Redheaded Rover

Texas Conflagration

2011-04-12T09:16:00.003-04:00

West Texas is ablaze right now. Several parts of West Texas are, actually. It's been pretty heavy on my heart and foremost in my mind the last few days.

One massive fire this past weekend threatened my hometown, and might still be threatening it, frankly. It burned through a nearby town, where I currently have at least one friend living, and where a few friends from my youth lived. About 70 homes and structures were destroyed. I still need to get in touch with a friend of mine to check on her family's ranch. Actually, I should ask two of my friends about their families' ranches, now that I think of it. The town that burned was evacuated, and luckily, no one died, but it's still distressing. My town and another neighboring town were on alert. Sunday afternoon, a friend posted a photo of what the blaze looked like in the wee hours of the morning, from my town, facing the burning town. Scary as shit, to see the mountains silhoutted at night in a halo of orange. It looks like the forestry service has finally managed to get some of the blaze under control. But for about two days, the local NPR station was reporting on Facebook and Twitter that the fire was 0% contained. To make matters worse, the wind gusts were massive: 50 - 60 mph. That's pretty standard for a West Texas Spring - especially in the Panhandle; more on that later - but the worst part of it was not only was it spreading the fire like, well, wildfire, it was too gusty for emergency helicopters to swoop in and douse the flames with retardant.

The same friend that posted the photo of the fire at night, posted a video this morning, edited by a local photographer who captured images in the fire's wake. It's utterly sad. There are homes smoldering - one of which looks very similar to the house some good friends grew up in; I need to contact them - charred land, flames spreading in lines and independently, and in two brief consecutive shots, dead animals. Horses. One apparently dead from inhalation, the other charred. I read in an article on the Statesman (or was it MSNBC?) that a local official talked about seeing horses on fire. I'm sure many cattle were burned, too. I really feel for those animals and for their ranchers. Horses are just magnificent creatures anyway, but I remember how the rancher kids I went to school with loved their animals. Even if the cows and sheep were reared to be slaughtered, no one wants to see their livestock suffer. They're still cared for and treasured, as creatures. In the video notes, the photographer said there were many, many animal carcasses, he actually left most of them out of his video. In one shot, there's a wild turkey running down the road, while a football field away, the hills are burning. Smoke laces throughout the hills and it's amazing to me that anyone would know which direction the fire is coming from. Presumably, you probably wouldn't. My friend who currently lives in the hardest hit town was able to return to her home yesterday. Her house was spared, thankfully. I've been thinking a lot about them. Not just because they live there, but because her husband is a minister and a volunteer fire fighter. So he's got double duty: fight the flames, comfort the afflicted.

In addition to my teenage stomping grounds burning, there is an equally large fire tearing up the Panhandle. The last I read, two towns were threatened: both towns in which I have family members. One of which is where my grandparents are buried. I haven't heard from my family up there, nor have I read any reports yet about how that fire is going. Just suffice it to say, I'm very worried. I don't want to see my family harmed or their homes - including the one my dad grew up in - destroyed.

It's not like Texas - West Texas, in particular - is unaccustomed to wildfires. I remember, when we lived in Southwest Texas, each year, it seemed, wildfires would rage south, near the border, but none ever threatened us. We kept an ear out, but they never got close to us. And it wasn't uncommon to see a grassfire burning a ways off the road as we drove from town to town. I think this year has been particularly dry, though. There are several big fires going throughout the state right now. The biggest and nastiest just happen to be in West Texas. The last I checked, there was no rain in the foreseeable forecast. At least not for the SW Texas area. Which sucks. The good news is that the winds have died down, and the big town-destroying fire is partially contained. I just read of a new one, about a mile north of my town which is also large and currently un-contained. I don't wish I were there right now, but I do wish I could hug everyone affected by the fires right now. I can't imagine their anxiety.

Sorry for the bummer post, and for the stream of consciousness style writing. (More SoC than usual, anyway.) We still need to donate to relief for the Japan earthquake, but I guess we'll add the people of West Texas to our donation list. I think we'll start here: www.arcswtx.org. It looks like you can donate to Japan relief, too. So: two birds with one stone, eh?! Sigh.

Sibling left behind

2011-03-19T22:19:00.005-04:00

I just finished watching The Kids Are All Right. As movies go, it's okay. Not worth the Oscar nomination, but it was ... alright.

The final scene throttled me. It had nothing to do with the relationship between the mothers - which had been damaged - nor between the mothers and their daughter. It was between the younger brother and the sister going off to college. "It's going to be weird not having you around," he said. It was not entirely a throw-away line, but not a line of great heft in the grand scheme of the movie.

A pit formed in my gut and I almost started crying. Suddenly, for the first time ever, I had immense sorrow for my little brother and what he must have felt when I left for college. He was left alone with Mom and Dad for the first time in his life. When he had a shitty day and couldn't share the details with our parents, the only family member who he could turn to in the moment was no longer there. His most important peer relative wasn't there for him anymore. He must have felt lonely at the beginning. Especially since my leaving for college coincided with my family moving to another city altogether where he had to build a base of friends from scratch. Ugh. Poor kid.

I'd never really thought of how it must have felt for him because I'd never confronted it. I feel pretty strongly that people should take time in their lives to leave the confines of their family unit and develop their own interests; that it's important to one's own identity. I always looked at my personal growth experiences from, well, my point of view. It never really occurred to me how they made people other than my parents feel. Not that I necessarily would have altered direction had I sensed the loneliness that my brother probably felt - heck, he, almost more than anyone, has always been very encouraging of me pursuing my own "thing"! - but I just wish I would've had the maturity and empathy to see from his point of view, when I was 18 and leaving home. I wish I would've had them to see from his point of view as an adult.

Part of the reason I was blind to his feelings - assuming they were what I think they were - was because I have no notion of what it's like to have an older sibling. I'm the oldest. I turned to my little brother for love and support when we were growing up, but I didn't look to him for guidance, per se. That's still the case, today, for the most part. I think he probably sought that from me, because I was older. I was the buffer between him and my parents: the one that would spout "wisdom," but without the threat of punishment and with softer, or no, judgment than what my parents would've doled out. I got none of that. If I needed family guidance, I got it from Mom and Dad and if I was judged, I was judged. Because I never had that buffer, it never occurred to me that other people have it and that they might miss it. You don't know to miss what you never had.

This realization takes on more resonance for me right now, because I've had a very emotionally rocky year with my brother. There has been an (avoidable) occurrence that has put more strain on our relationship than anything ever before. We're handling it like grown-ups (I think), but it's been tremendously painful for me, and I'm pretty sure, for him, too. I don't know that the turbulence is over. In fact, in some ways, recent circumstances have made things more emotionally complicated (on my end, at least). I'm carrying a ton of unresolved pain and I worry that if I tell him exactly how agonized I am, then it'll just push him away; and then I worry that if I don't tell him how crushed I am, then he'll just drift farther away. Either scenario seems horrible to me and I effectively lose my brother, one of my top 5 favorite people on the planet.

For now, I'm keeping my mouth shut and hoping we can just work through this and all the hurt will eventually scab over and we can start anew, as it were. Imagining his grief at my leaving the house is good for me. Not out of schadenfreude or anything, but because it helps me think of ways I can relate to him, better. And hopefully heal.

photo courtesy ToobyDoo, Flickr Creative Commons

In Vinto Veritas: Homesick

2011-03-12T23:23:00.003-05:00

It's one of those nights again: I've had a little too much wine.

And it's that time of year again: when I truly pine for Texas. It's Springtime. That means South by Southwest in Austin in March and Fiesta San Antonio in April. Neither of which I've been to, but each of which I'd love to. SXSW is more on my bucket list than Fiesta, but I've been curious about Fiesta and all the ensuing pageantry since I was a little girl.

I've also been curious to see Las Posadas in San Antonio since I was a little girl, too. It's the Christmas story told on the Riverwalk. From what I understand, Joseph and Mary float down the Riverwalk seeking shelter from those along the river. I'm not sure where it ends. But who cares? It's a Mexican tradition. And a Texas tradition.

So many Texas traditions I've not yet been a part of: Fiesta San Antonio, SXSW, Las Posadas, Tyler Rose Festival, Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, Fort Worth Stockyards Parade ... and I'm sure there are more. I just can't think of them all in my state: slightly inebriated and estranged from Texas for a decade.

Nonetheless, Spring is when the stirrings of homesickness begin. Probably with SXSW; just because I've been wanting to go since I was a young teen and first learned of it. Long before there was the film festival; long before the digital/interactive aspect. Back when it was just music. Indie music, at that. Not because I've ever been a great connoisseur of music trends, but because when you're 15 and live in the geographical middle of nowhere - where the local station (the only one for 100 miles, no kidding) plays only big band and bad country - you cling to every shred of anything that is unconventional. I have friends in Austin, which means I see the daily SXSW update on their Facebook feeds; I have friends who frequent SXSW, which means the same. And each time I read them, the 15-year-old still inside me who felt ike such a mis-fit - the rectangular peg in the oval hole of her small town (yes, I meant that) - tingles with a dash of envy and excitement.

There's also the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. A few years ago, my brother, on a whim, asked if I wanted to come down for a Robert Earl Keen concert at the Livestock Show. ... in case you haven't guessed: it's not a one-day event. It's several. It's huge. It's typically in February, which technically isn't Spring, but in Houston - yeah it is. I couldn't go. But I would've LOVED to. I love REK. And I luuuurrve my brother. Robert Earl Keen performing and me and my brother downing Shiner Bocks and whooping along would've been a fuckin' awesome night!

City festivals aside, there is also the blooming of Texas' flowers in Spring that lures my fancy. Whether the Honeysuckle that grew on our fence in the Panhandle - a scent which can still bring me great comfort, to this day - or the bluebonnets that start to sprout in the desert and central part of the state, or the tall yucca, or the little yellow dollops of sunshine along the roadsides in West Texas that a friend of ours used to call "Bouncing Betties," the local flora blooming brought me joy. As a teenager, I used to pluck the wild bluebonnets that grew in our yard and wear them in my hair.

And then there's the torrential weather. Great beauty cannot come without great torment. I am terrified of tornadoes. I won't lie. Less so than say, tsunamis or earthquakes, but probably because I grew up with a killer threat from the sky. But you know it's Spring in Texas when you've got torrential downpours and micro bursts and tornado warnings one day and then the most glorious God-kissed skies you could ever imagine for the next three days. We had a tornado warning here the other day, but I didn't bat an eye, because I know the tornadoes on the East Coast don't take you to Oz. They don't even take you to the neighborhood bar. The torrential weather in Texas doesn't take you to Oz. It's crazy enough that it brings Oz to you. I don't miss the storms. But I do miss the gorgeousness otherwise.

I miss the Spring in Texas: when things are just waking up and laughing. When the end of school is just weeks away. When Spring Break - typically the first or second week of March - is warm enough that you can stay put and it'll still feel like Spring: sunny and warmth a-breakin'. Except for in the Panhandle, where it's kind of hit or miss. Spring, when UIL One-Act plays around the state are being competed, as are other UIL academic competitions: it's like March Madness for nerds!

I don't know if I would still be homesick if friends didn't Tweet and Facebook from SXSW. Or if they didn't email me pictures of them in endless fields of bluebonnets when the trees are still barren here. Or if I didn't know that that by this Easter, the schoolkids of Texas would be counting down only 4 or 5 weeks to their summer escape, when the kids here still had 8 - 10 weeks to go. (I'm seriously in touch with my inner 4th-grader!) But I know these things; I receive these things. And so, I get a touch of homesickness.

March 2nd was Texas Independence Day. It's a day I don't recall commemorating much in Texas (at least not beyond the sesqui-centennial in 1986), but one that has carried more importance to me since I've lived on the East Coast. I ended up taking my daughter to a Texas-themed restaurant for lunch to celebrate. It's a poor facsimile, but we made do. And it was a warm blanket around my shoulders on that chilly day. It was my pretend Spring Break in my pretend Home. And I genuinely liked it for the little time I got to have.

Tension Makes a Tangle

2010-12-08T15:11:00.000-05:00

Twenty-six days since my last post. I'm improving!

Recently, Honey shared with me a link to a program that would allow us to seal in today's college tuition prices for Shortcake's future use. In other words, we could pay X amount each month for a total of Y amount, which would be honored at up to 270 universities around the U.S. - including our alma mater - in 2028, when she starts college. We figure in 18 years, the program will expand to include more than just 270; but for now, we're pleased that it includes our alma mater, MIT, Stanford and plenty of other recognizable, "good" schools. At our present income, the monthly amount we'd need to deposit for the program is not really do-able. This is something that I want to look into further and might likely be the best idea for college savings for Shortcake. But I'll be honest, I worry that discussing how to save for her will lead to a conversation I'm not sure how to have. Carrying my economic weight.

The underlying topics of this conversation, as I see it applying to me: obligation and role-modeling.

Let's begin with the obvious, obligation. I have a child now. I am no longer the center of my own universe, nor is my husband the center of his own. (Well, when we decided to marry, we combined orbits around a collective of two, so we haven't been the centers of our universes for several years.) Now, the focus of our orbit is around this little girl and any of her future siblings, and it is a vital focus. So that means every decision we make, and action we take, needs to be done for the good of the family, and more specifically, the good of her. Wanna move to Ireland? Will that be good for the unit? Good for her? Maybe. Maybe not. So, it seems like the logical response should be: Molly should get a job outside the house. It is her obligation, if she wants her child to attend college. And don't be so selfish, Molly - your husband needs someone to lighten his load. Get over yourself! What makes you so special that you don't have to get a hair cut and get a real job?

And this is where I begin to falter. I'm not sure I'm ready to re-enter the full-time workforce, yet. I'm not sure I ever want to. Let's get the selfish reasons out of the way, first: I enjoy caring for our daughter. I love it. Even when it's at its most annoying,caring for our daughter is still more rewarding than when outside work is least annoying. I enjoy being able to go to the library or go grocery shopping during the day, or take the dog for a walk in the sunlight, or go on an audition. Though mothering doesn't let me get as much done as I'd like to do on any given day, I like the weekly flexibility it offers. An economic reason I'm reluctant to return: childcare is expensive. The last job I almost took - a contract job that would've lasted a few weeks - I turned down, because the cost of childcare would've been about 2/3 my paycheck. Yes, 1/3 is better than 0/3, but it's hard to argue that I should leave our child in the care of a virtual stranger to bring home 1/3 of a paycheck working on a project that I'm actually not enthusiastic about. I've been in the workforce for about a decade or so, and my attempts to climb beyond the bottom rung have met terribly limited success. So, I'm not entirely sure I qualify for many higher-paying jobs to offset the cost of childcare, anyway. Finally, a sentimental reason: I don't want to become my mother.

My mom has worked outside the house in some form or fashion since she was a teenager. In the 34 years I've been around and have seen her work, I've rarely seen her content with her work situation. She usually resents her jobs. She enjoys being employed. Mom is one of those people who wouldn't know how to fill the time if she didn't have a job. She'd be bored and confused. But she's always ended up resenting her job.

And this is where the role-modeling conflicts with my sense of obligation.

I was lucky enough to see my dad switch career paths and find his calling. Ministry is difficult (financially, emotionally, spiritually), but it's what he's best at and what he loves, passionately. Mom never really found that path of passion. She did what she had to do to pay the bills when they were newlyweds, up through my tween years: working for the state in a mind-numbing bureaucracy. She despised it. When she decided she wanted to teach, she was thrilled to pursue it. She learned, after a few years, that students don't give a shit about learning, administrators' support of teachers is fickle and parents are either disengaged or overly protective. She hates it - or, at least, she's rarely had anything good to say about it in the last 15 years. I'm certain some of my mom's resentment isn't so much at her job as it is at the fact that she's always had to be the one whose salary is most stable, and often larger. Try raising a family of four, plus a dog, on $12k a year, the take-home my dad had when I was a teenager, and you can see how Mom was obligated to stick out a job she didn't like.

My goal has always been to provide our children - but particularly any daughters - with a mother who is happy with her career. Whose job is, if not her passion, then at minimum, a source of pride and joy. It has always made me terribly sad that my mom has never been happy in her career choices. The last thing I want my daughter to see, when she sees me, is a woman who lives with personal or professional resentment.

Of course, I realize I have to correct an earlier assertion. My mom did once have a job she was passionate about. She was a feature writer at our town's daily newspaper. Knowing her as I do, these days, I think that was the best job for her personality. It fits her organizational style, her personal curiosity and her writing style. She gave it up about a year or two before I was born. I never knew why until this last year.

She gave it up because she and Dad wanted to have a child. Dad, newly ordained, was chaplaining here and there, and subbing in pulpits, as well as in the local school system as a teacher. His income wasn't steady or sufficient. Mom's was. However, in the mid-70s, if you wanted to keep your job, as a woman, you didn't get pregnant. The only employer who wouldn't fire you if you were pregnant back then, that she knew of - and that would pay a better salary than she made - was the State of Texas. She returned to work six weeks after I was born. Six. Weeks. That's the amount of time they gave her. For those of you who've had kids, you know your body is just then starting to heal, and the baby, who still needs to eat every 2 - 3 hours, is entering the 6-week fussy phase and needs Mommy. Luckily, Dad was unemployed at the time, so he provided the childcare for a few months. Within a year, he got a full-time chaplain job at a local hospital and they had an employee nursery.

And this takes me back to work. I could be wrong, but I suspect that having me at home is an emotionally beneficial arrangement for us as a family, right now. I have had a few auditions (a couple this week, actually) for paying gigs; I'm exploring a paying gig for Shortcake and I'm not without options in terms of working from home or working on occasion. What I need to do right now is decide how committed I am to not subsuming. This would mean more self-promotion on my part, something I am loathe to do. I truly hate tooting my own horn, particularly as a means to an end. It might also mean a little more flexibility on my family's part. Currently, I try not to be out more than 1 - 2 nights a week, for rehearsal and performance. But I could (and would like to) make myself more available for improv teaching opportunities, some of which would be at night. The pay would be a pittance, but it would be pay doing what I enjoy and I'd be getting better at it for future work.

I really do appreciate all Mom has done for us. I just mourn that she decided to sacrifice her personal, professional happiness in the process. For most of human history, women have been the ones who've had to subsume their dreams for the expectations of society, or their subsume their happiness for the good of the family. Though Mom had more options than her mother, and she pursued them, she still subsumed both her dreams and happiness, ultimately. I live in an era when I have more options than my mother had. My dreams are fluid, as is my happiness, but I don't want to subsume them. I want Shortcake to see a woman who is happy with her professional choices, whatever they look like. ... I'm just living in tension about this, right now.

Reluctant Thanks ... and all the guilt.

2010-11-12T04:41:00.005-05:00

This is what happens when I can't sleep ...

Twenty-five years ago, yesterday, the father of one of my favorite childhood friends was murdered. He was a cop, just off duty, on his way home. He spotted an accident, moments after it occurred, and he pulled over to help. The driver and passenger were out of the car, and as he approached them, asking if they were okay, one of them shot him in the chest. What he didn't know was that they were fleeing a robbery. They'd just knocked over a convenience store, if I remember correctly. They panicked when they saw a police officer approaching. The perpetrators were caught within a few hours. They were convicted and a few years later, one of them was executed. (The trigger-man, I always presumed, though I don't recall.) This memory is a big, multi-faceted one for me. One of the facets of that memory for me was that he died on Veterans' Day and he was a VietNam vet.

Yesterday, when many people had the day off, and everyone was thanking vets on Facebook and Twitter and in memorial services for their service, my thoughts turned to my friend's dad. He died serving his fellow man. Not as a soldier, not even as a cop (since he was off-duty), but as a concerned citizen. We thank his military service with Veterans' Day, but how do we thank his civil service or his citizen service?

Veterans' Day is frequently a hard one for me to wrap around. Probably largely because I carry a lot of ambivalence about the role of our military in our country. It's also probably hard for me to process Veterans' Day during wartime. And, I guess, I'm a little annoyed that we don't really publicly recognize the service of others in our society with even half as much appreciation. When is Teachers' Day, Clergy Day, EMT Day, Coal-miners' Day, Water Sanitation Provider Day? These people rarely die in the execution of their jobs, but they educate you, comfort you, keep your heart pumping, keep your house fueled and keep you from getting cholera on a daily basis. And each comes with its unique set of skills and training. Where are their honors in rhetoric and mall sales?

When I consider the training that goes into being a military service member and the discipline that it instills, I'm nothing less than impressed. When I consider the time away from family that we demand of our service members in the service of military goals, I am sympathetic. When I consider the physical conditions our service members endure during war time and other times of conflict - and I suspect my imagination is a paltry shadow of what they actually endure - I am, indeed, grateful that they are trained and willing to go through that on my behalf. (Seriously. Thank you!) And when a military service member dies in battle, or while serving, I am humbled and thankful for their sacrifice. Because of all this, my gratefulness to our veterans is genuine. Heck, even as I write it, I become more acutely aware of how grateful I am for those who served and have served in the military. Wow. Thank you, Vets!

I suppose my ambivalence, then, is about how and when to say thank you, and why. A few years ago, I was on a bus when a man in Army fatigues stepped on. A mother, with a toddler, instructed her child to say "Thank You" to him for his service. He accepted the thanks. But I couldn't help wonder: she doesn't know what this guy's career has looked like; she doesn't know if this guy has seen frontline, or even backline combat; even if he has, she doesn't know exactly how he comported himself there. While I am grateful to our military service members as a collective, I don't know how each of them behaves as an individual representing me. Though, I think it's fair to say that the vaaaaassst majority of military service members behave honorably, and within codes of conduct, how do I know a random stranger in uniform is the paragon of integrity?

My favorite childhood friend's father was a policeman who died helping people. And I trust that the vast majority of police officers in this country honor their badges and their communities. However, a dear, dear friend of mine was also raped by a cop. He did time and lost his badge, thankfully. But I'm sure there are other crooked cops out there who get away with this crap, frequently. I am terribly thankful to our police force for keeping us safe. Seriously, as much as I hate getting tickets, I am so grateful that there are people who enforce the rule of law. But do we teach our children to say thank you to police officers for their service when we just see them randomly on the street? Maybe some do, but I don't know that it's as broadly accepted a convention as thanking random military service members. And if we do, then when we thank the random cop, are we thanking one like my friend's dad, or are we thanking one like my friend's rapist? We never know a stranger's back story or past deeds. Thanking a stranger, based on his or her profession seems kind of hollow to me. (And again, my annoyance: no stranger has ever thanked my mom for being a teacher, nor my dad for being clergy, and I wouldn't be surprised if no stranger has ever randomly thanked my mother in law for being a nurse.)

I consider myself a patriot: I dutifully pay my taxes, without whining (I'm actually okay with paying for services my government provides - like roads, libraries and the military!) I vote in most elections, I even contact my representatives when an issue moves me enough. But I don't thank random strangers for their military service, just because I see evidence of their service. I feel guilty about lacking that impulse. Like I'm an ungrateful, bad citizen.

Honey served in the military for several years, and occasionally, when someone learns of this, they might thank him. The last time I remember someone thanking him was at a wedding last year. It was a table-mate; someone we didn't know and were just chit-chatting with. I later asked Honey what he thinks when strangers thank him for his service. He always graciously accepts the thanks, but he's ambivalent, too. He told me he's known plenty of people in the service who are assholes, who do the bare minimum, who you wouldn't necessarily be proud to have defending you, if you really knew them, so he kind of sees the random thanks as less meaningful. Along the same lines, a friend of mine who spent the 80s and 90s in the Air Force addressed the thanks he got on Facebook with self-deprecating humor: All I really did was drink a lot and learn to swear in foreign languages. I'm sure he did more than that, but the point I take from that is that not everyone in uniform saw combat and defended in the sense that we like to imagine. More significant to me was the rest of his response: But thanks. It means a lot. I haven't asked him, so I don't know, but I took this to mean that the thanks is meaningful because it comes from a friend. This isn't an apples to apples comparison, but random people on the street have congratulated me on having a new baby. I accept it, but their congratulations means far less to me than that of friends and family.

I should divorce my dislike of thanking random vets for their service from my desire to thank the collective. It's not fair to my friends and family who have served honorably in whatever capacity. I am a "partly cloudy patriot." I'll admit it. (Incidentally, if anyone wants to get me that book - or that other newer one Sarah Vowell wrote - you'd definitely get a huge thanks from me!) Maybe it's my tendency to be contrary, but almost any time the masses wave flags, wax sentimental and hum America the Beautiful, I kind of crinkle up my nose and think, "really?" Unless it's the Fourth of July, because, then, dammit: citizen, soldier, immigrant or fan, America is the best damn country on the planet! But I digress. Though few read this blog (largely because they don't know about it), I'll use this space to thank my friends and family who have served, using initials and pseudonyms, because you know how I am about my anonymity.

Thank you: Honey, Grandfather SM (WWII, Pacific), Honey's grandfather LM (WWII, Europe, Africa), Honey's other grandfather RF (WWII, Europe), Cousin PH, Cousin MG (OEF), Uncle TM, Uncle RAM, Uncle CR, Uncle BP, SB, SW, JM** (VietNam), AB (Afghanistan), PB, JP, RGR ... and probably lots of other friends I'm having difficulty recalling in the twilight of dawn after a mostly sleepless nights. You're all awesome and I'm relieved to have had you, specifically, guarding us.

** and thanks for coaching my tee-ball team when I was five and fathering my friends. They miss you.

Religious Literacy

2010-09-30T12:59:00.005-04:00

Lookee here! It hasn't been six months, only two! I told you I'd write more often. Who knows? Maybe there will even be another before we see the end of 2010!

I haven't gotten over the hurt written about in the previous post. Not sure I ever will. But I'm working on forgiving. Secret Agent Woman left a very true comment after my last post. Honestly, I don't think I'm ready forgive one of the members of the offending party. The other member (party of 2, you see) apologized and asked for my forgiveness up front, and I granted it. In the meantime, I'm following my therapist's advice and trying to reach out to person 1. I've deduced from the little response received, and prior conversations, that that person is relatively insecure. Which is sad. And which may be why person 1 cornered person 2 into deliberately hurting me. So, now I'm feeling sorry for Offending Person 1, and hoping that I can move to forgiving him/her through pity.

Besides, if so many in South Africa can forgive their vicious, violent oppressors (and yes, I know that's debatable en masse) then I can learn to forgive an insecure, immature offender who probably has no idea how much his/her action hurts me and those around him/her. That's all I'll write on that.

Onto more interesting things. (And I apologize for the lengthy vanity trip above.) This week, a study by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life was floating around on Facebook. It looked at elementary religious literacy of Americans, and their general knowledge of public expressions and public religious figures. I'll be honest, I didn't read the full story; I jumped straight to the 15-question quiz to see how I compared to most Americans. The average American falls around 50%; I got 100%. I took the full 32 question survey, and only missed one. (To the Learnin' Mobile, PK!) The thrust of the study, however, was that atheists and agnostics scored higher on the quiz, on average than those who self-identified any faith.

Online, my atheist friends - who also took the quiz - crowed a little bit (okay, so did I) and one of my clergy friends used it as a call for the church to do a better job with religious education. Perhaps not surprisingly, when I glanced at the results question for question in the study, most of the wrong answers on content were delivered by people outside their own religion. Atheists didn't know who Job was, for example, and Christian Evangelicals weren't sure what Ramadan was, etc. Those not identifying as anything - not atheist, not believers, not agnostics - seemed to do as well as anyone else, though again, weak on the content questions.

I don't really want to explore here what it means that there was a knowledge gap between non-believers and belivers. But it's worth noting that not all the questions were about Bible stories or Christian dogma, but about elementary aspects of many religions - including mythology and doctrine - as well as religious history in America and public expressions of religion. What I find interesting is that few people, regardless of how they identified, did well with the questions about religious history or public expression. Specifically, school prayer, Bible reading in school and spot the preacher from the First Great Awakening. Everyone basically got the last one wrong. I can understand why someone may get a doctrine question wrong in someone else's religion (heck, even in their own), but why the generic religion-in-society questions?

I suspect we don't really know how to talk about religion, religious heritage or items of faith or spiritual nourishment and exercise in our society. It makes us uneasy. What are generally regarded as the two taboo topics of conversation whenever you meet someone or are at a party? Religion and politics. Is there any wonder than that we're culturally ignorant? It's like religion (maybe politics, too) is the sex of the modern age. Because it's so personal, it's volatile and we don't discuss it. Or when we do, we just sneer at each other and reduce the other to withering stereotypes.

Despite this, I'm very grateful to the education I received growing up. Not just my religious education about my own religion's sacred stories and doctrine. But that my father and schoolteachers taught us about religious influence in public life.

For instance, when I was in high school, English Lit classes in Texas followed a certain path: 9th grade was focused on English (as in British) lit; 10th grade was general lit with heavier emphasis on poetry; 11th grade focused on American literary genres and movements - with heavier emphasis on the novel, I think; 12th grade ... I don't remember. (Who remembers their senior year?) In 11th grade, we covered the major movements from early colonial days up through WW2, I think. Maybe just the Harlem Renaissance. Included among those early colony movements were the essay, pamphlets and ... the sermon. I remember we learned about Cotton Mather and Jonathan Edwards. We read "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," not as prosetylization, but as an artifact of the period. We discussed how that sermon influenced the general thought of the day. Just like we read "Thanatopsis" and discussed the spiritualism trend in literature during the period. Just like we read Twain and discussed how his writing affected the public. Just because we were being exposed to writings of a religious nature, didn't mean that we were being "preached to."

Likewise, in 10th grade world history class, we had a section about world religions. I don't remember how long we spent on the world's 5 most popular religions, but I do remember that we learned about the Vedas, the Bagavad Ghita and different big movements in Buddhism. For the quiz about the world religion segment, we had to list 5 of the 10 commandments, 4 of the 8 noble truths, maybe all 5 tenets of Islam, or maybe 3 (I can't recall). I think we had to list some of the books of the Torah, too. That sounds familiar. And I don't remember what core principles we were supposed to know about Christianity and Hinduism. Maybe the resurrection for Christianity and the cycle of life and death for Hinduism? Sure. We'll say that. None of this was delivered with any hint of favoritism or bias, even though I'd put money on it that every one of the students in the classroom, and the teacher too, were either Christian in practice or personal history. I don't know how that compares to the general American public high school education. However, my husband, who attended a much larger, much wealthier school that produces plenty of white collar, college-bound grads (as opposed to my school which produces a lot of blue collar workers and straight-to-military), doesn't recall any such exposure in school.

Because of Dad's great admiration for the First Amendment as well as for free expression of religion, I got what I think is a clearer picture of religious freedom rights in America. I was grateful that teacher-led school prayer had been struck down, but not fearful of my teacher ever uttering the word "god" in any context other than a swear word.

Theologian Elaine Pagels believes we should teach religion in America's public schools. Not as proselytization, but as academic study. She may be right. We don't do it now, and how has it helped us? So many Americans are ignorant about other religions. (Hell, their own, as well.) I thank God and my forebears for our secular government; the separation of church and state is probably my favorite amendment. But would talking about religion violate the establishment clause? I don't know that teaching religion would ever occur in the U.S. There is a lot of mistrust that floats around. Who decides on how each religion is represented?

I guess my big question is this: Who does it benefit for us to be ignorant of others' religions, our own religions and the influence of those religions? The current tsunami of Islamophobia clearly benefits no one. It weakens our country in so many ways. The apparently misguided notion that a public school teacher is legally disallowed to read from the Bible as a piece of literature serves to strengthen those who believe that Christianity is under attack. If you don't know Martin Luther from Martin Luther King, then you miss massive catalysts for revolution in western history.

Religion matters. Just like sex matters. If we can learn to talk more openly about sex, while still respecting the personal importance it carries, why can't we learn to do the same about religious matters?

