Shakespeare Costumes

Today is begins Shakespeare Camp--this year they are performing Much Ado About Nothing. Since auditions in February, Jacob and Matthew have been memorizing lines and working on blocking. I've been sewing costumes. Every day this week, the entire cast will meet and rehearse. Then they'll have performances on Thursday and Saturday.

Here's a photo of Matthew in his Claudio attire. (His tunic is made of brown velvet, which didn't want to stretch the same way as the lining fabric. grrr.)

Here's photo of Jacob dressed as Benedick, striking a pose. (Yes, I sewed the hat and gauntlets as well as the tunic and shirt. But I made those last year.)

If you love Shakespeare or costumes, here are some links to other costumes I've made over the years. more costumes, even more costumes, and still more costumes. I've got even more costumes, but a couple of years I didn't post photos.

What I Learned From Making My Kids Write Thank You Notes

The other day I reminded my son Jacob that he needed to write some thank you notes. According to my kids, no one else they know has to do this. Perhaps this is becoming something of a lost art, but I still hand my kids pen and paper and hope for the best.

I’m not sure what my kids have learned, but here’s what I’ve discovered over the years.

1.      Writing well is not an inherited gift. Several Christmases ago, one son wrote to his grandparents, “Thanks for the assorted stuff.” I told the son, “Uh, this isn’t acceptable.” The son said, “But I’m seriously thankful, and they gave me assorted stuff.”

2.     In spite of the fact that my children have all had to write personal and business letters and envelopes in English classes, my high school graduate son asked, “So where on the envelope do you write the address you’re sending the note to?” I answered, “How are you ever going to pay your bills if you don’t know?” Then it occurred to me that he’ll pay online.

3.     When they were younger, I had to specify exactly how many sentences they had to write. Otherwise, I discovered that they could fill up a note with really large letters.

4.     Instead of using a dictionary to look up a word the child doesn’t know how to spell, he will simply use very messy handwriting to disguise the words. Apparently, if the recipient of the note can’t read the words, then he/she won’t know what’s misspelled.

5.    Over the years, my children have assured me that they’ll never make their kids write thank you notes. I’m guessing that I’ll be getting them. Though they’ll probably be emailed. Sigh.

Shakespeare Tryouts and Writing

Today Matthew and Jacob have Shakespeare tryouts. They’ve got their lines memorized, and they’ve worked through the blocking. And this afternoon, they’ll try out for the same role, Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. That should be interesting. (The director is also casting for The Tempest, so one or both may be in that play.)

I go to tryouts for moral support. But it’s so hard. I root for all the kids and my heart breaks for the ones who struggle, especially for the ones who’ve never done it before. I want to shout, “Honey, project, we can’t hear you.” And afterwards, I want to console them. I want to tell them that even if it didn’t go well, getting on stage is the first step. And if they persevere, the next year will be better because they’ll know how to project. They’ll know that in stage acting you must always face the audience. And they’ll know how to use the stage and how to gesture.

It strikes me that there are many parallels between acting and writing. While it’s true that some people are more naturally gifted than others, everyone starts as a newbie. The first story/novel you write isn’t going to be very good. In fact, it’s going to be quite bad. Just like the actor who turns his back to the audience while speaking, the writer has to learn not to chase after irrelevant sub-plots. You may love scrapbooking and describing how to cut beautiful paper, etc. But if it doesn’t impact your novel in more ways than giving your MC a hobby, you need to leave it out. And just like the actor who doesn’t know how to project until he can practice on a stage, you have to learn how to choose your words so that your voice shows through and not your thesaurus.

Recently, a blog friend got a rejection on an R&R (an agent asked her to "revise and resubmit" her manuscript). I’ve been there, so I know how much that hurts. To be so, so close to having your dreams come true, and then having your dreams trampled on. But just as the actor who gets a small role, it’s a step in the right direction. Getting a small role means you’re a step closer to getting a big role. Getting a request for an R&R means that the agent thinks you and your writing have real potential. Who knows what may happen next time? Unlike a lot of things in life, you can only get so far reading books on writing/acting, the real education comes in the doing—you must write/tryout, you must hone your skills, and above all you must never give up.

