I'd like to say thank you to the City of Angeles. Forty times. Here goes:
1. Thank you for providing a home for my grandfather for over 50 years. He loved you.
2. Thank you for authentic churros on Olvera Street. Oh-my-gosh-yummy.
3. Thank you for public transportation. My husband loves riding your trains and busses. I love things my husband loves.
4. Thank you for being kind to vegetarians.
5. Thank you for being a place Walt Disney liked to do business. For that is why we are here.
6. Thank you for The Huntington. Your gardens and your library are like Chapstick on dry lips, like bananas at the end of a long run, like slippers at the end of a tough day, like ... (well, you get the idea).
7. Thank you for hiring me.
8. Thank you for free summer concerts at Memorial Park.
9. Thank you for Cafe Linda, the most wonderful Thai food ever. EVER.
10. Thank you for the Rose Bowl. It's just flat-out cool to live near the Rose Bowl.
11. Thank you for being home to the first year of our marriage.
12. Thank you that the young 'uns in our family like to visit us here. You're awesome that way.
13. Thank you for liking movies so much. We do, too.
14. Thank you for having a spring that lasts well into November.
15. Thank you for welcoming people from all over the world.
16. Thank you for Santa Monica, especially the bike trail. Wind and salt are two of our favorite things.
17. Thank you for playing hip-hop Christmas music in Chinatown.
18. Thank you for being in the Pacific Time Zone, specifically so that we can watch three football games every Sunday (and still go to bed before 9 p.m.).
19. Thank for having both a classical music station AND public radio.
20. Thank you for LACMA. You're worth the two trains and one bus. The third floor of the Ahmanson Building gives me chills.
21. Thank you Ralphs's for being two blocks away, which is helpful when I forget to buy a bell pepper for our beans and rice.
22. Thank you Europane for making scones Matt loves so much, he doesn't even bat an eye when we spend $20 on a dozen of them.
23. Thank you for your oranges. I love your oranges. I think I will go eat one of you right now.
24. Thank you for the Rio Hondo. You're not very pretty, but isn't that true of so many of life's best gifts?
25. Thank you for Lake Ave. You are a great host to our walks.
26. Thank you for adding non-stop flights to Shanghai.
27. Thank you for the LA Dodgers, especially Vince and his lore.
28. Thank you for Fuller's outdoor prayer room.
29. Thank you for Mr. Vermeer for loaning your work to the Norton Simon.
30. Thank you Arclight for the personalized welcome and greetings as we recline in our pre-selected, squishy seat.
31. Thank you King Taco (aka Keeeeeng Taaaaah-koe) for being two blocks away from the Memorial Park train station.
32. Thank you Orange Grove for what Matt calls, "good planning and scale."
33. Thank you Chase for being warm and supportive and welcoming from day one.
34. Thank you for mock earthquake drills cleverly marketed as The Great Shakeout.
35. Thank you for thousands upon thousands of cute dogs we try to identify (which always gives us a pause to miss Zacch and appreciate Tori).
36. Thank you for Pacific-Asia Museum, especially the monks and their sand painting.
37. Thank you for Urth and the baby gorilla coffee (we WILL bring back the bags).
38. Thank you for gas appliances (especially the hot water for showers!).
39. Thank you for the perennials, annuals, and all manner of flora and fauna. We find a new growing something to love on pretty much every walk we take.
40. (Many of these were Matt-adds, this one in particular) Thank you for helping my mom and dad bring me into this world.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Pad Thai and Popcorn
Not exactly a typical Thanksgiving dinner ... but way fun.
Joanna is visiting us for the week, and since she loves animals as much as she loves breathing, we drove down to the San Diego Zoo. We reasoned (and we were right) that the traffic would be lighter and the park less crowded on Thanksgiving Day.
I had not been to this zoo in about 15 years, but as I remembered, it's possible to spend an entire day oohing and aahing over warthogs, guinea fowl, and koalas (turns out there's no "bear" in koala -- which Matt refused to believe and spent much of the day muttering "koala BEAR, koala BEAR"). The zoo has all the usual suspects, but also a lot of interesting, lesser known aviary and antelopey critters. We took the 45-minute bus tour to get the lay of the land, and that turns out to have been wise, as we saw a lot of animals on the move before their naps.
We also saw a lot of butt sniffing. And parts-checking. And mating-attempts. Goodness, gracious, animals can be so ... animalistic.
