Mr. Smith,
Lately, I feel that, as Americans, we're constantly looking for what's not there -- what's being taken away -- rather than what's already there.
It's unfair, I know, but I also know it feels very true.
In relationships, often we look for what's wrong before we notice what's right: "He's not committed enough," "She's co-dependent," or "One of his earlobes is longer than the other." At work, we ask for Time Off. We look forward to the weekend, when we don't have to work. In our daily lives, the negative plays a major role. We look for bargains, for markdowns, for slashed prices. We cut coupons, we count calories (the less the better), we drink water to flush our systems. We want to lose weight instead of gain it, subtract taxes instead of add them, down-size our friends, our budget, our lives...
We are a nation obsessed with the negative.
Why, when we feel compelled to ADD to our lives, do we feel guilty? As if adding things to our lives -- things that come at a price -- we're punished. Higher education, lunch with an old friend, a day off to relax with our loved ones, a car, a ring, a sofa... anything that adds to our emotional, mental (and sometimes even physical) health is gained at a price.
Why, when we carry ourselves out of the office early on a Friday afternoon so we can spend some much needed time with OURSELVES, do we have to carry with us those bags of guilt?
Yeah.
I don't know either.
Always questioning,
Meredith
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Monday, October 25, 2004
An Old Sad Song
Matt Smith,
A person creates their mate in their mind. I truly believe that every 20- or 30- something on this planet can remember a time in their childhood when they knew exactly what they were looking for in that One Person. Whether they dreamt of a blushing blonde, or a blue-eyed boy, or a white knight -- they know now what they were looking for then, and they've pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that no matter how long and strenuous the search, they're never going to find exactly what it was that they were looking for in the first place.
It's a sad thing to think on. And maybe I'm just a little sad myself tonight.
When I was a little girl, I remember thinking that the person I spend my days with would be an artist and he would be rich. As I got older, I realized that those two traits aren't usually the best of friends. So, I settled into thoughts of a writer, a reader, a thinker -- someone with a generous sense of humor and an honest smile. I wanted a musician, a movie buff. Someone who could see beyond the surface of everyday sorts of things -- not the least of which would be me. (I suppose I always thought that I wasn't much to look at, but I knew that I was smart. Maybe I thought that it took a pretty special type of person to see that deep into who I was.)
I remember thinking that, when I got older, things would inevitably fall into place. I would be walking down the street one evening, dressed in my little black dress after just having come from the theatre, and some tall, rich, tuxedo-clad gentleman with long, beautiful hair would pop out from behind a pillar and ask for my name.
Well, I was partly right.
He is tall. And I suppose it was evening.
But the thing is, I did get what I was looking for. It's hard to explain, I guess. But the person I was looking for... well, he's the type of person who -- well, collects the stickers that you find on produce. Who conducts an impromptu funeral and burial for a dead bird in his backyard by reading "Grass" by Carl Sandburg. Who honks at crows he sees on the interstate. Who tells me stories about, well, whatever I want... even if they're a little silly and involve a woman named Dottie. Who finds meaning in the way I eat my pancakes. Who appreciates the fact that I get a little crazy when I'm left alone for too long. Who can amuse passing tourists just by being himself.
He is the kind of person who reminds me, every day, that I exist. That I live out loud. That I have worth. That I am loved.
And he never has to speak a word.
Love,
Meredith
A person creates their mate in their mind. I truly believe that every 20- or 30- something on this planet can remember a time in their childhood when they knew exactly what they were looking for in that One Person. Whether they dreamt of a blushing blonde, or a blue-eyed boy, or a white knight -- they know now what they were looking for then, and they've pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that no matter how long and strenuous the search, they're never going to find exactly what it was that they were looking for in the first place.
It's a sad thing to think on. And maybe I'm just a little sad myself tonight.