Baseball: A Squirrel's Memoir

Although spring is one of my favorite seasons of the year, there is one aspect that I hate. Baseball. I can tolerate baseball on television. I can sit next to Cal and embroider, and we have painless husband-wife bonding time. But that’s not what I hate. What I hate is organized baseball teams. Okay, it’s not that exactly. I’m really glad that Jake is playing on a high school team—good exercise, male war bonding rituals, etc. What I hate is bleacher duty. Freezing my butt off in the stands during the early spring. (How can February be considered spring? It was two degrees above freezing this morning.) I hate marinating in my own sweat and serving as mosquito bait by early summer.

I’d hoped when little league was over that we were done with sports. Little league was its own exquisite torture. Besides three boys on three teams playing at three different locations at the same time, Luke also became an umpire at age 12 when he passed the umpiring exam. And because he was big for his age 6’1” and broad and, therefore, more physically intimidating, he was the behind-the-plate umpire, who got screamed at by parents and coaches alike. (This was New England and they scream at umpires. Yeah, that was fun for me, sitting in the stands and having to keep my mouth shut.) Oops, sorry for that digression.

Now before you think that I was one of those women who was never exposed to sports, who never played, I wasn’t. I played women’s softball. I was the catcher. (I think I was assigned the position because it was the spot where I could do the least damage.) And everything was fine, until there was a play at home base. I got on the bag, crouched, and readied my glove. As the ball came towards me, I caught a glimpse of the runner. She was a freight train. I was a skinny, stupid squirrel standing on the tracks, keeping her from softball glory. But I steeled my muscles and my resolve. I would catch that ball, and she would be out. My teammates were counting on me...Freight-train girl plowed right threw me. I ate dirt. And the idea of balls, gloves, and bats as a fun pastime was forever lost.

Yeah, so baseball has started. Jacob is excited. Let the games begin. I’ll be that mom in the stands cheering the team and yelling, “Go, Jacob. Run over the catcher! You can do it.”

Spreading Immunity to the Community

December 3 is a highlighted day on my calendar. First, because it’s my son Luke’s 21^st birthday. Yay, Luke! *Throws confetti* But the third is also special because it’s the very last day of the incubation period for chicken pox. Our youngest Matthew had chicken pox a couple of weeks ago.

December 3 was so near that I stopped thinking of chicken pox as a possibility. After all, all the kids had the CP vaccine and all four had CP about 12 years ago. Then, yesterday Ariel showed me her arm. And I saw the spots. Then, she showed me her stomach and her back. And I couldn’t deny it. MORE POX. And then Jacob showed me his stomach and his back. EVEN MORE POX.

When I announced the scourge, Luke fogged the house with Lysol (he’s now the only one of the kids who’s still CP-free). Matthew is concerned that he’s going to get shingles, I’ve explained that having had CP two weeks ago probably would protect him from shingles, but he still carries the bottle of Lysol and sprays every surface that comes into contact with Jacob or Ariel. The scent of Lysol is so strong in the house that I can taste it. Ugh.

What makes this even worse is that both Jacob and Ariel have finals next week. Jake went to class today—he had an assignment due. Ariel emailed her prof and mentioned the CP. I was sure the prof would say, “Don’t come to class.” But her prof emailed back, “I hope you feel better soon. I’ll see you tomorrow at class for the exam.” Um, hello? Can you say contagious disease? I’m sure Ariel’s fellow students were not pleased to see her spotted face. Personally, I belong to the quarantine school of CP containment. But I have a pediatrician whose motto was “You’re just spreading immunity to the community.” Yeah, us and Typhoid Mary.

Zombie Pandemic

I don’t get the whole zombie fascination. What is it about bloody semi-dead humans? I mean they’re not really scary—they seem incapable of rational thought. So even if there was a zombie apocalypse, it doesn’t seem like it would be too hard to defeat them. Of course, the whole undead-so-you-can’t-kill-them thing does make it a bit hard. But it seems to me that it wouldn’t be too hard to round them up a la the Pied Piper routine and take them out. I’m guessing that zombies are susceptible to RPGs. Once they are separated from their entrails, I’m guessing they’re a done deal. (That might be too gory, but I’ve got boys in the house so entrails are a hot topic.)

Jake and Matt are fascinated by zombies. Jake has made a zombie game, which is actually pretty fun since it’s a competitive/cooperative game and the only way you can survive the zombie onslaught is to work together. Matt draws murals on our big white board of the zombie apocalypse. Just when I thought my boys were getting too obsessed, the CDC (Centers for Disease Control) put out a Preparedness 101 novella, Zombie Pandemic. Yep, find out how you too can survive the Zombie Pandemic. Click here. The art is pretty impressive. 

