Yesterday, my son and I were playing on the Big Bed(my bed). He was jumping on the bed, and I was trying to get him to stop. It is extremely difficult to get a child who is in the throes of bed-jumping ecstasy to cease and desist, so finally I gave up and put my head under a pillow.
"Mama, you scared?" Zane had stopped jumping at least.
"Oh yes, I am very scared!" I played it up and used my very best 'damsel in distress' voice.
"Okay, Mama," my son told me. "You hide. I kill monsters for you."
I then felt, and heard, my boy moving around on the bed, pretend fighting monsters, complete with strange sound effects.
"Pshew!"
"Pfft!"
I had to take a peek.
"I not done, Mama!" Zane chastised.
"Sorry!" I put my head back under the pillow.
More pretend fighting. More sound effects; from my vantage point, it sounds as though pretend monsters pass a lot of gas while they fight.
"Okay, Mama," I finally heard. "I killed all the monsters for you!"
"My hero!" I yelled, jumping up and grabbing him for a hug.
We spent the next five minutes just giggling and just being silly.
That Nietzsche guy can piss off.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
We Want to Know Wednesday
1.} What was the last thing you searched for online?
The last thing I searched for were these questions, as a matter of fact. Google is my BFF.
2.} If we visit your home state, what is one MUST we should do before leaving?
That is a hard one! This is Texas, after all, with it’s two time zones and five climate regions. You can float on a river in many states, so I don’t think it’s a MUST to travel to New Braunfels and toob, although the fly fishing is supposed to be first rate. The beaches here are not for the faint of heart, as many of them are still pretty wild. Nobody in their right mind should ever go to Houston. Palo Duro Canyon is interesting, but certainly not a MUST. The ghost lights of Marfa are really nothing ususual, especially not for the extremely long drive. The Hill Country is pretty enough, but certainly not a MUST, and I think it’s best if everyone just keeps away from East Texas. Dinosaur State Park? Nah.
I think as a native I am genetically obligated to say that a visit to the Alamo is required. However, I truly believe that it is a MUST to locate the best bbq joint (not a chain restaurant!) around you and eat there before you leave. I’ve eaten bbq in many states, and this state has the very best. If you ask around, you will hear the names of the BBQ places around you, or check out Texas Monthly’s website, since they post a listing of the best places in the state.
3.} What do you think pharmaceutical companies should invent a pill for that isn't on the market yet?
I want a pill that would give me a perfect body for a couple of hours. It would make date night, class reunions, and taking my child to the pool much more pleasant experiences!
4.} When was your first kiss? Was it good or bad?
First kiss? I think I was 8 years old. A kid named Eric. I don’t remember if it was good or bad,
5.} What is your guilty pleasure TV show that you cannot miss?
It is a tie between Supernatural and True Blood and Castle. Nobody else I know, with the exception of my husband, watches Supernatural, which is sad, because it is an excellent show. Witty dialogue, intricate plot lines, tie-ins with established monster mythology, good guys always win--what’s not to like? (If you liked Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Angel, or Firefly, you will love Supernatural)
I’ve read all the True Blood books, but the television show is so much more vivid and exciting that I almost never mind that they veer from the books!
I like Castle because Nathan Fillion is just plain awesome.
Writing by Prompt
Writing prompts are sometimes used by writers when the well of ideas has run dry. There is nothing wrong with that. Even Stephen King has had days where he sat in front of his typewriter and stared blankly at the sheet of paper.
Writing prompts can be viewed as tiny seeds which contain the germ of an idea within them. From each seed, a different flower will grow. Beautiful.
Some of us also like to stretch ourselves a bit through writing. We want to be the tail on the kite, instead of the string. Writing prompts can help with this. New characters, settings, or even a different language--writers want to stretch our imaginations beyond our narrow view of life. Because that is where the meat of the world is. The big ideas.
I often find myself fiercely staring at a blank computer screen, hoping that my brain waves will generate some sort of miraculous blog post that will cure cancer and julienne potatoes and solve the national debt problem.
On these days, I can barely write my name, never mind a blog post.
The fire that was my imagination has gone out, leaving me in darkness.
On those dark days, writing prompts are a spark to light the fire of the imagination. The very light needed to germinate those seeds
So thank you to those people who provide some writing prompts for the rest of us. I appreciate you!
As soon as I figure out how to do it, I will be linking to those blog posts that I have which were generated by writing prompts, so everything will be in one area. Eventually. I am a slow learner, technology-wise.
Writing prompts can be viewed as tiny seeds which contain the germ of an idea within them. From each seed, a different flower will grow. Beautiful.
Some of us also like to stretch ourselves a bit through writing. We want to be the tail on the kite, instead of the string. Writing prompts can help with this. New characters, settings, or even a different language--writers want to stretch our imaginations beyond our narrow view of life. Because that is where the meat of the world is. The big ideas.
I often find myself fiercely staring at a blank computer screen, hoping that my brain waves will generate some sort of miraculous blog post that will cure cancer and julienne potatoes and solve the national debt problem.
On these days, I can barely write my name, never mind a blog post.
The fire that was my imagination has gone out, leaving me in darkness.
On those dark days, writing prompts are a spark to light the fire of the imagination. The very light needed to germinate those seeds
So thank you to those people who provide some writing prompts for the rest of us. I appreciate you!
As soon as I figure out how to do it, I will be linking to those blog posts that I have which were generated by writing prompts, so everything will be in one area. Eventually. I am a slow learner, technology-wise.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
RemembeRED: School Trip
Prompt: School trips. We all go on them. What trip do you remember the most? Where did you go? Who was with you? How did you get there? Have you ever been back?
I don't like to go on field trips. I'll just get that right out there into the open. Field trips in elementary school almost always reminded me that I didn't fit in.
For one thing, I always wore hand-me-down clothes that my mother got from various people. Those clothes never felt quite right on my body, so I remember feeling awkward all the time.
I fell down a lot.
I was tactile defensive. As in, don't touch me, for I will punch you right in the face.
As an Army brat, I was almost always the new kid.
I also never knew what to say to people in unsupervised situations; I can remember other kids looking at me like I was an alien species.
In the logic of the herd mentality that was elementary school, I should have been chased out of the collective, forbidden access, so that the lions would eat me.
But the real reason that I hated field trips was that I never got enough time to actually look at what the class was there to see. Field trips were usually a large group crammed onto as few buses as possible. The places we visited did not welcome our arrival. The zookeepers happily envisioned the boa constrictors in the reptile house having a particularly obnoxious child or two for a meal. The museum docents cringed at the thought that one of us would actually touch a priceless piece of art, or worse, break off a piece. Oh, these people put on a good show, but it was always clear to me that they all heaved a sigh of relief when the buses finally drove out of the parking lot.
Consequently, the museum/zoo/exhibit people, as well as the teachers, tended to rush us all through whatever exhibit we were there to see, and by the time I had a chance to look around, we were already back on the bus heading back to school. Once back at school we had to write a paper about what we saw, and all I ever saw was a blur.
I discovered during all these blurs that I am a browser. When I am in a museum, I like to read the little description of the painting/sculptor. I like to hear a story about the artist and the times in which he/she lived. I like to sit back and contemplate the painting. At the zoo, I like to read about the animal, where it is from, etc. It's not really such a bad thing, to be a browser, especially when the world is moving so very fast. I realize that now, but back then when I tried to fit in, my browsing ways did not sit well with anybody, including me.
Probably the only field trip I remember enjoying was in fourth grade, when I went to Hamlin, Germany, with my mother as a chaperone(don't get too excited--we were living in Nurnburg at the time). My memories are pleasant, if faded. My roomie was a cute blonde girl who wore her hair in two braids. I had an awful orange pants set outfit thing that my mother made me wear. We all stayed in a youth hostel(sans any cutting instruments, co-eds, or Eli Roth), someone's bra ended up at the top of a flag pole, and we rode in a boat. No Pied Piper sightings, however.
I don't like to go on field trips. I'll just get that right out there into the open. Field trips in elementary school almost always reminded me that I didn't fit in.
For one thing, I always wore hand-me-down clothes that my mother got from various people. Those clothes never felt quite right on my body, so I remember feeling awkward all the time.
I fell down a lot.
I was tactile defensive. As in, don't touch me, for I will punch you right in the face.
As an Army brat, I was almost always the new kid.
I also never knew what to say to people in unsupervised situations; I can remember other kids looking at me like I was an alien species.
In the logic of the herd mentality that was elementary school, I should have been chased out of the collective, forbidden access, so that the lions would eat me.
But the real reason that I hated field trips was that I never got enough time to actually look at what the class was there to see. Field trips were usually a large group crammed onto as few buses as possible. The places we visited did not welcome our arrival. The zookeepers happily envisioned the boa constrictors in the reptile house having a particularly obnoxious child or two for a meal. The museum docents cringed at the thought that one of us would actually touch a priceless piece of art, or worse, break off a piece. Oh, these people put on a good show, but it was always clear to me that they all heaved a sigh of relief when the buses finally drove out of the parking lot.
Consequently, the museum/zoo/exhibit people, as well as the teachers, tended to rush us all through whatever exhibit we were there to see, and by the time I had a chance to look around, we were already back on the bus heading back to school. Once back at school we had to write a paper about what we saw, and all I ever saw was a blur.
I discovered during all these blurs that I am a browser. When I am in a museum, I like to read the little description of the painting/sculptor. I like to hear a story about the artist and the times in which he/she lived. I like to sit back and contemplate the painting. At the zoo, I like to read about the animal, where it is from, etc. It's not really such a bad thing, to be a browser, especially when the world is moving so very fast. I realize that now, but back then when I tried to fit in, my browsing ways did not sit well with anybody, including me.
Probably the only field trip I remember enjoying was in fourth grade, when I went to Hamlin, Germany, with my mother as a chaperone(don't get too excited--we were living in Nurnburg at the time). My memories are pleasant, if faded. My roomie was a cute blonde girl who wore her hair in two braids. I had an awful orange pants set outfit thing that my mother made me wear. We all stayed in a youth hostel(sans any cutting instruments, co-eds, or Eli Roth), someone's bra ended up at the top of a flag pole, and we rode in a boat. No Pied Piper sightings, however.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Hey Jealousy
Larry and I have been married for ten years. We've pushed past most of the growing pains and grown rather comfortable with each other. There's a level of trust that has been established that allows us to shrug things off that would result in fights for other couples. Some things, at least
We are driving home the other day, and Larry is telling me about the summer workshop he had attended. My husband hates workshops/trainings/staff development with the heat of a thousand white-hot suns, but his attendance at this one was mandatory. There was group discussion at this workshop. At one point during this activity, the woman running the workshop came over and started rubbing Larry's back.
"What?!!!" I interrupted. "Wait a minute--are you telling me that some woman who is not related or married to you just randomly came over and started rubbing your back?"
"Yes," Larry replied. "That is what I am telling you."
"You aren't just saying that because you think I'm not really listening to you?"
"No," my husband responded. "I was really uncomfortable. Wait--what do you mean that you don't really listen to me?"
I was experiencing a sudden urge to find this woman and scratch her eyes out, and I didn't want to scratch a person's eyes out and then hear my husband tell me that he was only joking.
This sudden feeling took me by surprise.
My husband is rather handsome with his blue eyes and curly brown hair and beautiful smile. I certainly can't blame other women for wanting to hang around him. But Larry does not have a wandering eye, except for computer games and large, expensive electronic toys. I don't ever catch him looking at pretty women when we are out in public. I don't find strange phone numbers in his pockets. He does not hang around in strip joints, throwing dollar bills into random g-strings.
