Outrage
Today I’m recommending you read this open letter to AIG. It was cathartic reading it, so it must have been cathartic writing it. Melanie put a breathtaking human face to the story and now, I’m going to add another one:

I like her ending, only I wouldn’t have been so polite as to use asterisks. I’m too blinded by rage to even locate the asterisk key when I think about the futures stolen by these unscrupulous, relentless crooks who are now suing the US government for…back…taxes…
Starving the (wrong) beast: San Diego Unified throws the baby out with the bath water
Madison High School student Charles Spencer plays a tuba held together by duct tape. His school is too broke to fix the instrument, and with pending budget cuts, the prospect of Spencer—who was featured in a recent story by the online news website Voice of San Diego—having a music class during which to play his bandaged horn is looking grim. Whether you have a child or not, every adult should be alarmed when it comes to the state of education in the Golden State.
In case you don’t know, San Diego Unified School District (SDUSD) is in a world of hurt. Stimulus funds are headed our way, but, apparently, the mystery amount SDUSD will receive is not enough to pull it out of the already in-progress nose dive. And you thought that fiery streak in the sky was a meteor.
The No Child Left Behind farce is one culprit in the evisceration of public education. But add Prop. 13, the state budget crisis and a recession, and San Diego children become diminishing apparitions in the rearview mirror of “progress.”
Now facing a stratospheric deficit, our local school board has put two tourniquet-like plans on the table. Plan A, according to Voice, includes a nearly across-the-board increase in class size, principal-sharing among certain schools, slashing of transportation for magnet schools, cuts to employee benefits and an unpaid four-day furlough for all employees.
Plan B is even more depressing, with cuts to “school supplies, landscaping and elementary school counseling,” areas in which previous cuts have already left the city’s schools in disarray. Also included are “options such as closing small schools, shuttering programs in Old Town and Balboa Park” and nixing altogether arts and high-school athletics. I personally think the school board should require foot binding for kids who are actually succeeding under these ever-worsening conditions just to level the weed-infested playing field.
In addition to all that misery, the free lunch program is broke while roughly 2,600 more kids enrolled this school year than last. High-fructose corn syrup is cheap, so serving less nutritious meals is being talked about as a cost-cutting solution. Good thing American kids don’t struggle with obesity and diabetes or this “solution” might be something of a health concern.
California spent $2,000 less per student than the national average prior to budget cuts, and students here are more likely to attend overcrowded schools and receive less personal attention, according to UCLA’s California Educational Opportunity Report released in late February.
Somehow, I can’t envision Plan A or B improving these statistics. So I’m offering my own plan, which I’ll just call Plan WTF.
Plan WTF includes three ways to generate money for all of California’s public schools with enough left over to buy textbooks published in this century for the state’s poorest kids. Imagine! These predominantly brown babes will get to read revisionist history just like their wealthier counterparts.
My plan begins with the decriminalization of weed. Regulate it like alcohol, tax it like cigarettes and smoke it like you’re being water-boarded and are gasping for air. The idea-challenged what-about-the-children crowd should pack a bowl and take a seat. They’ll likely say that kids will smoke it if it’s legal, and they may be right. But kids are going to smoke it anyway; they still deserve a solid education with access to counselors between bong hits.
Part 2 of Plan WTF is to stop building the third border barricade. Walls are expeeensive. Just get a bid on a 3-foot-tall stucco wall to surround your tiny front yard. You’ll see. Turning our country into one giant gated community is a losing policy. If two didn’t work, certainly three won’t halt the determination of the human spirit.
Finally, and most expediently, there must be a Just Say No To Testing mantra. The policy makers can call the expensive exams STAR or WRAP or whatever silly acronym their high-paid consultants come up with, but they’re not fooling anybody.
Each year, students in the SDUSD face a battery of state-mandated tests that include the National Assessment of Educational Progress, California Standardized Testing and Reporting, California Alternate Performance Assessment, California Modified Assessments and the California High School Exit Exam—because passing grades are no longer enough.
There’s the English Language Development Test and the Physical Fitness Testing, which all the kids hate since they’re fat and wheezy and not allowed to run at recess and they don’t have P.E. anymore because the schools are broke and, anyway, they’re too busy preparing for tests.