Waiting

My son Jacob had a Calculus 2 exam the other day. So he spent the weekend obsessively checking the university website, where grades are posted. (This really beats the old days when professors posted grades on their office doors and you had to trek down to their office to get your grade.) Though I know what it’s like to wait at the computer. Any writer who’s trying to get a book published knows what it’s like to hit the refresh button on their email.

I’m waiting to hear back on a full of my literary novel (I call it “the platypus” though it has nothing to do with animals), which is with one of my dream agents right now. She’s read a partial already so she knows the voice and writing style. Now I wait. And try not to think about the book. And ignore the nervous pitch in my stomach when I check my email. For those of you who haven’t had the writing experience, the next step is either an emailed rejection, an email asking for revisions, an email wanting to schedule a phone conversation, or a phone call out of the blue to talk about representation.

In the meantime, I enjoy my kids, clean my house, and write some more. I’m 4/5s of the way done with a sequel to the YA novel I’ve written. (Yes, I write more than one genre.) And I have an idea for another literary novel, which I can’t wait to get to.

Anyone else out there waiting? 

May Cause Death

Okay, I have a question. Why on earth do pharmaceutical companies advertise their prescription meds to normal/non-medical people? I mean “hello,” it’s not as if I can go to the store and buy them. What do they want from me? Am I supposed to go to the doctor and whine, “I want the new uber-high-potency-give-me-perfect-health medicine”? Isn’t the reason I pay my doctor big bucks because he/she is supposed to know what medication is correct for whatever’s wrong with me?

I suspect the pharmaceutical company wants me to whine at my doctor. Instead of the generic meds, which are cheap, they need to sell their new, weird variation, which doesn’t have a generic, so they want me to want it. But I don’t care. In fact, the ads irritate me. After all, who’s paying for those ads? The consumer!!

And doctors have no idea what the new meds cost (BTW, not all pharmacies charge the same price for the same medicine) or which insurance company covers which drug. When Jake’s doctor prescribed a medication, the cost was $250. Chad, our favorite pharmacist tech, said, “Uh, just so you know, you could get over the counter med A for $6 and prescription med B, which is $8, and if you take them together, they do the same thing at the same strength as the $250 medication.”I called Jake’s doctor, and she gave us a prescription for med B. She also apologized—she had no idea that the medicine she first prescribed was so ridiculously expensive. $250 instead of $14. No wonder health care costs are ludicrous.

And here’s another thing; when they advertise their drug, they’re required to list the side effects. But listing the side effects does NOT make me want to buy the new-uber-high-potency-give-me-perfect-health drug. I mean, thirst and sore-throat are one thing. But what about loss of sensation, heart attack, mood swings, weight gain, appendages falling off, and possession by the prince of darkness. Okay, I made up the last two. But death is usually listed as one of the side effects. Hmm. Doesn’t make me eager to try the new u-h-p-g-m-p-h drug. Let alone whine for it at the doctor’s office. Kind of counter-productive. But then, advertising has never been about logic.

N.B. My novel Screwing Up Time, is being featured this week on Ken Hoss's blog. Click here to visit Ken's "Indie Authors in the Spotlight" page.

Updating the System

Jacob is a senior in high school this year. And he’s going to take a dual enrollment Calculus 2 class. Originally, he was going to take it at the community college where he took Calc 1. However, in an effort to save money, the community college decided to cut one hour per week from the class. (Yes, per week, and the prof still had to cover the same amount of material—can you say impossible?) Then, to cut down on paperwork, they made the homework and tests “on-line.” In other words, the computer grades everything. Problem. A computer can’t read your work. They overcame that hurdle by making the homework multiple choice. Yes, Calc 2 homework is multiple choice. I won’t even go into what they did for the tests.

Obviously, the community college was out. So we enrolled Jacob in the University dual enrollment program. After I heard the cost and picked myself up off the ground, I said, “Okay.” We don’t want him waiting another year before taking the class. Then came enrollment.

I expected the community college to be horrid at enrollment. (This is a college that forgot to send all the nursing students grades to the nursing board, so they could take their board exams. Oops.) I expected the university to know what they were doing. I was wrong.

