Nutrition for kids

One of the main perks of doing a practicum at an elementary school (besides feeling like a genius because you know your times tables) is the occasional fieldtrip to the places you've always wanted to go but have never wanted to pay for.

One such fieldtrip was to Baltimore's Science Museum, a hands-on explosion of colors and sounds intended to entertain kids and tempt adults (and yes, I admit, even I lay on the bed of nails – and I made a tornado – and I put on an astronaut suit – and I played on the balance beam - and security had to come for me).

And then the most anticipated moment of the day; free lunch! To save a penny, our school personnel had packed a "complete" meal for these starving little ones. When I say complete, or even meal for that matter, I imagine a modest sampling of food from the major food groups (rendering a balanced diet to meet the demands of small bodies and even smaller minds).

Instead, our fatty toddler feast consisted of: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a small bag of Lay's potato chips, 2 medium-sized cookies, and an easily-disposable apple (seriously – Adam and Eve would have been pissed).

Even the (moderately healthy) bread of the sandwiches was thrown away! I saw children ravenously strip the peanut butter right off and gobble it ferociously while dipping their potato chips in mayonnaise and polishing it all off with a double-decker cookie-chaser.

It's like the kids have a lard-locator within their (minute) cerebral cortex that can locate, identify, and obliterate any remains of sugar and fat within a five mile radius.

What are we feeding these monsters? We have gone from "the breast is best" to "the fat is phat". It's insane …

MetaSpy

Check it out: www.metacrawler.com, then click on MetaSpy and the "exposed" section.

This is what other people are entering into search engines on the internet (scary … I took these directly from the site):

my child drank ammonia, what do I do?
acne photos
chubbyland
smoking marijuana tips
baby shower bingo clipart
body scrubber
monster tit
revenge haircuts
silky terrier adoption
cuckold stories
pediatric eating utensils
ass parade
buy handcuffs
goldfish health
why are nipples pink?

Define "crazy"

Gallaudet University has its share of wackos.

One day I was getting in the elevator when the RA of the dorm (a nice hearing guy) started acting silly and calling out to me in German from the lobby. As the elevator doors were closing I signed to him that he was "crazy".

I didn't notice as I was coming in that there was another guy in the elevator with me.

"What does that sign mean?" he asked, referring to crazy.

"Oh, you know," I said, and started gesturing different forms of crazy to demonstrate what it meant.

"Oh," he said. He scowled and then leaned in towards me dangerously: "Are you calling me crazy?!?"

Holy shit, I thought.

Kids say the craziest things ...

My practicum for the counseling department is at an elementary school, which means I am privy to the eccentric comments young children are infamous for blabbing (in this case, signing) without provocation.

One child, when asked by her teacher if she had remembered my name, signed that I was "cafeteria". Ironic … though her language was obviously delayed she was still able to hone in on one crucial aspect of my personality.

Later, in the cafeteria (er, in the David), I was having a lovely chat with an exceptionally bright 11-year-old girl. The topic was drugs and alcohol.

"I wish they had never been invented!" she complained.

"Indeed!" I signed back to her, although I was secretly anticipating a shot of Baileys for the upcoming weekend.

"They mess everything up," she continued. "I'm going to tell my brother that if he becomes President he'll have to make them illegal."

And then she added something that caught me off guard: "He's hearing, so…."

I paused and then asked her, "Why couldn't you be President and make it illegal yourself? You could be the first deaf female President."

The look on her face was incredible; she had never considered that she, as a deaf person, could actually be President.

Where do children learn that they are "limited"? Who tells them that they can't do or be something? What impressions does society make on individuals so that they accept without question what they are (in)capable of?

All of a sudden she was a flurry of signs: "You know I could … all I would need is an interpreter for all of the hearing people to understand me! I could make those bad things illegal, and make things better for deaf people..."

It was beautiful.

The DC Metro

DC is blessed to have a gorgeous underground Metro system; it's clean, it's (relatively) reliable, and it gets you places you could probably reach in 30 minutes by foot if you weren't so damned lazy.

There are some people who think that the Metro is like an amusement park ride. These individuals believe that the Metro is fun and entertaining, and they hoot and holler around every bend, bump, and shuffle along the way (Look ma! No hands! Weeeeeeeeee!!!).

They are usually tourists, who in their spending-$$$-away mentality have trouble decoding the tricky colors of the red, green, blue, yellow, and orange lines, and who make a habit of congregating and blocking the exits of the metro cars like a herd of zebras evading a lion.

What's particularly frustrating about these thrill-seeking tourists is their shock and amazement when the train starts up to pull out of the station. They act like 4th graders watching the monkeys get it on at the zoo ("Woah!!! That is like totally cool!!!").

I have seen full-grown adults squeal like banshees when they witness physics in action for the first time (apparently). The slight force exerted on a passenger when the train begins its departure does not justify the "WOOOOOOAAAAAHHH" that some tourists feel is the only appropriate way to relay their experience of physical euphoria.

