23 March 2012

Rant time!

There are some things that make me really, really angry. Every once in a while, one of them hits me from behind when I wasn't expecting it and I go on a mad rant and generally terrify whichever poor sod is in my general vicinity when I go off like a bomb (sorry, Mom).

It happens rather a lot during an election year. (For non-US readers unfamiliar with the madness over here, there are elections all the time but the "big" ones are every 4 years, when we elect a president and a bunch of senators and representatives to boot.) So far this week I've gone on tears about abortion, capital punishment, general stupidity, Wall Street, and health insurance. But I'm not going to get into those today (for starters, it'd take PAGES, and then there's the fact that I don't feel like broadcasting all my opinions to the whole bloody world any more than y'all want to read them).

No, the one burning my butt today is education. Or lack thereof, really. I've had a couple of conversations today that just point out to me how very, very flawed things really are. One was with one of my best friends from college; the other with one of my 8th grade students. I'll take them one at a time.

My friend has three kids (two sons and a daughter), and her daughter (the oldest) is now in 1st grade. Which means she gets actual report cards (even if they're not marking a hell of a lot yet). The bit that got both of us hot under the collar? Next to the category "Reading Level", there are two possible boxes for checkmarks, depending on how the student is doing. These boxes are labeled "Below Grade Level" and "At Grade Level". See the problem here?


Now, my friend is a sane and reasonable person and knows her kid isn't a super-genius or anything, but she's still a 1st grader reading at a good solid 3rd grade level and there's NO WAY TO RECOGNIZE THAT. Nothing. You're either at or below. And people wonder why the US is falling behind other nations? Excellence is simply not rewarded. If you're doing well, or even okay, you're ignored in favour of bringing up the lowest-performing students to a minimum-competency level. Do I think they SHOULD be brought up? Oh hell yes. Just not at the expense of the students who have the kind of brains who could change the world, but are instead being devoted to figuring out ever-better schemes for goofing off without getting caught.

The second conversation concerned one of my own students, who is putting together her schedule for next fall, when she starts high school. She has currently opted for all honours-level classes, except in science because she's worried about the workload. She's not worried about being able to understand the material, or that she'll get swamped by the math aspects (she's fine with math), but simply about the sheer volume of homework. But she's also concerned about being held back by the kids likely to be in such a class, whom she described as "the kids who smoke pot, or, well, they don't smoke it YET but they WILL, by the time we're juniors or so". I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at that one. This particular system doesn't stratify the kids UNTIL HIGH SCHOOL. Which means kids who can do algebra standing on their heads are in with kids who are still struggling with long division. Guess who gets the attention? Do they need it? Sure they do. Should they get ALL of it? Give me a break.

And this loops me back to the political landscape again, and the topics and issues that are getting increasingly complex as the world follows suit, and I look at the education systems that are tangential to my life and think, holy hell, how can people who came up through schools like these even be able to comprehend the basics of the economic mess, the complexities of health care reform, or the real hot-button issues like abortion rights? And if they can't understand it (hell, I can barely make sense out of some of it, and I'm not trying to be a brat but I have a very good brain banging around in my thick skull here), then how can they cast an informed vote on the matter?

I firmly believe that every citizen of a country has the absolute right to vote and to have a say in how that country is run. But if those citizens don't understand the impact of their votes, then how are we ever going to get anywhere?

21 March 2012

Write or Wrong?

Lately, I've been pondering moral issues.

As a historian I frequently come across difficult topics that can be tough to handle professionally. I wrote my thesis on the Middle East conflict. I now teach about World War One and Two. Constantly, I run into issues that are difficult - if not impossible - to handle without passing some kind of judgment. The dropping of the atomic bombs over Japan, for instance. So many factors to consider, making it a very complex moral question.

In my research and teaching, however, the solution is fairly simple. As a historian, you are not supposed to pass judgment. Personal opinions are less interesting than professional explanations and analysis of the issues of the past. Whether something is "right" or "wrong" isn't relevant. It may not always be easy to avoid having opinions, and it may not be easy to avoid voicing them, but at least it is a yardstick we can keep to.

This goes for academic writing, but not so much in other genres.

In fiction writing you will also frequently run into moral issues, and you have much less restraints in terms of what you can and cannot do. You don't have to keep to academic standards or give justice to any sources, unless you chose to, of course. You are free to portray any issue which ever way you want - as long as you are prepared to face the concequences.

