Two trailers for Waiting For Spring…
Author: R.J. Keller
New works
Mr. Sid Leavitt’s temporary break from posting at Readers and Writers Blog was more temporary than he anticipated. He’s posted two new entries in the past two weeks complete with new works, including some poetry from a buddy of mine, Joel Phipps. He also managed to sneak in a reference to Spongebob Squarepants (my second favorite current television show, right after “The Office”).
Check it out.
New works
Mr. Sid Leavitt’s temporary break from posting at Readers and Writers Blog was more temporary than he anticipated. He’s posted two new entries in the past two weeks complete with new works, including some poetry from a buddy of mine, Joel Phipps. He also managed to sneak in a reference to Spongebob Squarepants (my second favorite current television show, right after “The Office”).
Check it out.
By my calculations…
I started home schooling my kids this school year, for reasons I won’t get into on this blog. Suffice it to say there are valid reasons, reasons that became even more apparent to me yesterday morning.
My daughter is in seventh grade and quite bright for her age. On last year’s MEA (Maine Educational Assessment) test she scored in the top 1% in the state for her grade in reading, and in the top 5% in math. Imagine my horror, then, when I discovered she was struggling with the following math problem:
What is 25% of $150.00
“[Daughter],” I said, “you know how to do percentages,” and I said it with confidence. Just last week she approached Hubby and I with tales of High School Musical 3 soundtrack CDs that were 25% off the original price. She knew exactly how much said CD would be, to the penny, minus the discount, plus the Maine 5% sales tax. Later that day, at a cash register in a store near me, I discovered that her math had been spot on. To the penny.
She didn’t answer me. She just tapped a moody pencil on the table and scowled at her math paper. I looked more closely at it and discovered the trouble. Take a gander yourself, and see if you spot the problem.
150
x.25
____
750
+300
____
10.50
The correct answer, of course, is 37.50. She knew that. She obviously knew the formula to use in order to figure it out. It’s even what the calculator she’d snuck to the table, sitting there sweetly beside her worksheet, told her. She just couldn’t figure out how to make it work on paper. And her new teacher–that would be me–is a stickler for Showing Your Work On Paper.
“[Daughter],” I sighed, more than a little frustrated, “you didn’t move the second row of numbers over.”
“What are you talking about?” She sounded even more frustrated than me.
“You have to move the second row of numbers over,” I explained, “to the tens spot. Like this.”
150
x.25
____
0750
+3000
____
37.50
The lightbulb switched on over her head. Yes, I could actually see it light up. “OH!!!! I get it. That makes sense.”
“‘That makes sense’? Don’t you mean, ‘I forgot to account for the tens spot because my brain has atrophied from using this calculator too much’?” (Yes, she knows what the word atrophy means, even when it’s used in past tense.)
Nope. She really meant That makes sense. Because after doing a little bit of research (ie, calling up other moms in the area, some whose kids are now homeschooled, some whose kids aren’t) I discovered that the school really hadn’t taught students how to do this kind of math on paper. After a brief rundown of the multiplication tables in third grade, the kids had been doing all their math work on calculators. Yes, that’s right. Since the world is now computerized, they reason, all our kids actually need to tackle the world of math is a formula and a calculator.
Pardon my French, but what the bloody goddamn fucking hell???? I know this is going to make me sound old, even though I’m not (38 isn’t all that old), but when I was in school, we got in trouble for doing our math homework on calculators. We weren’t even allowed to bring calculators to class until we hit Algebra 2. And now, 20 years later (shit, when I put it that way, I do sound old…and while we’re on the subject, could my daughter have figured out how long I’d been out of school without her frigging calculator?) being “taught” math this way is the norm.
Welcome to the new norm. Intelligent kids–kids who are in the top 5% in their grade for math–who can’t figure out what 25% of $150 is without a calculator. Teenagers working at McDonalds who can’t give you correct change without a cash register spelling it out for them. Grown men who think that a $75 coat that’s 40% off at one store is cheaper than a $50 coat that’s 30% off at a different store; because, naturally, the coat with the highest percentage off is the better deal. (True story…and for the record, not my hubby.)
