Wendy Ramer - On 'n On 'n On

On the Rodeo

2012-02-27T18:52:00.000-05:00

After fourteen years of living just beyond horse country, I spent my Sunday doing what every Jewish, Latin-loving, SUV-driving woman would do with her Sunday afternoon...I went to the rodeo.

I certainly had my misgivings, what with all the calf roping and spur wearing that I knew would go on, but my daughter had been asking for a dog's age (which is actually shorter than a horse's age but just as interminable when your child is whining every weekend).

I have to admit, I had a blast.

One part of me was morally opposed and standing on my high horse (yeah, I went there) while the other part was holding my breath in anticipation of a good lasso and then screaming with excitement when one cowboy finally roped the calf and tied all three legs up in under six seconds. Woo hoo!!!! (Apparently, only three of the four legs are required to be tied. Who knew? Certainly not me.)

The halftime show, if you will, was completely inhumane but nonetheless adorable. One-half dozen rams tore into the arena being chased by a bevy of miniature border collies who deftly herded the rams into a small pen. The dogs did this while carrying small passengers strapped to their backs...teeny rhesus monkeys. I kid you not. The crowd went wild as these little "cowboys" herded their charges into place. I just shook my head in judgment, mumbling this is so wrong while my daughter squealed with joy and recorded it all on video.

After the rams, the dogs, and the monkeys, it was back to business. When the cowgirls competed in the barrel races and their horses took those turns at 45-degree angles to the ground, my heart once more skipped some beats until I could catch my breath and cheer the ladies on for their final gallop into the gate. Good stuff, I tell ya.

The rodeo finished with the bull rides. No excitement to share here since I hated that part and was glad when it was over. Still, I think I enjoyed the afternoon even more than my daughter did. As we walked back to the car, I felt conflicted. But maybe that's what the rodeo is all about...the tradition, the pageantry, the danger, mixed with the domination of man (and woman) over beast. Garth Brooks sang it best when he said:

Well, it's bulls and blood
It's dust and mud
It's the roar of a Sunday crowd
It's the white in his knuckles
The gold in the buckle
He'll win the next go 'round
It's boots and chaps
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo
It's the ropes and the reins
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo

On Putting Your Teenager in Jail

2012-02-25T18:47:00.000-05:00

Come on...admit it. Some of you parents of teens are thinking to yourselves, Hmm, sometimes putting my kid in jail doesn't sound like such a bad idea.

Before you get carried away with fantasies of how to teach your teenager a lesson, you should know that this "jail" I'm referring to was a fundraising ploy, part of the Cancer Relay for Life in which I just participated.

I'd never witnessed this event before, and it was phenomenal. I don't know how many different booths I saw at this 24-hour walking event (because cancer never rests, so why should we?), but each booth represented a different type of cancer and included a variety of clever ways to raise money (apart from the pre-walk pledges and the abundance of baked goods for sale).

One such trick was a cardboard prison, fashioned by a group of teenagers, with bars and all. For a minimum fee of one dollar, you could have anyone you wanted arrested and put in jail. Bail was posted at twice the jailing rate. My friend, Jennifer, liked this idea very much, especially since she had spent the morning locking horns with her 16-year-old daughter over what Jen perceived as adolescent nonsense.

My friend turned her focus across the park to her daughter's team booth. She then turned to the young man/jailer, who knew her daughter, and firmly stated, "Go arrest Britt." Jen placed one dollar on the table and the jailer obeyed.

But Britt would not cooperate. We watched from across the field as the jailer seemed to be explaining what was happening. Britt appeared to be compliant, but when she turned on her heel halfway to the prison booth, the jailer (a strapping, high-school lad) swiftly scooped Britt up and threw her over his shoulder in a fire-rescue stance. Resigned to her punishment, Britt stopped fighting and accepted her fate.

As Jen took a picture of her daughter behind bars and muttered, "Sweet justice," Britt pouted playfully. But when Jen and I proceeded to wave good-bye and tell Britt we had to continue our walking rounds (it was our shift of the 24-hour relay), Britt tried to escape, and the jailer had to block her with his hulking frame.