Apparently, they don’t know quite how to do dual enrollment. We filled out all the paperwork, and they processed it. Jake tried to sign up for a class. He wasn’t a student. I called dual enrollment. They called the “tech people.” The tech people said it would show up in 24-48 hours. It didn’t. I called dual enrollment. They called the tech people. The tech people promised they’d fix it when they “updated the system that night.” I know that excuse. When I worked at Harcourt, that is what the tech people always said, and then it wasn’t fixed. I think “we’ll update the system tonight” is geek speak for “I’m tired and I’m grabbing a beer on the way home, so bother me tomorrow.” Eventually, when there were only two spaces left, the problem got fixed. Sadly, Jake didn’t get the prof or time he wanted, but he did get the class. And we thought that everything was hunkey-dory. Until we tried to pay for the class.

Jake’s bill was $3491. For one class. The rounds of phone calls began again. It turned out that the computer people mis-coded Jake. And, of course, it would take a computer system update to fix. (Maybe some day, someone can explain why this is necessary.) Just when I thought it was all over, the dual enrollment advisor told me, “Um, just so you know, it’s not my fault, it’s the State’s fault, but the class is now $200 more. I’m really sorry. It’s not my fault.”

Lovely. I wonder what else is waiting around the corner.

Game Crazies

Matt’s still sick. And everyone’s getting tired of it. Especially Matt. He’s decided he has Black Death. He’s been known to break out in singing “Ring Around the Rosies,” which Wikipedia says is not about the plague. But I’m not sure how else you’d explain the nursery rhyme.

However, since Matt has gastrointestinal issues and not an upper respiratory infection, the plague is doubtful. But he points to his rash (which my doctor friends call “viral exanthem”—cool word) as confirmation of his self-diagnosis. He’s been known to moan, “My rash is getting black rings.” Thankfully, he’s too tired to go get a sharpie and start circling them.

Because the rashes are itchy and we’ve tried everything else, I gave him oral Benadryl. I really, really should have known better. Matt doesn’t process medications that same way most people do. He became very hyper. There’s nothing like a hyper 14-year-old who says, “I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.” Thankfully, Jacob came to the rescue. He got out characters from our games “Aunt Millie’s Millions” (a game where you fight over a deceased woman’s possession—it’s actually very funny because you make up wild stories in order to get the asset and the rest of the players vote on whether your story is good enough) and "Guillotine" (seriously, it’s a game about collecting heads). Okay, I need to insert a caveat here. Those games make us sound like psychopathic crazies. We’re not. At least, not all of us are.

Back to Jacob, he took these characters and made up this long interactive story/game involving all the games’ characters. Jacob has made up a lot of games over the years. My favorite one was "Zombies." It's a competitive/ cooperative game where you’re locked in a house and attacked by zombies, and in typical teenage boy fashion you can slow down the zombies by giving them raw meat, or you can kill them with explosives or flame throwers.

Hmm. Maybe we are a bit demented, but in a good way. I can’t wait to play the new game he’s working on—I see cards lying around the house, but he won’t tell me what the game’s about. Apparently, everyone he knows reads my blog, and he knows I’ll blog about the game. Smart boy.

Jaws

I finally saw Jaws. I didn’t intend to see Jaws. In fact, I had no desire to see Jaws, ever. But the boys were interested. And they have an ace up their sleeve—grandparents. The boys and my dad made some kind of deal, and my dad ordered it from Netflix.

When I heard the plan, Cal assured me that it wasn’t about bimbos-in-bikinis-being-bitten. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist the alliteration.) So we watched it last night after my dad and Cal’s birthday party. I’m not sure what my 92 year old grandmother thought of the shark flick, but she probably fell asleep during the movie.

Of course, the shark left something to be desired for people jaded by amazing CGI. But back in the day, I’m sure viewers screamed instead of thinking, “They just need to biff that shark on his rubber nose.”

I have to say I enjoyed it, although maybe not for the reasons that director/writer/producer intended. I loved the leisure suits, the poufy hairdos, the over the top emotional outbursts of the crazed shark hunter. And who doesn’t love Richard Dreyfus’s sarcastic commentary, “I’m not going to talk to this guy ‘cause he’s getting in line to be a hot lunch.”

Speaking of Richard Dreyfus, if you haven’t seen What About Bob?, see it. I can describe it in two words: Death Therapy.

