Unexpected Souvenirs

We knew it would be cold. We knew it would be VERY cold. We each had
three layers on.

And yet, we each got gloves and a hat, and actively looked for both
indoor attractions and things with long lines, as long as they were
inside.

Brrrrr.

We Made It

After much deliberation, Patrick decided to start off at MG--excuse
me...at Disney's Hollywood Studios...where we promptly ended up at
Guest Services because they couldn't read Patrick's card but all is
well now.

(Down season this ain't...at least not yet.)

On Our Way

This is not our plane, but Patrick has been fascinated watching them
prepare it for a flight...it's helped calm his nerves some.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Part Two

The Good:  My hair is back in the "style with your fingers" phase.  The top is finally almost the right length, though of course it doesn't lay quite the way it did at Fantastic Sam's.  I still had to endure the stylist asking me fifteen times if I really wanted my hair that short...I don't know how else to say, "If it were longer, it'd be pulled back into a severe ponytail.  No matter how short you cut it, it'll actually look like more hair than it used to be."  Sigh.

The Bad:  Haircuts are among my least favorite things in the universe.  Imagine being hypersensitive to touch, disliking touch from behind (especially if you don't know it's coming), being hypersensitive about your personal space, and disliking immensely hair touching your ears.

Also?  Flipping onto New Year's Rockin' Eve in the middle of "Before He Cheats," and having the chorus -- and the chorus only -- stuck in my head for the following...well...it's still there....

The Ugly:  Watching someone get their eyebrows plucked with string.  Yuck!  (I have the SpooWriter's-Surname Family Eyebrows, though not as bad as Patrick...I don't quite have the unibrow he does, but my eyebrows are definitely thick...but nothing would convince me to do that.)

Patrick and I are off to the airport in two hours for our Christmas trip...we won't have Internet access, but I may post from my iPhone.

Why You Should Sit in the Back

In college, a few friends and I went to see some of the Whose Line is it Anyway people in a live show.  We sat in the nosebleed seats.  I remember thinking, at the time, that it was probably for the best...we were a whole level above any of the poor unfortunate people who might be picked from the audience to participate.

My TiVo grabbed an episode of Whose Line on Christmas Eve.  Imagine my surprise when Drew sauntered into the audience and grabbed my aunt's hand, thus proving my theory that you should sit far, far away.

For the record, the game was "Sound Effects."

Apologies for the lousy quality of the screencaps; my TiVo records suggestions at the lowest possible quality.

Notice also the fiendish glee in my uncle's eyes.

You can just imagine what my aunt is thinking here.  (Also, again with the fiendish glee.)

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The Good:  BofA finally credited my account with the missing $1200.  The affidavit is duly signed and faxed back, though there wasn't a box to check that exactly fit the circumstances, so I wrote a little note saying that though my wallet was out of my possession for half an hour, it is not physically possible to get from Santa Clarita to Fresno and back in half an hour.  (To say nothing of finding and paying for $1200 of building supplies.)  Hopefully that's the end of it, though who really knows.

The Bad:  The stomach flu that was rampaging through school before Christmas break?  I finally succumbed, while spending my Christmas money from Grandpa on some very nice pants at the Catherine's outlet in Vegas.  (And, let me tell you, a five hour drive with the stomach flu is fun.)

The Ugly:  The shirt that looked really pretty on the rack at Catherine's, but made me look like a walking Pepto Bismol bottle.  (There was a blue one too, but it looked like a beach coverup.)  Fortunately, I was trying clothes on as I'd never bought jeans from Catherine's, and it's better to be safe than sorry, given that I wear a different size at just about every place I buy pants.

The Extra:  Our cable was out for most of yesterday, except for Headline News on the TV in the living room, and the Weather Channel (and, sort of, Sci-Fi) on mine.  Thus, any Internet surfing I did was on my iPhone.  Thus my not replying to anyone's email.

A Tale of Two Delis

My family has always been a Brent's family.

For any out of state readers, Brent's is a family-run deli in a nondescript strip mall in Southern California.  It's surrounded by a bar on one side -- they used to do their cooking, and would pass orders through a hole in their wall you could see from the counter -- and a carpet store on the other.  The parking lot is perpetually full.

