 |
| This is not my oven. I did not, in the middle of a slight emergency, take the time to find my camera and take a picture. This is a picture from the internet I'm using for illustrative purposes because, according to blogging experts, blog posts should come with at least one picture. One seemingly calm evening in early fall, I baked something, which happens every full moon during leap years. I bake in the oven that came with the house and hasn’t been cleaned since we moved into said house. There are bits of charcoal that have gathered on the bottom of the oven which I think lend the foods a nice, smoky flavor, appreciated when baking pizzas but not so much when baking, say, banana bread. I was baking macaroni and cheese when the fire alarm went off. I opened the oven to find that my charcoal collection had caught on fire, which was an inevitable development, I suppose, but I panicked nonetheless. Here is Caleb’s account of what happened: “Yeah, my mom screamed really loud and then threw water on it and the next day she went out and bought a fire extinguisher.” This account was relayed to my babysitter, who had to contend with her own charcoal fire when making frozen pizzas for the kids last week. “Why didn’t she just clean the oven?” the babysitter asked. Why didn’t she, indeed. (Fires in the kitchen are actually a somewhat common occurrence in the Jennings’ household.) This event is indicative of the level of chaos my kids have come to expect in our household. All this to say that my new year’s resolution is to get my sh@# together. Because setting your house on fire is not being a good parent. I’m on a new cocktail of meds that will supposedly help to keep me out of the mental ward (ha ha!), but they make me dizzy and forgetful. So, the next month will be about playing around with dosages, etc. Sometimes the cure is worse than the malady, but I guess I’d rather be forgetful than, you know, an inert weirdo. (Which sounds better?) Babysitter: So why didn’t your mom just clean the oven? Caleb: Because she’s an inert weirdo, of course. OR: Babysitter: So why didn't your mom just clean the oven? Caleb: She just forgot. No biggie. Everyone's okay. (I thought so.) New year’s resolutions: • Don’t obsess over little things • Hug my kids every day • Respond with kindness, not impatience and anger • Let go of those things I have no control over • Take hold of the things I do have control over • Be the more loving one The More Loving One by WH Auden Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Admirer as I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time. |
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Fire in the Hole! (Or New Year's Resolutions)
Monday, January 2, 2012
The Year in Books: 2011
I read 28 books this year: one book fewer than last year. In my defense, I read longer books in 2011 and I did more writing than, well, ever. Not on my blog, per se, but there was other, more boring types of writing.
Breaking it Down
I read 12 by male authors and 16 by female. There were 5 memoirs, 2 non-fiction books, and 3 classics. This year, I thought I’d focus on my favorite ten of 2012. They are ordered by time period; Great Expectations was read at the beginning of 2011, The Lonely Polygamist I finished a couple of days ago.
1. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
I begin with one of the great works of classic literature- Charles Dickens' tome, Great Expectations. I personally love the novel's gothic allure (Bleak House has a similar tone) as well as the romance and the rags-to-riches tale. Plus, I think Joe Gargery is one of my favorite all-time literary characters.
Great Expectations is published with Dickens' revised ending. Originally, the novel had a much less hopeful conclusion, but novelist Wilkie Collins encouraged Dickens to give his work a more conventional happy ending. Some criticized Dickens for changing his original conclusion. George Bernard Shaw said that Great Expectations "is too serious a book to be a trivially happy one. Its beginning is unhappy; its middle is unhappy; and the conventional happy ending is an outrage on it."
I believe the ending is ambiguous enough not to be considered flagrantly sappy or happy, but what do I know? I was angry when Charlotte Bronte blinded poor bigamy-minded Mr. Rochester.
I love gothic novels.
This year, I also read Jane Austen's famous satire Northanger Abbey. Generally, I adore Ms. Austen, but I also adore a good gothic romance, so her mockery of the genre didn't do it for me. When the lead protagonist's imaginations of macabre goings on in the abbey fell flat, so did my hopes for an interesting novel. Blah.
If you haven't read Great Expectations since high school, I highly suggest you try it again. You can download it for free off of Amazon.
2. Freedom by Jonathan Franzen
There's a fabulous scene in the television show Parks and Recreation where Leslie, the optimistic and ambitious deputy director of the parks department, is handing over research documents and a copy of the novel Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen, to her best friend, Ann. Ann is supposed to use the documents to study for an interview for a job Leslie desperately wants her to get.
Ann looks at Freedom and asks, "And why am I reading this?"
"Because I'm almost done with it and I wanna talk to you about Patty!"
I keep waiting for someone I know to finish Freedom so we can talk about Patty. Alas, no one has pulled through for me yet. Maybe now that it's out in paperback...
3. The Waiting Place by Eileen Button
Read this exquisite book of essays in 2012. And buy a copy for a friend. You can read a longer review of the book here. I stole the above picture from this blogger, who also wrote a lovely review. Oh yeah- did I mention I'm going to hang with Eileen at the Calvin Faith and Writing Conference this April? I'm a lucky duck.
4. Life of Pi by Yann Martel
This is a terrific book. It's fresh, original, smart, devious, and crammed with absorbing lore. And no, I didn't steal this quote from Margaret Atwood. Why do you ask?
I'd had this book on my shelf for a few years and, on a whim, picked it up and couldn't set it down. Life of Pi is a breathtaking allegorical tale that's part fairy-tale, part family saga, part fable. I've never read anything like it.
5. Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
The prose is flowery and pretentious. After the first chapter, you want to kick the protagonist in the head. Her father, too. They are irritating and smug and wow... I thought Ms. Pessl was the most ostentatious, snobby author I had possibly ever come across. I mean, the protagonist’s name is BLUE. I think there was some literary reason for this, but I forget what it was. We’re talking that kind of pretension.
But the story was good. It drew me in. It became clear that in spite of the protagonists’ supposed vast intelligence, even she could never imagine the twists and turns her story would take. This is such a weird, wonderful, fun story. If you enjoyed Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, Special Topics in Calamity Physics is probably right up your alley.
“Hurry up and read it ‘cause I wanna talk about BLUE!!!”
6. Digging to America by Anne Tyler
Two families adopt two little girls from Korea. The girls arrive on the same day. The story begins pre 9/11, and families are gathered at the terminal to greet the newest members of their respective families. The first family is a large, gregarious, quintessential American family. The second, a small Iranian family that consists of a husband, wife, and the husband’s mother. The two families forge a tangled yet strong bond and the novel follows their wobbly but important relationship as their sweet adopted daughters grow up as friends.
Ms. Tyler’s novels almost always take place in Baltimore. They are always relationship-driven, and they are among the most perfectly written pieces of work I’ve ever read. This is a gorgeous book. Read it.
7. The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach
The Art of Fielding is supposedly one of this year’s great novels. The husband actually read it first and then made me read it before it was due back to the library. Of my ten listed, this is the one I vacillated upon including. I can’t pinpoint exactly what bothered me about it. I suppose some of the storylines seemed a bit trite and everything concluded a little too neatly. In other words, Shaw would not have been all that impressed.
On the other hand, this is a spectacular debut that tells a compelling story and, if I may draw upon the words of Harbach’s enthused fans, is:
“Intensely readable!”
AND ALSO:
“Harbach (has a) knowledge of baseball that is encyclopedic but never ponderous…”
The NY Times states:
“Detractors went looking for entertainment, and found art instead.”
I agree with above said statements.
The book is about college life and friendship and a tangled romance and forbidden love and baseball and more baseball and Moby Dick. And that pretty much sums it up. Also, it’s intensely readable.
8. Rush Home Road by Lori Lansens
Lori Lansens is fast becoming one of my favorite contemporary female authors. A while back, I read The Girls, a novel about a pair of conjoined twins. Rush Home Road was completely different in tone, voice, and everything else that distinguishes a novel.
