Monday Hodgepodge With a Poem

1. I April fooled my kids. I told them I wasn’t making their traditional Sunday evening pancake dinner, but would be serving liver and onions instead. There were some tears. April Fools! I shouted. They were nonplussed. I would say that overall it was not a successful April Fools joke.

2. It’s National Poetry Month! It’s also International Guitar Month, National Frog Month, and Stress Awareness Month, which of course means that all of my posts will be written in syllabic verse from the perspective of a guitar-playing frog under a lot of stress. He wears a sombrero and his name is Bruce.

(I will be substituting Monday songs for poems, just for the month of April. Please look for next week’s review of my friend Daniel Bowman’s Jr.’s book of poetry A Plum in Leatherstocking Country, published this past January.)

Some thoughts on poetry:

“A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.” Salman Rushdie.

“Poetry is a life-cherishing force. And it requires a vision- a faith, to use an old fashioned term. Yes indeed. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry. Yes indeed.” Mary Oliver.

“A Poem begins with a lump in the throat.” Robert Frost.

“A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.” W.H. Auden.

“A poet is a professional maker of verbal objects.” W.H. Auden.

I’m a little bit in love with Auden. If he was alive, not gay, and I was unmarried, I would totally pursue him, even though (and these were also his words) he has a face that looks like a wedding cake left out in the rain.

Unfortunately, these are not minor obstacles.

3. Sometimes you have to dig a grave and bury your dreams. My dream of being a lounge singer is dead. I realize this is a strange dream, but I’ve always wanted to be the one wearing a slinky dress singing smoke songs in a non-smoky establishment where the tinkling of martini glasses and sporadic laughter is the back-up band to my back-up band. Alas, it is not meant to be.

I blame my father entirely.

If YOU had a dad who played the piano ten times better than you can sing, but who says he doesn’t FEEL like playing at events or weddings anymore because he’s getting OLDER, wouldn’t you blame him too? I don’t have time to find a piano player, a bass player, and a drummer! I’m a 34-year old mother of four! What would you do if your dad would rather play Bach than Gershwin?

Am I singing “Embraceable You” right now? Yes, yes I am.

4. It’s also National Humor Month! See, there’s some sort of a theme to this post? Except for the awful sadness of the death of my lounge-singing dream. Of course.

And so I'm adding one more Auden quote for good measure: “Among those I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.” (This is why I keep Ella around, actually.)

Your Laughter

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

Pablo Neruda

A Little Madness in the Spring OR Five Insignificant Complaints

1

Recently, I feel a great disturbance in the Blogger universe. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. I.e. Blogger was down. Everyone’s last post was removed, and although I got mine back, the comments remain lost in space.

Someone out there has to answer for this. Also- who do I contact to receive what I lost in AdSense revenue as a result of this debacle? Someone out there owes me at least 3 cents.

2

Yesterday, I had my annual singing gig. Joe (the saxophonist) and I are completely perplexed as to why, after last year’s significant press coverage, neither one of us have received one invitation to perform at any other event. This year, I really nailed “Orange Color Sky,” which contains music’s most memorable lyrics: Flash! Bam! Alakazam! I’d be happy to sing this at your graduation party.

I also sing the Star Spangled Banner at sporting events. I do Little League Games.

3

This week in Albany, two new bills introduced to the Senate seek to delegate an official New York State vegetable. The contenders? Sweet corn and onions.

This is bad news. New York, particularly upstate New York, has enough problems without being associated with a state vegetable that a) is not a vegetable or b) makes people cry. Don’t get me wrong, I love an ear of sweet corn and a good Vidalia onion; however, when I think corn, I think “Nebraska,” and when I think onion, I think “Texas.” (This association comes from the YA book, “Holes,” by Louis Sacchar.) When I think New York, I think “apple,” which apparently is the state fruit. I’m nominating it as state vegetable, as well, because apples are as much of a vegetable as starchy, unhealthy corn is.

4

This week, I said something cruel that I will never, ever be able to take back. In a moment of stress, I said these words:

“I don’t love you. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever loved you.”

I realize this admission guarantees I will be receiving some much-deserved hate mail.

Thankfully, Kiah is a dog and doesn’t understand most English. She understands SOME English, words like like “walk,” and “treat,” and “be really, really cute!” So, I didn’t crush her spirit with my false admission. She has not been moping around, nor will she require therapy in the coming days.

Of course, I didn’t mean it, but I was reeling over the sudden disappearance of my English muffin topped with homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam. It was the last English muffin in the house, hence my passionate response.

I wish my dog would stop eating my English muffins.

5

2 ½ years ago, we said goodbye to our village house and our porch swing, which the new owners demanded we leave. They were unmoved when I told them the swing was a father’s day present for John. I drive by the house, occasionally, and see them swinging, and I am filled with a melancholy nostalgia. (I have to do this surreptitiously, now- something about “stalking” and “making them feel uncomfortable.")