Brent's has been a staple in my family for many years.  It was my first outing as a child, as it was Patrick's.  My dad put the alarm in the deli, the owners' house, and their kids' houses as they got married.  He used to trade alarm service for food.  In fact, I remember going with him on a service call during the summer; it was 2:00 on a weekday, and still full.

I remember when Brent's was a tiny deli; the restaurant itself was two rows wide and stopped at the end of the counter.  Behind that was storage and restrooms.  It's expanded twice since then -- once to turn the storage and restrooms into more seating (a relatively modest expansion) and then when they bought the store next to them (a bakery, I think) and doubled the size of the restaurant.

If anything, the lines got longer.

We stopped going for a while after my dad died, and then again when one of the waitresses teased Patrick beyond his limit to tolerate it.  (Not "teased" as in "haw-haw," teased as in, "hey, maybe I'll take one of these action figures home!" -- she thought she was being friendly, but Patrick hated it.)

Once the new location opened in Westlake Village, we've been going there, generally on trips to the Costco in Ventura, which is the farthest south you can get Splash Cafe clam chowder.

Anyhow, aside from a few trips with a friend to a Weiler's Deli in high school (meh) because it was on the way to her house, and the godawful Country Deli with my grandparents (why they liked that place, I'll never know; I have noticed that grandpa hasn't gone since grandma died), it's been Brent's or no deli food.

Patrick threw a monkey wrench into that on Christmas.

The last few years, we've been left without anywhere to go on Christmas Day; my grandpa has been on trips with his girlfriend, generally, while my cousins are with their in-laws, and my other aunt and uncle are Jewish.

So, of course, Patrick generally wants to go to Disneyland.

That was the plan this year until about noon on Christmas Day, when he decided he wanted to stay home.

Okay, fine...except that there was nothing really to cook; I had been planning on making these until Patrick came up with the Disneyland Plan, but they require being rubbed the night before and several hours to braise...not something I could do on short notice like that.

So, around 7:00, we piled into the car on an expedition to find an open restaurant.  We tried the likely places first -- restaurants near movie theaters (oh, my God, were they packed!) but they were all closed.  So I suggested driving down Ventura, haven of all restaurants in the valley.

Lo and behold, there were quite a few open -- several delis, in fact.  The only one I recognized was Jerry's Famous Deli, so we pulled in and decided to try it.

At this point, it was about 8:00.  The restaurant was packed, and there was a 20 minute wait.  They were showing whichever Pirates movie was on ABC (with closed captioning on, thankfully), and then we were seated.

The menu is a big plus.  It's varied but has recognizable deli food everywhere, along with some surprising additions (like gyros...yum!).  Observing the tables around us, the service seems to be generally good.

(Now, understand, at Brent's, the service is impeccable.  You order quickly, your food is served quickly, bus boys are paid extra and do things like refill your drinks before they're even empty, etc. etc. etc.  But that's rare, at any restaurant...however....)

Our waiter clearly had ADD.

As in, Bulldozer has a longer attention span than this guy.  As in -- oh, look, a dust mote just flew by!

By the time he actually took our drink orders, he'd stopped by the table at least four times, started to ask what we wanted, saw something else that needed doing, and flitted away.

By the time we finished our -- very good -- meal, Pirates was nearly over, it was 10 minutes to 11:00, and it had passed the point of annoyance right into morbid gallows humor.

The plus side is that it seemed from watching the other tables that it was only our section that suffered thusly, and the food was very, very good, though a tad more expensive than Brent's.  Their eggs in particular were cooked just the way I like them (to be fair, that's drier than most people) and they were seasoned beautifully.  The bagels, while not Western Bagels, were also very good, and were served with a healthy amount of cream cheese -- so that I didn't have to beg, borrow, or steal some from other people.

All in all, I actually plan to go back -- among all the other pluses, they serve my favorite kind of ranch -- but nothing will ever be Brent's.  Nothing ever can be Brent's.

(I am now so craving a special steak and eggs...Brent's marinates or rubs or something their steaks with something that is unique and wonderful, and I'm gonna stop now before I drool on my keyboard.)

In totally unrelated news, Sci-Fi was showing a Christmas Stargate marathon, and aside from picking up the Canadian "ow" pronunciation from listening to Canadians talk for far too many hours straight, I was reminded of the following hilarious exchange:

Vala:  Blah blah blah, so we shall blah blah blah.

