Tuesday, while driving Miss M to swim lessons, I got "WOOOOO!"ed at while sitting in traffic. I wish I could say I flipped that douche bag off, and high fived my inner Gloria Steinem. But I did not. I did not. I smiled to myself, is what I did. And I high fived my inner Paris Hilton, who's very needy and insecure and surrounds herself with people who tell her how stupendously more awesome she is than everyone else and omg! your new haircut is GAWEGEOUS. (What I am saying is, I do get off on male attention. I am married! I am married. But does being married mean a man wolf whistling at me is supposed make me angry and self-righteously indignant? No! Not in my book. In my book, a man wolf whistling at me in public means: Oh, thank god. I still got it.) (Two things about this: (1) What is "it"? I don't know, because different people have different definitions. I guess I mean I'm still on the menu? But you can't order me? I'm sorry. Vague euphemistic analogies are all I have right now...and (2) 99% of these men are missing many, many, many teeth and I'm suspicious they don't bathe. So I take all their lust with a grain of salt.)
I consider myself a feminist. I didn't change my last name when I got married, and I stand by it. (Why trade one man's surname for another? And why don't the MEN change their names? Or why don't we combine? These are the little tricky dick questions that irk me about traditional society.) Melissa and I were walking this morning, and she was raving about swimming lessons, and being able to jump off the diving board now and ended it all with a big, "Just like a boy can!" Where did THAT come from? I asked her. (She didn't know; I think she's inherited my socially awkward, blurt gene.) So we had a long walk-talk about how boys can do things girls can do--it's okay for boys to wear nail polish, it's just fine if a boy wants to be a nurse or a teacher; and it's okay if girls want to cut their hair very short, and it's just fine for girls to be car mechanics and truck drivers. Who cares? Yeah! (we said) Who cares?? Not THESE hip chicks.
And yet I seek out faaaabulous hair stylists and apply make up...yes, sometimes even before going to bed. God help me, I like the color pink--I think it softens skin tone and creates good lighting. Color me vain. (Vain is the color magenta, by the way.)
Which I think is totally a product of being raised in a male-dominated, youth-obsessed, gratification-oriented society. (I can't and won't really defend any of that; I just think it sounded pretty good all strung up there together.) This morning I was getting out of the shower and I realized with sinking knowledge: I am going to have to get plastic surgery. It's inevitable. Having a child completely wreaked havoc on my torso portion. I could lose 8,000 pounds and never get rid of some of this sag. I'll have to visit Google University this afternoon and find out what a tummy tuck involves. If only I'd listened to and followed the advice in all those Fit Pregnancy magazine aricles way back when! Instead, I just read it while eating tubs of ice cream. And cheese. Oh my god! There was so. much. CHEESE.
I am not proud to admit this about myself. I wish I was one of those people who could just go, "Hey, World! This is meeeee! You don't like it? Go! To! Hellllll!!" and then raise up my two flabby arms, high and proud. I wish I was the kind of person who could start blogs about body shape love, no matter what shape the body was. I wish I could get on blogs run by snotty people who like to fat shame others and leave snippy but erudite comments for them, comments for which they'd never have a pithy response. But I am not one of these people. I am one of these people who gets out of the shower and sucks in her gut and, frustrated, resolves to only eat 500 calories that day. And work out for 3 hours. That's who I am. (Ask me if I end up working out 3 hours and eating 500 calories on those days--no. No, I do not. I typically end up eating 3000 calories and working out for 5 minutes.)
This summer, I resolved to work on will power. I resolved to focus on personal goals and determination. So far, I've crossed 2 things off my list (one was more blog writing, the other was more social media. I'm 2 for 2 on those easy things). It's that sit-your-butt-down-and-just-do-it I need to tap into. It's in me; once upon a time, I ran 5 and 10Ks. I ran the Peachtree Road Race, twice. Once started and focused, I can do it. Where are my blinders? I've completely misplaced them (adding FIND MY BLINDERS to my To Do list).
And writing! I am working on writing. I've started to take the stories I've heard throughout my childhood--old family stories--and based fictional short stories on them. Hopefully at summer's end I'll have a collection of these. I've also begun the television script. (Angie, if you're reading this, please close your eyes.) It is not going well. There! I said it. I said it out loud. My brain doesn't grasp script format. Wait, no. Actually, it grasps the format. But I can't tell a story that way. So I've decided to step back a bit and head to story format form...THEN write the script. Base the script on a short story. Once I get the story flowing, I think I'm good. The story didn't want to flow via script. If that makes sense.
That's all that's on my mind today. Oh, wait! And peace. Peace and kindness is figuring big in my mind and my heart today. I think human beings can, and should, coexist together in harmony. I'm tired of people constantly fighting and hurting each other. Please stop being mean to each other, humanity. Please stop.
So I'm going now. To go smoke my peace pipe (I don't smoke), listen to Age of Aquarius, and look up tummy tuck plastic surgeons (but NO Botox--I absolutely draw the line at Botox) (I might get breast implants, though. But NO Botox!) (I'm kidding. Mostly). The End.
6.12.2014
6.10.2014
audience building.
Because I'm getting more serious about publishing (or, you know, pounding the pavement to prostrate myself and my writing in front of publishers to beg for their consideration), I've decided to utilize social media to (attempt) to build an audience. This could also be considered a dangerous flirtation with narcissism, but I'm going to bulldoze on and pretend it's all about building audience.
And so I created a Facebook Writer page. Here it is: Wherein I announce my arrival. Ta da!
I'm still trying to figure out how to add the Facebook badge/button/whatever for it. I'm good with technology--I know just enough to be dangerous. Also, I know enough to convince the older people I work with that I'm like Steve Jobs except no billions of dollars. I get tapped to do all kinds of technology things--for example, in July I have to go take a 2 day class on some new software our district is making all the teachers do. So I, Amy (aka Steve) will be trained in this software and then I will go train others to do it. Which is fine, because this is called teaching and I have two degrees in that. But you know what I have a hard time with? People who ask a lot of questions and don't listen to my answers. Or, when I give the answer and they listen to it, but then want to argue with me about it. Seriously? Who's the expert here? You're the one who can't find the DELETE button, I'm standing here pointing right at it. I have such a hard time finding my inner Dalai Lama with people like that. (Please note: I speak exclusively of adults here. Children get more of my Dalai Lama, because they have an excuse. Except after the 10th time I tell them the same thing and they don't listen or argue with me. Then I started composing Student Support Team notes and data because, obviously, someone needs a serious intervention...sadly, we don't have Adult Support Team intervention. Wouldn't the world run so much more smoothly if we did?)
At any rate, I'm also having a hard time figuring out the Facebook badge/button. I had it uploaded here for a bit, but I'm not sure it took you (whoever's reading this) to the correct page. When I clicked it, it took me to my administrator set up page. So I shall bulldoze on until I figure it out. I can usually figure out any software/technology once I play with it for awhile.
I have more followers on Twitter, too! They are all writerly-oriented. Most seem to be self-publishing warehouses, and I'm leery of those. I'd rather be published traditionally...there's nothing bad in self-publishing; it can be really lucrative and work out well if you know what you're doing. Here's a secret about me: I don't really know what I'm doing. Also, I have a day job, and I'm tired by 3 PM August-May, and I still have to go work out, cook and clean dinner, read a story and plunk a resistant child into a bathtub, then convince her it's in her best interest to go to sleep. Doesn't that sound exhausting? After spending all day teaching your heart out, social issue psychotherapy sessions, drama control, and crowd management? And publishers these days already expect you to be your own PR team, manager, etc. Can't imagine what that's like if you're completely on your own. While working a full-time day job.
That's when social media is a beautiful thing--you can sit in your pj's with no make up on, in your dorky girl glasses, maybe with a glass of wine or pint of beer next to you, and plug yourself until your ego explodes in stomach-churning, bloody tendrils all over the walls. I'm all for it. What did writers do before Facebook and Twitter? And Instagram! And Tumblr (which I totally don't get or see the point of)! Or blogs? Or texts, or emails, or computers or smart phones or tablets or push button start cars or just transportation in general?! I'm so surprised Shakespeare (or whoever wrote those plays I had to sit and look down at all the footnotes every other word until my eyes bled) was even able to get anything on paper. (Did they have paper in Shakespeare's time? Oh, wait, yes. But they didn't have ballpoint pens. Man! Life in the old days was insane!)
That's really all I have to add here today. It's not as exciting as yesterday, and I apologize if you were looking for real entertainment. I really just wanted to promote my new Facebook Writer page. And tell you a lot of writerly types are following me on Twitter now.
You know who really has no issue letting her ego fly proud and free? Miss M. Totally all about me, me, me. Loves herself in ways no one else ever will, and doesn't care if you do or not. She's into photo bombing lately, and I think that's a sure fire sign someone needs to check it. How the hell am I supposed to take a good selfie with THIS crap going on in the background??
And so I created a Facebook Writer page. Here it is: Wherein I announce my arrival. Ta da!