"She's not really upset, is she?" I asked Jen, a bit worried for the punishment she would have to tolerate when the relay was over.

Jen raised her eyebrows at me. "She'll get over it."

The good news for Britt was that her incarceration lasted no more than ten minutes. The good news for Jen was that she got the cathartic opportunity to put her daughter in jail for the crime of emotional distress. And there really wasn't any bad news since the cause earned a whopping $3.00 for the whole ordeal.

What catharsis have you experienced lately?

On the Art of Listening

2012-02-22T13:20:00.000-05:00

As a writer, I am forever honing the craft of writing. As a professor, I am eternally mired in papers, thereby helping me perfect the art of reading (and editing!). But what about that elusive skill...the one we start to practice first as infants when words have not yet formed...the art of listening? It's the ability we've technically practiced the most, yet it is sometimes a dastardly task to accomplish even with two perfectly functioning ears.

As fiction writers, we can practice listening by imagining the voices of our characters. What do they sound like? What kind of vocabulary do they use? How formally or colloquially do they speak? As we come to hear these characters, we get to know them better, and that familiarity hopefully transfers to the written page so the readers can hear these characters as well as we can.

The real world is a different story (pun intended). When we think we are listening to our friends, our professors, our colleagues, our family, we are often only hearing their words instead of listening to the message. Our minds are full of distractions, and often the biggest distraction is the argument we are already formulating in response to something spoken moments before. We focus on what our hearts have to say and stop listening to the other person. When we do this, we are effectively saying, "My ideas or feelings are more important than yours." (Even if we believe this, it is bad form to admit it.)

So what can we do? (I've given this a lot of thought as I've recently been frustrated by many around me who say they hear me but don't actually do it unless I accidentally burp at the dinner table.)

Like we must sometimes do with our addiction to electronic devices, we can make the effort to temporarily shut down...our minds, that is. When listening to someone, we need to turn off our own thoughts and say to ourselves, For this moment, I am listening to someone else. Quite honestly, I think the brain would appreciate a respite. I tried this the other night with my daughter, and it actually helped me relax even though her message was one of sadness. By ignoring my own frustration with her behavior and choosing to listen to her, I heard what was in her heart.

What say you? Any suggestions for how we can learn to listen better?

On Inspiration (Or, I Owe It to Stephen King)

2012-02-20T20:16:00.000-05:00

It's been over a year since I last posted, and truth is that probably very few people will ever read this post because I've been forgotten. But that inspiration, that kick in the pants I'd been waiting for to spike my blogging fever...well, it had eluded me.

Then I read the opening paragraph to Stephen King's The Body, a 1982 novella long-ago turned major motion picture...almost a relic by literary standards. But I read it this morning, and it inspired me. Just look, if you will, at how simply yet eloquently King describes such an intimate fear.

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought is was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.

Concise. Honest. Perfect.

I started reading King when I was twelve years old and considered myself quite the enthusiast throughout high school and college. I even read some of his books in Spanish when I was trying to learn the language in my twenties. (Pet Sematary is just as creepy en español!) Eventually, however, I moved on...until last year, when I read On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft. Then I was reminded of why I had admired him in my adolescence and why he is such a successful writer.

No matter the genre, a good writer finds a way to take language and turn it into something more than just words in print. A good writer taps into the soul of words, the spirit of the message, to deliver the reader to that other world where our hearts can sing the words to the song it has felt for so long.

I know I am not that writer...not yet. But with inspirational passages like the one quoted above, I feel hope. And to quote King once more, hope springs eternal.

On Peace in Israel and Lebanon (Or, I saw it with my own eyes)

2011-01-28T21:25:00.000-05:00

I have a unique opportunity in my profession, which is to rule upon high over my own miniature version of the UN. Okay, so I’m really only an ESL instructor and it's really only a classroom of students from all over the world, but as the professor, I wield my authority respectfully and with great appreciation for what I, too, can learn from my students. Take Israel and Lebanon, for example.

