WHAT IS "ACADEMIC REALIGNMENT" AND WHY IS IT WRONG FOR UPPER DARBY

If you've been watching the news during the past few weeks, you may have noticed that the Upper Darby School District (home to yours truly) has an enormous education crisis on its hands. Due to state budget cuts, the Upper Darby School Board has proposed that starting with the 2012-2013 school year, all ARTS, MUSIC, LIBRARY, and GYM classes will be removed from the elementary schools. In the middle schools, FOREIGN LANGUAGE and TECHNOLOGY classes will also be eliminated. Sixty teachers will lose their jobs, and those who remain have the daunting task of integrating all of these "cut" classes into the existing curriculum.

This "academic realignment proposal" (the school board's term, not mine) has parents, teachers, students, and taxpayers shaking their heads. On my block, the average school tax taps out at around $8000/year. How is that not enough to keep at least some of these six classes in the curriculum? The school board claims that this proposal will help Upper Darby students "succeed as citizens in the new global economy." But no one on the school board can adequately explain how graduates of Upper Darby schools will be able to compete in the global economy if they lack foundations in foreign languages and technology, the two cornerstones of the global economy.

On Tuesday, May 8th, the school board held a meeting to discuss their proposal. The Performing Arts Center at the Upper Darby High School (not too ironic, right?) was packed with parents, children, teachers, and taxpayers eager to address the board. When the floor was opened for public comment at 8:45pm, at least 70 speakers got up and waited patiently to give their time-allotted three-minute speeches extolling the virtues of the arts and offering alternative solutions to these painful cuts. Although some school board members listened, others found it perfectly acceptable to read and reply to text messages and excuse themselves to answer what I can only assume were phone calls from people who DON'T pay their salaries. One man, who I understand will be transferring into the Radnor school district next year (you've been warned, Main Liners), sat as far back in his chair as the springs would allow, with his head resting on one of his hands, with a body language that could only be described as disinterested and disgusted.

The meeting stretched until 2am, at which point the proposed curriculum was tentatively passed by the board, with a 5-3 vote. They followed that up with an even gutsier 7-1 vote to approve a 3% tax increase. The board voted hastily and couldn't even be bothered to politely excuse themselves and pretend to deliberate for a few moments behind closed doors. Their vote clearly conveyed that the majority of the board has no interest in exploring any alternatives to this proposal.

But I, like many of the parents, children, teachers, and taxpayers in Upper Darby, refuse to consider this a done deal. The final vote to approve the budget is due in June, which means that there are still a few weeks left for people to raise their voices and demand that the school board and our elected officials FIND ANOTHER WAY.

Are you ready to help? If so, my neighbors in Upper Darby (and myself, of course) would be grateful if you could do the following:

(1) Log on to http://www.saveudarts.org/;

(2) Click "Sign the Petition", read and sign the petition that requests funding for these programs be restored; and

(3) Send the link to family or friends who are 18 years or age or older, support the arts, and live in Pennsylvania. Anyone in Pennsylvania (even if they don't live in Upper Darby or don't have kids in public school) can sign this petition.

The Upper Darby school district is the ninth largest school district in Pennsylvania, with a creative and performing arts program that has a long-standing tradition of nationwide excellence. If the state doesn't think twice about coming after a school district as large and diverse as Upper Darby, it is only a matter of time before smaller districts with less established arts programs will be sacrificed as well.

Kids in the district are making signs of support, starting lemonade stands, and sending their allowance to teachers and principals. Adults are writing letters, making calls, and preparing to march on Harrisburg to tell Governor " Tom "slash and burn" Corbett that his cuts are destroying the creative integrity of a generation of children.

Please join with your neighbors who are fighting valiantly to educate the next generation of leaders, performers, and visionaries.

I welcome your support at http://www.saveudarts.org/.

