The Saturday Post: Yo-Yo/Jonze/Buck edition

Spike Jonze is a talented director with an interesting vision. I enjoy his videos (Weapon of Choice, in particular) and movies (Being John Malkovich) but I wouldn't say I'm a huge fan.

Yo-Yo Ma is an amazingly gifted cellist, but I've never sought out his music, so clearly not a huge fan there, either.

And Lil Buck? Well, I never even heard of the guy before.

That said, after seeing this mesmerizing collaboration between Yo-Yo Ma and Lil Buck on "The Dying Swan" in support of art in inner-city schools — presented to the online world by Spike Jonze — I can honestly say I'm now a fan of all three.

Modern. Art.

Today's question:

What do you remember of school art offerings when you were a student?

Grandma grumbles

This past week wasn't as bad as this particular week, but there were still a few things that got my briefs in a bunch and caused this grandma to grumble:

1. Rejection. As many of you know, I have an agent. For my picture books. And as many of you may know, the picture book market has gone down the toilet. But after reading (and rejecting) my first book, an editor requested that I write another on a topic she wanted covered. I did, she loved it, and for two months it's been under consideration with her peers (they buy books by committee at some places). Then the house hired a new head who brought authors with him/her, one of whom had a book quite similar to mine. That author and that book get to be published. My book is dead in the water. Decision by the new publisher. My agent apologized, cited the cuss market, said she's no longer even representing picture books because of the dismal forecast for them, and suggested I submit my manuscripts to children's magazines. Which stinks. I want a book published, not a story in a magazine. But I shouldn't complain: At least the picture book manuscripts scored me an agent and we have other things in the works.

2. Tornado coverage. The devastation of the deadly tornadoes has broken my heart and I wanted to check out news coverage Thursday morning. But because we recently canceled cable, I had to rely on network morning news, no CNN. Well, every freakin' network morning news show went on and on and on about the cussing royal wedding. I don't care about the wedding, I care about our folks here at home, wanted to know about folks here at home. Sure, there were brief — shamefully brief — updates on the devastation, but for the most part, I heard only about dresses, and guests, and vows, and wacky people from all over the globe camping out for a prime spot to view the spectacle. But I shouldn't complain: At least I could find all the news I could take online. And at least I'm blessed to not be in the stricken areas or have lost loved ones.

3. Car rental woes. I, along with my immediate family living in Colorado, will be headed to the desert when Mac (ha! first time using that!) is born and Bubby celebrates his third birthday. We'll be there a week, thus needing a rental car. So I reserved the rental car ... and about died when the cussing taxes and fees and miscellaneous charges doubled the price. Honest: The original rental fee was exactly doubled when all that cuss was added. Crazy. I'm paying more for the car than I am for my airfare. But I shouldn't complain: At least we're all able to go visit the newborn and celebrate yet another birthday with our Bubby.

4. Dyslexia assistance. I'm a site coordinator for the local Children's Literacy Center. I manage the tutors, tutors who are not trained to diagnose nor work with dyslexic children. That's understandable, fine, and good, because in the public schools there are special programs for diagnosing and aiding students when dyslexia is suspected and/or confirmed. Right? Wrong! That's not the case, at least not the public school system in which one of my students is enrolled. So a lovely mother struggling to do what's right for her kid and struggling with finances and thus unable to pay the exhorbitant cost of private testing and programs is left flailing and worried sick about her struggling daughter. Said daughter can no longer be in our tutoring program because of resrictions related to IEPs and dyslexia, yet the cussing school system has nothing to offer her, I'm told. I see a child slipping through the cracks right before my eyes and I see her mother's heart breaking and I can't do anything about it. Which breaks my heart. But I shouldn't complain: BS! We all should be complaining about such things. There is no "at least" in this instance, is nothing that reverses this travesty. Which just plain sucks.

Shew! I'm done. Thank you for letting me get that all off my chest.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What do you need to get off your chest?

Old enough to be a grandma

I often come across women who eschew being called "Grandma." As they put it, they're "not old enough to be a grandma," the distaste heavy on their lips, on their words as they offer the disclaimer accompanying the label.