I’m not talking about the nations here but rather of two students in one of my classes – both beautiful, intelligent, and outspoken young women who sit near each other and are, therefore, often made to work together when we do small group activities. They are both worldly women in their own ways: Israel is born of Persian and Libyan parents, while Lebanon is a professional ballet dancer who has lived in Paris. Today in class, they were put together with Nicaragua (another lovely and not-so-shy girl) and Colombia (an attractive and reserved middle-aged woman).

During the activity, these four women made up only one group out of five, but watching them gave me the most food for thought. The activity required the students to work together to rearrange items on a list and divide them into main points and supporting details – a task that would easily eat up 20 minutes of class time. Colombia gracefully sat back as Nicaragua, Israel, and Lebanon strongly but civilly debated the various options.

Israel saw things one way, Lebanon saw things another way (they both were correct), and Nicaragua disagreed with both of them as she firmly and rather confidently stated her position. So adamant was she (and so wrong as it turned out) that Lebanon could only sit back and shake her head, waiting for the opportunity to prove Nicaragua wrong. Israel kindly tried to tell Nicaragua where her reasoning had lost its footing while Colombia opted out of the debate, and it was during that moment I noticed a glint of respect in Lebanon’s eyes. She knew she and Israel were right even though they saw the situation differently, and I think she was proud of the way Israel was trying to logically argue the point, which was a challenge given Nicaragua’s dramatic facial expressions. Israel and Lebanon never teamed up against Nicaragua; they seemed to understand that some battles just aren’t worth fighting...which is when I asked myself why their home countries can’t see things as clearly.

Yes, this is an oversimplification of real-world dilemmas, but for a moment, Lebanon and Israel were on the same page albeit through different viewpoints, and with nothing more than a glance, this was understood. I imagined Lebanon and Israel (who never talk to each other apart from these forced exercises) going out for coffee after class and reveling in their newfound commonality.

Eventually, though, I had to burst Nicaragua’s bubble (because I wasn’t sure how patient Lebanon would really be – she was actually sighing deeply) and tell her she was completely off track. She took it like a trooper and openly listened to Lebanon explain the point. All the while, Israel’s bright smile told Lebanon that she concurred even if she would have expressed it differently.

As we discussed the activity as a class, all eyes turned to the board, where I was outlining the final results, and I felt a bit sad. I wished I could have prolonged the group activity so I could fool myself into believing there was hope in the world simply because two young ladies of such different philosophies had found a common ground. With all that’s going on in Egypt, Tunisia, and North Africa and the Middle East in general, the ESL classroom seems the only safe place for these nations to come together. I’m proud to be part of that, and I will go to sleep tonight thinking about Israel and Lebanon and dreaming about their newfound friendship. I know these girls said nothing to each other when class ended, but it’s my dream. And it all has to start somewhere, doesn’t it?

On Sleep (Or, If the rooster crows, I'll shoot 'em)

2011-01-20T21:55:00.000-05:00

Do you remember being a kid and not wanting to go to bed? You believed sleep was a punishment depriving you of the adventure of living. Do you remember being a teenager who wanted to stay awake but could do nothing but sleep? Naps were frequent and sleeping until lunchtime on the weekends was commonplace. Are you now a parent who finds glorious ecstasy in waking and realizing you slept more than five hours?

Sometime after age 11, we start to see the merits of sleep. We make it through adolescence and then our 20s until parenthood hits. Suddenly, sleep isn't simply something of merit but rather a holy grail as unattainable as a low mortgage rate. Sleep is numinous. In fact, I'm surprised more songs, poems, or odes haven't been written about this basic yet often elusive life function.

Like our brain cells, sleep slips away with age. I seriously consider it a good night if I wake up in the morning after sunrise, can count more than seven hours since I went to bed, and realize I only got up once during the night to pee. Truly a beautiful thing, I tell you, yet as fleeting as my dark brown hair, which is now more than 50% overrun by gray strands (but you’ll never know it!). It is because of how much I treasure sleep that I completely lose it when my nine-year-old daughter fights with me every night about going to bed.