How do I Shake This?

2010-07-26T22:28:00.003-04:00

If anyone is reading this, I'm astounded. Not just because I've not posted in 6 months (holy cow, has it been that long?), but because I've fallen so far behind in my reading of others' blogs that I can't imagine anyone knows I'm still around. (Also, I feel bad for not reading your blogs.) Nevertheless, I'm blogging tonight, largely because I just want to post something. Anything.

In the last 6 months, there have been many topics that have drifted past my purview and I've thought, "Oh! I want to blog on that, this week!" And then it doesn't happen. Baby. Other work. Exhaustion. Vacation. You name it. But one item has really kind of stuck in my craw in the last 6 months and I don't know how to blog about it, much less get over it. It's hard to blog about this "it" because of personal sensitivities ... though I blog mostly anonymously, I make it a personal policy not to write anything here that I wouldn't feel comfortable addressing with the subject of my post, in person. It's hard to get over this "it" because I'm very deeply hurt. Crushed, really. And angry.

I'll just say this: the phenomenon I described in this post, about feeling left out of my broader family, is beginning to feel amplified. And it is not accidental; it is somewhat by design. And that is generally not part of my personality, to deliberately alienate someone - particularly family. Heck, sometimes I find myself being cold to someone because they irritate or upset me for whatever reason and I try very, very hard to be more congenial and kind. (I don't know how evident that is, but I do try.) And deliberate punishment is really not part of my family's behavior either, so I find the whole activity rather confusing, and galling.

This tacit tiff - it's very passive-agressive behavior - that I was a part of and didn't know I was a part of until much later, is beginning to cool. Once I learned of my offense, I immediately moved to making amends. And, to my family member's credit, he/she is moving to making amends with me, too. But it's on his/her terms, not mine. Not that it has to be on mine, but we've each offended, and it would be nice if some reconciliation was on some of my terms, too. What hurts most is that I wasn't even aware I had offended, and instead of addressing the situation with me, this family member decided to spite me. To deliberately hurt me - punish me - without giving me the benefit of knowing what I had done so I could address it, first. He/She decided to let me twist in pain wondering why I was made to suffer. It's just so little and juvenile.

And I want to get over it. I really do. Really. Truly. I do. Because I love my family - all of them. I want to have good times. I'm just not sure how, right now. I think the fact that we're making healing movements toward eachother is a good sign. I just really wish I knew how to stop hurting. I don't know that it will come in any way other than a specific apology from this person. I'm thinking I might apologize for the accidental gaffe on my part that inspired the hurtful behavior. At least that way, it's on the table. And I can have a fully clean conscience. And just hope that the other person decides to apologize for the hurt he/she caused. I think that's what I'll do. I won't count on a reciprocal apology. In my experience, if someone is going to deliberately hurt you, they probably think they've got the moral authority to do so, and apology is not a priority. But I never want to be the person who does the selfish thing. I always want to be the peacemaker; the one who does the right thing. A stubborn pride doesn't keep you warm at night. A clean conscience does.

Surfacing, Crowning, or what have you

2010-01-28T11:24:00.004-05:00

I've been meaning to write for several weeks, now. And I've been meaning to catch up on your blogs for a couple of months, now.

Here's the update: despite three individual complications - only one of which was relatively benign and could be more reasonably called an annoyance more than a complication - I delivered a healthy baby girl 6 weeks before her due date. Due to the complications, I was scheduled to deliver her at 35 weeks, but life being what it is, after yet another "oh shit" incident, we had to have an emergency C-section 5 days before her scheduled one. Though I think the final incident that preceded her birth could've been ridden out, as had other similar incidents that month, my doctor and the amazing staff at the hospital decided 4 "prep the gurney" incidents in a month was enough and to not take any more chances. I'm glad they didn't.

Honey and I are now the amazed parents of a little strawberry-blonde wiggly worm I will henceforth call Shortcake (like Strawberry Shortcake, get it?) on this blog. If she wasn't swaddled 90% of the time, she'd like to sleep with one arm over her head, just like her father. And like her mother, her hair changes color in different lights ... and she has my forehead. Luckily, she heard enough of Babydog's barking in utero not to be affected by it on the outside. Likewise, because she spent the first two weeks of life in the NICU, surrounded by lights, alarms, radios, screaming babies and jocular nurses, she's pretty unbothered by any sudden sounds or lights or what have you. For the most part, she's a pretty easy baby.

I return briefly to the "amazed" adjective. Honey and I are most certainly proud parents, but I like to think we're also really amazed. Amazed that we've been entrusted with the care of another human being from birth to the threshold of adulthood, amazed at how much our perspectives on life and about ourselves have shifted virtually overnight, and amazed that we have her at all.

There are several reasons to be amazed that we have her at all, and almost all of them have to do with chance. I could go into the tiny turns of fate that led to her getting here - we're all the results of chance, really - but sometimes I look at her and thank God she was born when and where she was. You see, of the two not-benign complications I had, one would've been fatal for her, and possibly me, as early as 50 years ago. We both certainly would've died 100 or more years ago. But the wide availability of C-section and ultrasound have made that complication easily and usually survivable these days. The other not-benign complication is one that would've been fatal for her, possibly as recently as 10 years ago. That complication, to this day, is often diagnosed after delivery, as in: "oh, that's why the baby died." And it's rare. Rare enough that most of my nurses in the high risk pregnancy ward had to look it up when I or my doctor told them what I had. And they always returned slightly ashen-faced and treated me with more kid-like kid gloves than they were prepared to. (I finally looked up the mortality rates, after Shortcake was safely with us. Those statistics are entirely against the favor of the baby.) Thankfully, advances in ultrasound technology have made that complication easier to spot at all, but not every ultrasound lab has the technology available still. So I'm thrilled that my choice of OBGYN gave me the chance to go to the lab I went to; my previous OBGYN would've directed me to another lab, which is good, but not as equipped. Had that happened, I may have carried to term and lost my daughter in delivery or sooner. So, yup. I'm an amazed parent, not just proud.

For those interested, below is a photo of Shortcake's precious right ear. This ear is resting in the crook of my elbow right now. This ear hears me sing into it and will hear sweet nothings whispered into it in the future. How I hope to never be the source of any vitriol or anger to pour into that sweet little ear. If I could, I would protect that ear forever from such rage. But as I can't, I hope I can shepherd this child such that she can hear that and filter it; to listen for the opportunities to deliver comfort to the pain behind the rage or to stand up against the evil in the rage.

I'll try to post more than just once a month! And best yet, I'll try to catch up on all your blogs, soon. In the meantime, I've got a dirty diaper to change!

Glædelig Jul!

2009-12-27T08:05:00.001-05:00

After a much needed 8.5 hours of sleep on Christmas Eve, I sat in my hospital bed enjoying the darkened silence of the room. I considered sleeping past 6:30, since this will be last opportunity to do so for many Christmases to come. At least another 10 or 15 years, by my conservative estimate. But I wasn’t sure I want to take advantage of that. Besides, stuck in a hospital room for weeks, I needed to have something to look forward to. Something to make me giddy. The last few weeks have been so weird - not living with my husband or dog, or even my cat!; taking everything one day at a time, grateful for each day that I'm still pregnant, particularly since I've had a few close calls, including one that canceled my baby shower (my last remaining hope for some activity or item resembling a "normal pregnancy”) and another last week that got me the closest to delivery I've been, yet. Nope. I chose to be giddy and rise early to celebrate. Even if it was just me in my bed for a few hours, before Honey came.

I listened to Christmas music on my laptop and thought of Christmases past. Until I was about 12, we'd spend Christmas Eve at my grandparents' house. All, or most, of my moms' siblings would come, so the house was throbbing with cousins. My family would go to our church's candlelight service, usually over by 6 or 6:30 and then join the festivities in progress at Grandma's. It was loud, fun and largely unstructured. We'd eat tamales, rice and beans and chow on deserts. The kitchen was a traffic circle. Around 8:30 or 9, we'd open gifts and things would wind down around 10:30 or 11, when the cousins would start to head to bed and we'd head back home. Sometimes, this ritual would be in Dallas, at one of my uncles' houses, but it was pretty much the same deal. Christmas morning was just for our immediate family, opening our own gifts and Mom would make quiche. Her annual Christmas quiche brunch. We were never a "Christmas dinner" kind of family. We were a Christmas brunch family.

I’m wondering what future Christmases will be like with the new little one. This time next year, our kid will be just shy of a year old, so we might be chasing his/her little waddling bottom out of the kitchen, while Honey bakes up dozens and dozens of delicious cookies and he and I make chocolate truffles together.

My sister-in-law lives nearby and we more often than not spend Christmas and/or Thanksgiving with her and her family.

Her kids are way older than ours: high school and entering junior high soon, so I’m not sure what kind of relationship this kid will have with them. We’ve never spent Christmas or Thanksgiving with Honey’s father, since we’ve been together, to my knowledge. We’ve done a few with his mom and a couple with my family. But nothing that really establishes tradition. I suppose we still have a few years to figure that out. I’d just really like our kid(s) to have fond memories of playing with cousins and singing carols and eating traditional foods that they have memories of watching us prepare and grow up to want to learn to make. You know: like I had! (Side note: I tasked my mother with getting my grandmother’s tamale recipe, so I can learn to make them for Christmases future. Honey has perfected her pico de gallo, so if I can just make a passable version of her tamales, maybe we can at least keep the Mexican Christmas dinner tradition going.)

This barely felt like a regular Christmas this year. Even though we got a foot of snow. (Almost none of which I could see from my hospital window, as it looks into a courtyard!) This Christmas, my every thought has been on the safety of the little creature growing inside me. This Christmas, my focus has been on staying pregnant for one more hour, one more day; knowing that each day, each week means a healthier baby. I have no emotional or mental room for anything else, frankly. Just keeping this kid safe and incubating. I have my own drama to worry about.

Normally, we’ve got the house decorated by early December, holiday music wafts throughout the house, the kitchen smells of sugar and butter as Honey is constantly baking. I’m writing our Christmas cards and mailing them out to loved ones. And we’re scrambling to get gifts for family (my least favorite part of Christmas – consumer “obligation”). This year, my hospital room has received most of the decorations (for which I am grateful), and the house, none, as Honey has taken to preparing the house for the arrival of our little winter babe. Even though I have a chunk of Christmas music on my laptop, I’ve not listened to it enough. Mostly because it’s awkward to fetch my laptop when lying from a 33 degree angle. We’d not been able to go any Christmas parties, holiday shows or movies of the season. We celebrated in our own way, though. And all things considered, this was one of the best Christmases I’ve had in a long time. Just because Honey is so fantastic and it reminds me what my priorities are. And the visits from friends I got on Christmas day just added a luster to the day that I won’t soon forget.

One thing we know for sure: next Christmas will be far different from this Christmas. We’ll be out in public again. The house will be decorated. The music will be playing and David Sedaris stories playing and the kitchen will smell of Honey’s magic. Christmas cards will go out (yes, probably with baby pictures in them). But there will be an extra energy in the house. An extra layer of happiness. And I have a feeling that once that happiness fills the house, we’ll struggle to remember what it was like without it. Kind of like how empty and slightly sad the house feels when our dog is not there. When Babydog is out for the night, I’m always sad a little, and struggle to remember what it was like without her joy filling the house. All I know is that our house wasn’t complete until she came along, even though we didn’t know it (okay I kind of knew it would be, having had dogs before). I suspect it’ll be the same with the kid. And we’re very much looking forward to discovering that unknown joy and rediscovering the joys of a celebrate season with this kid!

I hope Christmas, or your respective holidays found you happy and well this year. Have a fantastic 2010!

… and I apologize for not reading your blogs in a LOOONNG time. In addition to my general tendency to procrastinate, I’ve been limiting my laptop time in the hospital, so I’ve fallen waayy behind. I can’t promise I’ll catch up real soon, but I’ll try my darnedest!

Challenge to a true Thanks-giving

2009-11-25T23:20:00.007-05:00

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Largely, I think, because it is what I so want Christmas to be: a holiday centered on a feast, on gratitude, on family and friends and spending time with one another, undistracted by notions of material obligations. Abraham Lincoln made Thanksgiving an official national holiday during the Civil War because he felt it necessary that we should pause and give thanks for our many blessings even among (maybe especially among) our worst trials. That there are always things to be grateful for. This Thanksgiving is challenging me to actually focus on thanks; to live up to Mr. Lincoln's original intent.

This year I will be spending Thanksgiving in my hospital bed, with my wonderful husband by my side. I won't get to overstuff myself and then go sprawl on the couch and shoot the breeze with whatever family I'm surrounded by. I won't have my favorite pecan pie; the only dessert I anticipate is the pumpkin mousse the hospital will provide. Honey has the turkey ready and will bring it and some sides from Boston Market. We'll probably play a game on my computer and maybe a card game; watch a movie and just hang out. Sadness washed over me this afternoon around dinner time as my hospital dinner sat before me. All my family will be spending Thanksgiving surrounded by loved ones, except for me. My brother with his in-laws, my parents with aunts and uncles, my in-laws with Honey's extended family at a wedding in Texas we couldn't attend. And I haven't even left my side of the room since last Thursday. Last Thursday since I've crossed this curtain. I've had exceptionally high spirits since I arrived here 10 or 11 days ago, but they suddenly began to crumble when I pondered how different this Thanksgiving would be from all the others in my past.

I began to cheer up when Honey came by for his (near) nightly visit. Honestly, he's all I need. And it's only one Thanksgiving. Next Thanksgiving will be completely different. And what an extraordinary opportunity to really think about what I'm thankful for and offer genuine thanks for those blessings. It's better than do what I usually do, which is to give my blessings a perfunctory blip of a thought and then dive into the traditional meal!

So what am I thankful for this year? In no particular order:

That we are going to have a baby.
That the complications with this pregnancy have been spotted early enough to mitigate them.
That we have a delivery plan for this baby in the face of these complications.
That if, heaven forbid, we have to deliver this baby this week, it is viable and would most likely survive and hopefully, eventually, thrive.
That I have wonderful doctors.
That I have a great nursing staff.
That I have the window side of the hospital room.
That I have a friendly roommate.
That we have so many generous and amazing friends who love Honey and me so much.
That this child will probably be one of the most-loved in history when he or she arrives.
That I have great health insurance. That I have insurance at all! (Seriously glad for this.)
That I have, at most, another 7 weeks here. (There are other women on this floor here for far longer.)
That I live in an area where great health care is available to me.
That I have a dog at home who loves me.
That Honey and I have loving families.
That the baby, by all available standards, is healthy.
That my health has stabilized.
That the baby likes to have dance parties in the morning and random parkour practices during the day.
That I'm just an elevator ride away from delivery if we have a genuine "must do now" emergency.
That we have clothes for the baby to grow into, at home.
That we got a dresser for free and a co-sleeper for a steal.
That, despite my irritations with my job, I know they want to keep me on-tap, even though I don't qualify for FMLA. I feel less in the cold about that.
That our domestic life is stable, safe and loving. It's easy to take that for granted until you hear the concerns of other women in OB-emergency worried about their partners.
That I have had good spirits throughout this, so far.
That I have time to nap during this third trimester when I really need it.
That I got to have a great, refreshing rehearsal weekend retreat with my fellow performers right before the incident that landed me here.
And mostly: That I have an incredibly loving and thoughtful husband who lives the definition of standing by your spouse "in sickness" as well as in health. He's had to do it several times in the last few years, and I just pray that I'm as good for him when it's him who needs me, as he has been for me.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

* photo courtesy earlycj5 via Flickr Creative Commons

Souvenirs from an Era

2009-10-30T05:27:00.008-04:00

A few weeks ago I woke 15 minutes ahead of the alarm, and when I tried to go back to sleep, I couldn't. Cheap Trick's "The Flame" was suddenly, inexplicably and without warning in my brain. Well, actually it was Maroon Five's "She Will Be Loved" - which is even more inexplicable, as they just plain turn me off - which then morphed into "The Flame." Sitting upright in bed, in the dark, I had three thoughts in rapid succession:

1) Damn, NPR for running that story about the Deering Mansion in Miami being haunted. I can't shake it. As either Huey, Dewey or Louie used to say: "I don't believe in ghosts, but I sure am scared of them!" The story made my restless nights even more restless.

2) Wow. Those two songs are structurally very similar. Someone should mash them up if they haven't already. Wow! I noticed an opportunity for a mashup! Look at me! Club DJ stardom is just minutes away!

3) Aww. "The Flame!" It's one of those songs from the soundtrack of my life. A song I may have enjoyed, but because it emerged on my radar at a certain critical moment in my development, I cherish it as a landmark of sorts.

Playing the song in my head, in bed in our dark room, I recalled how I'd relish listening to it at night, coming from my clock radio in my dimmed bedroom. I had a dimmer switch in the room I had from birth to 12 which I rarely turned all the way off. I remember how comforting that song was to me, in junior high, lying in bed, my room in artificial amber gloam, the rest of the house asleep. There are a handful of songs, images and other artifacts that whenever I encounter them, inspire a certain nostalgia that would not have seemed likely when I originally encountered them. Certain pop songs from 1988 - 1989 forever haunt me in ways that other don't. And I think it has everything to do with two things: the fact that that's when my family made our first big move; and that I was at the peak of puberty. (By the way: never move your family when one - the eldest, at least - is in the throes of puberty. It's more traumatic than a move at 10 or 15. I've asked around.)

If I really thought about it, I could find those musical or cultural artifacts that were in the background when I lived in these places that later proved to be memory markers.

"Stand" by REM will forever be the song that introduced me to REM and the song that I identify most with arrival in my small town. I'd heard of REM, but never anything from them. I was 12 and whenever the video would come on MTV, Dad would get up and get my brother and me to do the Stand dance, encouraging me to accept our new, small town. I resented the new town so much, but couldn't resist Dad's enthusiasm. It's only years later that I appreciate what Dad was trying to get us to do: embrace place and bloom where planted.
"Mary Moon" by Deadeye Dick is always the song that brings me back to 18, in a small west Texas university starting school completely - and I mean completely - clueless, but feeling utterly liberated and probably the most confident I've ever been in my life. I think I liked it because I had a "Mary Moon" reputation at my high school, but it was mocked, not celebrated. Here was a song that not only celebrated that archetype, but made her (sexually) desirable. Same me, new leaf.
Fresh Air with Terry Gross on NPR became my best friend when I had to drop out of college after my first semester due to lack of funds. I still listen to the show as often as possible, but I remember discovering her in Houston, when I was in depression, knew no one and the future looked uncertain. When I think back on those days, those afternoons in my bedroom, I am so grateful to her and to the local NPR station for fostering and sating curiosity.
The Indigo Girls were always playing from my stereo or from those of my best friends during my college years.
Margaret Atwood and Kurt Vonnegut were my book buddies the year after college, when I joined Honey at his first station, in the city to which I would never return to live in a million years, but for which I have a soft spot in my heart.

I don't know what the cultural artifacts are that I associate with my current place. I'll probably find them in retrospect. Plus, we've been here long enough - almost 10 years - that I probably have cultural artifacts associated with certain periods in my life, as opposed to places. For instance, I associate Sigur Ros, Rilo Kiley and Ben Gibbard with the period I spent completing my thesis. A friend turned me onto Sigur Ros when he heard the topic of my thesis dealt with constructed languages and gibberish. They sing mostly in Icelandic, but occasionally in a fabricated language. They're so mellow and soulful that I was able to mope and comfort myself in their music as I plowed through. A coworker turned me onto Rilo Kiley and Ben Gibbard, breaking me of my prejudice against Death Cab for Cutie, much to the relief of my husband, who likes Death Cab. I can't place my finger on what it was about those two artists that spoke to me in that manic period, but I latched onto the music he shared, and that we already had in our collection, but I was too blindly stubborn to listen to.

I'm really curious what music or cultural events or artifacts will turn out to the be the familiar landmarks in my memory for this period of my life. It seems like this year and the coming year will likely be so momentous for us that there will be something that I always associate with this period. I'm just eager and curious to find out what it is. It'll probably be evident 5 or 6 years from now. And it'll probably surprise me. I never would've guessed something like "The Flame" would've been among my take-aways from 1988!

The Ties that Bind

2009-10-02T06:59:00.006-04:00

Given the events of this summer, in my personal life, it is perhaps not surprising, that I've been thinking a lot about my extended family. I've been thinking of that of Honey's, too, but more about mine, because, well ... they're the ones I'm more familiar with.

Earlier this week, I had trouble sleeping because all I could think about was my parents' mortality. It hit me in a couple of places. The thought of losing them saddened me as their child, but it saddened me even more as their gestating grandchild's parent. I really want our kids to know my parents. They're wonderful, mostly fun people, even if they do get on our nerves, sometimes. It would break my heart into many pieces if they died before our kid(s) were born or before the kid(s) had a chance to develop any meaningful memories of them.

Then there's the simple issue of "what happens to us after we die?" I go through phases when I believe in an afterlife spent in the company of the departed and in the bosom of the Creator (Heaven) and when I think there's nothing, just oblivion; just a dreamless sleep. (Perhaps surprisingly, because of how our society delineates things, the absence of an afterlife does not, to me, signify the absence of God.) I'm in a phase right now when I fear death: my own and that of those I love, because I'm not sure what comes after. And I actually believe in Heaven more for my family elders, maybe because their assurance appears so beautifully effortless - though, talking to them, I know it's not. And that they do, and are about as comfortable with the idea of going there as anyone can be, I think they will spend eternity in Heaven whether I do or not.

I hope there's a divine afterlife. For purely selfish reasons: not just reuniting with my loved ones, but getting to know those who've gone before me who I didn't get to know. Namely notable peacemakers and my dad's parents. There were times in my childhood when I so wish I could've known them. There were many times I felt devalued by my mom's parents, and I longed to have another set to run to, to balance that out, to get personal affirmation for just being me, and not for not being good enough. We only had one portrait of them in our house, growing up. A black and white photo. Which sucked, because I never got to see the supposedly fiery red hair that my grandfather had, that now weaves through my own muted locks. It looks dark in the photo, so I assumed it was brown for years and years. In fact, virtually every photo I've seen of them has been black and white. And often grainy. Kind of like the second-hand memories I've been given of them. Somewhere, among my parent's things, is a reel to reel recording that includes my grandmother's voice. I've not found it, yet. When we do, I'd like to have it transferred into a digital file, so I can hear her. So she can be more real to me. (Wow, I can't believe how much I just cried writing all that. I haven't cried over them in years. In over a decade, maybe.)

These are the things I don't want for our children: to have to hear second hand stories of their grandparents. To have to piece together who someone was based on rose-colored anecdotes. I could never do my parent's memory justice. Especially, Mom's. I really think she's going to be a wonderful grandmother; probably a better grandmother than she was a mother. If her interactions with my cousins' kids are any indication, she'll certainly relish it more and attack it with more enthusiasm than she did mothering.

But what is more difficult is distance. My parents live in Texas, roughly a 3 hour flight away; Honey's on the West Coast, about 6 hours away by air. I lived in the same city as my grandparents until I was 12, and then, in the same state, just an 8 hour drive down the road: two tanks of gas that are much cheaper than 2 plane tickets. We saw them several times a week, and even when we moved, we were up there a lot and they traveled the state visiting kids and grandkids several times a year. Honey, on the other hand, had 6 grandparents, thanks to divorce, all of whom lived in Texas. At any given time in his childhood, that was a 3 - 10 hour flight, and all its costs, away. So, they were slightly alien to him - "family," but not familiar - until he spent a few summers with one set, in his high school years. Going to college in Texas cemented those relationships. Honey's mom and my parents are already trying to figure out when they can come up here for the new baby. His dad has not yet expressed that interest, so I have no idea when he'll come out to meet his grandkid; as yet, we don't have any West Coast travel plans. I can't help but wonder if that'll be an indication of how the grandparent relationship will unfold: mine and his mom trying to get out here as often as they can (I already plan on capitalizing on Mom's summers off), and his dad just sticking to his habit of visiting the East Coast only occasionally. Naturally, I hope we can visit them as much as possible, as well.

I really want our kid(s) to have genuine personal relationships with all their grandparents. I assume it's natural for kids to favor one set or one grandparent over others. Luckily, I don't worry that mine or Honey's parents will be emotionally detrimental to our kid(s), like my mom's (unwittingly) were to me. But I do hope the old folks stick around long enough for the kid(s) to pull wisdom and love from them.

Screw you very much!

2009-09-22T05:26:00.003-04:00

The only thing I took away from this summer's health care "debate" - or really, rather, the town hall meetings - is that the most important person in the United States is me. Not me, Molly Malone, but "me," the person at the center of the universe whoever "me" is, wherever "me" is, whatever "me" does and whatever "me" believes. "Me" is so important that it's fine for "me" to interrupt, shout down, berate and shut out the "other" who is trying to implore my help, change my opinion or simply give me his/her perspective on a situation. While I understand and trust that most town halls went off without much drama - maybe just some folks with signs, but damnit, this is America and I'm all about political expression, whether or not I agree with you - the stereotype of the town hall health care "debate" seems to be a good example of the lack of civility in this country, not for the good of the whole, but for the good of "me."

I ran into a couple examples of this yesterday. I'd just spent the weekend in Texas with my husband's family, feeling the milk of human kindness (I love them so much), only to be greeted with the vinegar of "me-ness."

Some background: I'm between 4 and 5 months pregnant with our first child. Because getting to this point in our family-building journey has been a physical and emotional torment I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, this pregnancy is not something we take lightly, nor is it something we're entirely comfortable advertising. But we've moved past the letting those who need to know, know, to being more public, if for no other reason than I've got an obvious bump, now. (It is also not my current intention to discuss it much on this blog, hereafter, but I can't promise it won't come up.)

Yesterday morning, Honey and I rose early to catch one of the first flights back east from DFW. I ate a small bowl of Raisin Bran and washed it down with some orange juice. I'd been eating that same breakfast for two or three days at his grandparents' house to no ill effect. Apparently, yesterday morning was different. As we drove to the airport, I knew something was amiss. As soon as I had a chance to find a ladies room, I hurled. I've been lucky in that I've not had much morning sickness, and what I have had hasn't haunted me much. Nonetheless, I felt nauseous for quite some time after.

Honey and I were supposed to sit one behind the other in middle seats on the flight back. They were the only seats left when we booked the flight last month. I was hoping, however, that maybe some kind person would swap the aisle with me so I could have easier access to the lav in case the bagel I was using to calm my post-puke nausea decided to take the same exit as the cereal. That kind person was not in my row. That guy said he really liked the aisle. That kind person was not in my husband's row. "Not for a middle-seat," he shook his head. I explained to both of them that I was experiencing morning sickness, but neither man seemed to care. Thanks, guys.

Luckily, nothing came back up, but I did have a few moments that were gag-worthy. But hey, they got theirs, so that's all that mattered. If I was the kind of person who stubbornly refused to swap seats on a crowded aircraft, I would say this was just my airplane karma. But I'm not. When flying alone, I've swapped seats so people can sit with their party, before (I hate seeing parties separated on airplanes), without giving a thought as to which seat in the row it is. I've even surrendered my coveted window-seat for a teenager who was a first-time flyer, moving to the middle, so that she could see outside more clearly for reassurance. That was actually a rewarding experience: She was terribly nervous. I held her hand during take off and talked her through the initial motions of the plane, and then did the same during landing. I felt very honored to have shared the moment with her, to have calmed her.

What irks me most is: I don't care whether I'm pregnant or not, and it was a request, so it was theirs to deny, but are these men so adamant about holding their aisle seat that they show no mercy to one who is sick? If I were recovering from food poisoning, would they be okay to let me vomit in their laps or shit my pants because they got theirs? (I'm sure the puke bags never get it all.) If I were elderly with a weak bladder, would they still insist on the aisle seat? And neither of them got up during the flight on their own. I had to pee a couple of times, so my guy moved. But the guy next to Honey never did. His row spent all three hours sitting. Why the hell do you want the aisle if you're not going to use it yourself? If you were just going to sit for 3 hours, could you not have sat in the middle seat? I wonder if these guys give up their seats on the bus and subway for the elderly or disabled, as signs request.

But if you can't rely upon the kindness of strangers, we can at least rely upon the decency of neighbors, right? Wrong!

For the last month, or so, there's been some silliness abrew in our neighborhood. Apparently, our neighborhood association board denied a couple of requests for some minor architectural changes that homeowners wanted to implement on their homes. I don't agree with the denials - I'm not a fan of homeowners associations to begin with - but we all signed the paperwork when we bought, so we knew that a board would have right of refusal. A handful of neighbors are rather tired of the tight restrictions and have petitioned the board to have a special meeting where they will likely address the rules for proposed rewrite. Sounds good to me.

Yesterday I came home to discover that another family, however, has been so aggravated that they've filed at least one lawsuit against the board, filing against specific board-members. Our neighbors. But they've cloaked it under: because the trusts that the association invests its dues in lost money in 2008, these board members were at fault. Seriously? You're going to sue because our investments lost money in 2008? Do you understand that investments go up and down and that every fucking person in 2008 lost money? And you're going to sue by name, as if these people don't have their own real problems to deal with? You're going to sue your neighbors, by name - not even the corporate entity - under the guise of Wall Street failure because, essentially, you're sour that the admittedly ridiculously strict guidelines deny you the privilege of building a sundeck?

There are many things we'd like to do to this house, and many which we may have to run in with the stupid board restrictions about. Some may be worth fighting for, but none are worth suing over. If the board was leaving bags of flaming dog shit on your porch, sue. If a segment of the neighborhood was prone to hurl epithets at you and the board did nothing to address it, sue. If the neighborhood was otherwise making your life a living hell, sue. But if you're just sour over the board denying you a cosmetic change to your well-built house that would still fetch a shit-load of money even in this market, suck it up. Your "me-ness" is hurting other people.

Of course, I can't claim to be above the "me." We live in a time, and in a country that prizes the individual over the community. I've been writing ad copy for car companies this summer and the track I tend to take is, this car is all about "you." We like thinking "me" is something special. I like thinking I'm something special. But I also hope I live with enough humility to concede when the good of the other is greater than my desire.

This made me happy

2009-07-23T16:15:00.003-04:00

The sheer joy in this moment brought me to tears when I watched this this afternoon. It's funny, I can almost hear my mom saying, "that's innapropriate for a church wedding!" But really, doesn't God delight in our love and our unions? Doesn't God want us to celebrate it with unbridled passion? Plus, it's not like they chose something with crass lyrics or danced lasciviously. But enough of me arguing with my mom in my head. This made my day because it's a group of people who embraced not just the joy of the occasion whole-heartedly, but the theatrics. Wedding ceremonies are spectacles in just about every society. If you're gonna do it, go balls to the wall. Good for them! And maybe I liked it most of all because it was, as the blog I discovered it on championed it, unexpected. Love it or hate it: no attendee will ever forget that wedding.

Outer Circle

2009-07-16T06:53:00.003-04:00

My little brother got married this last weekend. In Milwaukee. I didn't understand how emotional the week leading up to his wedding was for me, until we returned home.

To begin with, it was great. Not as many of our family was able to make it up for the wedding as hers was - how much of that was the politics of guest-list management, I don't know - but it was wonderful seeing the ones who were there. Most of my favorites were able to make it! One of my most favorite cousins J and her husband Geoff and their little girls, M and The Firecracker - not her real name, but I only use pseudonyms anyway, and this is accurate to her personality - traveled up from Texas. Likewise J's brother, my cousin, Max and his wife Kat, and my uncle Ted and aunt Cassie all came up from Texas. Three of my mom's four siblings came, as well as just one of my cousins from her side, R, and my grandparents made the trip as well. This was a particularly big undertaking as Grandpa is 90, rapidly physically declining, and I'm doubtful that he should ever get on an airplane again. However, I was thrilled and grateful to see him. We all caught up, hung out, laughed, etc, etc, etc. Well, mostly the fun stuff was with the cousins and family on Dad's side, and my cousin R, on Mom's side. I've never fully related to Mom's side of the family. I love them, I just find conversation falls flat after a few minutes.