Sharla, who had been living in a trailer park with her mother, is left under the care of “Mum Addy,” an elderly black woman who tries her hardest to give the little girl a safe, normal life with birthdays, clean sheets on the bed and all of those things our own kids take for granted. However, Addy soon realizes she cannot keep up with a troubled child and begins to worry about what will become of Sharla when she is gone. As she grows to love Sharla, we are privy to Addy’s memories, mostly painful, many beautiful. Lansens ties her modern-day tale with Addy’s past perfectly.
This was the “I can’t put this book down” of the year. Vivid, haunting, sentimental but not sappy, and ultimately, satisfying. I couldn’t recommend a book more highly.
9. The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides
Another big novel in 2011! Still on the bestseller’s list, I believe. Eugenides wrote the wildly well-received novel, Middlesex- the most intriguing story about a hermaphrodite you’ll ever read.
The Marriage Plot follows Madeleine, Mitchell, and Leonard as they try and make their way in the world after college.
Madeleine is beautiful and intelligent, though not as intelligent as Leonard, her brilliant, bi-polar boyfriend. Mitchell is in love with Maddy, and kind of has a chip on his shoulder about it. He runs off to Greece (where else?) and other parts of Europe to forget about her. Mitchell finds God, but can’t forget Maddy. (Of course he can’t.)
The title The Marriage Plot refers to Madeleine’s college thesis, which is an examination of 19th-century marriage through a postmodern lens.
Eugenides is a great writer, a compelling storyteller, and the concept of The Marriage Plot would invoke great discussion about what marriage means in an age of rampant divorce, pre-nups, and religious apathy.
So hurry up and read it! I wanna talk about Mitchell.
10. The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall
Four wives, 28 kids, and the guy’s… lonely? And is on the verge of having an affair with his boss’s wife? And he has gum stuck in his pubic hair and he has no idea how it got there?
This is an interesting story.
Polygamy fascinates me. I’m not alone. When asked why polygamy fascinates so many, Udall answered:
Why the obsession? It has to do with sex, of course. Everything we are obsessed about has something to do with sex, and polygamy is no exception. But I think there may be more to it than that.
Fine, I am definitely interested in the sex aspect of polygamy. I said it. I’m not ashamed. As for the “more to it than that”:
I find polygamy intensely depressing. I watched some of the first season of Big Love and had to stop after the Bill Paxton character began having an affair with… his first wife. His legal wife. The wife who began to regret agreeing to live “the principle.” It was just so sad.
Udall doesn’t write to condemn Mormon fundamentalism, but rather to examine the concept of a family. The story is told from the vantage point of the tall, bumbling, rather incompetent patriarch ironically named “Golden,” his maligned 11-year old son, Rusty, and his beautiful, young, and lonely fourth wife, Trish. The novel embraces the universal joys and pains of any American family: grief, jealousy, the hardship of raising multiple children, and of course, how to deal with the rogue ostrich that lives next door.
So, how does a man juggle four wives? The answer: he doesn’t. Each wife in the novel eventually divulges that she hasn’t been touched in months and months. Although, cut Golden some slack. The poor guy has gum in his pubic hair.
In Conclusion:
I didn’t read one book I “hated” this year because I have discovered something incredible. If I begin a book, and I don’t like it, I don’t have to finish it. The world will not end. No one will find me and beat me. The characters will not jump out of the book and chastise me for my lack of commitment.
I can’t tell you what a relief this discovery is. It’s also remarkable it’s taken me 34 years to discover this.
I would love to hear your favorite books read in 2011. Recommendations are a beautiful thing.
Breaking it Down
I read 12 by male authors and 16 by female. There were 5 memoirs, 2 non-fiction books, and 3 classics. This year, I thought I’d focus on my favorite ten of 2012. They are ordered by time period; Great Expectations was read at the beginning of 2011, The Lonely Polygamist I finished a couple of days ago.
1. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
I begin with one of the great works of classic literature- Charles Dickens' tome, Great Expectations. I personally love the novel's gothic allure (Bleak House has a similar tone) as well as the romance and the rags-to-riches tale. Plus, I think Joe Gargery is one of my favorite all-time literary characters.
Great Expectations is published with Dickens' revised ending. Originally, the novel had a much less hopeful conclusion, but novelist Wilkie Collins encouraged Dickens to give his work a more conventional happy ending. Some criticized Dickens for changing his original conclusion. George Bernard Shaw said that Great Expectations "is too serious a book to be a trivially happy one. Its beginning is unhappy; its middle is unhappy; and the conventional happy ending is an outrage on it."
I believe the ending is ambiguous enough not to be considered flagrantly sappy or happy, but what do I know? I was angry when Charlotte Bronte blinded poor bigamy-minded Mr. Rochester.
I love gothic novels.
This year, I also read Jane Austen's famous satire Northanger Abbey. Generally, I adore Ms. Austen, but I also adore a good gothic romance, so her mockery of the genre didn't do it for me. When the lead protagonist's imaginations of macabre goings on in the abbey fell flat, so did my hopes for an interesting novel. Blah.
If you haven't read Great Expectations since high school, I highly suggest you try it again. You can download it for free off of Amazon.
2. Freedom by Jonathan Franzen
There's a fabulous scene in the television show Parks and Recreation where Leslie, the optimistic and ambitious deputy director of the parks department, is handing over research documents and a copy of the novel Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen, to her best friend, Ann. Ann is supposed to use the documents to study for an interview for a job Leslie desperately wants her to get.
Ann looks at Freedom and asks, "And why am I reading this?"
"Because I'm almost done with it and I wanna talk to you about Patty!"
I keep waiting for someone I know to finish Freedom so we can talk about Patty. Alas, no one has pulled through for me yet. Maybe now that it's out in paperback...
3. The Waiting Place by Eileen Button
Read this exquisite book of essays in 2012. And buy a copy for a friend. You can read a longer review of the book here. I stole the above picture from this blogger, who also wrote a lovely review. Oh yeah- did I mention I'm going to hang with Eileen at the Calvin Faith and Writing Conference this April? I'm a lucky duck.
4. Life of Pi by Yann Martel
This is a terrific book. It's fresh, original, smart, devious, and crammed with absorbing lore. And no, I didn't steal this quote from Margaret Atwood. Why do you ask?
I'd had this book on my shelf for a few years and, on a whim, picked it up and couldn't set it down. Life of Pi is a breathtaking allegorical tale that's part fairy-tale, part family saga, part fable. I've never read anything like it.
5. Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
The prose is flowery and pretentious. After the first chapter, you want to kick the protagonist in the head. Her father, too. They are irritating and smug and wow... I thought Ms. Pessl was the most ostentatious, snobby author I had possibly ever come across. I mean, the protagonist’s name is BLUE. I think there was some literary reason for this, but I forget what it was. We’re talking that kind of pretension.
But the story was good. It drew me in. It became clear that in spite of the protagonists’ supposed vast intelligence, even she could never imagine the twists and turns her story would take. This is such a weird, wonderful, fun story. If you enjoyed Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, Special Topics in Calamity Physics is probably right up your alley.
“Hurry up and read it ‘cause I wanna talk about BLUE!!!”
6. Digging to America by Anne Tyler
Two families adopt two little girls from Korea. The girls arrive on the same day. The story begins pre 9/11, and families are gathered at the terminal to greet the newest members of their respective families. The first family is a large, gregarious, quintessential American family. The second, a small Iranian family that consists of a husband, wife, and the husband’s mother. The two families forge a tangled yet strong bond and the novel follows their wobbly but important relationship as their sweet adopted daughters grow up as friends.
Ms. Tyler’s novels almost always take place in Baltimore. They are always relationship-driven, and they are among the most perfectly written pieces of work I’ve ever read. This is a gorgeous book. Read it.