It's not like I was going to go challenge this woman for touching my husband. Fighting is messy, especially between women. Most women don't know how to fight. There's usually a lot of flailing about with the eyes closed, and it's the poor bystanders who get hit, clawed, and pulled around by the hair.
So why the sudden bout of jealousy? I have no idea. Hormones?
We are driving home the other day, and Larry is telling me about the summer workshop he had attended. My husband hates workshops/trainings/staff development with the heat of a thousand white-hot suns, but his attendance at this one was mandatory. There was group discussion at this workshop. At one point during this activity, the woman running the workshop came over and started rubbing Larry's back.
"What?!!!" I interrupted. "Wait a minute--are you telling me that some woman who is not related or married to you just randomly came over and started rubbing your back?"
"Yes," Larry replied. "That is what I am telling you."
"You aren't just saying that because you think I'm not really listening to you?"
"No," my husband responded. "I was really uncomfortable. Wait--what do you mean that you don't really listen to me?"
I was experiencing a sudden urge to find this woman and scratch her eyes out, and I didn't want to scratch a person's eyes out and then hear my husband tell me that he was only joking.
This sudden feeling took me by surprise.
My husband is rather handsome with his blue eyes and curly brown hair and beautiful smile. I certainly can't blame other women for wanting to hang around him. But Larry does not have a wandering eye, except for computer games and large, expensive electronic toys. I don't ever catch him looking at pretty women when we are out in public. I don't find strange phone numbers in his pockets. He does not hang around in strip joints, throwing dollar bills into random g-strings.
It's not like I was going to go challenge this woman for touching my husband. Fighting is messy, especially between women. Most women don't know how to fight. There's usually a lot of flailing about with the eyes closed, and it's the poor bystanders who get hit, clawed, and pulled around by the hair.
So why the sudden bout of jealousy? I have no idea. Hormones?
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Crisis Averted
I never really thought about how many items there are in our house that we consider to be necessities. Things that would make our grandmothers smack us upside the head for being extravagant and wasteful. For instance, my grandmother(my mother's mom) did not have an electric dryer; she hung laundry out in the backyard to dry. Things still got dried, but no electricity was used. A dryer was considered wasteful. My great grandmother, Elizabeth Irebeen Benz, did not have indoor plumbing. She had an outhouse. I used to visit her when I was a child, but my butt was way too small for the outhouse. So I had a little pot in the closet for my visits*. I literally DID have a pot to piss in, at least once in my life!
Another item that I consider a necessity is a coffeemaker. My husband believes that his smart phone is vital to his well-being. We all have our "can't live without" items. But let's be more realistic. A necessity is something that we really can't live without. Life becomes a horrid cesspool of despair and desolation without that item. I think that still qualifies the coffeemaker.
And toilet paper. Toilet paper is a necessity. Even if I no longer have running water and have to find a place outside to go, I must have toilet paper. I am not the only one.
While I am sitting at the kitchen table this morning sipping my coffee and reading the paper, I can hear my husband stomping around upstairs.
Then I hear my name being yelled.
"WHERE'S THE TOILET PAPER????" This is said in a panicked voice.
In the closet in the bathroom!" I yell back. "I just bought some."
Wait--Did I? Or did I just imagine that I did? Sometimes, all those visits to the grocery store meld into one gawdawfully long, tedious, shopping trip. Ack! What if there's NO toilet paper in the house??!!
I started to get nervous.
"Oh. Here it is," came the voice from above. "I got scared."
Crisis averted. For both of us.
*True story.
Another item that I consider a necessity is a coffeemaker. My husband believes that his smart phone is vital to his well-being. We all have our "can't live without" items. But let's be more realistic. A necessity is something that we really can't live without. Life becomes a horrid cesspool of despair and desolation without that item. I think that still qualifies the coffeemaker.
And toilet paper. Toilet paper is a necessity. Even if I no longer have running water and have to find a place outside to go, I must have toilet paper. I am not the only one.
While I am sitting at the kitchen table this morning sipping my coffee and reading the paper, I can hear my husband stomping around upstairs.
Then I hear my name being yelled.
"WHERE'S THE TOILET PAPER????" This is said in a panicked voice.
In the closet in the bathroom!" I yell back. "I just bought some."
Wait--Did I? Or did I just imagine that I did? Sometimes, all those visits to the grocery store meld into one gawdawfully long, tedious, shopping trip. Ack! What if there's NO toilet paper in the house??!!
I started to get nervous.
"Oh. Here it is," came the voice from above. "I got scared."
Crisis averted. For both of us.
*True story.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
What is Good for the Kid is Good For the Daddy
I have been trying for years to get my husband to eat more fruits and veggies. He is a picky eater, and is always hesitant to try new things, so this has not been an easy task for me.
My son is also a very picky eater. If you put a veggie in front of him he will snub it. It's "chicken nuggets and french fries(he NEVER eats the french fries, even though he orders them)", or "Waffles", or "Biscuits" or "Popcorn".
My son eats a lot of white food, have you noticed?
I've noticed.
Sometimes Zane adds other items to his short menu.
"Zane, what would you like to eat at the restaurant?" My mother asked him. We were on our way to a new joint to try out their fried chicken.
"Chicken nuggets, french fries, ketchup, and Wonder Woman," Zane told her.
Everyone in the car paused, and the ones who weren't driving requested clarification from Zane. Zane was actually wanting watermelon, which sounds a bit like Wonder Woman. You can see how we might be confused occasionally. It's like you're learning a foreign language, and you've got the basics. But the idioms and colloquialisms kill you.
This place, it turns out, does not sell chicken nuggets. No french fries. They did have rolls and ketchup, but Wonder Woman was not on the menu. They did have ham hocks, fried chicken, and catfish. They had actual vegetables--collard greens, cabbage, squash, green beans, sweet potatoes, corn, and rice.
Great, I think. What the heck am I going to get for this kid to eat? I improvised and ordered him some chicken legs and some rice. Unfortunately the lady serving us wouldn't let me leave it at that, and added squash and collard greens. Zane was not happy.
We sat down, and encouraged Zane to eat. We cut up part of the chicken so he would think it was a chicken nugget. He ate two rolls; he didn't buy it. Zane's father had to say that the chicken was good and eat a couple of pieces before Zane would try it. He liked it, so the "chicken leg" may finally be included on Zane's short list.
Larry then tried to get Zane to eat some squash. Larry even took a couple of bites himself. Zane is having none of that.
"Come on Zane, just try some of this," Larry said. "Just one bite."
"No, Daddy," Zane replied. "YOU eat it, Daddy. It's good for you!
All of us at the table, laughed very out loud. And my dearest husband has learned that if he wants his son to follow in his footsteps, maybe there should be more vegetables on his plate.
My son is also a very picky eater. If you put a veggie in front of him he will snub it. It's "chicken nuggets and french fries(he NEVER eats the french fries, even though he orders them)", or "Waffles", or "Biscuits" or "Popcorn".
My son eats a lot of white food, have you noticed?
I've noticed.
Sometimes Zane adds other items to his short menu.
"Zane, what would you like to eat at the restaurant?" My mother asked him. We were on our way to a new joint to try out their fried chicken.
"Chicken nuggets, french fries, ketchup, and Wonder Woman," Zane told her.
Everyone in the car paused, and the ones who weren't driving requested clarification from Zane. Zane was actually wanting watermelon, which sounds a bit like Wonder Woman. You can see how we might be confused occasionally. It's like you're learning a foreign language, and you've got the basics. But the idioms and colloquialisms kill you.
This place, it turns out, does not sell chicken nuggets. No french fries. They did have rolls and ketchup, but Wonder Woman was not on the menu. They did have ham hocks, fried chicken, and catfish. They had actual vegetables--collard greens, cabbage, squash, green beans, sweet potatoes, corn, and rice.
Great, I think. What the heck am I going to get for this kid to eat? I improvised and ordered him some chicken legs and some rice. Unfortunately the lady serving us wouldn't let me leave it at that, and added squash and collard greens. Zane was not happy.
We sat down, and encouraged Zane to eat. We cut up part of the chicken so he would think it was a chicken nugget. He ate two rolls; he didn't buy it. Zane's father had to say that the chicken was good and eat a couple of pieces before Zane would try it. He liked it, so the "chicken leg" may finally be included on Zane's short list.
Larry then tried to get Zane to eat some squash. Larry even took a couple of bites himself. Zane is having none of that.
"Come on Zane, just try some of this," Larry said. "Just one bite."
"No, Daddy," Zane replied. "YOU eat it, Daddy. It's good for you!
All of us at the table, laughed very out loud. And my dearest husband has learned that if he wants his son to follow in his footsteps, maybe there should be more vegetables on his plate.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Today is My Birthday
...and now I have that Beatles' song in my head for the rest of the day. Yay.
I was allowed to sleep in, which is a wonderful present all by itself. When I came downstairs, Zane ran up to me, with two cards in his hands.
"These are your birthday cards!" he whispered. I take the cards from him. He runs off.
"Why are we whispering?" I asked my husband. He just shrugged. My husband stopped asking why Zane does anything a long time ago.
I opened the card that has "Mama" written on it. It was a store bought card, but Zane tells me that he made it himself. And he wrote his name on the inside.
It was a great birthday card.
Of course, every letter looked like a capital E, but it's the thought that counts, right?
I was allowed to sleep in, which is a wonderful present all by itself. When I came downstairs, Zane ran up to me, with two cards in his hands.
"These are your birthday cards!" he whispered. I take the cards from him. He runs off.
"Why are we whispering?" I asked my husband. He just shrugged. My husband stopped asking why Zane does anything a long time ago.
I opened the card that has "Mama" written on it. It was a store bought card, but Zane tells me that he made it himself. And he wrote his name on the inside.
It was a great birthday card.
Of course, every letter looked like a capital E, but it's the thought that counts, right?
Red Writing Hood: Flash Fiction: Harsh life
Note: This is my first attempt at Flash Fiction, which is, as I understand it, supposed to be 55 words or less. I didn't make it. I'm loquacious.
Life is shared laughter, as we return from a night out.
Nature calls.
The air is suddenly full of shrill screams.
Scorpion in the toilet!
My rescuer approaches...
He flushes the toilet, gives a condescending look.
"Don't look at me like that!" I defensively mutter.
I storm into the bedroom, again locking him out for the night.
The scorpion isn't the only thing that stings in this house.
Life is shared laughter, as we return from a night out.
Nature calls.
The air is suddenly full of shrill screams.
Scorpion in the toilet!
My rescuer approaches...
He flushes the toilet, gives a condescending look.
"Don't look at me like that!" I defensively mutter.
I storm into the bedroom, again locking him out for the night.
The scorpion isn't the only thing that stings in this house.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
What a Mother Will Do...
Zane had entered an "I don't want to brush my teeth" phase. No amount of coaxing, bribery, or threats has worked. Horrible, rank breath was the result. Zane would even occasionally smell his own breath and insist that someone "passed gas", but he still would not brush his teeth. Short of holding him down and brushing them for him, Larry and I resigned ourselves to exorbitant dental bills.
Zane is also very into The Lord of the Rings movies, particularly The Return of the King, which has elephants in it. As card-carrying geek/nerd parents, we have the extended versions of the movie. Last night, as we were watching the Mouth of Sauron yakking with Aragorn and Gandalf, inspiration struck.
"Hey Zane, see that guy's teeth?" I ask.
"Yes," Zane replies, looking intently at the TV.
"That guy doesn't brush his teeth," I continue. "See how black and yucky his teeth are? Do you want your teeth to look like that?"
My child brushed his teeth last night. And this morning.
I should feel guilty, using a scary movie guy to get Zane to brush his teeth. But this house is breathing a bit less stinky now, so I think that in this case the ends justify the means.