When I was a little girl, I remember thinking that the person I spend my days with would be an artist and he would be rich. As I got older, I realized that those two traits aren't usually the best of friends. So, I settled into thoughts of a writer, a reader, a thinker -- someone with a generous sense of humor and an honest smile. I wanted a musician, a movie buff. Someone who could see beyond the surface of everyday sorts of things -- not the least of which would be me. (I suppose I always thought that I wasn't much to look at, but I knew that I was smart. Maybe I thought that it took a pretty special type of person to see that deep into who I was.)
I remember thinking that, when I got older, things would inevitably fall into place. I would be walking down the street one evening, dressed in my little black dress after just having come from the theatre, and some tall, rich, tuxedo-clad gentleman with long, beautiful hair would pop out from behind a pillar and ask for my name.
Well, I was partly right.
He is tall. And I suppose it was evening.
But the thing is, I did get what I was looking for. It's hard to explain, I guess. But the person I was looking for... well, he's the type of person who -- well, collects the stickers that you find on produce. Who conducts an impromptu funeral and burial for a dead bird in his backyard by reading "Grass" by Carl Sandburg. Who honks at crows he sees on the interstate. Who tells me stories about, well, whatever I want... even if they're a little silly and involve a woman named Dottie. Who finds meaning in the way I eat my pancakes. Who appreciates the fact that I get a little crazy when I'm left alone for too long. Who can amuse passing tourists just by being himself.
He is the kind of person who reminds me, every day, that I exist. That I live out loud. That I have worth. That I am loved.
And he never has to speak a word.
Love,
Meredith
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Friday, October 22, 2004
The Best Little Program Notes Ever
Greetings, Matt Smith.
How was your day? Good? Want to hear about mine? Great.
Wrote this as "program notes" for our classes today at the daycare center, and it made its rounds around the Artistic Staff Office.
Yeah. I wrote them.
And yes. They're true.
Program Notes
West St. Paul, MN
October 22, 2004
Sivie and Meredith
One of the interesting things about preschools and
day care centers that is hard to notice at first is
that they'll try anything once. It really doesn't
matter who comes in to their center/school to present,
or what they're presenting, just so long as the people
who work there get a break in their day. And for good
reason: they have a difficult job. Working with
toddlers and infants is a trying job, day in and day
out. Communication is difficult. Working with
children of that age and trying to communicate with
them all day creates this weird… vibe. They get so
comfortable communicating with toddlers that
communication with adults now seems awkward.
Perhaps that awkwardness is to blame for today's
difficulties.
If there were a magic wand that could instantly erase
the problems of today, the world would be a better
place. Today's program site was a perfect example of
why we have restrictions on programming (such as the
number and age of students in the classroom).
Frankly, it's difficult to create programming for
children who don't speak. No. It's more than
difficult. It's near to impossible. Why, you ask?
Because they can't speak. Much like a dog. Or a
gopher. Or a watermelon.
But, on to the matter at hand: Today's program site
went through a myriad of stages in their communication
with us at CLIMB. First, the contact
(Julie) believed we were clowns, coming in to
entertain the children. ("You guys are a bunch of
clowns, right?" Sure, Julie. We're clowns.
CLIMB Clowns.) Then, once corrected, we were told
that we'd be working with a group of kids who were 2.5
to 3.5 years old, then a group of kids who were 3.5 to
4.5 years old, and finally a group of school-aged kids
(mostly kindergartners with a few older kids thrown in
for good measure)… and was it okay to combine a class
so that there would be one class of about 42 kids?
(No, Julie Casby. It isn't.)
Once all that was straightened out and we understood a
little more of what the kids' level of comprehension
was, we settled in to what seemed to be a fine line of
thought towards programming. The suggestion from Tiny
Tots was that we "read a story" to the youngest group
-- leaving us wondering why we were presenting
something to them at all. We opted for a fabulous
little book on sharing called That Toad is Mine!