Heading home - or "home" - after the wedding, I felt so happy to have seen everyone, but also like I'm missing out, and like I'm not sure where home is, or what it means. The lives of people I love most are happening without me and everyone gets to share in it, but me. This was most pronounced, for me, when I considered how well my extended family knows my new sister-in-law, and she them, and how very little I know of her. Their wedding was only the 6th time I'd met her. Considering that you really don't get to see or spend quality time with the couple during the wedding mayhem, I've really only met her 5 times. And of those 5 times, 3 were brief dinner situations. We've never really talked in-depth about anything, never hung out. She's just been, for the last 3 years, either my brother's girlfriend, like so many others, or his fiancee.

When the videographer pulled Honey and me aside at the reception to say something for the couple - well, actually, we pulled him aside; he'd already packed up, thinking he'd gotten all the "importants" (of course, having to seek him out, instead of the other way around, contributed to feeling outside the gang, but, whatever) - I realized everything I wanted to say was to my brother. I really don't know my sister-in-law well enough to congratulate her with some personal tidbit. I just said something generic about her being smarter than him, which is true, but not really catered or specific to her personality or history. During her sister's toast (the matron of honor), she recounted a story about how one of my brother's jokes helped her cope with her baby daughter's Down Syndrome diagnosis, after she'd been depressed for weeks. God, I thought, her sister already has a strong fondness for him, and I'm relatively indifferent toward her. What's wrong, here? In the three years they've been together, she's gone with him to several family events throughout Texas. The Firecraker, J's daughter is 19 months old, and I'd only just met her this past weekend. My sister-in-law, whom I'll call Balance - since she balances Bro's personaltiy pretty well - had met her several times. Balance knows M pretty well, too. And as Bro and Balance live about a mile from Max and Kat, they hang out all the time, as they do frequently enough with my parents, who also live in the same metropolis. I don't know how many times Bro has met her family. I know he spent last Christmas with them and maybe a few extended weekends, as well. But they instantly love him, instantly connected with him, and her little brother and older sister seem keen on, and comfortable with him.

So, here I am: out on the East Coast, missing out my dear little cousins M and The Firecracker growing up; missing out family get-togethers over Easter or birthdays or whatever; missing out on finding out who the hell this person is that my brother just married who everyone seems to enjoy so well. In the meantime M adores my mom as if she were her own grandmother, and Max and Kat bug Bro for more cookouts, knowing they could just crash his house if they felt like it. Honey and I know we want to move west again. Texas is on the short list, as is the Pacific Northwest, and we're open to other, as yet unconsidered, places west of the Mississippi if they seem right for us. However, even if we moved back to Texas, there is, of course, no guarantee we'd see family all the time. (Not that I'd even want to.) On top of that, Bro and Balance have talked enough about moving to Milwaukee sometime in the future that even if we did move to Texas, it's highly possible that they'd move out and I'd still never get to know this woman, or worse, miss out on the lives of nieces and nephews as they grow up. (Honey is certain they're going to jump on that train within a year. I'm not as certain.) Plus, I don't want to be that spouse who demands we live near my family, as if mine is the only one that counts. My aunt - the only of my mom's siblings who doesn't live in Texas - followed that demand of her husband's and she's never been quite happy with it, feeling left behind as her family moves on.

I now really want to talk with my pre-existing sister-in-law, Honey's sister, about how the transition was for her, to me. I loved Honey's sister immediately. Sometimes, I feel like she could be my "for real" sister. Bro accepted Honey immediately - though, in honesty, as we met in Texas, they had more time to get to know eachother than Balance and I have. Honey didn't have the luxury at all of getting to know his older brother in law. His sister eloped while living overseas, so their first meeting came months after they were family. I have to imagine that was really weird and alienating for Honey. I've never heard any friends of mine talk about feeling alienated or missing out on knowing who their in-laws are. I don't know if that's because people just don't talk about it; if my friends actually know their in-laws before hand; or if it's because many of my friends are babies of their families and the dynamic of an elder sibling relationship is different. I strongly suspect that part of my sadness at not knowing Balance comes from my being the elder sibling. I'm protective, by nature, of those I love and always want to sniff out their mates. Stands to reason, then, that though I like Balance, I feel like I haven't had the chance to fully assess her for the person I've felt most protective of my whole life.

I don't know her, and the rest of my family is going on without me. I'll let go, eventually. But for now, I'm just feeling left out.

Sense memory flashbacks

2009-06-29T07:59:00.003-04:00

Honey called this morning to say he forgot his wallet and ask if I could please bring it into work with me this morning. He doesn't work too far from my office, so he'll swing by and get it.

When I opened the drawer that held his wallet, I was struck by a sudden comfortable rush of nostalgia and timelessness. There was nothing exciting about his wallet. It's just a black leather bi-fold that's been worn a little thin around the edges. But that's exactly what gave me such comfort. It's like most other wallets he's ever owned - at least since we've been together - and almost exactly like each wallet my dad has ever owned. Non-descript, black, bi- or tri-fold and worn at the edges from the time it has spent in back, or front, pockets. A wallet like that, in my mind, belongs to a man who cherishes time spent with his family and friends and who is much beloved by those same folks.

I love the sudden rush of comfort that the familiar can bring.

My grandmother's kitchen always smelled of gas. I was probably in my 20s before I consciously considered what that odor was. I was never fond of it per se, but it pervaded the kitchen, and since the house was small, to a lesser extent, the entire house. But now, whenever I catch a whiff, I'm enveloped in contentment. And it has to be old gas with a used kitcheny smell to it. Gas in a furnace room? Nope. Gas in a new house kitchen? Pff. As if. Gas in the kitchen of the homeless shelter Honey and I used to volunteer in? Yup. The same goes for the vague scent of pine in a pre- or post-rainy sky. It's very rare, here in this part of the East Coast. But maybe once a year, right after a rain, the conditions are just right and I can smell a vague trace of pine on the air. It reminds me so much of northern New Mexico, and even of the desert southwest Texas and southeast New Mexico. The air has to be dry enough to carry it. It's so gentle, so delicate and fresh. It smells like life and renewal. (Honeysuckle has that same quality, for me.) The few times I catch that scent here, I'm at home and at peace, if even only for a few minutes.

The other day, I was eating a peach over the sink. It was particularly juicy and a droplet started making its way down my chin. I was instantly a gradschooler eating one of our backyard peaches in the sun. Back then, whole streams of peach juice would weep down my chin. I can't recall how sticky I'd get. Probably not too. I'd make short order of the peaches anyway, and as I was accustomed to drinking out of the back hose when I played outside, I'd likely wash off my chin. But it felt so good and right, even though I was a grown up, not in play clothes, in an air conditioned house, standing over a sink like some civilized stiff.

My mother in law was in town the last few days. Which meant my sister-in-law and nephews came over a few times. I have sense memories of my grandparents that I cherish: the rouge gel that Grandma colored her cheeks with, the smell of whatever cologne and hair product concotion Grandpa is part of his daily routine. I wonder what sense memories my nephews will take away from their visits with their grandparents. I wonder what sense memories I'm building now, in my adult life, that will comfort me decades from now.

The Devil You Know

2009-06-17T08:44:00.005-04:00

This began as a comment response to Virginia Gal's latest post. As frequently happens, I started running off at the keyboard, so I just made this a post of its own.

The reason why most Americans are less fearful of homegrown terrorism than they are of foreign terrorism comes down to people being less afraid of the devil they know versus the devil they don't know.

White people have been in America waaaayy longer than Arab and Muslim people. So, when a white asshole bombs a building, it's perceived as a freak event, because virtually every American of any creed or color knows 1,000 basically nice white people for every 1 white average jerk. However, very few average Americans - and I mean statistically, racially/ethnically average (still about 70% white) - personally know or have met more than one or two Arabs or Muslims. So, when an Arab or Muslim asshole flies a plane of mid-week passengers into a building, it's not perceived as a freak event, but as, "wow, this must be the norm!"

Some fuel to this anti-Arab or anti-Muslim prejudice, at least in my lifetime, is that the only images of Muslims we've received in the media have been of the PLO shooting old Jewish American men in wheelchairs and tossing them off the boughs of cruise ships; terrorists bombing discos frequented by Americans in Berlin; bombing our barracks and embassies in Beirut; masked gunmen killing the Israeli Olympic team in Munich; Muslim men with scarves covering half their faces chanting "death to America" and burning effigies of presidents, and flags; jihadists hijacking our airplanes in the 80s or blowing them up over foreign destinations; and not the least of images, women who must cover from head to toe and be beholden to the men in their lives, walking several paces behind their husbands who view them as nothing more than machines to make more men. (I'm sure that last image was harsh on my part, but seriously, they treat women like shit in most of these countries.) With the exception of the cultural sexism, are those vicious behaviors freak occurrences in the Arab world and among Muslims? Almost certainly. But how can you expect an average American - who may or may not have ever met an Arab or Muslim - who only gets that news and those images to think that there is not a threat posed against him from the average Arab or Muslim?

Speaking for myself, even the American who wants to look beyond the bad news events and knows that most people in the world are basically decent, if flawed, still views the Arab world with a good dose of suspicion and distrust (as evidenced by my assertion of their sexism). I believe in working to deliberately stamping out stereotypes, but the anti-stereotype PSAs and campaigns that arose after 9/11, intending to help the average American know that the average American Arab or Muslim wasn't out to get them, were a bit too little too late by at least 15 years. I'm glad they were there, but by the time they ran, we'd been getting Arab/Muslim terrorist news since the 70s. Why was it only after the towers were destroyed that the Arab community and "moral media influencers" felt the need to make sure people in Omaha knew that an NYC cabbie was not an enemy of the state?

The stereotypes are unfair to the vast majority Arab and Muslim Americans, but being counfounded that the average American buys into them is like being confounded that someone who's only ever gotten food poisoning off of shellfish is extremely suspicious of the ceviche you made. No matter how bloody awesome, slap-your-momma good the ceviche is.

All that said, it isn't like white men have been profiled, at least in the past. It just isn't as obvious, because, most Americans are familiar with white men so they don't notice profiling. How do I know? Before the days of 9/11, when I traveled by air by myself, I was pulled aside for a random swab of my carry-ons for explosive materials, or open bag check maybe 20% of the time. When I traveled with Honey, it was 80% of the time - and I can only assume it was higher for him, traveling alone. Why? Because Honey fits the physical Timothy McVeigh stereotype. He is an averaged-height blonde with close-cropped hair; a blue-eyed young man who is quiet and carries himself with a military bearing. He looks like he could be the type who'd join a government-fearing militia. (THANK GOD, Buddha and Oprah that he's exactly the opposite!) It did distress me that once 9/11 happened, the airport distrust of him entirely dissipated immediately. Just because we have a new threat doesn't mean the old one has gone away. But his profiling wasn't problematic because as an educated white man ascending a solid career ladder, in a society built to support educated white men in power, even if he's inconvenienced for 5 minutes, he faces basically no other prejudices, suspicions or harassments.

And that's where it's harder for Arab Americans or frankly, for anyone who looks like they come from a predominantly Muslim country. If the dark skinned guy with a prayer cap is pulled aside for extra check, no big deal. But that same guy gets side-long glances everywhere, all the time. He's probably been the direct recipient of a racial slur from some raging asshole at some point in his life, or at least the recipient of some insensitive comment from someone who may not have known any better. He's hypersensitive to his differentness in this WASP-affluence society. That's not to say he shouldn't be pulled aside for a check; it's just to say it probably feels as much like yet another indignity as an inconvenience.

I genuinely hope the recent cowardly murder of Dr. Tiller and the horrible episode of at the Holocaust museum will re-open our eyes to domestic threats. American-grown extremists are out there and, I suspect, since we turned our backs from them, they have been quietly steeping in the past decade or so. Unfortunately, through first-hand conversations with people who have this experience, I've learned how hard it is for law enforcement officials to make a move on extremist groups and individuals. I know we like to complain about all the damage that the Bush administration did to our civil liberties - and I do think he did - but there are still plenty of levels of bureaucracy out there to protect us from wrongful investigation and arrest. So much so that people like that bitter old white supremacist from last week, who may have indeed been on a watchlist, are still able to do what he did. A watch list is just that. Our law enforcement agencies, from the fed through the local, don't always have the teeth we think they do.

In the meantime, I suppose all those of us on the ground can do is work to recognize our own fears and work against them. And maybe, just maybe try to befriend someone who is different from us - racially, politically, religiously, regionally, sexually, etc - so that we can mutually influence one another. Build our tiny bridges where we can.

Thirty-three is the new twenty-t ... aw, who am I kidding?

2009-05-16T16:50:00.007-04:00

In the last few days, I've been scanning photos from my senior year of high school onto our family server. I've been knee-deep in nostalgia.

My early teen years were defined by my general social ostracization. As an opinionated, then self-assured, new kid in a small town, the swift, round rejection by my peers was complete by the beginning of 8th grade. But sometime after my junior year, I began to slowly pull myself out of the rubble of my crushed spirit and explore and relish, my own identity. If ever there was a time in my life when I was at the pinnacle of my confidence and receptiveness to new experiences, it was my senior year. Specifically, from November 1993 through September 1994. They were bookends: 1. my first big solo trip that crystallized my sense of self-sufficiency (it was to DC, my then-favorite and highly-romanticized city), and 2. the first stirrings that we may not be able to afford a complete year of college, which began to chip away at that same sense. (In the end, I had to drop out at the semester due to lack of funds.)

That year seems like yesterday. Okay: mostly yesterday. Last week, we'll say. When I was 18, though, my 30s seemed so ridiculously far away. So far away, in fact, that I actually doubted I'd reach them. My inability to imagine myself over 30, and my own ego, led me to believe that like James Dean I'd rock the world with my talent and then meet an untimely death, immortalized forever by a brilliant performance and a fuckin' awesome portrait of some sort, preferably captured by Annie Lebowitz. I would be young forever.

Well, I'm not old. I still feel young. So, I must be young, right?

Not necessarily!

Friday, Honey delivered some news to me that put me back in my chronological place. "I had to visit one of my guys in the hospital, today," he told me as I prepped the salmon for dinner.

"Oh my god! What happened?"

"Heart attack."

"Is he doing okay? One of your older guys?" As if that question had to be asked. Who has a heart attack under the age of 50, anymore?

"He's doing fine. No. He's 36."

36. Let me write that again:

THIRTY-SIX.

I'll be 33, soon. Just five years younger than my father was at his first heart attack. My cholesterol always hovers around - often above - the danger zone. Not good. NOT GOOD! But I'm in decent shape, right? Not the slimmest I've ever been, but still a healthy weight for my height.

"Was he morbidly obese or something?" I implored. (Gotta find something to cling to.)

"No."

I winced. I could feel the grim reaper rest his bony fingers on my shoulder.

"But he's a smoker. And our job is really stressful. And he had a family history ... basically, of all the big indicators, his weight was the only thing that wasn't a factor."

It has been almost six months since I scaled back my work hours to part time. I did it to re-evaluate interests, focus on my chronic health concern and reduce my stress. I put "reduce my stress" at the bottom of list because, while a concern for me, it wasn't the biggest reason I wanted to scale back to part time. However, knowing what I know of my family heart health history, and hearing the story of my husband's young employee, I'm now thinking low-stress should be a key aspect to every job I seek hereafter. Maybe the reduced stress has already been stealthily saving my life.

I'm old enough now to know that my 50s aren't forever away, nor are my 60s or even 70s. My imagination does allow me to see myself older, and my adolescent ego has mellowed. I want to offer my talents and gifts to the world, but I'm happy to let them slowly trickle out. No need for a single, glorious, creative eruption. This means, of course, that I would like to live to a ripe old age and learn and give for years to come. And that means that I need to stop assuming my body will self-repair the way it did when I was 18 ... which was not, despite my grand delusions, last week.

(photo courtesy of flickr.com creative commons. asirap photostream.)

Back and tired

2009-04-27T06:02:00.005-04:00

I should probably do a fuller post, but I have to be into work early today and I'm tired this morning, so I'm not thinking in full sentences.

We are back from Hawaii. The highlights were a couple of stunning and challenging hikes - one on Oahu and one on Kauai - and a helicopter tour of Kauai. The lowlights were an all-day rain on Kauai followed by food poisoning on my part which resulted in two days stuck in a hotel room. The rainy day was okay, because we just hung out inside and read, watched movies and created a project for ourselves. The food poisoning day majorly sucked for obvious reasons, but also because we had planned on spending the sick day exploring the south and west side of the island. Those plans were condensed to the final day.

I'm still recovering from jet lag. I normally don't have this much trouble, but I normally also travel forward in time - ie, east - and return from that. Hawaii was the furthest back in time I'd ever traveled and then returned from. They're six hours behind us. Honey reminded me that we've been to Hong Kong, but as that's across the international date line, technically, that's moving forward in time as well. The westward flying cancels out the forward time travel, in my opinion. But then again, maybe I'm just getting older. Alack-a-day!

Anyway, until I have a proper post, I thought I'd leave you with a photo or two from our time there.

(Some of the feral cocks and chickens that are all over Kauai. I mean all over. ... and yes, I loved saying "feral cocks" while we were there.)

(Diamond Head Crater and Honolulu, viewed from the head of the Hawaii Loa Trail.)

What's Molly Dreaming Now? Aloha!

2009-04-14T03:55:00.004-04:00

It's been weeks. I know. Not only me transmitting, but me receiving. Sorry y'all. That's the bad news. The good news? We're leaving on vacation this morning for two weeks. So guess what I'll be doing? Catching up on reading your blogs! And hopefully, blogging as well.

We're off to Hawaii! Woohoo!

Here's what I'm so far most excited about. I slept last night! Typically, the night before a travelling, long-ish vacation, I sleep very little. But last night, I fell right asleep and got some good REM sleep, at that.

What did I dream? That I was back in desert West Texas town of my youth. But this time, I was a grown up, with my parents and brother. We were back at the house we lived in there. It was late Easter Sunday or maybe the day after. My childhood dog was there, as were some miniature dachsunds we apparently had inherited from friends. What was different was that this time in this dream, I was with my family and I wasn't just gasping for breath with joy for being there. I was at peace, and happy, but almost indifferent. I say almost, because I was still very happy. I just didn't feel compelled to stay for better or for worse - which, in my dreams, I normally do.

Ponder my brain. I've got a plane to catch and some islands to visit. I'll catch up with y'all in the coming days!

The Edge of Raging Heavens

2009-03-24T06:36:00.004-04:00

(timelapse by photographer Rafael Bellus)

I have had so many thoughts in my head to blog about lately, but have not allowed myself the time to write them. In the meantime, please enjoy the above timelapse. It was captured outside Midland, Texas - in between the two places I grew up. The camera seems to be in the perfect place to capture the churning engine action of a storm - the edge. These are the furious skies of my youth: the agitators of my panic, the sculptors of my humility and the capricious angels that demand my awe.

Back from set!

2009-03-13T10:08:00.004-04:00

I've gone and done exactly what I meant not to do. It's take me over two weeks to post again. I entirely meant to post the day after the shoot, but I went to work, then I had a show, then I had to sleep, then and then and then ... you get the rest.

For the interested parties, then, let me fill you in how my first commerical shoot in about a decade went. (Photo courtesy jasonlam via Flickr's creative commons.)

To begin with, we did not, as I originally suspected, shoot outdoors. We shot against a green screen, which I was thought would look cheesy, since my character was in the woods. However, when I saw how they were going to use the footage and that the spot would look intentionally stylized, I understood it. As it was cold outside, I was fine with staying indoors. Though, I must admit, I was somewhat concerned it may actually be less comfortable under the hot lights (and they get hot, folks) than in the February briskness.

I did as the stylist had instructed me: packed anything in my closet that looks like it could go on the "campground." As I have not been camping in years, I owned a lot fewer of those options than I had thought. I brought a rolling carry on bag worth of clothes and a couple pair of beat up shoes. When I arrived at the studio, a production assistant was outside and asked if I was Molly or Gretchen. I told her I was Molly and then followed her instructions to the green room (aka, the waiting area, not to be confused with the green screen). Immediately, I reckoned they must've hired two "mothers" or maybe two "mother-daughter" sets, they'd shoot both and then blend the two. I later found out that Gretchen was the little girl who'd play my daughter. Of course! Why would a client spend all that money on two sets? Haven't I made enough products to know that a client is going to go for the cheapest way to get a message out?

The stylist sifted through my clothes and showed me the options she had purchased and we agreed to let the director decide, after she pulled her favorites. Into the makeup chair I went, in the meantime. That was great! On the only other shoots I've been on, in which I've been in front of the camera, I've had to use my own street make up and apply it myself. And I'm not cosmetically inclined so I have no idea how it looks, in the end. It felt great having someone else paint my face. Since we were shooting in high-def, she used high-def ready make up. I've always been amazed the few times I've gotten to see makeup artists do their stuff. The face really is their canvas.

It was when I was in the makeup chair that I got to meet my "daughter." And really, I should remove the quotes. I heard Gretchen and her mother enter the green room, just off from the makeup room, and then the little girl peeked her head into the make up room to see what was going on. What I saw was the spitting image of how I've imagined my daughter would look at age 5 or 6. She was a petite little thing with the same squarish shaped face as me; bright, gentle, round blue eyes; fair skin like mine, but more akin to Honey's coloring; and strawberry red hair - the same color I had from birth to about three - blunt cut just below her chin. I had, just two weeks earlier, gotten my near waist-length hair cut to just above shoulder-length. We looked like the same character at different periods in her life. It was uncanny. When I stepped out of the makeup room, her mother did a double-take. Frankly, I looked more like her mother than her own mother did. One crew member actually thought I was her mom before I had to direct him to the real "Gretchen's mom." For the rest of the time we were both on set, I could hear people murmuring, "Can you believe the resemblance?" and "They're not even related!" (The picture is of me at 5 - when my mom used to cut my bangs. I'm still kind of blown away by how much we look alike.) So, my hats off to casting. Well done, folks. Well. Done. [insert slow clap here]

I had already decided that I was going to attach myself to the kid, before knowing who was cast. My thoughts were 1) I'll be more comfortable if I have a partner; 2) there's a good possibility that she's been on sets more recently than I have, so I could follow her lead; 3) if she's a sweet kid, she'll probably be less intimidating to me than the crew, since I'm an out of practice novice and 4) if I want this relationship to look even remotely genuine, we've gotta do some quick "bonding." Luckily, Gretchen was exactly the kind of kid you want on set: sweet, well-behaved, articulate, bright, very comfortable around adults and strangers and still full of a sense of fun. Also luckily, her mother was warm and approachable. The stagemother stereotype is nasty and, I hope in most cases, unfair, but I'll admit I was concerned about it. She was not the stereotype. This is just what her kids do - like soccer or ballet. Gretchen and I chatted and got along really well. I was so glad she was comfortable in the realm of adults. Frankly, it reminded me of me when I was a gradeschooler. I was always more comfortable with adults than kids when I was a kid. It was well into my teen years before that shifted any, and I was in college before I preferred my peers' company over that my parents' peers. Yeah. I'm a dork.

We only had a few lines each, and only one scene together. It had been a while since I'd been on a set, and I couldn't remember how many takes people normally capture. I must have done a minimum of 20 takes for each line, trying to hit various moods that the director wanted. At some point, I know I zoned out during at least one or two reads. Autopilot took over and I tried to wrest back control, but I can't say for sure that I did. All in all, though, I felt like I kept my energy up, if not my mental stamina. I hope they got what they needed.

I probably shot a solid hour, maybe a few minutes more, of footage. Though with all the lighting adjustments, my total time in front of the green screen was probably closer to 2.5 hours. That, I could deal with. What surprised me was the photoshoot. Oh, yeah. This was news to me! Apparently, they're incorporating a print campaign. It has taken me a long time to feel comfortable in front of a motion picture camera - camera intimidation always manifested itself as facial tenion, and 90% of that was easily missing this time - but a still camera ... ? Still? As in posed work? I don't mind having my picture taken candidly or a striking a quick pose with friends, but deliberately posed studio stuff? Blech! Shake it off, Molly. They're paying you. Do your best.

I had a quick wardrobe change and tried to take direction from the photographers, adjusting miniscule head-tilts and hip-shifts. "Look proud, but concerned," was the direction I remember best. Huh? I tried to contort my face for their purposes. The shot they liked best of me, cracked me up. "That's not my 'proud' face. That's the look I get when I'm in an awkward conversation at a party and don't know how to get out of it," I told them. Oh, well. It's their baby.

All in all, it was a great day. I was in by 8:30 and wrapped by 2:30. And the pay for those 6 hours, even if it was what I would normally expect based on what little I know of typical pay in this area, would've been bigger than what I'm paid in a day at my current job. However, the compensation for this project was about 2 - 4 times what I've seen advertised for similar jobs, so this means in those 6 hours, I made more than I do in a week at my desk job - working full time. Sure, I'll have to pay an ugly chunk to self-employment tax, but I'm sincerely pleased!

The spot should start airing later this month or early next around the northeast quadrant of the United States. By that I mean if you were to cut a map of the continental U.S. in four mostly equal parts, then those in the upper right hand corner will probably see this spot. Apparently, they're going to focus the heaviest airing in the upper midwest.

Now, I have another notch in my belt, another piece to add to my resume. And I have another guidepost along this path of decision-making. I'm still not sure if acting is something I want to fully invest in, but it's becoming clear to me that maybe I should revisit it more often than I have in the last 10 years and explore it again. I've always known I can't go too long without acting. I perform regularly and am difficult to live with if I'm not on the stage often enough. But I don't want to take something I love and let it become a "job." I know Robert Frost says we should aim to marry our vocation with our avocation, but I don't ever want activities I love to feel like a chore. For me, I think there could be a fine line.

But you know what? I really don't have to make that decision right now. I'm not going to project this right now. I'm going to take it all one day at a time, because all I have is today, right? And today, I'm going to rehearse, write and walk the dog: three things I love.

My Preconceived Notions Are Wrong, Apprarently

2009-02-25T08:15:00.008-05:00

As I think I've mentioned before, I recently cut back to a part-time schedule at work. The idea was that I would reduce work-related stress that was not only weighing on me, but Honey, and allow myself to re-evaluate my priorities and explore other activities and interests a little more. I've discovered that I really do like a part-time schedule. The last time I worked part time was about three years ago, and though I wasn't particularly thrilled with the actual work I was doing then (kind of as now), I found it worked well with my personality and temperament.

Despite the fact that I've not blogged as much as I should, I have been finding more opportunities to write - and about movies, no less; a personal favorite. And last week, on one of my days off, I decided on a whim to go to a casting call for a commercial. It was an open audition, the call for which crossed my inbox by way of a professional listerve I belong to. I hadn't been to a call like that in years. At least nine years - since before I moved to the east coast. I dressed the part, as well I could (outdoorsy early-30s mom) and just figured I'd go to get an idea of the experience. Not only had it been a long time since I'd done a casting call, I'd gone to precious few in the past, so I really did just want to get an idea of how these things ran. I got to the casting office, signed in, and was a little nervous; despite my attendance solely for the sake of curiosity, nerves still kicked in. Then I started looking at all the women there reading for the same part that I was there for. They were all at least 2" - 4" taller than me, and quite visibly leaner. I easily had 10 pounds on each of them. Their hair was better prepared and their make up more immaculate. Once I realized I was out of my league, I actually relaxed a lot more. They're not going to cast me. My resume is terribly thin, and most of it is related to Clinton-era college shows, and for as "outdoorsy momsy" as I may look in real life, I've worked in and around media enough to know you have to hire a hot mom, not a real mom. This isn't my primary career anyway, so I really have nothing to fear. I can just get this one under my belt and learn more for next time. When it was my turn to go into the room, I slated for the camera, did a few readings of the lines, adjusting them according to the director's requests, and was out in less than 3 or 4 minutes.

As per usual, I replayed the whole action in my head on the drive home, wondering if I could have done anything differently that would have made a better impression. Could've done this; could've done that. Oh well; these are definitely notes I'll remember for the next time, whenever the hell that may be. Also part of the mental meanderings on the ride home were: "Wow, that was fun! Do I want to get back into this? I know don't want to pursue a stage career, but what about commercials and the like? That's short; good for my interest span. But I hate hustling. But maybe I'm a better place in my life to do this now than when I was out of college. Hmm."

Then, the improbable happened. Yesterday afternoon, I was just plugging away at work when my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but answered anyway. It was the casting agency. Oh, this is the "thanks, but no thanks," call. I wasn't expecting it, but I think many places do that sort of thing, so ... "I'm calling to let you know that they'd like to use you," the agent's assistant stated matter of factly. "Okay," I replied, not missing a beat or betraying the extraordinary surprise I was actually feeling. She gave me the information I needed and later I talked to the stylist a couple of times in the evening to get an idea of what kind of personal wardrobe to bring, in addition to what she was bringing.

I was in a tickly haze for about an hour after the call. I went to this audition, as a whim; as a shy toe to test the water. I wasn't expecting to be cast at all. I'm terribly excited - scared, since I'm normally before a live audience, not a camera - but excited. I'll be getting call time and more information later today. We'll be shooting outside, so I'm sure it'll be seriously cold, but as I'm positive I'll have a lot of nerves racing, I don't know that I'll be freezing. In retrospect, maybe they cast me because I really do look like I could be someone's mom, not an unattainable, idealized hot mom. Maybe I exude a playful nurturing? One of my best friends thinks it helps that I have a very corn-fed, middle-America look (think Jessica Lange or Jodie Foster) ie, prone to be outdoors. So my strawberry-amber mane, my stubborn jawline and my ample hips and bosom paid off for me this time. Who'd've thunk?

All I know is: I'm more comfortable with the idea of my being cast, now. And I've decided to approach this with a sense of fun. When I'm thrown into performance situations with new people with whom I've never performed, I find I'm braver in my performances, because I have no preconceptions. Well, this will be an all new bunch for me. Preconceptions are just speedbumps. This will also be a good learning experience. Hopefully, it'll help me decide if this is something I am interested in pursuing more regularly. I'm not competitve by nature, and when I was in college and immediately after, I felt like auditioning was competing and I hated it. But I'm older (hopefully wiser) now, and maybe I can change my attitude: it's not a competition, it's a chance to play and have fun. I perform - and audition - so much better when I have fun.

The shoot is a day away. Right now, I'm calm and eager. If I can just stay out of my head, it'll all be great. Deep breaths; load the iPod; no preconceived notions.

* photo courtesy of Penguin Feeding Time via Flickr Creative Commons

Maybe I was wrong

2009-02-12T21:57:00.008-05:00

After I hit "publish" on my last post, I approached Honey and asked him if there was any book or work of art that changed his life. Without hesitation, he answered that a symphonic poem (whose title I can't recall) changed his life, and also gave me the title of a book that did, as well. The music wasn't earth-shaking, for him, but did measurably shape the way he thought about music. The novel was eye-opening for him and, according to him, changed his perception of life. Though, he admitted that I'd caught him at a moment of clarity and had I asked him the same thing after a long day of work, he'd've probably grunted and responded in non-sensical monosyllabic neologisms. When I told him I couldn't think of any work of art or book that changed my life, or measurably changed my thinking, he called me out.

"Annie changed your thinking," he responded, half in disbelief.