There are a lot of things I could complain about this past week like: the white fuzz in the air that makes me sneeze, the humidity that increases the overall size of my hair ten-fold, and the sugar ants that will have completely taken over the kitchen, effective Monday. But these are such small, petty, insignificant complaints when compared to the expanse of the robin’s egg blue sky, the vibrant green of the trees’ infant leaves, and sun that swathes the house in warm light. (The sun also exposes every one of my house’s many blemishes; but again- insignificant in comparison!)

We can buy another porch swing for our smaller, slightly less charming porch. This time I’ll carve our initials right on the front, so no one else can claim it as their own. And I will swing, peacefully, and drink in spring.

Until one of my boys inevitably sprays me with the hose. (He was just trying to give the flowers in my hanging baskets a drink. This may have happened to me this week. Again- insignificant.)

A little madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own! Emily Dickinson

The Swear Jar

I first came up with the swear jar during the Patriots playoff game.  I was upstairs with Daniel when we heard the following come from my very own husband:

"Suck it Tom Brady!  SUCK IT!"

Daniel looked at me.  Then he snickered.  I knew we had a problem.

Today, Kiah kept stealing Ben's lightsaber because she's a compulsive thief who shows no sign of reform even though we've had several serious talks.  Ben became irate and called her a stupid idiot.  I wish I could blame the public school for Ben's potty mouth, but let's all be honest with each other;  John calls Kiah a stupid idiot on a regular basis (albeit affectionately.)  In fact, that was the excuse Benjamin used when I chastised him. 

So this very night, I invented the game "Gotcha," the rules of which are quite simple.  Daddy says a bad word, we yell "Gotcha," and Daddy has to put $1.00 in the swear jar.  The swear jar will be a Wegmans Basil Tomato spaghetti sauce jar, washed, with a pretty swirly-lettered label that says "A vessel is known by the sound, whether it be cracked or not, so men are proved by their speeches whether they be wise or not. - Demosthenes ."  When we collect enough dollars, we'll have a pizza night.  I fully expect pizza night will happen tomorrow, as we've already garnered $3.00. 

We had to make a list, of course, of the offending words.  They are as follows:

Stupid
Dumb
Sucks
Crap
Frick
Frickin
Freaking
Idiot
Ass

Ben lobbied hard to put "poopstick" on the list, and although it's a word not used in decent conversation, we decided though vulgar, it didn't constitute a "naughty" word.

Caleb is somewhat to very uncomfortable with this game- in fact, after consideration, he has decided he doesn't want to play it at all.  Caleb always defers and is respectful to those who are in authority over him, and so this game goes against everything he believes in.  John even gave him the go-ahead to play, but our encouragement was to no avail.  Not even the promise of pizza night would sway poor Caleb's mind.  He did say the following:

"Anyway, I know that even though mom made up this game, she'll forget about it in a few days." 

He's eight, but he already knows I have a problem following through with things.  Like my scrapbooking projects.  My marathon training.  Grad school.  Flossing on a nightly basis.  Things like that.

So, I'm cleaning out another spaghetti sauce jar, which will be labeled:  "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours-  Henry David Thoreau."  Only I'll change the hes to shes.  For obvious reasons. 

Every time I don't follow through with something, the kids will yell, "I TOLD YOU SO!" and I'll put $1.00 in the jar.  When we save up enough dollars, we'll order out for subs.  (I find food is a wonderful motivator.)

I would admit that we're going to be eating a lot of pizza and subs, but let's face facts.  This is definitely the year we slap a G-rating on John's mouth.  And I'm going to follow through with my grand ideas.  Or at least my not-so-grand ideas.

We may be eating a lot of subs. 

GREED and generosity

I am about to share the extent of my greed.   Here are some of the things (and note I said SOME of the things) on my grand holiday wish-list.  I left out the prices so you would not know the extent of my sliminess.


Anthropologie Modeling Clay bag


It's all smushy and pretty.  And soft.  Kiah would have a field day chewing this up.

iPhone

I don't have a cell phone.  I want this one.  John has one and so do Nate and Mary, and whenever we go to Maryland to visit, there is a moment when they're all doing something with their iPhones (probably texting about me behind my back), and I feel lame.  And I want that app where you hear a song in a store, want to know what song it is so you hold your phone up, and it automatically finds the song for you and tells you the title and artist.  So many major questions in my life could have been answered if I had had that app. 



J. Crew Arabelle dress

 But Holly, they say, where would you ever wear this?

Um, where wouldn't I wear this? This is the closest representation of the white dress Grace Kelly wears in To Catch a Thief I've ever come across. Cary Grant, fireworks, and diamonds sold separately.

The iconic dress...

Atlas 9 Series Snowshoes

Because I live in western New York.   And they go so well with the dress.

Black and Decker FHV1200 Flex Vac Cordless Ultra-Compact Vacuum Cleaner

I feel like the minivan would stay a lot cleaner if I had this. 




Dyson Ball All Floors

 Because the $70 Eureka vacuum isn't cutting it.  Four kids, a puppy, and a John require the big guns. 