Now my peeps are watching the Macy's Day Parade, recorded from this morning. Matt says it's weird to see it after dark with no coffee cup in hand. I think it's just plain weird. What's with all the giant, creepy balloons and lip syncing? I'm mystified.
Tomorrow, one day late, we're making turkey and all the trimmings, so I'd better scoot out to the kitchen and inspect my bird. Joanna named him Alcatraz. Her love of animals does not apply to our dinner's honored guest.
Joanna is visiting us for the week, and since she loves animals as much as she loves breathing, we drove down to the San Diego Zoo. We reasoned (and we were right) that the traffic would be lighter and the park less crowded on Thanksgiving Day.
I had not been to this zoo in about 15 years, but as I remembered, it's possible to spend an entire day oohing and aahing over warthogs, guinea fowl, and koalas (turns out there's no "bear" in koala -- which Matt refused to believe and spent much of the day muttering "koala BEAR, koala BEAR"). The zoo has all the usual suspects, but also a lot of interesting, lesser known aviary and antelopey critters. We took the 45-minute bus tour to get the lay of the land, and that turns out to have been wise, as we saw a lot of animals on the move before their naps.
We also saw a lot of butt sniffing. And parts-checking. And mating-attempts. Goodness, gracious, animals can be so ... animalistic.
Now my peeps are watching the Macy's Day Parade, recorded from this morning. Matt says it's weird to see it after dark with no coffee cup in hand. I think it's just plain weird. What's with all the giant, creepy balloons and lip syncing? I'm mystified.
Tomorrow, one day late, we're making turkey and all the trimmings, so I'd better scoot out to the kitchen and inspect my bird. Joanna named him Alcatraz. Her love of animals does not apply to our dinner's honored guest.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Data driven instruction
"Data driven instruction" is one of those education-ese phrases that's been tossed around for at least eight years, which is how long I've been standing in front of kids in classrooms. I suspect it's been much longer. Honestly, before I came to L.A. I could talk-the-talk, but I didn't walk-the-walk. Now, an hour doesn't go by (not exaggerating) when I don't think about it.
Teachers who have been around a lot longer than I insist that data driven instruction is nothing more than a phase and that someday soon, we'll drop all this silliness and get back to a reasonable approach to teaching. I'm not so sure.
Data driven instruction works a lot like going to the doctor. You tell the nurse your symptoms, which he types into a computer. He takes your pulse, blood pressure, and temperature, and he probably weighs you, too. The doctor takes a peak at all of this and asks more questions, adding in her own observations. She probably also does some typing into the computer (or on her iPad if she's super cool). She then recommends more tests or a course of treatment.
This is like data driven instruction in that your doctor is basing her recommendations on data -- not her history of treating patients, her instincts, or her personal beliefs about what wellness means. At least, not if she wants insurance companies to pay for her treatment.
In like manner, we teachers test and observe kids to get a baseline. We compare that to what our state's department of education says students should know. (In the case of my precious babies, there's a gap between the two that's too far to swim across without serious risk of drowning. Picture me frantically dog-paddling.) And then we prepare instruction. And we assess, assess, assess (which is just a less scary word for "test").
And while all of that seems like a huge "DUH," it's actually not. Here's why: there's little place in a data-driven instruction classroom for a teacher's instincts or for the random neat idea. Before L.A., I used to have passing thoughts such as, "Gosh, this is great novel that I think my students will like," or "I think my kids might enjoy a creative writing exercise because I sure did when I was in high school," or "It would be interesting to see my students create an artistic piece interpreting this poem."
You won't see any of those activities in my classroom now. Know why? Because my students will never face a test question about them. And doing well on tests has become so incredibly necessary to their educational success that I can't possibly risk a moment not paying attention -- really close attention -- to exactly what they need to know to do well on them.
Of course, that doesn't mean that my classroom can't be interesting, engaging, or relevant. Subject-verb agreement? I made an interactive web quest. Analyzing argument types? My kids wrote letters to our school's principal advocating for the abolition of school uniforms. (But I can assure you, they'll also get boring little multiple-choice quizzes, too, to make sure they have acquired these skills before THE big test.)
I'm kinda scared to talk too much about this stuff with my colleagues for fear of looking like an idiot. This is because, in Florida, I worked for folks who soundly believed in data driven instruction, but they didn't know how to enforce it or convert their teachers to believers. At Camino Nuevo High School, there's no way around it. I'm not complaining when I say this, but rather simply stating the truth: I have to prove to my administrators (including one-on-one conversations) that I'm using data to plan my instruction. They visit my classroom nearly daily. They talk to my kids. They look at the results of my tests. They ask me how I know my students will do better next time.