So I guess my question is this: If the handbasket civilization rides in travels at 65 MPH, how long will it take before we all get to hell?
By my calculations…
I started home schooling my kids this school year, for reasons I won’t get into on this blog. Suffice it to say there are valid reasons, reasons that became even more apparent to me yesterday morning.
My daughter is in seventh grade and quite bright for her age. On last year’s MEA (Maine Educational Assessment) test she scored in the top 1% in the state for her grade in reading, and in the top 5% in math. Imagine my horror, then, when I discovered she was struggling with the following math problem:
What is 25% of $150.00
“[Daughter],” I said, “you know how to do percentages,” and I said it with confidence. Just last week she approached Hubby and I with tales of High School Musical 3 soundtrack CDs that were 25% off the original price. She knew exactly how much said CD would be, to the penny, minus the discount, plus the Maine 5% sales tax. Later that day, at a cash register in a store near me, I discovered that her math had been spot on. To the penny.
She didn’t answer me. She just tapped a moody pencil on the table and scowled at her math paper. I looked more closely at it and discovered the trouble. Take a gander yourself, and see if you spot the problem.
150
x.25
____
750
+300
____
10.50
The correct answer, of course, is 37.50. She knew that. She obviously knew the formula to use in order to figure it out. It’s even what the calculator she’d snuck to the table, sitting there sweetly beside her worksheet, told her. She just couldn’t figure out how to make it work on paper. And her new teacher–that would be me–is a stickler for Showing Your Work On Paper.
“[Daughter],” I sighed, more than a little frustrated, “you didn’t move the second row of numbers over.”
“What are you talking about?” She sounded even more frustrated than me.
“You have to move the second row of numbers over,” I explained, “to the tens spot. Like this.”
150
x.25
____
0750
+3000
____
37.50
The lightbulb switched on over her head. Yes, I could actually see it light up. “OH!!!! I get it. That makes sense.”
“‘That makes sense’? Don’t you mean, ‘I forgot to account for the tens spot because my brain has atrophied from using this calculator too much’?” (Yes, she knows what the word atrophy means, even when it’s used in past tense.)
Nope. She really meant That makes sense. Because after doing a little bit of research (ie, calling up other moms in the area, some whose kids are now homeschooled, some whose kids aren’t) I discovered that the school really hadn’t taught students how to do this kind of math on paper. After a brief rundown of the multiplication tables in third grade, the kids had been doing all their math work on calculators. Yes, that’s right. Since the world is now computerized, they reason, all our kids actually need to tackle the world of math is a formula and a calculator.
Pardon my French, but what the bloody goddamn fucking hell???? I know this is going to make me sound old, even though I’m not (38 isn’t all that old), but when I was in school, we got in trouble for doing our math homework on calculators. We weren’t even allowed to bring calculators to class until we hit Algebra 2. And now, 20 years later (shit, when I put it that way, I do sound old…and while we’re on the subject, could my daughter have figured out how long I’d been out of school without her frigging calculator?) being “taught” math this way is the norm.
Welcome to the new norm. Intelligent kids–kids who are in the top 5% in their grade for math–who can’t figure out what 25% of $150 is without a calculator. Teenagers working at McDonalds who can’t give you correct change without a cash register spelling it out for them. Grown men who think that a $75 coat that’s 40% off at one store is cheaper than a $50 coat that’s 30% off at a different store; because, naturally, the coat with the highest percentage off is the better deal. (True story…and for the record, not my hubby.)
So I guess my question is this: If the handbasket civilization rides in travels at 65 MPH, how long will it take before we all get to hell?
Idol for Writers – Week 7
Well, I finally did it. My week seven entry (assigned topic: Utopia) got the most votes out of 24 remaining entries over at [Thebren]LJ Idol. It’s a discarded scene from a discarded subplot of a little something I wrote not long ago. Let that be a lesson to you: Never throw anything away.
~~~~~
Utopia. The place was a psychedelic nightmare: Blinking colored lights flashing out the pounding beat of the drum machines; jagged lasers cutting across the dance floor, in sync with the hiss and whine of synthesizers; and a DJ at the front of the room who thrashed around so freakishly that it made me wonder just what the hell he was on and where I could get some for myself.