Film Noir Classic Collection Vol 1

Detectives and dames :)

Black and Decker Jigsaw

I want to make stuff.

Red Gatsby Newsboy Hat

Because I look good in hats.



Seren Antique Mercury Glass Lamp Bases

 Pottery Barn.  You are my porn. 

Snowglobe from Sundance Catalog

Isn't that peaceful?

Toni Amazing Bangs from Avon



Clip-on bangs!  Ingenious!  The ultimate solution for people with annoying cowlicks. 

So, I don't NEED any of these things.  (Although we could debate my needing the Dyson.)  And as I was making this visual list, I realized how ridiculous I am. 

I don't really need anything.  I have lots of wants, but few needs.  And in that way, I am very fortunate. 

I wanted to have access to a charitable organization on my blog this Christmas- I chose Heifer.org because it is reputable and well-run and because they inundate me with literature every December.  Let's buy some family a cow, people. 

You can make a donation of ANY amount on the sidebar.  Find out more about the organization here.   (All giving, including who donated and how much, is completely anonymous.  We are not Oprah.)

Escapism

So, my house kind of smells like a barn. I didn’t realize this until I left and came back in. Not a horrible smell- just like hay. That’s been peed on.

It’s absolute chaos here. Our puppy, an Australian Shepherd, is a herding breed, and herd she does. She does this by chasing the children relentlessly about the yard, nipping at their feet. Aside from the screaming, it's pretty hilarious. And Ella, poor Ella… Ella is small enough that the dog’s mouth fits snugly about her small calf. She's taken to perching atop the couch and tables and other high places, out of the dog's reach.

But, my word, this puppy is cute. She has two modes of being: manic and dead to the world. And she switches from one to the other in a blink of the eye. Which I completely understand. When I spend a good fifteen minutes wrestling a soda can and barking at it, working myself into an absolute frenzy, I pretty much pass out afterwards, too.

Daniel, possibly inspired by the puppy’s potty-training progress, has completely potty-trained himself in 24 hours. Pee and poo. There hasn’t been ONE accident since he first sat upon the porcelain throne. In his pants, anyway. I can’t say that the pee and poo always hit the prospective target, which has definitely contributed to the barn smell in the home.

The house is a wreck. If you are planning on visiting in the next couple of days, please go to the bathroom beforehand as I cannot promise that the condition of my own water closets will be amenable to guests. I simply can’t keep up. I’m constantly doing laundry, extricating my dog’s mouth from my daughter’s leg, making completely non-nutritious foods, cleaning up pee and poo, helping Caleb with his homework, and daydreaming. Lots of daydreaming. I daydream about having a nicely decorated house like this:


Serene blue and white, light and airy, a touch of French country. I look at rooms like this in magazines and scoff, saying, "How impractical!" But a room like this would make me feel calm. Though I could do without the dead zebra carcass on the floor.

I love blue and white. I am inspired by Monet's kitchen (I don't mean to brag, but I've been here):

Cookware as decoration! A marvelous idea. I wouldn't feel like I was being so wasteful with my pots and pans.

Or, I could be quite content with a room like this:

Looks like it would be cozy in the winter. And John would probably fit in better here. We'd call this the library. We would also have a parlor and a drawing room. I don't know what a drawing room is. I read about them in Victorian novels a lot, and I think there might be one in the game Clue.

They all did it. But if you wanna know who killed Mr. Boddy, I did. In the hall. With the revolver. Okay, Chief, take 'em away. I'm gonna go home and sleep with my wife.

In this room, I could easily draw Caleb hanging from the chandelier, Daniel taking a ride down the spiral staircase, Ben being Spiderman on the wrong side of the balcony, and Ella throwing all of the books on the floor. (She threw all of our Ayn Rand books on the floor the other day. Sometimes, she seems so very intelligent.)

I was feeling kind of guilty about my escapist daydreaming. After all, there are people in the world who have to live in yurts. Then I saw this picture:

Holy crap, that's a nice yurt. I've gotta find time to clean my house but good. Did I mention it kind of smells like a barn?

Three Parts

I

On Friday evening, I headed off to my once-a-year singing gig with at the Conservative Party Banquet right here in Rochester, New York. The Conservatives, being relatively conservative, do things the same way year after year. Therefore, I know every May I can make $100.00 singing Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes at the Rochester Riverside Convention Center. I get to sing with my dad, which is lovely, and Joe, a saxophonist who was also best man in my brother’s wedding, and this year a bass player I’d never met before. I’d love it if we were a real band. Sadly, we’re a once-a-year phenomenon. My dad is threatening to quit altogether, even though I came up with a great name for our would-be jazz ensemble. It’s… wait for it… Improversations! (Improvisation and conversations put together.) It came to me in a dream. I thought I was incredibly witty for coming up with it on my own; I then found out Michael Scott from The Office first coined the term. (The subconscious is a strange vault of information.) Nevertheless, I think it’s a name that would look good on a drum. (On a related note, Improversations could use a drummer.)