I'm still trying to figure out how to add the Facebook badge/button/whatever for it. I'm good with technology--I know just enough to be dangerous. Also, I know enough to convince the older people I work with that I'm like Steve Jobs except no billions of dollars. I get tapped to do all kinds of technology things--for example, in July I have to go take a 2 day class on some new software our district is making all the teachers do. So I, Amy (aka Steve) will be trained in this software and then I will go train others to do it. Which is fine, because this is called teaching and I have two degrees in that. But you know what I have a hard time with? People who ask a lot of questions and don't listen to my answers. Or, when I give the answer and they listen to it, but then want to argue with me about it. Seriously? Who's the expert here? You're the one who can't find the DELETE button, I'm standing here pointing right at it. I have such a hard time finding my inner Dalai Lama with people like that. (Please note: I speak exclusively of adults here. Children get more of my Dalai Lama, because they have an excuse. Except after the 10th time I tell them the same thing and they don't listen or argue with me. Then I started composing Student Support Team notes and data because, obviously, someone needs a serious intervention...sadly, we don't have Adult Support Team intervention. Wouldn't the world run so much more smoothly if we did?)
At any rate, I'm also having a hard time figuring out the Facebook badge/button. I had it uploaded here for a bit, but I'm not sure it took you (whoever's reading this) to the correct page. When I clicked it, it took me to my administrator set up page. So I shall bulldoze on until I figure it out. I can usually figure out any software/technology once I play with it for awhile.
I have more followers on Twitter, too! They are all writerly-oriented. Most seem to be self-publishing warehouses, and I'm leery of those. I'd rather be published traditionally...there's nothing bad in self-publishing; it can be really lucrative and work out well if you know what you're doing. Here's a secret about me: I don't really know what I'm doing. Also, I have a day job, and I'm tired by 3 PM August-May, and I still have to go work out, cook and clean dinner, read a story and plunk a resistant child into a bathtub, then convince her it's in her best interest to go to sleep. Doesn't that sound exhausting? After spending all day teaching your heart out, social issue psychotherapy sessions, drama control, and crowd management? And publishers these days already expect you to be your own PR team, manager, etc. Can't imagine what that's like if you're completely on your own. While working a full-time day job.
That's when social media is a beautiful thing--you can sit in your pj's with no make up on, in your dorky girl glasses, maybe with a glass of wine or pint of beer next to you, and plug yourself until your ego explodes in stomach-churning, bloody tendrils all over the walls. I'm all for it. What did writers do before Facebook and Twitter? And Instagram! And Tumblr (which I totally don't get or see the point of)! Or blogs? Or texts, or emails, or computers or smart phones or tablets or push button start cars or just transportation in general?! I'm so surprised Shakespeare (or whoever wrote those plays I had to sit and look down at all the footnotes every other word until my eyes bled) was even able to get anything on paper. (Did they have paper in Shakespeare's time? Oh, wait, yes. But they didn't have ballpoint pens. Man! Life in the old days was insane!)
That's really all I have to add here today. It's not as exciting as yesterday, and I apologize if you were looking for real entertainment. I really just wanted to promote my new Facebook Writer page. And tell you a lot of writerly types are following me on Twitter now.
You know who really has no issue letting her ego fly proud and free? Miss M. Totally all about me, me, me. Loves herself in ways no one else ever will, and doesn't care if you do or not. She's into photo bombing lately, and I think that's a sure fire sign someone needs to check it. How the hell am I supposed to take a good selfie with THIS crap going on in the background??
 |
6.09.2014
m is for mermaid.
I don't remember exactly what happened after that--I sort of remember clinging to the sides of the pool a lot, just watching the others do the lesson and refusing to participate. For some reason, after awhile (or a day or two? it was the 70s, when time was complicated), I took a risk and ventured beyond the walls of the pool. And then I put my head underwater. And it. was. MAGIC.
After that, I was practically a fish. Which is only as it should be, since I'm a Pisces and we happen to be fishes (two actually, joined at the tails, swimming opposite directions, which really sums me up nicely). And then I was in a pool, every day unless it was thundering and lightning, all summer long. In the deep end. Pretending I was a mermaid, falling in love with Australian spy Robert Scorpio from the soap opera General Hospital. (Even as a child, I had an inability to resist when it came to men with non-American accents.)
I don't know why it came as a big surprise to me that I'd give birth to a child who was also fearful of water. Fear of water is probably the most ironic phobia, being that we live on a water-covered planet, we gestate in fluid, and our bodies are mostly made up of water. (And dust from the cosmos, but that's another post.) Further, I find it really flippant of Mother Nature to have had the audacity to not put gills on us. So unfair, Mother Earth. A real evolutionary foul play.
So Miss M: always terrified of water. Not of water itself, but rather of putting her head beneath it. I've felt, for these last 5 years or so, this is partly genetic and also partly because one night during bath time when M was a mere wee sprite of one year, I turned to grab a washcloth for a split second...and when I turned back to her, she was under the water looking up at me with sort of calmly shocked gaze. And then I pulled her out and she started wailing; water probably went up her nose. (Don't turn your back on babies in water! Not even for a split second! Horrifying, horrifying.)
After that, it was almost impossible to get her under water. And she didn't like it in her face. Holy god forbid you get a drop of water on one of her cheeks--the entire bath process had to come to a screeching halt so we could carefully wipe off the offensive thing.
She got slightly better as she got older. Like, when I had to wash her hair, I could pull down the shower head and run it over her head...as long as her head was aaaall the way back and we had a towel at hand for any water-on-face mishaps. Just thinking about the process is making me want to take a nap. Kids are freaking exhausting. And really picky, yet so fickle. Honestly, some days it feels like I'm living with a tiny little despotic Norma Desmond.
At any rate, we've had quite the time trying to get Miss M over her fear of going underwater. Two years ago we did swim lessons at Lifetime Fitness, this past spring we took lessons through our county's park and rec services. Both experiences were less than satisfactory for us--they made the parents stay and watch, so M would run over to me a lot and beg to go home. To avoid law suits and red-faced parental hostility, they took the gentle approach: lovingly dump water on the head, soothingly try to cajole her scared ass out into 3 feet of water. Both times, I let the instructors know I was fine with just dumping her in the deep end and letting her figure it out. I wasn't going to be That Parent; they had my full support, do what you gotta do, ladies, you're the swimming experts. Both times, the instructors looked at me like I was the insanest parent they'd ever encountered. (No I wasn't: I once watched a mom change a poopy diaper right next to the pool at Lifetime Fitness. The lifeguards had a fit and she had a fit that they had a fit. While standing with a poopy diaper in her hand. People are nutty. And gross.)
And then we found Ms. Kim, who taught both my niece and nephew to swim. And my niece, let me tell you: my niece is a stubborn, tough cookie. Ms. K earned her money with G. So when I was at the end of my rope--Melissa HAS to learn how to swim; knowing how to swim will save your life and therefore is NOT optional--my sister in law gave us Ms. Kim's number. After we registered M, we got a 5 page email with all The Rules. Rule #1 being NO PARENTS ALLOWED. (And a suggestion to bring earphones and music to relax for 30 minutes while shit gets really real for your child.)
So we went today. Today was Day 1 of Really Real Swim Lessons. I wasn't nervous going in; I was nervous about what I was going to be hauling home with me in the backseat of the car afterwards. Would she just be very quiet and shell shocked? Or would I be taking home Wendy from THE SHINING, right after Jack chopped through a door with an axe screaming, "Here's Johnny!" determined to kill her. I didn't know.
But we went, and she went into the pool area willingly (like a lamb to a slaughter) (I did think it--I swear to you, I had that thought right inside my brain as I watched her little back retreat from me.)
Thirty minutes later, Melissa came out dripping wet from head to toe.
"Mommy," she screamed, "I DID IT! I put my head under the water! I used Ms. Kim's magic orange goggles and I did it! I did it! Are you SO proud of me?"
"Oh yes yes yes, sweet girl," I said, "I am so SO proud of you!"
And then Ms. Kim told me Miss M had swallowed a ton of pool water in the fight process, and not to be upset--there could be a lot of throwing up on the way home. And, on cue, Melissa vomited all over Ms. Kim's parents' porch. Nice. And then, on the way home, Melissa asked for a snack because her tummy hurt...and proceeded to vomit up two more tons of her stomach's contents.
Lovely, lovely. Sooooo...I just got done spending 40 minutes in the heat of the early Georgia evening mopping up vomit chunks from the back of my car. You know what you learn when you have to mop up vomit chunks in summer heat and humidity for 40 minutes? You learn that (1) stomachs, even tiny 5 year old ones, hold a freakishly enormous volume of food and water--I swear, why are we not in the camel family? surely we could traverse the desert with what our stomachs can hold; (2) the insides of human beings are absolutely disgusting--they look disgusting, they smell disgusting...we are all just walking/talking containers of revolting, repulsive ick; and (3) poop is way more desirable to clean up than vomit. I'm pretty sure I could walk through a sewer full of fecal matter for a whole day with very little reaction, but the second I smelled vomit floating with the feces, I'd be hurling up my own guts, creating multiple hernias and whatnot. (Note: tomorrow, there will be nooooo blueberry muffin plus chocolate milk snacks beforehand. Pure water until all pool vomit has cleared the area.)
So it was a slightly traumatic afternoon for both Miss M and I. Afterwards, I asked her if she had fun. "Yes," she said, "I had fun but not TOO much fun."
"Well, I was so so SO proud of you, my big girl. You were SO very brave!"
"But mommy," M said sadly, "You didn't see me."
"What do you mean," I asked.
"I MEAN," she sighed dramatically, " I WASN'T brave. I was SCARED!"
"What did Ms. Kim say when you were scared?"
"She said if I didn't get my hands off her neck she was going to dump me."
"But now you know how to put your head underwater and you can DO it, big girl! I am SO proud of you!"
That's when I was told I was talking too much and she didn't want to talk about it anymore. DOG WITH A BLOG was on and she only wanted to hear them talk.