Underdogs

Robotics is over. This past Saturday, Matt and Jacob and their team went to the State FTC (First Technix Challenge) Championships. In FTC, the teams build robots to perform specific challenges with a time period.  (For those of you who know something about it, they use an NXT brain, Robot C programming language, a Samantha unit for communication, and then, of course, the body made from Tetrix, and any other allowed components.)

This was the team’s first year in FTC (though they’d been involved in robot building for a younger age group before). When we arrived at the competition, the other teams came to scope out our robot—trying to figure out if we were serious competition. People weren’t too impressed with our team’s robot—no flashing lights, no expensive parts, no cool systems. I saw the polite, condescending looks. But as Han Solo says, “Hey, she’s got it where it counts.” Our robot Hannibal (named after the general, not the serial killer) had it where it counted.

One of the benefits to being a poor team that’s actually run by the kids (instead of the parents, which we saw a lot of) is that they’re forced to be creative. KISS (keep it simple, stupid) becomes the mantra of choice. They’re forced to design a robot where each part performs at least two functions, instead of four parts that perform one. Guess which design work better when you’re in a timed competition?  Yep, Hannibal.

Our kids scoped out the other robots, especially the cool ones with all the expensive parts and flashing lights. Jacob asked the team how they ran the synchronized lights. They told him that they ran it through their main computer program. Jacob said, “Oh.” He thought, “That will make your robot so slow to respond.” 

Fast forward to the actual competition.  After twenty-four rounds of competition, our homely robot was in first place. Robotics is not a beauty pageant. Where form follows function and not vice versa, success tends to follow. Then the team learned that success frequently breeds envy. One of the judges took us aside and explained that there was a lot of jealousy and another team was trying to get our team disqualified. The judge assured us that our team and robot had done nothing wrong, but that the “sour grapes” were spreading. (We were a first year team, and people felt we hadn’t paid our dues.)

After the twenty-four rounds, the top four teams had a play off.  In our first round, we lost the ability to communicate with our Samantha unit. (We found out later that the building we were using had cellphone blockers, which hadn’t been turned off, and caused us to lose communication.) So we ended up not being able to score any points. At the end of the round, the other teams cheered loudly when we lost. But our team handled themselves well and the judges said how impressed they were by the team’s embodiment of “gracious professionalism.”  And, no, they did not allow us to re-run the play off. So, we didn’t take first place, and I don’t know yet whether we won any awards. At midnight, we left the competition before the awards were given out (which was supposed to be done four hours earlier), we had a two and one half drive home and I’m not great on the roads in the wee hours of the morning.

We may be back next year, but our sponsor, who was very pleased, wants to get enough corporate backing to move the team to the highest level.  In the meantime, life is getting back to normal. But watch out—“Hannibal ad portas.”

Go! No, Stop!

On Saturday, Cal decided to have Jacob drive on Brainerd Rd. While Cal and I both drove in big city traffic when we were growing up, the kids have only had small town traffic.  But Brainerd approximates downtown chaos.  So we told Jake that he was driving us to WalMart, located off of Brainerd. (The WalMart trip is Cal’s and my weekly date so it was a bit of an inconvenience to us. But hey, it was for Jacob’s greater good.)

At the car, Cal asked if I wanted to ride shotgun and thus be the driving instructor. I said “no” since I was on migraine meds—I thought that I’d doze in the backseat.  I dozed for about 5 seconds. Jacob pulled out of the driveway and was going forward. Then some imbecile in a massive black SUV decided he didn’t want to wait for Jacob.  He wanted to squeeze through.  Jake kept going—he had the right of way.  After I yelled, from the back seat, Jacob stopped.  Afterward, I gave him my “you-almost-gave-your-mother-heart-failure” speech. To which he responded that I was never in any real danger. Yeah, right. This was not boding well for the trip to WalMart.

We got to the end of our street. To make a right on Brainerd, you have to punch the accelerator because there’s a sharp, blind curve about 10 yards from where our street meets Brainerd. You can’t see any oncoming traffic. So if it looks clear, you punch the gas and pray.  We explained the situation to Jake.  He pulled up to the stop sign.  It was clear.  Cal said, “Go!” Jake hesitated. Cal and I yelled, “Stop!” as a car flew around the curve doing 40 mph minimum. We waited.  Cal said, “Punch it!” Jake punched it, and we didn’t get hit. Yay!