(Note:  She does not say "blah blah blah," although it sounds like something she would say, but I can't remember what she and Daniel were talking about.)

Daniel (firmly):  No, we shalln't.

Shalln't.

Hee hee.

(What?  I'm easily amused by word play.  So shoot me.)

Shalln't.

Heh.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas to everybody, from a happy but frustrated nerd.

(I got a nifty new gadget for Christmas -- thus the happy -- but a power blip at the wrong time has rendered the accompanying software...messed up -- thus the frustrated.)

Small Update

Sage is now part of the pot roast recipe forever.

Yum.

Surprisingly Easy

I did my Christmas shopping for Patrick this morning (I was waiting for the promised funds to reappear in my checking account by, alas, they haven't yet...I sense another string of phone calls is in my future on Wednesday).  I'm not buying him much since we're taking our trip together, but I got the usual: a shirt, a couple of DVDs, paper (he's the King of Lists), and scotch tape.  I went around 10:00 this morning and made it in and out of both Wal-Mart (clothes and paper) and Best Buy in just over an hour.

The last thing Patrick really needs is more shirts, but it's a Routine, and one he'd be very upset if I didn't stick with.  I began buying him an outfit for Christmas and his birthday when he hit 12 or 13 and our mom was still buying him little boy clothes.  I believe that kids with disabilities have enough disadvantages in making good impressions with people, and that one thing I can do to help smooth the road is ensure his clothes are nice and stylish.

As he got older, as most people do, Patrick developed his own style.  He loves Hawaiian shirts -- the brighter and bolder, the better -- as well as button-down shirts and 80s style polo shirts.  So what did I find for him today?

Well, I can't find a picture online, but it's a dark purple fake-silk button down short sleeved shirt with a bold, bright swirly pattern of lighter purple and other complimentary colors on it.  It's loud and bold and perfect for Patrick.

Meanwhile, I'm taking advantage of the lull in activity to make one of my favorite meals for a long, slow, non-school day: Alton Brown's pot roast.

With, of course, minor variations.

Alton suggests using bone-in chuck -- 7 blade steaks, as I recall -- but I prefer brisket.  I've made it with chuck and just didn't like the texture of the meat.  Brisket is a bit more expensive, but it's worth it.

I use a bit more tomato juice in the braising liquid than he suggests, as well.  (Be aware that the acid in both the tomato juice and balsamic vinegar is strong when you're reducing the braising liquid -- you'll tear up as much as you do when you chop onions...or, at least, I do.)

Finally, this time, I added some torn sage leaves to the braising liquid, as well as a chiffonade of three more sage leaves.  When I rubbed the meat, I added some paprika and dried sage to the cumin.

Yum.  :-)

Also -- if you make a roux (mix together equal parts butter and flour) and then pour the liquid (only the liquid) left over after cooking, and bring it to a boil, you'll have a yummy sauce.  It's even better if you add just a little whole milk to cut the acidity.

What Writer's Block Means to Me

I've started another video. It  all happened while driving -- my iPod was on random (as usual) and I heard "Don't You Need," and before I knew it, I had the insane idea to try to pull enough clips from "Blood Fever" to make a Voyager video.

Problem is, all the relevant clips from that episode are dark -- lit by the actors' handheld flashlights -- and they are filled with talky-face.  I may end up making slight exception, despite the generally accepted vidder's rule that talky-face is bad.

So now I'm left borrowing clips from other episodes -- mostly in the third season, when the producers randomly decided to go the Tom/B'Elanna route instead of the Harry/B'Elanna route -- while still trying to make the narrative make sense.

(The main narrative is, of course, the story of B'Elanna's increasing desperation as the pon farr makes her more and more...err...feverish.)

I don't have the series on DVD but of course it's -- cough -- available in other venues -- cough -- not that I would ever -- cough -- acquire the series that way.  I am, of course, simply -- cough -- story-boarding at this point.

Cough.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah.  Writer's block.

So the other night, just for fun, I opened most of my active stories in Word and just cycled through them.  Lots of words.  Some in script format, some in narrative format, and some half-and-half.