And that, my friends, is how you train up child (in a swimming pool). I say this all the time, about how I do worry about the wussification of America. And today I realized I may have been a part of that wussification of America in my little teeny corner of this country. So thank god for strong people like Ms. Kim, thank god for them. America, put people like her in charge. You aren't going to like it, and you're probably going to blow chunks on Day 1 and probably Days 2 and 3, but by Day 5? You're swimming like a mermaid. Or merman. Mergirl. Boy. Whatever.
 |
| Pre-Life Changing Event. |
 |
| Post-Life Changing Event (two mermaids in a car). |
6.08.2014
i can't think of a title for this.
I have my new laptop! I have my new laptop! Oh, happy day. I feel so much better typing on a keyboard than on a touchscreen phone (ask me how many swears I've shouted and muttered at auto correct over the last month or so...I can type 70+ words/minute on a keyboard. Typing 101: the most useful class to technology-driven humanity EVER).
So the writing can commence. Right now. Immediately.
First, I'm going to write this blog (because writers don't eeeever procrastinate).
I grew up in Kentucky, and so the Kentucky Derby is a Thing each year. I totally missed it this year--I usually try to pick a favorite and then pay attention, casually, to the race. California Chrome won the Derby this year. And then the Preakness! He's not your typical racehorse--just a regular old horse who's become a star. I love stories like that, and underdogs, and rooting for people and things that seem unlikely to make it. And then to win the Preakness and possibly the Belmont? That's so huge! (Affirmed was the last horse to do it, in 1978.) (I didn't know that off the top of my head--Google told me.) But, sadly, it was not to be. Sorry, Chrome. You are still loved.
It's been years since I've been on a horse, but I love them. Next to dolphins, I can't think of an animal I love more. I once knew how to bridle and saddle a horse. I could ride Western, English, side saddle, bareback (don't ride a horse totally bareback--put a blanket on those things. Their spines are...uncomfortable. In that region). And all the commands. If you're from Kentucky, you HAVE to--they take away your Kentucky card if you don't learn horses. (Kidding. Sort of.)
Trivia fact: Kentucky really does have bluegrass. If it gets long enough, the sun's out, and the wind is blowing? You can look at Kentucky bluegrass and go: That grass looks blue! (It actually looks greenish blue.) Here's why: Kentucky is full of massive cave systems underground (Mammoth Caves--go spelunking, it's fun!). Caves are formed by lime eroding into the soil. So the lime goes into the soil, and that's what turns the grass blue-ish. Lime happens to contain a lot of calcium. Horses come along and eat the bluegrass/calcium. And that's how Kentucky got to be so well-known for its amazing thoroughbreds--big big horses on stick-thin legs that run like the wind. Because of bluegrass/lime/calcium. Thus concludes your useless trivia for today.
Speaking of bluegrass, the house I grew up in (which had a lot of bluegrass) backed up against a cow pasture. I can't tell you how many Saturday mornings I'd wake up to excited shouts of parents in the neighborhood trying to capture yet another cow that had jumped the fence.
As children, living with cows as neighbors was idyllic. We'd feed the cows grass clippings our dads had mowed, or pull down tree leaves for them to eat. Every spring, there'd be new babies and we'd name them after our favorite TV shows: Fantasy Island, Love Boat. Diff'rent Strokes, Punky Brewster, Dallas... I'm not sure we realized what would, one day, happen to these cows. But we loved them immensely, and sometimes, if you fed them long enough, they'd let you gently pet their soft, wet, velvety noses. Cows are gentle creatures. I hate that they make such tasty steaks. (For a very long time, from junior high all the way through college, I refused to eat them. I still have to really will myself not to think about it, don't think about Fantasy Island's sweet face back in 1982. Just grill the thing.)
We'd also jump the fence and walk around the pasture when the cows weren't there. We liked to stick sticks in the cow patties to see what they looked like on the inside (totally green. totally, totally green). We were odd children.
Speaking of odd children, I took Miss M to get her hair done at Miss Z's yesterday. I'm okay doing biracial hair now (thank you, google and youtube!), however my parts are always a mess and my braids just never quite smooth enough. And I lack patience. I lack a lot of patience. I once saw, on Thandie Newton's twitter page, a link to an article her sister (I think) wrote. In the article, her sister wrote about how their mother would spend hours and hours just gently detangling their hair and they never, ever cried. Not so at our house. I don't have hours and hours of patience for detangling. I do my best to keep it from hurting, but I have been given a melodramatic drama queen. Sometimes, I'll hold the comb over her head not even touching her hair and ask, "Does this hurt?" And she'll scream (with REAL tears, you all), "YEEEEEEES! YOU'RE HURTING ME! STOP HURTING ME!" And then she gets all mad when I tell her I'm not even touching her hair because that's tricking her.
So there are tears. A lot of tears...and that's from both the detanglee and detangler. I'm told this is supposed to be a bonding experience. I'm not seeing that yet. Melissa and I bond over nature walks and books and music and movies. Hair? No.
However, I refuse to feel bad about this. (1) I can barely do my own hair and (2) I didn't go to beauty school. Hair and make up are clearly not where my talents lie. I also know that, one day, she will grow and find a faaaaabulous hair person (as I have) who will know exactly how to make her hair do and be its most awesome. She and her fabulous hair person can bond over hair.
But it's a cultural thing, my husband tells me, and it's one of those little things--in every marriage, I think there are those little things--that are constant sources of contention. I couldn't give a flying crap about hair. It's just not something I spend a lot of time worrying about. But apparently, others do. And hair is a Thing.
We also disagree about the point of childhood, though. I think childhood, particularly summers, should be spent swimming, reading books under trees, eating ice cream, and just generally hanging out. He thinks summers should be spent preparing for Harvard and a sports scholarship. (I'm being hyperbolic, but not really.) I have exactly zero interest in being a soccer mom--carting Melissa here and there to a million different things on her schedule. I had a lot of free time as a child, and I turned out okay (quirky, but okay). I loved my childhood--I can honestly say, other than some family dysfunctions and etc--I had a good, happy childhood. I spent a lot of time with my imagination or my nose in a book. And today? I don't rob gas stations, I pay my taxes, and I'm a thoughtful citizen of the world. And generally kind, if slightly judgmental occasionally. This is the kind of human being I'd like to raise--someone who's kind (if slightly judgmental), thoughtful, and happy. Melissa has a kind, thoughtful heart. And she's very judge-y. I think I'm doing an okay job so far.
I also think because I work in the public ed system, I want her to be a child as long as possible. They don't want children to be children anymore, you know. They want little PhD scholars running around, citing evidence to their thinking processes. It's ridiculous, and I won't have it. I think you should have a good 12 years to do nothing, BE nothing, exist completely in a world of pure imagination before you have to go fight in the arena. If she wants to spend all summer with wild woman wolf hair singing "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?" and "Let It Go" 100 billion times (in all languages--holy god, you all, youtube has these songs in every human language imaginable), then I say: have at it. You don't have to explain to me what your thinking processes are about that. You're a kid, and so clearly you're crazy. Kids do crazy things that make sense only to them. Do they have to explain EVERYthing?? (According to Common Core, they do.)
I feel okay about all of this because I do try to balance. We're at the public library once a week. We read books together. I try to teach her, on the sly, how to sound out words/notice patterns (aka read). We talk; we talk a LOT. A friend of mine (Patresa, amazing musician/storyteller) wrote a blog piece about this with her son, about how she tries to balance TV and books and conversation, and I felt so much better about my mothering after reading it (that's the power of writing--that connection, that message that we're all in this together).
So I think we're good over here--Miss M knows her abc's and sounds, she knows rhymes and patterns, books figure prominently in her world...she's literacy-ready. And we talk. So many people just don't talk to their kids these days. Please talk to your children. Please talk to them and let them know what they think, how they feel, what they have to say is important. Please tell them how much they're loved, please let them know they are your very best blessing(s). Please do this, world, so we have less dysfunction. And please read to them once in awhile, because reading and writing will help them survive in life. Math will only take you so far (I'm sorry, Mathematicians, but it's true...proof: half of you can't spell).
How did I get from Kentucky Derby to cows to hair to kids? I can't even think of what to title this blog entry, it's so everywhere. Welcome to my brain. (Go get some ice cream and read a book under a tree somewhere.) (And don't hand feed cows--their sweet faces will just haunt you at every barbecue.)
So the writing can commence. Right now. Immediately.
First, I'm going to write this blog (because writers don't eeeever procrastinate).
I grew up in Kentucky, and so the Kentucky Derby is a Thing each year. I totally missed it this year--I usually try to pick a favorite and then pay attention, casually, to the race. California Chrome won the Derby this year. And then the Preakness! He's not your typical racehorse--just a regular old horse who's become a star. I love stories like that, and underdogs, and rooting for people and things that seem unlikely to make it. And then to win the Preakness and possibly the Belmont? That's so huge! (Affirmed was the last horse to do it, in 1978.) (I didn't know that off the top of my head--Google told me.) But, sadly, it was not to be. Sorry, Chrome. You are still loved.
It's been years since I've been on a horse, but I love them. Next to dolphins, I can't think of an animal I love more. I once knew how to bridle and saddle a horse. I could ride Western, English, side saddle, bareback (don't ride a horse totally bareback--put a blanket on those things. Their spines are...uncomfortable. In that region). And all the commands. If you're from Kentucky, you HAVE to--they take away your Kentucky card if you don't learn horses. (Kidding. Sort of.)
