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All posts for the month May, 2014

It Goes Without Saying, but should it?

Published May 25, 2014 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I still have limited vocal volume. (I can communicate through a series of finger snaps, joint pops or armpit farts if need be.)

This enforced code of silence is forcing me to ponder the concept of things left unsaid. At this point, whenever I feel that EH needs to know something before he and the Adulteress ride off into the sunset, I text it to him, because I don’t feel that I can effectively communicate it without ripping off my head and heaving it at him like a fiery pumpkin.   But it’s information that I think he should know and consider.

Let it not be said that I left it unsaid.

My Teresa Friend is a noted educator and is now working in Educational Administration. She brought the following to my attention:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/franchesca-warren/the-deafening-silence-of-_b_5157041.html

The article says that teachers often do no speak out or exercise their right to free speech because they are afraid of the consequences, such as being black balled, reprimanded or even fired.

I know there are many teachers who are leaving things unsaid. I, myself, leave many, many things unsaid. (In fact, I am choking on a little rage as I work through the course work of my Alternative Certification. There are glaring omissions and quite a few grammar mistakes in the text itself. There are also “Real World” situations that in my experience, may happen in A real world, but not THIS real world.

There is a tiny part of me that hopes that the schools to which I have applied won’t take offense at that statement, even though it is an opinion and is in no way a reflection on those specific schools or district(s).

At this point I have applied to three different jobs in two different regions.

On a personal level, I am pondering the things that I have left unsaid, both in terms of keeping the peace in the family and generally being polite. I hope that I will be able to say what has been unsaid in order to make amends for remaining silent.

I personally think it is a gift to run the gamut of armpit farts, esoteric allusion, Constitutional rights, potential drama, education and dark secrets all in the same blog.

I think I need Nyquil

mind of a goldfish; voice of a bullfrog

Published May 24, 2014 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I seem to have lost my voice. (Literally, not a pretentious “I have lost my muse”sort of way) I actually feel ok, my throat is a little sore and I have a bad case of the don’t give a crap syndrome, but I can’t blame that or link it to the no voice thing.

It’s frustrating for two reasons 1) There’s nothing I can do about it and I LOVE being powerless. 2) I have tendency to to advance panic about everything and I keep thinking about the last time I lost my voice.

When my head blew up, the main thing that freaked me out was hearing my voice go dead and flat. I had absolultely no control of the volume and tone of what came out of my mouth.  I am fortunate that my training and talents allow me to tackle and execute accents.  It is a nightmare for an actor who is already nervous and a little terrified that an audience member may just pop a cap in the director’s ass at curtain call to not be able to control their voice.  (To be fair, the capping might have made the entire weekend for me.)

So now that I can’t control the sound,I’m trying to hide from the underlying fear that it’s not going to get better. Because that would be impossible.  Except I stand on the precipice of the impossible most of the time.  Bleah. That was almost pretentious.  I apologize.

So is the phrase “Kimye is married” grammatically correct? I saw that in the Huffington post. I am focusing on  that so I don’t scream about the fountains of money that rained all over that event that could have been put to much better use. Except, you know, I can’t scream.

Wary of the unfamiliar

Published May 24, 2014 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

My Amanda-Friend tells me that my previous blog did not update, just posted the one paragraph and did not submit the changes and additions I made. I was trying (and failing ) to learn the skill of posting from my tablet.

So for those of you who did not see the rest of Begin or Begun  (or just want to chuckle at  my use of the word she-beast again.)  

Here it is :

 

I was in a terrible Outdoor Summer Musical Historical dinner theatre production. ( Basically every adjective I hate in combination with the word “theatre”) That experience was the beginning of what I now think is the second biggest mistake of my life. I’m hoping I will be able to get all of the horribles into some semblance of order eventually, but the Sandstone Productions of the summer of 2001 are definitely somewhere near the top.

The two plays that ran on alternate nights were Historical Dramas about the Four Corners region and the development of the City of Farmington, NM. (Waiting for Guffman is not nearly as funny when it’s you.)   One play covered the span of the mid 1800′s to the early 1900′s. The other was 1910-ish to the 1950′s (Maybe, it was a little unclear to me.)

