G is for Goat

Goliath Goat is a hungry dude.
Almost anything counts as food.
He never has time for much work or play
Because all he does is munch all day!

OK, here's the scoop on the artwork. I tried and tried but could not successfully draw a goat. Here's as close as I came:

And so, I have a guest artist today... Superfit, aka Stefanie! Here is her rendering of Goliath:

Pretty good, huh?

Into the Light

When your doctor looks you in the eye, wishes you a happy 40th birthday, and tells you you're probably going to die soon, you tend to respond with a range of emotions.


First, you change your life. There is no choice, no rationalizing. So, that's that.


Second, you wonder if it's too late, and you start thinking about what will happen if you die before you can save yourself, which leads to late-night speculation about your first day in the afterlife ... heaven.


I imagine waking up in heaven will be a lot like when I was a kid and Daddy would come flip on my light to wake me up. It's a jolt at first, but you soon realize it's the dawn of another great day. The light is blinding, though, so you scrunch up your face and rub your eyes a little. Slowly, you start to register a few shapes and sounds and smells.


When I was a kid, early morning stimuli included the smell of mom's coffee, sounds of John Denver blaring from the guest bedroom, and always, Daddy rustling the newspaper at the kitchen table. When I wake up in heaven, I'll have to acclimate to the light, but I imagine Daddy will be the one who greets me. He'll bring friends, of course, but he'll know I will want to savor the moment, so the others will come slowly.


Daddy and I will take a walk along a beach in heaven, holding hands like we did when I was a kid, splashing in the surf and chatting a little about what's to be expected, and all of a sudden I'll have enough clarity to notice that Daddy is a young man. His hair is black--not the silver I will always remember--but his eyes are just as cornflower blue and his grin is just the same. I stop for a second, and he smiles at me and tells me that I, too, have received a glorified body and will never have a health problem again. Finally, what has eluded me on Earth has been freely received. My heart sings.


All at once I feel like we're not alone on this beach, and I hear little feet trodding along just behind us. Gigi. There's my girl. While on Earth, I always wondered what she was thinking. Here in heaven, I just know. I spend a while just loving on my puppy I missed so much. She loves me and I love her, and we'll be together forever in the house our Father has prepared for us.


And then, right there on the beach, my whole life personified comes to greet me. Grandparents, friends, and maybe even a child or two I never had on Earth come forward to say hello. And finally, Jesus. He'll share with me my lifetime of triumphs and missteps, and I will feel love like I never have before. And I hope to hear, at long last, his welcome into the kingdom of heaven: "Well done, my good and faithful servant."

She's Right, but ...

OK, let me start with this disclaimer: If you're going to write about your job, you better be damn sure it's not going to offend, implicate, resemble, or otherwise identify or allude to ANYBODY, whether on purpose or accidentally. And you might as well just do it under your own name, because pseudonymns won't save your stupid behind, either. I applaud your use of writing as an outlet for your stress, but it's a lot simpler and safer to open a Word document and write your memoirs in secret.

Have you seen this article (originally by the Associated Press, but I picked it up elsewhere) about the 30-year-old "teacher" who blogged about how lazy and good-fer-nuthin' she believes her students are? I loved it. She has a (vague) point, but so do I, and here it is.

Ms. Munroe claims her students are not motivated. She rants about their lack of discipline. They are disobedient and disrespectful, she says. She even goes so far as to say that the students "are not being held accountable."

Oh, my, Ms. Munroe. What is YOUR job again? Now, before you jump all over me, let me explain. I am not copping out on behalf of a parent and his or her responsibility to raise a child with ethics, morals, and discipline. That's hugely important. But let's not let the teachers off the hook, here. I had fantastic teachers (and coaches), and they had almost if not just as much influence on shaping me as my own parents (who, as it turns out, also were teachers). I contend that if the kid's acting up in school, the teacher needs to be the disciplinarian. Don't bitch about it; make a difference. Make your subject fun. Do what your title says: TEACH.

Ms. Munroe is employed as a high school English teacher. My dream job. I've spent my life dreaming of bulletin boards and literature studies and ways to impart my love of books and authors and writing into the--granted--thick, text-messaging minds of today's kiddos. Kids are sponges, and they crave attention and approval. If she'd lay down the law and be enthusiastic about her subject, those kids would get it. I did.