Trivia fact: Kentucky really does have bluegrass. If it gets long enough, the sun's out, and the wind is blowing? You can look at Kentucky bluegrass and go: That grass looks blue! (It actually looks greenish blue.) Here's why: Kentucky is full of massive cave systems underground (Mammoth Caves--go spelunking, it's fun!). Caves are formed by lime eroding into the soil. So the lime goes into the soil, and that's what turns the grass blue-ish. Lime happens to contain a lot of calcium. Horses come along and eat the bluegrass/calcium. And that's how Kentucky got to be so well-known for its amazing thoroughbreds--big big horses on stick-thin legs that run like the wind. Because of bluegrass/lime/calcium. Thus concludes your useless trivia for today.
Speaking of bluegrass, the house I grew up in (which had a lot of bluegrass) backed up against a cow pasture. I can't tell you how many Saturday mornings I'd wake up to excited shouts of parents in the neighborhood trying to capture yet another cow that had jumped the fence.
As children, living with cows as neighbors was idyllic. We'd feed the cows grass clippings our dads had mowed, or pull down tree leaves for them to eat. Every spring, there'd be new babies and we'd name them after our favorite TV shows: Fantasy Island, Love Boat. Diff'rent Strokes, Punky Brewster, Dallas... I'm not sure we realized what would, one day, happen to these cows. But we loved them immensely, and sometimes, if you fed them long enough, they'd let you gently pet their soft, wet, velvety noses. Cows are gentle creatures. I hate that they make such tasty steaks. (For a very long time, from junior high all the way through college, I refused to eat them. I still have to really will myself not to think about it, don't think about Fantasy Island's sweet face back in 1982. Just grill the thing.)
We'd also jump the fence and walk around the pasture when the cows weren't there. We liked to stick sticks in the cow patties to see what they looked like on the inside (totally green. totally, totally green). We were odd children.
Speaking of odd children, I took Miss M to get her hair done at Miss Z's yesterday. I'm okay doing biracial hair now (thank you, google and youtube!), however my parts are always a mess and my braids just never quite smooth enough. And I lack patience. I lack a lot of patience. I once saw, on Thandie Newton's twitter page, a link to an article her sister (I think) wrote. In the article, her sister wrote about how their mother would spend hours and hours just gently detangling their hair and they never, ever cried. Not so at our house. I don't have hours and hours of patience for detangling. I do my best to keep it from hurting, but I have been given a melodramatic drama queen. Sometimes, I'll hold the comb over her head not even touching her hair and ask, "Does this hurt?" And she'll scream (with REAL tears, you all), "YEEEEEEES! YOU'RE HURTING ME! STOP HURTING ME!" And then she gets all mad when I tell her I'm not even touching her hair because that's tricking her.
So there are tears. A lot of tears...and that's from both the detanglee and detangler. I'm told this is supposed to be a bonding experience. I'm not seeing that yet. Melissa and I bond over nature walks and books and music and movies. Hair? No.
However, I refuse to feel bad about this. (1) I can barely do my own hair and (2) I didn't go to beauty school. Hair and make up are clearly not where my talents lie. I also know that, one day, she will grow and find a faaaaabulous hair person (as I have) who will know exactly how to make her hair do and be its most awesome. She and her fabulous hair person can bond over hair.
But it's a cultural thing, my husband tells me, and it's one of those little things--in every marriage, I think there are those little things--that are constant sources of contention. I couldn't give a flying crap about hair. It's just not something I spend a lot of time worrying about. But apparently, others do. And hair is a Thing.
We also disagree about the point of childhood, though. I think childhood, particularly summers, should be spent swimming, reading books under trees, eating ice cream, and just generally hanging out. He thinks summers should be spent preparing for Harvard and a sports scholarship. (I'm being hyperbolic, but not really.) I have exactly zero interest in being a soccer mom--carting Melissa here and there to a million different things on her schedule. I had a lot of free time as a child, and I turned out okay (quirky, but okay). I loved my childhood--I can honestly say, other than some family dysfunctions and etc--I had a good, happy childhood. I spent a lot of time with my imagination or my nose in a book. And today? I don't rob gas stations, I pay my taxes, and I'm a thoughtful citizen of the world. And generally kind, if slightly judgmental occasionally. This is the kind of human being I'd like to raise--someone who's kind (if slightly judgmental), thoughtful, and happy. Melissa has a kind, thoughtful heart. And she's very judge-y. I think I'm doing an okay job so far.
I also think because I work in the public ed system, I want her to be a child as long as possible. They don't want children to be children anymore, you know. They want little PhD scholars running around, citing evidence to their thinking processes. It's ridiculous, and I won't have it. I think you should have a good 12 years to do nothing, BE nothing, exist completely in a world of pure imagination before you have to go fight in the arena. If she wants to spend all summer with wild woman wolf hair singing "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?" and "Let It Go" 100 billion times (in all languages--holy god, you all, youtube has these songs in every human language imaginable), then I say: have at it. You don't have to explain to me what your thinking processes are about that. You're a kid, and so clearly you're crazy. Kids do crazy things that make sense only to them. Do they have to explain EVERYthing?? (According to Common Core, they do.)
I feel okay about all of this because I do try to balance. We're at the public library once a week. We read books together. I try to teach her, on the sly, how to sound out words/notice patterns (aka read). We talk; we talk a LOT. A friend of mine (Patresa, amazing musician/storyteller) wrote a blog piece about this with her son, about how she tries to balance TV and books and conversation, and I felt so much better about my mothering after reading it (that's the power of writing--that connection, that message that we're all in this together).
So I think we're good over here--Miss M knows her abc's and sounds, she knows rhymes and patterns, books figure prominently in her world...she's literacy-ready. And we talk. So many people just don't talk to their kids these days. Please talk to your children. Please talk to them and let them know what they think, how they feel, what they have to say is important. Please tell them how much they're loved, please let them know they are your very best blessing(s). Please do this, world, so we have less dysfunction. And please read to them once in awhile, because reading and writing will help them survive in life. Math will only take you so far (I'm sorry, Mathematicians, but it's true...proof: half of you can't spell).
How did I get from Kentucky Derby to cows to hair to kids? I can't even think of what to title this blog entry, it's so everywhere. Welcome to my brain. (Go get some ice cream and read a book under a tree somewhere.) (And don't hand feed cows--their sweet faces will just haunt you at every barbecue.)
6.07.2014
summer fade.
June is the slippery slope month. Oh, it's all fun and games that last week of May--the whole summer is ahead of me, and it's not even June yet! And then June 1 hits. And then June 2. And 3rd and so on. And now we're getting close to June double-digits. This is just like how fast kids grow up! Stop this roller coaster and point me to the carousel.
I've ordered an HP Chromebook, which is supposed to be here tomorrow. SO excited! I researched them and people rave about them, so fingers crossed. Really, I just need internet access and a writing tool. A friend and I are starting a writing project this month--we have an idea for a television show (aka "a pipe dream"). We have a whole world to share with people, and we think it's fascinating (possibly because we live it) and funny and we have seasons and seasons worth of material. Seriously--I've researched television writing/production/etc, and it appears one of the problems with tv is that it eats plot. Not so for this, we think...first, the plot practically writes itself, and second, so do the characters. And, in my experience as a story writer, characters are what drive the vehicle. You can have a great plot, but without interesting characters, it just doesn't work.
So I've been doing a lot of research for many months--reading a lot of television scripts, lurking on the Writers board over at imdb.com (omg, friends, have you BEEN there?? I don't get involved; I stay out of the frequent dysfunctional frays..it's for the best--who has that kind of time? not me), and we've emailed/called each other with different pitches for episodes or things we'd like to include in the overall story arc. (I like to throw show business terms like "pitches" around, because I think it makes me sound very Hollywood) (Hollywood would chew me up and spit me out-I'm way too nice-but please not until I have cocktails with Clive Owen at the Roosevelt, okay, Hollywood? Thanks.).
At any rate, one of the things that's kept me procrastinating (aka "researching") this long, besides a laptop on the skids, is the fact that I'm a story writer, not a scriptologist. I can tell you exactly how to craft a short story, but trying to sit down and type in script format? My brain isn't sure right now. But I've also been watching copiously DVR'd episodes of The Sundance Channel's THE WRITER'S ROOM, and I love these people they feature. I watch these shows and think: Why did I go into education? This is not my tribe--the people THE WRITER'S ROOM have featured: that's my tribe. I wish we could go out and drink coffee and talk storytelling shop and beat drums and crap. But no. Poop. I have to go talk about place value in a few weeks and talk about "she said she was my friend but now she's not and she told her not to play with me and she said I wanted to kiss Juan Carlos" and tell people to stop eating the crayons and no you can't go to the bathroom, you just got back from it 3 minutes ago. Dammit. Hanging out with this tribe all day is like...like...being zebra caged with chimpanzees. I'm sorry. It's after midnight here. That's the best analogy my brain can come up with.
I've never written a script. I've been told I'm good at writing dialogue. But I've only ever written dialogue in short story format. How do you tell a story via only or mostly dialogue? Thankfully, I see some scripts have a lot of stage direction, and that's helpful to this story writer. Anyway, I decided to stop over thinking it (like I'm doing right now) and, once the new laptop gets here, I'm just going to sit down and start typing. The first draft is always shitty (says my hero Anne Lamott), so fine. I'll do a shitty first draft and then friend A and I can put our heads together and make it a crappy 2nd draft. And go from there.
Really, it's just so I can put out a tweet and use the hashtag #amwriting. It seems to be popular.
