OLD. She could be DEAD by now.”

Sister: “Yeah.”

Boy: “And you know what? If a bear came in here, YOU would be dead too.”

Sister: “If a bear came in here, we BOTH would be dead.”

Boy: “And then you couldn’t marry Jacob.”

Sister: “I wouldn’t marry Jacob anyway, ’cause he’d be old and prob’ly far away.”

Boy: “Oh. Yeah. (seems to consider this thought for a few seconds, and then pipes up again…) But I don’t think so. ‘Cause you could be walking and then meet someone and he could say, ‘Hi, I’m Jacob!’ and then you could marry him! See?!”

Sister: “Yeah. But I still couldn’t marry him. How would I know it’s Jacob?”

Boy: “Yeah, umm… why do you even like Jacob so much?”

Aww… so, basically, little Brother Bear seems jealous of Sister Bear’s attentions turning toward this little Jacob lothario. I had to keep myself from busting in and interrupting with, “Umm, excuse me, why DO you like Jacob so much?!?” Enquiring minds want to know. Because how can you not feel for little Brother Bear who doesn’t really like his aunt and seems consumed by death and fear of losing his sister to some little Jacob-Sister-Stealer??? I wanted to kidnap the little boy, but I refrained. Instead, I thought of how awesome it will be to be an aunt and ACTUALLY be legitimately able to “kidnap” my future niece and nephew sometimes.

Inappropriate Baby Attire, version 2.0

ore freaky-deaky clothing that appears to be created more for certain adults’ sick sense of humor than for innocent, little baby minds that can’t even pronounce the word “gross” and voice their discontent. I mean, yes, OK, I’ll admit: a couple of the onesie designs I’m about to show you did make me chuckle a bit; however, that’s precisely the point: they’re intended for adults. Wait — did I just call myself an “adult”?! That’s a gross exaggeration in itself. But anyway, my point is that we shouldn’t use our kids as our own humoristic-verging-on-sick-and-perverted marketing ploys.

So then, allow me to introduce my second inaugural

INAPPROPRIATE BABY ATTIRE 

pog, this time courtesy of TShirtHell.com:

Now that’s just inappropriate…

 think I’ve already mentioned somewhere on here that my sister’s pregnant with twins (one boy, one girl!)… those little monkeys will be comin’ ’round the mountain in the next couple of months, and I don’t think I’m alone when I say that I CAN’T FREAKIN’ WAIT!!!!!!!!!! I‘ve always wanted to be an aunt, almost as much as I’ve always wanted to be a parent. Or maybe more, because an aunt doesn’t really need to take charge of the whole discipline thing. Or the whole buying diapers thing. But I will definitely be partaking in the whole buying cute baby/kid clothes thing! Oh, yeah. Make no mistake about it, my friends…!     (<-McCainism)

But here’s the thing: there are some scary-@ss baby fashion disasters waiting to happen out there. Now, if you’ve ever even winked at my blog, you know that I’m not exactly a conservative. That being said, a line has to be drawn somewhere when it comes to the images we are projecting onto the future of this world (*cue Whitney Houston, because the children are her future, too). I would never be able to live with myself, or take my niece & nephew out in public, if they were clothed in any of the onesies and bibs that I am about to present to you.

Without further ado, I offer you today’s
INAPPROPRIATE BABY ATTIRE
(maybe I’ll even make it a weekly thing, because trust me, there are a gazillion more where these came from):

(These lovely little gems *gag* are all courtesy of CafePress.com)

Photo Ops.

 

wasn’t going to pog anything today because, well, quite frankly, I just ain’t feelin’ it. Get this: I was up from 3:30-7:30am this morning. “Why?” you ask in your most sympathetic tone? Well, thank you for your concern, I’ll tell you: because apparently Insomnia’s one of those unfortunate (and annoying) visitors that just can’t take a hint and take a freakin’ hike. Talk about overstaying your welcome…! Come on, Insomnia, clue yourself in, for crying out loud! Sheesh. Anyway, so I’m a borderline somnambule right now.

WHOA. TIME-the-F-OUT. I’m watching the testament to journalistic brilliance that is Extra, and Dayna Devon just turned up on a red carpet with Paula Abdul, who seems to think that Sarah Palin is copying/exploiting her hairstyle. Umm, I seem to have missed the memo about “The Paula” sweeping the nation this campaign season. By now, you know I’m not exactly an SP fan, but I sincerely doubt that she’s been looking to the Abdulameister for stylistic inspiration. I mean, come on: SP’s too busy packin’ pistols, applyin’ lipstick, and awkwardly passin’ around her baby Trig for photo-ops.

Time-out over.

So sorry. Paula Abdul isn’t the reason why I decided to pog in my zombie-esque state. And SP certainly isn’t. This is:

See how those walls are covered with pages from old books (in French)??? Umm… WHY HAVEN’T I THOUGHT OF THAT?! My life is enough of a whirlwind between fiction and reality, I suppose… perhaps living within fictional walls wouldn’t be the healthiest for me? Anyway, I just came across this lovely website called Sweet Paul. In fact, Paul is so unbelievably sweet that he made me swoon over the above lovely photos. He also introduced me to my new favorite French design site, called Harmonie Intérieure. If my interiors were this harmonious, I bet I’d be able to sleep through the night.

The fact that I’m going to become an AUNT (!!!!!!) for the first time (TO TWINS!!!!!! Un garçon et une fille…) probably has something to do with my current adoration for all things childish and whimsical… But also, come on: French + adorable kids playing + letters + bright colors = perhaps my most favorite equation.

By the way, Harmonie Intérieure also offers brilliant things such as these:

Oh that I were independently wealthy. And done with my dissertation. And a guitar-strummin’ folk singer. And… ok, I better stop.