Zane is also very into The Lord of the Rings movies, particularly The Return of the King, which has elephants in it. As card-carrying geek/nerd parents, we have the extended versions of the movie. Last night, as we were watching the Mouth of Sauron yakking with Aragorn and Gandalf, inspiration struck.
"Hey Zane, see that guy's teeth?" I ask.
"Yes," Zane replies, looking intently at the TV.
"That guy doesn't brush his teeth," I continue. "See how black and yucky his teeth are? Do you want your teeth to look like that?"
My child brushed his teeth last night. And this morning.
I should feel guilty, using a scary movie guy to get Zane to brush his teeth. But this house is breathing a bit less stinky now, so I think that in this case the ends justify the means.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
We Want To Know Wednesday
{1} What is the best or worst pick up line you have ever been given?
I can't remember a single pickup line; it's been over ten years since anyone's tried to pick me up, and really, it would be a rare man indeed who could actually pick me up! I think that my husband got my attention by asking me about Star Trek.
{2} What is your most and least favorite day of the week?
My favorite day is Saturday, when it is my turn to sleep in. My least favorite day is Tuesday, because it is not Friday.
{3} How many hours of sleep do you require each night?
I must have at least 8 hours of sleep a night, but of course I don't get that. That is why, when I get a chance to sleep in, I almost always sleep until noon.
{4} Is there a song that takes you back in time? What song is it & what's the memory attached?
"Photograph" by Def Leppard takes me right to the summer of 1983 on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland with my bestow Michelle. It was my first trip away from home, without my parents. Let's just say that many oats of the wild variety were sown that week, I won't ever be running for public office, and leave it at that.
{5} What is your biggest guilty pleasure?
I have so many guilty pleasures, it is difficult to pick one. Pedicures. Cupcakes. Fudge. Soft serve ice cream from DQ. Great. Now I am hungry!
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
RemembeRED: Premature Parent
RemembeRED Writing Prompt: The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.
The first time I parented alone after bringing my son home from the hospital was initially a terrifying experience for me. My husband was at work, and it was just me and this little five pound boy.
Zane was born two months early. He had been in the NICU for the first month or so of his life. Fortunately, my child was relatively healthy at birth, even if he was premature. He may have started out as the closest baby to the nurses, but he didn't stay there. Once he hit the five pound mark and all his tests came back normal, he was discharged.
The only really cool thing about the NICU, at least from a parent's perspective, is that there is a specially trained person within 20 feet of your child 24 hours of every day. Now here I was, just one untrained person, all by myself, with this tiny, fragile, responsibility.
I had planned to be a parent my entire life.
I had suffered, almost died twice, just to be a parent.
But no matter how much one prepares, when reality sets in, when you finally have that child in your hands, you freak out a little, worried that you'll do something wrong.
I freaked out a lot that first day by myself. Every anxiety I have ever had seemed to boil up out of the crevices of my heart and soul.
Something bad was going to happen.
A plane was going to fall out of the sky and land on my house. A tornado was going to blow us to bits. Lightning was going to strike us. Our dog Sandy was going to knock the crib over. The house was going to catch on fire.
For a long time I just sat there and stared at Zane, in his crib next to the bed. He slept, oblivious, not moving very much--then I had to make sure that he was breathing, because I was anxious about that, as well.
If I didn't touch him, maybe nothing bad would happen. That was it--if I didn't touch him, I couldn't hurt him! Okay. I took a deep breath, relieved.
Then Zane started crying. Like all babies do. He was hungry; it had been two hours since his last feeding. I had been paralyzed with fear for two freakin' hours.
All at once, I became angry.
At myself.
This was stupid, I thought.
All this energy wasted on 'what ifs'!
Babies have survived for centuries, in SPITE of their parents!
Why should I be any different? Pick up your son and get on with it!
So I did.
The first time I parented alone after bringing my son home from the hospital was initially a terrifying experience for me. My husband was at work, and it was just me and this little five pound boy.
Zane was born two months early. He had been in the NICU for the first month or so of his life. Fortunately, my child was relatively healthy at birth, even if he was premature. He may have started out as the closest baby to the nurses, but he didn't stay there. Once he hit the five pound mark and all his tests came back normal, he was discharged.
The only really cool thing about the NICU, at least from a parent's perspective, is that there is a specially trained person within 20 feet of your child 24 hours of every day. Now here I was, just one untrained person, all by myself, with this tiny, fragile, responsibility.
I had planned to be a parent my entire life.
I had suffered, almost died twice, just to be a parent.
But no matter how much one prepares, when reality sets in, when you finally have that child in your hands, you freak out a little, worried that you'll do something wrong.
I freaked out a lot that first day by myself. Every anxiety I have ever had seemed to boil up out of the crevices of my heart and soul.
Something bad was going to happen.
A plane was going to fall out of the sky and land on my house. A tornado was going to blow us to bits. Lightning was going to strike us. Our dog Sandy was going to knock the crib over. The house was going to catch on fire.
For a long time I just sat there and stared at Zane, in his crib next to the bed. He slept, oblivious, not moving very much--then I had to make sure that he was breathing, because I was anxious about that, as well.
If I didn't touch him, maybe nothing bad would happen. That was it--if I didn't touch him, I couldn't hurt him! Okay. I took a deep breath, relieved.
Then Zane started crying. Like all babies do. He was hungry; it had been two hours since his last feeding. I had been paralyzed with fear for two freakin' hours.
All at once, I became angry.
At myself.
This was stupid, I thought.
All this energy wasted on 'what ifs'!
Babies have survived for centuries, in SPITE of their parents!
Why should I be any different? Pick up your son and get on with it!
So I did.
Five More Minutes
Zane is one of those kids who fights and fights not to have to take a nap. Of course, those kids fall asleep instantly if they are still for two minutes.
Zane has been asleep for two hours.
I try to wake him up.
He doesn't want to wake up.
"Zane, wake up!" I try again, rolling him over on his back this time.
"Five more minutes, Mama!" Zane tells me, without opening his eyes,
I laugh...and I give him five minutes. Children need their sleep.
Cut to the next morning:
Zane is on the bed, leaning over me. "Wake up, Mama!"
I roll over and blearily open one eye.
"Five more minutes, Zane," I mutter, on my way to falling back asleep.
Little hands start pushing on my shoulder.
"No, Mama!" Zane yells. "Time to get up!"
-------
There will come a day, when Zane is a teenager.
A day when my son wants to sleep five minutes longer.
I am so waiting for that moment.
Zane has been asleep for two hours.
I try to wake him up.
He doesn't want to wake up.
"Zane, wake up!" I try again, rolling him over on his back this time.
"Five more minutes, Mama!" Zane tells me, without opening his eyes,
I laugh...and I give him five minutes. Children need their sleep.
Cut to the next morning:
Zane is on the bed, leaning over me. "Wake up, Mama!"
I roll over and blearily open one eye.
"Five more minutes, Zane," I mutter, on my way to falling back asleep.
Little hands start pushing on my shoulder.
"No, Mama!" Zane yells. "Time to get up!"
-------
There will come a day, when Zane is a teenager.
A day when my son wants to sleep five minutes longer.
I am so waiting for that moment.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Fanboys: The Green Lantern
My husband has been anticipating this movie, Green Lantern, for months. He dug through his vast collection of comic books to reread the early tales of the Green Lantern. He searched for new stories in the dwindling number of comic book stores in San Antonio, and read those as well.
He bought Zane as many Green Lantern action figures as he could find and afford, and he told Zane stories about the Green Lantern. We viewed animated movies about Hal Jordan and Jon Stewart and other members of the Green Lantern Corps. I listened to my husband lecture about the Corps and Sinestro and Kilowog for what seemed like hours, but Zane ate it up like ice cream. I remember reading a couple of Green Lantern comic books as a kid, but that's the extent of my knowledge. I was still invited to go to the movie with them, even though I refused to wear the t-shirt and the ring.
We went to eat first, and let Zane run out some of his energy. We found our seats and then I went to get popcorn. I should have just waited five minutes and gone back in there; Zane was sitting still for longer than two minutes, so he fell asleep. He only slept fifteen or twenty minutes, and woke up after the back story.
I enjoyed the movie, and not just because Ryan Reynolds looks good in the suit courtesy of CGI and good genes. (Do you think that maybe I could get some CGI around my middle? That would be a cool weight loss thing. It would certainly sell!) There were a few "huh?" moments for me, that I won't talk about because someone will scream and yell about me giving away the most important part of the movie plot and completely ruining their movie experience. If you like superheroes, if you like comic books, if you like chicken, if you like action movies...you will like this movie.
He bought Zane as many Green Lantern action figures as he could find and afford, and he told Zane stories about the Green Lantern. We viewed animated movies about Hal Jordan and Jon Stewart and other members of the Green Lantern Corps. I listened to my husband lecture about the Corps and Sinestro and Kilowog for what seemed like hours, but Zane ate it up like ice cream. I remember reading a couple of Green Lantern comic books as a kid, but that's the extent of my knowledge. I was still invited to go to the movie with them, even though I refused to wear the t-shirt and the ring.
We went to eat first, and let Zane run out some of his energy. We found our seats and then I went to get popcorn. I should have just waited five minutes and gone back in there; Zane was sitting still for longer than two minutes, so he fell asleep. He only slept fifteen or twenty minutes, and woke up after the back story.
I enjoyed the movie, and not just because Ryan Reynolds looks good in the suit courtesy of CGI and good genes. (Do you think that maybe I could get some CGI around my middle? That would be a cool weight loss thing. It would certainly sell!) There were a few "huh?" moments for me, that I won't talk about because someone will scream and yell about me giving away the most important part of the movie plot and completely ruining their movie experience. If you like superheroes, if you like comic books, if you like chicken, if you like action movies...you will like this movie.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Happy Father's Day!
Ever since my son was an itty-bitty, his father has been reading to him about heroes and their adventures. Larry sat next to Zane's bed, with a book opened, and a tiny book light. From downstairs, I could hear his deep voice, ebbing and flowing with the words to The Hobbit, until Zane fell asleep.
Then came the day that Zane began responding to Larry while he read, asking questions about Gandalf and Bilbo and Smaug.
And night after night, as I listened to them sharing their special time together, my thoughts turned to what makes a hero, and what makes a dad.
Heroes don't always have to wear tights, or carry a gun, or run into burning buildings.
Sometimes, a hero can be a man who spent the night with his newborn in the NICU because his wife was unable to leave ICU.
A hero can sometimes be a man who stops what he is doing, no matter how important it might be, to read a book to his son.
A man who cares enough about his child to show him how to type his name on the computer, even if that child accidentally deletes several hours of work, can be a hero.
A hero can be the man who listens to his child ask the same question over and over, and answers that question calmly, over and over.
A hero can be a man who goes outside with his son to ride a bike, even though his back is hurting from working all day.
A hero could be a man who stays up all night putting together a train table so Santa can get all the credit.
A hero can be the man who takes his boy to the pool to swim, even though he knows he's going to get very sunburned(even with sunscreen!).
A hero can be a man who takes the time to pronounce words very carefully, so that his child can learn them.
To Zane, his father is his hero. That is how it should be.
Happy Father's Day to the man I love, who is also my hero.
Then came the day that Zane began responding to Larry while he read, asking questions about Gandalf and Bilbo and Smaug.
And night after night, as I listened to them sharing their special time together, my thoughts turned to what makes a hero, and what makes a dad.
Heroes don't always have to wear tights, or carry a gun, or run into burning buildings.
Sometimes, a hero can be a man who spent the night with his newborn in the NICU because his wife was unable to leave ICU.
A hero can sometimes be a man who stops what he is doing, no matter how important it might be, to read a book to his son.
A man who cares enough about his child to show him how to type his name on the computer, even if that child accidentally deletes several hours of work, can be a hero.