It is obnoxious and unnecessary.

There are also those tourist passengers that are not aware of their immediate environment while onboard the Metro. You'll often see them standing there at the doors ready to exit, facing a concrete wall just beyond the window. They seem puzzled that the doors are not opening on their side so that they can run smack into a slab of cement (psst!!! Exit's on the other side!!!).

I have decided that these tourists must learn a lesson about public transport, abominable behavior in public, and the general laws of physics. I plan to lube down the handgrips of all the Metro cars on the red line with Vaseline. The only possible negative outcome of my plot would be trips to the emergency room that are probably not included in their tour package.

Well, at least they can WOOOOAAAAH all they like in the back of the jerky ambulance.

Massive religion

If anyone is offended by the following blog, I sincerely apologize from the bottom of my heart; I take full responsibility for you not knowing me well enough.

This morning I was reminded that Sunday is a day of rest for many; a time to reflect upon the week, think about one's life, and prepare thyself for the week upcomingeth that shall hence beforth be wrought with trials and tribulations, run-on sentences, and nonsensical rhetoric.

The southern TV evangelist was proclaiming the word of God across the cafeteria, where unfortunately it had fallen on deaf ears (even for some of the hearing). Now don't get me wrong! I respect religious freedom and choice, although I still can't quite get my head around getting up early on Sunday mornings (this is why churches always serve coffee and donuts – drug and sugar seductions…).

This particular parson was propped on his pulpit before a crowd of thousands in an arena somewhere in Texas (just where do all these Texans come from? I reckon McDonald's and Wal-Mart must have been closed for the Sabbath or something).

The scene is incredible; hundreds of people sitting peaceably before one man as he salutes the scripture with pregnant pauses, rising intonation, and horribly unfunny jokes. It's like a sporting event where the entire crowd has been slipped some Valium (check on that "special roast" from Maxwell House, there's something shady in that morning brew).

Now, I've watched a few of these TV programs, but I am yet to see a properly performed miracle on the glowing screen.

Having said that, I'd hate to see what would happen if tongues of flame started appearing on everyone's heads. Certainly a red-alert firecode evacuation of such a massive arena would be chaotic (just make sure the sprinklers are filled with holy water). What would Jesus do? Call 9-1-1 !!!

Seriously … if you want to improve Sunday morning TV ratings, the general public needs some major catastrophes or violence to capture their interest. More people would watch if sinners were body-slammed or smacked with chairs when filled with the spirit, not merely pushed dramatically to the floor.

But we'll have to ask the preacher to keep the miracles to a minimum for the sake of costs – I'm not sure where "pentecostal outbreaks" fits in on the insurance claim form.

National Gallery and the loo

The National Gallery is a lovely way to spend a rainy (almost snowy!) Saturday afternoon; that is, assuming you actually like art and enjoy staring at loads of pictures of white people having picnics in the buff. I’m more of a sculpture guy myself – there’s something more realistic and tangible about it. Maybe it’s some Pygmalion tendency of mine (canvas & frames = splinters …. OUCH!!!).

The most interesting sculpture of the day was the urinal in the men’s bathroom (shocking that I would find anything intriguing in the restroom). For those of you ladies who find the urinal to be something of a mythical creature that is always mentioned yet never seen (quite like a unicorn … and no, I will not allude to pointy objects), rest assured that urinals are a dime a dozen.

But this one was different. The standard width of a urinal is about shoulder length; enough to capture a steady stream of about a quarter-centimeter wide, with plenty of extra space to play “fireman” when no one’s looking.

This urinal was noticeably wider and projected out from the wall on both sides. The ends curved inward to give me privacy, while leaving plenty of space for my expression of excretion. It was odd; I felt like it was reaching out to give me a big ol’ hug. I was safe, secure, and protected by my urinal.

Who would have thought that my inspiration that afternoon would not come from Monet? Urinals, too, can leave an impression.

Vietnam Memorial

It’s a little out of the way, but the Vietnam Memorial is worth the hike (even on a sleety Saturday shuffle past the Monument and Reflecting Pool).

I had seen pictures of it before, but the design of the wall really surprised me. The marble slabs are built into a valley cut down from the ground level, and the footpath that runs along side them gently dips down until the center slab stands at about 6-7 feet tall.

There are so many names.

You want to stop at every single one; think and imagine that person’s life and the grief of the family. If each letter of their names reflects just one, singular happy moment of their life, then the wall is filled with millions of memories.

But you can’t. The letters begin to fly past; they move faster and faster and eventually blur together into a panic of lines and curves. They become nothing.

And when you finally reach the end of the wall then the guilt of not recognizing each and every single name catches up with you. These are not people to be passed over.

