(no subject)
Ice hockey is amazing. If I didn't already have an ambition to become a ninja when I grow up, I would make it my life.
We took a pep band to the last two games, which required us to cram about five drums and five people into Andy's minivan. On Wednesday, in fact, we had six people. This being a rather tricky operation, we ended up wedging Rob under a few bass drums in the back. We even had a contingency plan, in the unfortunate event that we would get pulled over. Here's the hypothetical scenario:
Police Officer: Excuse me, young man, what in the hell are you doing back there?
Rob: WOOF!
Police Officer: What?
Rob: WOOF!
Police Officer: Why are you barking?
Andy: He's a dog, what do you expect?
Police Officer: Uh, that's not a dog.
Andy: Are you calling my dog ugly?
Luckily, we didn't have to resort to that.
We had our two Tiny Tots concerts this week (my last time ever performing Tiny Tots was on Wednesday). The kids on Tuesday hated us, but we had some very enthusiastic little boogers on Wednesday. Kelly and I put a water bottle on Angela's head and piled her hair up around it like a Who from the Grinch, which I felt was rather genius. Danny Whitney also had the educational experience of smashing a soda can on his forehead, but you can ask him all about that yourself.
I took the blasted SAT II's today. THREE of them. That should be ILLEGAL.
However, being the masochistic nerd that I am, I actually enjoyed the literature one. Especially this poem:
Prosody 101: by Linda Pastan
When they taught me that what mattered most
was not the strict iambic line goose-stepping
over the page but the variations
in that line and the tension produced
on the ear by the surprise of difference,
I understood yet didn't understand
exactly, until just now, years later
in spring, with the trees already lacy
and camellias blowsy with middle age,
I looked out and saw what a cold front had done
to the garden, sweeping in like common language,
unexpected in the sensuous
extravagance of a Maryland spring.
There was a dark edge around each flower
as if it had been outlined in ink
instead of frost, and the tension I felt
between the expected and actual
was like that time I came to you, ready
to say goodbye for good, for you had been
a cold front yourself lately, and as I walked in
you laughed and lifted me up in your arms
as if I too were lacy with spring
instead of middle aged like the camellias,
and I thought: so this is Poetry.
We took a pep band to the last two games, which required us to cram about five drums and five people into Andy's minivan. On Wednesday, in fact, we had six people. This being a rather tricky operation, we ended up wedging Rob under a few bass drums in the back. We even had a contingency plan, in the unfortunate event that we would get pulled over. Here's the hypothetical scenario:
Police Officer: Excuse me, young man, what in the hell are you doing back there?
Rob: WOOF!
Police Officer: What?
Rob: WOOF!
Police Officer: Why are you barking?
Andy: He's a dog, what do you expect?
Police Officer: Uh, that's not a dog.
Andy: Are you calling my dog ugly?
Luckily, we didn't have to resort to that.
We had our two Tiny Tots concerts this week (my last time ever performing Tiny Tots was on Wednesday). The kids on Tuesday hated us, but we had some very enthusiastic little boogers on Wednesday. Kelly and I put a water bottle on Angela's head and piled her hair up around it like a Who from the Grinch, which I felt was rather genius. Danny Whitney also had the educational experience of smashing a soda can on his forehead, but you can ask him all about that yourself.
I took the blasted SAT II's today. THREE of them. That should be ILLEGAL.
However, being the masochistic nerd that I am, I actually enjoyed the literature one. Especially this poem:
Prosody 101: by Linda Pastan
When they taught me that what mattered most
was not the strict iambic line goose-stepping
over the page but the variations
in that line and the tension produced
on the ear by the surprise of difference,
I understood yet didn't understand
exactly, until just now, years later
in spring, with the trees already lacy
and camellias blowsy with middle age,
I looked out and saw what a cold front had done
to the garden, sweeping in like common language,
unexpected in the sensuous
extravagance of a Maryland spring.
There was a dark edge around each flower
as if it had been outlined in ink
instead of frost, and the tension I felt
between the expected and actual
was like that time I came to you, ready
to say goodbye for good, for you had been
a cold front yourself lately, and as I walked in
you laughed and lifted me up in your arms
as if I too were lacy with spring
instead of middle aged like the camellias,
and I thought: so this is Poetry.