Because I'm a reflexive contrarian, I immediately dismissed his assertion, but he pushed it. "Before you saw Annie, you probably thought orphans were scary, or being an orphan was scary. But when you saw how all the orphans got to sing and do flips and have adventures, you got to thinking, 'maybe not having any parents isn't so bad.'" I don't think about it as having a profound influence on my thinking, he argued, because I was exposed to it at such a young age.

Score a point for Honey. Though, I contend that Annie's influence on my perception of life had less to do with her family situation and more to do with her will and resilience. And even Annie had her moments of self-doubt, which is kind of reassuring. Remember when she was hanging from the drawbridge by her fingernails and Punjab is attempting a helicopter rescue? In addition to Annie's optimism, I think that movie taught me that virtually every moment in life deserves a musical number. (Stop cringing Darla!) I'm not sure I would've deduced this with just any musical. Possibly, but damn Annie has spunk. I still wanna be her when I grow up. (Just look at my profile pic!)

So, I've been thinking this week about other works of art and books that changed my life. It's still hard for me to say any of these have been explosive revelations - most are small - but here goes nothin':

A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Story of Forgiveness - Pumla Gobodo Madikizela. I read this en route to, and during a vacation in, South Africa, 5 years ago. (One of the most inspiring travels of my life. How I long to return.) It's a moving memoir of torture and the post-Apartheid Truth and Reconciliation Commissions. Forgiveness was a huge theme in the commissions, and also in the book (hence the subtitle). However, this book was the first time I'd encountered the idea that forgiveness may not always be spiritually appropriate. Not forgiving is the opposite of what I was raised to believe. However, after I read this book, I sympathized with the notion more and no longer believe it is something every wronged person should necessarily do. Nor do I believe that it is always necessary to healing a wound.

Gandhi (directed by Richard Attenborough). Also released in the summer of 1982, this movie was probably almost as influential to my childhood as Annie. Dad took me to see it, I'm sure, because he wanted me to see a dramatization of the moral ideals he aimed to instill in us. What he didn't expect was that his 6-year-old daughter would not only sit through a 3-hour movie, but that she would fall in love with it and ask to see it again and again. (Thrice that summer, that I can recall.) Like Annie, this was so long ago, I can't recall the immediate impact. But I'm positive my aversion to institutionalized violence was influenced greatly by this movie. Additionally, because I enjoyed the story of Gandhi so much, and Dad revered him as an agent of goodness, it probably nudged me toward disallowing religious dogma to be the sole definer of my perception of, and relationship with, God. If God could use a Hindu like Gandhi to do Christlike work, then I couldn't believe he'd be punished in Hell just because he wasn't a Christian.

The Theater and Its Double - Antonin Artaud. Artaud wrote that theater's mission should be to evoke public catharsis. I agreed whole-heartedly when I read it as a 19-year-old theater student, and thought that ethic should also underscore religious worship. Might we be a kinder society if we had public spaces where we could meet and lather ourselves into a sob? It's hard to hate people when you see them a their most vulnerable and pitiful. It's also hard to dominate someone when you allow yourself to be seen vulnerable and pitiful. I still agree that catharsis, or at least perception-challenging, should be the main mission of theater. I'm more interested in storytelling these days - which originally lured me to the stage - but the higher notion of catharsis still informs my experience in a theater.

Sunday in the Park with George - Stephen Sondheim. This is one of those subtler life-changers; it's like a lover whom I discovered I loved only after years of platonic friendship. Joss Whedon, on Fresh Air yesterday, captured it best when he said that the first act of Sunday in the Park is about the burden of being a genius and the second act is about the burden of not being a genius. The first act of this musical deals with the drive of George Seurat as he works on his most famous painting, "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte." The second act focuses on his possible (and fictional) direct descendant, George, a modern/performance artist, about a century later. I suspect most artists, when we're (dare I include myself?) in "the groove" of our endeavor, can identify with the first act George. But it's the second act that speaks to me more. Specifically, the duet "Move On." There's an exchange of lines between the descendant George and Dot that always rips at my heart -

George: I've nothing to say ...
Dot: You have many things ...
George: Well, nothing that's not been said
Dot: Said by you, though, George.

I suspect every artist feels this at some time or another. How can one person have anything insightful to add to the many comments on life that have already been produced? Is it even worth opening our mouths if we're anything short of blinding geniuses? But Dot encourages him. It's worth saying something because we're saying it. Later she sings, "Stop worrying if your vision is new/ Let others make that decision, they usually do!" How many times have I gotten the note from a director that I'm too much in my head, editing myself as I perform? I need to listen to Dot! It has changed my life, subtly, in that I've stopped thinking that just because I'm a middle-class white girl from a stable, loving family in a rich, democratic country, I have nothing of insight to add. I certainly need to produce more than I currently am, but we all have stories to tell and perspectives to share. Mine isn't any less important just because it's closer to "norm."

So there you have it: a few works that have changed my perception of life. I was wrong. Thanks for calling me out, Honey.

I'm closing with video from a performance from the 1984 run of Sunday in the Park with George. It's Bernadette Peters - of whom I was afraid until I was a teenager, because of her role in Annie - and Mandy Patinkin singing "Move On." I prefer the performance we saw several years ago with Raul Esparza and Melissa Errico; her voice was warmer and he didn't seem as broad. But I can't find video of that. The song ends around minute marker number 5. Enjoy!

Life-changing Art and Books?

2009-02-08T07:58:00.006-05:00

Despite the silliness of everyone on Face book listing 25 random things about themselves, I must admit, I'd rather enjoyed quick-tour catch-ups on old friends, or learning more about new friends, and people I'm generally interested in. Now a college friend of mine decided she'd start her own "better-know-a-friend" note: name one book that changed your thinking.

My problem is that I can't. I'm not unaffected by what I read, but I'm hard-pressed to find a book that, when I put it down, leaves me feeling measurably changed. There are books that have spoken to some un-articulated truths I'd carried around inside me. God is a Verb, a book about mystical Judaism, articulated what I'd been growing to feel about our relationship with the divine. In particular, the notion of "creationing" or "raising holy sparks." It's been years since I've read the book, but if I remember, essentially, divinity is mutually nurtured by God and people (or, if you want to get into my micro-understanding: all creation). God communicates holiness to us via love and creation, and whenever we act in creation and mercy, we "raise holy sparks" back into divinity. And it's like an engine from there: God powers creation and creation powers God. A poor description on my part, but the book spoke to me, despite that I was wary because of the faddishness of Kabbalah. But it didn't change my thinking per se. It voiced what I already suspected to be true. Similarly, I ate far less fast food after reading Fast Food Nation, and I eat almost none, now. My response to the book didn't change my perception or action in grandiose ways. I'd worked in fast food before; I had family who had worked in meat-packing plants. The information wasn't new to me - just distilled. My pivot wasn't huge.

I'm always fascinated and confounded by people's claims that a work of art or a book or literature changed their lives. To be able to reflect and identify a piece of music, a poem, a painting, a play or whatever as a critical hinge in one's perceptions or an inspiration for action, suggests that that piece was personally earth-shaking. This leaves me wondering if I'm missing something. If other people can identify the piece of art, or the book that changed the way they viewed the world, then am I just callow? I'm not unaffected by art and literature. I'll reflect for days on something I've seen or read that's particularly good. And that reflection, I'm sure nudges my worldview in one direction or another. But nothing identifiably earthshaking. My earthshakings don't happen - or haven't yet happened - because of print or performance.

As earthshaking epiphanies go, personal experiences are my volcanoes, where art and literature are the geysers. Moving across the state, in the midst of puberty, to a much smaller town changed my life; living there for five and a half years changed my perception of it. Having to drop out of college after one semester due to lack of funds changed my life in that I had to start all over again. I ended up going to a different university where I made friends whose understandings of life shaped my understanding. There, I also met the man I eventually married. Dropping out of college changed my life. Getting married not only changed my life, but changed my perception of life. Moving across the country changed my perception of life. September 11 changed my life and my perception of life. The medical demons I've been wrestling the last couple of years have changed my perception of life, though not yet the way I live my life. If we ever have children, I anticipate that changing both the actions of my life and my perceptions of life. In fact I welcome the change - at least the latter.

Art was important to me during these shifts. Discovering that I enjoyed acting during my teenage years kept me emotionally intact and gave me a creative outlet for my frustrations. A few years later, the Chieftains and classical music lunch-hours serenaded my depression that resulted from dropping out of school. I read poetry during those months, which is something I'd never really done before or since. I also journaled like crazy, took a modern dance class that was a breath of fresh air and discovered, appropriately, Fresh Air. I can say with certainty that, during that time, Tchaikovsky's 4th symphony, especially the 2nd movement, followed by the 3rd, expressed the uncertainty of the those days, chased by the quirkiness and optimism that ultimately drives me. I fell in love with it. But did it change my life? Did it change my thinking? Did any of those activities or discoveries measurably change my perception of life? I'm positive they did, but their effects are very, very small compared to the events that drove me to them.

There probably is a book, or a play, or a film or piece of music that would rock the foundations of my world. But until or unless I come across it, print and art will slowly shift the ground beneath my feet, but the accidents and incidents of life will continue to the be the big shapers of the landscape of my perception. Am I alone in this?

Three Beautiful Things ... to pull me up

2009-01-29T21:22:00.003-05:00

I've had a rather rough week (hence the last post with the boat, "The Heartbreaker"). I've been crying a lot and trying to cope with the implications of yet another defeat that is so absolutely beyond my control, and frankly, beyond that of just about anyone else. Today, I've been trying very hard to focus on fleeting moments of beauty and blessings small and large that are so easy to overlook in the dense fog of sorrow. So, in the vein of Clare, here are three beautiful things for which I am truly grateful this week.

1. Happy, wiggly puppy. God must've known I needed some fresh warm fuzzy, because right out side the door to my office, as I left tonight, was a 4 month old Australian Blue Heeler being walked by her mom. After getting permission from her mother to greet her, I approached her, speaking in my best puppy-loving voice. The fuzzy baby was both shy and terribly excited to meet me - alternately hugging close to her mom's legs and running up to me. There is nothing more adorable than a puppy in its wobbly, uncoordinated phase when life is new, everything is a delightful discovery and every stranger is just a friend she hasn't met.

2. My girlfriend's daughter. My good friend Earthmother and American Dad, her husband, were in town for a few days and spent Sunday with us. Their 4-year-old is going through a princess phase, despite her parents' encouraging her inherent tomboy nature. She can't totally shake the tomboy: during our pasta dinner, she took it upon herself to strip down to her waist to avoid getting dirty. But she's still eager for tiaras: while watching Wall-E for the first time in our basement, she kept turning to her father saying, "here come the princesses!" Hope springs eternal, doll. (For you and me, both.)

3. Genuine vacation coming our way. Because of family obligations, combined with the limited amount of vacation time, it looked like our vacation this year would be dictated by weddings and not by our own want for a new getaway. But because Honey is a fucking badass at what he does, it looks like that's changed. Honey received the highest award given within his company - awarded annually to only 10 out of the 10s of 1000s of employees in the company - for his badassery. Now, while I've worked in corporations who laud their employees with restaurant gift certificates or maybe a cash prize of $200, Honey works in a company that lavishes much better, IMHO. In addition to a swanky dinner with the company brass, and a token plaque, we're getting a choice of vacations including a cruise in the Bahamas or a trip to Hawaii, among the options. Those are the two we're most attracted to. Frankly, I'm more drawn to Hawaii, since I've never been there and after years of adamantly not wanting to go ("oh you MUST go!" sh'yeah, right. see 4), I'm finally interested. So, screw company time limitations. Life's too short not to take vacation just because some greedy corporation won't pay for an extra few days. I'm already so proud of Honey for all his badassery. I'm doubly proud that I'm not the only one who sees his genius. And I'm supergrateful that it's going to give us a genuine vacation. We need a genuine vacation so badly.

Sailed this boat too often

2009-01-26T19:59:00.005-05:00

You have 11 more months to redeem yourself, 2009.
(photo courtesy Coffee Monster from Flickr Creative Commons)

Inauguration and Expectation

2009-01-24T08:42:00.003-05:00

I was there. ...though I didn't get a t-shirt touting the fact.

There are moments in history we collectively witness and a few people witness those moments up front. Many - if not most - of these moments are largely unanticipated, or their broader cultural effect are unanticipated: the eruption of Mount Saint Helens, JFK's assassination or Woodstock, for instance. We like to say where we were "when we heard," because it's a shared experience, but when we come across someone who was on the ground when it happened, we listen more intently. "You were at Dealey Plaza? You were at Pearl Harbor? You were at Watergate that night? What did you see? How did you react?" As a first-person witness to the most rattling tragic event in recent national history, I have discovered what a bizarre, morbid privilege it is to have "been there." Witnesses shape memory.

Because there are so few moments when we'll get to be a witness to historical moments that are planned and anticipated, it seems a crying shame not to witness them up-close, if we have the resources to. Life is too short to pass up moments of greatness (and happiness) if it's within driving distance. With that in mind, Honey and I woke at 0-dark-hundred and made our way to DC to see the swearing in of our 44th President. (Hopefully, you've figured that out by the photos above.)

It was freezing. Very freezing. At one point, I began to worry that I may actually develop frostbite. We bought little heating packs to place in our gloves - a purchase I was concerned would be a rip-off from the vendor, but ended up being the best $5 I spent that day. We made it to the Mall a little before 8AM and people slowly filtered in for the next several hours. After hearing some reports - particularly of the Purple Tunnel of Doom, crowd-averse, clausterphobic Molly's nightmare scenario - I consider us lucky. People, though, were in amazingly good spirits; laughing, singing and dancing along with Sunday's concert that was being re-played on the jumbotrons.

When Barack Obama completed his oath, the cheer that went up was extraordinary. It was official: he is our president, now. The shackles had fallen, the windows had been thrown open, the baby had been born, the muzzled voice liberated, the well had been tapped, the geode had been shattered open. The cry was a delirious, elated catharsis after both surviving the last eight years of miserable, selfish leadership and after generations of warring the behemoth of institutionalized and tacit racial injustice. It felt like people cheered for a solid 60 seconds. I cried. I cried several times that day. I'm tearing up, now. People around us danced. I couldn't help but laugh, as well. Honey whooped and hollered when I really only expected him to cheer. That was really fun! It was a fantastic moment that I fervently hope time will never take from me.

Our nephew, Dave, came with us. He's almost 16. He likes Obama, but I think it's more because he's a popular icon and because Dave lives in a mostly-liberal area. He's at an age where he's very concerned about being caught up in the latest fad and maintaining popularity. I don't know that he understands the influence of ideology and politics. I don't think he quite understands the weight of our nation having elected our first black president, either. How much of that is generational, I don't know. And maybe, that Dave is unimpressed by the fact that our country elected a black man is more a testament to how far we've come since my parents were 16, and even I was 16, than it is that we've elected him.

But I'm still shocked and awed. I did presume I would live to see the day. I'm just surprised it would come this early in my life. And I presumed he'd be a Republican. Or, as Honey presumed, that we'd see a black vice president before we saw a black president. I also presumed we'd see a woman first. I'm still waiting for that one; confident that I will see that in my lifetime, now. (I couldn't get behind Hillary. I felt it was too soon; I'm not a fan of dynasty's in a land of democracy and didn't want a Bush/Clinton/Bush/Clinton sandwich. Also, watching her for several years, I wanted a little more daylight between her and W. Particularly on the war, from the beginning.)

Obama's popularity is currently really, really high. Hopes for him are stratospheric. The marketing and media frenzy that's surrounded Obama can really only hurt people's expectations, though. There's only so much even the most effective president can do. He's governing 300 million people, a little less than half of whom elected him and probably a quarter of whom boldly despise him and he'll need the support, or at least patience, from each of them to begin to make a dent in the flaming pile of shit that W left him. I do not envy any president the office, but I really don't envy the administration that has to tackle the uglies we face now. I will be pleased with good enough. All I really want for our incoming president is to restore our reputation around the world and make every effort to help "the least of these" in our county. Economy, Iraq, Healthcare - those are my biggies. If he can break a few of those juggernauts' legs, I'll be happy.

2009: The Year of Good Enough

2009-01-11T21:35:00.004-05:00

I've been trying to decide what my inaugural post for 2009 should be about and I decided that I should begin by returning to one of my goals for 2008: my personal reading challenge. When I reviewed my post from last year describing my challenge (to read 10 books in the course of the year from my own library), I saw that the bulk of that post was dedicated to being grateful for the time we have with our loved ones because we will not always have them with us. There seems to be some sad coincidence in that.

I have fallen way behind on reading people's blogs and obviously on writing this blog. So far behind that I only learned yesterday that Mommanator's husband passed suddenly in the interim. Something that struck me was that she stated she was happy to have him 10 years longer than she thought she might. Again, I'm reminded that we need to love each other fully and seek delight in our loved ones as much as possible. We lose more than the person if we don't attempt it. I know I'm not the only one to express it, but just wanted to publicly convey my most heartfelt condolences to her and her family in their time of grief. I definitely keep you and yours in my prayers right now, Mommanator. Many hugs, doll.

Some good news about this new year for me, is that something in me switched when the clock struck midnight on January 1. I've been decidedly angry and emotionally stubborn about some health concerns of mine, lately. Though I'm progressing with more investigation and possible treatment, I'd been furious that this was something I even had to deal with. I was furious at my body for betraying me. Then at the beginning of the year the emotional stubbornness and the fury just dropped. I'm still angry, I still feel betrayed, but I'm not wrapping myself in it like a self-pitying blanket anymore. I have resigned myself to the probable. I'm still not happy about it, but I'm no longer emotionally resistant. I'm actually more accepting of it. Unless something changes: it is what it is.

That shift also freed me to review other things in my life. It's a new year. New choices? Maybe. I don't do "resolutions," but I do set personal goals. Among my goals this year are:

Write more, of course. I've got at least one piece lined up. I work best with deadlines, so maybe I should look for more deadline-driven writing opportunities. But in the meantime, I should just keep tapping at the keyboard. I wrote more in 2008 than in 2007, so let's keep up the momentum.
Become more craftily self-sufficient. Re-teach myself to sew on the machine that I've been ignoring for years and make something wearable.
Make the house look more grown-up. Replace craptastic college-era plastic shelving with real stuff; paint at least 2 rooms in the house this year; buy a few furniture pieces (new sofa-set for basement, maybe?).
Put stuff on the walls. Frame photos I like and hang them. Maybe buy some art. That costs money and spending money scares me shitless, but our walls are scandalously bare.
Exercise more. Specifically, start running again! I never felt better about my life than when I ran a marathon 6 years ago. I don't know that I want to do a full 26.2 again yet (maybe in a few years), but I can easily do a 5 or 10K. There's no reason I shouldn't. Plus, I should really buy a friggin' bike. It's stupid that I don't have one.
See more live theater. There's so much that's good out there and I don't take enough advantage of it. I had the pleasure of seeing some Shakespeare with Darla D and her girls this past week and I really enjoyed it. Why don't I do it more? I dunno. Routine lifestyle, I suppose. Honey and I go on jags every few years. This should be one of them and it should really increase to a regular habit.
Re-up my reading challenge of 2008. Same deal. So many books in my collection that I've not gotten around to reading or only half-read. 10 more to read and/or finish for 2009. Just finished Born to Buy (pictured above), which was actually book 9 or 10 from 2008 - that's right, I fell short; sue me. I'm moving on next to God in the Machine: What Robots Can Teach Us About Humanity and God. I think I heard that author on Speaking of Faith a few years ago. Honey began reading it, but said it didn't teach him anything new. But he's a techie-guy. I hope that it'll illuminate something for me.
Ditch the high-fructose corn syrup (and hopefully later the partially hydrogenated oils). I've known since sophomore nutrition class (thanks, alma mater, for making that part of our core requisite curriculum) that corn syrup is no good for me, and neither are partially hydrogenated soybean or corn oil. But damn, that stuff is addictive. So far, I've gone a week without the corn syrup. I've managed to gain weight, but that's mostly because I have no sense of portion control and I've not been exercising as much. Still, it's as much about being mindful about what I put into my body as it is about weight loss. Temptations may surround me, but if I can ward off just one of them, then the battle is not yet lost.
Spend more time with Honey. Evenings, weekends, whatever.
Find a new job, or a new path. Not necessarily outside my field, but just some path that allows me time to enjoy my family and to pursue my outside interests. My recent down-shift to part-time should help.
Stop thinking I have to define myself by my career or other "achievments." I'd like to say I'm bigger than that, but I'm not. I'm just a regular achiever living in the land of hyper-acheivers. When I really contemplate it, yes career and title are in there, but the lifelong goals I'm most concerned with are more personal in nature: travel, family, language-learning, re-learning piano, etc, etc. I love my work, but I need to stop measuring myself against the hyper-achieving hyper-tense, hyper-paid peers in this town. I'm me. That's good enough.

Maybe that's what I need to carry into this year. Things don't have to be perfect. They just have to be good enough. I don't have to find the most extraodinary wine bar/buffet for our dining area. I just have to find good enough. I don't have to run a marathon. A 5K will do. I don't have to lose 15 pounds; 6 will be sufficient. I don't have to read all the ancient classics I should've read in college. I'll just read one. I'll do what I can. And that will be good enough.

Christmas Past, Christmas Present, Christmas Future?

2008-12-27T08:28:00.008-05:00

Two years ago, Honey gave me my first digital camera for Christmas, a Cannon SD800 Elph, and I've run with it. I was never much of a photographer, but thanks to the miracle of digital photography, it's rapidly becoming a hobby of mine. I'm teaching myself how to compose shots. I have a photographer friend with whom, some afternoon I'm going to go on a photo safari, and at some point, I'd like to get a consumer copy of Photoshop so I can edit my work. Thanks to my new hobby, I've begun looking at the mundane with fresher, more curious eyes. It feels good.

One of the gifts I got for Christmas this year was an all-in-one printer/scanner/photo printer. I've taken all these wonderful photos, but they still live on my laptop, or in some cases, cyberspace. It would be fantastic to finally start framing some of them and dressing the very naked walls of our house. Yesterday, I spent about an hour and a half scanning old photos from my childhood. There are hundreds more to go, but I knocked out quite a few. Including some from Christmases past. The image on the right is one such photo. It's from 1988. (I'm the amber-mopped tomboy in the orange tie-dye shirt, near the center.) Our family flew down to Mexico City to spend the holiday with our many cousins there. It was the first time I'd been on a plane since I was pre-literate, and I remember being afriad to fly. Then the downing of PanAm 103 a day or two before our departure convinced me that our deaths were imminent.

It's inevitable this time of year that my thoughts turn to past Christmases and reviewing old pictures certainly aid the nostalgia. Christmas isn't as fantastical for me as it once was, and I'm trying to figure out why. It's not the Santa thing. I never believed in Santa. If not yet the why, I can at least pin down when Christmas started losing some of its pixie dust. Junior high.

1988 was probably the last truly exciting Christmas for me. I was 12. Before we flew to Mexico City, we stopped in Dallas to spend Christmas Eve with my mom's side of the family, like we did virtually every Christmas Eve. I played with my cousins, we ate the tamale dinner Grandma fixed us, watched whatever Christmas special was on TV, played board games, unwrapped presents ... Christmassy stuff. When we got to Mexico, the party really began. At my cousin Carlos' church, we played with no-bullshit pinatas; no papier mache Sesame Street characters. These pinatas were star-shaped, with shells made of terra-cotta and filled with sugar cane and peanuts. And they were massive. And there were many. When a piece of pinata pottery fell on my brother's head, he sought my mom's arms for comfort until he realized that every other kid was getting beaned by breaking pinatas, and went back in. Pinatas are not for the permission-slip happy American weak in Mexico. For days we were surrounded by family. We ate good meals every night. There was laughter everywhere. The gifts we got were either homemade - like the crocheted clown doll my aunt made me - or typically Mexican-craft like the leather purse I got. I was introduced to new traditions like Dia de los Tres Reyes and la rosca. The former is also known as Epiphany or Three Kings Day, the traditional 12th day of Christmas when the wisemen's visit is celebrated. La Rosca is the bundt-like cake served on January 6, though we did ours early, on the first (we ate several, come to think of it); a baby charm is placed in the cake and whoever gets it has good luck. In Mexico City, I was tickled to discover that for every kiosk set up on the city square with Santa offering to listen to Christmas wishes, there were two or three kiosks of the magi offering to do the same. Christmas is when you get your little gifts, there; Epiphany is when you get your "real" gifts. It's something we kind of adopted when my family went broke. Our gifts were never huge to begin with - a cassette from a band I liked was usually the extent of it - but extending the gift-giving until Epiphany bought my family a little time time to buy on sale. 1988 was a Christmas brimming with non-stop celebration. It was the last one I can remember like that.

Within a month, we'd moved across the state; Dad had entered the ministry full-time (an overall great move for him, but a damper on Christmas from then out) and there was no doubt about it: puberty had completed its angsty takeover of my body. From a celestial high to a rocky low. There are many things I like about Dad being a minister: he's a good preacher; he's a great listener and a wonderfully sympathetic man; it's his passion; he's knowledgable about context (and thus not literalist). However, the one thing I really don't like about him being a minister is that he's tied to whatever church he's serving for Christmas Eve.

When I was 13, I was devastated to learn that we would not get to drive up to the panhandle or to Dallas to spend the evening with mom's entire family as I had every Christmas Eve of my life until that point. We had to stay put for our church's candlelight service. I love Chistmas Eve candlelight services. After all the happy songs, the readings and prayers, when the lights go down and the sanctuary is filled with scores of tiny flickering flames and we're all singing "Silent Night" and then the accompanist stops so that we're all just singing a capella ... damn, there are few things finer. But to be compelled to stay? Couldn't this church just wing it without a minister for Christmas? Come ON! Christmas EVE! WTF?

From then on, Christmas became less magical. The songs in school, the games and the family hoopla began disappearing. We had to stay put, so Dad could preside over Christmas Eve services and we lived in such a remote part of the state that no one ever came to visit us for the holiday. (Which made me mad, as we often piled into the car on Christmas morning to drive 10 hours across the state to Dallas. Only to miss half the cousins, as they'd all returned home; and to miss the tamales, as they'd all been eaten. Why couldn't they reciprocate?) Christmas 1993 was a lovely anomaly, however, because 8 or 9 of our Mexican cousins came up and partied with us in our burg. They visited for a week. We spoke so much Spanish in the house that I actually dreamt in Spanish. (Era fantastico!)

These days, we have no set family gatherings with our extended families. His sister lives nearby, so we often visit her family. But I often feel something just one-off is missing. Our nephews have no cousins with which to play, so they either disappear to play on the computer or whine for attention. We adults don't play board games; we just talk about work and life and it's just ... a visit. My family lives in Texas, and with Dad unable to travel due to ecclesiastical duties, it's incumbent upon us to visit if we're to celebrate Christmas together - which we've only done once in the 10 years Honey and I've been Christmassing together. But even there, my brother just watches football and we just ... visit. No music and merriment. Honey's parents live on the West Coast. Sometimes they come out for Christmas or we go there, but it's just ... a visit. Once we played poker with his dad and nephews, and frankly that afternoon saved Christmas for me. It was so good to play something. My brother is marrying a girl from Wisconsin. He's up there now. She wants to never spend Christmas away from her family, so I have no idea if we'll ever get to see him for the holiday again. Which sucks. The older I get, the more disconnected I feel from family fun. Even when we see family, it seems so chaotic and not as cheerful as it used to be. I really, really miss playing boardgames with aunts and uncles. I miss the tamale buffet. I miss the cheesy holiday TV shows playing in the room where the kids are (ahem, please not around the adults). I miss poorly banging out "Joy to the World" on whosever piano is available. I think it's time to start some new more mobile Christmas traditions that bind us together. But I don't quite know which or how.

Honey and I have an accidental tradition of listening to David Sedaris read his "Santaland Diaries," either as we trim the tree or on Christmas Eve. Maybe I'll learn to make tamales like Grandma and insist on that wherever we go. Or maybe insist on more boardgames or puzzles. I love boardgames at Christmas. Christmas, for me, is about three big things: glittery cultural accoutrement, the breathless anticipation leading up to Christmas morning, and cozying up to family and enjoying eachother. Each feels like they're falling shorter as I grow older. I want to learn how to get the magic back.

I'm a Wreck Because of a Stupid Wreck

2008-12-19T23:26:00.003-05:00

Right now would be a good time for a cry, but I can't quite bring myself to do it. Today sucked. I wish I could say it was a bunch of big, consequential things, but really, it was a bunch of little things that all revolved around a medium-sized thing and aggravated by some other things. Things! Things! Things! ARGH!

To begin with, it was rainy all day. Rain in the winter rarely inspires happiness. I began my day with a visit to my therapist for the first time in months. It was good catching up with her, but visiting reminded me of how in limbo I feel right now and I've got elephants in my room to deal with and the biggest one I really have very little control over and the other two I'm not sure I'm managing well. Basically, it sucked having to confront the uglies.

After therapy, and a light lunch, I headed to an exurb of the city to buy cheap liquor for my husbands' employees. He's a really good boss (IMHO) and gives his employees rum for the holidays each year. I'm happy to play Santa. But it was raining, and though I'm familiar with the route to this banal bedroom community, I hydroplaned instead of turning with the curve of the highway and crashed up on the median, head-on, driving over the reflector. I really think this threw me off all fucking day.
A stupid hydroplaning wreck.

I was rattled and humiliated. As soon as my car came to a stop - which it wasn't doing AT ALL as I applied the brakes - I called Honey. Don't know why; I probably should've called 911, but I was unhurt, the car was out of harms' way of other cars and the airbag didn't even deploy. I was bracing for it to, but it didn't. Fucking wreck. I could see it coming and I tried to stop it and there was little I could do. (How much of a metaphor for my health concerns these days is this, by the way??) I'm just glad I was in the outer lane that bordered the median, otherwise I would've almost certainly hit another car.

I called 411, since I wasn't hurt, but was placed on hold and as soon as I ... wait a second, I should've called 311 in a non-emergency. Shit. I couldn't even remember that. Anyway, as soon as I was hanging up with them to call 911, a fire engine pulled up behind me. The fireguy who looked like a short Dennis Quaid walked me through getting unstuck from the median, inspecting the underside of my car for damage, and refilling oil. I felt like such a dolt. Yeah, I was going too fast in the rain and I've not checked my oil level in months. Ugh. Driving off, I felt a mild tug on the driver's side front wheel, so Honey called to tell me about a nearby garage which was a few blocks from the liquor store.

But still, my plans were thrown off. Instead of getting to the liquor store, getting the rum and returning to do some shopping for Honey and family, as well as some much-needed proofreading, I had to take my car to the shop to make sure I'd survive the ride home. As it was near a mall, I decided to walk up to the mall, in the cold winter rain that turned my umbrella inside out at one point, and do a little shopping there. But I hate shopping malls, as a rule, and particularly during Christmas. I bought a few things for Honey, and then started looking for a new bra for me, but didn't find any in my fantastic new fit-just-for-me size. And I really hate that exurb and that mall. And it blew having to be stuck here when I knew the store I wanted to visit today was no where near this bloody leech-town.

The good news is that, though my front end was indeed thrown significantly out of alignment, the repair was manageable. Less than $100, which I guess is all I can ask for. The liquor store had all the rum I needed and gave me a discount. And I still had time to make more truffles when I got home tonight to bring with me to my show. And Honey, dear, sweet Honey, cleared his schedule for the afternoon and came home early to make sure I was alright.