A hero can be the man who listens to his child ask the same question over and over, and answers that question calmly, over and over.
A hero can be a man who goes outside with his son to ride a bike, even though his back is hurting from working all day.
A hero could be a man who stays up all night putting together a train table so Santa can get all the credit.
A hero can be the man who takes his boy to the pool to swim, even though he knows he's going to get very sunburned(even with sunscreen!).
A hero can be a man who takes the time to pronounce words very carefully, so that his child can learn them.
To Zane, his father is his hero. That is how it should be.
Happy Father's Day to the man I love, who is also my hero.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Snakes Are Not So Bad
I am not afraid of snakes.
You read that right.
I am a girl and I am not afraid of snakes.
I will not kill a snake, unless it is poisonous and in my yard. Maybe not even then. My policy--they go their way, and I go mine. Everyone is happy, and nobody dies.
Throw a snake into the mix, anywhere, anytime, and people lose their minds. Except in Sweetwater, Texas, where they have that Rattlesnake Roundup yearly for the tourists.
The one that ends up suffering is the snake. Odds are good that the snake wants to leave the scene when a human shows up, because snakes see us as a threat. Since some of us lose our minds and act like idiots around them by trying to kill them, the snakes are right to fear us.
Snakes serve a purpose, believe it or not. They kill and eat mice, rats, and other critters which would otherwise explode in population. Mice and rats can carry various diseases that are harmful to people, in addition to getting into our homes and eating our food. The snakes are doing us a favor by taking care of them before they get into our house. Just the thought of a mouse or a rat in the house gives me the heebie-jeebies, even though I know that my cats would immediately locate and kill it. I don't want to have to get blood and rat guts out of the carpet.
I am not afraid of snakes. However, my husband is terrified of them. Frozen in his tracks, eyes bulging, heart pumping, hyperventilating--just plain scared. There's no rhyme or reason for his fear--I have the same initial reaction to cockroaches.
It's not the fear. It's the overreaction that bothers me.
The best antidote to fear is knowledge. Learn what kinds of snakes live in your area and what they look like. Learn how likely you are to see a particular kind of snake. I have only seen ONE poisonous snake in my entire life, for instance. (I imagine that if I lived on a farm or in the woods, I would see more, but I am a city chick.)
If you do see a poisonous snake, don't shoot it. Nobody has good aim when they are screaming their head off. Don't try to catch it, because you'll end up getting bitten, and anti-venom is expensive. Call animal control. They have people specially trained to handle these situations without getting bitten.
You read that right.
I am a girl and I am not afraid of snakes.
I will not kill a snake, unless it is poisonous and in my yard. Maybe not even then. My policy--they go their way, and I go mine. Everyone is happy, and nobody dies.
Throw a snake into the mix, anywhere, anytime, and people lose their minds. Except in Sweetwater, Texas, where they have that Rattlesnake Roundup yearly for the tourists.
The one that ends up suffering is the snake. Odds are good that the snake wants to leave the scene when a human shows up, because snakes see us as a threat. Since some of us lose our minds and act like idiots around them by trying to kill them, the snakes are right to fear us.
Snakes serve a purpose, believe it or not. They kill and eat mice, rats, and other critters which would otherwise explode in population. Mice and rats can carry various diseases that are harmful to people, in addition to getting into our homes and eating our food. The snakes are doing us a favor by taking care of them before they get into our house. Just the thought of a mouse or a rat in the house gives me the heebie-jeebies, even though I know that my cats would immediately locate and kill it. I don't want to have to get blood and rat guts out of the carpet.
I am not afraid of snakes. However, my husband is terrified of them. Frozen in his tracks, eyes bulging, heart pumping, hyperventilating--just plain scared. There's no rhyme or reason for his fear--I have the same initial reaction to cockroaches.
It's not the fear. It's the overreaction that bothers me.
The best antidote to fear is knowledge. Learn what kinds of snakes live in your area and what they look like. Learn how likely you are to see a particular kind of snake. I have only seen ONE poisonous snake in my entire life, for instance. (I imagine that if I lived on a farm or in the woods, I would see more, but I am a city chick.)
If you do see a poisonous snake, don't shoot it. Nobody has good aim when they are screaming their head off. Don't try to catch it, because you'll end up getting bitten, and anti-venom is expensive. Call animal control. They have people specially trained to handle these situations without getting bitten.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Red Writing Hood: Physical Beauty
Note: This week we asked you to show us how physical beauty can open doors - or close them. How does it make an impact? This is fiction, of course.
She walked into the restaurant, and every head, man and woman, turned to stare. Since I was facing the door, I spotted her before my husband did, but he ended up swiveling around in his seat to look, and I didn't even mind.
She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Half of us in that place fell in love with her right then.
Even the heads of statues would turn to stare at this icon of perfection.
Tall. Statuesque. Hour-glass figure, sheathed in a designer version of the Little Black Dress which showcased her long, well-shaped legs. Her entrance was so graceful that she seemed to glide, as if the very air parted in deference to her beauty.
Long, dark hair that shone brilliantly, parted in the middle around an oval of pristine skin. A nose that had never required a plastic surgeon, above exquisitely shaped lips painted the perfect shade of crimson. Eyes so intensely blue that I could see them from my vantage point on the other side of the room, made up artfully to enhance their color.
She was a Vision. A Goddess. Perfection.
Her date stepped up beside her, but he was completely eclipsed by his partner. The woman turned to him and smiled. An almost audible gasp floated into the air from her audience. Of course she had perfect teeth, polished and white! The remaining restaurant guests fell in love with her at that moment.
We all wanted to just sit and stare, feeling that our lives would improve dramatically if we could just bask in her perfection.
The couple were escorted into a private room, guests at some sort of corporate party. As soon as the door closed, there was a release of air as the spell was broken and we all returned to our meal. Well, not all of us
I kicked my husband underneath the table to get his attention; he was still staring in the direction the Vision had gone. I rolled my eyes, thinking that I should probably be jealous that my husband was literally drooling over another woman. But I laughed instead.
"Hey, I saw you looking!" I teased. "You're a married man!"
"You were looking, too!" came the reply.
"Well, she was hot!" I laughed, and we shared that companionable marriage moment as we finished our meal.
She walked into the restaurant, and every head, man and woman, turned to stare. Since I was facing the door, I spotted her before my husband did, but he ended up swiveling around in his seat to look, and I didn't even mind.
She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Half of us in that place fell in love with her right then.
Even the heads of statues would turn to stare at this icon of perfection.
Tall. Statuesque. Hour-glass figure, sheathed in a designer version of the Little Black Dress which showcased her long, well-shaped legs. Her entrance was so graceful that she seemed to glide, as if the very air parted in deference to her beauty.
Long, dark hair that shone brilliantly, parted in the middle around an oval of pristine skin. A nose that had never required a plastic surgeon, above exquisitely shaped lips painted the perfect shade of crimson. Eyes so intensely blue that I could see them from my vantage point on the other side of the room, made up artfully to enhance their color.
She was a Vision. A Goddess. Perfection.
Her date stepped up beside her, but he was completely eclipsed by his partner. The woman turned to him and smiled. An almost audible gasp floated into the air from her audience. Of course she had perfect teeth, polished and white! The remaining restaurant guests fell in love with her at that moment.
We all wanted to just sit and stare, feeling that our lives would improve dramatically if we could just bask in her perfection.
The couple were escorted into a private room, guests at some sort of corporate party. As soon as the door closed, there was a release of air as the spell was broken and we all returned to our meal. Well, not all of us
I kicked my husband underneath the table to get his attention; he was still staring in the direction the Vision had gone. I rolled my eyes, thinking that I should probably be jealous that my husband was literally drooling over another woman. But I laughed instead.
"Hey, I saw you looking!" I teased. "You're a married man!"
"You were looking, too!" came the reply.
"Well, she was hot!" I laughed, and we shared that companionable marriage moment as we finished our meal.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Fun, Games, and Memories
Zane will often come to Larry or I and ask us to play with him. We usually oblige, and thus we both have put puzzles together, played with trains, and played with Lincoln Logs. We each have our way of play that we share with Zane. I think that it is important for there to be special memories of each parent, and play is the way that kids acquire those special memories.
My personal favorite game to play with Zane is "I'm Gonna Get You". In this game I put my hands up like claws and say "I'm gonna get you!". (Yes, this is a variation of the Tickle Monster game I mentioned in an earlier post)
If I catch Zane I get to tickle him.
Zane shrieks, and runs off, laughing.
I "hide".
Zane gets curious, and comes to look for me.
"RARRRRGGHH!" I jump out from behind whatever I am hiding behind.
Zane shrieks, and runs off, laughing.
Rinse and repeat.
Every now and then, Zane will try to turn the tables on me. He will run at me with his hands up, doing his imitation of a growl. I then make a big deal out of acting scared and running away. Zane's laughter fills the house. Which is the whole point.
When Zane plays with Daddy, he will try to explain to Larry what he needs to do to play the game.
"Daddy, you go hide in the doorway so I can see you," I overheard Zane telling his father the other day. After attempting to play the game "like Mama", and after failing to meet Zane's expectations, Larry wisely offered to play on the Xbox with Zane. They played some Lego Batman and Robin game for a good 20 minutes. It was nice to hear Larry talk to Zane about how to move his character, and it was nice to hear Zane asking questions about what to do.
It was a great Father-Son moment. Even for me.
My personal favorite game to play with Zane is "I'm Gonna Get You". In this game I put my hands up like claws and say "I'm gonna get you!". (Yes, this is a variation of the Tickle Monster game I mentioned in an earlier post)
If I catch Zane I get to tickle him.
Zane shrieks, and runs off, laughing.
I "hide".
Zane gets curious, and comes to look for me.
"RARRRRGGHH!" I jump out from behind whatever I am hiding behind.
Zane shrieks, and runs off, laughing.
Rinse and repeat.
Every now and then, Zane will try to turn the tables on me. He will run at me with his hands up, doing his imitation of a growl. I then make a big deal out of acting scared and running away. Zane's laughter fills the house. Which is the whole point.
When Zane plays with Daddy, he will try to explain to Larry what he needs to do to play the game.
"Daddy, you go hide in the doorway so I can see you," I overheard Zane telling his father the other day. After attempting to play the game "like Mama", and after failing to meet Zane's expectations, Larry wisely offered to play on the Xbox with Zane. They played some Lego Batman and Robin game for a good 20 minutes. It was nice to hear Larry talk to Zane about how to move his character, and it was nice to hear Zane asking questions about what to do.
It was a great Father-Son moment. Even for me.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
We Want To Know Wednesday-Evening Edition
I found this meme via Amanda over at This Side of Reason who I am pretty sure that I would like to hang out with because she is so cool. And since I felt sort of guilty about just leaving a picture in place of a blog post, I'm doing TWO posts in one day! Aren't you impressed? No? *sigh* There's just no pleasing you people!
{1} You have been asked to give a 10 minute speech to teenage girls. What is it about?
First: Don't depend on a man to come along and make all your dreams come true. Make your own dreams happen, and you will be happier for it.
Second: Keep your pants on. Having children is one of the biggest responsibilities out there, so wait until you are in a place where you can support, love, and truly be a Mama.
Third: Listen. Listen to what the successful women in your community have to say, and take their advice.
{2} Do you have a pet? Tell us about them. No pets? Why?