I'm torn about all of this. On the one hand, it sure takes the guessing game out of teaching. But on the other, there are times I want my students to know something that my instincts tell me they should know. I'm still navigating my way around that conflict.
My last thoughts on data driving instruction for tonight ... I am so grateful to Matt. The poor man listens to me talk about all of this constantly. I have no fear whatsoever that he ever thinks I'm an idiot (well, with a couple of exceptions that will remain within the sanctity of our marriage), plus he has many, many great ideas for me and my kids. And he is the master at comfort and love, at encouraging me to set this burden down now and again and marvel at the blessedness of a blanket and soft slippers.
Matt is a man who loves to sit and hold my hand. I am a woman who loves to have her hand held. No data needed.
Teachers who have been around a lot longer than I insist that data driven instruction is nothing more than a phase and that someday soon, we'll drop all this silliness and get back to a reasonable approach to teaching. I'm not so sure.
Data driven instruction works a lot like going to the doctor. You tell the nurse your symptoms, which he types into a computer. He takes your pulse, blood pressure, and temperature, and he probably weighs you, too. The doctor takes a peak at all of this and asks more questions, adding in her own observations. She probably also does some typing into the computer (or on her iPad if she's super cool). She then recommends more tests or a course of treatment.
This is like data driven instruction in that your doctor is basing her recommendations on data -- not her history of treating patients, her instincts, or her personal beliefs about what wellness means. At least, not if she wants insurance companies to pay for her treatment.
In like manner, we teachers test and observe kids to get a baseline. We compare that to what our state's department of education says students should know. (In the case of my precious babies, there's a gap between the two that's too far to swim across without serious risk of drowning. Picture me frantically dog-paddling.) And then we prepare instruction. And we assess, assess, assess (which is just a less scary word for "test").
And while all of that seems like a huge "DUH," it's actually not. Here's why: there's little place in a data-driven instruction classroom for a teacher's instincts or for the random neat idea. Before L.A., I used to have passing thoughts such as, "Gosh, this is great novel that I think my students will like," or "I think my kids might enjoy a creative writing exercise because I sure did when I was in high school," or "It would be interesting to see my students create an artistic piece interpreting this poem."
You won't see any of those activities in my classroom now. Know why? Because my students will never face a test question about them. And doing well on tests has become so incredibly necessary to their educational success that I can't possibly risk a moment not paying attention -- really close attention -- to exactly what they need to know to do well on them.
Of course, that doesn't mean that my classroom can't be interesting, engaging, or relevant. Subject-verb agreement? I made an interactive web quest. Analyzing argument types? My kids wrote letters to our school's principal advocating for the abolition of school uniforms. (But I can assure you, they'll also get boring little multiple-choice quizzes, too, to make sure they have acquired these skills before THE big test.)
I'm kinda scared to talk too much about this stuff with my colleagues for fear of looking like an idiot. This is because, in Florida, I worked for folks who soundly believed in data driven instruction, but they didn't know how to enforce it or convert their teachers to believers. At Camino Nuevo High School, there's no way around it. I'm not complaining when I say this, but rather simply stating the truth: I have to prove to my administrators (including one-on-one conversations) that I'm using data to plan my instruction. They visit my classroom nearly daily. They talk to my kids. They look at the results of my tests. They ask me how I know my students will do better next time.
I'm torn about all of this. On the one hand, it sure takes the guessing game out of teaching. But on the other, there are times I want my students to know something that my instincts tell me they should know. I'm still navigating my way around that conflict.
My last thoughts on data driving instruction for tonight ... I am so grateful to Matt. The poor man listens to me talk about all of this constantly. I have no fear whatsoever that he ever thinks I'm an idiot (well, with a couple of exceptions that will remain within the sanctity of our marriage), plus he has many, many great ideas for me and my kids. And he is the master at comfort and love, at encouraging me to set this burden down now and again and marvel at the blessedness of a blanket and soft slippers.