Because - even if we as fiction writers have no formal obligation to avoid passing judgment or meddling with complex moral themes, we may still face repercussions. People will still have opinions about the subjects you address, and they will not hesitate to pass judgment on you as the author if they disagree with your position.

Nabokov's Lolita seems an apt example. In this case it is, perhaps, his lack of passing judgment that has caused the controversy - the narrator, a middle-aged man, attempts to justify his own sexual relationship with a twelve-year-old girl. Nabokov found his novel first rejected; and then after publishing, banned many places. Eventually, however, it has come to be considered a classic and a must-read.

Moral issues engage us. This is why it is difficult to convince students that they need to strip their academic papers from them. And this is why controversial books that deal with moral issues frequently are prainsed and banned, often simultaneously. As fiction writers, then, we should perhaps seek to deal with these issues rather than avoid them?

20 March 2012

Topical Tuesday: Taking Students to DC

Tomorrow, my school will be taking the junior class, 11th graders, to Washington D. C.  I am one of the chaperons, may the universe help me!  I will be gone from Wednesday morning to Friday evening.  Not really sure about the hotel accommodations but last year, they stayed at the Comfort Inn.  I know that I will not bring a bathing suit and I will not be swimming with the students!  It will be nice to see them in a setting outside of school.  

Have I mentioned that I have not packed nor do I have any travel supplies ready?  I should probably do that, huh?

 We are taking the students on a tour of various colleges in the DC area.  I believe we will be going to George Washington University, Howard University, Lincoln University and two or three different Institutes that focus on vocational trades.  We'll also get to tour the National Mall.  I'm excited as I have never been to DC and want to see the Smithsonian.  

I have mixed feelings about this trip.  I do want the students to get a good idea of college life and all of the possibilities their future can hold.  However, some students who are behavior problems are attending the trip and I really don't feel that they should attend.  Misbehavior in school is indicative of misbehavior in public.  *feeling conflicted*

Well, wish me luck!  I promise to take plenty of photos and post on my next blog post!

First image taken from Wikimedia Commons.
Second image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Tornado Season Shows Up Uninvited

So on this topical Tuesday, I thought about getting into the War on Women and why the GOP has the rest of the world mocking us. I considered delving into the ABNA cut-offs, as I find out today if I go on... but as I don't KNOW yet (as of this writing) that is what would be classified as non-news. Really, though, the biggest excitement (and by excitement, I mean mortal peril) I have encountered is the Bloody TORNADO that touched down about ten miles from home.

Just 10 miles from home...
Now some of you who live in tornado alley think 'big whoop' ten miles, zen smiles. Nice and safely distant. But in the twelve years we've lived in Michigan, this is the closest to home one has hit. I suppose over those twelve years we have AVERAGED one tornado a year that needs to be taken seriously. Averages being what they are, this means a few some years, none others. But this is by FAR the earliest I've seen one. (in fact in Michigan history there have only been 4 this strong in March)

And the fact Michigan had THREE tornadoes that day... though the one in Dexter was the strongest: an EF3 which means winds swirling at between 130 and 160 mph (ours was reported at 140). There was an EF2 to the north (110 mph) and an EF0 a little south (90 mph)

I have heard about big ones in Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky... This just seems like a REALLY early start for these tornadoes!

Normally I am a huge fan of big weather. But when I say that, I mean thunderstorms, blizzards (when I am safely at home). Big wind isn't really my thing, and especially not as powerful as all this.

Just look at that. Walls gone. Washers still there.
So QUESTION. Why don't they NAME these things?

The one that hit in Dexter destroyed several houses. Amazingly, nobody was hurt, but the destruction of tornadoes is so strange—so concentrated that it can completely destroy what it actually hits, leaving the house next door completely untouched.

So what do you think—is this going to be a really bad season for these, or is this an early fluke and things will get back to normal soon? Don't get me wrong, I adore the early spring we are having (heck, I think this is only the third time I've ever SEEN spring in Michigan—normally winter gives spring a miss and goes right on in to summer). But I'd be content to not have another of those...

How do you feel about big weather? Any where you are?

14 March 2012

A Short Ramble & A Short Story

Ack... it's 'Writing Wednesday', and already past the deadline of noon. And I have to get ready to leave for my 2-10pm shift at work. Double ack. See, this is where my procrastinating gets me. I put things off until the last possible moment, and while sometimes I manage to pull something out of the hat, other times I don't.

