On Saturday, we’re leaving for vacation in Orlando. That means that in the near future (tonight) I have to begin packing. Since the kids are 18, nearly 17, 14, and 12, you’d think I’d be set. I pack my stuff and they pack theirs. The problem is we’ve done that before. Some people end up with no pajamas or no socks or no underwear—this is bad. So, they make piles, and I inspect and approve.
Orlando should be perfect. Too early for nasty heat, low 80s is just fine. Too early for bugs. I was in Florida a couple of times when I was a young teen and the one thing I remember was the bugs—winged, flying, biting vermin-ish insects.
Florida sounded lovely until I heard about The Castle. There’s a famous writer (NYT bestselling writer—Ally Carter) who’s going on vacation at the same time we are. Except she’s going to a castle. She and her writing friends are renting a castle. In Ireland. I want to go to a castle too. Granted I am very thankful for my husband and four children and would never change places with her (she’s single). Though I do occasionally covet her bestseller author status—the closest I get to that is my faithful blog readers (thank you). But I think I could do the castle thing too.
Ally’s been blogging about buying for her trip—“Ooo these socks would be so great for the castle.” I’ve been thinking, “Ooo, how much underwear does each family member need, and do I need to buy more.” Ally says, “We have to make cupcakes in the castle.” Hold the boat! Why would anyone want to bake cupcakes in a castle? I’d be buying chocolate and saying, “Oh, this Lindt extra dark chocolate with pear and almonds will taste so good in front of a roaring hearth fire in the castle! And I need that Lindt E.D. intense orange as well for sustenance when I don’t want to get out of the feather bed in the morning.”
I do think there could be one caveat to the whole Irish castle thing. There’s a possibility that is especially frightening to me. What if, being this is Ireland and all, I caught the James Joyce progressive incoherency disorder?! Not many people know of the disease. It’s a particularly virulent virus named after the writer who first contracted the disease. It leaves the infected writer unable to write antecedents for pronouns (A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man). As the disease develops, it leaves the writer unable to craft a story that makes any sense at all. If you don't believe me, pick up The Dubliners.
Currently, there’s no immunization for the virus. Maybe I don’t want to vacation in a castle. Orlando sounds really good—as long as there aren’t any bugs.
Showing posts with label James Joyce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label James Joyce. Show all posts
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Math Redux
There must be more math people out there than I guessed, or maybe most math people just won’t admit they’re “numbers people” out loud… In either case, I got an email asking for more math entries. How come I don’t get emails asking for more interactive Kindle opportunities? Oh, well.
In any case, here’s another math entry.
When people find out that all four of our children are math-loving, that Ariel has declared math as her major in college, and that both Luke and Ariel work as tutors in the Chatt. State math lab, they come with worship in their eyes and saliva dripping from the corner of their mouths. They say, “How did you make your kids love math and do well in it?” They assume, especially since I homeschooled my children, that I have some special secret. And if I were just kind and generous, I would share it with them. But it’s not true! There is no secret; or if there is, I don’t know it. My idea of teaching math, at least at the higher level, is: “Hmmm, you’re learning trigonometric bearing. Yeah, I’m not very good at that. If you can’t figure it out from the book, ask Luke.” And then I run quickly to the safety of the kitchen.
I try to explain this to the salivating parents. “I didn’t do anything. I gave the kids lots of reading—we did lots of literature. I believe in the primacy of a broad humanities education.” Surely, they will understand that I had nothing to do with my children’s love of math.
“Lots of reading,” they repeat and their eyes sparkle with happy malevolence.
“No,” I protest. “It’s not reverse psychology!”
My daughter interrupts, “Mom, you made us read Aeschylus’ Orestia.”
“Yes,” I say, “but you loved it. You even used to snuggle up in your bed and read it on your own.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s true,” she admits.
Matthew points his finger at me. “But, you made all of us read the Epic of Gilgamesh.”
My children look at me with condemning eyes, and the parents of unsuspecting children begin plotting horrible summer reading lists, consisting of obscure Greek poets and odd epic cycles.
I just hope I don’t start getting anonymous emails, threatening me with death by means of James Joyce’s The Dubliners. Take pity on me—at least I didn’t mention the Venerable Bede or Thomas Hobbes.