(which, while teaching a valuable lesson on why toads
can't be cut in half, also included the line, "A
hoptoad needs ONE place to be"), followed by a
"sharing" version of "Green Ball, Thank You," brought
down to the level of
pass-the-ball-and-say-thank-you-when-you-get-it.
After we had some help from the teachers at getting
the tiny tots settled ("These nice people are going to
be showing us a PUPPET show!" Um. What? Where were
they getting this information?), we were on our way.
This should have been brilliant.
Unfortunately, we were interrupted mid-picture-book by
a woman who seemed to be bringing a group of 1-year
olds in to our class. (Yes, Constant Reader, these
would be the kids who can't talk.) So, after our
initial shock at this new arrangement, we restarted
the story -- and even finished it -- amidst runny
noses, children falling on the floor, and the fact
that children who can't speak also can't answer any
questions.
And that was just the first class. (Although the rest
of the day, even with the scheduling snafus and
miscommunication, seemed a breeze.)
The 3 and 4-year olds were so much more perceptive --
which really isn't saying much -- but they were still
a relief after the stresses of the first class. The
Little Tykes version of "Joey/Lulu and Mom" was
somewhat of a hit, although when questioned about
things like Raising Your Hand and When It's OK to Ask
Questions, kids still came up with answers like, "Say
excuse me when you want to tie your shoes" or "Wipe
the dirt off your face with a paper towel." (Okay…
sure. Those… those are things you can do… when… um…
you… well… never mind.) But, they got the idea that
you're supposed to say you're sorry when you hit
someone or yell at them. And the
Thank-You-for-the-Ball game spoke to them. Somehow.
Regular programming began with "Chuck and the Cheeto
Challenge" and the wonderful return of school-aged
children who understand questions when they're asked
(when they're not playing with the dirt from the
bottom of some other little girl's shoe). The kids
thought we were funny, and they were able to "get"
that sometimes you have to do things you don't really
want to do.
The moral of the story?
Kids who can't talk should be taught by people trained
to talk to them, toads can't be cut in half (but kids
can act like toads REALLY well), people should use
their magic words (please, thank you, I'm sorry,
excuse me), and dirt is often more interesting than a
troll and a goat.
How was your day? Good? Want to hear about mine? Great.
Wrote this as "program notes" for our classes today at the daycare center, and it made its rounds around the Artistic Staff Office.
Yeah. I wrote them.
And yes. They're true.
Program Notes
West St. Paul, MN
October 22, 2004
Sivie and Meredith
One of the interesting things about preschools and
day care centers that is hard to notice at first is
that they'll try anything once. It really doesn't
matter who comes in to their center/school to present,
or what they're presenting, just so long as the people
who work there get a break in their day. And for good
reason: they have a difficult job. Working with
toddlers and infants is a trying job, day in and day
out. Communication is difficult. Working with
children of that age and trying to communicate with
them all day creates this weird… vibe. They get so
comfortable communicating with toddlers that
communication with adults now seems awkward.
Perhaps that awkwardness is to blame for today's
difficulties.
If there were a magic wand that could instantly erase
the problems of today, the world would be a better
place. Today's program site was a perfect example of
why we have restrictions on programming (such as the
number and age of students in the classroom).
Frankly, it's difficult to create programming for
children who don't speak. No. It's more than
difficult. It's near to impossible. Why, you ask?
Because they can't speak. Much like a dog. Or a
gopher. Or a watermelon.
But, on to the matter at hand: Today's program site
went through a myriad of stages in their communication
with us at CLIMB. First, the contact
(Julie) believed we were clowns, coming in to
entertain the children. ("You guys are a bunch of
clowns, right?" Sure, Julie. We're clowns.
CLIMB Clowns.) Then, once corrected, we were told
that we'd be working with a group of kids who were 2.5
to 3.5 years old, then a group of kids who were 3.5 to
4.5 years old, and finally a group of school-aged kids
(mostly kindergartners with a few older kids thrown in
for good measure)… and was it okay to combine a class
so that there would be one class of about 42 kids?