“Can’t you be sweet to me at bedtime?” she pleads.
I respond, “You get sweetness for five minutes. After 45 minutes, my love, you’re S.O.L.” (She knows what that means.)

My son, who is already in the throws of puberty, naps with the cat (who doesn't need puberty as an excuse).
This is bliss.

My daughter, on the other hand, wastes so much of my evening fighting something that is as basic a need as eating and pooping when I could be doing something else to bring me closer to doing the exact thing she is resisting. It infuriates me. I hate how our days often end on this bad note, which is why I always greet her in the morning with a kiss and a back scratch as I try to wake her for school. As you can imagine, getting her out of bed on a school day is as challenging as it was getting her into bed the night before. Did I mention she’s only nine? I dread what is to come when puberty sets in.

I am open to any ideas for how to manage the bedtime routine better so long as they don’t include alcohol or tranquilizers (and don’t think I haven’t considered that many times). I’ve already tried threatening to take away privileges for the following day (and following through), professional counseling for her alleged sleep fears, bedtime stories, nightlights, melatonin, redecorating her room more times over the past nine years than any girl deserves, and even being a kinder and gentler mommy at bedtime (which usually requires alcohol on my part). It’s time to think outside the box, people. Hit me with your best shot!

On Progress, Part II (Or, The Blequel)

2011-01-14T18:56:00.003-05:00

I can't believe I'm doing this, but I'm actually posting a "blequel" (blog sequel...get it? I just made up that word...hope it catches on). In my last post, I praised modern technology, especially email and Skype. Today, I'm focusing on Facebook and instant messaging because it is saving my friend's life right now. If you'll indulge me...

My dear friend Teresa lives in Spain. I have known her almost since the day I arrived there in 1991, and she has remained my Spanish touchstone ever since. The same year she met me, she also met the man who would eventually become her husband, except that it shouldn't have been him.

In her 20s, my highly-intelligent, beautiful, and goofy friend lacked the most important quality - self-esteem. So when she met the young man in question, she ignored the red flags that desperately waved their warnings. Instead, she pursued him right to the altar. Several years later, she would tell me how her wedding day was the saddest day in her life...because she knew.

As soon as she had children (now ages 9 and 4), she began her descent into depression. She would talk about leaving her husband once the children were grown, but how would she live so miserably for so many more years? Locally, she didn’t have many friends since she’d become a workaholic to avoid time at home. It was hard for me to be so far from her, and though I visited a few times throughout those years, I felt more distanced from her with each visit...until this past Christmas.

During the holiday break, Teresa managed to have some significant conversations with friends she considered wiser than herself. Who knows if it was the fact that she'd hit 40, or if the moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter had aligned with Mars, but with the New Year, Teresa found the strength she needed to separate from her husband. It appears to be civil (so far), but it is far from easy.

This all leads up to the inspiration for today's "blequel". I logged onto Facebook this evening to see Teresa's status update where she rather vulnerably expressed how alone she feels. (Because she knows it's going to get worse before it gets better.) Immediately, I found her online and sent her an instant message, reminding her she wasn't alone because I was there. She said she needed me to hold her, which I said I would if I could. Her response? "I feel it either way."

This, my friends, is why I love technology. As my friend on the other side of the ocean sat alone in her quiet apartment while her children slept and her husband was NOT there, she needed someone to hold her. And though I couldn't physically wrap my arms around her, she felt me.

We chatted for a bit before I realized Teresa was taking a while to respond to my comments. Turned out she was also having an IM chat on Facebook with another mutual friend, who was apparently also sending love her way. I had to laugh as I accused Teresa of already playing the field. And though she could only type back, "Ha ha ha," I heard her laughter...it was beautiful.