7. The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach
The Art of Fielding is supposedly one of this year’s great novels. The husband actually read it first and then made me read it before it was due back to the library. Of my ten listed, this is the one I vacillated upon including. I can’t pinpoint exactly what bothered me about it. I suppose some of the storylines seemed a bit trite and everything concluded a little too neatly. In other words, Shaw would not have been all that impressed.
On the other hand, this is a spectacular debut that tells a compelling story and, if I may draw upon the words of Harbach’s enthused fans, is:
“Intensely readable!”
AND ALSO:
“Harbach (has a) knowledge of baseball that is encyclopedic but never ponderous…”
The NY Times states:
“Detractors went looking for entertainment, and found art instead.”
I agree with above said statements.
The book is about college life and friendship and a tangled romance and forbidden love and baseball and more baseball and Moby Dick. And that pretty much sums it up. Also, it’s intensely readable.
8. Rush Home Road by Lori Lansens
Lori Lansens is fast becoming one of my favorite contemporary female authors. A while back, I read The Girls, a novel about a pair of conjoined twins. Rush Home Road was completely different in tone, voice, and everything else that distinguishes a novel.
Sharla, who had been living in a trailer park with her mother, is left under the care of “Mum Addy,” an elderly black woman who tries her hardest to give the little girl a safe, normal life with birthdays, clean sheets on the bed and all of those things our own kids take for granted. However, Addy soon realizes she cannot keep up with a troubled child and begins to worry about what will become of Sharla when she is gone. As she grows to love Sharla, we are privy to Addy’s memories, mostly painful, many beautiful. Lansens ties her modern-day tale with Addy’s past perfectly.
This was the “I can’t put this book down” of the year. Vivid, haunting, sentimental but not sappy, and ultimately, satisfying. I couldn’t recommend a book more highly.
9. The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides
Another big novel in 2011! Still on the bestseller’s list, I believe. Eugenides wrote the wildly well-received novel, Middlesex- the most intriguing story about a hermaphrodite you’ll ever read.
The Marriage Plot follows Madeleine, Mitchell, and Leonard as they try and make their way in the world after college.
Madeleine is beautiful and intelligent, though not as intelligent as Leonard, her brilliant, bi-polar boyfriend. Mitchell is in love with Maddy, and kind of has a chip on his shoulder about it. He runs off to Greece (where else?) and other parts of Europe to forget about her. Mitchell finds God, but can’t forget Maddy. (Of course he can’t.)
The title The Marriage Plot refers to Madeleine’s college thesis, which is an examination of 19th-century marriage through a postmodern lens.
Eugenides is a great writer, a compelling storyteller, and the concept of The Marriage Plot would invoke great discussion about what marriage means in an age of rampant divorce, pre-nups, and religious apathy.
So hurry up and read it! I wanna talk about Mitchell.
10. The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall
Four wives, 28 kids, and the guy’s… lonely? And is on the verge of having an affair with his boss’s wife? And he has gum stuck in his pubic hair and he has no idea how it got there?
This is an interesting story.
Polygamy fascinates me. I’m not alone. When asked why polygamy fascinates so many, Udall answered:
Why the obsession? It has to do with sex, of course. Everything we are obsessed about has something to do with sex, and polygamy is no exception. But I think there may be more to it than that.
Fine, I am definitely interested in the sex aspect of polygamy. I said it. I’m not ashamed. As for the “more to it than that”:
I find polygamy intensely depressing. I watched some of the first season of Big Love and had to stop after the Bill Paxton character began having an affair with… his first wife. His legal wife. The wife who began to regret agreeing to live “the principle.” It was just so sad.
Udall doesn’t write to condemn Mormon fundamentalism, but rather to examine the concept of a family. The story is told from the vantage point of the tall, bumbling, rather incompetent patriarch ironically named “Golden,” his maligned 11-year old son, Rusty, and his beautiful, young, and lonely fourth wife, Trish. The novel embraces the universal joys and pains of any American family: grief, jealousy, the hardship of raising multiple children, and of course, how to deal with the rogue ostrich that lives next door.
So, how does a man juggle four wives? The answer: he doesn’t. Each wife in the novel eventually divulges that she hasn’t been touched in months and months. Although, cut Golden some slack. The poor guy has gum in his pubic hair.
In Conclusion:
I didn’t read one book I “hated” this year because I have discovered something incredible. If I begin a book, and I don’t like it, I don’t have to finish it. The world will not end. No one will find me and beat me. The characters will not jump out of the book and chastise me for my lack of commitment.
I can’t tell you what a relief this discovery is. It’s also remarkable it’s taken me 34 years to discover this.
I would love to hear your favorite books read in 2011. Recommendations are a beautiful thing.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Happy New Year, Peeps.
It's 10:30sh and I just recently got up because MY HUSBAND ROCKS.
First on today's bloggy agenda: I've simplified the blog layout. I've stripped it of advertisements and other stuff and changed the blog header. Someone I live with mocked it.
" 'The blog' in parantheses? Ha ha ha ha!"
I became offended, but thankfully we started speaking to one another again in time for me to sleep in today.
Stripping the blog is one step in my major life goal in 2012: Simplify MY ENTIRE LIFE before the crap hits the fan on December 21st. Or 23rd. Or whenever it is we're all supposed to perish. But discussing one's New Year's resolutions is a bit of a yawn when compared to presenting the Monday Happy Song, so I will move on.
Today's song has a backstory:
My father cruelly hid all my stepmom's Christmas music this year, so she's been listening to the soundtrack from The Sound of Music as a substitute. I do not think her Christmas music was ever recovered. I try not to get in the middle of these little marital spats, but I might suggest she hide something that's important to him? His grand piano, perhaps? I know a guy.
Anyway, she requested the following as a Happy Song for Monday, and she was so excited about it (I think she said, "Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!") that I had to oblige her.
On a side note: Caleb is not a fan of yodeling as a musical art form. Or, rather, not a fan of his mother's yodeling as a musical art form.
Comments below are for you to tell me how much you like my simplified blog:
First on today's bloggy agenda: I've simplified the blog layout. I've stripped it of advertisements and other stuff and changed the blog header. Someone I live with mocked it.
" 'The blog' in parantheses? Ha ha ha ha!"
I became offended, but thankfully we started speaking to one another again in time for me to sleep in today.
Stripping the blog is one step in my major life goal in 2012: Simplify MY ENTIRE LIFE before the crap hits the fan on December 21st. Or 23rd. Or whenever it is we're all supposed to perish. But discussing one's New Year's resolutions is a bit of a yawn when compared to presenting the Monday Happy Song, so I will move on.
Today's song has a backstory:
My father cruelly hid all my stepmom's Christmas music this year, so she's been listening to the soundtrack from The Sound of Music as a substitute. I do not think her Christmas music was ever recovered. I try not to get in the middle of these little marital spats, but I might suggest she hide something that's important to him? His grand piano, perhaps? I know a guy.
Anyway, she requested the following as a Happy Song for Monday, and she was so excited about it (I think she said, "Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!") that I had to oblige her.
On a side note: Caleb is not a fan of yodeling as a musical art form. Or, rather, not a fan of his mother's yodeling as a musical art form.
Comments below are for you to tell me how much you like my simplified blog:
Friday, December 23, 2011
The Reality of Christmas
Today, there are two things on my agenda: clean the house and bake more Christmas cookies. Molasses, gingerbread, crème de menthe truffles, snickerdoodles… Tonight, John will make a crackling fire and I will snuggle on the couch with my four perfect children and watch the film Nativity.
Ella’s actually not so perfect right now. Her upper lip is so chapped and red I call her Rudolph.