Well, I am old enough to be a grandma, and it doesn't bother me one bit. Having accumulated the number of years necessary to have borne children who in turn grow, mature and bear children of their own comes with many perks, many privileges, many insights younger women may not be privy to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer feel it's necessary to sort out my past for the sake of my future. What's done is done, what will be will be. I'm living my future ... and it's far better than I once expected.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I can delight in my daughters as adults, not just worry about them as children.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I know it can happen to me. Invincibility is an illusion of youth; reality rings harder and louder as you age. Which means I always wear my seat belt, take vitamins, look both ways. And I savor the moments granted by my precautionary measures.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I trust my gut instinct more. I finally realize it's right more often than not.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I more deeply appreciate and more thoroughly understand the importance of "I'm sorry." And "thank you."

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find contentment more often in the small things, have stopped pining for the big things. For the most part.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer stifle my feelings simply to keep others comfortable.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find truth — sometimes ugly, sometimes freeing — in discomfort. Mine and that of others.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I forfeit the beauty competition, having accepted that I will never again look like I did at 18 nor will I ever look like a moneyed celebrity. (One of those freeing truths mentioned above.)

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I put more effort into accepting others for who they are, less effort in trying to make them who I want them to be.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I like my siblings more than I used to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I say "I love you" more often ... without hesitation or embarrassment.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I am a grandma. I'm proud to say so, proud to be so.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I feel thoroughly, thankfully blessed and will gladly take the title — and the years — over the alternative.

Today's question:

Fill in the blanks: Now that I'm old enough to _______, I ___________.

Spring not yet sprung

Many of the blogs I visit regularly have lately featured spring in all its glory: trees in bloom and flowers, flowers, flowers. Beautiful flowers of purples and yellows and pinks and more.

Well, that's not the way we do spring in Colorado. At least not yet, at least not in my neighborhood.

As proof, here are two highlights from my walk with the dogs yesterday, neither of which feature flowers. (Neither of the photos, not the dogs. Well, the dogs don't feature flowers either).

(The white bar on the photo is part of the fence they're standing on the other side of.)

Sure, I'd be thrilled to see and smell flowers blooming, the true signs of spring. But if I can't have those, I'll gladly accept and appreciate what else Mother Nature has to offer, including snow-covered Pikes Peak and three curious deer.

As for blooming trees and flowers, I'll wait patiently.

For now, anyway.

Today's question:

What does spring look like in your neighborhood today?

Wherein Birdy is shot down

This is NOT an injured bird, just a baby bird.As many of you know, I call my soon-to-be-born second grandson, brother to Bubby, Birdy. At least here on my blog.

Megan called Friday to chit-chat and, after a bit, she told me that Bubby had chosen a new name for his baby brother. All morning long, she said, Bubby had been calling the baby, for some unknown reason, "Wacky Mac."

"So I was thinking, that's what you could call the baby on your blog, Mom," she said, "instead of Birdy."

"Wacky Mac?" I asked.

"No, you can't call him Wacky Mac. But I was thinking Mac. Since Bubby picked out that name. Instead of Birdy."

I told Megan I couldn't call the baby Mac because I have an Uncle Mac, so that name is already taken. In my mind, at least.

To which my formerly-hesitant-to-hurt-anyone's-feelings-with-her-words-but-now-never-minces-them-ever daughter replied: "But we hate Birdy, Mom! We detest Birdy! Even <friend who reads this blog> asked 'What's up with Birdy?'"

Okay. I get it. Megan hates, no, detests the name Birdy. And because I don't want to write about my grandson in a manner that his mother detests, I hereby cave. Going forward, my second grandson's name — for blogging purposes, at least — will be Mac.

To Megan: Consider it done.

To Uncle Mac: I'm sorry, but you're now in second place in my mind when thinking of Mac. Baby Mac he'll likely be for a while. But still, you're no longer the No. 1 Mac. I'm sorry.

To Birdy: I'm sorry to you, too, for you will no longer be known as Birdy. You will be Mac. Except in secret. A secret we'll keep between us. So if I ever accidentally let the name Birdy slip from my lips to your ears, Baby Mac, please, whatever you do, do not tell your mother. Like I said, it'll be our secret. And it will be the one and only time I ask you to keep a secret from your mom. I promise, Baby Birdy, er, I mean Baby Mac.

Gah! I'll get used to it. I promise.

And I'll love him regardless of name. I promise.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is your favorite macaroni dish? (Sorry, Meg, had to do it just once!)