This year we made the evening news.

I am famous. Again. Surprisingly, the phone calls aren't pouring in.

You can see me and Joe a few seconds into the segment. I am singing Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave,” which is always an appropriate pick for any political event. (Though our gigs so far have been limited to right-wing political events, don’t be fooled. We would be happy to play at your wedding or bar mitzvah.)

II

On Saturday, Caleb and I went with my dad and stepmother to see Peter Pan in Stratford. This was Caleb’s first theater experience, and he loved it. After every scene ended, he turned and asked if the play was over. He wondered if the pirates were actually real pirates, because they certainly looked real. He clapped loudly when Peter Pan implored the audience to help save Tinkerbell’s life. He gasped when it appeared the Jolly Roger would sail right into the audience, and stared amazed at the starry sky from which Wendy, John, and Michael flew home.

It was a fantastic performance, despite the fact that Tiger Lily and her Indian friends were turned into Amazons. (Political correctness is destroying the theater!) The Amazons were all female and looked an awful lot like Xena Warrior Princesses.

It was a treat to spend the whole day with Caleb. Speaking of treats, my dad and Sigrid stuffed that kid full of sweets- cookies, hot cocoa, ice-cream, and candy. And, when Caleb had to use the potty five minutes after we left Stratford for home, my dad didn’t scold him. Not even a little. I’m only mentioning this because it’s not how I remember my dad acting when Holly-of-the-very-wee-bladder had to stop some place to use the potty on car trips.

Before the play, we took a walk by the river. This couple was making out in a disgusting fashion. So I took a picture. (That'll learn 'em.)

Caleb, oblivious to the couple on the bridge, is excited about feeding a mass of swans.

Here's the boy in action.

III

Yesterday, we had a full day of church, naps, and an evening visit from friends. I went to bed last night feeling full of warm fuzzies. I love my children. They are good people.

It is my job to check on them before I start my own getting into bed process, which is long and complicated. Sometimes, I don’t check on them. I climb into bed, start the process, and John says, “Did you check on the kids?” I sigh and get out of the warm covers and take a peek at them. Inevitably, Ella is stripped down to her diaper, though on occasion, her diaper is off completely and that, of course, needs to be remedied.

Why doesn’t John check on the kids? I’m not sure. He seems to think it’s his job to remind me to do it. It’s strange how over time couples get relegated to specific, inane roles. For instance, it’s John’s job to fill up our nighttime cups. When he’s out of town, I reach for my cup and feel disoriented and confused when it’s not filled with fresh, cool water.

My bedtime process consists of adjusting the covers just-so, applying hand-lotion, taking my happy pills, drinking my cool water, flossing my teeth, and then reading until I get sleepiesh. I must wear pajama bottoms to bed and the sheets must be tucked in correctly.

This is why I don't get my kids. When I go to check on them, they look like this:

Daniel has completely removed his sheet, and is lying on top of, instead of under, his quilt. His feet aren't even on his bed.

Ella's feet are hanging out of the crib. Note that she has stripped out of her pajamas. Her blanket, at least, is not covering her face like it usually is.

So, last night I dressed Ella, put Daniel in a position that made me fairly certain he wouldn't wake up with a neck cramp, and went to bed, still filled with the warm fuzzies. A lovely weekend.

One Year of HGL

Today is the… wait for it… first anniversary of my blog, Holly Goes Lightly, which has recently been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize.

In honor of this special day, I will be awarding one lucky reader with a very imaginary prize if he or she answers all of the following questions about me correctly. (If you are a faithful reader of the blog, this will be no problem for you.)

Here are the questions, and, godspeed, my friends:

1)For what Broadway show did Holly win a Tony award?
2)What was the name of Holly’s second bestselling novel?
3)What is Oprah’s nickname for Holly?
4)Who stalked Holly this past Valentine’s Day: Colin Firth or Colin Farrell?
5)Where is Holly’s summertime vacation villa located?
6)What is the name of Holly’s children's nanny? (Bonus: Why did her second nanny quit?)
7)How many children does Holly have: one or two?
8)Where is Holly’s penthouse located?
9)Holly sang the national anthem (and received a standing ovation) at: the 2009 Pittsburgh/ Arizona Super Bowl or the 2010 Vancouver Olympics opening ceremony?
10) When Holly passes gas, does it smell like roses or lavender?

Whoever correctly answers all of these questions will receive a free copy of Holly’s bestselling memoir: Going Rogue.


First person to answer all questions correctly wins my book, which only consists of a dust jacket, but it's a cool dust jacket, I think. It took me like fifteen minutes to design it.

Ann Patchett and I Could've Been Friends...

“A friend of mine wrote on Facebook that he was suicidal and thinking about jumping off a bridge. So I poked him.” Tom Rhodes.

This is my way of saying I’m feeling pretty good lately. I’ve been exercising, I’ve been getting out some, and I’m hopeful about the sunny, warm weather promised later this week. If it rains on Easter, I know a meteorologist who will never see Christmas.