Matt is a man who loves to sit and hold my hand. I am a woman who loves to have her hand held. No data needed.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
This teaching gig
I have avoided writing about teaching in L.A. -- with the rather memorable exception of the day I saw cops with shotguns -- for two reasons:
1. It's surreal roller coaster. And I hate roller coasters.
2. I don't know where to begin.
Every day is a blur of emotions and images that leave me feeling inadequate and utterly spent. I wake up about 20 minutes before the alarm goes off, and I spend every second of that time praying that I don't have to teach ever again. By the time I get to school, I'm in a busy panic. Fifteen minutes into my first class, I'm relaxed and confident. At least once a day, I get the strong sensation that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, like angels are standing behind me and my students, and they are cheering. But about an hour before school lets out for the day, I'm back to panic, this time because I realize I have to do this again tomorrow (plus I'm now mentally replaying every mistake I made -- and there are many to choose from). During the afternoon, a student or two will stop by to chat, ask questions, or bring me a cupcake (yes, this happens), and a peace comes over me. I start grading papers, making photocopies, and saying nice things to myself.
I go home and have dinner with Matt. I manage keep thoughts of school at what feels like a safe distance, even as I continue to lesson plan and grade. All feels well in my corner of Pasadena.
That is, until the alarm goes off the next morning.
Here's the thing: on my best, best, BEST days of teaching at Apopka High School, firing on all cylinders and doing a bang-up job challenging young minds, I wasn't good enough for this school. Not by a mile. Even though the hours were excruciating and the work load never-ending, my APK kids spoke English as their first language, lived above the poverty line, had not lost a friend to gang violence or deportation, had social security numbers, and (mostly) did not have drug- or alcohol-addicted parents.
One of the things I do at this school -- a lot -- is cry.
I'm getting the hang of it. Kids don't hate me, but they do hate feeling unsuccessful at school (and they've had bellyfuls of that). Sometimes their anger and what looks like illogical choices gets fired in my direction. I'm learning to live with that. On good days, I even understand it. I'm learning to make the material accessible without dumbing it down. I'm learning to use data and standards to drive my instruction. I'm learning to work super, super closely with colleagues who are smart, young, and dedicated. And I'm learning that when I'm inadequate, God is not.
Most of all, I'm learning to love these kids.
1. It's surreal roller coaster. And I hate roller coasters.
2. I don't know where to begin.
Every day is a blur of emotions and images that leave me feeling inadequate and utterly spent. I wake up about 20 minutes before the alarm goes off, and I spend every second of that time praying that I don't have to teach ever again. By the time I get to school, I'm in a busy panic. Fifteen minutes into my first class, I'm relaxed and confident. At least once a day, I get the strong sensation that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, like angels are standing behind me and my students, and they are cheering. But about an hour before school lets out for the day, I'm back to panic, this time because I realize I have to do this again tomorrow (plus I'm now mentally replaying every mistake I made -- and there are many to choose from). During the afternoon, a student or two will stop by to chat, ask questions, or bring me a cupcake (yes, this happens), and a peace comes over me. I start grading papers, making photocopies, and saying nice things to myself.
I go home and have dinner with Matt. I manage keep thoughts of school at what feels like a safe distance, even as I continue to lesson plan and grade. All feels well in my corner of Pasadena.
That is, until the alarm goes off the next morning.
Here's the thing: on my best, best, BEST days of teaching at Apopka High School, firing on all cylinders and doing a bang-up job challenging young minds, I wasn't good enough for this school. Not by a mile. Even though the hours were excruciating and the work load never-ending, my APK kids spoke English as their first language, lived above the poverty line, had not lost a friend to gang violence or deportation, had social security numbers, and (mostly) did not have drug- or alcohol-addicted parents.
One of the things I do at this school -- a lot -- is cry.
I'm getting the hang of it. Kids don't hate me, but they do hate feeling unsuccessful at school (and they've had bellyfuls of that). Sometimes their anger and what looks like illogical choices gets fired in my direction. I'm learning to live with that. On good days, I even understand it. I'm learning to make the material accessible without dumbing it down. I'm learning to use data and standards to drive my instruction. I'm learning to work super, super closely with colleagues who are smart, young, and dedicated. And I'm learning that when I'm inadequate, God is not.
Most of all, I'm learning to love these kids.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
You want an Advil with that?
This morning, as I started making plans for our day, Craig said, "Uh-oh, Melissa's making plans. We're gonna need Advil."
Now, in my defense, hiking up to the Hollywood sign seemed pretty much like an awesome idea. I mean, seriously, what better way to see the Hollywood sign than from 20 feet away, not to mention, gorgeous views of L.A. clear out to the Pacific Ocean? And a six-mile hike did not seem like a big deal for a man who swims 12,000 meters a week and a nineteen year-old who works out more often than he eats (although after having him visit us the last three days, I can verify that there is a strong correlation between his trips to the gym and his food intake).
But, back to me and my awesome plans ...
