Gold hoarding Dragon, Dwarves, Elves, a Hobbit and a Wizard *No spoilers

You probably guessed from my title post I went to go see the movie, The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug this weekend. Once we finally finished watching 25 previews before the movie, the beginning pretty much started right from where it ended in the first movie. (Don't worry I'm not going to spoil anything). I just wanted to state, my overall opinion of the movie. First of all, I don't understand why there are three movies for The Hobbit. Clearly this is a way for the movie producers to make more money. I mean, the actual book wasn't even that long of a story. I feel like they are really stretching the whole production. My other opinion is, I wish they could've done a better job of the soundtrack. Although there was some excitement, the soundtrack was much better in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I feel like Peter Jackson has gotten lazy and wanted a quick billion dollars. I can't wait til the conclusion to put an end to this trilogy. It was disappointing, but extreme fans may disagree, so they don't have to take my word for it. The positives were: The acting was fine, you get to learn more about the history between the elves and the dwarves, and some new characters show up, and the dragon was pretty spectacular. The negative: All in all, the directors could've finished the movies in just two movies, because I doubt there is enough material to cover three hours for a third movie. One more thing, families with small children ages 4-6, it might be a little too scary for them. The spiders in it were pretty creepy, so was the necromancer, and the appearance of the orcs might give little kids nightmares. Also the lame love story that is not in the book makes no sense at all. I hate when directors change the actual story to 'Hollywoodize' it. I give the movie a C-.

Life, School and Faith

It has been ages since I've written, okay, not ages per say, but at least a few years. In those few years many things have happened, my beautiful daughter is now double digits([that's right; she's 10 years old] I can't believe how fast time has flown), my husband has a new job closer to our house ( much better on my nerves) and I have finally returned to school. The last thing I am the most proud of and happy about, because I really enjoy school and I took a hiatus from it to raise my beautiful daughter (which I feel blessed that I could). On the subject of school; I forgot how much work it involved. Staying up late, staying caffeinated, writing papers, reading awesome books,cramming for quizzes and exams and stretching my mind on subjects that are beyond me (i.e. Algebra). I mostly love it, albeit the challenge of balancing everyday routines, I still haven't figured that out and if anyone wants to give me pointers- I'm open to them. With that said, I'm happy that finals are next week, then Christmas break and then I have 3 weeks til the next semester begins. I'm going to a Technical College to transfer to the U-W and I have a feeling the Technical College has easier workload and of course class sizes are smaller than the U-W. That's okay, I know what I'm getting into, I wanted to be a teacher, so my plan is to transfer to the U-W in 2 years. As life progresses, I'm just enjoying being in my early 30's living with my family in a nice community and going to school. I have a lot to be thankful for and as a woman of faith, I thank God everyday for the blessings he has provided me.

Words for the children of CT

This is a beautiful poem by laureate Richard Blanco spoken at Barack Obama's inauguration. Probably one of the best poets out there. "One Today" One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores, peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies. One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story told by our silent gestures moving behind windows. My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors, each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day: pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper— bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives— to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did for twenty years, so I could write this poem. All of us as vital as the one light we move through, the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day: equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined, the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming, or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain the empty desks of twenty children marked absent today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light breathing color into stained glass windows, life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth onto the steps of our museums and park benches as mothers watch children slide into the day. One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane so my brother and I could have books and shoes. The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs, buses launching down avenues, the symphony of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways, the unexpected song bird on your clothes line. Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling, or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom, buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días in the language my mother taught me—in every language spoken into one wind carrying our lives without prejudice, as these words break from my lips. One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands: weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report for the boss on time, stitching another wound or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait, or the last floor on the Freedom Tower jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience. One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes tired from work: some days guessing at the weather of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother who knew how to give, or forgiving a father who couldn't give what you wanted. We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home, always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop and every window, of one country—all of us— facing the stars hope—a new constellation waiting for us to map it, waiting for us to name it—together.