My ninth-grade English teacher and my eleventh-grade English teacher were the same fellow. He was a little guy, but treated us all with respect; I heard him utter my first name only once--on graduation day. Until then, for me and everyone else, it was "Miss Rash" or "Mr. Denson." Not once did James Henry ever lose his temper with our class, but he did uphold the law of the land he set out on the very first day of school. He respected us, and we rewarded him (for the most part) by making something of ourselves like he asked us to. Mr. Henry pastored a small church in our town for a while, and I would like to think that his respect for us as humans also reflected Jesus.

My tenth-grade English teacher had one of the most disgustingly boring tasks on the planet: vocabulary. But she made it fun. To this day, I can see Rebecca Blackwood in her "Hamlet" pose, nimbly acting out the week's vocabulary words. She made the content contemporary to us. She got on our level and taught us how to use our God-given intelligence in preparation for "one day." She treated us like people, and called us that. [Y'all PG folks know what I mean, dontcha?]

My senior English teacher (who also happened to be my seventh-grade English teacher) was nothing short of hilarious. She made learning fun for us. She explained to us how to pronounce "Goethe" so we "didn't sound like we were falling off the turnip truck." She translated Old English, and we all thought she was a goddess. She forced us to memorize the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, claiming we'd remember it for the rest of our lives. We all thought she was nuts then, but 22 years later I can still recite it--in Old English, in its entirety. If you see me, test me.

She also taught me grammar. God bless you, Lori Ables, for that one sheet of purple-mimeographed paper that listed all the basic grammar rules. That's all it took to teach me the difference between "your" and "you're"; "there," "their," and "they're"; and when to use "whom" and "who." She understood how to crack into our brains and decode our language. Then she reprogrammed us a bit--with proper grammar, of course.

So say what you like about the state of the American teenager, Ms. Munroe. It's a free country. Sorry I can't stand on your side; nobody's going to ask my opinion, but I'd be all for letting you move on to a new career where you're not in charge of shaping the future. But before you go, do me a little favor and think a bit about those students. They were just doing what they could with what YOU gave them to work with. My prayer is for them to find the Mr. Henry, Mrs. Blackwood, or Mrs. Ables in their life, because REAL teachers like that are their only hope.

This One’s for Caryl

Fridays around here are right “up there” on the crazy scale. It’s not enough that a flock of creatives are crammed into a corner of the third floor day in and day out with no sunshine for inspiration; we have to use Friday as our excuse to cut loose a little.

Just now, for example, I received an e-mail from one of my favorite people. The text of the e-mail? “Dork.” And this from the guy whose office is covered with retro toys from our childhood. I’m a dork? He dropped by shortly after sending the e-mail. He touched the nameplate outside my door and said, “I have a hunch that someday, this will say ‘Beth Blair, Dork Extraordinaire.’ Because that rhymes.”

Really. Who’s a dork? But his smile is contagious and I beam at him as he turns and saunters back to his toy chest. Good times.

Sure enough, Friday is peppered (more than usual) with folks shouting over cubicle walls, peals of laughter coming from AV (those guys sure have fun), and even the occasional rubber band shot or paper wad batted into someone else’s domain. One designer has been known to drag out his putter and practice his swing down the hallway. The copy editors gather around their table to scoff at the latest ridiculous demand from whomever. The graphics folks tentatively venture outside the safety of their area to see what all the commotion is. The traffic folks join in with rousing renditions of their lives outside the building. And that one print buyer comes by and chastises us, jokingly reminding us that he’s a company man. Before long, it’s a party, and there’s really no reason to get back to work.

So, blinded by their rationalization that the boss won’t notice, one by one they slip away a little early, back home to their families and their real lives, where deadlines and rush jobs don’t take precedence. For two days, they won’t think about this place, and I’ll try not to think about them. But they’re just as much a part of me as my own family. And I love them all.

Super (Dumb) Boys

I can't hear myself think. The Super Bowl is only a quarter gone, and already the boys have discussed the following, mainly while I was missing the commercials because they feel they must each speak louder than the other. Some of these are too good to miss.

• "I don't like the cheese dip. I also don't like Christina Aguilera."
• "Son, go to your room." "No." "OK."
• "Noah can't let Macy out of the box because she will bark, because she thinks Noah is a dog."
• "Scott's reaching into his crapper nuts."
• "Who bowls on Friday?"
• "If you go to Michigan, you get the Heisman. It's that simple."
• "What else has Paul Walker been in?"
• "OMG, Cowboys vs. Aliens. AWESOME!"
• "No frickin way that was Joan Rivers' body."
• "Budweiser's been around for, like, 300 years."
• "Do you just talk to hear yourself talk, or what?" "You're talking right now." "So."