We have cats. We have three indoor cats: Morris, Pounce, and Zena. Morris first showed up and actually knocked on the door of my apartment in 1998. He is 16 years old. Pounce is 11, and is insane. Zena is a kitten, about 9 months old, who keeps the lizard and snake population around here hopping. Then we have a backyard cat named Lalo who spends his days on our patio or in the bushes. We aren't sure how old he is, or even if he's a he. We did have a yellow Lab named Sandy, who passed away last Easter at the ripe old age of 13. We would like to get another dog, but we want to wait until our son is older. We are generally animal lovers, but I just love to watch cats. Plus, cats can help us in our rebellion against our zombie overlords, should a zombie apocalypse occur.
{3} What is the biggest inconvenience about the place you’re currently living?
Everything is so spread out here, you pretty much have to drive everywhere, and lots of areas are not pedestrian friendly so you end up walking essentially on the side of the road in many spots. I would walk a lot more if I didn't have to worry about some idiot texting while driving.
{4} What do you think is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?
That's easy. The best decision that I've made so far was to decide to try one last time to have a child. I had one embryo left, I had a clotting disorder, and I had already almost died of pre eclampsia once. I had to see doctors every week, I had to give myself injections every day, and I almost died again from pre eclampsia, but it was totally worth it. Now my son is here, and he's beautiful and healthy and happy. Which is what I wanted in the first place.
{5} What are the THREE "nevers" of your life? (things you would never do or have never done)
I have lots of NEVERS. I have found, however, that whenever I use that word, NEVER, it comes back to bite me on the butt. But I'll venture to say that I will:
NEVER willingly jump out of an airplane.
NEVER eat caviar, bull testicles, sushi, snails, frog legs, or any animal's brains(including yours, should a zombie apocalypse occur), and
NEVER let you go talk to Bradley Cooper if you have spinach in your teeth.
Okay. How did I do?
Semi-Wordless Wednesday
I have to work today, so I didn't have time to write out anything wonderful. So here is War Machine, hanging out at Chick-Fil-A and drinking his apple juice. I was trying to think up a witty caption, but they all sounded pretty stupid to me, so I left them off.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Book Review: Breath of Angel
This book, Breath of Angel by Karyn Henley, sounded interesting to me. A story that involves angels? Murder? Mayhem? Sign me up! This is not a first time author, but this novel does appear to be the first serial novel she has written. Previously it appears that Ms. Henley confined her writing to children's books and nonfiction religious books.
The main character, Melaia, is a temple chantress who witnesses a horrible murder. When Melaia tries to offer aid to the dying man, she finds out that he is an angel. This completely discombobulates the protagonist. Before she can even wrap her brain around the concept that angels exist, she is sent on a mission with a special harp to sing for the king, who is very ill. The kingdom is in danger! Evil is afoot!
The story started off pretty strong, but the chapters following the murder seemed kind of muddled, and I started to lose interest in the character. It felt like the author was trying to stuff too much into a small space. Things became more interesting while Melaia's journey with Trevin was unfolding, especially when I realized that Trevin was supposed to be Melaia's love interest. Initially, there appeared to be some chemistry between them, but it kind of petered out before they got to the castle. I ended up not being sure what Trevin was actually supposed to be--a love interest or just some random guy. The conversations between them seemed stilted, and when the other characters would mention something about Melaia and Trevin being attracted to each other, it rang false as a result. A reader might get the feeling that Ms. Henley has had minimal experience with writing about love of a nonreligious nature, particularly the intensity of feeling that accompanies the first time a young woman falls in love.
There are probably some attempts at allegory in the novel, but I wasn't sure about what was being symbolized, because that part was again a bit muddled around angels and sylvans and dwarves and immortals. I also think having some sort of glossary or cast of characters at the back of the book for reference would have been a good idea, to help people keep track of the characters. However, I enjoyed the book and would like to read the next book in the series. And isn't that the mark of a good story?
EDIT: I forgot to say that I got this book for free from a publisher for the purpose of writing a review. They sent me the book, and I am giving my honest opinion about it.
The main character, Melaia, is a temple chantress who witnesses a horrible murder. When Melaia tries to offer aid to the dying man, she finds out that he is an angel. This completely discombobulates the protagonist. Before she can even wrap her brain around the concept that angels exist, she is sent on a mission with a special harp to sing for the king, who is very ill. The kingdom is in danger! Evil is afoot!
The story started off pretty strong, but the chapters following the murder seemed kind of muddled, and I started to lose interest in the character. It felt like the author was trying to stuff too much into a small space. Things became more interesting while Melaia's journey with Trevin was unfolding, especially when I realized that Trevin was supposed to be Melaia's love interest. Initially, there appeared to be some chemistry between them, but it kind of petered out before they got to the castle. I ended up not being sure what Trevin was actually supposed to be--a love interest or just some random guy. The conversations between them seemed stilted, and when the other characters would mention something about Melaia and Trevin being attracted to each other, it rang false as a result. A reader might get the feeling that Ms. Henley has had minimal experience with writing about love of a nonreligious nature, particularly the intensity of feeling that accompanies the first time a young woman falls in love.
There are probably some attempts at allegory in the novel, but I wasn't sure about what was being symbolized, because that part was again a bit muddled around angels and sylvans and dwarves and immortals. I also think having some sort of glossary or cast of characters at the back of the book for reference would have been a good idea, to help people keep track of the characters. However, I enjoyed the book and would like to read the next book in the series. And isn't that the mark of a good story?
EDIT: I forgot to say that I got this book for free from a publisher for the purpose of writing a review. They sent me the book, and I am giving my honest opinion about it.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Universal Translator
This morning I spotted a lizard on our back door. It thought that it was hiding, of course, but neglected to realize that if you have your head next to glass, someone WILL see you. I love to give Zane the opportunity to see critters that come into our backyard, so I called him over and held him up to see the 'zizard' (Zane still doesn't have the 'l' sound down yet). We watched as the lizard scurried to the side of the door and did his little threat display, blowing up his throat like a little red balloon. We could see him in the windows of the door.
Just when the lizard thought he was safe, he fell, and our kitten Zena jumped right after him. So Zane and I had to go out and rescue the 'zizard'. I finally was able to grab Zena, and we watched the lizard crawl up a dark green chair and turn the same color. Daddy had to come out and see the 'zizard', too, before we all went back inside.
Later, while I was in the kitchen, Zane had to tell me all about it. He was very serious.
"Mama, last week there was spiderman and he crawled up the wall and there was a zizard on the ceiling and then he (no clue what the boy said here) and then there was a zizard on the chair and the zizard went up to the sky and pooped and then he fell down and bumped his head."
My son was very serious, to have said all that and not taken a single breath.
I rolled with it.
"So the lizard went up to the sky and pooped, then fell down and bumped his head?"
"Yes." Zane ran off to play with his trains. My husband, who was at the kitchen table reading the paper, turned and looked at me.
"How the hell did you understand all that?"
I just smiled.
It's a Mama thing.
Just when the lizard thought he was safe, he fell, and our kitten Zena jumped right after him. So Zane and I had to go out and rescue the 'zizard'. I finally was able to grab Zena, and we watched the lizard crawl up a dark green chair and turn the same color. Daddy had to come out and see the 'zizard', too, before we all went back inside.
Later, while I was in the kitchen, Zane had to tell me all about it. He was very serious.
"Mama, last week there was spiderman and he crawled up the wall and there was a zizard on the ceiling and then he (no clue what the boy said here) and then there was a zizard on the chair and the zizard went up to the sky and pooped and then he fell down and bumped his head."
My son was very serious, to have said all that and not taken a single breath.
I rolled with it.
"So the lizard went up to the sky and pooped, then fell down and bumped his head?"
"Yes." Zane ran off to play with his trains. My husband, who was at the kitchen table reading the paper, turned and looked at me.
"How the hell did you understand all that?"
I just smiled.
It's a Mama thing.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Snowclones!
I know what you're thinking.
You're thinking that I made an error when I typed the title to this post. The 4000 degree heat has addled my brain, people will say. She obviously meant to type 'snowclowns'. Yeah, that must be it! That blogger needs to stop writing her blog posts after she's had a few glasses of wine.
But you would be wrong. But to be fair, I thought the exact same thing when I saw the word "snowclones". I had to go and look it up.
According to the Wikipedia page:
A snowclone is a type of cliché and phrasal template originally defined as "a multi-use, customizable, instantly recognizable, time-worn, quoted or misquoted phrase or sentence that can be used in an entirely open array of different variants".[1]
An example of a snowclone is "grey is the new black", a version of the template "X is the new Y". X and Y may be replaced with different words or phrases – for example, "comedy is the new rock 'n' roll".[2] The term "snowclone" can be applied to both the original phrase and to any new phrase that uses its formula.
In other words, a snowclone is a ready made Mad Lib. It is not what happens when someone builds a bunch of snowmen who are all exactly alike, a la Calvin and Hobbes.
Isn't language fun? Just when I think I've got a handle on stuff, they up and add something new! Of course, the guy who coined the word 'snowclone' had to have been drunk. Either that or he was doing the linguistic equivalent of that party game where you create your porn name based on the street where you lived as a child and the city where you were born. *cough* Not that I ever played that game at parties.
So...seen any snowclones milling about?
All your X are belong to Y.
X is the new Y.
I'm a doctor, not an X.
To X or not to X.
Got X?
Don't mess with X.
I've been having fun with these since yesterday, using randomly chosen words from the dictionary. Then I found this database of snowclones. And I now I plan to 'get my geek on'. Get it? It's a snowclone!
You're thinking that I made an error when I typed the title to this post. The 4000 degree heat has addled my brain, people will say. She obviously meant to type 'snowclowns'. Yeah, that must be it! That blogger needs to stop writing her blog posts after she's had a few glasses of wine.
But you would be wrong. But to be fair, I thought the exact same thing when I saw the word "snowclones". I had to go and look it up.
According to the Wikipedia page:
A snowclone is a type of cliché and phrasal template originally defined as "a multi-use, customizable, instantly recognizable, time-worn, quoted or misquoted phrase or sentence that can be used in an entirely open array of different variants".[1]
An example of a snowclone is "grey is the new black", a version of the template "X is the new Y". X and Y may be replaced with different words or phrases – for example, "comedy is the new rock 'n' roll".[2] The term "snowclone" can be applied to both the original phrase and to any new phrase that uses its formula.
In other words, a snowclone is a ready made Mad Lib. It is not what happens when someone builds a bunch of snowmen who are all exactly alike, a la Calvin and Hobbes.
Isn't language fun? Just when I think I've got a handle on stuff, they up and add something new! Of course, the guy who coined the word 'snowclone' had to have been drunk. Either that or he was doing the linguistic equivalent of that party game where you create your porn name based on the street where you lived as a child and the city where you were born. *cough* Not that I ever played that game at parties.
So...seen any snowclones milling about?
All your X are belong to Y.
X is the new Y.
I'm a doctor, not an X.
To X or not to X.
Got X?
Don't mess with X.
I've been having fun with these since yesterday, using randomly chosen words from the dictionary. Then I found this database of snowclones. And I now I plan to 'get my geek on'. Get it? It's a snowclone!
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Stop Me Before I Craft Again!
It all started one day when I saw someone wearing some cute earrings. I don't usually pay attention to such things, but that day I did. I looked at those earrings and I said these very familiar words.
"I can do that."
It was all downhill from there.
I am not a very crafty sort of person. In the first place, I have fine motor coordination issues. Threading a needle is akin to performing brain surgery with a spoon for me. And when I try to concentrate on being coordinated, my hands start shaking. The next strike against me is my general lack of patience. It makes it very difficult to learn a craft when you keep throwing it down in disgust because you messed up. Third, I have a three year old who wants to do EVERYTHING his father and I do. (He did actually sit still for a good 15 minutes one day and strung beads, but now it's more fun to throw them on the floor for the cat to smack around.) Finally, I don't have that much 'me' time--I can either blog, or I can craft. Since writing comes much easier to me, that's usually what I choose.