So, here's the deal. L.A. has its fair share of smog. I'd been wanting to go to Griffith Park, as Wikipedia (clearly, a reliable source of information) touts its 4,300 acres of untamed wilderness as one of the best parks in the country. I was just flat out ready for deep breaths of clean air. However, the part of the Griffith Park description I failed to recognize was that several of the key observatories sit on this-or-that slope of this-or-that mountain. Specifically, the Hollywood sign sits on the summit of Hollywood Mountain. Did you catch that? Mountain. Alas, I did not.
Twenty minutes into our hike, I realized I hate my shoes. Forty minutes in, and I was desperately looking for a bush. An hour in and we realized that, although it was only 11:30, there was a very good chance we were going to miss lunch, shopping, and the 2:00 opening of Iris.
At several points along the hike, Matt or Craig would point 90 degrees up and make a comment such as, "Wow, I'm glad we don't have to go way up there." Hah.
Dodging the enormous horse plops was a challenge. The closer we'd get to each summit, the bigger the plops. My theory? The horses knew they'd never make it unless they lightened their load.
My men would have to admit, the views from the top of Mount Hollywood are beautiful. And the skid down took half the time as the hike up, plus it was oh-so-fun to make snide, breathless comments about the folks we passed. "Oh, a walking stick. Now there's an idea,"or "Yeah, they're gonna cry before they make it half way," or "Pink flip-flops. Are you kidding me?" By then, we were so delirious, we played a game called, "Which part of you hurts the worst?" Good times.
Next time we go (yes, I think there will be a next time), we won't tell our "guest" that the ascent is over 1,000 feet in under three miles. We'll pack better snacks. And we won't go to Cirque du Soleil the same day. Although we made it to our seats before the conductor lifted his baton, we slept soundly through most of the first act.
Just for the record, today we went to Santa Monica and enjoyed a leisurely bike ride from the pier to Venice beach. I swear I heard Craig say, more than once, "Today was so much better than yesterday."
Harumph.
Now, in my defense, hiking up to the Hollywood sign seemed pretty much like an awesome idea. I mean, seriously, what better way to see the Hollywood sign than from 20 feet away, not to mention, gorgeous views of L.A. clear out to the Pacific Ocean? And a six-mile hike did not seem like a big deal for a man who swims 12,000 meters a week and a nineteen year-old who works out more often than he eats (although after having him visit us the last three days, I can verify that there is a strong correlation between his trips to the gym and his food intake).
But, back to me and my awesome plans ...
So, here's the deal. L.A. has its fair share of smog. I'd been wanting to go to Griffith Park, as Wikipedia (clearly, a reliable source of information) touts its 4,300 acres of untamed wilderness as one of the best parks in the country. I was just flat out ready for deep breaths of clean air. However, the part of the Griffith Park description I failed to recognize was that several of the key observatories sit on this-or-that slope of this-or-that mountain. Specifically, the Hollywood sign sits on the summit of Hollywood Mountain. Did you catch that? Mountain. Alas, I did not.
Twenty minutes into our hike, I realized I hate my shoes. Forty minutes in, and I was desperately looking for a bush. An hour in and we realized that, although it was only 11:30, there was a very good chance we were going to miss lunch, shopping, and the 2:00 opening of Iris.
At several points along the hike, Matt or Craig would point 90 degrees up and make a comment such as, "Wow, I'm glad we don't have to go way up there." Hah.
Dodging the enormous horse plops was a challenge. The closer we'd get to each summit, the bigger the plops. My theory? The horses knew they'd never make it unless they lightened their load.
My men would have to admit, the views from the top of Mount Hollywood are beautiful. And the skid down took half the time as the hike up, plus it was oh-so-fun to make snide, breathless comments about the folks we passed. "Oh, a walking stick. Now there's an idea,"or "Yeah, they're gonna cry before they make it half way," or "Pink flip-flops. Are you kidding me?" By then, we were so delirious, we played a game called, "Which part of you hurts the worst?" Good times.
Next time we go (yes, I think there will be a next time), we won't tell our "guest" that the ascent is over 1,000 feet in under three miles. We'll pack better snacks. And we won't go to Cirque du Soleil the same day. Although we made it to our seats before the conductor lifted his baton, we slept soundly through most of the first act.
Just for the record, today we went to Santa Monica and enjoyed a leisurely bike ride from the pier to Venice beach. I swear I heard Craig say, more than once, "Today was so much better than yesterday."
Harumph.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Wheel! Of! Fortune!