(No, Julie Casby. It isn't.)
Once all that was straightened out and we understood a
little more of what the kids' level of comprehension
was, we settled in to what seemed to be a fine line of
thought towards programming. The suggestion from Tiny
Tots was that we "read a story" to the youngest group
-- leaving us wondering why we were presenting
something to them at all. We opted for a fabulous
little book on sharing called That Toad is Mine!
(which, while teaching a valuable lesson on why toads
can't be cut in half, also included the line, "A
hoptoad needs ONE place to be"), followed by a
"sharing" version of "Green Ball, Thank You," brought
down to the level of
pass-the-ball-and-say-thank-you-when-you-get-it.
After we had some help from the teachers at getting
the tiny tots settled ("These nice people are going to
be showing us a PUPPET show!" Um. What? Where were
they getting this information?), we were on our way.
This should have been brilliant.
Unfortunately, we were interrupted mid-picture-book by
a woman who seemed to be bringing a group of 1-year
olds in to our class. (Yes, Constant Reader, these
would be the kids who can't talk.) So, after our
initial shock at this new arrangement, we restarted
the story -- and even finished it -- amidst runny
noses, children falling on the floor, and the fact
that children who can't speak also can't answer any
questions.
And that was just the first class. (Although the rest
of the day, even with the scheduling snafus and
miscommunication, seemed a breeze.)
The 3 and 4-year olds were so much more perceptive --
which really isn't saying much -- but they were still
a relief after the stresses of the first class. The
Little Tykes version of "Joey/Lulu and Mom" was
somewhat of a hit, although when questioned about
things like Raising Your Hand and When It's OK to Ask
Questions, kids still came up with answers like, "Say
excuse me when you want to tie your shoes" or "Wipe
the dirt off your face with a paper towel." (Okay…
sure. Those… those are things you can do… when… um…
you… well… never mind.) But, they got the idea that
you're supposed to say you're sorry when you hit
someone or yell at them. And the
Thank-You-for-the-Ball game spoke to them. Somehow.
Regular programming began with "Chuck and the Cheeto
Challenge" and the wonderful return of school-aged
children who understand questions when they're asked
(when they're not playing with the dirt from the
bottom of some other little girl's shoe). The kids
thought we were funny, and they were able to "get"
that sometimes you have to do things you don't really
want to do.
The moral of the story?
Kids who can't talk should be taught by people trained
to talk to them, toads can't be cut in half (but kids
can act like toads REALLY well), people should use
their magic words (please, thank you, I'm sorry,
excuse me), and dirt is often more interesting than a
troll and a goat.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Clowns, Toads, and the Communication Skills of American Toddlers
Hi again.
Very little to update you on from out here in the nutso Midwest... but that won't stop me from making something up for my own amusement.
Apparently Minnesota has some strange educators' conference -- the MEA: Minnesota Educators' Association. (Everyone's really big on abbreviations here, for some reason. I've never encountered anything like it before.) It cancels school for all Minnesota schoolchildren for two full days in October (today and tomorrow). How this actually accomplishes anything in the name of education I'm not sure, but I assume it has SOMETHING to do with educating the educators. I hope.
Educating the educators leaves the theatre-in-education folks no place to go for two days, though, since most of our work takes place in the schools -- and the schools are closed. Aside from going out of state (which I'm not), there's very little to do.
Or, you'd think that, wouldn't you?
Wouldn't you know it, they assigned me to a Tiny Tots and Little Tykes preschool/day-care. Me. As in, the girl who can't communicate with adults -- so how am I supposed to communicate with kids who have no grasp on the English language? It's like they're little... foreigners! Or puppies! Or something else that makes incoherent sounds! A broken carousel! A dying moose! Argh!
To top it all off, the people who run the day-care very honestly thought that CLIMB was a group of clowns. Clowns. What a hoot. So, at least we've got that as a back-up plan.