There was a family making an etching off one of the slabs. There, huddled on their knees in the wind and sleet of an unforgiving D.C. bluster, was a family who may have traveled a very long way just to see one of those names.

It’s a shame we do not erect a slab for each of them.

Mamma mia !!!

Wouldn’t it be easier if we could all wear a sign that indicated our relationship status?

“I’m single and looking”
“I’ve just gotten out of a long-term relationship and am looking for a rebounder”
“I’m in an open relationship”

It would save time and emotional energy. It would also keep us from embarrassing situations to laugh about later.

I was having a few beers (I discovered Snakebites on Friday) with my sister when a very hunky Italian waiterboy was assigned to our table. My “I am single” eyes went to work, but I was frustrated that my sister may be giving off the maybe-he’s-straight?-vibe that could ruin my groove (who am I kidding?).

My darling sibling decided to intervene and make it clear that we were not dating.

My sister is as smooth as I am on the dating scene (please refer to earlier blogs to understand the sarcasm of this remark). As he approached our table and inquired as to the likeability of our beverages, my sweet sissy said:

“Oh, our mom would just love these!”

I was mortified.

She may as well have said: “Oh, the woman whose womb brought forth both myself and my drinking companion, and later suckled to her bosom in motherly love and care, would truly enjoy these beers as only a mother could do!”

In any event, the venom of my Snakebite took to the brain and I left my number on the credit card receipt. He did not call.

No worries – those Italians are such momma’s boys anyways.

Asking someone out

In a moment of absolute irrationality, I promised myself that I would ask out Mr. Hottie the next time I caught him on campus.

That day came before I was ready for it. “Stay cool, be yourself, be pleasant but not exuberant, and smile.”

Standard procedure for asking someone out would involve a sly and almost underhanded scheme of working the date request naturally into the conversation.

But I scoff at common pleasantries like “What’s up?”, “What’s happening?”, and particularly the over-used “Hello”. Some people even suggest that you should ask the person “How are you?” before pounding them with the date request. These merely interrupt my oh-too-smooth rhythm.

Eyes meet. Smiles are exchanged. As the adrenaline kicks in fully the words are out of my mouth before a proper salutation –

“Yeah, so I was wondering if you wanna go out sometime?”

Forget formalities; let’s just get to the good stuff.

Pants down in Chinatown

The intimacy that two human beings experience at the crossroads of passion and compassion is truly a blessed thing; it is a moment to be cherished, to be relished, and not to be shared with the general public.

As I was coming up the escalators out of the Metro in Chinatown (and commenting to my friends on just how much I loved this section of DC), my attention was drawn to a ruckus happening on the ground level.

We heard a man yelling "Get off that man!" over and over again. His tone wasn't desperate or panicked. It seemed like he was trying to be helpful while completely bewildered.

And I didn't know whether to be shocked or amused.

There, in the broad daylight of 2:00 p.m. on a rainy Saturday afternoon, were two men who could not postpone their cravings and wait for the nearest Starbucks bathroom (see previous blogs for proper hygiene guidelines).

The scene was incredible. Families and grannies alike were privy to this afternoon brawl. No one knew whether they should help, stare, point, laugh, ignore, or take pictures (and I'm not kidding --would love to go to that scrapbooking party).

Apparently the encounter had begun discretely, as in not in the middle of the friggin' street, yet in their haste they had pushed over two newspaper dispensers and had fallen on top of them right onto G street. Obviously there was something wrong with these two men (most notably, Dupont Circle is a good 3 Metro stops away), but they had enough clarity of thought to get their pants around their ankles and the rest is history.

I couldn't make up a story this crazy. Perhaps you'll read about it in the local newspaper. Just take my advice; give your hands a good scrubbin' after you've touched the dispenser.

First dates

Does anyone really know how you’re supposed to behave on a first date? What expectations should you have? Bells and whistles? Fireworks? Who pays? And what time does the friggin’ Metro close on a Tuesday, anyway?!

Food is an obnoxious way to begin a first date. There I was, surrounded by about 6 plates of tapas at La Tasca in Chinatown, reaching above/around/in/under/through my datee while clumsily spooning chopped peppers and tomatoes into my mouth. My fine motor skills were not cooperating; I was leaving a trail of food from the plate to my lap (almost like Hansel and Gretel backpacking through … well … Spain, I guess).

I think there was even one point where I spit a piece of rice at the poor boy.

He was a complete gentleman and ordered for me. Not knowing my tastes, this was a bold move. My only qualm with cuisine is seafood, particularly when there are identifiable appendages still attached to the glossy-eyed carcass. I did my best to disguise the uneaten remains amongst the showering of tidbits I had spilt all over the table. My datee was not fooled.

And then there’s the awkward exit-of-the-car moment. Is there action? A kiss? A hug? A second date request?

He continued to be a complete gentleman. He gave me a hug, brushed my dribblings off of his jacket, and drove away.