Welcome to 40 - Just Sharing the Wisdom

It's been 20 days since my 30s came to an end, and I'm doing surprisingly well. While there have been ups and downs, overall it's not too bad (aside from the stray grey hairs that are popping up in my dark brown eyebrow arch above my left eye, making it look like I've had some sort of tweezing accident). But hey, I'll take stray grey eyebrows over grey head hair any day, so I'll just shut up.

Here's the top 10 things I've learned since turning 40:

1) Celebrations for milestone birthdays (like 40, 50, 60, etc) that result in gifts like candles from CVS purchased minutes before gift-giving do NOT go over well. I mean, even though Molly Ringwald got no gifts in "16 Candles," she ended up with Jake Ryan and that awesome dining room table kiss.

2) Kind friends and family (and contrite spouses) will make enormous efforts to amend disappointing birthday celebrations, particularly if you have a spectacular meltdown in your bedroom.

3) Although it may be necessary to stand on your concert seat to get a better view of the stage, it's not worth getting into a fight with a posse of younger, skinnier bitches in the row behind you at a Kelly Clarkson concert, even if your husband has your back. I'm just sayin'.

4) Sometimes, jumping in the car and going to Reading, PA on a whim, to watch "professional" wrestling can be a great way to spend a Saturday night.

5) The office douchebag who tries to rationalize why he can't perform basic office maintenance tasks (ie, "you should be responsible for changing the toner in the copier, Maria, since your stuff was the last stuff that printed") should be ignored. That is, until you openly mock his arrogance to female coworkers behind his back.

6) Too much AXE cologne really, no REALLY, hurts the nasal passages and basically torpedoes your chance of hooking up (do people still call it "hooking up?") with others.

7) People who say "anyhoo" or (even worse, use it as part of a facebook status) should be immediately defriended without explanation.

8) Husbands who offer to make their kids' lunches are viewed as exponentially more sexy to tired working moms than those men who couch on the sofa watching repeats of "Storage Wars."

9) You're never to old to snuggle with your kids, although they will definitely be too old one day to want to snuggle with you.

10) Trying to beat the computer in two consecutive games of Scrabble is in an exercise in futility, especially at 2 in the morning. Also, note to some, when playing on the Kindle, the computer takes the name AI (as in artificial intelligence), not Al (as in short for Alfred). It took me about three weeks of playing before I realized that.

More wisdom later...

Memories of Christmas Past (or, Why Modern Technology Has Taken the "Special" out of the "Christmas Special")

I got home today from work, excited that "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was airing tonight. No matter how many times I've see them, all those holiday shows like "Rudolph," "Frosty," and "The Grinch" have that same transportive power -- they all take me back to the mid- to late-70s, popping (or, most likely, burning) the shake it 'til you break your arm Jiffy Pop popcorn, sitting on the plaid sofa with my brother and parents under the multicolor yarn-scrap afghan knitted by my Cioci Elizabeth, waiting for that super-cool CBS SPECIAL bumper to introduce each show.

You know the one, that starts with this acid-trip graphic:









That turns into this:










In the Pownall house, countdowns always need to happen before something actually happens. So at 7pm, I told the boys that we would be going up for showers at 7:30, so we could watch Charlie Brown at 8. All was running smoothly until I told our older son, Jake, that we'd all be watching TV together until the show was over at 9, and then it would be bed time.

To which he responded, "But mom, I really wanted to get on the computer tonight. Can't we DVR Charlie Brown and watch it another night? What if I just watch the first half? Can I go on the computer at 8:30?"

Watch HALF of Charlie Brown? But you'll miss seeing the kids dancing those silly dances during rehearsal. Miss hearing Linus's speech about the real meaning of Christmas. Miss Charlie Brown smiling as the Peanuts gang sings "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" over the end credits? Is all of THIS worth missing for round 4,301 of Angry Birds? Isn't family time more important than gaming? Isn't tonight the very definition of special?? AREN'T WE MAKING MEMORIES FOR A LIFETIME, GODDAMN IT??