All that said, I was determined to give it a try. I went out and bought a little kit to make earrings. And a little pair of crimping pliers.
They turned out okay, I thought, and did not result in any injury. I gave some earrings to one of my coworkers, Kimberly Kelly. I figured that she could wear them when she performs and if she lost one or it broke, it would be okay.
Next I decided to try a necklace using glass beads and plain wire.
So far so good! Like crochet(which I just can't do right now while it's 4000 degrees), if you don't like the way things turn out, you can start over. It's nice sometimes to have a do-over.
And this was pretty easy, too. So now I am hooked on this stuff. I'm even feeling comfortable enough to start working with the 'real' stuff like silver.
I don't think that they have a support group, like AA, for this sort of thing, do they?
"I can do that."
It was all downhill from there.
I am not a very crafty sort of person. In the first place, I have fine motor coordination issues. Threading a needle is akin to performing brain surgery with a spoon for me. And when I try to concentrate on being coordinated, my hands start shaking. The next strike against me is my general lack of patience. It makes it very difficult to learn a craft when you keep throwing it down in disgust because you messed up. Third, I have a three year old who wants to do EVERYTHING his father and I do. (He did actually sit still for a good 15 minutes one day and strung beads, but now it's more fun to throw them on the floor for the cat to smack around.) Finally, I don't have that much 'me' time--I can either blog, or I can craft. Since writing comes much easier to me, that's usually what I choose.
All that said, I was determined to give it a try. I went out and bought a little kit to make earrings. And a little pair of crimping pliers.
They turned out okay, I thought, and did not result in any injury. I gave some earrings to one of my coworkers, Kimberly Kelly. I figured that she could wear them when she performs and if she lost one or it broke, it would be okay.
Next I decided to try a necklace using glass beads and plain wire.
So far so good! Like crochet(which I just can't do right now while it's 4000 degrees), if you don't like the way things turn out, you can start over. It's nice sometimes to have a do-over.
And this was pretty easy, too. So now I am hooked on this stuff. I'm even feeling comfortable enough to start working with the 'real' stuff like silver.
I don't think that they have a support group, like AA, for this sort of thing, do they?
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Perils of Sunshine
My husband and I are indoor types of people. We like activities such as reading, playing video games, typing blogs...sedentary activities. Consequently we both have achieved somewhat round shapes. Activities such as mowing the lawn or pulling up weeds or washing the car are completed with great prejudice and then we need a nap.
I don't want my son to be as potato-shaped as his parents. He is an active boy, born to move. I try to get him outside as much as possible, out into the sunshine with its healthy Vitamin D benefits.
Unfortunately, this is summer. Not only is the temperature outside 400,000 degrees by 11am, it stays that way until about 8pm. The beautiful sun, which is supposed to shine gently down upon the earth and encourage things to grow, has turned into a flamethrower that is slowly killing our lawn and replacing it with weeds. (why the heck do the weeds seem to do better under adverse conditions? And why can't we get grass to do that?)
I read an article this week on CNN about how sun exposure at an early age, such as infants, can lead to skin cancer later. This article freaked me out.
When I was a child, we never wore sunscreen. It just wasn't something that anyone thought about. We were outside in the sun all day. Even in college, there we all were, slathering ourselves with baby oil and trying to cook our skin to a nice golden brown. I stopped doing that right around the time I decided that I liked my pasty white skin just fine(plus, laying around tanning is freakin' boring). But I still haven't been consistent in wearing sunscreen, because I don't think about it. I've had several moles removed over the years, one of which was precancerous. One would think that I would take more precautions. Yet I still forget the stupid sunscreen.
I was outside with Zane last week, in the late afternoon sun(the temperature had dropped to 300,000 degrees), and I realized that I had neglected to put sunscreen on him when I noticed that his cheeks were reddening out there. I was horrified. It's bad enough to forget to put sunscreen on myself, but my child shouldn't have to bear the results of my inattention at some point in his future. Once I read that article, I felt even worse.
I will have to do a better job of remembering sunscreen. I will have to put Post-it notes all over, or put a note on my phone, or tattoo it on my hand. Whatever it takes.
For my sake as well as Zane's.
I don't want my son to be as potato-shaped as his parents. He is an active boy, born to move. I try to get him outside as much as possible, out into the sunshine with its healthy Vitamin D benefits.
Unfortunately, this is summer. Not only is the temperature outside 400,000 degrees by 11am, it stays that way until about 8pm. The beautiful sun, which is supposed to shine gently down upon the earth and encourage things to grow, has turned into a flamethrower that is slowly killing our lawn and replacing it with weeds. (why the heck do the weeds seem to do better under adverse conditions? And why can't we get grass to do that?)
I read an article this week on CNN about how sun exposure at an early age, such as infants, can lead to skin cancer later. This article freaked me out.
When I was a child, we never wore sunscreen. It just wasn't something that anyone thought about. We were outside in the sun all day. Even in college, there we all were, slathering ourselves with baby oil and trying to cook our skin to a nice golden brown. I stopped doing that right around the time I decided that I liked my pasty white skin just fine(plus, laying around tanning is freakin' boring). But I still haven't been consistent in wearing sunscreen, because I don't think about it. I've had several moles removed over the years, one of which was precancerous. One would think that I would take more precautions. Yet I still forget the stupid sunscreen.
I was outside with Zane last week, in the late afternoon sun(the temperature had dropped to 300,000 degrees), and I realized that I had neglected to put sunscreen on him when I noticed that his cheeks were reddening out there. I was horrified. It's bad enough to forget to put sunscreen on myself, but my child shouldn't have to bear the results of my inattention at some point in his future. Once I read that article, I felt even worse.
I will have to do a better job of remembering sunscreen. I will have to put Post-it notes all over, or put a note on my phone, or tattoo it on my hand. Whatever it takes.
For my sake as well as Zane's.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
I am a Minion
Cats seem to know who their minions are. They find their minion, and attach themselves to that person. For life, sometimes. Apparently, I am a minion.
There is no doubt that Pounce is my cat. She sleeps on me. She calls for me. When I am upstairs, she is right there next to me. If I go into the bathroom and shut the door, she wants to be in there, and will meow loudly outside the door until I let her in. If she is perfectly happy where she is, and I get up and go into another room, she will grumpily move herself over to where I went.
She is actually sitting on the printer next to me while I type this, with her tail curled around her feet, giving me lots of kitty kisses(that's where they look at you, then slowly close their eyes). After she does this for five or ten minutes, she will begin her hourly bath. Yes, I said hourly. Remember how I said that she was nuts a couple of posts ago?
Pounce is the only cat in the house that does this. Morris is usually saving up all his energy for nap time, and Zena is downstairs being a hyperactive kitten. It's kind of nice to have a cat sitting next to you, giving you kitty kisses. Pounce's just sitting here next to me, not scratching, not yowling, not demanding anything.
I like that. It is rather comforting. Definitely a stress reliever.
Do your pets help you unwind at the end of the day?
There is no doubt that Pounce is my cat. She sleeps on me. She calls for me. When I am upstairs, she is right there next to me. If I go into the bathroom and shut the door, she wants to be in there, and will meow loudly outside the door until I let her in. If she is perfectly happy where she is, and I get up and go into another room, she will grumpily move herself over to where I went.
She is actually sitting on the printer next to me while I type this, with her tail curled around her feet, giving me lots of kitty kisses(that's where they look at you, then slowly close their eyes). After she does this for five or ten minutes, she will begin her hourly bath. Yes, I said hourly. Remember how I said that she was nuts a couple of posts ago?
Pounce is the only cat in the house that does this. Morris is usually saving up all his energy for nap time, and Zena is downstairs being a hyperactive kitten. It's kind of nice to have a cat sitting next to you, giving you kitty kisses. Pounce's just sitting here next to me, not scratching, not yowling, not demanding anything.
I like that. It is rather comforting. Definitely a stress reliever.
Do your pets help you unwind at the end of the day?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I Am Jealous of My Kid
My son fell asleep on me tonight. He was watching the Avengers, and he just. Could. Not. Stay. Awake. (I feel like I'm impersonating William Shatner when I do that thing with the periods. Gettin' my geek on!)
Now he is flat on his back in his bed, his arms flung hither and yon. He's out, dreaming of reciting the Green Lantern code with Hal Jordan. Actually, that is what my husband dreams about. I don't know what Zane dreams about, because he can't tell me yet.
My point is that I am envious that my boy seems to sleep so peacefully. I haven't slept peacefully in years. I usually have to use sleep aids, such as melatonin. I don't ever remember just getting into bed and falling asleep quickly. Zane gets still and he's out. I'm jealous. Sometimes I get so jealous that I want to wake him up just so he can know how I feel. I don't actually wake him up...but I do think about it.
It isn't fair, and sometimes I have to wallow in the Trough of Self-Pity.
I get up early.
I work hard.
I tote that barge and lift that bale, whatever that means.
I should be able to fall asleep quickly, without resorting to valerian root.
Instead, I usually lay there, wide awake, looking at the ceiling, thinking about how many cobwebs are up there.
I make lists.
I compose bad poetry.
I make up entire novels in my head, then convert them to screenplays.
I make lists.
Yeah, I said that twice. Because at that point of the night I have forgotten that I already made lists, so I have to start over.
All of this explains why I resort to sleep aids, including yoga, visual imagery, meditative breathing, etc.
Just because I get jealous of my child with his peaceful sleeping does not mean that I don't want him to have peaceful sleep. Quite the opposite. He is a young child, he is innocent until proven guilty, and he needs his sleep. He'll be an adult before I know it, facing his own occasional sleepless nights. Let him sleep.
But it would be nice if occasionally my son could share some of that sleep with me.
Now he is flat on his back in his bed, his arms flung hither and yon. He's out, dreaming of reciting the Green Lantern code with Hal Jordan. Actually, that is what my husband dreams about. I don't know what Zane dreams about, because he can't tell me yet.
My point is that I am envious that my boy seems to sleep so peacefully. I haven't slept peacefully in years. I usually have to use sleep aids, such as melatonin. I don't ever remember just getting into bed and falling asleep quickly. Zane gets still and he's out. I'm jealous. Sometimes I get so jealous that I want to wake him up just so he can know how I feel. I don't actually wake him up...but I do think about it.
It isn't fair, and sometimes I have to wallow in the Trough of Self-Pity.
I get up early.
I work hard.
I tote that barge and lift that bale, whatever that means.
I should be able to fall asleep quickly, without resorting to valerian root.
Instead, I usually lay there, wide awake, looking at the ceiling, thinking about how many cobwebs are up there.
I make lists.
I compose bad poetry.
I make up entire novels in my head, then convert them to screenplays.
I make lists.
Yeah, I said that twice. Because at that point of the night I have forgotten that I already made lists, so I have to start over.
All of this explains why I resort to sleep aids, including yoga, visual imagery, meditative breathing, etc.
Just because I get jealous of my child with his peaceful sleeping does not mean that I don't want him to have peaceful sleep. Quite the opposite. He is a young child, he is innocent until proven guilty, and he needs his sleep. He'll be an adult before I know it, facing his own occasional sleepless nights. Let him sleep.
But it would be nice if occasionally my son could share some of that sleep with me.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
RemembeRED: Things I Remember
NOTE: This week, as the school year is wrapping up and we're on the cusp of summer, we've decided to go easy on you. We want to know what, from your childhood, do you still know by heart?
Every morning at Atlas Nursery School in El Paso, Texas, all of the children in my classroom stood, faced the flag, and put our hands over our hearts. We would then, as a group, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, after which we would all sing "My Country 'Tis of Thee".
We did this every day of school that year, at least the parts I can remember.
