Thursday, April 23, 2009
Day One: A Close Shave
Oh, Joey Green and your book, Rainy Day Magic. Because of you, my hands are now blue and the entire house smells vaguely musky. Why? Because on this, Day One of Project Incompetence (Yes, I know this should actually be day two, but I had plagiarized versions of High Times to grade,) I thought it would be a swell idea to make finger paint out of shaving cream and food coloring.
But first things first. I needed to be appropriately hopped up before attempting anything crafty.
This idea is actually pretty easy. You take shaving cream and add food coloring.
Then, you mix it up.
I learned that Q-tips actually work better.
Then, you make stuff out of it. I made this to show Owen how it works (they call it "modeling" in teaching circles). I call this piece, "Gay Pride on Countertop."
See? Even the Green and Red folk can get along. Let Love Rule.
Owen found this lovely bit of art troubling and made quick work of destroying it.
Then, he made his own, completely original work. Here he is in process...And this is the finished result. I can't imagine where he gets his ideas.
This ended, as do most things involving Owen, with water play. The boy truly needs nothing more than a faucet and two cups to be happy as can be.
I was hoping that this experiment would result in insanity, which equals interesting things to write about. I must confess, though, that this was fairly painless, easy to clean up, and fun for everybody involved.
Except, perhaps, for Paul, when he learns that he will need to start shaving with a bar of soap.
In other news, I took the Best Pilates Class Ever because there are three old men in the class who say inappropriate things, crack wise, and generally do all that they can to interrupt the flow of "karmic energy." For example, the instructor had us do little dips, usually done on a ballet barre. After each dip, we were asked to hop. The men played along, but asked the instructor, among other things, if they needed to bring a cup next time.
Later on, when she paused to ask about the temperature, one said, "Hey, Toots, less talking, more Pilates!" And finally, as the icing on the cake, during the "relaxation time" at the end of class, one of the men farted loudly, and the other two cracked up like seventh graders.
In writing this, they sound like assholes, but they were not. Everybody, including the instructor, was smiling. It was like taking a Pilates class with Click and Clack from NPR's Car Talk.
It's nice to not be so serious sometimes, especially when the abs are burning and the Enya is blaring.
I'll be there next week for sure. Maybe, if I keep coming, they'll call me "Toots," too.