In other news, my blog seems to be dying a slow and natural type of death. This is me trying to revive it:

So, Ann Patchett was in town on Friday. Who is Ann Patchett? She’s just about the eighth to tenth greatest American female writer writing today! (If you have not read the novel Bel Canto, please do so yesterday.) I picked up John at work and we ventured to the local community college to hear her speak. I was so excited! I put on lipstick for her.

Ms. Patchett is obviously brilliant. She was funny and thoughtful and seemingly gracious. She name-dropped (I was talking with John Irving…), talked about her hatred of technology (she will never be on Facebook-sigh), and gave us some insight into what it was like to write her most famous novel (that’s an awful day when you kill your characters.)

As I sat listening to her speak, I was pretty sure that Ann was going to by next best friend. It was all so obviously meant to be. I would go up to her and say: Hey… I know a great little bistro. Let’s grab a panini and discuss Thomas Mann.

She would reply: That’d be great! I have such trouble getting people to discuss Thomas Mann with me!

I would say: Why would anyone not want to discuss Thomas Mann?

And she’d say: I know, right? I like you!

This never occurred, mainly because she floored me with her thoughts on a particular subject of interest to me.

I will set the scene for you. A student asked Ms. Patchett what she would have been if she had not been a writer. Ms. Patchett replied that if she could be reincarnated, she would be reincarnated as a woman with eight kids, just to see what that experience would be like. She admitted she has never cared for children.

“I have no interest in children. Not mine, not others,” she said. “Children take up all your time and don’t go away.”

Now, she said this all casually, in a lighthearted manner. She went on to explain that the things she enjoys most, listening to music, reading, and writing, could not be done with a two-year old running around. For her, the choice was obvious: books or children. Since she cared little for children, she chose books.

After she finished speaking on this topic, I turned to John.

“I am floored!” I said. “Simply floored.”

I have no problem with Ann Patchett’s disinterest in childbearing. It doesn’t offend me in the slightest. Two-year olds are noisy. And distracting. And they leave snot all over your cushions.

But I submit that most anything ANY adult enjoys doing best cannot be enjoyed with kids about. If everyone took this into great consideration before acquiring a child, we would have a lot fewer people in the world today.

My problem was her either/or attitude. Instead of saying “children or books” she could have just said, “I just never had an interest in having children.”

Yes, having children makes writing more challenging. When they are awake, I can’t read a page in a book without someone asking me for a cheese stick. (They love cheese sticks.) And no, I can’t run off to the Amazon to research my latest book. I mean, if I had a latest book, which would suggest I had an earlier book, which I don’t. I suppose I’m proving Ms. Patchett’s point here.

I was bewildered by her comments. Her dream was to become a writer. What happens if someone has two dreams, say have children AND be a writer? And what if that person is by nature, quiet? What if her personality is a lot like Ann Patchett’s?

I did a little bit of research. I looked up well-regarded (living) female writers to see how many children they had. Here’s what I found out:

Margaret Atwood-1 daughter
Anne Tyler- 2 daughters
Ann Patchett- 0 children
Anne Lamott- 1 son
Alice Munro- 3 children
Barbara Kingsolver- 2 daughters
Jhumpa Lahiri- 2 daughters
Joyce Carol Oates- 0 children
A.S. Byatt- 4 children
Toni Morrison- 2 kids

Average: 1.5 kids.

My conclusion: If AS Byatt ever comes to town, I’m totally going to hear HER speak.

Why We Do the Santa Claus Thing

Most men and women, before they embark on the glorious journey that is marriage, have necessary and important conversations. The most important, possibly, is the “are we gonna have kids?” conversation. Such a talk might go something like this:

“So, how many kids do you want?” she asks.

“Two is good,” he replies.

“I want five,” she says.

“Three it is,” he compromises.

“Fine,” she says. “So are we gonna do the Santa Claus thing or what?”

“I really could care less.”

“All right, then! Let’s do this thing!”

At least, that was pretty much the conversation John and I had. And then, ha ha to him, we had twins.

I don’t ever remember ever believing in Santa Claus, although my younger brother and sister did, and I do recall delightly in the consumption of the cookies they left out for Santa after they went to bed. After they grew up, I couldn't wait to do the Santa Claus thing with my own kids, and now I delight in eating the cookies they leave out for Santa. It is good, clean fun. A little fattening.

As I got older, it seemed every parent or parent-to-be had opinions about the jolly old white-bearded man with the wicked cool red winter suit. Some believed he distracted from “the true meaning of Christmas.” Others didn’t like lying to their kids. We all know I have no quandaries about lying to my kids, so that brings us to “the true meaning of Christmas.”

As fellow blogger Michelle recently pointed out, Christmas did not begin as a religious holiday and nowhere in the bible does it indicate Christ’s birth should be celebrated. (Let’s put Christ back into Christmas really doesn’t make sense- he was never there in the first place.) Christmas was initially a holiday that celebrated winter solstice; Christmas as we know it today is simply Christianity’s reaction to a popular pagan holiday. (Jesus was actually born in the fall.)