In any case, here’s another math entry.
When people find out that all four of our children are math-loving, that Ariel has declared math as her major in college, and that both Luke and Ariel work as tutors in the Chatt. State math lab, they come with worship in their eyes and saliva dripping from the corner of their mouths. They say, “How did you make your kids love math and do well in it?” They assume, especially since I homeschooled my children, that I have some special secret. And if I were just kind and generous, I would share it with them. But it’s not true! There is no secret; or if there is, I don’t know it. My idea of teaching math, at least at the higher level, is: “Hmmm, you’re learning trigonometric bearing. Yeah, I’m not very good at that. If you can’t figure it out from the book, ask Luke.” And then I run quickly to the safety of the kitchen.
I try to explain this to the salivating parents. “I didn’t do anything. I gave the kids lots of reading—we did lots of literature. I believe in the primacy of a broad humanities education.” Surely, they will understand that I had nothing to do with my children’s love of math.
“Lots of reading,” they repeat and their eyes sparkle with happy malevolence.
“No,” I protest. “It’s not reverse psychology!”
My daughter interrupts, “Mom, you made us read Aeschylus’ Orestia.”
“Yes,” I say, “but you loved it. You even used to snuggle up in your bed and read it on your own.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s true,” she admits.
Matthew points his finger at me. “But, you made all of us read the Epic of Gilgamesh.”
My children look at me with condemning eyes, and the parents of unsuspecting children begin plotting horrible summer reading lists, consisting of obscure Greek poets and odd epic cycles.
I just hope I don’t start getting anonymous emails, threatening me with death by means of James Joyce’s The Dubliners. Take pity on me—at least I didn’t mention the Venerable Bede or Thomas Hobbes.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Interactive James Joyce
(with thanks to P.D.Q. Bach)
I’ve heard amazing, wonderful things about the Kindle. Even bibliophiles seem to love Kindle. I think I would love to have one (if Amazon wants to send me a free one, I would love to blog about its fantastic features…hint, hint to Amazon). But what would clinch the Kindle for me is if they had an interactive James Joyce feature. With apologies to my Irish friends, it seems to me that Joyce’s prose, “sound well enough, but don’t actually mean anything.” So, I got this idea of an interactive James Joyce feature. You would call up a book, say A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (APAYM). Then a menu of choices would appear. For example: If you would like to read APAYM where every pronoun actually had an antecedent, press one. If you would like to figure out who the real protagonist is, press two. If you would like to read the novel with a commentary by an impecunious grad student hoping to finish his dissertation, press three. If you would like to read APAYM with every tenth word removed and put together as a short story at the end of the novel, press four. If you would like to read APAYM as Joyce would have written it had he been on anti-psychotic drugs, press five. And finally, if you would rather have APAYM deleted and replaced by Jane Austen’s Persuasion, press six.
Yep, that would do it for me. And I have no doubt that Kindles would sell like hotcakes, especially among undergraduate English majors.
I’ve heard amazing, wonderful things about the Kindle. Even bibliophiles seem to love Kindle. I think I would love to have one (if Amazon wants to send me a free one, I would love to blog about its fantastic features…hint, hint to Amazon). But what would clinch the Kindle for me is if they had an interactive James Joyce feature. With apologies to my Irish friends, it seems to me that Joyce’s prose, “sound well enough, but don’t actually mean anything.” So, I got this idea of an interactive James Joyce feature. You would call up a book, say A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (APAYM). Then a menu of choices would appear. For example: If you would like to read APAYM where every pronoun actually had an antecedent, press one. If you would like to figure out who the real protagonist is, press two. If you would like to read the novel with a commentary by an impecunious grad student hoping to finish his dissertation, press three. If you would like to read APAYM with every tenth word removed and put together as a short story at the end of the novel, press four. If you would like to read APAYM as Joyce would have written it had he been on anti-psychotic drugs, press five. And finally, if you would rather have APAYM deleted and replaced by Jane Austen’s Persuasion, press six.
Yep, that would do it for me. And I have no doubt that Kindles would sell like hotcakes, especially among undergraduate English majors.
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