Speaking of twitter! (I'm sorry--I did say last time I'd stop.) THE WRITERS ROOM retweeted my mention of them today. And I've gotten favorited by a bonafide television script writer. That's exciting progress, right? Jason Isaacs continues to ignore me. I sent him a fabulous birthday message--I read a lot of birthday messages people sent him yesterday and, honestly, not a single one of them wished that he'd get an Oscar nomination this year for his birthday. And I meant it when I typed it--a WHOLE Oscar nomination. For him! Maybe I should have just said "an Oscar." sigh. Frickin' actors.
It's okay! It's okay, Isaacs. Don't feel bad. I wrote my mom a really fabulous Happy Mother's Day super long paragraph on Facebook last month and she totally didn't respond to it, either. I tweeted my brother the other night and he tweeted me back and then I tweeted him back and then he ignored me after that. I'm totally used to being ignored on social media. My own family does it.
At any rate, I'm getting braver! So, so brave. Is it weird that I feel like this tweet-a-total-stranger thing is like an online version of ring the doorbell and run away? (Oh, wait! That just reminded me of how, when I was 14, we'd order pizzas for neighbors and then giggle our ridiculous heads off, watching from the bushes, as the neighbor and the delivery guy got all confused.) (Teenagers. What can you do?)
Miss M starts Swim Nazi lessons on Monday. I'm nervous. She has no idea what's about to happen. Occasionally, she checks with me to make sure Ms. Kim isn't going to make her put her head underwater. I may need to take earphones/earplugs, because I'm certain now there will be screaming. Screaming like Medieval torture chamber screaming. But watching her at my sister in law's pool the other day? Phew. Girlfriend has GOT to girl up. (I keep telling myself I'm doing this to save her life--how can you not know how to swim?? You HAVE to know how to swim.) She loves the pool, she loves water...clinging to the sides, hanging out on the steps. Take her out into 3 feet of water and it's like we're waterboarding her.
Where was I? Swimming, twitter, scripts, writing. Yes--I'm starting a script on Sunday or Monday and I have never ever written one before. I feel like I'm about to jump out of an airplane, praying the parachute works.
It's 1:30 AM and my brain has officially stopped working, so I'm ending this very very abruptly. I don't know why I titled this entry "summer fade," since there's nothing really fade-y about it.... (...except these elipses...)
I've ordered an HP Chromebook, which is supposed to be here tomorrow. SO excited! I researched them and people rave about them, so fingers crossed. Really, I just need internet access and a writing tool. A friend and I are starting a writing project this month--we have an idea for a television show (aka "a pipe dream"). We have a whole world to share with people, and we think it's fascinating (possibly because we live it) and funny and we have seasons and seasons worth of material. Seriously--I've researched television writing/production/etc, and it appears one of the problems with tv is that it eats plot. Not so for this, we think...first, the plot practically writes itself, and second, so do the characters. And, in my experience as a story writer, characters are what drive the vehicle. You can have a great plot, but without interesting characters, it just doesn't work.
So I've been doing a lot of research for many months--reading a lot of television scripts, lurking on the Writers board over at imdb.com (omg, friends, have you BEEN there?? I don't get involved; I stay out of the frequent dysfunctional frays..it's for the best--who has that kind of time? not me), and we've emailed/called each other with different pitches for episodes or things we'd like to include in the overall story arc. (I like to throw show business terms like "pitches" around, because I think it makes me sound very Hollywood) (Hollywood would chew me up and spit me out-I'm way too nice-but please not until I have cocktails with Clive Owen at the Roosevelt, okay, Hollywood? Thanks.).
At any rate, one of the things that's kept me procrastinating (aka "researching") this long, besides a laptop on the skids, is the fact that I'm a story writer, not a scriptologist. I can tell you exactly how to craft a short story, but trying to sit down and type in script format? My brain isn't sure right now. But I've also been watching copiously DVR'd episodes of The Sundance Channel's THE WRITER'S ROOM, and I love these people they feature. I watch these shows and think: Why did I go into education? This is not my tribe--the people THE WRITER'S ROOM have featured: that's my tribe. I wish we could go out and drink coffee and talk storytelling shop and beat drums and crap. But no. Poop. I have to go talk about place value in a few weeks and talk about "she said she was my friend but now she's not and she told her not to play with me and she said I wanted to kiss Juan Carlos" and tell people to stop eating the crayons and no you can't go to the bathroom, you just got back from it 3 minutes ago. Dammit. Hanging out with this tribe all day is like...like...being zebra caged with chimpanzees. I'm sorry. It's after midnight here. That's the best analogy my brain can come up with.
I've never written a script. I've been told I'm good at writing dialogue. But I've only ever written dialogue in short story format. How do you tell a story via only or mostly dialogue? Thankfully, I see some scripts have a lot of stage direction, and that's helpful to this story writer. Anyway, I decided to stop over thinking it (like I'm doing right now) and, once the new laptop gets here, I'm just going to sit down and start typing. The first draft is always shitty (says my hero Anne Lamott), so fine. I'll do a shitty first draft and then friend A and I can put our heads together and make it a crappy 2nd draft. And go from there.
Really, it's just so I can put out a tweet and use the hashtag #amwriting. It seems to be popular.
Speaking of twitter! (I'm sorry--I did say last time I'd stop.) THE WRITERS ROOM retweeted my mention of them today. And I've gotten favorited by a bonafide television script writer. That's exciting progress, right? Jason Isaacs continues to ignore me. I sent him a fabulous birthday message--I read a lot of birthday messages people sent him yesterday and, honestly, not a single one of them wished that he'd get an Oscar nomination this year for his birthday. And I meant it when I typed it--a WHOLE Oscar nomination. For him! Maybe I should have just said "an Oscar." sigh. Frickin' actors.
It's okay! It's okay, Isaacs. Don't feel bad. I wrote my mom a really fabulous Happy Mother's Day super long paragraph on Facebook last month and she totally didn't respond to it, either. I tweeted my brother the other night and he tweeted me back and then I tweeted him back and then he ignored me after that. I'm totally used to being ignored on social media. My own family does it.
At any rate, I'm getting braver! So, so brave. Is it weird that I feel like this tweet-a-total-stranger thing is like an online version of ring the doorbell and run away? (Oh, wait! That just reminded me of how, when I was 14, we'd order pizzas for neighbors and then giggle our ridiculous heads off, watching from the bushes, as the neighbor and the delivery guy got all confused.) (Teenagers. What can you do?)
Miss M starts Swim Nazi lessons on Monday. I'm nervous. She has no idea what's about to happen. Occasionally, she checks with me to make sure Ms. Kim isn't going to make her put her head underwater. I may need to take earphones/earplugs, because I'm certain now there will be screaming. Screaming like Medieval torture chamber screaming. But watching her at my sister in law's pool the other day? Phew. Girlfriend has GOT to girl up. (I keep telling myself I'm doing this to save her life--how can you not know how to swim?? You HAVE to know how to swim.) She loves the pool, she loves water...clinging to the sides, hanging out on the steps. Take her out into 3 feet of water and it's like we're waterboarding her.
Where was I? Swimming, twitter, scripts, writing. Yes--I'm starting a script on Sunday or Monday and I have never ever written one before. I feel like I'm about to jump out of an airplane, praying the parachute works.
It's 1:30 AM and my brain has officially stopped working, so I'm ending this very very abruptly. I don't know why I titled this entry "summer fade," since there's nothing really fade-y about it.... (...except these elipses...)
6.04.2014
sensible rumi(nations)
I am better. Things have stabilized (for now). It's not often I make public announcements like the last post, so if (when) I do, you will always know: oh dear, it must be pretty bad over there with Amy. (No flowers or cards please, just send light and love, thanks.)
And Becky, thank you for listening over salads--can we call these lunch dates "Cobb Salad Confessions"? It sounds like something HBO might air. Oh, and thanks for letting me try out your fancy new Chromebook! I researched them a lot--they have no CD/DVD player, but I think I'm going to go with that because it seems to get the job done and I'm all about getting jobs done. And also people rave about them. And I'm all about getting jobs done with things people rave about.
My life has been blessed with good people (like Becky) all over it; these more than make up for the Valdemorts who pop up now and then. (For those who don't know, Becky is like Hermione and Ron Weasley and whatever the name of that character is who Maggie Smith plays all rolled into one, except Becky is much younger and hipster) (I like to use Harry Potter references a lot even though I really have no freaking idea what I'm talking about--this makes me feel like I'm living on the edge. I'm dangerous like that. Come at me, Valdemort!) (I bet I spelled his name wrong.)
Tonight I have 1 story and then a Rumi quote to share with you. The story won't help you at all, but the Rumi quote might:
Story: Alice's Sensible Plan.
Alice stood in front of the judge. She could see her mother's worn out face (sad eyes) to the right, her two sisters staring solemnly at the floor to her left. She could feel Frank's mean blue eyes burning her back. She stared up into Henry's long, waxy face and focused on his pudgy nose. She felt that defeat again, knowing she shouldn't be here, and wouldn't if Frank hadn't said what he'd said. That day.
The judge asked Henry for the ring and Alice stared at her shoes as he placed it on her finger. White shoes. Comfortable white pumps. Nurses might wear sensible shoes like these. Sensible is important.