“I not Rudolph. I Ella! I a girl!” (Her speech is coming along, people.)
We will wish for snow, because mud doesn’t invoke cozy Christmas feelings the way clean white snow does, and we will send the kids to bed with visions of sugarplums in our heads. Or crème de menthe truffles. Or whatever. After they fall asleep, I will continue wrapping presents. (I finally started this most arduous process last night.)
Last evening, at 9:30, as John was bringing in Barbie dolls and Imaginext Batman toys from his trunk (our super secret Christmas hiding spot) to our living room, a mother whose three children were already slumbering in their own beds slipped from this world into the next. She had been fighting an aggressive form of cancer for the past 2 years. Her three children are just about the same age as mine.
I read the news with a heavy, bitter heart. I thought of how the shadow of her death will forever darken her children’s Christmases to come.
And then I thought better.
I thought of how the miracle we celebrate on December 25 makes it possible for these kids to have hope. That there is something serenely beautiful about leaving this broken earth at the same time of year we celebrate Jesus’ coming,remembering that Jesus came for the sole purpose of bridging the unfathomably large gap between heaven and earth.
Tonight, I will hold my kids close and remind them of our temporary condition. Their toys, which bring them such short-lived joy, are nothing in comparison to the ultimate gift of Christmas. And they will probably tell me to be quiet mom, that I always talk during movies and hug them so tight they can’t breathe so good. So I’ll tickle them and one will inevitably rush off to go to the bathroom, and we will all laugh. Oh, how blessed we are to have one another. To have faith.
“You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.” C.S. Lewis.
Merry Christmas.
Ella’s actually not so perfect right now. Her upper lip is so chapped and red I call her Rudolph.
“I not Rudolph. I Ella! I a girl!” (Her speech is coming along, people.)
We will wish for snow, because mud doesn’t invoke cozy Christmas feelings the way clean white snow does, and we will send the kids to bed with visions of sugarplums in our heads. Or crème de menthe truffles. Or whatever. After they fall asleep, I will continue wrapping presents. (I finally started this most arduous process last night.)
Last evening, at 9:30, as John was bringing in Barbie dolls and Imaginext Batman toys from his trunk (our super secret Christmas hiding spot) to our living room, a mother whose three children were already slumbering in their own beds slipped from this world into the next. She had been fighting an aggressive form of cancer for the past 2 years. Her three children are just about the same age as mine.
I read the news with a heavy, bitter heart. I thought of how the shadow of her death will forever darken her children’s Christmases to come.
And then I thought better.
I thought of how the miracle we celebrate on December 25 makes it possible for these kids to have hope. That there is something serenely beautiful about leaving this broken earth at the same time of year we celebrate Jesus’ coming,remembering that Jesus came for the sole purpose of bridging the unfathomably large gap between heaven and earth.
Tonight, I will hold my kids close and remind them of our temporary condition. Their toys, which bring them such short-lived joy, are nothing in comparison to the ultimate gift of Christmas. And they will probably tell me to be quiet mom, that I always talk during movies and hug them so tight they can’t breathe so good. So I’ll tickle them and one will inevitably rush off to go to the bathroom, and we will all laugh. Oh, how blessed we are to have one another. To have faith.
“You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.” C.S. Lewis.
Merry Christmas.
Monday, December 12, 2011
My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe (& other Christmas stories)
I
It’s the Christmas season and you know me, holly in my heart (Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember)
The following are directed at me every year over the holiday season. I would like answer concerns and questions about being a girl named Holly born four days after Christmas so that I never, ever have to answer them again.
1. “You name is Holly? Wow. You must, like, really love Christmas.”
Oh, I do. I love Christmas, and so much more than people named, like, Beverly. How can you love Christmas when you’re named Beverly? Also, I love Christmas so much more than people NOT born in December. How can you love Christmas when you were born in July? Preposterous.
2. “You were born at Christmastime? Did you, like, get cheated out of gifts?”
Not when I was younger. My mother always made my birthday very special.
However, things are different now, and yeah, I totally get gypped come my birthday. It’s an awkward time of year to have a birthday. It’s not like you can compete with, well, you know. And the one time I crossed my arms and complained that I wasn’t getting enough attention, people thought I was being “selfish” and “sacreligious.” (Wasn’t Jesus actually born in June?) So I don’t complain anymore- I just weep silently in my bed. Birthdays are for kids, not adults, anyway. And I don’t need anything. I want a lot of stuff, but I don’t need anything. So, don’t worry about me and the presents I’ve been swindled out of. I’m okay.
II
My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe
Today, the Christmas season is a shell of its It’s a Wonderful Life former self. Mr. Potter, despite what you saw on film, has not been defeated. Nativity scenes are out: singing the tune of "The Carol of the Bells" to sell bargain-priced designer-labeled clothes is in. Christmas caroling in the mall is a potential fire hazard, but Black Friday shopping has become a tradition in many families. Mistletoe is being banned from office parties so that corporate executives can still have “Santa Shots” (this is an actual drink) and not get stuck under the mistletoe while inebriated. Darn that mistletoe, inviting sexual harassment charges with its lascivious plant motives.
I was never kissed under the mistletoe until after I was married. Not that I didn’t want to be. I mean, how romantic is that, getting caught under the mistletoe with the object of your affection? I may have lingered by a sprig on an occasion or two, just to see if I could gain the experience of being kissed under the mistletoe, but alas… no one ever noticed.
One year, John and I were at a party where mistletoe was prominently hung from a doorway. I stood boldly underneath and called my husband over. Utterly clueless, he wanted to know what I wanted. Why had he been dragged away from playing Call of Duty? (Which is a wonderful wartime game that’s a staple at any traditional Christmas gathering, along with eggnog and candy canes.) Also, I think maybe he’d had a couple of Santa Shots.
I directed his attention to the mistletoe above us, and this is what happened: John sniggered, grabbed my butt, pulled me in close, and laid a noisy, lingering smooch on my mouth. He tasted like peppermint schnapps.
My husband sexually harassed me under the mistletoe.
And I loved it.
III
We Wish You a Merry Christmas
The twins have been happily practicing their preschool Christmas program songs. At home, they sing loudly and unabashedly, so I was surprised when their teacher informed me that during practice at school, Ella had repeatedly dissolved into tears, ran into her teacher’s arms, and had hid her head while shaking like a leaf. Ella, who is not a naturally quiet individual, has auditory sensory issues and is unnerved by resounding ambient sound. Being in large, cavernous places where echoes bounce and shrill voices carry brings my usually boisterous little girl to her knees. So on the day of her program, I made sure to get a spot right up close, so that if she began to withdraw, I could grab her and hold her.
Ella sashayed down the aisle in her Christmas gown, beaming at us, shaking her hand bells with enthusiasm. She came down first because she was the smallest and needed to be placed at the front of the group. Daniel stood a little ways behind her. The first song began, and Ella’s face went from joyful to terror-filled. She stared at me. I grinned at her. “Sing,” I mouthed.
The sanctuary was packed with moms and dads and grandparents and siblings, and the crowd absorbed the sound beautifully. No echo. No reverberating bells. Ella relaxed noticeably and stayed with her classmates. She didn’t open her mouth and sing during the first song, but she stayed there and stared, somewhat dazed, at the crowd.
By the last song, she was into it. The following is a video of her preschool class singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Ella got a little carried away. She was the only child who twirled during the program. (Which was no big deal considering two songs before, she jumped up and down and then sat for half the song.) Note her unique dance movies during the “singing” verse. Please ignore the constant wiping of her nose with her hand.
Daniel was incredibly proud of his tie. When I showed it to him he gasped.
“It’s a real tie?”
"Yes! A real tie!”
"Just like daddy’s?”