For the little-little kids (say, two-years old? what does a two-year old even LOOK like?!), we've planned to read a book that I just LOVE (seriously) titled, "That Toad is MINE!"
Yeah. It covers the oh-so-serious topic of sharing and what you can and cannot share. Like a toad. You can't share a toad. You can't even have shared custody of a toad, apparently, because, as the book so eloquently states, "A hoptoad needs ONE place to be."
Oooo... I am so VERY excited.
Love,
Meredith
P.S. Emma got engaged. To Marty. So... I mean... that's strange. Good strange, yes... but still strange all the same. I mean... it's Marty. And Emma. And they're my friends. Friends getting engaged? Kooky.
Very little to update you on from out here in the nutso Midwest... but that won't stop me from making something up for my own amusement.
Apparently Minnesota has some strange educators' conference -- the MEA: Minnesota Educators' Association. (Everyone's really big on abbreviations here, for some reason. I've never encountered anything like it before.) It cancels school for all Minnesota schoolchildren for two full days in October (today and tomorrow). How this actually accomplishes anything in the name of education I'm not sure, but I assume it has SOMETHING to do with educating the educators. I hope.
Educating the educators leaves the theatre-in-education folks no place to go for two days, though, since most of our work takes place in the schools -- and the schools are closed. Aside from going out of state (which I'm not), there's very little to do.
Or, you'd think that, wouldn't you?
Wouldn't you know it, they assigned me to a Tiny Tots and Little Tykes preschool/day-care. Me. As in, the girl who can't communicate with adults -- so how am I supposed to communicate with kids who have no grasp on the English language? It's like they're little... foreigners! Or puppies! Or something else that makes incoherent sounds! A broken carousel! A dying moose! Argh!
To top it all off, the people who run the day-care very honestly thought that CLIMB was a group of clowns. Clowns. What a hoot. So, at least we've got that as a back-up plan.
For the little-little kids (say, two-years old? what does a two-year old even LOOK like?!), we've planned to read a book that I just LOVE (seriously) titled, "That Toad is MINE!"
Yeah. It covers the oh-so-serious topic of sharing and what you can and cannot share. Like a toad. You can't share a toad. You can't even have shared custody of a toad, apparently, because, as the book so eloquently states, "A hoptoad needs ONE place to be."
Oooo... I am so VERY excited.
Love,
Meredith
P.S. Emma got engaged. To Marty. So... I mean... that's strange. Good strange, yes... but still strange all the same. I mean... it's Marty. And Emma. And they're my friends. Friends getting engaged? Kooky.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Why's George Foreman Guest Starring on "Without a Trace?"
Hi, Matt Smith.
Really, I don't honestly think it's George Foreman. It sure looks like him, though. It's as if Reginald VelJohnson and Ving Rhames mated, and then spawned this other guy who looks a great deal like George Foreman. Or something like that.
Currently, I'm in Iowa City at the University of Iowa. Since this is really the only long stop I've ever made in Iowa, I feel as if I'm judging the whole state on this one city. But, not to worry. Iowa's everything I dreamt it would be... and more. It's nice to be in a Place with Stuff to Do with People and Things. We're sent so often to nothing-places that it's nice to be able to get out and DO SOMETHING, anything... even if it's sitting at a local bar and grill and complaining about the slow service.
Highlights of today include: discovering the ethernet connection in my pea-green hotel room, presenting in-services to school counselors from all over the state of Iowa, eating with the aforementioned counselors, wearing a skunk costume (while not actually trying to play a skunk), and swapping movie quotes over a meal with fellow actor-typey folk.
But more on Why I Love Iowa and Why You Should Too:
I love Iowa because of their ethernet connections.
I love Iowa because it's warmer here than in the Twin Cities.
I love Iowa because it's flat.
I love Iowa because of Iowa City.