I hope you enjoy these photos/sites as much as I do. Or at least a little close to “as much as I do.”

SP for VP… baby stuff

hat re-dick Sarah Palin “babygate scandal” turned out to be… re-dick. Go figure. Some bloggers who clearly have way too much time on their hands have enjoyed fabricating a rumor in recent days that Sarah Palin’s youngest born, Trig, was actually her 17-year-old daughter Bristol’s baby, and that SP and her husband were involved in a cover-up operation to protect their name–err, daughter. Not-so-nice try, Conspiracy Theorists, but umm… not so freakin’ much.

This rumor has been cleared up in today’s issue of the Anchorage Daily News, where the Palins clarify that Trig is indeed SP’s and her husband’s child. They did reveal, however, that their daughter Bristol is… (drumroll)… currently expecting. As in: a baby. And a rushed trip to the altar with the baby’s father in the next nine months. So I guess all the gossip hounds were thrown at least one semi-juicy bone. Though I wish they weren’t. Decency doesn’t recognize party lines. I’m not so sure why/if this news matters. As expected, Obama rightly declared today that candidates’ children should be “off-limits” in this election, and he also dismissed any judgment toward the Palins, citing his own childhood with his single mother . Hopefully certain anti-SPers will respectfully follow suit and leave her family alone. As for me, I am only pogging about this because I think it’s important to dispel the horrendous “babygate” rumor mentioned above… and alluded to below (OK, this was creative, I gotta admit):

http://www.blognetnews.com/alaska/feed.php?channel=3

Reminder: The US ranks “Sucky” in academics.

anging out at the pool today (ah, the end of a slacker grad student summer), I decided to alternate between pop culture and politics. I’d read a story in my week-old issue of “Time,” and then I’d pick up my “Us Weekly” and flip through about 5 pages of “Who Wore It Better?” and the typical celebrity embarrassment sensationalized into 4 times its Actual Ridiculous Quotient (ARQ). And then back to “Time” (before I stuck my cellphone antenna in my eye. Yes, my cellphone is archaic and has an antenna. Shh!).

So anyway, toward the end of the issue, “Time” staffers threw in this story about how 1 in 7 American school boards are now debating the implementation of a 4-day school week (Tuesday through Friday; Mondays off). While I realize that children around the US are most likely screeching and flailing like 12-year-old girls at a Jonas Brothers concert at the mere thought of a limited week of secondary education hell, all that passes through my mind is: ARE YOU F*CKING SERIOUS?!?

Not Austria.

I mean…SERIOUSLY?!?! I understand that gas is expensive and buses use diesel and blah blah blah. I get it. Kids need to get to school, and that takes gas, and that takes money. I get it. I need gas and I have no money. I get it. But you know what I also get? I also get that Americans have difficulties distinguishing between Austria and Australia. Not only their spellings, but also their geographical locations (umm, one’s a continent). Oh, and also their racial diversity, as one person asked: “I was told that there isen’t black people in Austrla is there?” (this is so terrifyingly sad, but here’s where you’ll find it to be pathetically true). At the risk of falling into violent convulsions of disgust, I’m choosing to pretend that I never saw that misspelling of the oh-so-cumbersome contraction “isn’t,” and the fact that it’s incorrectly conjugated with “people.” (*convulsions beginning… MUST….STOP…)

Not Australia.

So, yes, I understand that we need to fuel our buses. But I also understand that we need to educate our children so that they might grow up and discover innovative ways to improve our (and by “our,” I mean the WORLD’S) environment and economy, so that THEIR children don’t have to deal with deciding between a bus and a child’s future.

By the way, this “Time” article also highlighted several schools that have already switched to the 4-day school week in order to avoid the need to eliminate athletics and other extracurriculars. Now, I am a fan of extracurriculars. I am. I don’t know what I would have done without theater and Key Club and Yearbook and all that good stuff in high school. I truly do believe that a lot of extracurriculars are an amazing extension (and practical application) of a student’s education. That being said, however…I’m sorry, but I’d much rather see sports and Key Club fall by the wayside than a whole freaking day of school. If a community has the kids’ best interests in mind, they would work together to establish a community-wide extracurricular (non-school-related) or intramural sports league and/or service groups and/or arts groups. I believe this could happen without school funding. After all, there are groups such as Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts that are not school funded (and which are not related — I used to work for the Girl Scout council of Greater Boston, and we ALWAYS got that question…people assuming that we were linked with the Boy Scouts… It’s Girl Scouts of America, but Boy Scouts USA. Sorry, tangent.) — with groups such as these, members pay dues and perform fundraising activities on their own, with the help of adult leader volunteers (read: NOT PAID). It’s possible.

Again, I’m not advocating the dissolution of all school sports and extracurriculars, I’m just saying that, if it’s a choice between losing a day of school and losing an after-school activity, well… I wouldn’t be too heartbroken if that activity went bye-bye.

There are, of course, pros to the 4-day school week… The “Time” article listed several of them, including increased attendance and performance on tests because of the longer class times on each of those four days (because of the loss of one school day, schools compensate by lengthening the days they ARE in school by one extra hour — ooh, don’t hurt me.). Also, the money that they’re saving on transportation and insurance costs for that extra day has been allotted to other important school needs.

But still… I can’t help but feel ill-at-ease just thinking about our schools decreasing something that we need to strengthen at all costs. Hell, if it were up to me, our children would go to school year-round, with several strategically placed breaks (of maybe 2 or 3 weeks at a time) throughout the year (winter, spring, summer).

But, umm…I’m not in charge. But if I were in charge, you can bet your sweet A that my kids would know that there are black people in Austria.
AND Australia.
Good grief.

ps) “Parade” also printed an article on this topic, which you can read here