Today is the latter, and so it will have to be a 'Written Wednesday' rather than a 'Writing Wednesday'. Truth be told, I'm not much good at these writerly posts anyway. A procrastinator doesn't really have a wealth of advice to offer, and if they did, they would save it for a rainy day in the spirit of putting things off,

So instead you can have a little Potter piece that I wrote a couple of years ago. After HPANA (my original Harry Potter internet home) went down, perhaps forever, little of my written work remained, but the following is one of a handful of pieces that I managed to salvage. Fortunately, it is one of my favourites.



Lily sat idly playing with a blade of grass, her expression thoughtful. There was a light breeze in the air, though not strong enough to move her hair much more than a little flutter. The sky was dark, threatening a shower at the very least, if not an outright downpour. Lily shivered. It wasn’t that she was cold, far from it; it was this dreadful waiting that was making her bones feel chilled.

It had been so long since life had seemed normal. It felt like she had been stuck in this – what was it? A half existence? – for longer than she cared to remember. She and James were forced to sit back and wait. The trouble was, they didn’t really know what they were waiting for, or when it would happen.

Their monotonous lives had been interrupted recently when Sirius had arrived. Lily had been perturbed at first by his sudden appearance, but both Sirius and James seemed happy in each other’s company, and even she had to admit that the extra adult company made things a little less… dare she say boring?

Lily sighed again as she watched the storm clouds gather directly above her head. Always it seemed winter here; always a fierce wind, with howling echoes that were reminiscent of wailing ghosts. She shivered again, the unwelcome feeling of ‘someone walking over her grave’ stealing down her spine.

“Why can’t the sun shine just once?” she asked the emptiness around her. But of course, the sun wouldn’t shine just because she’d asked it to. Just as she couldn’t go back just because she wanted to. Back to life, back to normality. If there even was a normality any more.

“Lily, darling, what are you doing?”

Lily smiled. James at least made things easier. Merlin knew what she would have done if he wasn’t here with her. He was almost always cheerful, in spite of their circumstances. Always he was trying to lift her spirits, telling her that soon – soon! – the wait would be over and all would be well. He gave her hope that one day the clouds would lift and the sun would manage to peek through and bathe them all with it’s life-giving light. Maybe she wouldn’t have to play with dried-out grass any more, and would instead be able to pluck a fresh bloom from the earth and enjoy its scent.

She felt James’s arms lift her from the ground and turned to smile at him.

“I was just….” her voice trailed off.

“Worrying? Wishing for something to happen?”

Lily smiled. James knew her too well.

“Come on, love; Sirius is chatting about old times and I need someone to remind him not to exaggerate too much,” said James cajolingly.

“Hmm, mixing things up, is he?” asked Lily, chuckling.

“You know Sirius; sometimes he forgets the finer details,” replied James, rolling his eyes.

Lily nodded and took her husband’s hand. Maybe Sirius’s Marauder tales would dispel some of her agitation. At the very least, she would enjoy the banter between her husband and his best friend.


She should have known things couldn’t have been so simple. Sirius had got as far as greeting Lily warmly, but was prevented from regaling tales from his youth by the sudden loud clap of thunder.

“I knew there would be a storm tonight,” muttered Lily.

“Nah, this isn’t a storm, Lily,” said Sirius lazily. “Look, there’s not even a drop of rain. It’s just a little bit of thunder, that’s all.”

Not even a drop of rain. There never was. This place had the constant atmosphere of an impending storm, but nothing more than dry thunder and lightening ever occurred.

“I have this feeling that something’s going to happen tonight,” said Lily, rubbing her arms.

“Look, noth-,” started James, but was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Hello James,”

James and Sirius turned abruptly, but Lily closed her eyes, even more perturbed by this new arrival than she had been when Sirius had arrived.

“Oh no… not you too?” whispered James, his voice betraying his emotion.

“Yes, me too,” said Remus, though he didn’t sound half as distressed as his friend.


“Does it matter?” asked Remus ruefully. “No, not really. The fact is that I’m with you now. I think I was always meant to be with you one more time.”

Death. Lily shuddered. Even now it was hard to believe she was dead. That James was dead. But they were, and they were stuck in this limbo until Fate decreed that they could move on.

“Don’t look so distraught, Lily,” said Remus gently. “I’ve been waiting for Death to take me since I was nine years old. I’ve lived far longer than I could have wished, and I found happiness before I left life behind me.”

“You did?” asked Lily anxiously. She had worried endlessly about Remus ever since… ever really. He was the gentlest and sweetest of James’s friends, yet he had always suffered. She had feared the loss of herself and James would be his undoing.