But this stupid wreck threw off my groove for the whole bloody day. It began to feel like everything I touched broke. Seriously: two items I handled at the mall either broke or somehow didn't work right afterward; as I left for the show tonight, I dropped a glass bottle of tea on the floor as if it were a water wiener(almost shattered, but not quite); and during warm up, I screwed up a song for the team. Yea, me! I was going to have a good show, though. I could feel it. However ... As a whole, our show went well, but I wasn't pleased with my performance. My contribution was good, objectively speaking, but it just didn't feel good to me at all. What sucked worst was that after the show, people were so happy with how well it went and I just felt like I was was this side of awful. Frankly, I fell quickly into Debbie Downer mode and knew I needed to extract myself from people before I could really be a pain in the ass and they'd seek to drown me. So I fled. Not before feeding a few other people some chocolates.

It was such a minor wreck. The kind of thing people would normally blow off after the even. But it jarred me for the entire day. And I really wish I could just cry right now and have it done with, so I can have a good day and a good show tomorrow. Blech! Maybe I'll watch that video on YouTube about the British guys and their pet lion. That makes me cry.

3BT: avocation, aspiration, admiration

2008-12-16T23:55:00.003-05:00

It was cold and alternately weeping rain today and into tonight. So, it feels like a good time to sit back and reflect a la Clare, on three beautiful things that popped out at me, today.

1. After an aggravating morning, I decided to call one of my best girlfriends, who lives a good 4 or 5 hours away, on my ride into work. She'd just loaded her kids in the car and was driving the 4 year old to preschool. I vented and ranted and she chimed in and offered her ear. We had a good visit, and we said our goodbyes as I pulled into my office driveway. Moments later she called me back. Her daughter had apparently asked who she was on the phone with, "Aunt Molly," she'd replied. "I want to go to Aunt Molly's house after school!" That turned my morning around

2.
I came across this today. A cousin of mine died almost 13 years ago from MD. This young man (who's already survived my cousin by 4 years) looks physically very similar to my cousin, though he has more use of his upper body, and more muscle mass, than my cousin did. Though I don't know if my cousin ever felt suicidal, there's no doubt in my mind that the mental anguish he carried must've been intense. However, like this young man, my cousin pursued all that his financial and physical resources allowed during his short time here. Seeing this interview reminded me of S and that being blessed is really a state of mind.

3. At a party tonight, a colleague told me that she loved some sweeping dance move that I and another performer improvised in a show a few weeks ago. Apparently, she's a ballet nerd and thought that we looked graceful and that I looked like I knew what I was doing and it just took her breath away. We didn't, of course. But I love that for once gravity was not my nemesis and I was evidently, if even accidentally, swanlike!

Chocolate Nutballs - The Recipe

2008-12-12T07:19:00.005-05:00

Apparently, I made a few mouths drool with the talk of my chocolate nutballs and their picture. I've gotten requests for the treats themselves - only one of which I honored, because she happened to be in my kitchen and knows I'm easily overpowered - but I think Joe had the best idea: post the recipe.

For the last 5 or 6 years, I've been on Texas Monthly's weekly recipe list. Of the scores, if not hundreds of recipes I've gotten in that time, I think I've attempted only two or three. This recipe is one of them, reprinted here, complete with the text from the email, but the links are not hot:

You’ll find more recipes online at texasmonthly.com. You can also share recipes and food questions with other TEXAS MONTHLY readers at the Recipe Swap.

Chocolate-Grand Marnier Truffles

Recipe from Sierra Grill, Houston.

1 1/4 cups heavy cream
16 ounces Nestlé semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/4 cup Grand Marnier or Bailey’s Irish Cream
Zest of 1/2 orange 1 1/2 cups pecans, ground or finely chopped

In a heavy, nonreactive pan bring cream to a boil. Immediately remove from heat and stir in chocolate and butter until smooth. Add liqueur and orange zest and chill overnight. Shape into 3/4-inch balls and roll in pecans. Makes 6 dozen.

****************

After my first attempt, I hesitate to call what I made truffles. Hence, labeling them chocolate nutballs (because I am nothing if not mature and referential). The consummate engineer, Honey had a good idea to help me create more attractive treats that I'd be proud to call truffles and not "nutballs." He suggested that instead of rolling them between my palms like I'd do modeling clay, that instead I seek some silicon mold of half-spheres - like a novelty ice-tray - and let the chocolate chill in that. Then when it's all chilled, marry the spheres together, maybe with a little water at the seam. Since I'll be out and about today, maybe I'll swing by Sur la Table and see what they've got in that vein.

With only half the chocolate mix, I believe I made about 55 balls, following the 3/4-inch ball rule. After Darla made off like a bandit with about two dozen of them, Honey decided we needed to make them bigger and rolled the rest of the chocolate into balls about 1.5" to 2" in diameter, mixing them not only with nuts, but with confectioners sugar. Good idea. Since these balls are bigger, they're more satisfying and I, for one, am less tempted to mindlessly pop one in my mouth as I am when they're smaller.

Though we had Bailey's at home, I opted to use Grand Marnier because it gave me an excuse to buy it. Insted of Nestle, I used Ghirardelli 60% cocoa, because we had a few bags of that lying around. I grabbed another bag of the Ghirardelli 60% bittersweet and a bag of their milk chocolate when I was at the grocery store Wednesday. I'll try those next. When I feel like I've gotten the process down pat, I'll try darker cocoa, white chocolate, fair trade chocolate, rum, kahlua, cordials that a friend brought me from the Caribbean: all sorts of variations until I'm known as the truffle-lady .... not just a little nuts.

Chocolate Nutballs - Tunes for Tuesday

2008-12-08T19:35:00.006-05:00

Inspired by Virginia Gal's post of favorite Christmas songs, I decided to create my own list of some of my favorite Christmas songs. Not included are some favorite carols like "O Come All ye Faithful" or "Hark the Herald," mostly because I love singing those with a full congregation, or a group of people in the cold, holding candles. Better sung together than heard recorded.

I must admit that I don't have very many favorite Hanukkah tunes, mostly because I don't know many. Five maybe. I do like Woody Guthrie's Hanukkah songs. If anyone knows a bunch and wants to introduce me to them, I'd love to learn. I love singing songs of joy and happiness in the cold, bleak time that is winter. Makes it bearable. (This is why January and February suck: no good happy-fun-shiny songs to get us through.)

As for the chocolate nutballs? I tried my hand at Grand Marinier truffles this afternoon. I still have a few dozen left to make, but thought I'd share a photo with you good folk. It'll follow after my music summary.

1. Happy Christmas - John Lennon. "Let's hope it's a good one, without any fear ... War is over." What more do we want out of Christmas and the new year?

2. Baby, It's Cold Outside - Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel. Wanted the Ella Fitzgerald version, but decided on this. I love the seduction of this song - he gently begs; she's coy. And you know they're gonna do it all night long! Plus, I think her voice - which I find both fascinating and irritating - works well in this.

3. Mary's Boy Child/Oh My Lord - Boney M. This is just a great, jubilant carol to begin with, but I'm drawn to the Carribean disco.

4. Fairytale of New York - The Pogues. Aww. Angry Irish at Christmas. How adorable!

5. Christmas Wrapping - The Waitresses. Lonely hearts re-connecting to save Christmas? Yea!

6. Christmas is All Around - Bill Nighy (as "Billy Mack"). From "Love Actually." It's a dumb re-imagining of an already silly song. Which is why I enjoy it.

7. Santa Claus Got Stuck in My Chimney - Ella Fitzgerald. Oops!

8. Christmas is the Time to Say I Love You - Billy Squier. Like Christmas Wrapping, fun to bop along to.

9. Baby, It's Cold Outside - Ray Charles/Betty Carter. I enjoy that his begging is more overt. And I really love this song. In the search feature, Mixwit misguided me and said this was Nina Simone singing with him. Not the case, apparently. D'oh!

10. Do They Know it's Christmas? - BandAid. One reason, and one reason only: Bono singing, "Tonight be glad it's them, instead of you!" I thrill on the guilting. Who better to deliver that line than Bono? HY-larious! The reminder to consider the less fortunate during the season is fine, but being told this by a bevy overpaid egomaniacs is so wonderfully 1980s. 1980s!!

11. Merry Christmas from the Family - Robert Earl Keen. Everyone in Texas is related in some way or another to this family. If you can't identify a relative that would fit in this song, you ARE that relative.

12. The Christians and the Pagans - Dar Williams. The first song I ever heard from Dar Williams and ended up turning me on to her. I like that people try to find a away to relate through whatever commonalities they can.

13. Elf's Lament - Barenaked Ladies. Union now! Hermione Granger would love this!

14. Baby It's Cold Outside - Tom Jones/Cerys Matthews. Did I mention I REALLY love this song. (When I'm a megastar, I want to record this, not sure with who yet.) I like the disparity in their voices. He's so lecherous and she sounds not only juvenile, but mentally unstable. It's so predatory!

15. Happy Christmas - Polyphonic Spree. Just a cover of the first song. It's overly orchestrated and the end cacophonous, but who cares? I like this band.

16. Six to Eight Black Men - David Sedaris. Not a song, but a great story. Go ahead. Give yourself 15 minutes and give it a listen.

Here are the long-awaited chocolate nutballs!

Black Friday can bite me

2008-11-28T23:09:00.005-05:00

Recently, two different friends emailed me a "get to know you" questionnaire with a Christmas theme. Since I'm a sucker for those time-killing, ego-stroking surveys, I set to work.

One of the questions in the survey asked what my least favorite part of Christmas was. That's easy: rampant, insidious consumerism! Obscene consumerism. You MUST spend lots of money on your loved ones. WANT! WANT! WANT! GET! GET! GET! CONSUME NOW! The spend-and-purchase messaging we're inundated with is repugnant and profane. Today, I can add to those adjectives, murderous. Come along ...

Black Friday, as the day after Thanksgiving day has become known, has long been the start of the holiday shopping season in the U.S. It's called Black Friday because this is the day when most retailers make enough money to move out of the "red," into solvency. This was something I learned a few years ago. Before, I thought "Black" Friday referred to the abyss of our souls; how else to explain how a nation can move from day of humble gratitude to harried greed in less than 24 hours?

Each year, stories of incivility in retail shops surface by the time the evening's news rolls around. Soccer moms getting into fist-fights over Chicken Dance Elmo, store clerks being berated by customers because an item has been sold out, the occasional shooting in the parking lot. It's shameful. This year a WalMart employee was crushed to death after he opened the doors of the store to let shoppers in. So eager to get a Wii or a Numi or whateverthefuck people are cravenly drooling over these days, were these shoppers that even as other co-workers tried to move to this poor man's aid, they had to fight to stay standing. The metal frame doorways of the WalMart were actually bent by the crush of the crowd. People wanted so badly to spend their hard-earned dollars on paltry shit at 5AM that they wouldn't even stop to help this man stand up. Who the hell are we? Frankly, that story makes me ashamed of my countrymen. Clearly, our desire to consume supercedes our desire for patience and our capacity for mercy.

Consumer spending is probably good for the economy, in general. But when are we going to recognize that rampant, careless consumption is baaaddd for our souls?

Christmas consumerism is particularly offensive because, the ostensible reason we're supposed to sate our bottomless greed is to celebrate the birth of the holy man who told us the meek would inherit the Earth, that it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter Heaven and that God was most pleased when we clothed the naked, fed the poor, visited the prisoner and generally tended to the "least" of those among us. Even if one celebrates Christmas in a purely secular fashion - which I suppose most do since it is more a cultural holiday than a religious one - it seems we can all agree that the assumed point of Christmas is to celebrate our loved ones and our time with our loved ones.

Gift-giving is fine. Good, actually. But how does it genuinely benefit anyone for one's kid or spouse or partner to get $1,000 worth of toys and goods on Christmas day? That there are wise shoppers out there who may spend that amount on gifts that will have a long lifespan, I do not doubt. But most gifts bought are simply upgraded the next year and disposed of. We are a nation disposed to the disposable goods. I, too, am a less thoughtful consumer than I should be. Can't and won't deny it. But I'm trying to improve. I'm taking baby steps to be more mindful of what I spend my money on and my motivations behind spending it in the first place.

The image at the top is from a documentary titled What Would Jesus Buy? The premise is that a performer named Reverend Billy visits temples of Mammon to exorcise them and call people's attention to their spending habits. I think I'll bump it to the top of my Netflix list. Something we can all do, next year anyway, is join the folks who choose to spend Thanksgiving Friday at home, doing a puzzle, reading a book, hanging with family and otherwise observing Buy Nothing Day. It seems the least we can do to honor the memory of Jdimytai Damour is to not be a part of the insanity that killed him in the first place.

Everything's Coming Up Milhouse!

2008-11-21T07:03:00.005-05:00

Last month, I said that something had to change in my job situation and I'm happy to report that the change is now in progress.

Starting soon, possibly as early as the beginning of next month, I will be scaling back my hours to work part-time. I detested going back to my boss with my tail between my legs, after having asked for a promotion during the heat of the monster project, and after he'd moved the discussion along, the week prior, about moving me up the ladder. However, I can't deny the fact that my entire attitude about my job has changed. I'm not inspired, I'm strained and a zombie lately. I do want to progress my career, but I think, for my own sanity, I might have to do it at a slower pace than I'd originally liked. Additionally, I genuinely do want to foster some side sub-careers, if you will, because I'm not a person who is laser-focused on one interest. I'm a more ADD version of Ben Franklin, not a John Nash. I always struggle with maintaining interest in any one job or place of employment when winter rolls in. I am sunk by the cold and dark. It seriously affects me. I'm a solar-powered person; 5PM darkness and overcast days are not my friends. This, of course, affects my productivity. (Apparently, I'm not the only one.)

But the main reason I've wanted to scale back is make myself more available to my family and take care of my general and specific health. As it is now, I have to make an appointment any day I want to leave work on time. Not early. On time. Have to give everyone a big heads up that I might want to go home at the time we say we're going home. Even now, in the down season. If I were a Secret Service Agent, I'd understand that my job is not a job, it's a life. But I'm not. Even when I don't have massive deadlines hanging over my head, that kind of tyranny over my time is stressful. After visiting Dad for his second open heart surgery, I've pretty much decided I need to slow the frak down. He had his first heart attack at 38. 38! Not the road I want, and the highway traffic of genetics is already going against me. I don't want to be on the chopping block. No job is worth that to me. Honey has already weathered two very stressful surgeries with me in the last year, I don't need to add more for him to worry about.

I'm hoping to work 2 1/2 to 3 days a week, when I begin this new regimen. So what am I going to do with the extra time? So many things I can do! Look for other 3/4 to full-time jobs that either a) I can work from home and aren't as driven by deadlines (currently pursuing one), b) speak to my creative side, but I can leave directly at 5PM, so I can eat dinner with my husband more regularly and pursue performing without feeling like a jerk; bonus points if the job is in my industry or c) both. I also plan on writing more; getting my personal website to look more presentable and profitable would be a plus; start working with a voice-coach and start pushing for paying voice-over jobs; avail myself to the rent-an-actor company I signed up with but have yet had time to pursue; sell the shit on eBay that I set aside last month; paint the basement; actually exercise again; go back to my thesis and figure out what I want to do with it; spend more time at the doctors' office, which is why one of my supervisors thinks I'm doing this anyway, which is about 20% true ... so many things I could do!

My only reservation about this is, of course, the current economy. I am worried about scaling back while jobs are hemorrhaging throughout every market. But Honey is supportive and isn't panicking, and since he speaks math better than I do - were I single, I'd live in a rattrap, even if I made a gazillion dollars a month, just because I'm terrified of spending a dime on anything - I take my cues from him the way I do from a flight attendant. We hit a bump. Is the flight attendant scared? No? Okay, I won't panic then. Incidentally, this is also why I'd be a bad flight attendant. Though I'm a pretty good host, I can't gauge normal from "holy shit" turbulence. Just like I can't gauge sufficient money from excess money. No money? That, I know. And right now, it looks like stepping back from my table for a while isn't going to leave us in trouble. It's going to mend more problems than it causes.

A trunk full of Shiner Bock and Lone Star

2008-11-13T20:19:00.004-05:00

I had the pleasure this week of finally seeing a musician I really, really love and have been meaning to see live, play live. That would be the ever-lovin' Robert Earl Keen.

Having grown up in Texas, I was somewhat familiar with him - more his name than his music. Just a few songs here and there. I knew he was on Austin City Limits a lot, but as I hadn't really watched that show since the mid-80s, he didn't really resonate with me. It wasn't until the summer before my senior year in college that I picked him up. I was apartment-sitting for some friends who were doing summer stock shows around the country. One of my friends had REK's Picnic in his CD collection. As I love raiding other people's music, I made my way through his CaseLogic binder and got hooked. This really surprised me for two reasons: 1) my friend didn't seem the country music type; his collection was typified by Elliot Smith, Dave Matthews and Jamiroquai and 2) I, as a rule, don't really like country music, but Picnic was just that - a fun, tasty, "comfort-food" feast. I burned myself a copy (Shh! This was 1998, so it was okay.) and went on my merry way.

But it wasn't really until we moved to the East Coast that we slowly started collecting his albums. This is when I really started to appreciate him. Keen's voice is gravelly, nasal, a little higher register than you'd expect from a country singer and painted thick with a drawl more reminiscent of West Texas than his native Houston. More importantly, he captures the Texas experience - at least the middle, and I presume, lower class Texas experience - so bloody well. He sings the low-brow Texas fantasies (as in his signature The Road Goes on Forever, which I want played at my wake, btw), redneck realities like those in Merry Christmas from the Family (every Texan has at least one relative like those), sweet, simple pleasures as in Gringo Honeymoon and just general appreciations for the land that bore him (and me), all its people (Mariano) and all its beauty and flaws (Levelland). He's a troubadour that sings about Texas sometimes adoringly, sometimes sharply tongue in cheek, and when he's great, he accomplishes both, simultaneously. He doesn't sing only about Texas, but life in Texas inspires about 90% of his music.

Honey isn't much for him, so I talked a college girlfriend of mine, with whom I'm reconnecting, into joining me. She's a trooper. I wouldn't've been cajoled into spending $45 on a ticket to an unknown commodity the way she was by me. I'm far too cheap! But she did it and she had a blast, so I was happy, and I owe her. (As I do virtually everyone I know.)

When I saw him, he performed against black duvatene curtains. No flashy backdrop, not even a banner with his name on it, like his opener had. Just the man, his band and the music. Even the lighting was simple. It had motion, but the lighting was made up entirely of simple gelled lamps. Something I'd expect for a brand new musician playing his first "for real" gig, not for a man who has a following. And he rocked the joint! I really, really wish there had been space to dance, because there were moments when I just really wanted to two-step. My girlfriend two-stepped in place with me for a bit, but complained that I moved too much from my hips. If I don't use my hips, I betray the only Latina-seeming part of me. Plus, it's the only part of me that has any grace; I'm fairly uncoordinated and my legs often move like those of a foal when I dance. The crowd was among the whitest I'd seen in this area in quite a while, but I suppose that's to be expected. It wasn't Texas, but it was a close enough facsimile, that I felt really at ease. My girlfriend said she felt like we were back in college in Texas, what with the frat boys and country music.

Aside from dancing like a fiend in a crowd with a red solo cup full of beer and discovering I'm really, really shitty at remembering lyrics of even some of my most favorite songs, I think the most amusing part of the evening was the "cowboys." My brother sees Robert Earl Keen live every year or so. He plays Texas a LOT. He's huge; a legend, approaching the status of Stevie Ray Vaughn, there. Bro said the crowd he usually draws is a mixture of cowboys and hippies, which in some parts of Texas (Travis Co., I'm looking at you) are not mutually exclusive categories. Our East Coast crowd was mostly transplanted Texas and southern professionals, and New Englanders who let their hair down. But we did have some cowboy-hatted guys show up. They offered my friend and me Rebel Yell. (Uh, no thanks.) They were at the foot of the stage and occasionally waved their hats around. Had I actually been in Texas, there wouldn't've been a group of 5 or 6 hatted guys in the front; there'd've been a sea of hats, and boots. All fine. What bugged me was that their hats were funny looking. By no means do I claim to be an expert on western wear, but the material looked a little cheaper and the hats overall more colonial-flavored. Like someone took the material for a tri-corn hat, began making a bowler and then decided to give it a cowboy brim. They loved the show, but I think they loved the opportunity to wear their hats in public, just as much. It reminded me of a second-hand anecdote my dad told us in the late 80s. A friend of his was visiting her daughter in New York City. They decided to go to a country western bar in Manhattan to see how the locals did it. Apparently, all the guys in Manhattan were happy to two step with the ladies and did alright, but they tucked their jeans into their boots! (This is apalling, if you missed the subtlety of the italics and exclamation mark. You don't tuck into boots unless you're a dancing extra from the cast of Oklahoma!) But really, even if people don't pull off the dress with authenticity, I suppose the attempt is evidence of the appreciation. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, even if the imitation is off. Heavens knows if I tried to emulate the fashion of subcultures I admire, I'd fall way short. I can barely keep up with the subculture I'm a part of! (Bad yuppie!)

My only complaint about the show was that he was not as talkative as I'd hoped he'd be. I like singer/songwriters who spin short yarns and give us background. I was told by a friend of a friend that REK was, indeed, chatty. However, he didn't really engage until almost the end of the concert, which was too bad. My only other complaint is that we didn't stick around for him to sign merch. I got a shot glass, 'cause I'm classy like that, but I was thinking about getting a signed t-shirt for my brother. He'd love that. But alas, I am no longer a lass, nor is my friend, and we were tired, and had work the next morning. So we ducked out during the second encore song. Next time, I'm staying for the whole megillah. And I want some talk, Robert!

Yes We Can! Yes We Did! Yes We Will!

2008-11-06T08:29:00.003-05:00

I've been running a mile a minute since election night, so I haven't had time yet to post since the United States made history Tuesday night. I am out of town, currently and will be returning within the hour, so I have to make this post brief, which is unfortunate, as I have so many thoughts and emotions. However, I will say this: I spent a large portion of yesterday grinning like a goofball and another portion of yesterday crying. Particularly since it seemed every song on the radio was speaking to my hope. ("Imagine" started the instant I turned on my car to drive home; cue the waterworks!) Not incidentally, Honey and I began listening to the Audacity of Hope in the car, yesterday, making me even more confident that we made the right choice and we've elected a man who chooses to build bridges.

So, instead of writing a well thought-out post expressing my joy and hope, I figure I'll just cut and paste from emails and direct you to other blogs. When I have time later this week (tomorrow night or Saturday), I'll sit down collect and go at it. Just suffice it to say: I am thrilled and proud of my country and hopeful for the man who will lead us for at least the next 4 years.

I emailed a bunch of friends and family yesterday expressing my joy and hope. Here are some (or portions thereof) of their responses - all misspellings, etc, theirs:

It is a great day! I also thought that I would be glad that anybody other than GW would be a breath of fresh air, but seeing Obama win gave me more confidence in our country and in our future than I ever could have imagined. It is a great thing that happened historically because of his race, but it is also a great thing that happened because he knows that people are going to help change this country and he can get us reved up to do so.
- from a cherished cousin in Texas

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My vote was based on Scarlett Johansen's endorsement of Obama. She is an avid Obama supporter and her shit don't stink. Serioulsy though, it was based on the belief that we needed a change. We needed someone (anyone) who could give us a different face to the world. As romantic as it seems to say "we don't care what the rest of the world thinks about us, we Americans!" As bold and patriotic as it sounds to say "stay the course". As proud as is sounds to say "we don't need their approval" it simply isn't the case. we live in this world, we use more of it's oil than anybody else, we owe trillions of dollars to other countries, we affect its finanical market as they affect ours. it is time for us to have a slice of humble pie and say "okay what can we do to be part of the solution?" There are some epiphanies you have that change the way you think for the rest of your life (I guess that's why it's called an epiphany). But I recall listening to NPR several years ago just after Arnold was elected as the Governor of California when I had an epiphany. I remember listening to a speech he made about "terminating high taxes" and getting the "girlymen out of the Senate". I laughed and thought very realistically that every citizen of California was an idiot for electing him. I had never been to California at the time, but all the stereotypes of how "hollywood" and "soft" they were came to fruition in my mind. Then a ton of bricks hit me and I realized "Holy Shit! that is what the rest of the world thinks of us when they hear Bush speak." Then it got even worse when I thought "Hoy Shit! that is what people think of Texans when they hear Bush speak." I went out and got a Natalie Maines tattoo that afternoon.

I will take a Jr. Senator from Illinois over the Governor of the greatest State in the Union who doesn't know his ass from a whole in the ground any day of the week.
- Bro

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Aside from the potty mouth, I am delighted that both my kids are thinkers with their heads on straight and their hearts in the right place. We do not really know what coming years hold or what President Obama can or will do to correct our course, but, like both of you, I am very hopeful - and very encouraged that this generation has made a powerful statement against apathy and cynicism.
- Dad

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I agree! I, too, cried tears of elation and felt a deep sense of empowerment both as a black woman and as an American. I am proud to be an American. ALL men are truly created equal. We have overcome. I'm glad my grandparents and parents were alive to bear witness. Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we're free at last!!!
- a friend

Lastly, PLEASE visit my friend's blog here. She's an African-American woman currently teaching English in Japan and that's interesting enough. However, her reaction to the Obama win is cathartic just to read! (And she's got an awesome graphic included.)

Happy new day, America!!

Good Election Morrow!

2008-11-04T07:10:00.003-05:00

I'm in a line spiralling around the local school's blacktop right now, waiting to cast my ballot for president, senator and congressperson. Anticipating a multi hour wait, I downloaded this blog app to my iPhone, so I could stay productive. However, it looks like I may be in and out in an hour or less!

Got seriously little sleep last night. Maybe 2.5 hours tops. Schlepped down to Manassas, Va last night to see Obama. The return drive was just as hellish as the outgoing. The rally was very energizing. Tried to coordinate with VA Gal to meet up, but with tens of thousands of people, it was a futile effort. Fate being who she is though, we did run into eachother. The good folks of Manassas, Va provided the worst crowd control I'd ever seen in my life. Seriously worried we might have a Who concert crush on our way out; exits weren't marked and we parting attendants were like the Hebrew children without Moses trying to find their way out of the mess. The friends who joined me last night and I grumbled, but no one else was moaning. Then I heard a familiar raspy voice complaining a familiar, "aye chihuahua! You'd think ... Come ON, people!" And of course it was VirginiaGal. We got to chat briefly before scattering to the winds again, but I was so thrilled we got to meet up. Thanks Manassas fairgrounds for having so crappy a crowd control that 100,000 people had to bottleneck through a single ten foot space!

Well, I'm impressed. Been here about 20 minutes, and already about halfway closer than I was when I arrived. Not bad at all. Thanks early voters!

If you haven't already, to do your civic duty. Stand in the rain if you must. Your forebears didn't suffer for you to sit on your ass. Rock the vote! (or Barack it! ... but that's just my preference.)

***************************************************************************************

Update: I was in and out in less than an hour. When I got up to the check-in, I was given the option of a paper ballot or digital voting. While touchscreen might be easier, I'm still wary. There's no paper trail to verify how I voted, if there was ever any kind of repeat of Florida 2000. So, I opted for the optical scan paper ballot. Luckily, voting was so quick and easy this morning that I was able to get home in time to do other stuff before work. Think I might take a brief nap and try to catch up on a little of that sleep I lost last night.

Culture Wars

2008-11-03T07:39:00.002-05:00

Nothing of import to write today. Just wanted to share this video from The Onion which cracked me up. Tomorrow's election day. GO VOTE! (Even if it means you vote for McCain.)

In The Know: Has Halloween Become Overcommercialized?

Fare thee well, flightless friend

2008-11-02T12:22:00.001-05:00

Last Sunday morning, after a night of heavy drinking and little sleep - so worthless there was no veritas which I could type in vino-ed - I was hanging out with a friend of mine when my foggy brain realized that, in his aviator sunglasses, he looked like Steve ... Austin. No. Steve Tyler. Not it either. Steve ... city in Texas; he's a Bloom County character ... Steve Dallas! Compare, here. As he likes the work of Berkeley Breathed, I believe he took the comparison as a compliment. I meant it as a complimentary observation, at least. Then I remembered, "Holy shit. We only have one week until Opus leaves the pages of the comic section, forever." I need to take the little bird out. I need to show him some love. I need to get caught up!

That week has passed, and Opus departed today.

When Breathed announced he'd return to comics, he struck a deal that Opus would be a half-page, front page, one-week only strip. Honey and I were thrilled. Who else but Breathed deserved such an honor? Like Postsecret, it became a Sunday ritual for me. What did Opus have to offer this Sunday morning? This week, I read the preceding four strips only, but I don't feel caught up at all. I had fallen behind in the last year or so. During that time, our paper moved it from the front page of the funnies to the second, then later the third page. Bastards. Also somewhere during that time, my thesis and performing and my job became all-consuming and taking an hour on Sunday to read through the paper became a luxury I didn't afford myself as often as I should have. I needed sleep. Or a drink. Or a Tylenol PM with a benadryl chaser and post-it note reminder to spend 5 minutes with my dear, suffering husband and dog.

Bloom County is the first comic I remember following. (Not that I'm a big comic follower.) It was such a fun world for me. The first time I remember noticing it was when my dad received a copy of Loose Tails for his 40th birthday, from a friend. A wheelchair-bound man bedecked with nerdy kids and wierdo animals? Something about the wheelchair attracted me. Was this about a guy in a wheelchair? What a wonderful country we live in, where one who can't walk can be the hero! And all the little critters and kids riding on him: it's like when my brother and cousins and I used to take turns riding on the back of my cousin S's chair! Awesome!

As I dug into it, it seemed to be less about Cutter John alone, as it was all the awkward misfits who inhabited Bloom County. It was smart and dorky. Kinda like I was when I was 10. Some days I was Milo, principled and precocious, others I was Binkley, clueless and a vegetable resemblant. Incidentally, when I learned that New Orleans' newspaper was called the Times-Picayune, I had a hard time believing that they didn't swipe the name from Bloom County's rag. As a teenager, I decided I should grow up to be Lola Granola; I'm wearing overalls as I type this, ready to garden a bit this afternoon, so maybe that's the connection anymore. I learned what a vegan was from Bloom County. After the aliens swapped Steve Dallas' brain, he ditched Republicanism, got a perm, gave up smoking and eschewed ingesting any animal products. And yes, even though I've been a Democrat since I was a kiddo, I loved Steve, as well. How can you not love a character so sexistly clueless - or cluelessly sexist? He was kind of the antithesis of Cutter John: strapping and healthy, selfish and a defendant of the status quo.

I loved how Bloom County celebrated our hopes and fears, our flaws and fantasies, our accomplishments and mistakes. It's the fault of cockroaches that Bush the elder chose Dan Quayle - I laminated that one, as it was from the last strip received at the doorstep of my native home before our big move downstate; a souvenir. Don't we all need a field of dandelions to escape to to ponder the meaning of life? And of course, there was Opus to love the most. I think I like him - and identify with him - because he's always a little out of place, but wide-eyed, receptive and hopeful. He, like me, suffers from foot-in-mouth disease ("Hare Krishnas = Hairy Fishnuts"). He's both a progressive and a traditionalist. He's a romantic at heart, but also a thinker - for real, he is. And he's got a penchant for silly hats. I don't have that penchant, but I have a deep admiration for it. In recent years, I've assumed that if I ever got a tattoo, it would probably be of Opus; maybe of him looking chastened. Of course, I'm not so sure that pudgy, perplexed penguin anywhere on my body would entice my husband's amourous fingertips to continue their tradition of tracing my curves. (That's for you, VirginiaGal ... you can open your eyes, now, or clean up the puke on your chin, depending on your reaction.)

