15 June 2010
If Blogger decides that it actually is going to work tonight, this is a video of FB's belt test in Tae Kwon Do. He had to break board with three different kicks; so of course the only video I get of him is on the board he needed two tries to break. He usually breaks on the first kick in class, so naturally he requires two kicks in front of a Grand Master judge. (And no, it wasn't Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five. Although, how cool would that be?)
Speaking of FB: Every year his school has a science fair. All students are encouraged to participate, but 5th graders are required. They know from the beginning of the year that this is something they must do. FB, being his father's son, decided on a project about a month before it was due. He decided to throw paper airplanes through a fire and see how long it would take for them to catch fire. Was this an approved topic? He assured me it was. Is your teacher nearing retirement? He didn't understand the question. I bought the requisite tri-fold presentation board for him to begin preparing. A week later I found it behind his door, bent with holes from the door stop. He started his presentation on Word like so: "Question: I wonder what would happen if I threw a paper airplane through a fire? Hypothesis: I believe it would catch fire and burn down to ashes. Because paper catches fire easily." Oh, so this is the "No Shit, Sherlock" science fair. I harangued him in my maternal manner, "What kind of paper are you going to use? What style of airplane? What are the variables going to be?" His answer to everthing: "I know. I will. I am." etc., etc., ad infinitum. Two days (yes, I said TWO DAYS) before his project is due, he and his friends are outside with a pie plate full of debris, lighting it on fire, and throwing paper airplanes through it. Acrid smoke is billowing through the neighborhood because they have picked fresh cedar boughs to try to alight. After many failed attempts to get these planes to light, I asked him if he knew what his problem was. He decided that maybe he needed a bigger fire (oh, yeah, I'm sure the neighbors are on board with that). The hemming and hawing went on for several minutes before I pointed out that his hypothesis was wrong because the planes had too much velocity to ignite just flying through the flames. He concurred and the night before the science project was due he used black duct tape to patch his presentation board, cut out the sentences from what he printed from Word, and .....that was pretty much it. I figured, live and learn, he'll see what his effort bring him. What I forgot is the whole "don't crush their little spirits" attitude of this school, because they gave him a "B". A freakin' "B"!! Although he only got half credit on presentation, organization and some other "tion" that escapes me right now. I asked if he were okay with his presentation. He said yes. I pointed out the 50% scores. He said, "But I got a good grade." I then waxed poetic, and apoplectic truth be told, on effort, work ethic and values of grades. The words "half assed" may or may not have been bandied about; I can neither confirm or deny. The end result is, he now knows that a hard earned, worked your ass off "C" will triumph over a half assed "B" any day in this house. Hard as it is to be the daughter of a nurse, being the son of a woman raised by an engineer is probably much worse.
SoS had a book report that required him to build a "riddle vest." What the hell? Does no one do normal things anymore? Then again, how much did I enjoy handwritten, stand in front of the class book reports when I was in first grade? Or, you know, ever? So, he did his book report on anteaters. He was very cautious about his clues because he didn't want to give it away on the first one
We were in the car this afternoon when a song by The Police came on. FB, being my son, was immediately reminded of a quote from a cartoon.
FB "Cheese it, it's the FUR."
Me: "I think you mean the FUZZ."
FB: "Oh, yeah. Cheese it, it's the Fuzz."
Speaking of this afternoon, I had to rush out from work to get my mammy's grammed. This place makes me a little nervous as they are the biggest bunch of Boob Nazis I've ever met. The first time the gave me shit about how they recommend that a baseline be done at 35 and not 40, despite no literature to support that recommendation and my lack of access to a time machine to transport me back to my 35th year. Yeah, well, I'm not 35, so I hope you can adjust and move on. Then they hassled me about skipping a year. I argued with them for a little while that I was 40 at my baseline and now (at the time) I was 41 which is NOT skipping a year. Until I realized that since I was only 2 weeks away from turning 42 that I technically had skipped a year. I was due in February, so I was wondering what kind of mayhem was going to ensue from that. What with them getting all up in my business about my menstrual cycle, birth control preferences and family history, they were too busy to notice that I was a little late. Then she asked how often I did self exams. And, just like when the dentist asks how often I floss, I laughed at her. Why do you force me to lie to you? We both know that even if I say "every few months" it's a giant falsehood. I check my scrub pockets for pens every day I work, isn't that enough? It's pretty vigorous. C'mon. And can I just say, what the hell? It's the 21st century. We should have flying cars, fetal monitors that actually work, and a better way to do this test. And one that doesn't require jewelry removal, because that shit itches.
I got a phone call from my neighbor inuring as to whether I had gotten a new dog, or if everything was all right at my house, becuase there was a lot of continuous barking. It seems dear Dude, likes to while away the hours while I'm at work, by giving voice to whatever thought enters his head. Uh oh. I went to my neighbor across the street, he of the long time dog ownership, to see what he thought of bark collars. When I mentioned that Dude was apparently, a little loud, he nodded and said, "Yeah, we were wondering if we should talk to you about it." Oh great! I'm THAT neighbor! The one with the dog you just wish would shut the FUCK UP! Like the dog that used to bark at my dad when he pulled into the driveway, of OUR house after a long day of work. Stand in front of his dog house and bay at my father in his own driveway. My father enjoyed this so much he started carrying one of the BB guns in the car and peppering the ground around it until it went into it's doghouse. Got to where Puppy (that was the name of this full grown dog, Puppy) would hear the ol' VW sqaureback pullin' in and would go into his house until my dad was in ours. I don't want to be that neighbor. So, I hope the collar is working, but no one has been around when I am to ask. But, no phone calls, or "courtesy" visits from the county sheriff, so I guess no news is no jail time.