There are the district-mandated tests, too: the Benchmark Exams, the End-of-Course Exams, the End-of-Year Exams, the Gates-MacGinitie Reading Test, the On-Demand Writing Exam, the Standards-Based Assessment in Mathematics (your eyes swirling yet?), the Writing and Reading Assessment Profile and the Practice California High School Exit Exam—because they have to practice taking the test just in case they don’t know by this time how to take a test.
Don’t forget the slew of “voluntary” tests that are generally required for college admission and all the regular day-in and day-out testing. Holy mackerel, are you tired? The whole thing makes me want to put my head down on my desk and drool for a while.
It’s crushing, what’s been done to education in California, and everybody loses if this is the future. Plan WTF is the only viable solution. Implement it yesterday and maybe Charles Spencer will have a new tuba before he sits for his SATs.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
3 is the new 13
Ruby is equal parts sugar and spice, piss and vinegar these days. She’s certainly got a mind of her own, which is what we all want for our children…eventually! But not now! Right now, while she’s my captive audience and is free of peer pressure and bad influence and the ability to sell her virginity for top dollar, I want her to submit completely to my will. I want her to obey and listen to me while she’s malleable, so that later when she truly thinks I know nothing, she’ll at least be armed with good decision-making tools when faced with peer pressure and bad influence. She’ll also know better than to sell herself to the highest bidder. I guarantee it.
Lately, though, I’m getting terrifying glimpses of what the teenage years hold. The child is regularly offering me her furrowed brow and a stink-eye so precise and intimidating that I sometimes wonder if she isn’t practicing it when I’m not around. In the last two weeks I’ve been on the receiving end of more leave me alones! and don’t talk to mes! and don’t! kiss! mes! and i said i don’t have to gos! than any parent should legally be required to endure. It’s my theory that the sole purpose of year three is to offer parents a training session for what’s coming. Consider it the Parental Pull-Up. Consider it dress rehearsal. My reaction to her poor attitude hasn’t always been appropriate; it’s safe to say that I could use an understudy for this warm-up routine, which doesn’t bode well.
The other night, I was buckling Ruby into her car seat and chatting with Sam about our day as we were heading home from dinner. I have no idea what we were discussing but Ruby interjected with a loud and drawn out, “Haaaaaaaaail NO!” I fell apart with laughter, then pulled it together and asked her in serious mom voice, where she learned that.
She stuck her thumb in her mouth and turned her face from mine in defiance.
“Ruby, tell me where you learned to say that.”
“Haaaaaaaaail NO!” she said again.
And the girl meant it.
She’s serious business. And I’m in serious trouble.
It must be in her genes
There are certain fashion statements that I loathe, a few of which I’ve never mentioned while others I’ve made no small secret of here (and there and everywhere else). These trends—which make me want to splash a glass of cold water in the face of the wearer—include Crocs, Uggs, cotton jersey culotte pants, bubble skirts, and bear-claw hair clips. This is the abridged version of a much longer list which, I was reminded yesterday, includes a sweater thrown over the shoulders. Why was I reminded of this? Oh, I’m so glad you asked!

(See what I mean? Even this guy can’t make it look good.)
Yesterday, I handed Ruby her sweater as she got out of my car to go to school. Not that she needed a sweater: It’s been 80 degrees here. But I’m trying to play the responsible mother and don’t want her to be caught unprepared should we suddenly experience gusting winds and snow flurries. (She also travels with an earthquake kit in her backpack and one week’s worth of food in the form of MREs.)
The child took the sweater from me—reluctantly, practically rolling her eyes at me—and as she began to ascend the 14 concrete stairs to her daycare, she swung it around and placed it on her shoulders. I cringed as I watched from behind her but decided not to say anything. This was the first time she’d ever done this and we’d had such a lovely morning, what with her brushing her teeth upon my having to ask five times versus the usual seventeen! Who was I to start a battle over something we had years to tackle? Being the adult in the relationship, I figured I’d let this fashion no-no slide for now. I simply shuddered to myself, bit my knuckles and moped up the stairs behind her, pondering where it was that I’d gone so dreadfully wrong.