“Yes, I did,” said Remus firmly. “I married. I married a wonderful woman who accepted me for who I was and loved me unconditionally.”

“Really? Oh Remus, that’s wonderful! But so sad…”

“Merlin, Remus, I’m sorry mate,” said Sirius, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“You’re too good to have this happen to you,” said James simply. “I’m truly sorry, Remus.”

Remus smiled. “It’s alright. Much as it saddens me, my wife is waiting for me to join her.”

“You mean she’s…?”

“Yes, she’s also dead. Tonight; the same as me. And we’ve left behind a son to carry on the name, too,” he said proudly.

“But that’s even sadder!” exclaimed Lily. “How can you be so accepting?”

“You are,” pointed out Remus.

“Yes, but we’ve had…well, we’ve had a long time to come to terms with it, haven’t we James?”

Remus shrugged. “No point fretting about it, it’s done. And my wife is waiting for me; as soon as I’m finished here, I can go to her.”

“You’re not staying,” said James sadly.

“No,” said Remus. “But I don’t think you are either.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have something to do tonight; all four of us.”

Remus wouldn’t be drawn any further on the subject, but Lily knew without doubt that it concerned Harry.

“It’s happening tonight, isn’t it?” she whispered.

“What’s happening?” said James, sounding perplexed.

“Whatever it is that we’ve been waiting all these years for.”

Remus nodded smilingly.

“What are we supposed to do?” asked Lily, anxious to get things right.

“I don’t know,” shrugged Remus. “But I don’t think that’ll be a problem. I think we just have to be here.”


Time was never fast in Limbo, but the evening seemed to go on for eternity. The storm clouds continued to rumble threateningly and Lily wished for the umpteenth time that some rain would fall from those deceptively dry bits of cotton in the sky. The tension was palpable; all four friends were too nervous to say much. They all wanted the night’s proceedings to get under way, no matter what they were.

About an hour after Remus arrived, a small chink of light peeked through the clouds and highlighted a small patch of grass a few feet away from where they were sitting. Lily stood up and walked towards it, feeling somehow that hope was maybe just around the corner. She stooped down to the ground, her eyes drawn to a smudge of white.

“It’s a lily,” she breathed in awe. It had been so long since she had seen her namesake that she had almost forgotten what they looked like, but there was no mistaking the delicate flower that had appeared so suddenly in the previously barren ground. She bent to smell it with appreciation, and fingered the green stem that looked far too delicate to support the luminous white petals above it. For some reason she was reminded of Severus, and she smiled sadly in remembrance of her old friend. Her memory of him was so strong that she even thought she heard his voice.

Look at me…

Lily shook her head, calling herself silly. She took one more sniff of the lily before rejoining the others.


Another hour or so passed before it happened. The four friends had been talking quietly when suddenly they all felt something pulling at them. It was very similar to using a Portkey, but the pulling sensation was in their head rather than behind their navel.

All four began walking at once; they all seemed to know where they had to go.

“Harry’s calling us,” said Lily, her eyes shining with anticipation of seeing her son.

“Yes,” said Remus. “He needs us now. He needs our love to guide him through his task. We can help him, Lily. That’s why we’re all here.”

Lily nodded. It was as if she had known all along.

When she saw her son, Lily felt a burst of hope rip through her. The clouds parted a little more, and a few more chinks of light dotted the ground ahead.

This was what she had been waiting for. This was why she couldn’t be at peace. Her son needed one last piece of support from his parents before they could leave the Earth forever.

The closer they got, the more light came through those perpetually gloomy storm clouds. Lily knew with certainty that soon the clouds would dissipate and that the sun would be allowed to shine again. The endless winter would end, and life would be allowed to prosper all over again.

As Lily finally looked face to face at her son, she could almost smell the fragrance of the thousand flowers that would soon cover the dried-out grass that surrounded them.

Winter had ended. And Spring was the most magical of seasons.


13 March 2012


So I tried to think of something that would be relevant to people who, y'know, aren't me (which anyone would agree are in fact a majority in this world of ours), but I'm so stressed out that the only thing I can THINK of is stress. Wanna know why? (Well, if you don't, you can stop reading and go check out Tami's or Natasha's blogs or something...)

It's recital week for my students, for starters, which is always super-stressful. I have to make sure they're all prepared (usually the easy part), get myself prepared (slightly harder), and do all the administrative nonsense that I'm really really REALLY bad at (like scheduling a piano for rehearsal, which used to be super easy 'cause I had one in my room, but they demolished those and put a drama room in instead. Super not fair, man.) And as always, it's the most advanced students who are the least prepared, and I want them all to do well because, hell, achievement is its own reward and all that, but also, who doesn't like genuine applause? And the knowledge that you've earned it? (Also, there are cookies.)