I don't remember actually learning these two things, a pledge and a song. I just remember saying them every morning, as if they mysteriously planted themselves in my brain. Knowing what I know now about learning, I imagine that the teacher spent quite a bit of time helping us to memorize the Pledge, then the song, so we could stand there every morning. Repetition works best in these situations, and with this age group.
I imagine that we repeated the words that the teacher read to us.
Then we did it again.
And again.
And again, until we all had it.
If there were any stragglers, the rest of us likely glared at them, because that meant that we had to repeat the whole thing over yet again. EVERYONE had to be able to say these two items. I am not sure why, but this was very important to the teacher, and we all wanted to please her.
To this day, when I say the Pledge of Allegiance, I immediately want to launch into "My Country 'Tis of Thee", like someone who has been programmed. This makes it difficult for me, because the great state of Texas, not satisfied with just one pledge, mandated that all public school children must also recite the Texas pledge. It's sometimes embarrassing that I begin to sing "My..." when everyone else is saying "Honor The Texas Flag." But I've adjusted.
I wonder now if my teacher left work vowing that she NEVER wanted to hear "My Country 'Tis of Thee" again. Did that song become nails on a chalkboard for her? Was that her Kryptonite? I hope that the school changed the song the following year, for her sake.
Every morning at Atlas Nursery School in El Paso, Texas, all of the children in my classroom stood, faced the flag, and put our hands over our hearts. We would then, as a group, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, after which we would all sing "My Country 'Tis of Thee".
We did this every day of school that year, at least the parts I can remember.
I don't remember actually learning these two things, a pledge and a song. I just remember saying them every morning, as if they mysteriously planted themselves in my brain. Knowing what I know now about learning, I imagine that the teacher spent quite a bit of time helping us to memorize the Pledge, then the song, so we could stand there every morning. Repetition works best in these situations, and with this age group.
I imagine that we repeated the words that the teacher read to us.
Then we did it again.
And again.
And again, until we all had it.
If there were any stragglers, the rest of us likely glared at them, because that meant that we had to repeat the whole thing over yet again. EVERYONE had to be able to say these two items. I am not sure why, but this was very important to the teacher, and we all wanted to please her.
To this day, when I say the Pledge of Allegiance, I immediately want to launch into "My Country 'Tis of Thee", like someone who has been programmed. This makes it difficult for me, because the great state of Texas, not satisfied with just one pledge, mandated that all public school children must also recite the Texas pledge. It's sometimes embarrassing that I begin to sing "My..." when everyone else is saying "Honor The Texas Flag." But I've adjusted.
I wonder now if my teacher left work vowing that she NEVER wanted to hear "My Country 'Tis of Thee" again. Did that song become nails on a chalkboard for her? Was that her Kryptonite? I hope that the school changed the song the following year, for her sake.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Now I've Gone And Done It
I try to read the paper every day. Mostly just the funnies. Some days, however, I have more time to leisurely read while I have my coffee. And so it came to pass that I read a particular article. While I read it, I became incensed.
I never become incensed. Irritated, perhaps, but incensed? Never.
The people in the article were obviously idiots, I immediately thought, and what they were doing was completely stupid. I read further.
It was a crime against humanity of epic proportions.
I finished the article. I was incensed!
I just could not sit idly by and allow this to continue.
Something must be done!
So I wrote a letter to the editor of the paper. Well, given the technology of the day, I sent an email. But still.
I'd like to say that I got this streak of blatant activism from my parents, but that would just not be true. My parents are as apolitical as they come.
They don't belong to any political party.
They don't read up on government and civics in their spare time.
They don't vote.
They didn't even vote for Nashville Star, and they actually watched that show.
They certainly would never write a letter to the editor of a newspaper!
Somewhere in my DNA, however, must be the missing link to my recent spurious activity. Someone in my family, at some point, must have decided to take a stand on a particular issue in this particular fashion.
I can picture some distant relation, scribbling on parchment with a quill, denouncing the fact that the price of butter had gone up.
The good news (for me) is that even if my letter is published, most people that I know don't actually read the part of the paper that has the Letters to the Editor in it.
I think I will just stick to the funnies from now on. It's safer that way.
I never become incensed. Irritated, perhaps, but incensed? Never.
The people in the article were obviously idiots, I immediately thought, and what they were doing was completely stupid. I read further.
It was a crime against humanity of epic proportions.
I finished the article. I was incensed!
I just could not sit idly by and allow this to continue.
Something must be done!
So I wrote a letter to the editor of the paper. Well, given the technology of the day, I sent an email. But still.
I'd like to say that I got this streak of blatant activism from my parents, but that would just not be true. My parents are as apolitical as they come.
They don't belong to any political party.
They don't read up on government and civics in their spare time.
They don't vote.
They didn't even vote for Nashville Star, and they actually watched that show.
They certainly would never write a letter to the editor of a newspaper!
Somewhere in my DNA, however, must be the missing link to my recent spurious activity. Someone in my family, at some point, must have decided to take a stand on a particular issue in this particular fashion.
I can picture some distant relation, scribbling on parchment with a quill, denouncing the fact that the price of butter had gone up.
The good news (for me) is that even if my letter is published, most people that I know don't actually read the part of the paper that has the Letters to the Editor in it.
I think I will just stick to the funnies from now on. It's safer that way.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Rest In Peace, Marshall Dillon
It was with great sadness that I read about the death of James Arness in the paper the other day. I felt like I was experiencing the end of an era, the final passing away of my childhood.
I wasn't around when the television show Gunsmoke started, but I do remember watching it as a kid. It was pretty tame, as most television shows from that era were, and I am sure that if I watched an episode today I would be focusing more on a fake backdrop or on the fact that when people got shot they never seemed to bleed. Back then, none of that mattered. I think that my love of westerns comes from watching Gunsmoke.
Gunsmoke was a family show, meaning that it was something my entire family would watch together. We all loved Marshall Dillon, and why not? He was the essential good guy, the man who always rescued the people who needed rescuing. Dillon always did the right thing, even if the right thing meant punching someone in the face. He kept the town safe just by walking down the dusty streets. Who wouldn't love that kind of a character?
It has been said that the role of Matt Dillon was originally made for John Wayne, who turned it down. I don't believe for one second that the show would have been nearly as successful if John Wayne had been Marshall Dillon. No disrespect to John Wayne, but James Arness didn't just act the role of Matt Dillon, at least not to me. James Arness wore the character of Matt Dillon like a second skin. He was Marshall Dillon. Arness' portrayal of Marshall Dillon became iconic; the character became an archetype because of it. How many television actors can say that?
The character of Matt Dillon even got his own verse in a decent Toby Keith song:
I'll bet you never heard ol' Marshall Dillon say:
Miss Kitty, have you ever thought of running away?
Settling down, would you marry me?
If I asked you twice and begged you pretty please?
Rest in peace, James Arness. There never was a TV or movie lawman who could fill your shoes. But they all wanted to try.
I wasn't around when the television show Gunsmoke started, but I do remember watching it as a kid. It was pretty tame, as most television shows from that era were, and I am sure that if I watched an episode today I would be focusing more on a fake backdrop or on the fact that when people got shot they never seemed to bleed. Back then, none of that mattered. I think that my love of westerns comes from watching Gunsmoke.
Gunsmoke was a family show, meaning that it was something my entire family would watch together. We all loved Marshall Dillon, and why not? He was the essential good guy, the man who always rescued the people who needed rescuing. Dillon always did the right thing, even if the right thing meant punching someone in the face. He kept the town safe just by walking down the dusty streets. Who wouldn't love that kind of a character?
It has been said that the role of Matt Dillon was originally made for John Wayne, who turned it down. I don't believe for one second that the show would have been nearly as successful if John Wayne had been Marshall Dillon. No disrespect to John Wayne, but James Arness didn't just act the role of Matt Dillon, at least not to me. James Arness wore the character of Matt Dillon like a second skin. He was Marshall Dillon. Arness' portrayal of Marshall Dillon became iconic; the character became an archetype because of it. How many television actors can say that?
The character of Matt Dillon even got his own verse in a decent Toby Keith song:
I'll bet you never heard ol' Marshall Dillon say:
Miss Kitty, have you ever thought of running away?
Settling down, would you marry me?
If I asked you twice and begged you pretty please?
Rest in peace, James Arness. There never was a TV or movie lawman who could fill your shoes. But they all wanted to try.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Sitting in the Angry Chair
There are days when you just, cannot open your mouth at all. Your words on these days are a fast raging river of toxic sludge that must be dammed behind your clenched teeth, at all cost; for to open your angry mouth would release a veritable flood of spewing vile that would dissolve the tongue of a lesser being.
Your husband. Your child. Your boss. Your coworkers. Your friends. These individuals have done, or are doing, something that irritates you, annoys you, or makes you flat out angry. But because of where you are(church) or who is around you(mother-in-law), you can't say the mean words. You can't say those words there. So you swallow them. Then you swallow some more. Soon you have an aching belly full of angry words.
Angry words don't digest well, so they must come back up, somehow. Then you start to spit the angry words back out, in other places. For example, a person I know seems to get sick ONLY when she knows that we want her to babysit our son. And it's not just an "I'm sick" we hear. No, we hear, in graphic technicolor, all about her colon, what she ate that made her sick, how many bowel movements she's had, how many people she has told about the bowel movements, and their particular observations regarding said movements.
After about twelve or so hours of swallowing the words I want to say to this person(that I can't say, because she's a fragile little flower who can't handle it), I have to let some of the angry words out, somewhere. I can't say all the things I want to say to this person--she is a 'fragile' flower with the acting up colon, remember?
So who do I attack with my angry words? Mostly myself, because I know that I can take it. Sometimes my husband. Occasionally my son, and I immediately feel so guilty about it that I completely reverse any punishments I've doled out. I'd give him my car if only he wouldn't give me that big eyed look that says "hurt feelings!"
I hate that look. Even if I haven't done anything, I still want to buy the kid a pony.
Do you have days filled with angry words that you can't say? What do you do?
Your husband. Your child. Your boss. Your coworkers. Your friends. These individuals have done, or are doing, something that irritates you, annoys you, or makes you flat out angry. But because of where you are(church) or who is around you(mother-in-law), you can't say the mean words. You can't say those words there. So you swallow them. Then you swallow some more. Soon you have an aching belly full of angry words.
Angry words don't digest well, so they must come back up, somehow. Then you start to spit the angry words back out, in other places. For example, a person I know seems to get sick ONLY when she knows that we want her to babysit our son. And it's not just an "I'm sick" we hear. No, we hear, in graphic technicolor, all about her colon, what she ate that made her sick, how many bowel movements she's had, how many people she has told about the bowel movements, and their particular observations regarding said movements.
After about twelve or so hours of swallowing the words I want to say to this person(that I can't say, because she's a fragile little flower who can't handle it), I have to let some of the angry words out, somewhere. I can't say all the things I want to say to this person--she is a 'fragile' flower with the acting up colon, remember?
So who do I attack with my angry words? Mostly myself, because I know that I can take it. Sometimes my husband. Occasionally my son, and I immediately feel so guilty about it that I completely reverse any punishments I've doled out. I'd give him my car if only he wouldn't give me that big eyed look that says "hurt feelings!"
I hate that look. Even if I haven't done anything, I still want to buy the kid a pony.
Do you have days filled with angry words that you can't say? What do you do?
Friday, June 3, 2011
Kitchen Adventures, Part Four
Have I mentioned that I am not well-suited for the kitchen?
I'm not. I can do peanut butter and jelly sammiches(now with MORE jelly!) pretty awesome, and I can do that grilled cheese thingy. I can microwave soup. My signature dish is lasagna, but it's such a pain in the butt to make that I don't make it very often.
