Red Nose

Exploring the Sant Ocean Hall

I mentioned in the last post that Joe took me on a private tour of the Sant Ocean Hall, where he's a volunteer docent. It's magnificent! I loved the living coral reef, with Nemo and Dory swimming  around the brilliant coral. Psychedelic!

I even loved the male giant squid, hanging head down in his case. His is a face -- if you can call it a face -- that only his mother could love. He's pretty big, almost 20 feet long all told.

He's not nearly as big as the female giant squid, though. She's laid out horizontally. From the tip of her head to the end of the longest tentacle, she's about 25 feet long now. The liquid that's preserving her caused her to shrink from her original length of 35 feet. You go!

My favorite, though, is the life size model of Phoenix, a right whale currently living in the North Atlantic ocean. The model is precise -- right down to the scars Phoenix has from dragging a fishing net that got caught in her baleen. She's 45 feet long and hangs from the ceiling of the hall. She's so big I had to take three pictures of her and stitch them together.

So next time you come to DC, get in touch. I can hook you up with a great guide who'll be happy to take you on a personal tour.

But he's coming home with me.

I Still Need A Spellchecker, Though

Congratulations to the winner of the National Spelling Bee!

I'm fond of the spelling bee kids. I really am, because I was one.

I've always been a good speller. Even in grade school I used to kick at in the classroom spelling bees. Once, when I was in third or maybe fourth grade, won the classroom bee and progressed to the school bee. The principal, Sister Donelda, called the words. At one point, my word was "boulevard." I spelled it correctly. Sister paused, then said, "Very good!" I was the only kid who rated that praise; I think it was because I was so young and it was a tricky word.

Even though I didn't go much further in that bee, I was inordinately proud of that.

Fast forward to the fifth grade classroom bee. I was in line, waiting waiting waiting for my word. The teacher called it out -- "endeavor." It wasn't my turn; in fact, three kids were ahead of me. One by one, each kid misspelled the word -- "indevor," "endever," endevver." I was grinning from ear to ear, because dammit! I knew how to spell that word! Finally, my turn to spell the word. I got it right!

Unfortunately, I think I got the next word wrong, but that was okay with me. I showed 'em on "endeavor."

Fast forward to sixth grade. I don't quite remember how, but I qualified for the Archdiocese bee! I practiced and practiced and practiced, memorizing long lists of arcane words, recruiting my Gramma and my Mom and my Pop to call out the words for me to spell, word after word after word. I knew all of the trick words, the ones with silent letters and odd combinations of "psy" and "tch" and "ian" versus "ien" and on and on and on.

When the day came, I sat up on the stage at Our Lady of Lourdes school with all of the other winners, completely confident in my spelling prowess. My first word? "Penitentiary."

I knew that one backwards and forwards. It was one of the trick words -- that "tiary" would fool you every time.

I spoke into the microphone.

P-E-N-E-T-E-N-T-I-A-R-Y

Ding!

I was so embarrassed. I'd blown it!! I was concentrating so hard on the "tiary" that I misspelled the first part. Oh, the shame!

My Pop was sympathetic, though. He said I should have just spelled it J-A-I-L.

The next year, I again qualified for the Archdiocese bee, but there was a conflict. On the same day as the spelling bee, I was to receive the Marian Medal, an award for Catholic Girl Scouts. I wanted to get that medal pinned on my green badge sash much more than I wanted to get humiliated at the spelling bee, so I told Sister Cecilius. She was badly disappointed, but couldn't say too much about it because it was, after all, a Catholic award.

So she entered me in the DC Spelling Bee.

Oh. My. God. This was a big deal -- kids from all over the DC metropolitan area would be spelling! I practiced harder than ever, memorizing whole books of spelling words, driving my parents and siblings nuts with the spelling, always the spelling!

The bee, as I recall, was held at Constitution Hall. I remember it being just huge to me. I wore a big paper number on my chest and sat on stage, so nervous.

I made it through the first round. Kid after kid got the dreaded ding. I made it through the second round. More kids got dinged. Third round -- still going, no dinging.

I don't remember how many rounds I lasted, but about halfway through I finally met my Waterloo with the word "deprecate." I spelled "depricate."

I got escorted backstage, where my parents met me. I wasn't really disappointed; just relieved that I had made it as far as I did. Halfway -- a respectable showing. One of the grownups in charge asked my name, marked down my progress, and handed me my consolation prize: a Parker pen and a five dollar bill.

Better than a trip to the P-E-N-I-T-E-N-T-I-A-R-Y!

Hope Over Fear

"What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility, a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task."

Welcome, Mr. President.

Bravo, Tom Toles

I love Tom Toles editorial cartoons, but this one is just... exactly right.

Yes I Did!

Joe and I arrived at the polls at just after 7:00, as the doors opened and people started streaming in. The place was packed! I checked my watch as soon as I took my place in line: 7:15 am.

After about 15 minutes, I had advanced up to the first turn in the sidewalk.

 

I wondered how many people had joined the line in back of me.

Holy moley! The line stretched so far back I couldn't see the end.

Finally, after more than an hour, we got close to the door.

But the line kept moving, people kept going in and coming out, and I finally stepped into the voting booth two hours after I stepped in line.

And I proudly voted for Barack Obama.

A Memory Of This Day

In honor of this awful anniversary, I share this StoryCorps podcast. Click on "Pop Pop and Me" in the player, and have a tissue ready.

C-A-P-S CAPS CAPS CAPS!

We interrupt the Gulfport volunteering trip report to expound on the amazing, beautiful, heartstopping comeback by my Cardiac Caps to tie the first-round playoff series with the F(in)lyers. Joe and I were worried at the end of period 1 when our boys behind by two, but we kept our fingers crossed and rubbed the red rabbit's foot for luck.

And then... magic. First, Babyface Backstrom, then Sasha Semin, and then Ovie smashed through his scoring malaise and executed a picture perfect breakaway to put the team up by one goal. And then... Ovie smashed a slapshot past Martin Biron to seal the deal and force Game 7 here at home!

Joe leapt like a gazelle around the living room. Had he had an armful of flowers, he would have strewn them hither and yon.

Hot Missionary Action

This takes prosletyzing to a whole new level.

I gotta say that the ones who visited our house would not have qualified, unfortunately.

Lucky Dog

This is Luther. He's a pit bull.

Notice anything strange about him? Take a close look at his head. Hmm? Right. Luther has no ears. Let me tell you why.

My great good friend Shad works in Las Vegas. She was driving home from work late one night when Luther ran into the street, right in front of her car. She slammed on the brakes, then she pulled over, got out of her car, and called to him. He cowered in front her, scared to death.

Well, Shad took him home and then to the vet, who immediately knew what was going on.

Luther was a bait dog, used to teach other pit bulls to fight. The cruel people who owned him would cut his ears to draw blood, so that the fighting dogs would learn to recognize the smell and attack.

Somehow he got away. He managed to run in front of exactly the right person, who took him in and cleaned his wounds and loved him and trained him. Now he's one of the friendliest, gentlest dogs you'd ever want to meet.

I have no sympathy for Michael Vick. He deserves to go to jail.

Give 'Em Hell in Heaven, Molly!

Molly Ivins has died, and I am very sad. I loved her sharp, incisive writing.