And I've ended up with 6 shifts at the bookstore this week. Or rather, 3 shifts and I'm working 6 days (hardy har har, lemme explain that). See, we're supposed to be moving all the teen books (3 subcategories, hence 3 shifts) around so that new stuff is featured more prominently. I am totally all for this, except for one teensy problem. We don't have enough linear feet of shelving. Meaning that instead of getting to feature all the newest titles, I had to get rid of, oh, 40 or so. Which I hate doing. 'Cause I can't sell them if we send them back to the publisher. And I had a total spaz on that one today, between the whole Mondayness thing, and having to do it almost all myself (I had help for about half an hour, which was awesome), and the pressure of oops-we-were-supposed-to-do-this-ages-ago-but-the-RM-is-coming-so-NOW.

Oh, and the reason I agreed to 6 days this week? I need money (duh, who doesn't). More than usual, I mean. 'Cause my Rullie-cat is sick. She's better than she was, but she'll never be all the way better, and she's not back to normal (like there is any such thing as "normal" with a cat), though she is eating and running and jumping and snuggling (and making it VERY hard to type this post, as she's on my right arm...). Vets are expensive as hell, and when I can't even afford my own health insurance, well, no, kitties do not have health insurance (I did look into it a while back, but Rullie was already too old to qualify). I have also learned that cat-under-the-covers is maybe not all it's cracked up to be (hello, poky feet). That's my girl there on the right - that picture was taken about 5 years ago, she's lots smaller now, unfortunately. She'll be 14 in June if we can keep her going comfortably.

So. That's my pity party. And that's why stress is the only topic I could think of. Hope your week is going better than mine...

Images: #1 - no idea, it's been on my hard drive for ages
#2 - I took it myself

09 March 2012

Into the Unknown

Say you're a teacher.

Say you're working with students.

Say you're a teacher for students and the class you're teaching is history.

Say that.

Assuming these are the premises, you may also assume the following: there is something specific you want to teach them. The class should have a curriculum, and given that it is history it probably has a specified topic and time frame. "The French Revolution, 1789-1799." "The Development of the Nuclear Bomb, 1939-1945." "Wars and Conflicts, 1900-today."

In addition, the specificness of which you presumably want to teach, is tied to the craft of your profession: the historian. Because it is a craft, a set of rules, certain points without which you will not be able to perform your work properly.

And then you have the Odd Bull (inside joke). The stray dog that breaks the rules, and plans to get away with it.

Granted, some do. Think Picasso.

But most don't.

And those who do, get away with it because they break the rules in a smart way. They break the right kind of rules.

The reason they can do that is that they know the rules. They know the craft. They have learned it, first, and then they derrive from it.

"Be precise!"

"Be specific!"

"Don't assume that the reader can follow you line of thought!"

"Never leave a quote hanging. Your interpretation of it, and your reasoning as to why it is important isn't obvious to the rest of us. If you cannot explain why the quote should be there, it shouldn't be there. If it doesn't express specifically something you cannot say just as well with your own words, you should say it with your own words."

I know the rules. I know the craft. At least I'm supposed to. What I know that I know, though, is this: I know that I don't follow the rules. Not now. Because I am not specific. I am not clear. You do not follow. My arguments are weak, my reasoning reasonless.

And the reason I can do this is not that I know the rules, but that I know that there are no rules. This is not my craft, after all; this is not a academic, history paper. This is a blog.

Say you're a teacher. Say you're working with students. Say your work as a teacher is making your head so full of analysis and rules and academic upholstery that you have no desire to make sense anymore. Say that.

08 March 2012

Delusional Memory

See, the beautiful thing about delusions is, you spend a lifetime wondering whether a thing happened or not. But if you don't have to pick a side... real, dream, fantasy... it becomes easier to tell. This is just such a story. I will be honest where I can, but I really don't know all the lines. I did in fact have nightmares during the event... and so reality and dream get fuzzy... and I was a child... that doesn't help...

This is not THE house boat, but right lake...
A Vacation in Summer

I was five. And I was an able swimmer, or so I saw it. I'd passed swimming lessons anyway. And my mom promised me a fun weekend. Lake Pend Oreille. (pronounced Pond o' Ray) A house boat.