Dialogue remains my weakness, as does my tendency be very straightforward and information-dump-like in my descriptions, so I have a few stories I'm working on specifically to force myself to describe things better -- in particular stories that force me to work within certain limitations (for instance, a Blood Ties story from Vicki's point of view in near-darkness (she has night blindness, or a Sue Thomas story where I can't rely on Sue picking up on tone of voice).

One thing I've learned over the past few years is that different things draw me to different stories, characters, and even shows.

For instance, the large majority of my Farscape stories are centered around a few isolated moments.

Like, say, Aeryn in "Till the Blood Runs Clear," because I find the interplay between her fierce desire to be independent despite her temporary blindness and her wide grin when Crichton compliments her ingenuity to be fascinating.  I saw a brief snippet of that episode when it first aired, and for years after -- even though I didn't yet watch the show -- my memory of Aeryn was her abrupt "Don't help me, Crichton!"  In fact, my first Farscape story was based off that moment.

Most of my other stories are centered around the following: Aeryn's breakdown in "The Way We Weren't," the aftermath of Moya!John's death (which is one of only two stories written from anyone other than Aeryn's point of view), the aftermath of Aeryn's torture, and the aftermath of John's collapse in The Peacekeeper Wars.

With other shows, of course, it's other moments -- but that's why I tend to write missing scenes and episode tags.  I'm drawn to the moments and want to explore them more.

So, anyhow, when a bout of writer's block comes along, the first thing that begins to happen is that I watch these moments themselves, or I'm reading something, or listening to a song, and start thinking: "Wow, if only I had that gift with language."

Which brings me back to the beginning of this.  I realize song writing is an entirely different thing than fiction writing or prose writing.  But when I read the lyrics to "Don't You Need," I'm invariably struck by the powerful imagery -- and it's something that always seems like it's beyond my reach.

In fact, imagery is one reason I've always been drawn to Melissa Etheridge's songs, ever since a friend gave me a copy of her self-titled album because it didn't fit on her CD case and I liked the song "Come to My Window."

(That song was immediately over-played and is probably one of my least favorite of her songs now, but whatever.)

So I've got these open files, especially the ones that are in script format, and I wonder: Can I come up with words to bring the images in my head into being on paper?  Lately, it seems like the answer is no.  The images themselves are as clear as ever -- I generally picture it like a movie in my head -- but when I try to describe them, it ends up sounding like an instruction manual.

Writer's block, for me, is not a lack of ideas.  It's not a lack of story lines, of plots, even of dialogue.  Writer's block is self-censoring.  It's me stopping myself from writing something because I know -- I know -- it's not up to snuff.

It's times like this that I have to remember what I did during the Summer of Drama, when I finished my first long story -- write a little, every day, on every story -- even if it's just a word, just a sentence.

Even if it sucks...because I can always go back and change it later.

Today's lesson in self pity was brought to you by the letters W and B and the number 47.

(W and B for writer's block, of course, and the number 47 just 'cause.)

The Ongoing Saga

Absent-Minded Professor Update:  We went to my grandpa's last night to get our Christmas cards and take food (he's going on a trip, and clearly frozen food can't be kept in a freezer for a week!  Hmph.).  He gave us our Christmas cards but we weren't allowed to open them.

So, having waited patiently for my affidavit to come from BofA regarding the $1200 charge on my account that I didn't make, I called today to check why it still wasn't in the mail.

I tried four numbers, all of which had been given to me in this process as "faster" and "more direct."  None of them worked.  One even took me to an Apple credit account I had written a letter to close something like three years ago.

What I finally did was call their general "lost or stolen" line, and then had them transfer me through three more people, where I was asked repeatedly, "So you've never done business with this merchant before?"

"No," I said (repeatedly).

"It says here your card was swiped."

"I know," I said.  "That's what everyone else told me too.  But I don't know what to tell you other than: I didn't do it; and, it's not physically possible to get from Santa Clarita's Borders to Fresno, where the charge was made (not to mention collecting $1200 of building supplies to pay FOR) in half an hour."

So, he read me an affidavit over the phone, which I agreed to, and then said the money would be back in my account tonight.  They will send me the paper affidavit, plus possibly requests for other information, and if I don't send it back, the money comes back out.

But at least it's kinda solved, though I'm peeved that this was a "we can mostly take care of this over the phone" kind of thing that took nearly 3 weeks to resolve.