Now he's gone to live in his fantasy. Even with being so far behind in reading the latest strip as to feel estranged, I can't help but feel loss. My pudgy penguin friend won't be there anymore to greet me on Sundays. My Steve-Dallas-doppelganger pal doesn't think this is the last from Breathed. He's sure he'll pull a Michael Jordan in a couple of years and resurrect something from Bloom County to run for a few years again. I'm not as convinced. Though, I'd be thrilled if he did. Certainly, I'll have the books to keep me company (note to self: ask for entire collection for Christmas?), he'll no longer be part of my Sunday. Who'll fill that gap? Boondocks? Our paper hasn't run that strip in about 2 years. Bastards. Doonesbury? Too overtly political - excellent, but I prefer foibled accessibility. Foxtrot? Puh-leeze. Maybe Pearls Before Swine or Non Sequitir. Apparently, Berkeley Breathed is going to focus on writing childrens' books. I guess if/when Honey and I have kids, I can use those as a starter drug to lure the bairn into the church of Bloom County. Our favorite Homer Simpson quote is, "Raising kids is easy. You teach them to hate the things you hate, and what with the internet and all, they practically raise themselves." I don't hate much, but I do hope I can inculcate them to appreciate the pen of Berke Breathed.

3BT: Early "Voting," Soundtrack, Complacent Canine

2008-10-30T05:52:00.000-04:00

In the spirit of Clare; some things that I noticed yesterday:

1. On a mid-day trip to 7-11, I caught a cardboard merchandise stand near the door. "Cast Your Vote '08," it pitches. I can choose to buy non-campaign endorsed keychains, buttons, bumperstickers and the like for either Obama or McCain. As you can see from the photo on the right, Obama's merchandise was all sold out. McCain's merchandise still had plenty to offer. It re-affirms my hope that we'll have a sincere change of leadership next week.

2. On my walk to 7-11, I plugged into my iPod to find I'd left it not on shuffle, as per usual, but on the Amelie soundtrack. I walked deliberately slowly down the blocks from my office to the store so that I could soak up the music. The capricious cold breezes and cool grey sky were completely opposed to the warm, semi-nostalgic light that bathes virtually every scene in that movie. Nonetheless, when the music began, I felt suddenly awakened to the world around me ... a little like the title heroine.

3. Babydog had to have a bath last night. Apparently on her walk yesterday, she decided to roll around in a pile of some other dog's poop, and our dog-walker discovered what enticed her too late. She managed to wipe off and gently clean the bulk of it, but Babydog still had some smudged in her fur, and she stunk. She hates being bathed and will wriggle away as much as possible. But last night, she dutifully stood in the bathtub as I focused the shower sprayer on her. With soaked fur looking like feathers, she looks up at me as if to say, "Is this what you want? Fine. See if I care. It was worth it!"

Shifting

2008-10-29T06:39:00.000-04:00

Change is a comin'. And I'm not just talking about the upcoming election.

I'm tired of my job. I've been there for a little less than two years and I think I burned around mid-September. I approached my boss about two months ago with the possibility of a promotion and a raise and he was receptive, provided I continue to prove myself through the crunch period of a project that culminated the first week of this month. Yesterday we continued the conversation. He thinks I should talk more in depth about raise and title change with my immediate supervisor. I am excited by the prospect, but the truth is, I'm exhausted. I need something different. I do love what I do, though frankly, I've never been excited about where I do it or the products we produce nor the clients for whom we produce them. My tolerance for any job has always been about a year, so I'm overdue. Maybe all I need is a long vacation. Not just a week, but two or three - something that is anathema to Americans and certainly the American work structure.

... and I'm enjoying performing again. Not that I ever really stopped enjoying it. I always love it. But I'm enjoying it differently these days. My degree is in acting and I never really pursued it: I'm not that disciplined or competitive to make a career of it, plus too much of anything, not matter how much I love it, turns me off, for a while at least. I don't think I want to go back to working towards a stage career, maybe not even a local TV career, but I am seeing that I can make money - if not a living - locally by performance gigs in the region. The gist of all this is that I'd like to find some way, ultimately, to create a work/life path whereby I can pursue performance more, make money at that as well, and still continue in my line of work, making money at that and start writing, in earnest, making money at that and ideally, have better control over my time, so that quality time with my family is not just a pie-in-the-sky concept. This is probably impossible, but I figure I have to at least attempt it.

So, I'm beginning to take steps and I've decided to do something each day - no matter how great or small - to nudge the path a little forward. Yesterday, I continued the conversation with my boss about advancement and management projects they're giving me. While that continues me in my current office, it still puts me in a position that allows me to bandy for something better when I look outside the office. Additionally, I started dropping crumbs of discontent, specifically about work/life and work/work balance. (Though I rarely get paid for my performance gigs, I've decided to classify them as work, because they are labor intensive and I'm starting to look for paying gigs more.) Hopefully, it won't come out of the blue later this month when I start talking to him about the possibility of job-share - a conversation I had with a semi-freelance colleague of mine who worked with us through the big nasty project this summer and fall. She wants more hours, more stability and ultimately a full-time staff job. I want fewer hours and, provided I learn how to sell myself and manage my time better (big HA on both), ultimately I imagine freelance to be something I'd like to do. At issue is this: she's been in the industry longer, has a higher title than mine - internally, the title to which I am currently aspiring and which probably most other offices would assign me or hire me on. If we successfully pitch this job-share idea, it will be hard to also successfully pitch me as worthy of the title and/or pay adjustment. Honey and I brainstormed negotiations the other day. We'll see how things go over the weeks and months.

Other things great and small I've been doing lately: submitted my resume to a company for whom I'd like to do no-brain work from home stuff (giving me more time to perform and write); started updating my LinkedIn page and getting in touch with more industry colleagues through that site whom I haven't seen in a while; begun creating a website to showcase my talents and not just have some supremely lame vanity place holder; and I'm trying to get better about updating my resume more frequently and tailoring it to certain positions. I despise touching my resume. Not sure why. I'm sure it has something to do with my reluctance for self-promotion, but I gotta get over that. It's agonizing to overcome that revulsion, by the way.

My goal is to be out of that office, doing something different by January; April at the latest. Let's see if that happens. One thing's for sure: if June, the month where the mega-project crunch traditionally gets into high gear, rolls around and I'm still there, then I've failed.

Update

2008-10-25T07:19:00.000-04:00

Thanks to all of you who offered kind thoughts and prayers for my dad's recovery. Mommanator asked for, and it seems only fair that I deliver, an update on Dad's condition.

He had the surgery on the 13th, a Monday, and went home on the 20th, a Monday. I haven't talked to him on the phone since Wednesday, I think, but he sounds better and better every time I talk to him. He got the flowers I ordered him and sounds like he's in good spirits. I don't know how long he'll have to stay home recovering, but I trust all is well.

In general, the folks in ICU were impressed with him and his recovery. For one, they were impressed that a man of his age (62) with his general overall health problems was recovering along at such a good clip, especially for someone who had already had that surgery once before. It's my understanding that we only have 4 or 5 arteries in our heart, but after two triple-bypasses, Dad's heart must now look like it's crawling with worms! Awesome! They were also impressed that his memory was so sharp after all the meds that were being pumped into him and the mega-anesthesia from which he was recovering. One of his nurses, Chris, was stunned that Dad remembered his name. The nurses switched shifts around 7AM/PM. At 7AM, Tuesday, Dad's surgery was only 18 hours old. He should've been foggy on Chris' name by 7PM, but wasn't, nor was he foggy on the other ICU nurse's name. Honey says that's the preacher in him: having to remember the names of strangers after a few casual meetings. Probably, but that skill is also probably helpful in the recovery process - assuming being mentally astute is helpful.

I have to leave in a few minutes for a road trip. The group I perform with is travelling up the coast for a benefit show. Yea! Road trip! But spouses and significant others have to stay home. Grr. Hopefully, Honey will come with me next month when we hit the road again. Anymore, we're having to make time for each other, which seems silly as we sleep next to each other and all! Such is life. Sheesh, what's it gonna be like if we have kids?

Like a Child

2008-10-13T11:40:00.001-04:00

Dad had his second open-heart surgery yesterday. For those keeping track at home, his first was in the mid-80s.

We went to church Sunday morning and as the senior minister was out on vacation, Dad was scheduled to preach. It wasn't one of his better or more memorable sermons - it was new, anyway - but I really enjoyed hearing him preach. I always enjoy it, but since I don't live nearby and since he's no longer the senior minister, hearing him preach is always a treat. It was good to see some folks there that I hadn't seen for a few years. People offered their prayers; one of Dad's parishoners stopped by their house yesterday afternoon specifically to pray with us. As I don't know her, I didn't know what to think of it. Her prayer though was really sweet and comforting. She referred to Dad, in her prayer, as a man with a heart as big as all outdoors; and he is one of the very few people I've ever met for whom I think that description is perfect. She also brought my mom a little scarecrow rag doll she picked up at a crafts store. Ultimately, I really appreciated her visit.

Mom had been tearing and crying a little here and there all Sunday. I had been playing the supportive daughter, there to cheer on Dad and comfort Mom. I was definitely worried, but I wasn't letting myself show it. I had actually convinced myself that I was okay, that I had my worries in check. I suppressed my own emotions so much I almost snowed myself over. Almost. Before I went to sleep Sunday night, it all came out. I cried and cried and let myself be scared and just let it out to God telling him how scared I was and how worried I was. All my doubts and fears. I'm not sure I'd talked that candidly to God in a long, long time. Years maybe. In crying and reaching out, I discovered I suppress a lot of my negative emotions. Or I have been in recent years. It felt genuinely good to weep and genuinely good to just get candid with God.

This was different from his first triple by-pass. I didn't go with him to the hospital on the day of the surgery the first time. I was eight. My brother and I stayed the night with my mom's baby brother and his wife. They were so cool when we were kids, simply because they were young. I remember my uncle gave me an Apple computer t-shirt with the colored apple logo on it. It was sized for an adult male, so it swallowed me up, but I wore as a night shirt. We didn't get to see Dad for a day or two after the surgery. When we finally went to the hospital, my mom warned us to be gentle and not too loud because he was trying to recover. I remember walking into his room and him standing up from the edge of his bed, wearing a green bathrobe, and seeing the stitches on his left shin. That's where the doctor had removed his leg veins, which were transplanted to his heart to replace (or by-pass?) the old clogged arteries. But to my eight-year-old eyes, the stitching was sinister. Had the surgeon made a Frankenstein monster out of my dad? It sure looked like it! He opened his arms wide to receive hugs from us, and I delivered, cautiously, in case he was a Frankenstein monster and tried to kill us suddenly. During the nights he was in the hospital, my brother and I slept with mom in their bed. It felt good to all sleep together when we all felt so sad and scared.

Sunday night, as I hunched on my parents' guest bed, crying and clutching a teddy bear mom had bought as a stage prop for a one-act she directed when she taught high school in West Texas, I realized I felt just as scared and vulnerable as I did when I was eight. Not only that, I wish I had the protections provided me when I was eight. When I was eight, I didn't have to wake at some ungodly hour to go with Dad to the hospital for check in and surgery prep. When I was eight, I didn't have to watch as they wheeled Dad away into surgery. When I was eight, I didn't have to wait for hours in a waiting room, anticipating each visit from the nurse. When I was eight, though I've always feared losing my parents, I think I was maybe less afraid of losing my dad than I am now. ... no, I've always been exactly as afraid of losing him as I am now.

We were very fortunate to be surrounded by friends and family yesterday. Dad's boss, the senior minister at his church, arrived at the hospital around 5:50, when we were arriving and stayed throughout the whole procedure until we got the all-clear, around 1:30 yesterday afternoon. I didn't know him well, but got to know him better; he's a nice guy and I can see why my family likes him. My uncle who lives in the Dallas area was down for a 6-month check up from his oncologist at a nearby hospital. (He's been cancer-free for years now, but still has to get the official thumbs up every 6 months.) He stopped in for a while, between appointments, to sit with us. We made waiting-room friends with a Muslim family who were awaiting news about their brother. One of his sisters - the one who wore a scarf and traditional clothes - had a chain of prayer beads that reminded me of a rosary. Though I cherish the iconoclasm of the strain of protestantism in which I was raised, sometimes I wish we had retained traditions like that from our Catholic forebears. We're 3-D beings, having something tactile to cling to doesn't have to be idolatry. But I digress. Other friends from my parents' church stopped by to check in. A little after 2, about 45 minutes to an hour after surgery, Mom and I were allowed to visit him in the ICU recovery room. Poor guy was so far whacked on anesthesia, he barely opened one eye. Mom held his hand and talked to him for a few minutes and then we both said goodbye.

Mom had to return home around 4 to meet with a repairman about some light fixes to the house. There's still a lot of Ike debris around the city: tarps on roofs, tons of tree branches gathered here and there; signs knocked off. My brother arrived in time for the 5PM visitor period. Before we went in, I warned him that a few hours earlier, Dad looked like a coma patient and he had tubes coming out of him and he was pasty white and cold. He nodded. We're grown ups. We can handle seeing our dad look like that right? HA! Immediately, we both started tearing up. By this time, Dad was more responsive. He couldn't speak with the tube in his mouth, but at least his eyes were open and he could communicate non-verbally. "Blink if you know we're here, Dad," my brother said. He blinked. "Blink twice if you're still going to vote for Obama," I requested. He blinked twice of course. My brother and I did what we always do when we're scared or sad, we cracked wise. I think Dad appreciated it because we could see him sort of turn up the corners of his mouth in an attempted grin. I figured out that he had an itch on his right arm, so my brother scratched it. "There are so many tubes coming out of you, you look like a cow being milked!" my brother told him. Immediately, I SO wanted to say, "Dad! Be careful! Soylent Green! It's made of PEOPLE!" But everyone else in the recovery room was so quiet. We were the only ones really talking aloud. Other family members just hovered over their loved ones. Thankfully, Dad wasn't the worst looking. I actually feel sorry for Dad in that hall. Not just because he's uncomfortable, but because he's having to share space with people who really do look a lot worse off than him, right now.

After our visit yesterday afternoon, my brother broke down in the hall outside ICU recovery. I held him and let him cry on my shoulder and let myself cry on his. Seeing Dad as vulnerable as that exposed all our vulnerabilities. Again, I was grateful that when I was a child, I was protected from that.

Mom visited him this morning. He's still in ICU recovery, but he's sitting up, the tube is out of his mouth, and he's talking. It takes forever for anesthesia to fully wear off, so he'd forgotten that we visited yesterday, but that's fine. The fact that he went from droopy-tongue coma to Diving Bell and the Butterfly messaging within a couple of hours yesterday to sitting up and talking this morning is really, really encouraging to me. Bro will be coming by in about 15 minutes to pick me up to hang out before we visit him at 5. Dad will probably be moved out of recovery and into a room tomorrow. That will be a good thing, as the poor man needs a window, and we won't have as restrictive visiting times. I leave tomorrow morning, so I'll probably say goodbye to him tonight as the 8 o'clock visitation ends. Which sucks. I'd much rather get to say goodbye to him in his own room, or at home, but I'll take what I can get.

I waffled a bit on whether or not to come down for this. They don't "need" me. Technically, there's nothing I can do to help the situation. And, selfishly, I'm scared. But in retrospect, I'm terribly glad I did. A triple by-pass surgery is nothing to be trifled with and a second one, even less so. I think it was heartening for him to see me in his time of need. Maybe I also needed to come down, to expose myself to my own fears and become a little girl again. That wouldn't've happened had I stayed home.

Reading Habits: Book Meme

2008-10-03T05:52:00.000-04:00

Darla has tagged me with a book meme.

So, without further ado:

Do you remember how you developed a love for reading?
No. I remember when I developed a love for my husband and a love for Cohen brothers movies. Aside from that, I don't remember when or how I developed a love for reading, eating, cinema or anything else in my life that makes me happy, for that matter. ... I do have fond memories of going to the library a lot as a kid. Particularly for the brief period we lived in Kansas when I was a tot. Mom didn't have a job, so she stayed at home with me. We went to the library and the park every day. Rifling through storybooks and then rumbling through the playground. I also remember spending a lot of my grade school youth reading whatever newspapers and news magazines were lying around the house. We usually had 2 or 3 subscriptions at a time. As a result, my classmates thought I was a huge nerd. Nothing more confounding to her peers than a wonkish 8-year-old.

What are some books you read as a child?
Man, my memory sucks. I remember, as a small child, the Little Golden Books. Tawny, Scrawny Lion and the sort. I am a child of the 80s, and cross-marketing, so I remember having and enjoying several Sesame Street books. When I could read for myself, 2nd or 3rd grade, I remember reading almost all of Beverly Cleary's books - at least all I could get my hands on. I remember liking Skinnybones, Judy Blume's books and books written to compete with her. Though, they seemed to fall short of her talent. In about 5th or 6th grade, I went through a "real mysteries" and paranormal phase. I read a lot of books about UFOs and the Loch Ness monster, Amelia Earhart's disappearance and the like. I was lured by the fright and thrill of the possible but unproven.

What is your favorite genre?
Don't think I have one.

Do you have a favorite novel?
As with movies or music, my favorite of anything shifts with periods in my life. Novels that have really spoken to me in the last few years are Lamb and The Handmaid's Tale (both on my blogger profile). I haven't really found any novel that I've read in the last 2 or 3 years that's really struck me. With the exception of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, which I read earlier this year. That book keeps harping my memory. I liked its voice.

Where do you usually read?
In bed. On weekends, when I'm not running errands from the week or doing laundry, if it's not already occupied by Honey or Babydog, the fainting couch in our living room.

When do you usually read?
Before I fall asleep. On weekends.

Do you usually have more than one book you are reading at a time?
Rarely. I'm a slow reader and am easily distracted, so I usually just focus on one at a time. I find if I pick up another book while I'm reading one, it's a death knell for whichever one I began. How much of that is a testament to my short attention span and how much is a testament to the lameness of the first book, I don't know.

Do you read nonfiction in a different way or place than you read fiction?
No.

Do you buy most of the books you read, or borrow them, or check them out of the library?
It's a mix. Right now, I'm challenging myself to read books in my own library that I've accrued but not yet read, or have begun reading, but got distracted and didn't finish. So, I haven't checked out a book for a while. I think my favorite thing is to borrow books, though. Not only because I don't have to turn it in in 2 weeks or face a fine, but because it usually comes with a recommendation and an affection from the lender. When people share their music, movies or books or other media and culture with you, it brings you closer to them.

Do you keep most of the books you buy? If not, what do you do with them?
Yes. Did you not just read the previous paragraph? I do like lending my books out or giving them away.

If you have children, what are some of the favorite books you have shared with them? Were they some of the same ones you read as a child?
I don't have children. Though, I did read Dogzilla to Babydog one night.

What are you reading now?
Paula, by Isabel Allende. Not deep enough into yet to cry ... a lot.

Do you keep a TBR (to be read) list?
I have one on my computer somewhere. Anymore, I keep the list on our Amazon wishlist. Or ... I just go to my own bookshelves, as I'm trying to satisfy my self-styled challenge.

What’s next?
Not sure. I tried, for the umpteenth time, earlier this year to read Little Women, but I still can't get into that book. It's still on my bedstand. Mocking me. Maybe that one. Or Living Buddha, Living Christ, by Thich Nat Hahn, lent me by a dear friend last year. Though, I think I'll go for something fiction after two non-fiction in a row. We'll see.

What books would you like to reread?
The full Hitchhiker series. I've re-read the first book several times, but not the whole series. That, I've done only once.

Who are your favorite authors?
Douglas Adams. Though I wasn't that impressed with him when I read Mother Tongue, after a Brief History of Nearly Everything, I have a new appreciation for Bill Bryson. Kurt Vonnegut. It's been a few years since I've been on a KV wave, but I do really like him.

So that's that. I guess I'm supposed to tag people. How about the frequent readers? Pearl, Joe, Mommanator and Sonnjea. Happy Friday!

WMML for the last few days

2008-10-01T06:37:00.000-04:00

Yes. I'm ripping off the title of this post from the regular feature on Sonnjea's blog. But imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I hope she takes it as such.

Thank goodness for John McCain. Without him, a sophomoric joke from The Office that has had Honey and me in stitches since Thursday would've probably petered out by now. ("Petered out? Then why am I pregnant?" Hey-oh!)

In the season premiere of The Office, the folks at Dunder Mifflin were having an office weigh-in to compete in their company-wide summer weight loss challenge. As they crowded on the warehouse scale, Dwight was trying to get people to eat more to skew the results, so their end loss would be larger. He walked up to one of his officemates and held an eclair to her face. "Here, eat this eclair. If you can't swallow, at least hold it in your mouth." The camera focused on Jim who clearly got a kick out of Dwight's request. It took a few beats for me to figure out that it was a double entendre, but I've been riding it all week. Both Honey and I have been walking around the house looking for excuses to say, "If you can't swallow, at least hold it in your mouth." Yes. We're extraordinarily mature!

Around Sunday night, the joke started aging a little. But thankfully, the Republican candidate for the Presidency revived it for us. Monday morning, 6AM: we're sitting in the kitchen, checking emails, reading the news, etc and listening, as we do every morning to Morning Edition. The reporter is delivering a story about McCain and the bailout plan. They play a clip (about 15 seconds into this file) and McCain says something that rouses Honey and me out of our groggy Monday morning stupors. "This is something that all of us will swallow hard and go forward with."

Immediately, we died laughing. Awww, yeeeaaaahhhh! If you can't swallow the bailout, at least hold it in your mouth, America.

Our reaction was completely juvenile, I know. And, that I've been mashing up those two bits of media in my brain have kept me giggling for a week speaks to my utter lack of sophistication. But it certainly woke me up, on a morning when I so dreaded going into work that I wanted to cry. And it woke me up enough to really get a good workout on the Wii Fit - something I hadn't done in weeks. So ... thank you, John McCain. You are a Monday morning hero to this young woman!

Leonard Cohen and The Perils of Being a Preacher's Progeny

2008-09-27T09:01:00.000-04:00

I tried to find a soundfile to embed, but alas, I couldn't. So I posted this video, which I really only want you to listen to. The sound is grainy, clearly an old LP, but I actually kind of like that.

I am a preacher's kid. Before I get into the meat of this post, please allow me to address your first set of questions: No, my home life was not like that of the chick in Footloose! Nor was I a rebellious, booz-swilling, drug-addled, leg-spreading hellian. Nor was I (or am I) a white-gloved, goody two-shoes. I was just a kid who lived in a home with a dog and parents who loved her and her brother. I was brought us up in a religious household and my parents encouraged introspection and inquiry, and mercy toward others, so I've always been personally baffled by the constrictive Footloose model. (Though that more closely mirrors the preacher-kid [PK] upbringing my mom had.)

Peril #1: Having to swat off stereotypes superglued to you and to your family. (Do doctors', cops' or military members' kids get the same "knowing" wink and tongue-click that PKs get? Ugh. Letting it go.) Peril #2: If you're female, you are concerned that you might end up marrying a preacher. Why? Because your mom was a PK, or your grandmother, or someone close in the family line. It seems to be genetic. I had several PK friends in high school and college, and they all had that fear. Nothing against ministers - most of us were very comfortable in church, loved other ministers and repected our minister parents (some were mothers, of course) - but the tendency for preachers' daughters to marry back into the ministry unnerved us. Not only is it an itinerant lifestyle - a few years in Texas, a few in Oregon, etc - like a military family, but we know first hand the social pressure of expectations on ministers' families and the wives, specifically. They're mini-First Ladies, whether they like it or not or are good at it or not; especially in small communities. My peers and I were children of feminism. We didn't want to be shoe-horned.

There are more, I'm sure. Like people suppose you to be able to quote and accept the Bible front to back or conversely that you totally reject religion (the adult version of the PK stereotypes). But the peril that I stumbled upon recently was actually rather benign. And yes, it tarries back to the simple video embedded above.

Most preachers I know draw heavily upon pop-culture for their sermon references. Our last minister loved to reference Ann Lamott, who Darla recommended I read to help me better my writing. The minister of the church where Honey and I met and married frequently referenced Emily Dickinson, upon whose works he wrote his doctoral dissertation. One of Honey's favorite religion professors - also a retired minister - would open his semester with a class screening of Star Wars. My dad is partial to dropping Bob Dylan references. In fact, he has a sermon in his repetoire, "I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now," though I can't recall what the theological tie-in theme is.

When you grow up hearing movie scenes, song or poetry lyrics and literary themes framed in terms of biblical or theological analogies, or in terms of modern parable, it's easy to kind of find them everywhere. And sometimes, there are moments that just coalesce and I think, "Dang, this is a sermon analogy begging to happen." This is the benign peril of which I write.

A few months ago, in advance of the release of the lastest Indiana Jones movie, Honey and I rewatched the first three. Toward the end of the movie, Indy and his father are escaping the crumbling temple where the grail has been kept for eons. The hot blond Nazi has just fallen into a widening crevasse, and now Indy is in the same danger. His father, who refuses to call him Indiana, now clings to Indy, trying to lift him out of the crevasse. "Henry, let it go!" he pleads. Indy ignores him, blinded by sudden greed, trying to reach for the grail just beyond his grasp. Then his father calmly calls, "Indiana." The trance is broken. Indy relents and is pulled to safety. Immediately, the voice of Leonard Cohen sprung into my head singing, "love calls you by your name." Then two seconds later, I thought, "Man, there has to be a sermon in here."

Now, I can't think of that scene, nor listen to that song without thinking that they are begging to be weaved into a sermon. Perilous!

I rarely fixate on song lyrics (it can take me years of hearing a song over and over before it really strikes me what the artist is conveying), but what I love about "Love Calls You By Your Name" is that it seems to bring quiet mercy to moments of vulnerability in spaces narrow and vast: "between the windmill and the grain/ between the traitor and her pain." At least that's what I hear. And I've always been touched that Dr. Jones the elder humbled himself to the name that his son recognized. I can't think of an exact scripture reference that this could tie in to; the bible is full of naming and calling issues (Sarai became Sarah; Gabriel pretty much tells Mary what she's gonna call her baby; God calls Samuel out in the night; the still small voice). I think ceremonial re-naming is still something done in Judaism, on occasion. But frankly, it seems like this could be used in several sermons. Love calls you by your name. God is love. God calls you when and where you are vulnerable and most in need of mercy ... I don't know.

But that's my peril. Benign; but it itches. The upshot of this is that I've since introduced my dad to Leonard Cohen. As my dad is the one who trained my musical palate to favor yarn-spinning and story-tellers, I'm a little surprised that he wasn't more familiar with him, beyond the ubiquitous "Hallelujiah." Especially since they're both baby boomers! But he likes him and I have a feeling is going to seek him out more. Maybe I'll get him some CDs for Christmas.

Since this is my 200th post, and since you've been so nice to read this far, I figure I'll give a little more media. Enjoy the mixtape I made for Dad ... who just got electricity back TODAY, two weeks after Ike blew through (WOOHOO!), and who will be facing open heart surgery in another 3 weeks. Yipes. Here's love calling out to him!

Hurri-update

2008-09-17T20:59:00.001-04:00

To the right, there is an image from the Houston Chronicle this week. I believe that's in Orange or Seabrook or some other eastern, coastal Texas town. I think it's AWESOME! Don't you think it looks like some Double Dare physical challenge?

I've been checking in on the Chronicle pretty regularly the last few days, to gather information that my family cannot access. I've been texting them updates about where FEMA has ice and food stations, how much of the metro area has power back, etc, etc, etc. Luckily (miraculously ?), their church has some power, so Mom and Dad have been spending parts of each day there, cooling off and checking email. Mom says they've lucked out in that, since Sunday, they've had at least one warm meal a day - either spaghetti made on a hot plate at church - or lunch at the slowly re-opening restaurants. The rest of their meals are typical hurricane/blizzard fare: tunafish from the can, peanut butter, breakfast bars, etc, etc. The water is still not potable, but at least it's back on.

My brother and his fiancee have skipped most of the misery hanging out in Austin. I guess nothing says "tough aftermath" like a Shiner on the roof-top of Maggie Mae's. But I think they're returning in the next few days. Bro reported that my cousin's wife pulled a 48 hour shift at the hospital for the first part of the storm. By the time she was driving home, she was so frazzled and frustrated by all the debris between the hospital and her house, she had a freakout moment and called my cousin to drive to wherever she was a pick her up. Be nice to your medical residents, people.

Folks are for the most part behaving themselves but they're wary of looters. Houston is equipped with cops who are arrest-happy right now, so I don't know that the citizenry minds that so much as they normally would.

I only lived in Houston for about a year and a half, maybe a little more. I wouldn't call it home, but I certainly have a fond attachment to the city. I never endured any hurricanes or tropical storms. My family has endured the latter more than the former. This is the first direct hurricane hit since they've lived there that I know of. What I'm trying to wrap my head around is what the city must look like right now. At roughly 4 million residents, it's the 4th largest city in the U.S. and it sprawls for-e-ver. And it's so humid. The moisture in the air is always pretty thick - not NOLA thick, but pretty darn close. Mom said the streets looked flat deserted the Sunday after the storm. I'm trying to picture the humming city silenced, dark at night, her downtown streets littered with shards of broken glass and metal scrap, the residential streets impassable because of downed trees. I think it's the dark metropolis that boggles my mind the most. No orange glow domed over the metropolis. In a small town, a dark city isn't as frightening. Comforting, even, maybe. But a sprawling city? I find no comfort in that.

... NOLA. Yeah, those are some people I'm concerned about in Houston these days. Those poor folks: displaced and the lion's share of them are in Houston, now. While the damage in Houston isn't NEARLY as bad as it was in New Orleans, it still must be disconcerting. NPR had a piece this morning about Katrina survivors in Houston now dealing with Ike. It was mostly hopeful, but I felt such a pang of sadness when one woman said that when Ike blew water under her apartment door she got scared; and when she stepped into some flooding in her street, she got a flashback.

I just hope this mess gets cleaned up to soon. I worry for my family. Even restoring power to their neighborhoods would be immeasurably helpful at this juncture.

in vino veritas: I (don't) Like Ike!

2008-09-13T20:55:00.000-04:00

I've written several blogposts under the influence of the claret stuff. And tonight is no different. Since this seems to be a sporadic trend with me, I've decided to start placing the caveat in the title: "in vino veritas." (Sidebar: a dear friend of mine, who is frakkin' adorable and lovable when she's drunk told me I'll be a good parent and my first child will be a boy. "In vino veritas," she told me. Sweet doll! I don't care what sex my first kid will be but I'd forgotten that phrase. I'm hijacking it now.)

"I (don't) Like Ike!" This must be a post on Dwight Eisenhower's farewell speech to the nation warning against the military-industrial complex! No. I already (kinda) did that. Though, for more on that, you should rent Why We Fight; the 2005 documentary, not the Capra series. I'm sure the latter is good, the former is really great.

Nein. I mean Ike, the hurricane that hit the shores of my homeland, today. I've been busy, pretty much all day, with performances and rehearsals, so I'd been out of touch with what's been going on on the front doorsteps of my family. I talked to my brother and parents yesterday afternoon to make sure they were prepared. (For those of you just tuning in: they live in Houston.)

After evacuating for Rita, during which the normally 4-hour drive to San Antonio became 12 hours with 2 million of their best friends on the road - all fresh with images of their drowned neighbors just a few hours down I-10 - my family discovered that sometimes sheltering in place isn't the worst idea. Granted Rita was predicted to be a Cat-4 or 5 when the evac notices went out. It was a 2 or 3 when it hit Houston. Nonetheless, this time they all decided to hunker down and ride out Ike at home. As Ike was predicted to be a weak 3 (and wound up being a strong 2) when it hit Houston, and as Houston is not built below sea level, surviving at the mercy of levees, I think they made the right choice. Granted, I suppose we'll see in coming days.

My brother had been off of work since Thursday. Mom and my bro's fiancee, both teachers, had Friday off to prep for the storm. My bro filled up a bathtub. Mom and Dad boarded up the most vulnerable windows in their house (the sunroom) and tucked the grill against the house. Apparently, they don't think the wind can smash a grill into a window. Go figure.