So I once again thank the nameless but brilliant inventors of the instant message feature, of all social networking sites, of email (not you, Al Gore), and of my beloved Skype. Without this technology, my friend Teresa might have cried herself to sleep feeling completely alone and questioning every decision she'd ever made in her life. Instead, I'd like to believe she closed her eyes feeling a bit more relaxed after having had great chats with those who love her. The road ahead of her will undoubtedly be rocky and painful, but with friends accessible with just a few key strokes, Teresa will make it through this, coming out stronger because her friends were by her side.

On Progress (Or, Technology, how I love you so)

2011-01-10T16:16:00.000-05:00

Like most people, I have a love-hate relationship with technology because I rely on it about as much as I needed my mother when I was three, and when technology fails me, it brings out that three-year-old tantrum instinct I'd so well suppressed for over 40 years. But computer and application problems aside, I LOVE TECHNOLOGY.

First of all, technology feeds my passion for nostalgia by exaggerating the differences between then and now. I mean, how else would I mourn the loss of letter-writing if it weren't for word processors? Paradoxically, it is those exact processing programs that make it easier for me to ~~write~~ type letters to my friends, which they can receive in the time it takes technology to deliver my letter to their email inbox.

Which brings me to email (so old hat already that we've dropped the hyphen between "e" and "mail" and made it one word functioning as noun, address, and verb all in one). Though I yearn for the days of receiving a handwritten letter in my real mailbox (which now only receives bills and even that trend is fading), I love how connected I am with friends all over the world. It is truly priceless.

But email was only the beginning. I started using email about 1995 and now love my Skype account even more. This again feeds my nostalgia, for when I was a youngster - back when Elvis Presley and John Lennon were still alive and before President Reagan was shot - speaking with a friend who lived more than thirty miles away constituted a long-distance phone call which cost MONEY. And spending money on phone calls was a big-ass deal. Now, with Skype, I can not only chat instantly with friends everywhere, but I can summon the spirit of Dick Tracy by seeing them in a live video chat and even share a glass of wine with them while we shoot the shinola...for free.

Now, I'm sure there are those of you out there saying, Get over it, Wendy. But you have to know that I am still amazed by the technology of landline telephones, so email and Skype go on my list of technological wonders of my time. I also like to think of myself as one who appreciates the beauty of humankind's ingenuity, and our desire to improve communication and to connect with each other is inspiring. Many complain that this new technology alienates us from socializing like we did in the good ole days, but I argue that it actually brings us closer together. And in a world where nations are still killing each other over religion and money, it's nice to know the human desire to connect with others still lives on. There are people in my life today who I never would have dreamed of seeing again if it hadn't been for technological progress, and I love having these people in my life.

So here's a toast to all the nameless inventors who have helped me preserve my relationships with distant friends and who've made it possible for me to renew old friendships I'd thought lost forever. You are my People of the Year!

On Tradition (Or, Tevya had the right idea)

2011-01-03T15:31:00.000-05:00

As a fourth-generation American whose ancestors hailed from different parts of Europe, I grew up with no unique New Year's Eve traditions. Then in my twenties, I was fortunate to live in two foreign countries where New Year's traditions and superstitions ran rampant. Those traditions were charming and fun, but of another world.

Fast forward about fifteen years to 2009, when I invited some dear Latin friends over for New Year's Eve. At 11:30pm, panic set in when they realized we didn't have El Viejo to burn at the stroke of midnight. To appease the frantic guests, the three men set to work digging through our recycling bins and stored boxes in the garage to fashion our very own effigy that stood about eighteen inches tall. While the men worked, the women gathered the kids to put into action MY idea of incorporating a burning ceremony. This involved writing down our negative thoughts or bad events of the year and stuffing the small notes into El Viejo so they'd burn up and disappear with the passing of the year. Everyone got into this, and we scurried during the last five minutes of 2009 to shove our folded papers inside El Viejo's head before midnight.

We brought El Viejo out front and planted him in the middle of the cul-de-sac, safe from grass, bushes, cars, or anything else that might catch fire if our effigy turned into the bonfire we hoped it would. At eighteen inches tall, however, El Viejo wasn't quite the spectacle we'd hoped he'd be. We loaded him with fireworks and watched him snap, crackle, and pop with about as much gusto as a bowl of Rice Krispies. Still, it was cathartic to watch him burn, taking our negativity with him.