I love Iowa because I haven't encountered one ounce of Iowa stubborness, and therefore, I don't really believe it exists.
I love Iowa because people ride bikes.
I love Iowa because my hotel is connected to the Student Union.
I love Iowa because I didn't have to drive here.
I love Iowa because I don't have to drive back.
I love Iowa because people live here and do things that are fun.
I love Iowa because there's a coffee maker in my room.
I love Iowa because I took a shower this morning.
I love Iowa because I'm going to see the largest frying pan in Iowa tomorrow morning.
I love Iowa because I can blog from my room.
and more importantly... I love Iowa because I don't have to stay here.
That being said, ladies and gentlemen, goodnight.
Sweet dreams,
Meredith
Really, I don't honestly think it's George Foreman. It sure looks like him, though. It's as if Reginald VelJohnson and Ving Rhames mated, and then spawned this other guy who looks a great deal like George Foreman. Or something like that.
Currently, I'm in Iowa City at the University of Iowa. Since this is really the only long stop I've ever made in Iowa, I feel as if I'm judging the whole state on this one city. But, not to worry. Iowa's everything I dreamt it would be... and more. It's nice to be in a Place with Stuff to Do with People and Things. We're sent so often to nothing-places that it's nice to be able to get out and DO SOMETHING, anything... even if it's sitting at a local bar and grill and complaining about the slow service.
Highlights of today include: discovering the ethernet connection in my pea-green hotel room, presenting in-services to school counselors from all over the state of Iowa, eating with the aforementioned counselors, wearing a skunk costume (while not actually trying to play a skunk), and swapping movie quotes over a meal with fellow actor-typey folk.
But more on Why I Love Iowa and Why You Should Too:
I love Iowa because of their ethernet connections.
I love Iowa because it's warmer here than in the Twin Cities.
I love Iowa because it's flat.
I love Iowa because of Iowa City.
I love Iowa because I haven't encountered one ounce of Iowa stubborness, and therefore, I don't really believe it exists.
I love Iowa because people ride bikes.
I love Iowa because my hotel is connected to the Student Union.
I love Iowa because I didn't have to drive here.
I love Iowa because I don't have to drive back.
I love Iowa because people live here and do things that are fun.
I love Iowa because there's a coffee maker in my room.
I love Iowa because I took a shower this morning.
I love Iowa because I'm going to see the largest frying pan in Iowa tomorrow morning.
I love Iowa because I can blog from my room.
and more importantly... I love Iowa because I don't have to stay here.
That being said, ladies and gentlemen, goodnight.
Sweet dreams,
Meredith
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Out of Whack Priorities
Matthew Smith,
Hi there again. Heard any good jokes lately? No? Neither have I.
Oh no. I take that back. Right now I'm listening to the Presidential Debate, which, I'm disappointed to report, is delaying my date with Detective Green and that new guy with the fancy suits on NBC. I don't care if you ARE vying to be the so-called Leader of the Free World, how dare you cancel "Law & Order?"
(Yes, in case you're wondering, I do have "my priorities out of whack," as my mother would say.)
The best way to protect citizens from guns is to prosecute those who commit crimes with guns? Hmmm. Let's see. Call me crazy, but I think we'd do better to make sure the kooky folks don't get guns in the first place. I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong here. No guns = no crimes with guns. Oy. Wait til I get my hands on this country.
But back to more pressing issues.
Since "Law & Order" is STILL not coming on, and the Men in Black are still chatting, yes, I do have a pretty neat sort of job, don't I? Today we had a reporter/photographer in our classroom who was doing an article on CLIMB and our work in the schools. When he asked us about our work, I realized that -- basically -- what I do is a 40-minute commercial for respect. I sell respect to students, and I have to make it look as good as the other brands out there. Brands like Kicking, Screaming, Not Raising Your Hand, Bullying, Name-Calling, Exclusion, and Bigotry. Oh, it's a charmed life I lead. Walking into a school, I'm like the Grandmother who brings presents and candy and then goes home.