Now my family are all without power. They anticipate this will be the case for at least a few days. Pretty much the entire metro area - 5 million people - are without power. Mom texted to say she feels so estranged from the outside world without access to the Net or national TV. Poor things. My cousin emailed to say that her brother - she, a surrogate sister to me, and her brother a surrogate bro to mine own - who happens to live a few blocks from my own Bro, is at home with the dogs while his wife, a young doctor, is a the hospital on call. He's hunkered down with a bag of chips and two packed pistols. Which cracks my shit up as he's as blue-bleeding liberal as we are. (Of course, in Texas, people aren't afraid of guns. Even bleeding libs might pack - they just want the guns regulated and legally obtained.) The worst part of all this is that Houston is a fucking hot and humid place from about February 20 to November 19. I'm specific, because I remember canvassing for the Sierra club in February of 1995 and praying for God to just please drown me in this sky sweat he created to punish the oil-drillers with. Sheer misery. I now agree with "Dad-0f-the-early 90s" who claimed any place east of the Pecos river was too hot and humid to visit. It's true. So true. Give me 120 degrees in a desert with 2% humidity any day over 72 degrees and 72% humidity. My poor family must be sweating away pounds faster than Richard Simmons right now. Ugh.

Anyway, that's what's on my mind tonight: my brother and his fiancee and their bathtub fountain; my parents and their grill; my cousin protecting his dogs with a couple of guns while his sainted wife delivers babies in the ER and no air conditioning anywhere in the god-forsaken Galveston Bay.

... I suppose I can be grateful that they don't live in Galveston. Knowing my parents, they'd've evacuated. Knowing my brother ...? Well, I'm just grateful he lives more inland!

... just got a phone call from Bro. Apparently, he had a job function in Austin on Monday anyway. So he and my future sister-in-law are high-tailing it inland where there is family to stay with and air-conditioning to relax in.

Take a deep breath

2008-08-28T22:08:00.000-04:00

After my freakout dream last week, and the subsequent slump I fell into later in the week, I was, according to my loving spouse, intolerable. Greeaaat. Luckily, a weekend of rehearsals and dinner with friends proved a good salve, I think. I'm still stressed out about work and life and balancing the two, but I suspect I'm back to being tolerable. Until I'm delightful again, I'll take tolerable.

So, this week, I've been trying to keep my eyes open to little blessings and inspirations. Always in the spirit of Clare. Here are some that I found that have made me smile, and feel good, in no particular order.

Honey, spotted a postcard from last week's Post Secret. It said "Nutella turns me on." He looked over at me. "Did you send this in?" I didn't. But we both know I may as well have.

Hearing The Beatles' Revolution this morning on the drive in to work. I almost changed the channel. I know this song. Frakkin' Nike used it to hawk overpriced shoes. Why hear it again for the umpteenth time on a station aimed at my parents? But I listened anyway with newer ears. It gave me a charge to keep on keepin' on ("Don't you know it's gonna be alright?"). And for some reason it seemed fitting today, the 45th anniversary of my childhood hero's seminal speech, the same day that Barack Obama, heir to that dream (though, I suppose we're all heirs), accepts his nomination as the Democratic candidate for President. My God, I'm ready for this revolution. Please let it work.

Walking to grab lunch after a morning rain, today. Seeing droplets clinging to the leaves of trees and their soggy blossoms. Feeling content in the saturated colors around me, in the soppy creation.

What's Molly Dreaming Now? Edition 8

2008-08-21T05:52:00.001-04:00

I slept harder last night than I had done in relatively recent memory. Here is the journey I took through the sandman's world:

I had dinner with Tina Fey. She and I were eating massive sandwiches and I was talking to her about my recent health issues and how I'm still trying to cope with those, physically and emotionally. The ear she lent me was completely sympathetic. Poor thing was basically my therapist over hoagies.

Then I dreamt that I was at home with Honey, but we were in an apartment from which we would be moving soon. Our apartment looked like a larger version of one of my childhood bedrooms. I ventured into our kitchen and discovered we were hosting a sorority reunion (Kappa something or other), which was particularly interesting since I was never in a sorority and Honey scorns collegiate social fraternities. I didn't mind so much except that they had brought all these fantastic cream puffs, vegetable platters and liquor and it was all off-limits to me. In my own kitchen! They weren't even going to leave any leftovers with us! Ugh. One of the sorority sisters was a girl I went to high school with, Leah. Leah looked fantastic and had a great job and a little daughter and was happy. ... I still just wanted some puff pastries.

Then I was at work. What my job was was not entirely clear, but it did involve rolled fondant and it took for-e-ver! I was chugging along and chugging along and chugging along and when I finally looked at the clock, it was 4AM. I had been at work for 19 hours! The sun was beginning to paint the black sky periwinkle. I decided it was time to go home and sleep for a few hours ... because there would still be work to do in the morning. More fondant to roll, or whatever. And the staff I was working with was still plugging along. No one was quite sure when to leave.

Normally, when I post a dream, I'm a bit befuddled by my dream and want to hear if any readers have any thoughts as to what the dream "means." This time, I have no doubt.

Tuesday night, I had dinner with my best friend from high school, who was in town on business for a few days. She mentioned that some of my quirks reminded her of Liz Lemon, Tina Fey's character on 30 Rock. She agreed with Honey's assessment of me, in an imagined alternate choice-path, living as Liz Lemon. Why the apartment and why the sorority reunion in my kitchen, I still don't know. Why the denial of food? Still unclear to me, but I LOVE food, so maybe I'm feeling deprived of something and it's manifesting itself in my dreams as happy, sweet, puffy food. But I know exactly why I dreamt the third part of my dream: I am working lots of long hours, lately.

We've got a massive project at work, which will churn on for at least another 6 weeks, for which my average day has become 10 to 10.5 hours long, frequently longer. Yesterday was about 11 and a quarter hours, about 11 and 3/4 if you include the time I left my front door to the time I returned. This has been going on since about mid-June and will continue till early October, if I'm lucky. I'm feeling very stressed out; I'm not getting paid any extra and though I've finally been given responsibilities commensurate to my experience and capabilities, as well as delegation authority, my title still languishes in the dusty entry level.

I'm a zombie. I haven't been reading half of the blogs I normally keep up with - not because I'm not interested, but because I'm exhausted. I have to make appointments to leave at a decent hour (6PM) just so I can have a life or get home to feed my dog on time. And even then, it raises the eyebrows of my superiors, like I'm a slacker. I really like what I do but I detest that I can't have dinner with my husband every night, or that if friends want to meet at 7 for drinks I can't promise I can make it.

I'm feeling really stuck. Family is vital to me. I want to have dinner (preferably before 7) each night with my husband, just like we used to, just like my family did when I was growing up. Outside interests are vital to me. If I have a rehearsal at 7:30, I don't want to have to feel like an asshole for leaving at 7, or 6:30 or 6 or 5:30! Or even if I just want to go to a play or a movie. But, it's not just my office, it's like this anywhere in my line of work. In fact, my office is probably on the better side of work/life management for my industry, so I'm not sure looking elsewhere would improve the balance. I really love my line of work, though. Even though this particular project has a terminus, the time-stress will continue. Maybe not 11 and 12 hour days - though, why should I complain when everyone in this area works those hours in every industry, because we are all hyper-acheivers - but the stress of feeling like an asshole for leaving on time or at a reasonable hour.

I'm between a rock and hard place, I think. I love what I do. I hate that it impedes my real life. I despised my last long-running office. It was an insult to my intelligence and my creativity. It accounted for 70% of the reason I went to grad school - anything to keep the synapses firing. But I was out by 5PM, sharp. This job insults neither (though I'm not a fan of our products, per se), but the dinner hour is ruined.

So sorry to be dour. So sorry I haven't checked your blogs in a long, long time. Maybe in October?

Wow! I can never watch that fantastic piece of cinema again!

2008-08-12T21:03:00.000-04:00

This evening I was driving home, listening to a Pandora "quick mix" on my phone. "Hoppipolla" came on. It was the music played behind the Children of Men trailer a few years ago and it set my mind on a cinematic drift. Specifically, trying to recall what movies do I never want to see again? I do want to see Children of Men again sometime, but Honey tells me I shouldn't.

Allow me to explain, briefly. Honey saw Children of Men sometime last year. He highly recommended it. Said it was really stirring and urged me to see it so we could talk about it. So, a few months later, when he was out of town, I rented it and watched. With the company of a few beers (and a playful dog). "So what did you think?" he asked eagerly when he got home. I told him I liked it, but I wanted to see it again to really soak it in. Then I told him I was kinda buzzy when I watched it. "You were drunk?! You need to watch it again sober. If you were sober, you would never want to see that movie again! Watch it again - no beer! - and then we can talk!" It's been probably 9 months since that conversation. I have yet to sit down and try again. But that conversation - and the idea of a negative visceral reaction to a film - was brought back by the simple piano plunks of Sigur Ros.

So what movies can I never watch again, because my reaction was so visceral?

In no particular order, here are a few that come to mind:

1. A Clockwork Orange. A guy I was "messing around with" when I was freshman in college had this movie. We started the evening with several wine coolers (shut up, I was 18) and a viewing of Pink Floyd's The Wall and moved onto this classic later in the night. I have never had a stomach for cruelty in film or on the page. When Malcolm and his thugs invaded the home of the couple and rape the wife in front of the husband, I felt violated, myself. I felt like something had been taken from me. Not my innocence, but a part of my soul, maybe. Maybe my disgust at the scene was partly because I was watching this movie as the only woman in a room full of boys - all of us drunk - who just raved about how great this movie is. Seriously? Doesn't make me feel particularly great - or safe. I know, I know. Clockwork Orange is supposed to be about the relationship between violence and entertainment and moral authority and corruption and yadda, yadda, yadda ... Fine. I got that. Doesn't mean I can ever stomach it again. Rape in cinema? Hurtful. Rape while disabling the victim's partner? Wrenching.

2. Pan's Labyrinth. I really loved this movie. I can't ever watch it again, but I loved it. The fantasy. The beauty in the grotesque. The personal mythology. The Spanish language. Extraordinary soundtrack. (Couldn't shake the lullabye for months.) Yea!! I actually tried watching this again. Honey had rented it. I went downstairs while he had it on, caught about 3 minutes of it and had to go back upstairs. Again: the cruelty. And the cruelty in this film was particularly brutal. A son killed in front of his father - not shot, or anything simple and clean; bludgeoned. Routine torture. Self-surgery. Probably more rape; I blocked a lot of it from my memory. Icky and tragic stuff. And the world that the little girl creates for herself (or maybe really exists) is only marginally better than the hell in which she lives outside her imagination. Technically beautiful film. Eats your heart. Honey agrees that it's a movie he can never watch again. To be honest, I haven't found anyone who's said they can, or have.

3. Schindler's List. Confession. I have actually seen this movie more than once. Twice. But can you take a wild guess as to why I don't want to see it again? Cruelty! The second and last time I saw it was over a decade ago. It was on broadcast TV, no commercials, and maybe no editing. (I'm blanking on that, to be honest.) I guess this is one of those that I don't necessarily want to see again, but it's so gripping and frankly, culturally and historically important, that I would again. Like when we have kids, I won't hesitate to show them this when they're mature enough to grasp it all. [Sidebar: Growing up, my parents were fairly strict about rated-R films. We weren't allowed to see them before age 17. Schindler's List was one of the few exceptions. I was 16, my brother was 12. My folks sensed that this was bigger than the MPAA. I remember it being important for them that we saw it. Like when Dad took me to see Ghandi when I was six. Sub sidebar: That same year, The Secret of NIMH, an animated - though dark - flick about mice. NIMH terrified me. Dad had to take me about 3 times before I could handle it. In the end, I loved it. Ghandi, a 4-hour ouevre stuffed with strife and violence, was apparently just right for my 6-year-old movie palate. That one, I dragged Dad to thrice! What kind of mind is that?]

... okay, I've totally digressed at this point. I can't think of any other films, at this point, that I'd rather not see again, based on a negative visceral reaction. Anything turn your tummy?

Homeward Bound

2008-08-08T06:51:00.001-04:00

... I wish I was/ homeward bound ... home! where my thoughts escape me ... those lyrics were stuck in my head all during the last two weeks of July. Why?

I returned to the place of my birth, after an eleven-year absence, last weekend. I lived in the Texas panhandle until I was 12. It was kind of weird to me that I'd been gone from my native town for almost as long as I'd lived there to begin with.

We went for the wedding of a dear cousin and it was a much-needed escape. Frankly, I think I could've used an additional 2 or 3 days there. Going back home it felt like a favored sweater: safe and familiar. I remembered the streets and routes, for the most part. There's Grandpa's old church; there's our old church; there's my grade school; there's my favorite donut place in the world; that's where we saw a tornado in the early 80s (a field now populated by houses); there's the odor of the feed lots 60 miles away on the wind; there's where Honey and I spent an afternoon making out when we were young lovers and he came to visit me when I spent a summer here in college. It's a town that I relished revisiting and look forward to revisiting. After we moved, when I was in junior high (the wrongest time to ever uproot a child, by the way) to a very, very small town in Southwest Texas so amazingly far from anywhere that you had drive 3 hours just to do anything, my native town was even more dear to me. We returned several times a year during the 90s to visit friends and family. And my parents still trek there at least once a year.

But I also feel like my relationship with my native city has changed. I've grown and developed my own life. And as much as I love my native town, as much as it'll always be home to me, and feel safe, familiar and happy, my relationship with it is almost similar now to my relationship with my parents. I love my parents endlessly. I appreciate everything they've ever done and still do for me, but I wouldn't want to live with them again, if I could avoid it.

It's the same with the native town. It'll always be home and I want to keep revisiting it, because I love it, but I wouldn't want to live there again. There are definitely worse places to live, and if it came up that we needed to move there, I could easily do it; I just wouldn't seek it out.

However, visiting got me thinking about what kind of lifestyle I want. I think about that occasionally, but the last two or three weeks, it's really been on my mind. Going to home to a place where there is NO SUCH THING as rush hour, where family hews together and people are home by 5:15 at the latest, surged the question the front of my mind. Honey and I have always said we'll move west again, seeking a slower pace of life, and I suspect we'll do it at some point - probably after we have kids. But where west? And frankly, after a couple of years when I was aching to move west again, I'm really enjoying where we are right now, I simply want a break from the hyper-acheivement and suffocating time-crunch of this area. I typically get to work between 8:30 and 9, often earlier (though today, I'm allowing myself 9) and don't get home till well after 6, sometimes well after 7. It's often the same for Honey - worse even, seeing as how he goes in earlier than I do. It's been particularly hectic for the last two months and only promises to get worse into the fall. (That's why I've been posting and commenting so infrequently, lately.)

Calvin Trillin, in an interview with Diane Rehm, or maybe Terri Gross, once said he wanted his kids, though raised in Brooklyn, to think they were being raised in Kansas, where he grew up. I think that's what I want, not just that my kids think they're in West Texas, but I want some West Texas here, on the East Coast amidst the 70% humidity, the over-acheivers and the road rage. I really like where I live; I just want to like my life more. I want to breathe.

Oh, and as for the mixtape above. Just a sampling of the soundtrack for the weekend.
1. At the Zoo - Simon and Garfunkel. Every morning, we had a home-cooked breakfast at my aunt and uncle's house. They made sure to have music playing at meal times. One morning the selection was Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel. This was one of them. I simply included it, because I love this song and hadn't heard it in years.

2. The Dress Looks Nice on You - Sufjan Stevens. My dear, dear cousin used this as her processional. She's 22. She's one of the few youngsters who I think is mature enough to make this leap. The ceremony was really low-key (literally a backyard event) and though religious, they chose not to use any religious music. I think their recessional was from The Beatles. I'm ambivalent about the choice of song, but I love that she loved it, and that she bucked panhandle norms: a wreath of flowers and ivy on her head, little make-up, eastern-inspired jewelery, barefoot under her gown, walking herself down the aisle ... she, like me for my wedding, wanted to do henna tattoos on her hands, but didn't know anyone who could do it. (Had I known, I'd've offered Virginia Gal's talents!)

3. Our Town - Iris Dement. As we drove around town one afternoon, Mom was lamenting the changes that have occurred in our old stomping grounds. (Though I was also struck by how little had changed in decade.) This song happened to be on my iPod and popped up on our connecting flight from DFW. It just felt fitting.

4. Viva la Vida - Coldplay. Another one that popped up on my iPod, on the return flight. I'd heard it a time or two, but it hadn't really grabbed me yet. I think it ciezed me this weekend - and I've been unable to shake it since - because going home to the far slower pace of life, to sunrises unimpeded by mountains and hills and skyscrapers, to the constant 10 or 15 mph breeze and the negligible humidity, was nothing short of reviving. My happiest self is a sprite who soars among clouds and stars and skims close to the ground. This weekend tickled her again for the first time in years. I was weightless. And for some reason, this song, at this moment, found that chink in my armor to sing to that weightlessness.

My Reading Challenge, an update

2008-07-29T07:43:00.000-04:00

Inspired by Darla D, who is participating in several book challenges this year, I decided to create my own: read 10 books from my own collection which I've either started and not finished, have been sitting there waiting to be read, or frankly would probably continue to sit waiting to be read in favor of loaners from friends and the library. As I'm not a fast reader - generally, a book a month, give or take - I figured 10 sounded about right.

Since the year is about 2/3 over, this seemed like a good time to check in on my progress. (Incidentally, I am including audiobooks, since Darla does and since I am experiencing the story verbatim.) Here are the books I've cleared so far:

1. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time - Mark Haddon. Was really interesting to see the world through the eyes of an austistic kid. Also made me hope I never have a child who is severly autistic. The main character hated touch so much that his version of a "hug" was simply touching fingertips. I'm a big hugger. I thrive on touch in the worst way. The idea of a loved one, much less a child that grew in me, recoiling from the most basic expression of love would kill me. Very good read; just broke my heart. I did love that the chapters were numbered in prime numbers. Wicked awesome!

2. Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card. I'd been meaning to read this for years. I'd begun it a few times, but never made it past chapter 4. (I have a couple of milestones: page 30 or chapter 4 always seem to be the make or break point in relation to my interest.) It's one of Honey's favorites and I figured reading it would give me further insight into who he is. I think that would've been the case had I finished reading it in the first year or two of our relationship when I originally tried. Having read it (or rather listened to it) a dozen years into our relationship I knew immediately why he connected with this book because whatever insight it would've given me, life has already revealed. Nonetheless, it was good to finally become acquainted with his friend.

3. I Am America and So Can You - Stephen Colbert. Ahhh, candy!

4. Number One Ladies Detective Agency - Alexander McCall Smith. Eh. I wanted to like it. I liked the main character well enough, but the story was too disjointed for me. I'm hoping I'll get more out of the movie. Sometimes a filmmaker can see more in text than I did, or bring more life to a story than the original text. I'm not blaspheming; it's just true.

5. Wigfield: The Can Do Town That Just Might Not - Stephen Colbert, Amy Sedaris, Paul Dinello. Read this on our vacation over Memorial Day week. Half of it on the runway during the hours upon hours long delayed flight. Fun fluff. Not as hysterical as I'd been hoping for, but it kept me entertained.

Currently reading: A Short History of Nearly Everything - Bill Bryson. ... wow. I read Bryson's Mother Tongue a few years back and, though it was nice, it was not what I had hoped it would be. I felt it was English linguistics made too pedestrian. However, as this book is physical science made pedestrian, I appreciate Mother Tongue more. Bryson has made the daunting accessible.

Tried reading: Little Women - Louisa May Alcott. Again, for probably the 3rd or 4th time in my life. I think I made it further than the previous attempts; maybe chapter 5 or 6. However, I just am not that interested in these sisters. Their lives are just not that compelling to me. Jo is kind of interesting, but I couldn't give a crap about the rest of the sisters. And frankly even Jo doesn't seduce me enough to warrant avidly consuming every word. Marmee's story would probably interest me most, but she seems kind of ancillary so far. ... eh. I'll probably finish it at some point. This is one of those books that I know I should read because of its importance in literary history, and because I can't be a good feminist without loving this book like my own sister, yadda, yadda, yadda ... but, ugh. It's just not happening for me. Not now, anyway. (Not in my life to this point, come to that.)

There you have it: my half-way point review. Other books in my collection I'm thinking about knocking out after Bryson's: The Gnostic Gospels and Beyond Belief: The Secret Gospel of Thomas, both by Elaine Pagels; Paula by Isabelle Allende; Catch 22 by Joseph Heller that Honey got me for Christmas years back; oh! Born to Buy by Juliet Schor, which I read about half of one year and then got distracted by my thesis. I loved her Overspent American. Maybe one of Neal Stephenson's books from Honey's shelf. We'll see. I'll post here when I've completed my quest

3BT: winged beasts and feathered skies

2008-07-19T20:37:00.000-04:00

Been working like a madwoman, lately. Exhausted as all sin. Was even smited late this week with some nasty allergic reaction all over my frakkin' body! I blame garlic.

Nonetheless, the pain receded and I took Babydog for a walk this evening that allowed me time to pause and soak in the beauty of the evening. It was lovely. Humid and hot, but peaceful. Felt lucky to be alive and witness the simple wonders around me.

So here's another nod to Clare's mission, and three beautiful things I noticed this evening:

1. The song of the cicadas. It is eaily the sound of summer for me. I love their drawn out trill of weeeee-oooo, weeee-oooo, weeee-oooo. Lots of people hate cicadas, but I hear their chorus and it fills me with joy: it's persistent and only comes once a year. It's like a hymn of praise that swells up amidst the heat. A reminder of impermance and the need to live in the now. When I hear them, I think, "Enjoy this now. Summer will end soon. When they stop, school will start again and all your summer freedom will be over." They sing of the present.

2. A high sheet of thick cirro-cummulus clouds spanning over the sky like a vast silvery, bluey-white bridal train. They looked almost like the tips of peackock feathers, only white. Often, those kinds of clouds precede thunderheads. I could see a line off in the distance behind the sheet, but whether we'll have storms tonight, I don't know. These clouds this evening were pure icing, though.

3. Spotting a hawk on a neighbor's fence. I did a double take. It was about 30 feet from us, calmly perched on the chain link fence, glancing around. I inched us closer to it - maybe another 5 feet - slowly and quietly and just watched him for a bit. Even though we live in a solidly urbanized part of the metro area, he was a reminder that wildlife will not be denied. Sprawl be-damned. These are our neighbors, too.

Pup-cake

2008-07-08T21:29:00.000-04:00

Sonnjea, over at Koji's Kitchen, always ends her posts with WMML, or "what made me laugh." Often, it's some antic that her dog Koji did during the day. Last night, we had a moment that made me think I should add a WMML tagline to my posts.

We have lots of reasons to eat cake in our house. Mine and Honey's birthdays and wedding anniversary, as well as Memorial Day and 4th of July all fall within roughly a 10 - week period. Plus, cake is a good thing and sometimes you just need cake*. We had cake last night and we indulged ourselves with a second helping late in the evening as we settled in to watch a movie in the den. Babydog, who often licks our plates clean if she's been good, was treated to Honey's leftovers. I took my time with the second piece. An entire second piece was just too much for me, so I scraped about half the icing to the edge of my plate, ate a bit of the cake and ate the other half of the icing. Babydog watched this all eagerly. I put her on a down-stay and then released her. She eagerly lapped up as much of the icing as she could and ate some of the cake. I took the plate away from her, so she wouldn't overdo it, and left her smiling.

Then, we watched something we'd never seen in our dog. Babydog had a sugar-high. She was grinning from pointy ear to pointy ear, panting. Her eyes were wide. She trotted over to Honey, sitting in his recliner, then over to me on the sofa. She'd jump up on the sofa with me and pace the length and come and pant and smile in my face. Then she'd jump off and then on again. Several times, she jumped up and climbed over the pillows to peer over the back of the sofa, like a kid who climbs monkey bars. She'd look over the edge and smile at us widely then jump off the way she came. Then she'd jump back up to peer over the back of the sofa again, pondering whether she could jump from a place so high - akin to a 10 or 12-foot jump to you and me, I suppose. She never did it. But she was so smiley and fidgety that Honey and I had to stop the movie to laugh at her. I half expected her to start saying, "you know what? you know what? you know what? you know what? I can curl my tongue." Or even better, " you know what? you know what? you know what? I can count to 200 by 5s; wanna hear?" I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd have climbed to the arm of the sofa and started belly flopping into the middle of the cushions or if she'd have started playing "the floor is lava."

That is what made me laugh.

*Cake is a large part of the reason we are married to begin with.

**note: The image above is not, in fact, Babydog. I just grabbed a picture off the "series of tubes" of a corgi eating cake. I accidentally left my camera at a friend's house during 4th of July festivities, so I didn't get to capture Babydog's mania. My friend promised I should receive my camera again, soon, with a few jokey pictures included. The last time I entrusted her with my camera, I found she'd taken a snapshot of hers and another mutual friend's cleavage.

A Question of "Character"

2008-07-05T14:46:00.000-04:00

This past Wednesday, one of my best friends from college popped in for a visit. She and her family were elsewhere on the East Coast and drove to spend half a day with us. However, the half-day turned into a few hours for dinner. They figured the "4-5 hour drive" between destinations would be like that between DFW and Houston, which she and I can both do in our sleep, and undoubtedly have. They didn't count on the toll-roads, the crowded freeways, the lack of access roads, and the poorly labeled exits and exit-warnings. It was good to see them, though. We see them about once every year, or year and half when visiting friends and family in DFW. As we pulled out to grab dinner for her hungry toddler, she said something that struck me as odd. She loved our neighborhood and commented on how much "character" it had and then said Texas neighborhoods didn't have character.

I took the compliment for what it was, but was kind of amused by her observation. To begin with, I think there are plenty of people in our metro area who would look at our neighborhood and would think that it lacks "character." We live in a development built about 40 years ago in a style inspired by the older architecture of the area, but definitely in a style fitting to the late 60s, early 70s. Plenty of folks around here complain about the architecture that goes up in neighborhoods that are being "revitalized" because it looks too similar to that of everywhere America. (While I agree about the architectural conformity, I think the bigger issue is the "chainization" of decaying neighborhoods than the sameness of style. Frankly, though, "revitalization" is a topic for a whole other musing.) If she drove another 15 or 30 miles out from our neighborhood - if even that far - she'd find suburban neighborhoods and developments populated with houses that look almost exactly like hers, in her neighborhood planted between Dallas and Fort Worth. (Not Arlington; there are a bajillion bedroom communities between the two.)

I commented to my friend that the "character" is only a function of the oldness of the settlements on the East Coast. Texas, by and large, was settled much later than New York, Philly or Charleston. But, that got me thinking: what is "character" in a neighborhood? Or in architecture? Is it really about age?

Back when McMansions started cropping up in the late 80s, I remember thinking those were full of character. When we visited Mom's baby brother in a Dallas suburb and saw the two-story, high-ceilinged, attached two-car garage manse he and his wife had, I remember thinking that was the pinnacle of success. That was a unique house - one with character. But that was because in our small town, I only knew the Levittown-style shoebox houses that I, and virtually everyone around me, lived in. But now, every new house within a pretty broad price range, looks like that. Now, at least where we live, those tiny shoebox houses that felt so stifling to me growing up, are the ones with "character." And what of Santa Fe? Every building in that city is traditionally made of adobe, in keeping with its Pueblo Indian heritage. I believe there is an ordinance requiring it. Does that mean that an adobe McDonald's has "character?" Certainly, a McDonald's that is in the architectural style of a Pueblo building is less shrill amongst like buildings than a typical white box with a red roof and yellow stripes. But isn't it like slapping lipstick on a pig?

Of course, there are some communities that don't allow the proverbial pigs in in the first place. A friend of ours from Maine likes to brag that Maine doesn't have a Wal-Mart, because the locals won't permit it. Vermont also has laws that make it difficult for chains to settle in. It certainly is easier to preserve the architectural tradition of a community by disallowing the eyesore giants to enter in the first place. (Not to mention it's a great way to preserve local small businesses.) But again, is "tradition" really "character?" New Orleans has an architectural tradition, as does Brooklyn and Santa Fe. But maybe that tradition only has "character" outside of its home. America, in general, is still pretty new to have a clearly-defined architectural tradition, compared with most of Europe and Asia. We're still developing accents; our language may not be settled for a few more hundred years. ... rambling off, now ...

A house with "character," as described by a realtor, generally means one that is older, needs work and one upon which the new resident could imagine a past story (or glory?) and can write his or her own story. Really, every edifice has character of some sort. A mobile home has character as much as the White House. Just because it isn't stately with an imagined past history doesn't mean it doesn't have character. It still communicates and reflects a lifestyle. It just may not be the kind of lifestyle most of us are conditioned to aspiring toward, or the kind of lifestyle most of us would desire or envy. Just because brand new cookie-cutter houses in suburbia are the norm for a wide swath doesn't mean they aren't places where people can't write their own stories. The same holds true for condos atop Bally's gyms in "revitalized" communities. Just because they're the Trapper-Keeper notebooks of residential architecture, doesn't mean the stories that can and will be written in them won't be any less interesting or valid than those written on the pages of parchment.

... now I miss my Trapper-Keepers.

3BT: Beating Wii, Bach and Bender

2008-06-25T23:01:00.000-04:00

I know I've been off the horn for a while. Not only have I not posted for a few weeks, I've been bad about visiting other blogs. I owe visits and comments to Joe, Pearl and Sonnjea, I recall off the top of my head. But tonight I write just to get something posted, and because yesterday gave me a few items to make the day lovely. So, the beautiful things:

1. A few weeks ago, I got a Wii Fit for my birthday. I know I'm out of shape and could stand to lose a few pounds, so I wasn't surprised by the what the scale and BMI measurement feature of the Fit told me. (Still within the healthy range, but on the high end of both.) What did surprise me was the "real age" function of the Fit. It evaluates your weight, BMI and your balance and from there comes up with a "real age" for you. I am in my early 30s, according to my birth certificate. Wii Fit told me I was 42. I was quite disheartened. But I've been using it more and improving my balance a little, I guess, because Tuesday morning, Wii told me my new "real age" was 27! WOOHOO! I have conquered the balance board!

2. Yesterday morning, I was driving into work, feeling good about being 27, but not really looking forward to dealing with the challenging client I had waiting for me. Feeling stressed, I switched my radio dial to the local classical station. It was playing Bach's "Sleepers Awake," which is an immediate salve to my stressed out mind! It's a soft blanket. I hear it and immediately I'm driving in the mountains of Northern New Mexico (my soul's second home) with my family under the bright sky dappled with the leaves of Aspen trees. It really is a welcoming piece, even with the swelling brass, it's unpretentious - at least to me. I needed it and didn't know I needed it until fate placed it at the right place at the right time. Like God's little "chill out" postcard.

3. Getting to watch the new Futurama movie! (Poster w/ title above.) Honey pre-ordered it and it arrived yesterday. We wasted no time popping in the disc and seeing what Fry, Bender, Leela and the crew have been up to since Bender's Big Score. I liked this one better than the last. Without giving too much away, I'll just say that there really was a Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Apropos of nothing. In fact, inappropriate

2008-06-09T21:53:00.000-04:00

WARNING: If you're easily offended by bodily functions and non-medical/clinical discussions thereof, then it may be better for you to check out another blog.

Alright, so tonight I should be writing content which may or may not be used in collateral to be distributed at a fundraiser I hope to attend this weekend, but haven't really delved far into my wallet to see what kind of coin I can afford to part with these days. Yesterday I attended a baby dedication for a friend (or rather, for his baby) at a Unitarian church where I had several years previous, attended a memorial service for a former coworker, and I had been planning to blog on religion, ritual and variations on the theme. However, musings on religious expression will have to wait, and before I proceed with my writing assignment tonight, I simply must share with the few of you who read this what simultaneously turned my stomach and tickled my funny bone (all foreshadowed puns intended) this evening.