We weren’t five stairs up when Ruby lifted the sweater from her shoulders and handed it back to me without turning around. “I don’t want people to see me like this!” she said. Wha…? Did she say what I think she just said? I was so thrilled, so tickled, so enamored by my glorious child, I did a little nose-scrunch/fist pump combo. And I even considered for a brief fissure in my reality, surprising her that very night with the very pair of pink, charm-dangled Crocs which precipitated the world famous Public Meltdown of 2008.
But I’m not delusional. My princess can thrash and wail and cry on the ground outside of the Fashion Valley Footlocker all she wants: She’ll never own a pair of Crocs unless she buys them herself with money she’s earned. Instead, I help guide her into certain ensembles and then overlook her choice of black patent leather shoes in June or the mismatched Vans worn on the wrong feet. In the end, I think she’ll be just fine because the beauty really comes from the inside.*
*It’s just a whole lot more magnificent without Croc or shoulder-sweater adornment.
About last night
It was beyond beyond. It was so fantastic that I’m not even going to bother italicizing the adjective because doing so wouldn’t begin to capture how amazing it was.
You can get David Byrne’s new album—and listen to it for free!—right here. If you’re trying to get to your happy place, like I am, I would recommend starting there. Well, first go to a café of your liking, sit alone, sip wine, watch the world go by and then listen to the album.
PROMPTuesday: Exercise #2
(This is my 150-word inspirational speech, written in under 10 minutes.)
(Oh, and it’s for my friend, Katie.)
You’re always saying, I’m not a photographer or How can I be a good photographer or Really, you’re a better photographer than I am. And to this I say: Grrrrrrl! Have you seen the photos you’ve taken lately?
Look, I know I’m no one to say but I’m saying it anyway. You. Are. Talented. Your shit’s hangin’ on my dining room wall, for Chrissake, right above a hair grease stain that rubbed off when Ruby was having a time out a while back and she cried with her head against the wall and begged to see “the children!” Of course, she’s referring to the children you snapped in Uganda that now hang on my dining room wall. Of course, her wails were compelling.
But I said, No you may not see the children, you’re having a time out.
So there. If you don’t believe me, believe my two year old.

As promised: My boob job
Back in October, I took photos of a very young and very vibrant breast cancer survivor for a CityBeat feature article. Her name is Amanda and boy has she Been Through It. But she’s as positive a person as I’ve ever met and is as captivating in the flesh as you might infer from her picture.
This past Sunday, Amanda organized a bunch of friends to participate in a massive casting session for the Keep A Breast foundation and both AnnaMaria Stephens—the journalist who wrote the above mentioned article—and I, were on the list of invitees. You may see my photos of another casting session from the same assignment over here. Please, go have a peek…I’m really proud of some of these images.
Anyhow, it was my turn last weekend to be on the other end of the camera (Amanda picked up My Lover and started shooting me). And because of this, you’re getting to see more of me than you’d probably care to.
That’s AnnaMaria getting casted in the background. This was her second time. The women doing the hard work are Shaney Jo and Mona, the founders of Keep A Breast.
And that’s me, trying not to laugh, talk—major challenge—or breathe, for fear of puckering the drying mold.
Each cast will be painted by an artist and then auctioned off in September. I’m not sure my cast will garner much money but I’m confident that it will be more than if the item being auctioned were a cast of my ass. Which, if it were a fund-raiser for ass cancer? I would have to decline participation.
That’s my likeness, over there on the bottom left. Not bad for someone mere inches away from forty, if I do say so myself.
Of course, it was super fun because, let’s be honest: Things tend to get a little silly when girls whip their boobies out…especially girls like Ms. Stephens and myself.
It was an honor to be involved in this event, to be in the company of yet more amazing women, and I hope that my friends at Keep A Breast raise a shit ton of money from the casts they made that day.
Word Of Mouth
These photos of Ruby were taken on March 16, 2006 by Tina Cockburn during one of our Animal Crackers playgroup sessions. She showed up with her two darling children, whipped out her camera and began shooting all of the kids (not LITERALLY shooting them, of course). Also a scrapbook diva, Tina is a self-taught photographer who’s just embarking on world domination. Or at least San Diego domination. She’s gotta start somewhere.
Check out her website here if you your thinking of having professional pictures taken of your little one…



