A houseboat... my mother had to explain the difference between a house boat and a boathouse. I'd been to boathouses. There was a lot of dark, and sparrow poo, and a certain damp stink. There were narrow planks to stand on while you got in, not as safe as the docks (the odd common feature between the two). Inside were more narrow planks around the boat. It was a thing endured because boat rides were fun and that was where the canoes were stored (canoeing was even more fun than boating -- something I suspect reverses with a Y chromosome), but it wasn't actually pleasant. The boathouse, I mean.

A house boat, on the other hand, was a floating HOUSE! It moved with the waves and you had to step over water from the dock. It was BRILLIANT!

The neighbor who invited us had a daughter my age (my best friend at the time) and a baby. In my head there was another mom with her very young son and either a baby, or... she might have been pregnant—that sounds closer to the truth (if I haven't made this up, I mean).

Beautiful, isn't it?
So there we were, three women in their twenties, four children, the oldest two of whom were five, one of whom might have been irritated that she'd been promised swimming then threatened with seaweed ['oh, no, it's too dangerous here'--as I mentioned, I was an able swimmer] (*cough* this might have been me) on a houseboat... for a week in summer on one of Idaho's most secluded lakes.

Up to this point, I have either stated facts or combining facts from different memories... From this point forward, I suspect I made large chunks of it up.

Dinner that night was made of green with red on top (true--it was zucchini). I wasn't much for vegetables, so I cried until my mom got really mad. My mom didn't get mad often. I forced myself to take a bite, but it just made me cry harder. I couldn't help it. It tasted like green, too. I have mentally blocked the rest of dinner. It must have been tragic.

We played a game before bed, Chutes and Ladders, but it was a silly, baby game. When I was at home or with my grandparents we played cards or dice — crazy 8s, gin rummy, blew it — real games. I was intrigued by the one with hippopotamuses, but nobody would let me play. The ice breaker one, either. Years later, I know it was about the noise (and a sleeping baby?). We did try Ants in the Pants, but that was a lot harder than it looked. I was really bad at it, so it was no fun. (I was in my early 30s when I finally sort of got the knack for that -- no clue how kids play.)

And then the storm started.

Power flickered, so the moms found some candles.

They put the other wee one(s?) to bed, or tried. Thunder can be an obstacle that way.

My friend and I cuddled under a blanket. Or argued. Of all my friends I've ever had, she is the one I fought the most with, probably because she was the first who spent a lot of time in my space — living across the street and all... I was an only child, unused to sharing. I think she was the first person I knew who didn't just give in to my will regularly — it was a hard lesson. But it made her my favorite person for a good long time. Somehow, though, my primary memory of that was sitting there spooking each other.

And now for the wild imagination part of the story.

There was a knock at the door and the moms were as scared as we were. My friend and I got shuffled up to bed (yeah, like that was happening).

It was a fugitive.
Or a murderer.
It was a band of horrible people that we had to hide from.

I actually had a nightmare that night, so even the storm may have been a figment of my imagination.

Maybe the knock was someone checking that the three women with their children were okay with no power in the storm — it was the early 70s after all.

Maybe some ranger thought he'd get lucky and instead only got invited in for a bowl of green.

Serves him right, spooking all those moms and children like that.

Any of you have clear memories you think might not actually be true? Only partially true?

01 March 2012

Snow!!! Errr... no.

As usual when I can't think of something, I fall back on the weather. This time, it's my personal delusion that it should always, always, always snow on my birthday. Hey, it happens most years - it's in February, after all - and I would sometimes get snow days for my birthday when I was a kid, which, gotta tell you, was completely awesome. This year, though, we've had maybe two days of measurable snow, and one of 'em was way back in October! So when the forecast said snow for Wednesday, well, okay, a little late but better than nothing!

Errrrm... well, we got some snow. It was wet and floopy but things were white! And pretty! Winter Wonderland in the Arboretum! And then it changed to rain. And sleet. And general gross nasty cold wet ugh.

I'm calling shenanigans on this weather. I live in the Northeastern US, you're telling me that it's freakin' MARCH and this is only our 3rd snow? Snow is the whole POINT of winter! If you've gotta put up with bundling up and freezing your toeses and noses and all, then at least you should get pretty white stuff to make up for it. It looks nice, you can throw it at people, you can build snowmen and igloos and forts (okay, okay, yes, you have to shovel out cars and sidewalks and driveways too, but minor inconvenience compared to a good snowball fight) - and we're just not getting any.

No fair, man. No fair.

Image: Wikipedia