Honey and I have been watching The Tudors on iTunes; the first season anyway. It's totally as trashy as the website makes it out to be, but it's also got plastrin-front gowns! lutes! plague! Northam, Neill and Jonathan Rhys Meyers! Tonight, we watched the 10th (and I believe final) episode of season one. It opens with the young King Henry VIII masturbating into a cloth being held open by a servant-boy. I kid you not. I can't help but laugh just thinking about it!

The scene is awkward to say the very, very least. It cut away to shots of Anne Boleyn's heaving breasts and then back to the young king straining and whacking (all seen from the waist up). And just as the king came, we saw a closeup of Anne's delicate hands piercing a threaded needle through a piece of embroidery she was working on. Then, with the king spent, the servant, who had previously had his face maybe a foot from the royal junk and turned away (a wise choice in his position, I must admit), gets up, bows to the king, and holding the cloth slightly slack, leaves the room.

The way the scene played out, it seemed like Henry was working off some morning wood. Now, I have no idea if this was common practice for male monarchs to employ a manservant to accept his "kingliness," as it were. Though no history buff myself, per se, I place no faith in the historical accuracy of this series; I see it more as costume-drama porn set against the skeleton of historical events. All that said: what worse job could there be in the court than to be the Royal Jizz-catcher? Who did you have to piss of to get that assignment? I should hope that promotion was swift. My God! I'd much rather scrub the peasants' outhouses than have to spend each morning with my face inches from the sweaty scepter, praying that his aim was good. (Massive shudder!) I would be begging God every day for tuberculosis or the plague or leprosy to get me out of that job!

I was icked out by that for at least the first 5 minutes of the show. I wish I could tell you what transpired in those first five minutes, but I was temporarily blind. That's right: masturbation blinded me. All these years of the real stuff did nothing to my vision; seeing the staged version on TV blacked me out for five.

I apologize if I grossed anyone out. Mostly. This was just too weird and hilarious to keep to myself. ... I suppose it's discussing these sort of things that keeps be from being invited to posh places and events. This, and the fact that I'm not well-heeled.

What's Molly dreaming now? Edition 7

2008-06-03T08:11:00.000-04:00

Another strange dream last night. This one was themed a "Saved by the Bell" wedding. I dreamt that I was in Dallas for reasons I could not recall and I found myself at the wedding of Principal Belding. The wedding was actually purely a work of fiction; this was a movie set. Jessie Spano was the photographer, and Elizabeth Berkeley looked totally lived-in for someone who's only 30-something. The weird thing was, though this was a movie set, we were treating it like a real wedding. There was no lighting equipment, no cameras, aside from general wedding videography and people were mulling about the open bar waiting for the ceremony to begin.

I'm not sure why I was there. Not only was Principal Belding never my principal, or really anyone else's according to this piece, I was never in any of the casts (Miss Bliss or post-) and though I did watch it more than a rational, ambulatory, articulate person who has the fine motor skills to tie her own shoes should - which is to say at all, much less sporadically - I found the show blazingly stupid. (My brother liked it, and we both liked making fun of it.) It also became apparent that this was going to be a full out Esther Williams-style musical, since the synchronized swimmers were practicing in the massive swimming pool around which the ceremony was to be held. The place was crawling with sinfully rich, Hollywood-hot young people: mostly teens and college-aged. I felt way out of place and didn't know how I got an invitation. Zack Morris was there with some curly-haired brunette who wasn't the vapid vixen what's-her-name from the TV show. I heard "wooooo!" like a wave, come from a congregation of teen girls behind me. I looked over my right shoulder to see Slater strut past, wearing a tuxedo vest that had been cinched tightly around his waist. He, of course, looked like a moron. I rolled my eyes.

I needed to figure out what I was doing in this musical. I wore high-heeled saddle shoes which had rollerskate style abilities. I somehow discerned that I had a short solo during a poolside number. There were two lines of dancers across from each other, stretching the length of the pool. So I skated down the middle of them, doing the splits at one time - a feat I could once accomplish without wincing; these days, not so much - singing something all the way. I was curious why I was in this musical when I could not sing or dance half as well as throngs of other talent out there. Then I turned around and began to skate down the middle again and noticed that smoke was rising off my left shoe. I stopped skating. The dancers were now in the pool doing some synchronized number. And I decided I was supposed to be in the pool, too, so I dove in.

Then somehow, some time had passed and I was out of the pool, dry, still in my dress and switching out my skate-style shoes for another pair. (I did this at my hallway locker, of course.) The guests were all waiting for the ceremony to begin, again. And I felt even more out of place than ever. I was there by myself, I didn't know any of the guests. It was clear that I was too old and plain and not rich enough to talk to. Then, at the end of my dream, I spotted a friend of mine from my college theater department who I have not seen or heard from, nor really thought of, since graduation almost a decade ago. She looked as miserable as I did. Before I could go greet her, I woke up.

I never really liked that show. I found the characters too stereotypical even for lazy sitcome archetypes. Like the show "Friends," I knew these people would not be friends in real-life, particularly not during class-conscious adolescence. And the storylines were always weaker than tissue paper. I haven't thought of that show in years. I think I read a post somewhere recently in which someone referred to Mr. Belding, but as I've been scrambling to get caught up on my post-vacation blog reading, I can't recall who wrote it or what the reference was. I'm sure that was the trigger for the cast in my dream; but why a wedding?

And more importantly, this is the second high-school, "feeling like an outsider" type dream I've had in a week. Is this some new anxiety dream theme for me? I have a doctor's appointment in about 90 minutes for which I'm anxious because I'm hoping it'll shed a good deal of light on what's going on, but why high school? Why not tornadoes and aliens like my normal anxiety dreams? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Mnemonic Music Memorial Day

2008-05-26T16:16:00.000-04:00

I know I skipped last Monday. And I know I said I'd be focusing on regional music, but what can I say? I'm a flip-flopping backslider. Anyway, the only theme I could think of this week was that of songs that have been stuck in my head lately. I figured that's a pretty good topic for Memorial Day: songs that burn into your memory. If you're one who is easy to pick up on an earworm, you're welcome!

1. Hey Mama - Black Eyed Peas. One of my coworkers has taken to greeting me with the phrase, "hey mama." I'm not sure why. Regardless, every time she does, I hear this song. La la la la la!

2. On the Radio - Regina Spektor. I blame Pearl for this. She began a post with the lyrics to this song the other day. Ever since then, I can't shake it. Friday night I began humming it to myself as Honey and I prepped dough for the next day's bread. Not missing a beat, he chimed in with "uh-oh!" at the right times.

3. Daughters of the Soho Riots - The National. I just love this guy's voice. The tune is sad and simple. And I'm hung not only the line with the title lyrics, but the phrase, "break my arms around the one I love."

4. With Arms Outstretched - Rilo Kiley. Just in love with the driving rythm. I swear to goodness, I feel the breeze of the plains blowing through open car windows when I hear this song. Not hung up on the lyrics so much as just the happy strumming. Can't shake it.

5. I Am Trying to Break Your Heart - Wilco. The lyrics, "I wanna hold you in the Bible black pre-dawn" have been scrolling through my brain for over a month, now. Big earworm for me, lately. Plus I love the tinkling of the top of the piano keyboard; it's like music that comes at you from a 43 degree angle or something.

6. Shot in the Arm - Wilco. Yeah, two in a row. First of all, I love "we fell in love in the key of C ... followed me down the neck to D." I can totally see a couple of high school band or orchestra standmates who make googly eyes at eachother during rests in the music. But how great is the chorus, "something in my veins, bloodier than blood?" Hooked. Hooked, I tell you!! Plus the repetition just makes it easier for me to be this song's crack whore.

7. All These Things I've Done - The Killers. I've always liked how this song starts off and then builds and builds. Plus, again with the repetition. Easy way to get me hooked.

8. Stronger - Kanye West with Daft Punk. It seems lately that everyone around me has been speaking in multipliers of emphasis. The correct grammatical term escapes me right now. But I mean "more" words, "-er" words. And they don't just say, "let's do this better;" they speak in series: "we'll make it better, faster, stronger, bigger." And I can't help myself. This tune creeps in and I bob my head. Sometimes I even gesture with my fake "daft hands," but no one knows what I'm talking about. Well ... one did once, but in case you don't know what I'm talking about, a version (though clearly not a single-take at all) is below:

Anyway, we're on vacation, so I should probably put this puppy down and clean up for dinner with our friends. Have a great Memorial Day!

Why-nonymous?

2008-05-22T06:03:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, I added a real-life friend of mine to my friends list of my Flickr account - my latest obsession. I had left a comment on a photo of hers, though I wasn't sure she knew that it was me. My screen name is not my real-life name. I have also been commenting lately on her blogs, using this identity. It occurred to me that she probably didn't know me by either alias, so I emailed her to let her know who was behind the curtain.

Several weeks ago, I mentioned this blog, and that I use a pseudonym, to a friend of mine and he joked that Internet anonymity was passe.

This has gotten me thinking lately about why I use pseudonyms online. To begin with, I use my real name online more often than not. But I have various aliases that I use as usernames in forums or on a few networks here and there. The problem with "various aliases" is that I rarely use the same one twice - I really like making up names - so sometimes I forget which alter ego I am, where. When I began this blog, though, I decided I not only wanted to use a pseudonym, I wanted to keep personal details of my life vague as well.

This isn't uncommon. What's probably less common is how vague I am about where I live, and where I used to live. Though the casual reader could probably do some quick math after just a few posts to figure out where I live and the stalker could probably do some higher math to trace the wagon trail that led me here. But he'd probably trace me some other way, anyway.

I guess that's why I'm most protective of my identity on my blog. I don't care if you know who I am on MySpace or LinkedIn, and my Flickr veil is pretty thin. But my blog - this blog anyway - is a space I created for myself for two reasons: 1) to get myself writing on a regular or semi-regular basis; writing about anything that came to mind at all and 2) to think out loud on stuff that I don't always articulate well, or feel safe articulating in public. (Though, lately I've delved no deeper than "it turns out I really do love Grandma.") It's also, of course, part journal. I could achieve both those goals under my real identity, but that would open up an entirely different can of worms.

Could I really bitch about work or family or explore an unpopular/uncommon opinion or viewpoint without annoying - or serious - consequences? A friend of mine's colleague lost her job because she bitched about work on her blog, using her real identity. One of my best childhood friends is a writer and popular political blogger who lives very publicly online. A couple of years ago, she had our high school alumni site remove her contact information; turned out she was getting death threats. One wack job actually mailed her a turd! Granted, I'm sure there are legal loopholes and protections against job-loss for personal blogs and I've never, to my knowledge, posted my contact info online, but who wants the hassle of all that? And I can't just use my first name. There are too few people out there with my name. According to nameplayground.com, my name - or rather, the shortened version, I typically go by - peaked in popularity in 1892 at #818 in the top 1,000 popular female names. Do any search engine hunt on even my first name, and you'll find me in the first page of hits. I need a cloaking device way more than a Jennifer Smith or a Melissa Douglas or a Francine Webb.

But even if my name were as common as Michelle or Amy, or whatever people were naming their babies in the 70s, I would still - at least for this blog - use an alias. As one who has always had a bent for performance, costumes and alternate identities have always appealed to me. For instance, I always post wearing a set of fairy wings and a cowboy hat. It's just something I do. (Don't judge ... unless you're in the 9th Circuit court of appeals.) If I decide to ever start a blog about some specific topic or which focuses on promoting a personal venture, sure, I'll use my real identity. But until then, I'll happily type as Molly Malone, revealing myself to those real-life readers as I go. ... who I've probably "revealed" myself to anyway. You're welcome, real people!

Rain, Rain go away

2008-05-20T07:01:00.000-04:00

Chispas! This has been a rainy (and chilly) spring! And for all the wetness, I'm still sneezing and the roof of my mouth still itching. What gives? I thought rain tamped down pollen? No matter. It's rainy (uh-gain) this morning and I'm not feeling particularly inspired to go to work. Rainy days make me want to do puzzles, play Scattergories or read the paper. That said, I thought you might enjoy doing a puzzle yourself. Don't worry, it's a simple 12-piecer:

I don't have any neato function that allows you to play Scattergories directly on my blog, but if you click here, you can go to their online game site. It literally takes a minute. Their timer is pretty strict. Or if you feel like reading the paper - one other than yours - search for one here. I've never used this site before, I usually use another paper search site, but what the hay?

I've been obsessed with Flickr lately. (Welcome to 2005, Molly!) For about a year, I've been bugging Honey to add more photos to his account, so I finally just started my own. I've been adding new pictures every day and seeking out groups with pretty pictures that interest me. I've got a few "contacts" and I'm slowly stealing contacts off of them. Anyway, in the spirit of Flickr - taking pictures of my life and finding beauty in the banal, I thought I'd include this little snapshot:

I bought these this weekend from 10,000 Villages. I like the repurposing of "waste." When we visited South Africa, local artisans commonly transformed aluminum cans, plastic bags and other items most of us would consider refuse, into truly cool works of art.

With no clear exit strategy for this post, I'm including a portion of a quizzy-meme that Pearl - who discovered the tasty tragedy of high fructose corn syrup while visiting America - did a few weeks ago. It seems like a rainy day activity. The original is long, so I'll just do a few. Feel free to tag yourself.

What would you do if you opened up your front door to a dead person?
I'd freak out that a dead person was able to ring my door bell. Then, I'd call Devinoni, because he'd help me prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse.

What were you doing at 8:00 this morning?
It's 7:45, now. I'd best be in the shower by 8, if I want to get to work on time.

When did you last throw up?
May 3: morning. As I didn't have much to blow, I'd call it the slightly-less-than dry heaves, but Honey insists that even thin watery spew counts as vomit. All due - I suspect - to me scarfing down the gourmet pizza the night before with fresho-licious garlic, to which I am woefully allergic. Why do I throw caution to the wind?

Do you want to get married & have children one day?
Checked one. .. and yeah, I'd like to get as many experiences out of this life as possible.

Do you like ice cream?
Why is this a question? Do I like air? What mental case wrote this?

Would you ever consider moving to another country to be with the one you love?
Well ... I moved to Oklahoma to be with Honey. So, yes. Another country wouldn't be much of a stretch.

Do you have strange dreams?
Clearly you've never clicked on my "dreams" tag. Which reminds me: two nights ago, I dreamt that Javier Bardem put me on this massive monster truck. When I started driving it, I lost all control of the vehicle and accidentally drove over other people's cars in a parking lot - in reverse. They were all angry and threatening to sue. And then Justin Long (the Mac kid) offered to represent me. Last night I dreamt of shoddy cruise ships, I think.

D'oh! Apparently, I need to add captions

2008-05-15T07:00:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I mentioned that upon discovering a childhood photo of my husband, I noticed his resemblance to Thomas Sangster, the little boy who played Sam in Love Actually. I included a photo of the young actor to give you an idea of what Honey looked like as a boy. Apparently a couple of y'all thought that was a photo of my husband.
First, I laughed my ass off. Then I felt badly that I wasn't clear about the photo. Honey laughed his ass off, too and suggested I actually post the photo. Apparently he's a little less concerned about anonymity than I am. (Happy, Jordan?)
In any event, there he is, to the left, my husband at age 11. Granted, he's not Sangster's doppelganger. Sangster has very brown, very round eyes. And Honey has blue, almond shaped eyes. (Mmm - almonds. slobber, slobber.) But their impish smirks are similar, I think. And similar hair cuts. But who really cares? I just wanted to clear up the confusion. There, to the left is the boy who grew into my husband. There, to the right - if scanning the Net, looking for his photo is any indication - is a boy who is a fixation for Brit film fans and wierdo old men. (shudder.)

Making me smile this morning

2008-05-14T08:26:00.000-04:00

... that after what felt like an interminable 5 days of cold and rain and overcast and dreariness, the sun, that life-giving, bright and glorious and dynamic face of God has slipped the surly barrier of clouds to touch the face of Earth.

... seeing old grade school photos of my husband that my mother in law left him. In fifth grade he looks uncannily like the little boy from Love Actually, so innocent. By sixth grade, he's wearing a Coca Cola rugby shirt with the collar popped and his hair in a pre-Zach Morris spike, preening to be the heart-throb of his class. Adorable to "awesome." Awesome to the max.

... the cat, after several (blissful) years of ignoring us as we sleep, has decided he needs to start sleeping with us again. It doesn't hurt that since the weather has warmed up, the dog has opted for the floor. Apparently we're prime seasonal slumbering real estate.

Musicky Monday

2008-05-11T22:54:00.001-04:00

I was so thrilled late last month when I got my Texas Monthly in the mail. (After years of making a ritual of picking it up in airports on the way home, I decided to finally get a subscription.) This month's cover story celebrates Willie Nelson's 75th birthday. While I'm not the Willie zealot that some of my cousins are, I do like the man and the portrait on the cover is just beautiful. So, I decided to let that guide me for today's superhappyfuntime mixtape. I considered doing an all-Willie mix, but then decided I should do a regional exploration series - as inspired by last week's Cinco de Mayo, Mexican theme - so this is about half Willie and half random Texas artists. I do recommend Twisted Willie, a fun tribute album from my college years. Good times.

1. On the Road Again - Willie Nelson. My dad used to always sing this whenever we'd travel the next town over to visit family. Or when we'd be off to New Mexico for a camping trip. Or whenever we'd be driving home from a school function or ... anytime we were in a car. I never paid attention to the fact that it was about touring with a band. I thought it was in praise of the great American road trip.

2. Running Away - The Polyphonic Spree. I've always enjoyed them. Last fall I had the pleasure of seeing them live and it was probably in the top 3 most moving live art performances I'd ever seen. Possibly in the top 3 most spiritually satisfying moments of my life - right behind the crazy psychic connection I had with the color yellow for a fleeting moment in 1995. I think I want to be one of their choir-girls when I grow up.

3. My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys - Willie Nelson. Okay, there is no veracity in that sentiment for me. My heroes have always been people who spoke/speak truth to power. Not that that can't be a cowboy, just that I haven't idolized any particular industry laborer. However, this is another song I remember hearing around the house a lot as a child, much to the chagrin of my mother (see #5).

4. Rave On - Buddy Holly. I think I'm appreciating Buddy Holly more as I get older. Sure, he's the pride of Lubbock and we West Texans are happy to claim him, as well as Roy Orbison, but he's always just been the guy who died when the music did. But lately I think I can hear his influence in music more - "oh yeah, you do have your uncle's stubborn chin," as it were.

5. Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground - Willie Nelson. Not one I'm super familiar with, but what a great heartbreaker about a doomed love.

6. Sundress - Ben Kweller. I first heard this guy on Studio 360 on NPR. I was irritated that the host kept calling him Kweller. Since he talked about being from Texas, I assumed his name was Spanish: "Cuellar [kweh-yar], you idiot!" I yelled at my car radio. I - ahem - was wrong. In any event, I dig him. And the chorus of this makes me dance like Tracy Morgan.

7. Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain - Willie Nelson. This was apparently written by the same guy who wrote "Back in the Saddle Again." It's on "Redheaded Stranger," which Dad played relentlessly when I was a tot. It's so tender and mournful.

8. Private Conversation - Lyle Lovett. Okay. I grabbed this one because I couldn't find a good version of "If I had a Boat" or "She's no Lady." But this ain't bad. I actually met Lyle Lovett at an event last year. Very kind and polite.

9. The House is a Rockin' - Stevie Ray Vaughan. I dare you not to grab a bottle of beer, a nearby warm body and cut loose to this. This just fuckin' swings. God rest you, SRV.

10. Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys - Willie Nelson/Waylon Jennings.
Just another Dad would sing and play around the house in my youth. It would drive Mom crazy. "If Willie Nelson can sing, then I'm the queen of England!" she'd spout. She still spouts it. This is for you, Mom.

11. Attesa - Balmorhea. (Not sure this one is working.) This is an artist I want to explore more. Sounds like mostly piano-driven mood music, but I'm largely curious about them because they're from (surprise, surprise) Balmorhea, TX, near where I wasted my youth.

12. Rainbow Connection - Willie Nelson. I've heard a handful of versions of this song before, but this is my favorite. Its sad earnestness reminds me of that of Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt." It sounds like a completely different song than the original in his mouth.

"with every lesson learned, a line upon your beautiful face"

2008-05-08T22:35:00.000-04:00

I've been keeping it in the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. I see it each time I put in or remove my contacts. Or, at least, I've seen it each time since I first discovered it two weeks ago. I'm not sure why I've been saving it. It's some creepy, momentous souvenir and I'm sure my hanging onto it reveals some bizarre character flaw. But as character flaws make for interesting characters, I can forgive my own behavior.

"It" is my first grey hair.

I discovered it two weeks ago in the bathroom at work. My hair is normally a blond/red rusty honey mix, like a reddish beer with sunlight shining through it or like ... well, like that picture at the top of the blog. (D'oh!) I always thought blonds didn't grey ... or at least they didn't grey until they were well into their 50s. (And when they did, it looked good, right? Please God, make me a MILFy sextugenarian!) My dad, who has dirty blond hair had a red beard all my life. It didn't start greying until after 50. Now, closing in on 62, it's almost all white. But he has no grey hair on his head. My mother is a dark brunette. Even she has very little grey hair - just a few laced here and there and some at her temples. And she didn't grey at all until after 40.

So what is this? How does the golden retriever girl with anti-grey hair genes get a grey hair in her early 30s? I don't even have kids yet. Aren't kids supposed to be the catalyst for grey hair? I have had a stressful year. Actually the last two years have been kinda stressful for me - the thesis that wouldn't quit, finally finding my career, buying our first house and most importantly: spotty health resulting in two emergency surgeries (one saved my life, ultimately) each within two months of each other. All things considered, I should be glad a single grey hair is all that testifies to the stress and heartache that I've been suppressing.

Why haven't I tossed it yet, though? I can't put my finger on my need to hang onto it. Partly I think I want to hang onto it to remind me to take better care of myself - eat right, exercise, pray, release, breathe etc. Partly I also think it's a battle scar. When I was younger, I said I'd age gracefully and be proud of my wrinkles, knowing each one told a story. Maybe my grey hair is a storyteller of sorts. Maybe I keep it around just for the novelty of it, like how my mom hung onto the first tooth I ever lost. Maybe I'm keeping it to remind me that I'm more mature than I give myself credit for (or live up to, sometimes?). Deep down though, I can't help but think I'm hanging onto as a reminder of my own mortality and a reminder not to fear it.

Got any better explanations?

Monday del Musica!

2008-05-05T07:36:00.000-04:00

Feliz Cinco de Mayo! Contrary to popular misconception, today is not Mexico's Independence Day, we just celebrate it in the US with a fervor similar to that of an independence day. I haven't been to a Cinco de Mayo celebration in years - probably a decade or more. In my tiny Texas burg, there's usually a cabrito cook-off at the town park. Or maybe a menudo cook-off. I choose to stay by my memory of a cabrito cook-off, as I cannot tolerate menudo, but find cabrito marvilloso.

Even though I'm half-Mexican, grew up in Texas and spent my teen years in a bi-cultural small town in the border area, I really don't know much by way of Mexican, Tejano or Mexican-inspired music. My Mexican side of the family never played or passed on music, so I didn't get any input from them. And what little I knew of Mexican -inspired music was from the teeny-boppers in school who were crazy in love with Selena (when she was alive, long before her ghost made her visible to gringos). So, for the last week or so, I've been trying to catch myself up to speed on the music of my people. Here's some stuff I found:

note: I'm sure you can count and are saying to yourself, "why are you calling this mixtape 'cinco por el cinco' when there are clearly seven tracks here?" The short answer is: I found too much good stuff for La Llorona (details later), so I'm counting the three versions as one entry.

1. La Charreada - Linda Ronstadt. Kudos to Ms. Ronstadt for bringing some mariachi to the mainstream back in the 80s. I'm ambivalent about the singer herself, but I've always loved this stuff. She did a few episodes of Sesame Street and in one of them, she sang this song with some muppets. A toddler I used to part-time nanny would "aaahhh" along with her whenever she'd hit those long verse-introductory wails. It cracked me up.

2. Kiko and the Lavender Moon - Los Lobos. Most people know Los Lobos as the band that sang "La Bamba" for the Ritchie Valens biopic. Lou Diamond Phillips lip-synched to them. (Incidentally, "La Bamba" is a traditional Mexican tune - and dance - for which I cannot find a decent traditional recording.) However, I always associate this song with them for reasons unknown. I like its lackadais with a little picante flowing through.

3. Jay Perez - Sabes. I know nothing about this performer. I decided I needed to include Tejano, so I visited the site for the Tejano Music Awards. This guy was the performer of the year this past award season. Frankly, this song sounds like sappy crap to me. "Te necessito mas que'l aire; Te necessito mas que'l agua," (I need you more than air; I need you more than water): I remember many of my schoolmates listening to stuff like this back in the day. This is the kind of teen idol they'd swoon over the same way the chickies fawn over the Jonas Brothers. But I added it because it definitely reminds me of Texas - and shopping in the latino areas of Houston.

4. Somos Mas Americanos - Los Tigres del Norte. Los Tigres del Norte are pretty well-known in the Mexican-American music world and I remember hearing them some, growing up. I just learned they're from L.A., so I don't know if they count as Tejano, but boy do they sound it. I guess lots of border music share common influences. This one I grabbed at random, but started listening a bit to the lyrics. This is great, it seems to be - if my broken Spanish is worth anything - an angry repudiation of anti-Mexican (immigrant?) sentiment in the States. "somos mas americanos que'l hijo del anglo-saxon," "we are more American than the son of the anglo-saxon." Then they go on to sing about how mezclados (euro/indian mixed race "la raza") were here along the border region and in the west long before Manifest Destiny. Rock on.

5. La Llorona - Elliot Goldenthal and various artists. This is the style of this song I'm more familiar with. This is the style we'd hear at Cinco de Mayo fests or Mexican Independence Day festivals. La Llorona tells the folk tale of the wailing woman - a ghost who haunts the land looking for her dead children.

6. La Llorona - Lila Downs. I would've included just this, but it cuts off and wanted to include a whole version, above. This is a version I want to purchase, soon. It's so bloody mournful and thick. It evokes the terror of the legend and it empathizes with her grief as well. Excellent.

7. La Llorona - Ginna Allison. This must be part of some sort of Public Radio anthology, because when I Googled Ginna Allison, I discovered she does Soundprint pieces as well as other Public Radio stories. This piece on La Llorona reminded me of when I first heard of her. I didn't know the full story until I was in college (apparently, this tale may have roots in Mexican Indian legends). But when my family moved from the very white, very Baptist Panhandle to the much more bi-cultural, bi-lingual and heavily Catholic town in Southwest Texas, I began to learn more folklore. And it wasn't just La Llorona - who scared the shit out of my 12 year old self - it was the tale that when God kicked Satan out of Heaven, he landed on the very spikey mountain near town - the one created by the erosion of an ancient volcano, that looked like a perfectly creepy pyramid. There were other modern legends, like that of Bunny-man: an angry drunk was killed by an on-coming train on the tracks. It left him dead and legless. His red-eyed ghost hobbled around on his knuckles so he had the locomotion of a bunny. If you crossed those tracks at midnight, his ghost would chase you, and if he caught you, he'd get to keep your soul! Eek! I digress, but I loved this radio piece because 1) I love folkore and 2) it jostled the pre-teen in me and spooked her out!

Friday Film Flim Flam

2008-05-01T22:05:00.000-04:00

Technically, it's still Thursday night. But I'm gonna have a crazy-ass hectic weekend, so I thought I'd just blither blather tonight.
Oh! First off, I'm very proud of myself because I finally got myself a blog reader, so I don't have to open each of your lovely blogs to see if you've posted anything. Now, my lovely RSS feed - or whatever the hell kinda web voyeur it is - will tell me when you've updated your page, saving me valuable time and hair-pulling. I would complain about some folks' foot-dragging, but frankly, I'm so prone to being remiss that I have no room to criticize. So, yea me! I joined the year 2005! ... it still might take me several days to comment on your posts, though. I put the "pro" in procrastination.

I love Tina Fey. I really love her. Honey and I finally saw Baby Mama tonight. (He really loves her, too.) She's fucking smart and her humor both hits me like a laser guided bullet, even when I don't know it and it's everything I wish mine was. She blends awkwardness and arcane references like perfect buttercream icing. And she's sexy and her sexiness is directly related to her intelligence.

In the past, Honey and I have agreed that had he and I never really hit it off, and more importantly, never married, he - the techy introvert - would be that guy who spends all his free-time online, gaming, cracking code and almost never emerging for anything other than work. Probably wouldn't play sports, like he does now, or do many other "social" things. (Yes, he is online a lot.) He has long told me that I would basically be Liz Lemon from 30 Rock: a comedy writer prone to public self-embarassment who dates a string of losers. We would both live off of frozen dinners. Though he'd probably eat Kashi because he could afford it, and is not cheap like me. I'd totally be eating the Healthy Choice kids meals - they have brownies! And he's right. (I'm already an expert at public self-embarassment.)

"I'm not against fun. I went up on my roof yesterday!" ... words that will probably come from my own mouth in a few months' time. And yes, were I single, and a young hottie wanted me, I'd feel exactly this weird.

Sorry for the tangent. I am gonna talk about Baby Mama. The reason for that preceding paragraph (and clip) was because it's not just Liz Lemon. Watching the movie tonight, I was struck by how much the two leads were basically dueling parts of my own personality: the slobby free-spirit who wants more in life, but has no clue how to get it, and the sophisticated, career-concerned woman who is ultimately a dork. It was particularly evident in the club scene. Tina Fey voguing, thinking she looks cool while Amy Poehler steals shots and other drinks when Fey isn't looking.

I really liked that Greg Kinnear was the romantic interest. After years of ambivalence, I've given in and like him. (Brief follow up to that post: I did see Auto Focus, finally. It was creepy.) It was a pleasant surprise to see Steve Martin. It was nice to see that he could do caricature and still make me laugh. Sometimes he can overwhelm me.

The film started off kind of slow, but really picked up about 15 minutes in - I guess around the top of the second act. Then it was classic Fey. Until the last act. That's my biggest beef so far. Particularly the ending. I could forgive the comedy film conventions that would never happen in real life: the contrived relationship between the women, the birthing coach with a speech impediment, the good friendship with the doorman. But the big confession, and how the parties dealt with it felt like rigid film formula - even with the snappy dialog. The courtroom scene injected calculated high fructose corn syruppy sap (snappy sap, but sap just the same) that I could've gotten from any old "insert-genre-here" movie. It was rote and kind of heartbreaking for that reason alone. The movie ends with each woman getting what she wants. (I'm trying not to let any spoilers slip.) What I was hoping for was that resolution might have come with one or both women finding that they have what they want, or that they create a mutually agreeable situation, not that accident hands them happy fates. I think that's what I loved about Juno, another fertility movie - nobody really got what they wanted from the beginning, but they learned to love what came about in the end as best they could. I'm not sure how I would've written this ending, though.

My comparison to Juno is kind of unfair. Baby Mama is a buddy movie or an odd couple movie, more aptly; that's where the humor stems from - that, and infertility, which is a riot (take a good look at John Hodgman's mug). Juno is ... another genre that my brain is too tired to conjure up right now. Nonetheless, each week on 30 Rock, Fey doesn't let her character win in her personal (and often in her professional) life and we love her all the more for that. I would have preferred that she save the nice bow to wrap another movie up with. I don't think this one was it.