Santa Claus, on the other hand, is based on a bishop lauded and subsequently sainted for his extravagant gifts to the poor. (This was before the Reformation.) The idea of Santa Claus actually has roots in Christianity. Christmas, um, doesn’t really so much.

I love Christmas. I love the carols, I love the story of Jesus’ birth, I love nativity scenes and lights on the houses and the smell of Christmas trees and decking the halls and all that stuff. I applaud Christians for turning Christmas into their own celebration of the greatest event in the history of the world.

I also love to spur my children’s imagination. Is there a greater gift than a really good, really primed, imagination?

One of my favorite books is A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. The main character is a poor little girl who lives in the Bronx. No, I’m kidding. She lives in Brooklyn.

See? I have a compulsion.

Anyways, she is a “storyteller” and these two paragraphs illustrate her parent’s differing opinions about spurring on their daughter’s fledgling imagination:

Lately, she (Francie) had been given to exaggerating things. She did not report happenings truthfully, but gave them color, excitement and dramatic twists. Katie (her mother) was annoyed at this tendency and kept warning Francie to tell the plain truth and to stop romancing. But Francie just couldn’t tell the plain undecorated truth. She had to put something to it.

Although Katie had this same flair for coloring an incident and Johnny (her father) himself lived in a half-dream world, yet they tried to squelch these things in their child. Maybe they had a good reason. Maybe they knew their own gift of imagination colored too rosily the poverty and brutality of their lives and made them able to endure it. Perhaps Katie thought that if they did not have this faculty, they would be clearer-minded; see things as they really were, and seeing them loathe them and somehow find a way to make them better.

The next chapter, noticeably, begins with: Christmas was a charmed time in Brooklyn.

Caleb is slowly putting two and two together. He was pretty sure the Santa Claus we saw on the street last week isn’t the same one that made an appearance at his school. He asks me strange questions, like:

“When Santa sees a reindeer in the woods, does he grab it so he’ll have even more reindeer on his sleigh?”

“No. I think he’s happy with the eight he has.”

“But wouldn’t more reindeer make him go even faster?” Caleb asked.

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Nine, anyway.”

“Pardon?”

“Nine. There are nine reindeer. You forgot Rudolph.”

“Yes. I guess I did. Nine, then.”

I’m so prepared for the day Caleb no longer believes. I'm prepared for the inevitable accusation that I, ahem, lied. I have a great book to recuse myself of any responsibility: it is called, Santa? Are you for real? The answer is happily non-committal.

In the meantime, I’m truly enjoying watching Caleb work it out for himself.

The Possible's slow fuse is lit
By the Imagination
~Emily Dickinson

How do YOU feel about the jolly old white-bearded man with the wicked cool red winter suit? I won't be offended if you think I am totally off my rocker... it's been known to happen before.

The Day I was an Obnoxious Fan

Yesterday, I went with my dad, his wife, and my sister to Stratford to see two Shakespeare plays. Two Shakespeare plays may be too many for one day. I only say this because when Daniel toddled into my bedchamber and awoke me this morning, I cried out,

“Who durst awaken me from mine gentle slumber!”

We saw Julius Caesar and Macbeth.

Both plays were well done and though I’m certainly no theater critic, I will say that I’m tired of directors setting Shakespeare plays in alternate time periods. Shakespeare was not a science-fiction writer, after all. Macbeth was set in 1950’s Africa and there were very loud machine guns which, quite frankly, frightened me. The actors, however, only spoke about slaying one another with swords and constantly referred to Scotland.

I don’t know WHAT time period they were tried to sell in Julius Caesar, but there were boomsticks in that play, too. Look, people. We all know Caesar was a historical figure who lived before the advent of advanced weaponry, so COME ON! I’m all for creativity, but toga/ Cold War Soviet attire? It’s kind of silly.

They were both bloody plays, and sitting toward the front, I could smell the blood. Strangely, it smelled like hand sanitizer and I felt kind of a buzz after inhaling its fumes.

In Julius Caesar, Ben Carlson played the part of the complicated Brutus. He was brilliant. This is the first time I’ve ever seen the play, and perhaps you have seen it or at least read the Cliff Notes in the tenth grade or something, anyway here is what struck me… why on earth did Brutus and the other senators allow Marc Antony to talk at Caesar’s funeral? And why oh why didn’t ONE of them stay and listen to his speech? I thought Cassius was supposed to be kind of a smarty-pants. Friends, Romans, and countrymen… we could’ve put the kebosh on the whole second act if Brutus had kept a tighter leash on Antony. Really.

I have a crush on the actor Ben Carlson. John knows about this and he’s accepted it, as he does most of my crushes, so don’t worry about him. After all, he has Regina Spektor.