And what I realized is that, sadly, Charlie Brown isn't special to my son's generation. Neither is Frosty, Rudolph, or any of those other "classics" of the season. And it's not their fault. When I was growing up, these cartoons only came on once a year. If you were being punished that night or (God forbid!) your school was so unfortunate as to have scheduled their annual Christmas pageant (back when you could call it a Christmas pageant) on the same night, you were out of luck for another 365 days.

It makes me wonder what will be the "Christmas classics" of my sons' generation, when you can watch Hoopes and YoYo Save Christmas or Christmas in Bikini Bottom hundreds of times each season if you wanted to.

Given today's overreliance on instant electronic gratification, kids can't understand that there was a time (not that long ago) when destination television was exactly that -- you caught it when it was on, or you were SOL for another year. These days, a show can re-air multiple times throughout the Christmas season (considering it now runs from November 1st until January 1st). And even if you miss these reruns, you can always hulu it, youtube it, upload it, buy it on Blu-Ray at Target for $12.99, or get a bootleg copy for $7 on a folding table at 41st and Market.

And so the war waged in my head tonight: do I kick tradition to the curb and keep the peace in my house by letting my son play on the computer, or do I dig in and force him to enjoy my holiday traditions.

I'm happy to report that we all dug in. Not only did we make it through A Charlie Brown Christmas, but we also watched the newer Peanuts Christmas shorts that came afterwards. And everyone had a smile on the face, at least most of the time, anyway.

Charlie Brown: 1; Angry Birds: 0

Way to go, old Chuck!!

C is for Cookie...And That's Really F---ing Annoying!

Yesterday, I went out at lunch with a coworker. We decided to treat ourselves to something yummy at DiBruno Bros on Chestnut Street (or is it Walnut Street? I can never tell them apart unless I'm driving).

I approach the pastry case, I immediately eye up the cranberry gingerbread bar with cream cheese frosting. I am a sucker for these at Starbucks during the Christmas season, and although there are two Starbucks, each one block away from where I work, I hardly ever indulge at work (mostly because I am always running late for work and I hate waiting in the long Starbucks lines downtown).

I decide to give the DiBruno Bros. version a try, confident that theirs will be yummier, fresher, and more satisfying than whatever has been mass-produced in the Starbucks case two blocks down the street. The only thing separating me from immediate powdered sugar and cream cheese euphoria --- the well-coifed Rittenhouse Square wife ahead of me in line.


In the pastry case, there are six classic holiday options: a gingerbread man, an ice skate, a mitten, a wreath, a snowflake, and some undefinable shape with white frosting and red and green squiggly lines on it. I'm thinking that I probably have about 2 minutes until sugar satisfaction.


Wifey starts her order. It goes something like this:

"I'll have one skate, one wreath. Hmmm...I guess...I guess one snowflake."

{Pause, as she scans the case}

"And one gingerbread man."

"A blue mitten." (Perhaps worth noting that blue is the only color that the mittens come in)

"How much does that weigh?"

The guy behind the counter takes the box to the scale. "A little less than a pound, miss. You can probably get one more cookie in there."

I snarkily think to myself that this woman hasn't chronologically been a "miss" in about a decade, but whatever. I HATE being called "m'am", and I'm pretty sure that the young DiBruno Bros. workers are instructed to ALWAYS refer to women of a certain age by "miss," just to keep the clientele happy.

Back at the cookie case, she scans the trays again and asks the guy, "Can you show me what that white frosted one looks like outside the case?"

Outside the case? The case is clear glass, so I'm not sure how different it's going to look outside the case as opposed to inside it. The counter guy obliges and lifts the cookie off the tray and into the air for her approval. He doesn't appear to be phased by this request, so I assume that this type of interaction with high-maintenance, overprivliged women (whose husbands work 80-hours a week, and who pay someone to clean their house and nanny their children so "mommy" can get some well deserved "me time"), is standard operating procedure in the Rittenhouse Square area.

"Well, I don't know what that is, but I guess I'll take that one, too."

Depending on how fast you read, it probably seems like this interaction took all of about two minutes. But trust me when I tell you that it went on for five minutes.