Brandon, on the other hand, was in his natural element. The music seemed to fill him, inhabit him, possess him. He was both graceful and funky, like he’d been built to dance. And since it was his birthday, I did my best to put aside my uneasiness for his sake. It wasn’t too difficult, because his enthusiasm was contagious and, more importantly, in such a large crowd it was easy to just blend in. About halfway through the fourth song, I finally started to relax and was actually beginning to enjoy myself.
And that’s when I caught sight of a familiar face: Mandy. She was weaving through the crowd, aimless and vacant; obviously under the influence of something besides the music. She’d stop here and there to give someone a hug or to dance; sometimes alone, but usually with an unsuspecting, but perfectly willing, partner. And, eventually, she made her way over to us.
She pulled on his shirt without a word and forced him to submit to a somewhat intimate embrace. He kept his hands off to the side, well away from her body, and shot me a helpless this-isn’t-my-fault look. I managed to shrug. She was obviously on something, she hadn’t exactly singled him out of the crowd, and he couldn’t help being accosted.
She finally let him go. He had to swallow hard and take a deep breath before he could speak, which made me raise an eyebrow. Then he gestured towards me–without making eye contact–and shouted above the music, “Mandy, I’m here with someone. I’m here with my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, I know.” She turned around and gave me a grin. “Holy shit. Don’t you look hot tonight.”
The only thing I could think of to say to that was, Uh, thanks; but I didn’t get the chance. Because that’s when she let go of him, pulled my face to hers, and kissed me.
It took me a few seconds to even register what was happening, and when I did I couldn’t bring myself to break away. Didn’t even try. Didn’t want to. It was the first time–ever–that I’d been kissed by a woman, and there was so much going on, so much to take in, that it all washed over me one hot, brief wave at a time.
Full, warm, wet, open lips. Slow and soft. Softer hands, so soft, just like petals on my cheek. Flowing silk and breasts, hers pressing and rubbing against mine as she still moved vaguely in time with the music. The strobing lights, throbbing beat and orgasmic howls of a female vocalist made it seem almost surreal, like a hazy, sexy dream that I wished would never end. She slithered her tongue inside my mouth and I tasted the sting of fresh cigarettes. It released a hot fragment of memory, of desire; a whisper of sex and rain, of longing. And so I kissed her back, kissed her forever; needing it, needing her, needing something…had to hold onto it, to keep it with me. But it was already slipping away, leaving me empty…wanting…
She broke away, finally, and whatever it was I was grasping for disappeared with her lips. She smiled, her face flushed and pretty, then ambled mercifully away without a word; left me to stagger in place, dizzy and reeling. Cold. And oddly alone.
Idol for Writers – Week 7
Well, I finally did it. My week seven entry (assigned topic: Utopia) got the most votes out of 24 remaining entries over at [Thebren]LJ Idol. It’s a discarded scene from a discarded subplot of a little something I wrote not long ago. Let that be a lesson to you: Never throw anything away.
~~~~~
Utopia. The place was a psychedelic nightmare: Blinking colored lights flashing out the pounding beat of the drum machines; jagged lasers cutting across the dance floor, in sync with the hiss and whine of synthesizers; and a DJ at the front of the room who thrashed around so freakishly that it made me wonder just what the hell he was on and where I could get some for myself.
Brandon, on the other hand, was in his natural element. The music seemed to fill him, inhabit him, possess him. He was both graceful and funky, like he’d been built to dance. And since it was his birthday, I did my best to put aside my uneasiness for his sake. It wasn’t too difficult, because his enthusiasm was contagious and, more importantly, in such a large crowd it was easy to just blend in. About halfway through the fourth song, I finally started to relax and was actually beginning to enjoy myself.
And that’s when I caught sight of a familiar face: Mandy. She was weaving through the crowd, aimless and vacant; obviously under the influence of something besides the music. She’d stop here and there to give someone a hug or to dance; sometimes alone, but usually with an unsuspecting, but perfectly willing, partner. And, eventually, she made her way over to us.