This Is Not A Spoiler

Absent Minded Professorism strikes again.  Over an hour of very-difficult-for-me small talk with my grandpa's girlfriend (who, truly, is a very nice person, but I find her difficult to talk to -- for one thing, because her body language is subtly different (she's from Estonia) and difficult for me to read) and he apparently forgot the cards.

Anyhow, I bought The Simpsons Movie tonight -- which I wanted to see but missed in theaters -- and although I won't list my two favorite moments here, I had to share something I noticed while fast-forwarding through the credits to make sure there were no more little asides.

"Filmed on location in Springfield."

Heh heh.

Cool

I'm about to go out to dinner to get my Christmas present from my grandpa (this will be either a check for $60 or some random amount of cash near $60 -- last year, I got $57 dollars).

However, this makes my monorail-fiend brother very, very happy.

Revision

Aide T is not a fink.  She is made of awesomeness, and emailed Principal SDF to ask that our sit down be rescheduled to when she can come.

(Now, I'm not gonna put words in her mouth, and I suspect that at least part of this is train wreck syndrome in which she wants to see what Aides S and J say, but it'll be nice to be able to look at someone who doesn't want to kill me.)

Closer and Closer

Tomorrow is the day when classroom staff will be in general disarray. I have backup activities planned, so we'll see how it goes.

Meanwhile, Swiss Family Robinson is all done except for the book report. It's done -- chapters, questions, sequencing, true/false, Bingo, simplified version for Elastigirl...it's all done except for the book report. That's 12 weeks of planning. Yippee!

In other news, Speech Person DFT would not meet my eyes today when she came in to observe Elastigirl (apparently, 15 minutes of direct services a week means "watch Elastigirl do the same thing at the same time daily"). Principal SDF says she got a fake-innocent email that was, in her words, trying to dig herself out of her hole. She also says that Program Specialist SBS basically said, "What????" when she got the email.

So that's nice. I'm still miffed about the whole thing. And the fact that our day is likely to go...well...not smoothly from now until break is not encouraging...although Thursday is Principal's recess, plus the OTs are doing a lesson at some point, plus, we're watching the other version of Charlie.

And, just in case, I have a bunch of bowls and a box of corn starch. Plus a few tubs of bubbles if it doesn't rain, and a High School Musical 2 CD to dance to if it does.

Please wish Aide T a safe flight to and from South Carolina. The fink is missing out on the sit down with my staff on Thursday where I get to play Good Cop to SDF's Bad Cop...which is happening roughly 4 1/2 years since I began asking Principal SW to do something similar.

The Moral of the Story

About a month ago, our principal wrote a...poorly-received weekly bulletin.

A few weeks ago, our principal wrote a...poorly-received suggestion to play Secret Elfs.

She called me today after reading my response to her email and said that all her questions for me were really for herself.  Bwuah?

Plus, the "other people" that have been gossiping are none other than Aide J, and Aide S, and Speech Person DFT.

I'm still very upset, particularly at Speech Person DFT, and I still wish people would ASK ME QUESTIONS.

It's nice to have it resolved, kinda, but I'm still dreading seeing Speech Person DFT -- though, as I told our principal on the phone, I'd like to see HER do any better.  (Also, our principal said she figured DFT would ignore us completely.)

Also?  The moral of the story?

Apparently, our principal should never write emails, ever.

Ironic, given that I vastly prefer written communication to face-to-face communication, especially with adults.

:-(

As far as kids go, today was a fairly good day, though we were very short-staffed (for a total of an hour and a half today, it was me and an aide and eight kids).

Then, predictably, the other shoe dropped.

The other day, Superhero pushed PH, and then imitated a Bulldozer meltdown -- even in the intonation of the wailing.

So Speech Person DFT wrote an email to our principal and my program specialist...I'm not sure about what, but the implication was that the class was going you-know-where in a handbasket because I'm a bad teacher.

Speaking to our principal after school, she seemed fairly supportive.  She was very upset with Speech Person DFT for going over my head -- and hers.

But then I got an email basically attacking everything I do -- in the guise of asking me to "think about it" this weekend.  From a principal I thought had my back.

The class has been hard this year, and there are moments that it feels like I'm barely holding on -- but if there's one thing no one has ever questioned, it's what and how I teach the kids.