With the addition of the unidentifiable cookie shape, her order is complete. Heavenly cream cheese goodness can't be long now.

"I think I'll get another box. A pound this time."

My heart sinks. And the cycle repeats:

"One mitten."

"One, no make that two, skates. I guess a gingerbread man."

"A white thing. And one wreath."

That's six cookies. Five minutes ago, six cookies equaled a half-pound, so we're halfway there.

"Can you weigh that, please?"

The counter guy obliges. Hey, at least she said "please."

"Almost a half-pound."

At this rate, I'm thinking that the math is kinda like a word problem that most third graders could probably figure out:

QUESTION: A woman goes into a bakery. If there are six cookies in a half-pound, how many cookies does the lady need to order to equal a full pound?

Seemingly perplexed, the woman scans the case again. You can tell by her careful deliberation that these types of ornamental decisions are the only ones that this woman ever makes.

"Oh, I don't know."

"Two more wreaths and a gingerbread man. How many is that?"

"Nine, miss. You can probably get about four more."

"A skate, and a mitten."

"And two snowflakes. Can you weigh it again?"

"A little over a pound, miss. Is that OK?" I detect a slight air of desperation from the counter guy.

At this point, I'm thinking, "Please God, don't let her ask to do something like snap the blade off the skate to bring the weight to an even pound." I know most people would never ask something like that, but with this woman, anything (And I mean ANYTHING) is possible.

"That's fine."

Amen!! A true Christmas miracle! After almost ten minutes in line, I can order my dessert. After I pay, I find my coworker, who apparently sampled a fine array of gourmet cheeses from around the world while I was in line. So jealous! And so exasperated that I couldn't even eat my cranberry bar, so great was my need to vent to her immediately on our walk back to the office.

Meanwhile, back at the office, I had my cranberry gingerbread bar. And, damn it if it didn't taste anywhere near as yummy as Starbucks'.

Courtney Love's doll parts are, once again, on display (yes, again)

Browsing my AOL news feed yesterday, I saw that Courtney Love was up to her typical "pay attention to me" highjinx that usually precedes a stint in rehab for undisclosed substance abuse (ahem...heroin) or a botched cosmetic surgery. While onstage in Brazil, Mrs. Cobain took the opportunity to curse out audience members for holding up pictures of her deceased husband/legend, call the Foo Fighters "gay," take off her shirt, and parade around like carnivale.

Because I am still (although, barely) in my 30s, I'm trying to understand what 47-year-old woman thinks that anyone wants to see her boobs (see, perhaps: heroin), especially under unflattering strobe lighting and without the benefit of some serious underwire. But let's face it, Courtney's doll parts have already been on display in various movies, pictorials, fashion ads, and concerts over the last two decades.

Of course, the reality is that no one at the show (or on youtube) saw anything they hadn't seen before, and probably better, back in Courtney's trashed babydoll mid-90s heyday, which is probably when her last bit of musical relevance expired.

But it got me thinking. Last week, I overheard Joan Jett's awesome ode to loving her body: "Do You Wanna Touch?" Honestly, this song sounds as wonderful today as it did 25 (!!) years ago. And it got me thinking about how Joan owned her sexuality not by playing concerts that disintegrated into tacky peep shows and leveling insults about the sexuality of other, more successful musicians in the industry, but by strumming her guitar, giving the rock boys' club the extended middle finger, and putting on an awesome show in tight black leather.


Oh, to wonder what Kurt Cobain thinks of his shambles of a soulmate, who apparently has nothing to do now but strive to be the exhibitionist face of Girls Gone Wild, Post-Menopause edition. Where is Joe Francis when you need him?

Two parents, two kids, two dogs, too tired

Inspired by my literate coworker, Karen, I've decided to get back to blogging. It has been so long since I blogged that I completely forgot my password and had to have everything reset. But considering that I forget my Yahoo/Snapfish/Beneficial Saving Bank/PayPal/etc username and/or password at least once every six months, I guess the amnesia was bound to happen after a two-year absence.