In the midst of avoiding cars weaving in and out of traffic, Jacob commented that no one was using their turn signals.  It is Cal’s firm belief that no one signals because they’re afraid that if they do, the driver they’re trying to get in front of will cut them off.  It is my firm belief that if you turn on your turn signal and make eye contact with the driver, they will let you in. Of course, if it’s a teenager in a hoodie or an old lady, you can forget that. (Yes, I know, that’s profiling. But it works for me.)

The rest of the trip to WalMart was uneventful.  The trip home was peaceful until we needed to make a left turn. Cal and I had decided that we didn’t want Jake to do the suicide left turn across Brainerd at the blind turn. (It’s my favorite way to go because it’s faster, but neither Luke or Ariel will take it because it’s “unsafe.”) Still, that meant that Jake had to make a left onto Germantown—an overburdened two lane road that feeds onto the Interstate.  Of course, the intersection was packed and the only way to get through was to make a left on the arrow, which it looked like we would miss because we were so far back.  Cal said, “Get in the suicide lane and pull through to the turning lane. Hurry, go!”  Jake pulled in. I shouted, “Stop!” An SUV ahead of us decided to do the same thing and he didn’t look over his shoulder.  Jake stomped on the brake.  The SUV driver went on his merry way none the wiser to the fact that Jake’s good reflexes saved his hide.

For the rest of the drive, Jake mumbled, “Go. No, Stop!” to himself.  After we pulled into the drive, he said, “You know, it would be easier with only one instructor. And if you guys didn’t change your minds all the time.”

It Feels Shorter

Yesterday evening we were driving to my parents’ house, and Cal turned off a different exit from the interstate and announced that he was taking a short cut.  As we took the short cut, Luke said, “You know, it’s not really a short cut because the vectors are the same.” Jacob wasn’t sure whether he agreed with Luke’s assessment and they began drawing diagrams on the van’s windows. Then, Cal said, “Yes, but there are fewer traffic lights.”  To which, Ariel said, “This is an urban economics’ issue that relates to the problem of distance versus time.” Then she said that traffic flow calculations could determine which route was faster. Luke and Jacob didn’t respond because they were too busy arguing over algorithms for curve analysis.  At one point, one of the three said, “But that doesn’t apply to real life.”

During the hullabaloo, Matt leaned forward and said, “I feel sadly left out.”  I told him not to worry, in another year or so he’d take his place in the math discussions. And then it will be only Cal and I who are left out.  Don’t worry about us though, we can always say that the short cut feels faster.

Guillotine

We have a black Lab named Jezebel. The name Jezebel has made it into our cultural milieu, but in case you don’t know, she was a Sidonian princess who became queen of Samaria. She was notable for her wickedness and the fact that when she died, dogs licked up her blood.  Since I named our dog after that incident, you get a sense of my love of irony. To me, irony in life is like a literary intrusion into the real world.

Of course, I must not be the only one who likes that. This Christmas, I fell victim to games-that-appeal-to-people-who-enjoy-irony-and-creativity.  For Jake’s Christmas present I bought him a game called Guillotine. You win by collecting the heads of various nobles executed during the French Revolution. Yeah, I know, very macabre. There’s even a paper guillotine that you set up and line up the nobles in front of.

Before the holiday, Cal asked me what we got Jacob for Christmas and I told him, “A game.”  He nodded, which meant “wise choice, dear wife, since Jacob loves games.”  But the happy smile didn’t seem quite honest.  So I added, “It’s called Guillotine. And you win by collecting heads.”  Incredulous might be the best word to describe the alteration that occurred on his face.  He said something along the lines of “Do you think that was wise?”  Clearly, I fell a notice or two in his estimation.  I said, “It’s supposed to be lots of fun.”

The kids have been playing Guillotine all through Christmas break.  So last night they introduced Cal and I to the game. It’s basket loads of fun. Even Cal liked it.

World Domination

I don’t know if every male ever born wants to dominate the world, but ours do.  Luke and Jacob were discussing it this morning, arguing the finer points of Medieval Total War 2.  I’d been only vaguely aware of this game before, hearing the occasional shouts of “Yes, holy Kaiser, it will be done!” come out of the computer speakers.  Apparently, the point of the game is to take over the known world during the Middle Ages.  And you play a German king. (I could speculate on the reasons why, but I’ll let you do that on your own.) Anyway, Jacob has taken over the world and owns everything from France to Kiev.  He was sharing his strategy with Luke.  When Jake starts the game, he uses his army to take over a couple of countries. Then he taxes them, and not just normal levies.  No. Jacob employs the heavy-handed dress-your-serfs-in-rags kind of taxes.