“Daddy would never wear a black vest over a red shirt,” John said. “We are not gangsters.” Daniel was too busy taking his tie out of his vest and putting it back in to listen to his father's weirdness.
Today’s song for Monday: We Wish You a Merry Christmas:
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Under the Boardwalk
I'm a day late with my Monday happy song. This is actually typical behavior that I am going to try and rectify in the new year.
Several Valentine's Days ago, John took me out to eat at my favorite restaurant (since closed), and then to Eastman Theater to see Ben E. King. The place was filled with a bunch of 60-year olds and us, but it was one of the most enjoyable concerts I have ever been to. Mr King, of course, sang the below song, which is a wonderful antidote for grey and gloomy day.
For a few minutes, even I can pretend that the space under the boardwalk is NOT filled with broken glass, used prophylactic devices, and needles. It's a respite from the hot sun and, apparently, a great spot for dancing with my baby.
That's-a-where I wanna be...
Several Valentine's Days ago, John took me out to eat at my favorite restaurant (since closed), and then to Eastman Theater to see Ben E. King. The place was filled with a bunch of 60-year olds and us, but it was one of the most enjoyable concerts I have ever been to. Mr King, of course, sang the below song, which is a wonderful antidote for grey and gloomy day.
For a few minutes, even I can pretend that the space under the boardwalk is NOT filled with broken glass, used prophylactic devices, and needles. It's a respite from the hot sun and, apparently, a great spot for dancing with my baby.
That's-a-where I wanna be...
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Why Reading To Kill a Mockingbird Will Help When it Comes Time to Read Conceptual Physics
Part 1
This morning, I came downstairs to spy the husband sitting in our dilapidated rocking chair in front of the television wearing a headset in order to talk to strangers online.
I cannot express how disturbed I am by this development.
Yesterday, John bought a wireless router so we could access Netflix through his Xbox. Unfortunately, this means subscribing to Xbox Live. If you have Xbox Live, you can play arcade games with other people live over the internet- through the television. If he starts playing Warcraft, I am going run off and become a lounge singer on a cruise ship. He wasn’t even excited about all the Gregory Peck movies we could watch right in a row! Or the karaoke features! He just wants to play hockey with 12-year olds who swear at him if he fails to prevent the opposing forwards from screening his goalie.
In my next life, I am going to marry someone whose idea of gaming is playing Scrabble on a Friday night. Good grief.
In other horrible news, we moved the television from the basement up into the playroom, which means we have two TVs on the first floor. The Wii is in the playroom, and the Xbox is in the living room, which means when I came downstairs, everyone in the house was playing video games.
Video games, of course, are not inherently bad in themselves, and I guess have some “benefits,” like in that 80s movie where the boy’s impressive gaming skills get him recruited to battle in an intergalactic war.
Of course, as a mom, I am naturally concerned that TV, video games, and other forms of technology are turning my kids’ brains into the consistency of the gruel served to Oliver Twist in Dickens’ classic.
“What’s gruel?” asks Ben.
“Kind of like porridge.”
“What’s porridge?”
“What the three bears ate.”
“Oh, yeah! That stuff is good!”
(I assume he decided that based on contextual evidence.)
Part 2
While some argue that the reading and writing kids do online “counts,” I am suspicious. And here’s why: reading a friend’s poorly conceived e-mail or participating in online forums or threads on Facebook does not develop the critical reading skills kids need to succeed.
I’m a huge fan of fiction: it’s fun, it allows kids to learn to sit in one place and read for an extended period of time, improves analytical thinking, expands vocabulary, improves memory, and helps kids become better writers. However, other types of literature, including comic books, magazines, and non-fiction books achieve these same goals.
Online reading doesn’t generally improve critical thinking skills. Since most kids aren’t logging on to The Atlantic or online literary journals, they are susceptible to the strategies websites use to get readers on to their website. Strategies include writing short paragraphs that are written around “keywords,” lists, emboldened headings, low-level vocabulary, and water-downed pieces of information people can scan to get the gist of the message. And then, there are the built-in links that drive online users from one page to the next, where eventually they become lost in cyberspace. There is no discernable ending when reading online, and time is literally sucked up into a vacuum as we aimlessly wander through a virtual world of our own creation.
Yes, digital literacy is a valuable asset in today’s technology-driven world, but are kids really gleaning valuable, factual information while web-surfing on their own? Outside of the classroom, kids troll YouTube, Facebook, celebrity sites, and personal blogs. Sure, you can find an answer to a question a lot faster on the internet than by visiting the library, but how do kids know if that source is reliable? I love this quote from a NY Times article:
If kids don’t grow up reading books, they miss out on developing critical thinking skills. When they get to college and a professor gives them a reading assignment, a lot of freshman can’t do it. They don’t know how. If they can’t sit still and read the first chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird, how are they going to read two pages of Conceptual Physics? How are they going to be able to dissect and respond to case studies, poetry, historical documents, and political science articles?
In short, if the future of mankind places extreme value in virtual hockey playing, intergalactic starfighting, finding songs on YouTube in less than 10 seconds, and cyber-bullying, by all means, let’s allow our kids to spend unprecedented amounts of time gaming, web-surfing, and texting. However, if the future still calls for doctors, physicists, engineers, novelists, poets, teachers, and lawyers, we should temper gaming and surfing with reading. (Maybe not the lawyers. Unless they are like Atticus Finch, played by Gregory Peck in the film version of To Kill a Mockingbird.)
Part 3
The best way to foster a love of books in your kids is to:
1. Read to them.
2. Read in front of them.
3. Provide them with interesting reading materials.
(In the husband’s defense, his nose is in a book as often as or perhaps more often than he’s in front of the Xbox.)
I’ve been reading the boys A Christmas Carol, because of the holiday season and also because of a possibly premature and over-zealous desire to introduce them to Dickens. We stop a lot because they want to know what words mean.
“What does frigid mean?” asks Ben.
“Let’s see if you can figure it out. I’m so frigid! Brrrr!”
(A snicker comes from a corner of the room.)
“NO COMMENTS FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY!”
The boys are really enjoying the book, even though it’s a bit beyond a first and third-grade reading level.
“It’s like that movie, Monster House!” says Ben.
“I would never wear tights. Even if I lived back then,” says Caleb.
The other night, we unwittingly allowed Caleb to stay up past 11:00 on a school night. He was reading Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen.
I’ve never been so proud.
Fun articles:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/27/books/27reading.html?pagewanted=all
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2010/07/children-who-dont-read-grow-up-bad.html
http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2011/aug/23/survey-children-reading-habits
This morning, I came downstairs to spy the husband sitting in our dilapidated rocking chair in front of the television wearing a headset in order to talk to strangers online.
I cannot express how disturbed I am by this development.
Yesterday, John bought a wireless router so we could access Netflix through his Xbox. Unfortunately, this means subscribing to Xbox Live. If you have Xbox Live, you can play arcade games with other people live over the internet- through the television. If he starts playing Warcraft, I am going run off and become a lounge singer on a cruise ship. He wasn’t even excited about all the Gregory Peck movies we could watch right in a row! Or the karaoke features! He just wants to play hockey with 12-year olds who swear at him if he fails to prevent the opposing forwards from screening his goalie.
In my next life, I am going to marry someone whose idea of gaming is playing Scrabble on a Friday night. Good grief.
In other horrible news, we moved the television from the basement up into the playroom, which means we have two TVs on the first floor. The Wii is in the playroom, and the Xbox is in the living room, which means when I came downstairs, everyone in the house was playing video games.
Video games, of course, are not inherently bad in themselves, and I guess have some “benefits,” like in that 80s movie where the boy’s impressive gaming skills get him recruited to battle in an intergalactic war.