Alice decided five years ago, at 16, to become a nurse. She wanted to help others, maybe because she spent her whole life silently wishing someone would help her family--help her father, help her mother, help her sisters, and her. No one ever did, until Henry said he wanted to help her. But Henry also said he didn't want her to be a nurse. Henry didn't want to marry a working girl. He was off in a few weeks, and only God knew where the war and the US Navy would land him. Henry wanted a wife home, safe, not a girl out nursing the sick and wounded. He wanted to show off her picture to the boys, and tell them what a sensible, good woman he'd married, someone who was waiting at home for him right now, cooking and cleaning and getting ready for babies...and didn't she also look just like Zoe Mozert? He married his very own Zoe Mozert. Alice never saw the resemblance, but Henry insisted they could be twins, and that every sailor in the Navy would be green with envy over it.
Before all the Zoe Mozert talk, Alice had been at her parents' kitchen table a month ago, filling out the nursing school application when Frank walked in. He stood over her, smirking at the writing on the paper in front of her. "Women belong at home in the kitchen. Jobs are for sluts." Then, as quietly as he'd come in, he turned and left.
She looked at the paper for a long time. She felt tears, but refused to let them out. Slowly, so she could feel each minute inch of paper as it tore, she ripped the application. She'd placed the pieces in Frank's lunch box when she was done. He'd see them down in the coal mine the next day, and she prayed that would be the day there'd be a cave in.
Her mother had married Frank for security after their father died. But Frank had been the opposite of secure--though he never beat Alice or her little sisters, he was hurtful in other ways. Alice and her sisters were afraid of him, but the night little Betsy asked Alice if she thought maybe pushing the dresser against the door would help with the nightmares every night, Alice knew he was doing it to all of them. She knew it like she also knew how Frank's hands were callused and there was a large, disgusting wart on his right ring finger.
As she placed her ripped up paper into Frank's lunch box, Alice remembered Henry's face. He wasn't perfect, but he wanted her and he was the perfect escape from Frank. They weren't being beaten, so nobody would die--Betsy and Louise would eventually find their own escapes. Henry was going to be Alice's.
Last night, Alice let Henry have whatever was left of her virginity. "You'll keep 'obey' in, won't you, Alice?" asked Henry after he finished thrusting into her. Over milkshakes at the diner, she announced she was mulling a crazy notion to break tradition and ask the judge to take out the word. Alice suggested Rosie the Riveter wouldn't say it, and women could be strong now, too. Henry's face had gone blank, but his eyes darted side to side, making sure no one had overheard her.
Alice stared through the dark up at the ceiling, thinking about Henry's request. The whole act they'd just finished had repulsed her. Her insides felt weak and clammy, and the sharp sensation she'd gasped at when he entered her were only part of it. Henry's sweat dripping onto her nose, his onion-scented breath on her cheeks and in her ears, the way his mouth twitched like a beached fish as he came, the horrifying mewl-y groans he made, the scent of semen and something wet running between her legs. Alice took deep, slow breaths to keep the bile down.
"Alice?" said Henry. And then Alice nodded. With a weak, "Of course, darling," she agreed to love, cherish, honor, and obey Henry until death do them part. Henry patted her head, then got up to urinate in the motel's toilet. Alice grabbed the spoon she'd swiped from the diner and began scraping up Henry's insides from between her legs.
They'd checked in as Mr. & Mrs. Henry Grier even though they wouldn't officially both be Griers until tomorrow night, but Alice didn't worry about letting Henry have her a night early. She wanted it over, but she also needed him to do it. Tomorrow morning, Henry was coming for breakfast. Alice planned to let Frank know what they'd done tonight. It was important, very important, Frank know how wrong he'd been that day: Sometimes, Frank, sluts DO belong in kitchens.
Alice carefully wrapped a napkin around the spoon, hoping none of its contents spilled on her way home. She had a kitchen to take it to, and a special breakfast to cook, and something sensible to prove to Frank. Henry climbed into bed and patted her head again, then turned his back to her and fell asleep, completely forgetting she needed a ride home. Alice lay in the dark listening to an amazing cacophony of snores begin. She got out of bed, pulled the spoon off the nightstand and tucked it carefully into the bottom of her pocketbook. She began pulling on underclothes, and as she pinned her stockings to her garters, she started to cry. The silent tears gave way to sobs hyperventilating from her chest, which felt as if something was crushing it. Defeat. Alice sensed that is what the crush of defeat feels like--defeat is a deep burning crush inside of your chest. The color of red and purple and it's hard to breathe.
Henry sat up, annoyed, and told her to stop making so much noise. When he saw her dressing, he yelled, "Dammit!" and then told her to hold her horses, she was being stupid; he said he'd get her home and he would. Alice finished dressing and waited for him to dress. Something pricked at her as she sat at the end of the bed, some knowledge that, in spite of how carefully she'd planned this, Frank had still won.
Frank always seemed to, even when there was a sensible dresser blocking the door.
This was (obviously) longer than the other two pieces, so I didn't post it to twitter. In addition, I'm becoming quickly disillusioned with that place. I feel like I'm shouting into a very large, crowded cave. I can't see anyone, but I know they're there. Maybe some of them hear me, but most of them are so busy shouting into the cave as well that they aren't listening and/or can't hear me. My brother told me tonight it's not for social networking, just for following people. But what's the point of following people if you can't be social? I am far too social, I fear, for Twitter. Hey Twitter followers and following: does anybody want to grab some coffee? I'll buy! (not if all 70 of you come--I'm a teacher, yo.)
So I'm back to: I don't get Twitter. I did try. And I do like to just blurt out random thoughts now and then. It's something I'd do offline, so why not? On the bright side! When I was 7ish? 8ish? I developed sort of a gentle crush on Henry Winkler (The Fonz on HAPPY DAYS) because he was cool and rode a motorcycle. And he said, "Aaaay!" a lot and made me giggle. I found him on Twitter and he is So. Freaking. NICE. you guys! I introduced Miss M to him via youtube, and she agreed, so we sent him a message and he replied to us. Who knew The Fonz was so awesome? AND he writes children's books. Gosh, I heart you, Henry Winkler. Sweet man.
That's my only positive thing about Twitter so far. Otherwise, I feel like a big old, creepy lurker. And I don't like being a big old, creepy lurker. Okay, fine. I actually do. I'm pretty sure that's why the entire Internet was invented, so we could all creepy lurk one another. (Well, and: porn.) But on Twitter, no one is creepy lurking me, and I wish someone would. On Twitter. Maybe? I have no idea where I'm going with this. I'll move on.
Okay, moving on: here's a quote by Rumi. I'm etching it onto my soul, and I want to share it with you in case you'd like to etch it onto your soul as well. Or maybe tattoo it on your ass. Whatever floats your boat:
"If God said, 'Rumi, pay homage to everything that has helped you enter my arms,' there would be not one experience of my life, not one thought, not one feeling, not any act, I would not bow to."
(Thank you, hero Elizabeth Gilbert, for sharing this with me.) Not personally--Elizabeth Gilbert, EAT PRAY LOVE author, did not email or call me and say, "Hey, Amy, here's a Rumi quote I think you need." She shared it on her facebook page, and I happen to get her facebook page in my facebook newsfeed (because I creepy lurk her there), and this is getting really, really weird. I have GOT to get a grip on the social media thing. And stop fricking talking about it here so much and fixate on something other than internet lurking. Good god, I apologize for this entire blog post. I hope you didn't have something really important to do.
Rumi would tell me every single bit of this are all things I need to bow to, to pay homage. Twitter, I honor you. Facebook, you too. And you, whoever is reading this, I bow to you. And I'll buy you whatever you'd like at Starbucks if you talk to me on Twitter.
(I think I'm missing Rumi's point in that last sentence.)
Hey, look! Here's another really cool Rumi(nation):
Go seek (lurk, whatever) and be awesome. -Amy (not Rumi)
And Becky, thank you for listening over salads--can we call these lunch dates "Cobb Salad Confessions"? It sounds like something HBO might air. Oh, and thanks for letting me try out your fancy new Chromebook! I researched them a lot--they have no CD/DVD player, but I think I'm going to go with that because it seems to get the job done and I'm all about getting jobs done. And also people rave about them. And I'm all about getting jobs done with things people rave about.
My life has been blessed with good people (like Becky) all over it; these more than make up for the Valdemorts who pop up now and then. (For those who don't know, Becky is like Hermione and Ron Weasley and whatever the name of that character is who Maggie Smith plays all rolled into one, except Becky is much younger and hipster) (I like to use Harry Potter references a lot even though I really have no freaking idea what I'm talking about--this makes me feel like I'm living on the edge. I'm dangerous like that. Come at me, Valdemort!) (I bet I spelled his name wrong.)
Tonight I have 1 story and then a Rumi quote to share with you. The story won't help you at all, but the Rumi quote might:
Story: Alice's Sensible Plan.
Alice stood in front of the judge. She could see her mother's worn out face (sad eyes) to the right, her two sisters staring solemnly at the floor to her left. She could feel Frank's mean blue eyes burning her back. She stared up into Henry's long, waxy face and focused on his pudgy nose. She felt that defeat again, knowing she shouldn't be here, and wouldn't if Frank hadn't said what he'd said. That day.
The judge asked Henry for the ring and Alice stared at her shoes as he placed it on her finger. White shoes. Comfortable white pumps. Nurses might wear sensible shoes like these. Sensible is important.