Luke was radically opposed to this kind of taxation.  He believes in benevolent dictatorship.  And Luke argued that it makes the citizens less likely to rebel. Jacob countered that by insisting that it takes the conquered peoples a long time to rebel because they’re so poor.  And when they do begin to rebel, he just lowers the taxes.  At which point, they adore him for listening to their needs.  And he still gets lots of money because the taxes are much higher than what they were before he took over—but now they’re grateful to him to pay the exorbitant rates.

I asked Jacob what happens in the game now that he rules the world.  He said that Timar the Lame and the Timarids were attacking him.  So he’s sending his crack troops, the Imperial Knights to wipe them out.  I asked him if the knights had a name.  He told me, “The Forlorn Hope.”  Apparently, these troops are condemned prisoners whom Jake gave a second chance for life if they’d fight for him.  He said they’re amazing and wiped the Mongols off the map.  Oh, right.

I asked him what other enemies he had in the game.  He told me that the Pope was a problem because Jake had taken over the Papal states, and the Pope got angry.  So the Pope excommunicated him.  “But it’s okay,” Jake said, “because I assassinated him. Then I set up one of my own cardinals as Pope.”  The new Pope says, “(Jake’s) piety is an inspiration to all peoples.” Hmm... Don’t worry, I’ll make sure this child does not major in Political Science or read Machiavelli’s The Prince.  The world’s a much safer place if Jake’s an electrical engineer.

Meaner Than Me

My children call me “the meanest mom” they know.  It’s a title I wear with pride as it really means, “You make me do chores,” “You monitor my computer time,” and “You make me do the schoolwork that I’m capable of instead of what the government/schoolboard requires.”  Also very high on the list of why I’m so mean is music lessons.  The kids take music lessons until they graduate from high school.

Cal and I both come from musical families so we think of music lessons like we think of math—it’s just one of those things you have to learn.  And the music teachers have agreed, the children all were given musical gifts.  Of course, just like math, they’d rather not study it, even if they’re good at it.  

Jacob was, according to his teacher, born with an internal metronome.  So he’s particularly good with rhythm.  His teacher’s given him lots of syncopated, swing, etc.  But she’s also given him sonatas. She claims he was created to play sonatas.  Jacob strongly disagrees. Here’s what happened at his lessons the other day.

Teacher: Take the second ending.

J: Can’t I take the first? (So he can replay the stuff he has just played and avoid the difficult stuff coming next.)

Teacher: No.

J (After finishing the section): I don’t like this piece.

Teacher: Too bad.  I do.

J: It’s really long.

Teacher: Honey, this is only the first movement.

J (After the stunned silence wears off):  What?

Teacher (paging through the piece): This is the second movement

J (grunts)

Teacher: Oh, look here is the third movement.

J: I really hate this song.

Teacher: This is my favorite sonata

J: When can I quit it?

Teacher: When you love it as much as I do.

Jacob sighs heavily and meditates on the fact that he’ll be working on the stupid sonata FOREVER.  And me, what am I doing during this exchange?  I’m smiling—there are way “meaner” people in the world than me.

A Word to the Wise

College has started again, which means three of the people in my home aren’t around to help with dishes. Ugh. Why do dishes never end? Oh, right, it’s because I have four teenagers and three of them are boys. Duh.


But that’s not what this post is about. Nope. It’s about this tradition my husband has of asking our progeny what they learned in school today. (Note to readers: this is a bad habit to start if your children have different interests than you do.)

Calvin (husband) to Luke (19 year old son): "What did you learn in school today?"

Luke answers: "Blah, blah, organophosphates, blah, blah, inverted equations, blah, blah, valence electron instability."

Luke is a chemistry major. Everything sounds like gobbledy-goop until he gets to “instability.” I’ve learned to play attention at this point. Instability in chemistry tends to equate to explosions. I like explosions. Luke is a great companion to watch Burn Notice with. He gets very excited at the various bombs and says things like. “That would so work, but how are they going to control the reaction?! It’ll blow the house up.”