Of course, as a mom, I am naturally concerned that TV, video games, and other forms of technology are turning my kids’ brains into the consistency of the gruel served to Oliver Twist in Dickens’ classic.
“What’s gruel?” asks Ben.
“Kind of like porridge.”
“What’s porridge?”
“What the three bears ate.”
“Oh, yeah! That stuff is good!”
(I assume he decided that based on contextual evidence.)
Part 2
I’m a huge fan of fiction: it’s fun, it allows kids to learn to sit in one place and read for an extended period of time, improves analytical thinking, expands vocabulary, improves memory, and helps kids become better writers. However, other types of literature, including comic books, magazines, and non-fiction books achieve these same goals.
Online reading doesn’t generally improve critical thinking skills. Since most kids aren’t logging on to The Atlantic or online literary journals, they are susceptible to the strategies websites use to get readers on to their website. Strategies include writing short paragraphs that are written around “keywords,” lists, emboldened headings, low-level vocabulary, and water-downed pieces of information people can scan to get the gist of the message. And then, there are the built-in links that drive online users from one page to the next, where eventually they become lost in cyberspace. There is no discernable ending when reading online, and time is literally sucked up into a vacuum as we aimlessly wander through a virtual world of our own creation.
Yes, digital literacy is a valuable asset in today’s technology-driven world, but are kids really gleaning valuable, factual information while web-surfing on their own? Outside of the classroom, kids troll YouTube, Facebook, celebrity sites, and personal blogs. Sure, you can find an answer to a question a lot faster on the internet than by visiting the library, but how do kids know if that source is reliable? I love this quote from a NY Times article:
Web readers are persistently weak at judging whether information is trustworthy. In one study, Donald J. Leu, who researches literacy and technology at the University of Connecticut, asked 48 students to look at a spoof Web site (http://zapatopi.net/treeoctopus/) about a mythical species known as the “Pacific Northwest tree octopus.” Nearly 90 percent of them missed the joke and deemed the site a reliable source.Extensive web-surfing fosters extremely short attention spans. The average time a person spends on a web page? 27 seconds. In a rush, we search for the answer to our question, then click on an advertisement that proclaims to have pictures of Ashton Kutcher’s latest tryst. (The pictures were questionable, by the way.)
If kids don’t grow up reading books, they miss out on developing critical thinking skills. When they get to college and a professor gives them a reading assignment, a lot of freshman can’t do it. They don’t know how. If they can’t sit still and read the first chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird, how are they going to read two pages of Conceptual Physics? How are they going to be able to dissect and respond to case studies, poetry, historical documents, and political science articles?
In short, if the future of mankind places extreme value in virtual hockey playing, intergalactic starfighting, finding songs on YouTube in less than 10 seconds, and cyber-bullying, by all means, let’s allow our kids to spend unprecedented amounts of time gaming, web-surfing, and texting. However, if the future still calls for doctors, physicists, engineers, novelists, poets, teachers, and lawyers, we should temper gaming and surfing with reading. (Maybe not the lawyers. Unless they are like Atticus Finch, played by Gregory Peck in the film version of To Kill a Mockingbird.)
Part 3
The best way to foster a love of books in your kids is to:
1. Read to them.
2. Read in front of them.
3. Provide them with interesting reading materials.
(In the husband’s defense, his nose is in a book as often as or perhaps more often than he’s in front of the Xbox.)
I’ve been reading the boys A Christmas Carol, because of the holiday season and also because of a possibly premature and over-zealous desire to introduce them to Dickens. We stop a lot because they want to know what words mean.
“What does frigid mean?” asks Ben.
“Let’s see if you can figure it out. I’m so frigid! Brrrr!”
(A snicker comes from a corner of the room.)
“NO COMMENTS FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY!”
The boys are really enjoying the book, even though it’s a bit beyond a first and third-grade reading level.
“It’s like that movie, Monster House!” says Ben.
“I would never wear tights. Even if I lived back then,” says Caleb.
The other night, we unwittingly allowed Caleb to stay up past 11:00 on a school night. He was reading Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen.
I’ve never been so proud.
Fun articles:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/27/books/27reading.html?pagewanted=all
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2010/07/children-who-dont-read-grow-up-bad.html
http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2011/aug/23/survey-children-reading-habits
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
A Tale of Thanksgiving Woe
It’s a very manic time of year. There’s a lot going on. There are Christmas concerts and projects and shopping and decorating and cookie baking and tortuous exercise because you are determined to lose that weight before New Year’s. So what if you procrastinated a bit. This is the perfect time of year to go on a diet.
We had a lovely Thanksgiving. I made rolls- from scratch- and they were delectable. I spent the day before Thanksgiving in the kitchen, in constant search of things I had purchased at the store and immediately misplaced.
“Where’s the cinnamon? Does anyone know where the cinnamon is?”
“Up your butt!” said my 4-year old, Daniel.
For the record, that’s not where I found it.
The best thing about Thanksgiving, of course, is reflecting on all of the things God has blessed me with. Four healthy, rambunctious children with their father’s primitive sense of humor, a husband who has a good job in this horrific market, a supportive extended family, wonderful friends, food in the cupboards, clean water, medical insurance, and warm cups of tea on dreary, grey days.
The second best thing is leftovers.
I like turkey sandwiches. Leftover turkey warmed up on regular sandwich bread with a bit of mustard and mayo. Simple, but I look forward to it. Yesterday, I fed the twins their lunches, sat with Ella through her speech therapy after which I proceeded to make my turkey sandwich. As I worked, squeals of delight came from the other room, happy sounds that always make me nervous. I peeked in to discover Ella attempting to straddle the dog like a horse. Kiah looked quite put out, so I extricated my petite Lone Ranger from atop of her furry Silver. Ella said, and I quote, “Awww, man!”
“You could hurt Kiah,” I said. Ella was dubious, but she promised not to ride on the dog, so I went back to my sandwich.
The sandwich was gone, having probably been consumed in two large gulps by the very beast I had just rescued. There was mustard on her whiskers.
There are no words to express my incredible grief, which turned swiftly into anger. I composed myself, gave Kiah the hairy eyeball, and called Ella in from the other room.
“Ella?” I asked, “Do you know what a jockey is?”
Look for us in the circus.
We had a lovely Thanksgiving. I made rolls- from scratch- and they were delectable. I spent the day before Thanksgiving in the kitchen, in constant search of things I had purchased at the store and immediately misplaced.
“Where’s the cinnamon? Does anyone know where the cinnamon is?”
“Up your butt!” said my 4-year old, Daniel.
For the record, that’s not where I found it.
The best thing about Thanksgiving, of course, is reflecting on all of the things God has blessed me with. Four healthy, rambunctious children with their father’s primitive sense of humor, a husband who has a good job in this horrific market, a supportive extended family, wonderful friends, food in the cupboards, clean water, medical insurance, and warm cups of tea on dreary, grey days.
The second best thing is leftovers.
I like turkey sandwiches. Leftover turkey warmed up on regular sandwich bread with a bit of mustard and mayo. Simple, but I look forward to it. Yesterday, I fed the twins their lunches, sat with Ella through her speech therapy after which I proceeded to make my turkey sandwich. As I worked, squeals of delight came from the other room, happy sounds that always make me nervous. I peeked in to discover Ella attempting to straddle the dog like a horse. Kiah looked quite put out, so I extricated my petite Lone Ranger from atop of her furry Silver. Ella said, and I quote, “Awww, man!”
“You could hurt Kiah,” I said. Ella was dubious, but she promised not to ride on the dog, so I went back to my sandwich.
The sandwich was gone, having probably been consumed in two large gulps by the very beast I had just rescued. There was mustard on her whiskers.
There are no words to express my incredible grief, which turned swiftly into anger. I composed myself, gave Kiah the hairy eyeball, and called Ella in from the other room.