Alice decided five years ago, at 16, to become a nurse. She wanted to help others, maybe because she spent her whole life silently wishing someone would help her family--help her father, help her mother, help her sisters, and her. No one ever did, until Henry said he wanted to help her. But Henry also said he didn't want her to be a nurse. Henry didn't want to marry a working girl. He was off in a few weeks, and only God knew where the war and the US Navy would land him. Henry wanted a wife home, safe, not a girl out nursing the sick and wounded. He wanted to show off her picture to the boys, and tell them what a sensible, good woman he'd married, someone who was waiting at home for him right now, cooking and cleaning and getting ready for babies...and didn't she also look just like Zoe Mozert? He married his very own Zoe Mozert. Alice never saw the resemblance, but Henry insisted they could be twins, and that every sailor in the Navy would be green with envy over it.
Before all the Zoe Mozert talk, Alice had been at her parents' kitchen table a month ago, filling out the nursing school application when Frank walked in. He stood over her, smirking at the writing on the paper in front of her. "Women belong at home in the kitchen. Jobs are for sluts." Then, as quietly as he'd come in, he turned and left.
She looked at the paper for a long time. She felt tears, but refused to let them out. Slowly, so she could feel each minute inch of paper as it tore, she ripped the application. She'd placed the pieces in Frank's lunch box when she was done. He'd see them down in the coal mine the next day, and she prayed that would be the day there'd be a cave in.
Her mother had married Frank for security after their father died. But Frank had been the opposite of secure--though he never beat Alice or her little sisters, he was hurtful in other ways. Alice and her sisters were afraid of him, but the night little Betsy asked Alice if she thought maybe pushing the dresser against the door would help with the nightmares every night, Alice knew he was doing it to all of them. She knew it like she also knew how Frank's hands were callused and there was a large, disgusting wart on his right ring finger.
As she placed her ripped up paper into Frank's lunch box, Alice remembered Henry's face. He wasn't perfect, but he wanted her and he was the perfect escape from Frank. They weren't being beaten, so nobody would die--Betsy and Louise would eventually find their own escapes. Henry was going to be Alice's.
Last night, Alice let Henry have whatever was left of her virginity. "You'll keep 'obey' in, won't you, Alice?" asked Henry after he finished thrusting into her. Over milkshakes at the diner, she announced she was mulling a crazy notion to break tradition and ask the judge to take out the word. Alice suggested Rosie the Riveter wouldn't say it, and women could be strong now, too. Henry's face had gone blank, but his eyes darted side to side, making sure no one had overheard her.
Alice stared through the dark up at the ceiling, thinking about Henry's request. The whole act they'd just finished had repulsed her. Her insides felt weak and clammy, and the sharp sensation she'd gasped at when he entered her were only part of it. Henry's sweat dripping onto her nose, his onion-scented breath on her cheeks and in her ears, the way his mouth twitched like a beached fish as he came, the horrifying mewl-y groans he made, the scent of semen and something wet running between her legs. Alice took deep, slow breaths to keep the bile down.
"Alice?" said Henry. And then Alice nodded. With a weak, "Of course, darling," she agreed to love, cherish, honor, and obey Henry until death do them part. Henry patted her head, then got up to urinate in the motel's toilet. Alice grabbed the spoon she'd swiped from the diner and began scraping up Henry's insides from between her legs.
They'd checked in as Mr. & Mrs. Henry Grier even though they wouldn't officially both be Griers until tomorrow night, but Alice didn't worry about letting Henry have her a night early. She wanted it over, but she also needed him to do it. Tomorrow morning, Henry was coming for breakfast. Alice planned to let Frank know what they'd done tonight. It was important, very important, Frank know how wrong he'd been that day: Sometimes, Frank, sluts DO belong in kitchens.
Alice carefully wrapped a napkin around the spoon, hoping none of its contents spilled on her way home. She had a kitchen to take it to, and a special breakfast to cook, and something sensible to prove to Frank. Henry climbed into bed and patted her head again, then turned his back to her and fell asleep, completely forgetting she needed a ride home. Alice lay in the dark listening to an amazing cacophony of snores begin. She got out of bed, pulled the spoon off the nightstand and tucked it carefully into the bottom of her pocketbook. She began pulling on underclothes, and as she pinned her stockings to her garters, she started to cry. The silent tears gave way to sobs hyperventilating from her chest, which felt as if something was crushing it. Defeat. Alice sensed that is what the crush of defeat feels like--defeat is a deep burning crush inside of your chest. The color of red and purple and it's hard to breathe.
Henry sat up, annoyed, and told her to stop making so much noise. When he saw her dressing, he yelled, "Dammit!" and then told her to hold her horses, she was being stupid; he said he'd get her home and he would. Alice finished dressing and waited for him to dress. Something pricked at her as she sat at the end of the bed, some knowledge that, in spite of how carefully she'd planned this, Frank had still won.
Frank always seemed to, even when there was a sensible dresser blocking the door.
This was (obviously) longer than the other two pieces, so I didn't post it to twitter. In addition, I'm becoming quickly disillusioned with that place. I feel like I'm shouting into a very large, crowded cave. I can't see anyone, but I know they're there. Maybe some of them hear me, but most of them are so busy shouting into the cave as well that they aren't listening and/or can't hear me. My brother told me tonight it's not for social networking, just for following people. But what's the point of following people if you can't be social? I am far too social, I fear, for Twitter. Hey Twitter followers and following: does anybody want to grab some coffee? I'll buy! (not if all 70 of you come--I'm a teacher, yo.)
So I'm back to: I don't get Twitter. I did try. And I do like to just blurt out random thoughts now and then. It's something I'd do offline, so why not? On the bright side! When I was 7ish? 8ish? I developed sort of a gentle crush on Henry Winkler (The Fonz on HAPPY DAYS) because he was cool and rode a motorcycle. And he said, "Aaaay!" a lot and made me giggle. I found him on Twitter and he is So. Freaking. NICE. you guys! I introduced Miss M to him via youtube, and she agreed, so we sent him a message and he replied to us. Who knew The Fonz was so awesome? AND he writes children's books. Gosh, I heart you, Henry Winkler. Sweet man.
That's my only positive thing about Twitter so far. Otherwise, I feel like a big old, creepy lurker. And I don't like being a big old, creepy lurker. Okay, fine. I actually do. I'm pretty sure that's why the entire Internet was invented, so we could all creepy lurk one another. (Well, and: porn.) But on Twitter, no one is creepy lurking me, and I wish someone would. On Twitter. Maybe? I have no idea where I'm going with this. I'll move on.
Okay, moving on: here's a quote by Rumi. I'm etching it onto my soul, and I want to share it with you in case you'd like to etch it onto your soul as well. Or maybe tattoo it on your ass. Whatever floats your boat:
"If God said, 'Rumi, pay homage to everything that has helped you enter my arms,' there would be not one experience of my life, not one thought, not one feeling, not any act, I would not bow to."
(Thank you, hero Elizabeth Gilbert, for sharing this with me.) Not personally--Elizabeth Gilbert, EAT PRAY LOVE author, did not email or call me and say, "Hey, Amy, here's a Rumi quote I think you need." She shared it on her facebook page, and I happen to get her facebook page in my facebook newsfeed (because I creepy lurk her there), and this is getting really, really weird. I have GOT to get a grip on the social media thing. And stop fricking talking about it here so much and fixate on something other than internet lurking. Good god, I apologize for this entire blog post. I hope you didn't have something really important to do.
Rumi would tell me every single bit of this are all things I need to bow to, to pay homage. Twitter, I honor you. Facebook, you too. And you, whoever is reading this, I bow to you. And I'll buy you whatever you'd like at Starbucks if you talk to me on Twitter.
(I think I'm missing Rumi's point in that last sentence.)
Hey, look! Here's another really cool Rumi(nation):
Go seek (lurk, whatever) and be awesome. -Amy (not Rumi)
6.01.2014
zorros among the dandelions
Life is...funky? Where I'm at. Trying very hard to stay upbeat and okay, yet feeling like the musicians on the Titanic. That's very vague, I know. It's all I can do for now. Just know: My heart is wobbly, and I spend a lot of time in emotional states of wobble. I have been out at my favorite parks recently for morning constitutionals, power strolls I like to call them. The green is amazing--man, I hate rain! but I love what it does for Mother Earth. The color green is good for the soul, I think. Today, I attempted to take a power stroll with Miss M. It did not go well. First, we had to stop and collect sticks. Then we had to pretend she was Red Riding Hood and I was (of course) the Big Bad Wolf. And then we had to play Fairies. And there was a playground. And one bathroom break. And flower picking. Kids don't get the whole power stroll thing, or meditative silence for that matter.
To take my mind from my wobbly heart and quiet, sad goings-on over here, I have two stories for you tonight:
Story 1: Weeds Are Love.
One summer when I was 9, I got very very sick. What a suck-y way to spend a summer, at age 9, right? The only thing suckier would be, you know, a broken foot for 10 weeks. My brother, 6 at the time, came into my bedroom to try to get me to play. This is how sick I was: I--girl of the outdoors who lived there from sun up to sun down every summer day until my mother had to stand amongst the fireflies, batting away mosquitoes, demanding I come in for bath/bedtime--was completely despondent about this idea. In fact, he was so badger-y about me getting out of bed to play tag or whatever outside, I started to just weep weakly. In a really dramatic way, because inside my head I was actually an Oscar winning actress doing a death scene in which I was silently dying of consumption. Thank god, the director (aka our mother) yelled CUT! and made him leave. I fell into a deep, coma-like nap.
I vaguely remember, in a virus-induced sleep-haze fog, Chad coming in and quietly putting something on my bedside table. Later, when I fully woke up, I saw what it was: a small Dixie cup filled with dandelions. I asked my mother why he'd put so many dandelions on the table and she said, "Oh, I explained how sick you are to him and he felt bad. He went outside and picked those for you, because he thought the color yellow would make you feel better." All on his own, his 6 year old self own. I ask you: how many boys are this thoughtfully sensitive at that age? Not many, because I work with them.