So now I have to go to the Christmas party knowing that DFT will be there, and now wondering where I stand with the principal.

There was more, but even thinking about it is making me feel sick to my stomach.

Vindicated!

(Aide J and Aide S were both out today; fortunately, we had mostly okay subs...the morning went well...the afternoon went to you-know-where in a handbasket, but the subs played Sequence with the kids that were doing well, so that went okay.)

Right on the heels of Elastigirl's triumph yesterday, I got some interesting news today.

(I'm gonna be even more vague than usual in order to preserve anonymity, but I imagine at least Cat will know who I'm talking about.)

There's a student in the class who we'll call...Jane.  Jane has Down syndrome.  Jane has significant cognitive delays and some behavior issues.

My program specialist, as well as the psychologist who did her last tri, insisted that her cognitive level was six to nine months.

Now, this girl has severe cognitive delays -- no one is disupting that.

But six to nine months?

Nu-uh.  No way, no how.

While talking to Speech Person DFT (who, predictably, wants to exit her from speech without a reliable communication system) about her, she mentioned that Jane's cognitive level came out to about 2 years.

THANK you.

Now, I don't put much store by cognitive levels -- especially in kids who may have what people used to call "splinter skills" (but if you don't have disabilities, they're called talents) -- but a ballpark is nice.

Six to nine months is ridiculous.  Two years, I can live with.  That's been my guess all along.

E = MC2

I could easily vent about the happenings at school (again with the, "Why can't you just come to work and do your job like the rest of the grown-ups in the world?" with a dose of "Writing With Symbols, please cooperate just this once), and Aide T has been kindly comisserating with me over email -- a fact that, I fear, would not go over well if other people knew about it...

...whoops...

I got distracted there.

What I wanted to say was that this was all overshadowed by one of those tiny shining moments that make your heart swell with pride and go "Yeeee-haw!"

Elastigirl, as you may have guessed from reading this blog, has some pretty significant delays. She has some challenging behaviors and a lot of obstacles to overcome.

That said, I adore the girl.

Anyway, she spent several years of her education either left to her own devices or forcibly moved to "quiet areas" and left alone. It took my staff -- chiefly Aide T -- and myself about 6 weeks last year just to convince her that we wanted her to sit with us, and that she should sit with the rest of the group.

Today, though....

Today, we were doing a group lesson -- our whole school uses the Second Step program, and I've been doing modified versions of the fourth grade lessons. However, with this group, I've had to mix it up a bit.

First, I have PECs pictures of feelings and we go through them in a sort of game-like format. Every kid gets four "Turn" cards -- four chances to be right, then they can't answer any more -- and I'll hold up a feeling. Anyone who knows can raise their hand, then I pick someone to answer (usually via eenie-meenie-miney-moe).

So, today, I hold up "frustrated."

Seven hands go up.

I start eenie-meenie-miney-moing, intending to...ahem...accidentally land on Superhero, because I know he knows that one, when, lo and behold...

...wait for it...

ELASTIGIRL'S HAND SHOOTS UP WITH THE REST OF THEM.

I stare at her.

She's not really following natural cues and imitating her classmates, is she?

That would be too huge. No way. It was a fluke.

Still, I go over, present "frustrated" and the blank back of a card as a distracter, and say, "Elastigirl, where's 'frustrated'?"

She picks it. The class claps for her. She preens.

We go on, me still thinking it was a happy fluke that I had the chance to reinforce.

A few turns later, I hold up "excited."

Seven hands go up.

THEN, LO AND BEHOLD, UP GOES ONE MORE!

That's twice, in one day.

I go over to Elastigirl, who had since put her hand down, and look at her. I raise my hand. The rest of my monkey-see-monkey-do kiddos follow me.

Elastigirl does not look at me. She looks at Superhero and Angel. She thinks. She looks at Superhero again.

AND HER HAND GOES UP AGAIN!

I realize that for those of you wno do not deal with kids with severe cognitive impairments, the idea of a 10-year-old girl looking at her classmates and copying them is not a big thing.

For Elastigirl, this is like figuring out the Theory of Relativity.

It still may have been a fluke...but it was THREE times...and if she can do it three times today, she'll be able to do it again...on her own timetable, of course.