I should have realized how dreadful it was all going to be at the  onset. My audition wasn’t the greatest. The AAGTH had flown in one of his adulterous she-beasts from out of town and she was lurking around at the back. I found this unnerving because who brings their own skank to an audition?

Still I think I did well, because I made it to call backs. I couldn’t attend said call backs because AATGH had borrowed my car to take the she-beast on a camping trip because they felt uncomfortable boning away her wedding vows in the same house in which I resided.

I was still cast in this play and after being told that I was not right to play the part of the Hispanic Woman in her thirties, (Yes, the director looked into my little brown face and said hat.) I was shuffled around into a number of parts and landed in two similar roles. I played the Wife of White Eagle in one play and the Wife of Two Mules in the other.

I called myself Stands on Porches.

The whole point behind this story is that in one of the plays, the outsiders, a shop keeper and his wife who save the Son of White Eagle, are invited to be a a part of a ceremony, thus marking the moment in which they are considered family.  Prior to the ceremony, my character sat on a blanket next to the shopkeeper who took that opportunity to wax poetic on the constancy of change. This went on every night for about six weeks until it finally occurred to the actor that my character’s grasp of the English Language was limited to the few words that I spoke  earlier in the show.  The actor looked at me that night and mouthed the words, “You have no idea what I’m talking about.” I smiled beatifically and nodded.

The reason I told this story is that as I am ending what I hoped would be a year of complete change has turned into a slight drift forward. As I may have mentioned (Yes I could just look back at something I’ve written and find out, but we all know I’m too lazy for that.) I am going to start cobbling together a memoir.

I don’t know where to start and all I could think of was Dave Huber saying, “The only constant in life is change.”

That  and the fact that I have completely lost my voice and am wondering if I can do tomorrow’s story time through interpretive dance without frightening the children is the only thing weighing on my mind.

Begin or begun?

Published May 21, 2014 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I am continuing whatever this is that I’m doing.

I was in a terrible Outdoor Summer Musical Historical dinner theatre production. ( Basically every adjective I hate in combination with the word “theatre”) That experience was the beginning of what I now think is the second biggest mistake of my life. I’m hoping I will be able to get all of the horribles into some semblance of order eventually, but the Sandstone Productions of the summer of 2001 are definitely somewhere near the top.

The two plays that ran on alternate nights were Historical Dramas about the Four Corners region and the development of the City of Farmington, NM. (Waiting for Guffman is not nearly as funny when it’s you.)   One play covered the span of the mid 1800’s to the early 1900’s. The other was 1910-ish to the 1950’s (Maybe, it was a little unclear to me.)

I should have realized how dreadful it was all going to be at the  onset. My audition wasn’t the greatest. The AAGTH had flown in one of his adulterous she-beasts from out of town and she was lurking around at the back. I found this unnerving because who brings their own skank to an audition?

Still I think I did well, because I made it to call backs. I couldn’t attend said call backs because AATGH had borrowed my car to take the she-beast on a camping trip because they felt uncomfortable boning away her wedding vows in the same house in which I resided.

I was still cast in this play and after being told that I was not right to play the part of the Hispanic Woman in her thirties, (Yes, the director looked into my little brown face and said hat.) I was shuffled around into a number of parts and landed in two similar roles. I played the Wife of White Eagle in one play and the Wife of Two Mules in the other.

I called myself Stands on Porches.

The whole point behind this story is that in one of the plays, the outsiders, a shop keeper and his wife who save the Son of White Eagle, are invited to be a a part of a ceremony, thus marking the moment in which they are considered family.  Prior to the ceremony, my character sat on a blanket next to the shopkeeper who took that opportunity to wax poetic on the constancy of change. This went on every night for about six weeks until it finally occurred to the actor that my character’s grasp of the English Language was limited to the few words that I spoke  earlier in the show.  The actor looked at me that night and mouthed the words, “You have no idea what I’m talking about.” I smiled beatifically and nodded.

The reason I told this story is that as I am ending what I hoped would be a year of complete change has turned into a slight drift forward. As I may have mentioned (Yes I could just look back at something I’ve written and find out, but we all know I’m too lazy for that.) I am going to start cobbling together a memoir.