Life has changed a lot since I last blogged in 2009. Facebook came along, which basically rendered blogging unnecessary for me -- although the character limits placed on status updates often yielded seriously truncated musings on important topics like, "Counting down to Duran Duran concert," "I just saved $62 thanks to coupons!," and "Pumpkin spice lattes are so yummy!"




We are now a family of four, thanks to the adoption of our son, Ayden. This has also rendered my screenname ("mommy2jake") sort of inaccurate, since I am now a mommy to two. For those who think it's funny to ask if we'll be trying for a girl, I bluntly offer, "No. We are done. Two parents, two kids, two dogs, too tired."

Our sons, who are now 7 and 5, are doing things like math, reading, and practicing death-defying (and mommy stress-inducing) wrestling moves in the hopes of being picked up by Vince McMahon for some sort of Jr. WWE circuit. They also alternate between telling us they love us and wishing that they lived in other houses. I guess this is the circle of life that Mufasa missed out on with young Simba. God bless Scar!

There is so much to write, but so little time, since I'm actually doing this on the work clock. Anyway, glad to be back in the digital world. Hope to interface with you all soon!

One Sore Mother-Mucker

The McGuire Air Force Base held their second annual 10K MudRun on Saturday, and yours truly was there, not merely as a spectator but as an honest-to-God participant. That's right, you're looking at the oldest member of team Girls Run A Muck.

I was encouraged to join by my four coworkers, most of whom are between 5 and 10 years younger than me, and in the shape to prove it. I signed up thinking that it would be something fun and challenging...and, truthfully, maybe even something that I would back out of as the race date got closer. But I didn't want to be the chickenshit of the group, the old married mom who couldn't take it.

About a week ago, it dawned on me that I had never even run more than 3 continuous miles. So how the hell was I going to double that distance AND take on obstacles like trench crawls, swamp runs, wall climbs, sand hills, and hurdles. Not to mention rapelling into a ravine and crossing a river using only ropes. Positive thinking was all that I had to get me through it. Those of you who know me know that I am not flush with positive thinking, so you can imagine the challenge.

My personal goal was to finish the race in under two hours. Even on a good day, I can only run about a 12-minute mile, and that's without obstacles. I thought that giving myself 15 minutes per mile was a good guestimate of what I could endure.

As we lined up Saturday morning at 9:15, I was starting to freak out. I mean, there were people in phenomenal shape...women older than me with about 7% body fat, young women whose thighs didn't even touch while wearing what looked like kid-sized spandex running shorts. If this was my competition, I was doomed. But the starting pistol fired, and we were off.

For me, the hardest part of the course was the 1/2 mile striaght run to the first obstacle (sand hills and mud valleys -- see photo to right -- our team is in the red bandanas in the foreground) and the last 3/4 mile straight run to the finish line. The obstacles were amazing. Looking back at it now, I can't believe that I willed my body to do what it did. As if powered by some latent military instinct, I found myself doing whatever it took to get through it without even thinking about the effects on my body. At one point, we were crossing a swamp, and while everyone else was up to their waists, I was in swamp water up to my collarbones.

At another point, we had to cross a river using only a rope above our heads and barrels tied together at our feet which, because they were wet, were exceptionally slippery. The distance between the rope and barrels was 5 feet, but since I'm only 4'11", I spent most of my time with my hands on the rope and my feet dangling in vain to touch the rolling barrels. To reach land and complete that challenge, I had to swing my body up about three feet, let go of the rope, and leap because my feet couldn't touch the barrel closest to the ledge. I hope that someone out there has a picture of me doing that because I would love to see what it looked like. For now, this shot of me precariously balancing on the barrels will have to do.
All in all, this was a great experience. The soreness and bruising, both of which are ample, will fade. But the pride I had in challenging my body to push beyond what I normally expect of it was really amazing, especially because there are so many ways that my body fails me on a regular basis. How crazy is it that something I seriously thought about dropping out of has turned to be one of my proudest accomplishments ever.