I don’t generally have crushes on celebrities (not that Ben Carlson’s quite a celebrity) but rather fictional characters from television, film, or books. My crushes include but are not limited to: Jim from The Office, Sawyer from Lost, the Weekend Update reporter on SNL, Jack Bauer, Dr. House, Hawkeye as played by Daniel Day Lewis, Spiderman, Superman, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Rochester, and Han Solo.

A few years back, I saw the Bernard Shaw play Man and Superman at the Shaw Festival. Ben Carlson played the role of Jack Tanner, who gives, I believe, more lines in a single play than any other character in any play every performed. (It is a long play. John fell asleep.) Ben Carlson did not miss a line. He was funny and charming and witty and adorable and I was smitten.

On Saturday, I chose to see him in Julius Caesar instead of going to see West Side Story, which has received rave reviews, so now you know the depth of my devotion.

Guess what? I finally came face to face with Ben Carlson. He was walking toward us on the street after we left the theater. With the encouragement of my supportive family, I approached him and said, “Mr. Carlson? Would you mind signing an autograph for me?” He was very gracious and said he would. I also asked if he might pose for a picture with me. He did! It was all very civil.

Things went downhill from there. I put my arm around him for the picture and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. I blurted out that I had a huge crush on him and that I myself could have been a great actress if I had put any effort into it. (I did not mention the fact of my husband or my 4 children. For shame!) I then broke away and stood atop my father's car and passionately recited Portia’s courtroom monologue from The Merchant of Venice. Because you never know... perhaps I could impress and become a Stratford leading lady. When I was finished, Ben Carlson was nowhere to be found, but there was quite a crowd of tourists gathered around me snapping pictures and laughing. I went with it and sang “The Star Spangled Banner” which was another mistake because we were in Canada.

Okay. The parts that are true are: I did put my arm around him, which seemed like a good idea and then felt awkward, and I did say, “I have such a crush on you,” to which he replied, “Oh no. I’m so sorry.” My stepmother snapped like seven pictures and then we let him go on his way, waiting until he was at least fifteen feet past us before we started giggling like schoolchildren.

So, here’s the thing. I told you I didn’t swoon. But, apparently, I do gush. I’m a gusher. Normally, I gush at appropriate times, like when confronted with a round-faced infant, but, on occasion, I act like an idiot and gush in admiration of (for shame!) an actor.

I must go now. I’m brushing up on lines from The Tempest, in case I should meet Ben (great first name) again. Here’s a passage fitted for our next meeting…

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.


I continue to play around with photos on Picnik.com. I was going for... timeless. Though I swear to you, my second chin would not be so pronounced if it weren't for the angle of the shot. Remember the camera adds ten chin pounds.


Is not Ben handsome?

Lying

I am a liar. (I have decided that, at least for the time-being, I will begin all of my posts with declarative statements. Look for future posts starting with the following: “I am a binge-eater”, “I am not a morning person”, and “I am the Batman.”)

Caleb has been playing with a seashell that hails from North Carolina, where we vacationed when he was but a fetus in my belly. I told him he could hear the ocean when we put the shell to his ear. He wanted to know why. So I told him, of course, that there was a tiny ocean inside the seashell that he could not see, but could hear. The sound was he heard was the lapping of the waves, the wind over the water, the spray of the surf.

Caleb is so stinking rational. At first, he was incredulous. But I was insistent! He asked all sorts of questions:

“I think I hear whistling,” he said.

“Little tiny seagulls,” I said.

“How come no water comes out when I shake the seashell?” he asked.

“It’s so small, you wouldn’t be able to see the water if it did come out.” I said.

“Is there really a little tiny ocean in this shell?” he asked.

“That’s an affirmative,” I said.

“Did God make the little tiny ocean?” he asked.

Oh, man. He had to bring God into my convoluted tale. I was stumped. Did I draw God into my lie? Did I tell the truth? Did I cover up with another lie, like, gosh I think I hear Ella crying?

(I went with the third option. I’m a terrible person.)

This morning, John went and told Caleb that there was no little tiny ocean in the seashell, that the sound was just air circling its cavernous insides. Caleb was crushed. He said he didn’t want the seashell anymore. He gave it to Ben.

“Here Ben,” he said, grouchily. “You can have this for the REST OF YOUR LIFE!”

Then he sat cross-armed on the sofa. I scuttled up next to him and told him I knew how he felt. Because I do! I know what it’s like to believe in something so wonderful, so fantastical, and so beautiful that just believing in it makes me feel a part of something greater than what I am. And I always feel mad at the reality; my fictions are much more fun, more interesting, and make life seems less ordinary. I told Caleb that I knew there wasn’t really a beautiful, blue-skied sea kingdom inside the shiny North Carolina shell, but that I still liked to pretend that there was.

As we waited for the bus, we made up a story about the people who went to the beach inside the shell. Little bitty people who liked to body surf; babies who never dirtied their swim diapers; mommies who had an abundant supply of lemonade and red popcicles; children who never had to reapply sunscreen; daddies who tossed their kids into the water over and over again and never got tired out; sharks who were nice and let people ride on their backs. A very strange, fun place.