“Ella?” I asked, “Do you know what a jockey is?”
Look for us in the circus.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
The Happy Song Project
In the car this morning, Ben asked me to put some music on. He wanted a "happy song." I asked him to clarify. He did.
"Don't play that sad music that made you all sleepy last night. Remember? You didn't want to get out of the car."
Someone's not a Pink Floyd fan. That's cool. I guess Ben doesn't appreciate his mom saying she is going to stay in her warm Grand Caravan forever because she is "comfortably numb." (Did get out of the car- had to drink a lot of caffeine to wake up again, and no- absolutely no illegal drugs were involved. I'm a little offended you asked.)
So, this morning I put my Greatest Hits from the 80's CD into the slot and played the happiest song in the whole world (this is not up for debate): Walking on Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves.
It's the perfect Monday morning song.
Ben started listing other "happy songs," which include "Twist and Shout," "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "Crazy Little Thing Called Love," and "Jingle Bells." As he listed his favorites, I had an idea, and blah blah blah: The Holly Goes Lightly Happy Song Project was born! On Monday mornings, I will bring my favorite ear candy to the blogosphere. This accomplishes two things: 1. It makes sure I publish at least one blog post a week and 2. I can't think of a second thing. I'm sure there is one, though.
The rules for "The Happy Song Project" are as follows:
1. Songs should have either "positive messages," like those After School Specials they showed on TV in the eighties and early nineties, nonsensical fun lyrics, or should just be plain fluffy.
2. Songs should not be in a predominantly minor key. (Exceptions include "Happy Together" by the Turtles and "And I Love Her," by The Beatles.)
3. "Manic Monday" by The Bangles is disallowed. So is any song by The Black Eyed Peas.
Requests gladly accepted.
This week's "happy song" was selected in honor of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. Enjoy the dulcet tones of Ms. Natalie Merchant. And happy Monday!
"Don't play that sad music that made you all sleepy last night. Remember? You didn't want to get out of the car."
Someone's not a Pink Floyd fan. That's cool. I guess Ben doesn't appreciate his mom saying she is going to stay in her warm Grand Caravan forever because she is "comfortably numb." (Did get out of the car- had to drink a lot of caffeine to wake up again, and no- absolutely no illegal drugs were involved. I'm a little offended you asked.)
So, this morning I put my Greatest Hits from the 80's CD into the slot and played the happiest song in the whole world (this is not up for debate): Walking on Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves.
It's the perfect Monday morning song.
Ben started listing other "happy songs," which include "Twist and Shout," "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "Crazy Little Thing Called Love," and "Jingle Bells." As he listed his favorites, I had an idea, and blah blah blah: The Holly Goes Lightly Happy Song Project was born! On Monday mornings, I will bring my favorite ear candy to the blogosphere. This accomplishes two things: 1. It makes sure I publish at least one blog post a week and 2. I can't think of a second thing. I'm sure there is one, though.
The rules for "The Happy Song Project" are as follows:
1. Songs should have either "positive messages," like those After School Specials they showed on TV in the eighties and early nineties, nonsensical fun lyrics, or should just be plain fluffy.
2. Songs should not be in a predominantly minor key. (Exceptions include "Happy Together" by the Turtles and "And I Love Her," by The Beatles.)
3. "Manic Monday" by The Bangles is disallowed. So is any song by The Black Eyed Peas.
Requests gladly accepted.
This week's "happy song" was selected in honor of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. Enjoy the dulcet tones of Ms. Natalie Merchant. And happy Monday!
Monday, November 7, 2011
His First Crush
Caleb likes a girl.
I figured this out on my own. I could tell he liked her by the way his eyes changed when he talked about her. They get all furtive and stuff. Caleb and “Alissa” are singing together in a small group for the forthcoming third grade Christmas chorus concert. Unlike some of the other girls in his class, Alissa is well-behaved, never rolls her eyes behind the teacher’s back, and has long hair. These are all important characteristics in a potential girlfriend, according to Caleb.
The best thing about my discovery is that I have been sworn never to discuss Caleb’s secret with John. As Caleb talked animatedly of Alissa’s spectacular solar system diorama, I nodded and smiled and tried not to gush about how cute he is. I promised not to betray his confidence to his tactless father who, and these are Caleb’s words, “will tease me and ask me if I want to smooch her.”
Naturally, I had to share this with all of you.
I told Caleb of my own first crush, which is a heartbreaking tale of unrequited love that lasted from kindergarten through third grade. “Tommy” used to chase me around the school’s courtyard. Once he gave me a purple plastic bracelet because, and I remember his words exactly, “I’m never going to wear this.” Unlike Alissa, Tommy was not well behaved, and spent a lot of time in the corner. The days I was not chased around the courtyard and tackled like a football receiver because Tommy wasn’t allowed to participate in recess were the worst.
We were unfairly separated after the third grade when my family moved from the city to the suburbs.
Caleb: “Did you ever smooch?”
“No. We never smooched.”
“Does Dad know about this?”
I asked Caleb what his intentions were.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I think you’re still a little young to have a girlfriend. It’s fine to like a girl, but it’s probably best just to be friends.”
“What, are you afraid I’m going to marry her or something? Come on, mom. I’m only eight. I still have to go to college. I don’t think they allow F.B.I. agents to even get married. And Alissa wants to be a dolphin trainer when she grows up.”
Of course she does.
I’m left wondering how long Caleb will continue believing that a life in the Federal Bureau of Investigation equals a life of bachelorhood. Because I think I can work with that…
I figured this out on my own. I could tell he liked her by the way his eyes changed when he talked about her. They get all furtive and stuff. Caleb and “Alissa” are singing together in a small group for the forthcoming third grade Christmas chorus concert. Unlike some of the other girls in his class, Alissa is well-behaved, never rolls her eyes behind the teacher’s back, and has long hair. These are all important characteristics in a potential girlfriend, according to Caleb.
The best thing about my discovery is that I have been sworn never to discuss Caleb’s secret with John. As Caleb talked animatedly of Alissa’s spectacular solar system diorama, I nodded and smiled and tried not to gush about how cute he is. I promised not to betray his confidence to his tactless father who, and these are Caleb’s words, “will tease me and ask me if I want to smooch her.”
Naturally, I had to share this with all of you.
I told Caleb of my own first crush, which is a heartbreaking tale of unrequited love that lasted from kindergarten through third grade. “Tommy” used to chase me around the school’s courtyard. Once he gave me a purple plastic bracelet because, and I remember his words exactly, “I’m never going to wear this.” Unlike Alissa, Tommy was not well behaved, and spent a lot of time in the corner. The days I was not chased around the courtyard and tackled like a football receiver because Tommy wasn’t allowed to participate in recess were the worst.
We were unfairly separated after the third grade when my family moved from the city to the suburbs.
Caleb: “Did you ever smooch?”
“No. We never smooched.”
“Does Dad know about this?”
I asked Caleb what his intentions were.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I think you’re still a little young to have a girlfriend. It’s fine to like a girl, but it’s probably best just to be friends.”
“What, are you afraid I’m going to marry her or something? Come on, mom. I’m only eight. I still have to go to college. I don’t think they allow F.B.I. agents to even get married. And Alissa wants to be a dolphin trainer when she grows up.”
Of course she does.
I’m left wondering how long Caleb will continue believing that a life in the Federal Bureau of Investigation equals a life of bachelorhood. Because I think I can work with that…
Friday, November 4, 2011
Use Your Words
Before we are born, God allots each of us a certain number of words. Some receive buckets full, while others receive a mere teaspoon of ums, yeses, and no thank yous.
