For this no Yello Sub?

Recently Dr. Wife learned that her company is undergoing a merger. By "merger" I mean a hostile takeover in which everyone is up a creek with an invisible paddle that no one will tell them the location of.
Here is what we know.

She has to reapply for her job. She knows this because when she was sent to HR to get questions answered, she was met with a room full of computers and instructions to apply for her job online.

The job will be posted for other applicants.

If hired, there will likely be a pay cut.

If hired, she may be without work for the week before and the week after Christmas because her current business ceases to exist before the new one offers jobs.

The salary bonus that they have been dangling before her to get her to do the work of two people the last six months is vapor.

Her main hope is that her main boss, who likes her work, doesn't quit in the process.

She has worked so damn hard for so long with no reward, and now this. We had hoped that by working for a non-profit firm she could avoid some of this sort of BS, but that is apparently not the case. She has done all that one could ask of her, and then some. She just doesn't deserve this.

I'm mad. I'm punch people mad. I'm kick doors down and push people into traffic mad. I have a few silent moments right now. It's probably best for the world. I can't even crack jokes I'm so mad.

Antischmacterial

7:15 a.m., just 4.5 hours after falling asleep after a blues gig. The room is still dark and I am still asleep.

daughter: "Don't worry, Daddy, I got it out."
me: "That's nice dear."
daughter: "Yeah, you're still asleep, so I just did it myself."

drip. drip. drip.
I awaken and look into the proud face of my self-dressed daughter. She is holding a roll of toilet paper. It is thoroughly soaked. And dripping on the floor. And down her arm.

daughter: "Yeah, it fell in the toilet."
me: "So you reached in and got it, huh?"
daughter: "Yeah, but I was already done with it, so that's okay."

Scooz me

Thursday night I worked late. Another round of parent teacher conferences. And although it was a useful night, I was glad to come home to find a cheerful hopping daughter. We popped some popcorn, I fixed Grandma a margarita, fired up some Winnie "El Pooh", and sat with The Tiny Wonder for some snuggle time.

It was all cute peaceful Daddy-time until the potty break began. Tiny feet raced to the potty with cries of "I don't need help!" I waited. Actions occurred appropriately, but no child emerged. Instead, I heard a tiny, fake fart.

"PBBT." *giggles*

More farts. *cackles*

More variety and volume. *intense chuckles*

Pretty soon the bathroom was echoing with a continuous roll of fart-laugh-slobber. It lasted 10 minutes while my mother and I just shook our heads in silent recognition of a dominant gene rearing its clown-wigged head.

Dad: "Come on, honey, it's time to get ready for bed."
Daughter: "But I need to tooty some more."
Dad: "I think you've done a pretty good job already."
Daughter: "Oh. Scooz me. *giggles*"

She hate me

The kids don't care about it as much as I do. This is the typical lament we science teachers share. And because I didn't recognize this, I bored the hell out of my class today.

I thought to myself, "Self, you should play for them a broadcast from Science Friday that discusses the relationship between evolution and intelligent design. After all, you are beginning a unit relating evolution to environmental science and you teach in a catholic high school."

So I fired up the intertubes. The radio program played. I took notes on the board, along with the kids. At important points, we paused and discussed. At first, ideas were shared. I got the students used to identifying the various panel guests on the program. But as the hour wore on, I could see it. The thin film of detachment covering their once bright and shiny eyes. The strings of drool began their inexorable reach down, down, down to the desks.

How could this be? The discussion was entirely about communication! It contained no science jargon (which amounts to triptophan for kids). I paused for interaction with carefully planned questions! I asked them to share with partners their opinions! It was IRA FLATOW for crying out loud!

I just wanted them to know why there is a debate at all. If scientists are so sure of evolution, how can their be arguments against it? And, more importantly, I want them to not just accept evolution, but be good scientists and look at the data and evaluate.

I wanted them to care.

Rookie mistake.

I can get kids interested in science by providing relevance. But true caring? Can anyone do that? Can any teacher move a student from being interested in something new to truly caring? I believe not. Caring comes from the heart, not the mind. I can inform, and inquire, and cause inquiry, but caring comes from experience. It is experience that causes us to care. Some event in our lives must reach down to that core and really change us. I can set the stage for those moments, but I can't force them.

Route 66

I've been musing lately with the idea of taking a group of students on a summer trip. Some outdoor excursion steeped gently in science. French teachers find themselves traipsing off to France. Geography teachers explore Australia. Hell, even PE teachers take kids on ski trips. Why not me?

But where do we go? I've got some thoughts: Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, canoe trips... I should probably stay stateside for my first foray.

Where, were you my student, would you like to go with me? Fun is important, and the world offers an education that no classroom can match.


*for those who read the first draft, my apologies for the poor editing ;)

Why the blues?

I'm a 31 year old white guy. So why do I want to play a form of music that, frankly, doesn't connect to my target demographic at all?

It has to do with the role of a blues bassist. Solid. Locked in. Supportive. Essential. It is who I want to be in and out of music.

I just don't want to be the front man. If I was on the cover of the CD case, you'd turn it over and put your beer on it. I lack the looks and the flash needed to be the face of band. But I can be the backbone.

So what is the root of me? What is it that makes me important to the people I love? I think it's that I provide something solid in a pretty transient world.

The Black Crows, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers. Solid, based in blues, and except for Flea, can you name the bassists? Probably not. But turn on an album and cut the bass on the EQ. Is it as good?

Would you miss me if I wasn't playing in your band? If I am living my life right, the answer is yes.

Reduce, reuse, recycle

The Goober Pea and I were on the way home from pre-school.

daughter: "Look! I have little fuzzies on my legs like you, Daddy."
me: "Yes, but yours are little and fine and blonde. Mine are thick and dark."
daughter: "Why?"
me: "Because I'm a big old daddy."
daughter: "Yeah, but not too old. We can still keep you."
me: "I'm glad."
daughter: "Yeah. Pretty soon you'll be too old and then we'll have to get a new daddy."
me: "No way! Only one old daddy for this family!"
daughter: "But when you are too old we will have to get a new one. OK?"

Does she know something I don't?