I may have mentioned, once or twice, that there's a boatload of amazingly cool things to do in L.A. Every single weekend, Matt and I lament all the fun stuff we're missing out on when we make a decision about which museum, garden, concert, or outdoorsy thing to check out. It goes something like this ...
Me: "Oh, The Huntington is having a gardening open house!"
Matt: "But we wanted to go see the Tim Burton exhibit at the LACMA."
Me: "And there's a cool farmer's market in Santa Monica."
Matt: "We also talked about heading down to Urth Cafe to stock up on organic coffee ..."
Me: "Waaaah!"
So when our nephew Craig, the nineteen-year old cutie from Dallas decided to visit, we knew there would be no shortage of ways to keep him entertained. But after about 30 seconds of chatting with him about his sightseeing requests, Matt and I realized that we are 1) old, and 2) boring.
Game show tapings? Hollywood? Muscle beach? Rrrruh?
Being the super cool aunt that I am, though, I scored free tickets to a taping of Wheel of Fortune (not as exciting as The Price is Right, to be sure, but Vanna's dresses are awfully pretty [my observation, not Craig's]). Off we trotted to Culver City on this fine November day. And here are my observations, in addition to the prettiness of Vanna's teal green, hot pink, and black lace dresses -- which have to be changed out after each 30-minute segment:
1. Weird people go to mid-day game show tapings. Mostly women with thick makeup and too much gold jewelry.
2. Weird people work at mid-day game show tapings. Mostly men with comb overs and too much gold jewelry.
3. The set is tiny. I mean, tiny! How do they make it look so big on television? I bet that darn wheel isn't five feet across.
4. Unlike the size of the set, Vanna White and Pat Sajak have very large heads. I mean that literally, not figuratively. (I cannot speak to the figurative largeness of their heads, but since Vanna sat down after every single round of "Big money, c'mon big money!" I suspect it's large-ish.)
5. I'm better at solving puzzles in person than when I watch the show on television. Unfortunately, that did not get me either a bobble-head or a dollar.
The tapings we watched will air on December 19, 20, and 21. And yes, we will watch them and say, "Oh, yes, I remember that hot pink dress. And my goodness, Vanna looks much thinner in person."
Tomorrow? Hollywood. Sunday? Muscle beach. After all, I am a super cool aunt. But I confess, I made Craig sprint through The Huntington so we could hit the desert garden and bonsai court at twilight. And he would confess, he liked them both.
Me: "Oh, The Huntington is having a gardening open house!"
Matt: "But we wanted to go see the Tim Burton exhibit at the LACMA."
Me: "And there's a cool farmer's market in Santa Monica."
Matt: "We also talked about heading down to Urth Cafe to stock up on organic coffee ..."
Me: "Waaaah!"
So when our nephew Craig, the nineteen-year old cutie from Dallas decided to visit, we knew there would be no shortage of ways to keep him entertained. But after about 30 seconds of chatting with him about his sightseeing requests, Matt and I realized that we are 1) old, and 2) boring.
Game show tapings? Hollywood? Muscle beach? Rrrruh?
Being the super cool aunt that I am, though, I scored free tickets to a taping of Wheel of Fortune (not as exciting as The Price is Right, to be sure, but Vanna's dresses are awfully pretty [my observation, not Craig's]). Off we trotted to Culver City on this fine November day. And here are my observations, in addition to the prettiness of Vanna's teal green, hot pink, and black lace dresses -- which have to be changed out after each 30-minute segment:
1. Weird people go to mid-day game show tapings. Mostly women with thick makeup and too much gold jewelry.
2. Weird people work at mid-day game show tapings. Mostly men with comb overs and too much gold jewelry.
3. The set is tiny. I mean, tiny! How do they make it look so big on television? I bet that darn wheel isn't five feet across.
4. Unlike the size of the set, Vanna White and Pat Sajak have very large heads. I mean that literally, not figuratively. (I cannot speak to the figurative largeness of their heads, but since Vanna sat down after every single round of "Big money, c'mon big money!" I suspect it's large-ish.)
5. I'm better at solving puzzles in person than when I watch the show on television. Unfortunately, that did not get me either a bobble-head or a dollar.
The tapings we watched will air on December 19, 20, and 21. And yes, we will watch them and say, "Oh, yes, I remember that hot pink dress. And my goodness, Vanna looks much thinner in person."
Tomorrow? Hollywood. Sunday? Muscle beach. After all, I am a super cool aunt. But I confess, I made Craig sprint through The Huntington so we could hit the desert garden and bonsai court at twilight. And he would confess, he liked them both.
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