I’m hoping this imaginative exercise will help Caleb out when he inevitably realizes there is no Santa Claus, that the fluff left behind by the Easter bunny is just stuffing from the throw pillow Daniel pulled apart, and that the leprechaun that he swears he saw on St. Patrick’s day is a myth perpetuated by people who drink too much and hallucinate angry little green men who horde gold.

The tooth fairy? Oh, the tooth fairy is very real. Very, very real.

New Domain, Same Crazy Lady

I will come forth and just tell you that I KNOW the domain holly-goes-light-ly@blogspot.com was, well, horrible. Long. Clunky. Confusing. Insurmountable. Unwieldy.

Don't you just love adjectives? If you want to add your own adjective to describe my former domain name, I won't be the slightest bit offended. Really.

I have fixed this problem! I shelled out $10 to get my website domain name changed to the easy to remember and quite adorable http://www.hollygoeslightly.net/. Dot net is the up and coming dot com, I'll have you know.

Of course I wanted http://www.hollygoeslightly.com/. It was taken someone who appears to be some sort of interior decorater or House Beautiful fan. I will tell you, though, that if you desire the answer to the burning question What does George Stephanopolous's living room look like? (a question I have had for years and years now) you need to check out Hollygoeslightly.com.

However, if you enjoy the occasional tidbit about the life of a shy, neurotic housewife who dreams of someday singing the national anthem at a professional sports game, http://www.hollygoeslightly.net/ is the spot for you.

I'm also on Twitter, now, though I don't quite get it. It's all the rage, twitter. Anyway, you can follow me, if you so desire. Look to the right. There I am, all twitterpated.

Blogger will still direct you to Holly Goes Lightly if you feel attached to the old domain name. Me? I'm so over it.

Thoughts about Killing Crows and other Suburbanite Daydreams

The lawn is a constant source of irritation to me. Our house was empty for a good year before we bought it, and during that time the poor yard was not taken care of. Weeds were allowed to grow freely and the grass was allowed to diversify itself. Our neighbors, I'm sure, felt better about their manicured lawns since they bordered the lawn that God had forsaken. We moved over labor-day weekend, and except for occasionally mowing, we decided to wait until this spring to get rid of the weedy invaders.

I now know why organic bohemians flock to the city. You cannot be a proper suburbanite and NOT put dangerous chemicals on your lawn to kill the weeds. I've got thistles in my lawn. THISTLES. People have been known to bleed to death after stepping on a thistle.

After our first kill-the-weeds-chemical application, the lawn guy (LG) came to my door with a worried look about him. He said that we had especially aggressive weeds, and that this application would probably only kill about 60% of the weeds and that it would probably take a full season to get our lawn into shape. We both gazed across the street at the lawn that looks like a golf-course, with matching grasses and perfect landscaping and not a dandelion in sight. At our first meeting, I had pointed to that lawn and said, "That's the cut I want!" as if he were a hair stylist. Oh how I covet that lawn.

After LG informed me not ALL of the weeds would instantly vanish, I took a hard look at him and I said this: "Excuse me? What do you mean it's only going to kill 60% of the weeds? Maybe I should only pay 60% of the bill, then, if you're not going to do 100% of the job. I mean, this is ridiculous. I want to talk to your supervisor. Who's your supervisor?"

I'm kidding, I did not say this. But I think that's what LG may get a lot because I have learned that suburbanites can be, well, jerks, especially when it comes to their lawn. I, on the other hand, was thrilled to piece that the dandelions would die ASAP. They made me sneeze. And Ben kept bringing them to me in little yellow sneezy bouquets to put in cups about the house. There were always tears when the weeds inevitably withered and died, sometimes within hours. Now that we live in a dandelion-free zone, Ben has taken to finding clovers. He runs over to me so I can closely examine each one. Will it be a four-leaf clover this time? Not one yet. It is hard to get any magazine reading done when Ben is on a clover hunt.

I have a theory that my next-door neighbors wait until we mow our lawn before they mow theirs. They usually pull their mower out the day after we do. This way, their lawn looks better than ours does six out of seven days of the week. This is the sort of petty thing suburbanites do. My one neighbor spends an immeasurable amount of time fixating over her flower gardens. I was proud that we finally got all of the fall leaves out from our front landscaping. I put almost no effort into our lawn, yet I inexplicably worry that everyone who passes our house judges us based on how well we maintain it. At the same time, I am completely baffled as to why people turn their sprinklers on to water the grass, ensuring a supremely large water bill. Don't they get that if their lawn dries out, they do not have to MOW IT? I think crispy golden grass is lovely in the sunshine.

It's such a beautiful day out, but we must wait until the chemical lawn application dries before it is safe to frolic in the backyard. Is it wrong that while I watch beastly crows search for worms I am fervently hoping that they are poisoned and die as a result the chemicals?

This is my dream, people. A backyard devoid of thistles, dandelions, and crows. And goggy poop.

I dream big.