The people I really feel for are the teachers -- the Parents in the schools -- who can't always be the Magical World of Disney, and who can't always be a pirate, or a troll, or a goat, or whatever.
Thankfully, I CAN be the Whatever.
I'm the Gonzo.
I'm a Whatever.
(And they're stillllll taalllkkking.... I'm glad that George Dubya prays. Really. I am. Good for him. But does he know that "in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate, but equally important groups?" I need their stories, President Bush and Senator Kerry. Puh-leaasssee!)
Love,
Meredith
Hi there again. Heard any good jokes lately? No? Neither have I.
Oh no. I take that back. Right now I'm listening to the Presidential Debate, which, I'm disappointed to report, is delaying my date with Detective Green and that new guy with the fancy suits on NBC. I don't care if you ARE vying to be the so-called Leader of the Free World, how dare you cancel "Law & Order?"
(Yes, in case you're wondering, I do have "my priorities out of whack," as my mother would say.)
The best way to protect citizens from guns is to prosecute those who commit crimes with guns? Hmmm. Let's see. Call me crazy, but I think we'd do better to make sure the kooky folks don't get guns in the first place. I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong here. No guns = no crimes with guns. Oy. Wait til I get my hands on this country.
But back to more pressing issues.
Since "Law & Order" is STILL not coming on, and the Men in Black are still chatting, yes, I do have a pretty neat sort of job, don't I? Today we had a reporter/photographer in our classroom who was doing an article on CLIMB and our work in the schools. When he asked us about our work, I realized that -- basically -- what I do is a 40-minute commercial for respect. I sell respect to students, and I have to make it look as good as the other brands out there. Brands like Kicking, Screaming, Not Raising Your Hand, Bullying, Name-Calling, Exclusion, and Bigotry. Oh, it's a charmed life I lead. Walking into a school, I'm like the Grandmother who brings presents and candy and then goes home.
The people I really feel for are the teachers -- the Parents in the schools -- who can't always be the Magical World of Disney, and who can't always be a pirate, or a troll, or a goat, or whatever.
Thankfully, I CAN be the Whatever.
I'm the Gonzo.
I'm a Whatever.
(And they're stillllll taalllkkking.... I'm glad that George Dubya prays. Really. I am. Good for him. But does he know that "in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate, but equally important groups?" I need their stories, President Bush and Senator Kerry. Puh-leaasssee!)
Love,
Meredith
Friday, October 08, 2004
The Boy Who Cried Poo
Cheers, Matt Smith.
I've just returned from my first full week on the road. "Road," in this particular case, differs greatly from the original entymology. Here, "road" reads more as "middle of nowhere." And, to be even more specific, this week's middle of nowhere was Luverne, Minnesota.
Luverne boasts a great number of fabulous things.
Luverne is the Gateway. I never witnessed the Gate myself, and I can only surmise that the Gateway they speak of is some fictional gate -- a Gate to Iowa and/or South Dakota. Unless they're talking about Real Gates. On fences, perhaps. In that case, there was a plethora of those that housed the area's cattle, pigs, and yes, buffalo.
And, speaking of buffalo, the large stone blasted buffalo statue that stands in front of the specialty store, "Those Blasted Things," is not to be missed. You simply couldn't miss it even if you tried.
Other things of note in Luverne:
1) The Super 8 Motel. Highly recommended by CLIMB Theatre folk, mainly because of the make-your-own-waffle component during breakfast hours. Ask for Barb. She rocks.
2) The local playground. In addition to the windy, swirly, makes-your-hair-stand-on-end shocky slides, there are swings to swing, bouncy things to bounce, climby things to climb, and lots of hard ground to injure yourself on. And while we were there, a man in army fatigues was patrolling the area. Makes you feel safe... or something. (In my case, confused.)