I don’t know where to start and all I could think of was Dave Huber saying, “The only constant in life is change.”

That  and the fact that I have completely lost my voice and am wondering if I can do tomorrow’s story time through interpretive dance without frightening the children is the only thing weighing on my mind.

 

Shudders (Nod Jusd for Wintows anymore)

Published May 19, 2014 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

Can you crack dhe cote?

This is what I meant to post Friday, but then things got weird-why did I expect anything different?
My days range from weird-crazy and from interesting-how the hell did this happen. I started out this morning in a reasonably good mood. This mood was compromised when it occurred to me that I was not going to have time to do any of the things I need to do. I stewed over this on the way to work and by the time I got there I couldn’t think of anything nicer to say than “Suck Me.” Not a good idea for someone who is about to give a tour to 74 kindergarteners.

So the tour went great, but I can’t play with kidlings all day. I don’t have the energy and I seem to be unable to keep my cool for longer than four hours at a time.

At lunch I glanced at the news, because I sort of like knowing what’s happening in the world. (I say sort of, because they are things I would be happy to run around in ignorance of, but I do want to know if the all of the polar ice caps have melted and if I should be expecting to see a polar bear on a surf board hoping to find a deal on bear chow at Costco.)
Some of the information I am choosing to ignore is the fact that people seem shocked and amazed that racism still exists! (I know, the horror.)  Many people are getting poorer and hungrier. Giant chunks of the earth are shifting into fun new shapes, but no one really seems to care, not even when most of us are slammed in the face with the realities of ecological situation. The earth is trying to reject us like a bad cow heart. Remember you heard it hear first.

But then my afternoon turned around a bit. A high school student came in to the library and wanted help on researching her project on Elizabeth Bathory.

Off the top of my head and without breaking a sweat I was able to tell her where to find the film “The Countess” on the Netflix and while I typed, looking for resources that might physically be on the premises, we chatted about the rarity of female serial killers.  We both commented that most kill for revenge.  As my fingers flew through various databases finding her links to several different websites and history blogs, I wondered if Elizabeth Bathoury’s vanity can be construed as revenge. Possibly, if we knew what created it.
From the good people at Wikipedia:

Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed (Báthory Erzsébet in HungarianAlžbeta Bátoriová in Slovak; 8 August 1560 – 21 August 1614) was a countess from the renowned Báthory family of nobility in the Kingdom of Hungary. She has been labelled the most prolific female serial killer in history, though the precise number of her victims is debated. Báthory and four collaborators were accused of torturing and killing hundreds of girls between 1585 and 1610.[1]Despite the evidence against Elizabeth, her family’s influence kept her from facing trial. She was imprisoned in December 1610 within Csejte CastleUpper Hungary, now in Slovakia, where she remained immured in a set of rooms until her death four years later.

The stories of her serial murders and brutality are verified by the testimony of more than 300 witnesses and survivors as well as physical evidence and the presence of horribly mutilated dead, dying and imprisoned girls found at the time of her arrest.[2] Stories which ascribe to her vampire-like tendencies (most famously the tale that she bathed in the blood of virgins to retain her youth) were generally recorded years after her death and are considered unreliable. Her story quickly became part of national folklore, and her infamy persists to this day. [3] She is often compared with Vlad III the Impaler of Wallachia, on whom the fictional Count Dracula is partly based, and has been nicknamed The Blood Countess and Countess Dracula.

What does say about me that I can go from surly to annoyed to thrilled in a matter of hours and the only thing that has made me go zowie this week is a serial killer?
 

Even when I ‘m there, I don’t know what’s going on

Published May 12, 2014 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

In the last twelve hours, I talked to Actor Boy; bought five audio books and had a dream so bizarre I believe Patton Oswalt’s Ambien dream theory.

I vaguely remember what Actor Boy and I talked about. He is going to try and come for a week this summer to celebrate my birthday and to slog around with me and commiserate about our mutual disappointments over the past year. He has convinced me to join him on the dark side (Where you don’t actively pursue dating or romantic relationships of any kind because a) it is too grim a prospect and b) only the beasts remember us.)