Cal to Jacob (16 year old son): "What did you learn?"

Jacob: "Uh, we learned about derivatives (some calculus thingy)." At which point, Luke and Ariel discuss the finer points of derivatives. Jacob could get frustrated, but it gives him more time to eat before his brothers finish off all the food.


Cal to Ariel (18 year old daughter): "What did you learn in school today?"


Ariel: "Well, I completed a proof showing that the square root of five is irrational using whatever, whatever, whatever and whatever." (“Proofs” is an upper division class for math majors. I have no idea what’s she’s talking about.)

Me (who should have learned my lesson last year): "What are you talking about?"


Ariel: "I can show you."


She brings me pages of notebook paper filled with scrawled letters that don’t spell anything. I nod politely and suspect that higher level math isn’t real.

Finally we get around to Matthew, our 14 year old son. Cal says, “What did you learn in school today?”

Matthew: "Nothing."


I’d be relieved, except I’m his teacher.

The Game that Never Ends

Last night we decided to play Clue. It’s not anyone’s favorite game, but Cal wanted to play so we all agreed. I shuffled the cards, inserted three in the “secret envelope” and dealt out the rest of the cards.

Everything went along swimmingly for about fifteen minutes. Then, Cal got a phone call. From the tenor of the conversation it sounded like the conversation would be long. The boys went off to play computer games, Ariel practiced violin, and I picked up the thriller that I’m halfway through. (The good guys are stuck in the hideout of the bad guys, and one of the two people they’re rescuing just died. Plus, the good guy’s girlfriend is very angry they went without her and she’s sending them text messages.) Anyway, after an hour, Cal hung up and we were back on track with the game. However, by this time Matt and Jake had gotten giddy. There’s nothing to make a game of Clue drag like male teen giddiness. For example, sending their sister’s token to a room to the opposite end of the board just for the heck of it. Or renaming the weapons—the knife becomes the booger-picker, the revolver is the booger-picker shooter, etc. As you can imagine that goes over really well with Ariel.

About that time, the phone rang again. We all left for our various amusements. (In the book, the ticked girlfriend was coming to the rescue of the trapped good guys.) This conversation was only about twenty minutes. After that, we came back to the game. We all traipsed around the board from one room to the next. Never seeming to find the right combination of person, weapon, and room. Finally, Ariel got tired and announced she was accusing “Mr. Green in the library with rope.” Luke announced, “Nope, the library’s wrong.” Then Matt accused “Mr. Green in the hall with the rope.” I said, “No, Matt, it’s not the hall.” Then I accused “Mr. Green in the billiard room with the rope.” Jake said, “Wrong.” At this point, Matt opened the secret envelope and said, “Uh, there’s a problem.” It turns out that Mr. Green did it with the rope and the lead pipe in some non-existent place. Perhaps, the fourth dimension. Yep, I messed the cards up. So the three hour game had no resolution.

Time to get back to the thriller and find out if the girlfriend really saves the guy or gets caught herself. The bad guys are really bad, so I’m hoping that she’s packing her booger-picker shooter. (Sorry, I couldn’t help that—I’ve been spending too much time with my 13 and 15 year old boys.)

A New Circle

Mr. Alighieri did not live in modern times. However, if Dante had, he would have had a special circle reserved in the Inferno for drivers of semis who run permit-carrying teenagers who are driving with their mothers off the road.

Jacob has about twenty hours of driving practice. At twenty hours, I deign to drive with the children. Before that, they drive with Calvin. It’s mutual—I won’t drive with them and they won’t drive with me.

Today was the first time I’d let Jacob drive with me to his music lessons. I was a bit nervous. We’d have to drive down a few narrow, twisting roads that made my knuckles white when I drove them with Luke. But this was my third child who was learning to drive. I knew to take deep breaths, speak gently, and give the directions early.
But before we hit the narrow roads, we had to take the interstate for a few miles. Jacob was in the midst of merging onto Interstate 24 when the driver of a massive semi decided he didn’t want anyone getting on the highway ahead of him. So he sped up. I raised my voice. (Jacob says I was screaming—he’s melodramatic. I was resonant.)

We weren’t the only vehicle he ran off the road. The car behind us was also run off the highway. Thankfully, we both got on the highway on another on-ramp. Luke was also run off Interstate 75 by a semi when he was learning to drive. Yep, I think we could definitely add another circle to the Inferno.