They're so good, in fact, that I will just keep a running list, at least until my typing fingers get tired. Here goes. I wish I had a video camera.

• "Where's your monkey?"
• "Macy could be Daddy's girlfriend." "Macy's too old for Daddy."
• "No, it's the Super Bowl, so you gotta play hurt."
• "Noah, settle down with the dog so it won't vomit on you."
• "Noah, come on, go in the box."
• "Who's got a job interview tomorrow at 10:30?"
• "Beth's over there editing the Boy Scout pamphlet." "Beth, why are you working?" "BETH! Go clean up the kitchen." "[Editorial license not to print what was said next. If you know me, you know what I said. And no, I wasn't working. I was typing every stupid thing that came out of his mouth.]"
• "Gonna snow up in here!" "Not in the living room." "Yeah, take it outside."
• "Tuesday and Wednesday, gonna be rough. Snowy ice."
• "Can I go to the park?" "Son, it's dark." "I know." "No." "Please?"
• "I was hoping to drink enough to pass out tonight."
• "Beth's already quit drinking." "I know!" "Did you ask her why yet?"
• "Ben's like, 'Man! That's what I get for riding a motorcycle without a helmet.'"
• "I'm mad at you because you ate the last cheese in the refrigerator."
• "Hi, Yoda!"
• "Beth's rubbing her eyes. Do you think we're getting on her nerves yet?"
• "Let's play the quiet game." "I won."
• "Mama's gettin' tired already. Gol-ly! She's got school tomorrow."
• "Captain America, the Incredible Hulk, and Thor. They should all make a movie together."
• "'Glee' is so dumb."
• "I think Aaron Rogers got hurt on the sideline, drinking some Gatorade."
• "What?! I did not say you could take a picture of me eating."
• "Can Macy ever ..." "No."
• "This is definitely a touchdown."
• "If you have 50 beers and 50 Dr Peppers, which would you drink?" "I don't know, buddy, but sometimes you just don't need to talk."
• "Macy, Macy Gray!"
• "Git 'em! Now git 'em! I said git 'em!"
• "All I know is these right here, these chocolate ones, they are awesome."
• "Wow. That guy is good. He should play in the Super Bowl." "He is." "Oh."
• "That's what I'm trying to do! And I need to doo-doo." "I DO need to doo-doo. Do you?"
• "All right! Here comes the Black-Eyed Peas!"
• "What the hell are you doing, Noah? Go to your room. Get ready for school tomorrow."

And that was just the first half. I'm going to bed.

Boys Are Weird

So now I have three guy roommates, not counting the cat. My husband's best friend and his 9-year-old son have moved in for a while, joining my husband in the world championships of belch, fart, and leave-yer-dirty-dishes-for-mom. The race is close.

Let me tell you, boys are weird. They think WE never shut up. Good gravy, I have never heard so much chattering in all my life. They think WE are impatient and hyper ... inside, outside, movies, bowling, out to eat ... they never just sit still. They think WE are know-it-alls; they thought I was insane when I left the cabinets open and the faucets dripping ... until they heard the same advice on the news and decided it was their idea. They drink TONS of Diet Dr Pepper and wonder why they are hyper and can't sleep. Macy barks at Noah constantly, probably with good cause (and especially when provoked). And the seat is ALWAYS up.

It's not lost on me that my husband now has a built-in posse. The Wii tournament is nonstop. The discussion of sports is nonstop. The stupid jokes are nonstop. Here's a snippet:

"Hey, Brett Favre is coming back for his 34th season!"
"Hey, did the groundhog see his shadow? Does that mean six more weeks of winter?"
"Wherever they're at, they're cold! See the cow back there? That cow is cold!"
"Why's that guy have a thermometer?"
"Damn, change the channel. It's making me cold!"
"Beth, what's for dinner?"

Um, yeah. Domino's.

Why must I have to train two more?

F is for Flamingo

Fiona Flamingo is a sight to see.

Her legs bend backward at the knee.

This isn't so bad; sometimes it's great,

Especially when she goes out to roller skate!

This was the Marcellus-approved version. I liked the first one better, but Marcellus nixed it because it didn't have a flamingo fact. OK, he was right.

Fiona Flamingo couldn't care less what you think.
Everything throughout her house is pink!
From "deep rose" to "barely blush," she's got every shade.
She even drinks nothing but pink lemonade!