She pulled on his shirt without a word and forced him to submit to a somewhat intimate embrace. He kept his hands off to the side, well away from her body, and shot me a helpless this-isn’t-my-fault look. I managed to shrug. She was obviously on something, she hadn’t exactly singled him out of the crowd, and he couldn’t help being accosted.
She finally let him go. He had to swallow hard and take a deep breath before he could speak, which made me raise an eyebrow. Then he gestured towards me–without making eye contact–and shouted above the music, “Mandy, I’m here with someone. I’m here with my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, I know.” She turned around and gave me a grin. “Holy shit. Don’t you look hot tonight.”
The only thing I could think of to say to that was, Uh, thanks; but I didn’t get the chance. Because that’s when she let go of him, pulled my face to hers, and kissed me.
It took me a few seconds to even register what was happening, and when I did I couldn’t bring myself to break away. Didn’t even try. Didn’t want to. It was the first time–ever–that I’d been kissed by a woman, and there was so much going on, so much to take in, that it all washed over me one hot, brief wave at a time.
Full, warm, wet, open lips. Slow and soft. Softer hands, so soft, just like petals on my cheek. Flowing silk and breasts, hers pressing and rubbing against mine as she still moved vaguely in time with the music. The strobing lights, throbbing beat and orgasmic howls of a female vocalist made it seem almost surreal, like a hazy, sexy dream that I wished would never end. She slithered her tongue inside my mouth and I tasted the sting of fresh cigarettes. It released a hot fragment of memory, of desire; a whisper of sex and rain, of longing. And so I kissed her back, kissed her forever; needing it, needing her, needing something…had to hold onto it, to keep it with me. But it was already slipping away, leaving me empty…wanting…
She broke away, finally, and whatever it was I was grasping for disappeared with her lips. She smiled, her face flushed and pretty, then ambled mercifully away without a word; left me to stagger in place, dizzy and reeling. Cold. And oddly alone.
All I need is a unibrow
Remember the Planters Peanut Girl commercial from this year’s [tragic] Superbowl [in which the Patriots did not emerge victorious]? To refresh your memory:
Now I know how she feels. Last night I broke a six pack of Michelob Light while I was stocking the cooler, and in the process my pant legs became drenched with beer. It took about an hour and a half for the pleasing aroma to fade, during which time every male between the ages of 15-89 who entered the store gave me the glad eye. I got winks and wiggly eyebrows. One guy even asked if I’d done something different with my hair. (I had not.) My beer sales spiked as well, so it was a win-win situation.
So ladies, why pay $102 for a 1.7 oz bottle of Chanel No. 5 when you can get six twelve oz bottles of Mich Light for less than seven bucks? And–depending on where you live–you may be able to recoup some of the expense by returning the empty bottles to your local redemption center.
Just thought you’d enjoy a friendly Tip From Kel-ouise.
(FYI: here’s the real woman underneath the unibrow. I think she’d stop traffic without the cashews or beer.)
Haunted
All I need is a unibrow
Remember the Planters Peanut Girl commercial from this year’s [tragic] Superbowl [in which the Patriots did not emerge victorious]? To refresh your memory:
Now I know how she feels. Last night I broke a six pack of Michelob Light while I was stocking the cooler, and in the process my pant legs became drenched with beer. It took about an hour and a half for the pleasing aroma to fade, during which time every male between the ages of 15-89 who entered the store gave me the glad eye. I got winks and wiggly eyebrows. One guy even asked if I’d done something different with my hair. (I had not.) My beer sales spiked as well, so it was a win-win situation.
So ladies, why pay $102 for a 1.7 oz bottle of Chanel No. 5 when you can get six twelve oz bottles of Mich Light for less than seven bucks? And–depending on where you live–you may be able to recoup some of the expense by returning the empty bottles to your local redemption center.
Just thought you’d enjoy a friendly Tip From Kel-ouise.
(FYI: here’s the real woman underneath the unibrow. I think she’d stop traffic without the cashews or beer.)
R.J. Keller 