I had a credit with Audible so I selected a book and bought three additional credits. I discovered that there is Stephen King book that is only available on audio, so of course I had to buy it. I also pre-ordered the upcoming Stephen King and reserved the remaining credit for a future purchase.  I woke up this morning and discovered that there was a flash sale. One of the books on my wish list (A memoir about a child survivor of the Holocaust, narrated by one of my favorite narrators) was on the sale for four dollars. I didn’t want to use my credit for this book, so I used the credit to buy another book I want to read (I capture the castle, which sounds like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn: the English Countryside version) and then I got the other book.

I dreamed that one of my oldest friends wanted me to borrow and airplane for the buffet of an upcoming wedding that was being held in a local theater. She wanted to arrange the chocolate truffles along the wings of the plane. I needed to tell the restaurant that owned the plane that I would need to borrow it for two hours. There was also going to be a story time in the theater approximately 15 minutes before the wedding started. The Pope was also in attendance and one of my aunt’s was annoyed because she felt a wedding was a misuse of a papal visit.  Somewhere in the dream Amelia Earhart was flying a plane and her husband fell out of the cockpit and she had to fly him back, wondering if she should stop flying. (This was not the same plane that the restaurant owned.)

Patton Oswalt has theory that Ambien opens up all of the doors in your subconscious. All of the dream troupes, the Action Dream, the Nightmare, the Hubba-Hubba sex dream, etc all exist behind different doors. With Ambien they all come out to perform and have to assemble a dream out of the different components.

I have no idea. I’m trying to make sense of things, but  how can I when my brain insists on wandering out doing weird crap when I’m not paying attention?

But what’s the ratio?

Published May 12, 2014 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

The following quote is brought to you by the good people of Wikipedia, so I guess you folk in the intraweb

There’s a sucker born every minute” is a phrase most likely spoken by David Hannum, in criticism of both P. T. Barnum, an American showman of the mid 1800s, and his customers. The phrase is often credited to Barnum himself. It means “Many people are gullible, and we can expect this to continue.”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There%27s_a_sucker_born_every_minute

As is this quote

 Andy Warhol, who included the words “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes” in the program for a 1968 exhibition of his work at the Moderna Museet in StockholmSweden.[1]Photographer Nat Finkelstein claims credit for the expression, stating that he was photographing Warhol in 1966 for a proposed book. A crowd gathered trying to get into the pictures and Warhol supposedly remarked that everyone wants to be famous, to which Finkelstein replied, “Yeah, for about fifteen minutes, Andy.”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fifteen_minutes_of_fame

I have also heard that everyone has a story to tell.

I know who I am. I know I am terrible at math, so I can’t really figure out an equation of how many stories need to be told, but I do know that for every person who has fifteen minutes of fame, there will be at least fifteen suckers to fantasize about them.

I have of late, but wherefore know not lost all of my ability to give the teeny tiny furry crack of a rat’s behind about things that are happening around me or to me. I think it’s the painkillers, either that or my dosage needs to be adjusted. I think my not giving a crapesque attitude kept me from freaking out when the Big Boss told me I didn’t get the job but that I will still be employed for at least another month. I did droop a bit, but actually surprised myself by not making the whimper that I know was swirling around in my psyche.  As I have said, It’s beyond me. I know better than to make plans. One of the things that has fallen by the wayside is my focus.  I have to get it back. I have had a number of people (Ok, five, what? five is a number) ask me if I have ever considered writing a memoir. Does my story need to be told? I know at least fifteen people will read it.  Stephen King (All hail the master) says that there are watershed moments in history. Such as the Kennedy Assassination. Webster defines watershed as a moment when important changed happened. I have searched for the origins of this phrase and that perhaps it’s related to the story of Noah or of the great flood that has been recorded in the ancient histories of many areas of the world.

But isn’t every moment in someone’s life a watershed moment. Think about it. Whatever you’re doing right now is changing what you are about to do. Is it going to be a story moment? That’s up to you and the fifteen people to decide.

I was going to write about whatever I recorded, but I left the recorder at home. Blarg.

Did I have less interesting conversations because I knew I wasn’t being recorded? Maybe.  Did it change anything?

So maybe I have something to write about.

But I need fifteen people to tell me.