At any rate, even at 9 I could recognize when my soul was touched. Dandelions are my favorite now. I like roses, yes. And fancy pants orchids and lush hydrangeas and sweet lilies and soothing violets. But dandelions feel like love to me; I rejoice when they come back to life in the spring and summer.
I'm telling you this because today, on our chaotically slow power walk, Miss M picked a couple of dandelions for me. I told her my Uncle Chad and the Dandelions story, and by the time we got in the car to go home, she'd picked almost an entire field of them for me. With some white clover because those are her favorites. So we combined them:
Story 2: Zorro Boy
Another micro-story I wrote and posted on Twitter. I don't know why I keep doing this; I think I'm just trying to write, period. Because I have no laptop; mine died a month ago. We have no money (I'm told) to replace it and this financial stuff is just compounded by the other stuff and if it were just me I'd whip out the mastercard and have a new laptop pronto tomorrow but it is not just me, and so. Crap, this is so BAD for writing, you guys. So I'm writing these quick little stories on legal pads, and then posting them to Twitter for some odd reason. And then I double post them here. I think I'm saving them, since I have no lap top. (This ancient desk top I'm currently on makes me want to stick a fork in my eyes, by the way) (But I will not--I WILL NOT--use my tablet or my phone to type blog entries. My brain would explode and/or I throw those things out a window halfway through the post.) (#firstworldproblems).
Also, for some reason, each part I posted via Twitter shows up fine on my phone. But when I looked at my Twitter page via my Kindle Fire, I could only see the last part, Part 8. And none of my other mini-story from the other day. Is Twitter fucking with me? Probably because of that one thing I said in my last post. Well, fine. Fine, Twitter! On the one hand, I worry that I'll look crazy. On the other hand, my heart is so sad and tired right now, so I don't really care much. (Apologies for the vaguery again.)
Okey dokey, moving on. Here it is in its entirety (again, wordier, because the Twitter Character Police aren't watching) (that I know of) (narrowed, suspicious eyes on you, Twitter):
When he was a boy, Billy wanted to be Zorro AND the Lone Ranger, but he wanted to be Zorro more.
One day, he stole his father's WW2 switchblade. He father had carried it in his pocket through every big naval battle he often told Billy stories about.
Billy pretended the switchblade was a sword, and he also used his mother's best black cashmere scarf as his mask.
Of course, good bandit masks require eye holes. And so Billy used his mother's favorite knitting scissors for those.
When the two scratched Zs--one large, one small, both lopsided--were discovered later that evening on the wall above the bed he shared with his little brother, he was marched to the backyard.
His father's gray eyes were like cold iron as he watched him cut down the weapon of punishment. What seemed particularly cruel to him, though, was his father's choice to take a slim branch from the old, gentle oak tree Billy and his friends liked to play pirate ship in.
Billy's eyes leaked a bit as the narrow branch smacked the back of his neck, then his shoulders--thwack!thwack!--but he never screamed. He never cried out. Never even flinched.
Because Zorros are always brave in that way, even if they're only six. **
Bravery and love have become very important to me lately. I ask the Universe for both of these, quite a lot. And I've just decided that tomorrow, Miss M and I should pick more dandelions. I'm hoping a lot of green with some big splashes of yellow and sprigs of white here and there will be soothing for the soul. (Wait. What? Are you still here reading? Oh my god! Get OUT of here! Go get some dandelions! Seriously. They'll make you happier. And they smell nice--kind of earthy.)
**This story was loosely based on a real event: my young father loved (LOVED!) Zorro and the Lone Ranger. And every summer, we'd visit my dad's boyhood home. My brother and I would sleep in the room he and our Uncle Joey had shared as children. And there, every year, above the bed were two scratched Zs--one big, one little, both lopsided--that my father had cut into the wall with a knife when he was a boy. And he was called Billy. But the rest of the story is made up. Except for the big, old, quiet tree that used to live in their front yard. We loved to play in that thing, and we did play pirate ship.
I don't remember if we picked dandelions or not.**
To take my mind from my wobbly heart and quiet, sad goings-on over here, I have two stories for you tonight:
Story 1: Weeds Are Love.
One summer when I was 9, I got very very sick. What a suck-y way to spend a summer, at age 9, right? The only thing suckier would be, you know, a broken foot for 10 weeks. My brother, 6 at the time, came into my bedroom to try to get me to play. This is how sick I was: I--girl of the outdoors who lived there from sun up to sun down every summer day until my mother had to stand amongst the fireflies, batting away mosquitoes, demanding I come in for bath/bedtime--was completely despondent about this idea. In fact, he was so badger-y about me getting out of bed to play tag or whatever outside, I started to just weep weakly. In a really dramatic way, because inside my head I was actually an Oscar winning actress doing a death scene in which I was silently dying of consumption. Thank god, the director (aka our mother) yelled CUT! and made him leave. I fell into a deep, coma-like nap.
I vaguely remember, in a virus-induced sleep-haze fog, Chad coming in and quietly putting something on my bedside table. Later, when I fully woke up, I saw what it was: a small Dixie cup filled with dandelions. I asked my mother why he'd put so many dandelions on the table and she said, "Oh, I explained how sick you are to him and he felt bad. He went outside and picked those for you, because he thought the color yellow would make you feel better." All on his own, his 6 year old self own. I ask you: how many boys are this thoughtfully sensitive at that age? Not many, because I work with them.
At any rate, even at 9 I could recognize when my soul was touched. Dandelions are my favorite now. I like roses, yes. And fancy pants orchids and lush hydrangeas and sweet lilies and soothing violets. But dandelions feel like love to me; I rejoice when they come back to life in the spring and summer.
I'm telling you this because today, on our chaotically slow power walk, Miss M picked a couple of dandelions for me. I told her my Uncle Chad and the Dandelions story, and by the time we got in the car to go home, she'd picked almost an entire field of them for me. With some white clover because those are her favorites. So we combined them:
 |
Story 2: Zorro Boy
Another micro-story I wrote and posted on Twitter. I don't know why I keep doing this; I think I'm just trying to write, period. Because I have no laptop; mine died a month ago. We have no money (I'm told) to replace it and this financial stuff is just compounded by the other stuff and if it were just me I'd whip out the mastercard and have a new laptop pronto tomorrow but it is not just me, and so. Crap, this is so BAD for writing, you guys. So I'm writing these quick little stories on legal pads, and then posting them to Twitter for some odd reason. And then I double post them here. I think I'm saving them, since I have no lap top. (This ancient desk top I'm currently on makes me want to stick a fork in my eyes, by the way) (But I will not--I WILL NOT--use my tablet or my phone to type blog entries. My brain would explode and/or I throw those things out a window halfway through the post.) (#firstworldproblems).
Also, for some reason, each part I posted via Twitter shows up fine on my phone. But when I looked at my Twitter page via my Kindle Fire, I could only see the last part, Part 8. And none of my other mini-story from the other day. Is Twitter fucking with me? Probably because of that one thing I said in my last post. Well, fine. Fine, Twitter! On the one hand, I worry that I'll look crazy. On the other hand, my heart is so sad and tired right now, so I don't really care much. (Apologies for the vaguery again.)
Okey dokey, moving on. Here it is in its entirety (again, wordier, because the Twitter Character Police aren't watching) (that I know of) (narrowed, suspicious eyes on you, Twitter):
When he was a boy, Billy wanted to be Zorro AND the Lone Ranger, but he wanted to be Zorro more.
One day, he stole his father's WW2 switchblade. He father had carried it in his pocket through every big naval battle he often told Billy stories about.
Billy pretended the switchblade was a sword, and he also used his mother's best black cashmere scarf as his mask.
Of course, good bandit masks require eye holes. And so Billy used his mother's favorite knitting scissors for those.
When the two scratched Zs--one large, one small, both lopsided--were discovered later that evening on the wall above the bed he shared with his little brother, he was marched to the backyard.
His father's gray eyes were like cold iron as he watched him cut down the weapon of punishment. What seemed particularly cruel to him, though, was his father's choice to take a slim branch from the old, gentle oak tree Billy and his friends liked to play pirate ship in.
Billy's eyes leaked a bit as the narrow branch smacked the back of his neck, then his shoulders--thwack!thwack!--but he never screamed. He never cried out. Never even flinched.
Because Zorros are always brave in that way, even if they're only six. **
Bravery and love have become very important to me lately. I ask the Universe for both of these, quite a lot. And I've just decided that tomorrow, Miss M and I should pick more dandelions. I'm hoping a lot of green with some big splashes of yellow and sprigs of white here and there will be soothing for the soul. (Wait. What? Are you still here reading? Oh my god! Get OUT of here! Go get some dandelions! Seriously. They'll make you happier. And they smell nice--kind of earthy.)
**This story was loosely based on a real event: my young father loved (LOVED!) Zorro and the Lone Ranger. And every summer, we'd visit my dad's boyhood home. My brother and I would sleep in the room he and our Uncle Joey had shared as children. And there, every year, above the bed were two scratched Zs--one big, one little, both lopsided--that my father had cut into the wall with a knife when he was a boy. And he was called Billy. But the rest of the story is made up. Except for the big, old, quiet tree that used to live in their front yard. We loved to play in that thing, and we did play pirate ship.
I don't remember if we picked dandelions or not.**
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)