3) The students at Luverne Elementary. Fabulous kids accompanied by fabulous staff. The teachers' lounge was never wanting for goodies -- cinnamon rolls, mini Snickers bars, chocolate chip cookie pie thing -- and I felt very welcome there. In my time as an actor, educator, troll, and pirate there, I even felt a bit of appreciation. Or at least I came close.
Side note of note: During the end of one of our K-2 mini-drama classes where I play a troll, we were asking the kindergarteners to try to remember the 3-part magic formula they learned at the beginning of the play. It never fails that we -- the seasoned professionals -- forget the magic formula. The kids come up with it on their own at the beginning, and we go through so many different combinations in a day (favorite breakfast food/book/color, favorite cartoon character/shape/dessert, and the like) that we inevitably must rely on the kids in each class to remember. In this particular class, the children were having a tough time remembering, and we were of no use. One boy, hand raised, kept calling out, "Poo! Poo! Poo!" Yeah, kid. Poo. I'm SO sure. Why's the weird kid screaming poo? We had no idea. It was odd, and we were tired, and it was funny. So, trying desperately to stay in character, we laughed, and I turned to my team lead/partner, and in my best Russian troll voice, asked, "What is this poo?"
Well, yeah. It was Winnie the Pooh.
But you can't know everything all the time,
Love,
Meredith
I've just returned from my first full week on the road. "Road," in this particular case, differs greatly from the original entymology. Here, "road" reads more as "middle of nowhere." And, to be even more specific, this week's middle of nowhere was Luverne, Minnesota.
Luverne boasts a great number of fabulous things.
Luverne is the Gateway. I never witnessed the Gate myself, and I can only surmise that the Gateway they speak of is some fictional gate -- a Gate to Iowa and/or South Dakota. Unless they're talking about Real Gates. On fences, perhaps. In that case, there was a plethora of those that housed the area's cattle, pigs, and yes, buffalo.
And, speaking of buffalo, the large stone blasted buffalo statue that stands in front of the specialty store, "Those Blasted Things," is not to be missed. You simply couldn't miss it even if you tried.
Other things of note in Luverne:
1) The Super 8 Motel. Highly recommended by CLIMB Theatre folk, mainly because of the make-your-own-waffle component during breakfast hours. Ask for Barb. She rocks.
2) The local playground. In addition to the windy, swirly, makes-your-hair-stand-on-end shocky slides, there are swings to swing, bouncy things to bounce, climby things to climb, and lots of hard ground to injure yourself on. And while we were there, a man in army fatigues was patrolling the area. Makes you feel safe... or something. (In my case, confused.)
3) The students at Luverne Elementary. Fabulous kids accompanied by fabulous staff. The teachers' lounge was never wanting for goodies -- cinnamon rolls, mini Snickers bars, chocolate chip cookie pie thing -- and I felt very welcome there. In my time as an actor, educator, troll, and pirate there, I even felt a bit of appreciation. Or at least I came close.
Side note of note: During the end of one of our K-2 mini-drama classes where I play a troll, we were asking the kindergarteners to try to remember the 3-part magic formula they learned at the beginning of the play. It never fails that we -- the seasoned professionals -- forget the magic formula. The kids come up with it on their own at the beginning, and we go through so many different combinations in a day (favorite breakfast food/book/color, favorite cartoon character/shape/dessert, and the like) that we inevitably must rely on the kids in each class to remember. In this particular class, the children were having a tough time remembering, and we were of no use. One boy, hand raised, kept calling out, "Poo! Poo! Poo!" Yeah, kid. Poo. I'm SO sure. Why's the weird kid screaming poo? We had no idea. It was odd, and we were tired, and it was funny. So, trying desperately to stay in character, we laughed, and I turned to my team lead/partner, and in my best Russian troll voice, asked, "What is this poo?"
Well, yeah. It was Winnie the Pooh.
But you can't know everything all the time,
Love,
Meredith
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