I decided to make scrambled eggs for dinner. I threw some eggs into a skillet, scrambled them a bit, then turned on the burner.
I then stood guard there, next to the skillet, because Zane likes to run up to the stove and 'see' what's there, which might mean that he will try to grab what is there. (I'm paranoid enough not to chance it.)
I then smelled smoke. My brain did what it always does in these situations: like a dog when it hears something weird, my brain cocked it's metaphorical head to the side. I looked down.
There were tendrils of smoke coming from underneath the skillet.
Was ist das????
I decided that something must have spilled on the burner at some point, and it was smoking.
That's happened before.
I reached up and turned on the exhaust fan, and waited for whatever was on the burner to burn away.
It didn't.
The smoke got a little thicker. I started waving my hand near the skillet, to circulate the smoke a little. I was nervous about setting off the alarm system, since I remembered very clearly what had happened the last time I did that.
I fanned the smoke a little faster in my nervousness.
Mistake. I will just go ahead right now and call my fanning of the smoke what it was--a dumbass move.
I heard the unmistakable sound of whatever was under the burner bursting into flame.
I took the skillet off the burner and put it on another burner. I said a few very bad words as I contemplated the small fire.
"What was that?" Larry called from the living room.
"I said, 'the stove is on fire'," a bit louder and censored for Zane.
Larry didn't even get up from the couch, which I suppose is a sad testament to his experience with my cooking. Meanwhile, I confronted the fire with grim determination.
First step in a crisis: Assess the situation.
Situation: There is a fire.
Second step in a crisis: Have a plan, one that did not include running around the kitchen screaming.
I knew exactly what to do in a fire: smother the flames. Great! I learned something from watching movies!
With what? I didn't have anything immediately handy. I didn't want to take my eyes off the fire, although it appeared to be contained within the drip pan underneath the burner.
"Not a towel, stupid", was my next thought. Towel+flame=bad. For a second longer, I was indecisive.
My indecisiveness annoyed me. I loathe indecisiveness with the white heat of the sun. This got me moving. I grabbed a cup, filled it with some water, and doused the flames. I leaped back as I did so, just in case there was a small explosion(it's an electric stove).
There was only the sound that a fire makes as it dies.
Crisis averted.
That was when I remembered the fire extinguisher that we keep on the counter next to the phone.
The kitchen was hazy with smoke. I opened the back door, then turned around.
Third step in a crisis: Evaluate the plan. I gave it a C, only because it took me so long to react.
Smoke seemed to be the only visible damage. Zane hollered from the living room that 'it smelled good'. I yelled back something, probably 'thank you'. My brain had gone on autopilot, and memory suffered.
The eggs were salvageable, so I finished cooking them on another burner. Parts of them were a little browned, due to the fact that there was an actual fire involved in their cooking.
"Dinner is ready," I hollered. Larry came into the kitchen, got a plate, and looked at the eggs. He saw that there were some browned eggs.
"What did you put in the eggs?" he wanted to know. I just looked at him, and to my credit, I did not say a word. Not. One. Word. I was really proud of myself.
I do like to cook, even though my husband won't eat what I make unless it's something he already likes like eggs, hamburgers, or lasagna. Eventually, I will become completely discouraged, sell all the pots and pans at a garage sale, and my family will live on microwave dinners.
For now, however, I will continue to forge on with my culinary efforts.
I'm not. I can do peanut butter and jelly sammiches(now with MORE jelly!) pretty awesome, and I can do that grilled cheese thingy. I can microwave soup. My signature dish is lasagna, but it's such a pain in the butt to make that I don't make it very often.
I decided to make scrambled eggs for dinner. I threw some eggs into a skillet, scrambled them a bit, then turned on the burner.
I then stood guard there, next to the skillet, because Zane likes to run up to the stove and 'see' what's there, which might mean that he will try to grab what is there. (I'm paranoid enough not to chance it.)
I then smelled smoke. My brain did what it always does in these situations: like a dog when it hears something weird, my brain cocked it's metaphorical head to the side. I looked down.
There were tendrils of smoke coming from underneath the skillet.
Was ist das????
I decided that something must have spilled on the burner at some point, and it was smoking.
That's happened before.
I reached up and turned on the exhaust fan, and waited for whatever was on the burner to burn away.
It didn't.
The smoke got a little thicker. I started waving my hand near the skillet, to circulate the smoke a little. I was nervous about setting off the alarm system, since I remembered very clearly what had happened the last time I did that.
I fanned the smoke a little faster in my nervousness.
Mistake. I will just go ahead right now and call my fanning of the smoke what it was--a dumbass move.
I heard the unmistakable sound of whatever was under the burner bursting into flame.
I took the skillet off the burner and put it on another burner. I said a few very bad words as I contemplated the small fire.
"What was that?" Larry called from the living room.
"I said, 'the stove is on fire'," a bit louder and censored for Zane.
Larry didn't even get up from the couch, which I suppose is a sad testament to his experience with my cooking. Meanwhile, I confronted the fire with grim determination.
First step in a crisis: Assess the situation.
Situation: There is a fire.
Second step in a crisis: Have a plan, one that did not include running around the kitchen screaming.
I knew exactly what to do in a fire: smother the flames. Great! I learned something from watching movies!
With what? I didn't have anything immediately handy. I didn't want to take my eyes off the fire, although it appeared to be contained within the drip pan underneath the burner.
"Not a towel, stupid", was my next thought. Towel+flame=bad. For a second longer, I was indecisive.
My indecisiveness annoyed me. I loathe indecisiveness with the white heat of the sun. This got me moving. I grabbed a cup, filled it with some water, and doused the flames. I leaped back as I did so, just in case there was a small explosion(it's an electric stove).
There was only the sound that a fire makes as it dies.
Crisis averted.
That was when I remembered the fire extinguisher that we keep on the counter next to the phone.
The kitchen was hazy with smoke. I opened the back door, then turned around.
Third step in a crisis: Evaluate the plan. I gave it a C, only because it took me so long to react.
Smoke seemed to be the only visible damage. Zane hollered from the living room that 'it smelled good'. I yelled back something, probably 'thank you'. My brain had gone on autopilot, and memory suffered.
The eggs were salvageable, so I finished cooking them on another burner. Parts of them were a little browned, due to the fact that there was an actual fire involved in their cooking.
"Dinner is ready," I hollered. Larry came into the kitchen, got a plate, and looked at the eggs. He saw that there were some browned eggs.
"What did you put in the eggs?" he wanted to know. I just looked at him, and to my credit, I did not say a word. Not. One. Word. I was really proud of myself.
I do like to cook, even though my husband won't eat what I make unless it's something he already likes like eggs, hamburgers, or lasagna. Eventually, I will become completely discouraged, sell all the pots and pans at a garage sale, and my family will live on microwave dinners.
For now, however, I will continue to forge on with my culinary efforts.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
PMS for Three Year Olds
That is the only adequate term that describes what is going on with my child right now. He's driving us, for lack of a better term, batshit crazy.
One second he's laughing and happy.
The next he's thrown himself on the floor in a fit of pique.
Then he's happy again, as if nothing were amiss.
My husband or I will ask him something benign, such as "Would you like a cookie?"
"Noyes," will be the reply.
What?
"Yeno."
I'd ask him if he plans to run for office, but I'm afraid of the answer.
This morning, he marched into the kitchen and demanded bacon. Bacon.
"Zane, you just ate two biscuits and a waffle. How can you still be hungry?" I was mystified. Zane was adamant; he must have bacon. He even said 'please'. Twice.
So I made him bacon, and told him to come to the table to eat it.
"I don't want bacon," my child told me.
"You just said that you wanted bacon. You came in here and specifically asked for it."
"I don't want bacon," Zane repeated.
I actually face-palmed. I've never done it before, but it's quite possible that I will be doing it a lot from now on. I have a sinking feeling that this is but a shadow of what the teenage years will be like.
I may ask my doctor to prescribe valium for Larry and I when Zane hits puberty.
One second he's laughing and happy.
The next he's thrown himself on the floor in a fit of pique.
Then he's happy again, as if nothing were amiss.
My husband or I will ask him something benign, such as "Would you like a cookie?"
"Noyes," will be the reply.
What?
"Yeno."
I'd ask him if he plans to run for office, but I'm afraid of the answer.
This morning, he marched into the kitchen and demanded bacon. Bacon.
"Zane, you just ate two biscuits and a waffle. How can you still be hungry?" I was mystified. Zane was adamant; he must have bacon. He even said 'please'. Twice.
So I made him bacon, and told him to come to the table to eat it.
"I don't want bacon," my child told me.
"You just said that you wanted bacon. You came in here and specifically asked for it."
"I don't want bacon," Zane repeated.
I actually face-palmed. I've never done it before, but it's quite possible that I will be doing it a lot from now on. I have a sinking feeling that this is but a shadow of what the teenage years will be like.
I may ask my doctor to prescribe valium for Larry and I when Zane hits puberty.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
A New Use For Epsom Salts
There was a bag of Epsom Salts on the counter in the bathroom, and Zane spied it.
He picked it up.
He carried it around.
He sat it next to him on the couch while he watched a movie.
When it was time for bed, he carried it upstairs with him.
It was next to him when he fell asleep.
Larry and I thought this might be a passing fancy, and so I moved the bag.
He would forget about it, I thought. He would find something else when he woke up. He's a kid, after all. Kids are known for short attention spans when it comes to play toys.
I was wrong.
Zane woke up the next morning, got out of bed, and went downstairs.
A minute later, he was back, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Where's the blue----?" he mumbled. I knew immediately what he was referring to.
"Do you mean your bag of salt?" I asked, just in case I was wrong. I wasn't.
Zane nodded, because he was yawning.
I sighed, then went and got his bag of Epsom Salt. He happily carried it downstairs, and sat it next to him while he ate breakfast. Later, he had to bring it with him in the car. He wanted to bring it with him to daycare. I looked at Larry, who shook his head.
"Zane, if you bring the bag of salt, all the other kids will want to play with it. Do you want to share your bag of salt?" I asked, knowing the answer would be 'no'. Zane chose to leave his new BFF in the car and he and I went into the daycare. When I got back in the car, Larry shook his head again.
The only thing that we could come up with to explain this current infatuation is that the salt bag is heavy and sounds different.
"This has got to be the weirdest thing ever," he said, as we left the parking lot.
I told my husband that he had probably just doomed us both with that statement.
He picked it up.
He carried it around.
He sat it next to him on the couch while he watched a movie.
When it was time for bed, he carried it upstairs with him.
It was next to him when he fell asleep.
Larry and I thought this might be a passing fancy, and so I moved the bag.
He would forget about it, I thought. He would find something else when he woke up. He's a kid, after all. Kids are known for short attention spans when it comes to play toys.
I was wrong.
Zane woke up the next morning, got out of bed, and went downstairs.
A minute later, he was back, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Where's the blue----?" he mumbled. I knew immediately what he was referring to.
"Do you mean your bag of salt?" I asked, just in case I was wrong. I wasn't.
Zane nodded, because he was yawning.
I sighed, then went and got his bag of Epsom Salt. He happily carried it downstairs, and sat it next to him while he ate breakfast. Later, he had to bring it with him in the car. He wanted to bring it with him to daycare. I looked at Larry, who shook his head.
"Zane, if you bring the bag of salt, all the other kids will want to play with it. Do you want to share your bag of salt?" I asked, knowing the answer would be 'no'. Zane chose to leave his new BFF in the car and he and I went into the daycare. When I got back in the car, Larry shook his head again.
The only thing that we could come up with to explain this current infatuation is that the salt bag is heavy and sounds different.
"This has got to be the weirdest thing ever," he said, as we left the parking lot.
I told my husband that he had probably just doomed us both with that statement.
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