Around the age of one, we begin to let go of our words; once they leave the tangled messes of our minds, they are no longer our own: they belong to the collective world, transformed into reverberating sound waves that travel past the moon into the great, vast void.
I’m the kind of person who fiercely holds on to her words. It’s as if I’m afraid that I’ll use them all up prematurely and become either mute or dead. I don’t want to waste what I’ve been allocated.
When my children speak- and they can really blather on- I encourage verbal expression. As my son’s face gets red and his fists clench, I yell out “Use your words!” lest he begins using his fists instead.
“Use your words!” is a popular phrase among speech therapists and teachers and mothers. What we mean is: “Use your words in a manner that is pleasing to my ears!” When Ben uses his words to say: “I JUST HATE THIS FOOD!” I want to respond with, “That’s not what I meant, buddy. Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.” (Like he would ever actually say, "Mom? This food's texture is not pleasing to my sensitive palate. Could you perhaps make me a sandwich of peanut butter and jelly?")
There is a definite tension between what we could say- I’m alluding to those tangled parts of speech buzzing in our brains- and what we actually do say or, in some cases, publicly express via the written word. This is called discretion. My children have no discretion, which I don’t mind unless we’re in a public place and Daniel says, “That lady has a mustache like a man.”
Once, my discretion stifled me. (It took a full year to open up to my husband after we started dating.) I like to think I’ve found a happy balance, though to this day “using my words” sometimes comes across as forced, and I sound… loopy. I’m that loopy, awkward girl who loves words, but can’t seem to make them work for her.
Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I compile a list of my favorite words. Effuse. Jejune. Titter. Meander. Scoundrel. Reverence. Platypus. Epitome. Goulash. Opus. Legato. Mellifluous. Quicken. Diaphanous. Swashbuckle. Catharsis. Crinoline. Banana. Chirp. Bauble. Husbandry. Quantum. Rubbish. Terracotta. Bravado. Ink. Polliwog. Vivid. Vapid. Vanquish. Vivacious. Vitriol.
It’s easier to find that balance between could and do when you write words. I like to sit and carefully rifle through the tangled lexis in the mind. There are so many words to choose from.
There are funny words:
“Fifty-seven years in this business, you learn a few things. You know what words are funny and which words are not funny. Alka Seltzer is funny. You say "Alka Seltzer," you get a laugh . . . Words with "k" in them are funny. Casey Stengel, that's a funny name. Robert Taylor is not funny.” Willy from The Sunshine Boys.
Words are beautiful:
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.
Shakespeare’s The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158
And ugly:
“I like to drink chunky diarrhea. Ha ha ha ha ha!” Daniel Jennings, age 4.
Suggestive:
One word: Undulate.
And woven together in such a way that they make your heart hurt:
He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground. From The Velveteen Rabbit, the saddest book ever written.
And in those moments when you can’t put together the poem or prose that captures what you desperately want to express, you can always borrow from someone else. Like I just did above.
The past couple of months have been difficult. There’s this awful juxtaposition between how good my life is and how sad I feel. And this makes me feel guilty, and when I feel guilty, I withdraw- close the curtains, ignore the phone, crawl into the mess of dangling participles and other grammatical disconnects in my mind- and just get through the day- no more, no less.
This, of course, is hard on my children, and (now I get to the point of all of the words that lead up to this saccharine finish) I want to give them this- because maybe, some day, they’ll read it.
Caleb, Ben, Danny, and Ella,
If I had but one more chance to use my words, I would give them all to you, without borrowing from a great poet or philosopher, or waiting until just the right turn-of-phrase comes to tip of my tongue- I would tell you that
I love you.
So much.
And I would say it again and again, shout it from the rooftop, write it in the sky, whisper it in your ears until it became a part of you. Because I could hug you every day and kiss your cheeks and tussle your hair, but you need to hear it- hear these words- because I don’t ever want there to be any doubt. These words belong to you.
I love you.
So much.
And we’re going to be fine.
Around the age of one, we begin to let go of our words; once they leave the tangled messes of our minds, they are no longer our own: they belong to the collective world, transformed into reverberating sound waves that travel past the moon into the great, vast void.
I’m the kind of person who fiercely holds on to her words. It’s as if I’m afraid that I’ll use them all up prematurely and become either mute or dead. I don’t want to waste what I’ve been allocated.
When my children speak- and they can really blather on- I encourage verbal expression. As my son’s face gets red and his fists clench, I yell out “Use your words!” lest he begins using his fists instead.
“Use your words!” is a popular phrase among speech therapists and teachers and mothers. What we mean is: “Use your words in a manner that is pleasing to my ears!” When Ben uses his words to say: “I JUST HATE THIS FOOD!” I want to respond with, “That’s not what I meant, buddy. Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.” (Like he would ever actually say, "Mom? This food's texture is not pleasing to my sensitive palate. Could you perhaps make me a sandwich of peanut butter and jelly?")
There is a definite tension between what we could say- I’m alluding to those tangled parts of speech buzzing in our brains- and what we actually do say or, in some cases, publicly express via the written word. This is called discretion. My children have no discretion, which I don’t mind unless we’re in a public place and Daniel says, “That lady has a mustache like a man.”
Once, my discretion stifled me. (It took a full year to open up to my husband after we started dating.) I like to think I’ve found a happy balance, though to this day “using my words” sometimes comes across as forced, and I sound… loopy. I’m that loopy, awkward girl who loves words, but can’t seem to make them work for her.
Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I compile a list of my favorite words. Effuse. Jejune. Titter. Meander. Scoundrel. Reverence. Platypus. Epitome. Goulash. Opus. Legato. Mellifluous. Quicken. Diaphanous. Swashbuckle. Catharsis. Crinoline. Banana. Chirp. Bauble. Husbandry. Quantum. Rubbish. Terracotta. Bravado. Ink. Polliwog. Vivid. Vapid. Vanquish. Vivacious. Vitriol.
It’s easier to find that balance between could and do when you write words. I like to sit and carefully rifle through the tangled lexis in the mind. There are so many words to choose from.
There are funny words:
“Fifty-seven years in this business, you learn a few things. You know what words are funny and which words are not funny. Alka Seltzer is funny. You say "Alka Seltzer," you get a laugh . . . Words with "k" in them are funny. Casey Stengel, that's a funny name. Robert Taylor is not funny.” Willy from The Sunshine Boys.
Words are beautiful:
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.
Shakespeare’s The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158
And ugly:
“I like to drink chunky diarrhea. Ha ha ha ha ha!” Daniel Jennings, age 4.
Suggestive:
One word: Undulate.
And woven together in such a way that they make your heart hurt:
He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground. From The Velveteen Rabbit, the saddest book ever written.
And in those moments when you can’t put together the poem or prose that captures what you desperately want to express, you can always borrow from someone else. Like I just did above.
The past couple of months have been difficult. There’s this awful juxtaposition between how good my life is and how sad I feel. And this makes me feel guilty, and when I feel guilty, I withdraw- close the curtains, ignore the phone, crawl into the mess of dangling participles and other grammatical disconnects in my mind- and just get through the day- no more, no less.
This, of course, is hard on my children, and (now I get to the point of all of the words that lead up to this saccharine finish) I want to give them this- because maybe, some day, they’ll read it.
Caleb, Ben, Danny, and Ella,
If I had but one more chance to use my words, I would give them all to you, without borrowing from a great poet or philosopher, or waiting until just the right turn-of-phrase comes to tip of my tongue- I would tell you that
I love you.
So much.
And I would say it again and again, shout it from the rooftop, write it in the sky, whisper it in your ears until it became a part of you. Because I could hug you every day and kiss your cheeks and tussle your hair, but you need to hear it- hear these words- because I don’t ever want there to be any doubt. These words belong to you.
I love you.
So much.
And we’re going to be fine.
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