I loved this Latin tradition (which also reminded me of the Italian version, called Il Vecchio), so to send off 2010, we got smarter. With the same Latin couple in house in addition to other guests, we constructed a taller, greater, more formidable Old Man who stood about three feet tall and had plenty of room in his belly for our burning notes. We also bought lighter fluid and doused the guy so he'd burn baby burn, like a disco inferno. And that he did.

Adding to El Viejo, we ate our 12 grapes at midnight and stood in the cul-de-sac counting the $100 of cash our Latin friends passed around, but only after my husband and I first ran up to our bedroom to dig through drawers searching for something red to wear since we certainly did not have yellow underwear. (Apparently, you're supposed to wear yellow underwear and something red. Next year, we'll be better prepared in the undergarment department, I swear it.) The only thing we didn't do was pack our suitcases and walk around the block to ensure a year of travel, but I'll be damned if I don't make that happen anyway.

In all the rush of El Viejo, the grapes, and the cash counting, we forgot to drink champagne, but since I am not one to snuff old traditions for new ones, I quickly poured everyone a glass. As we raised our flutes in toast, I thought of Tevya, from Fiddler on the Roof, who sang of the value of preserving tradition. I knew how lucky I was to have my family and my dear friends by my side as we made these new traditions our very own, and I toasted to 2011 with a Salud!, a L'Chayim!, and, of course, a Cheers!

Happy New Year to everyone. May 2011 bring you health, joy, success, and an open heart to welcome any new traditions that might be hiding around the corner waiting for you to take them in!

On Rediscovering the Will (Or, Have You Ever Heard of a Blogiversary?)

2010-12-30T19:11:00.000-05:00

I blame it on my birthday...my lack of blogging, that is. As 2010 comes within inches of sneaking out that door between this year and the next, I refuse to go down with only one blog post for the month of December. And it all started on November 16th.

Yep. I checked my records and my birthday is when I seemed to lose my steam for posting twice a week. It wasn't even a landmark birthday - not divisible by ten or five - so what's the deal? Is this what aging is doing to me...making me lazy? Uuuugh! One thing I have never been is lazy. I don't procrastinate ever. In fact, I am so impatient that my over-efficiency often gets me into trouble for being too on top of things. (I've been told many times to just sit back, relax, and breathe.)

Adding insult to injury, today my blog buddy, Nicole Ducleroir, posted about her first blogiversary (yeah, that's what she called it), and I felt the weight of February, 2011 on my shoulders. That's when I'll hit one year of blogging; that is, if I still have an audience who gives a damn. Nicole even updated her site (worth visiting, for sure; plus, as a "blogiversary" gift, I wanted to give her a plug), and it's lovely.

In honor of Nicole's staying power, I'm determined to get back on board and stick to a schedule like Nicole has vowed to do. Until then, I wish everyone a splendid New Year. May you, too, find the motivation, inspiration, and will to keep on doing whatever it is you love most. I look forward to seeing you all a lot more in 2011!

On T-9 Texting (Or, Yeah...some holdouts still use it)

2010-12-03T11:24:00.000-05:00

If you're a touch texter or Qwerty texter like I am, you vaguely remember the days of T-9 texting, which is why it's time to revisit the days of yore and examine the humorous and not-necessarily-coincidental quirks of the T-9 dictionary.

As a quick review, T-9 texting attempts to make texting on a numeric keypad easier by trying to guess what word you want to type before you complete it. It's based on common patterns in English, but often sends the texter in an unintended direction. In honor of the approaching Christmas holiday, I provide my own Twelve T-9 Examples.

1. Start typing "kids" and you'll get "lies". The same can be achieved by asking your kids who left toothpaste spittle all over the bathroom sink.

2. If you're a Miami Dolphins football fan and want to text about the "fins", you'll get "egos", leading me to believe the T-9 programmers know more than they're letting on.

3. Type "blogging" and you'll discover that "clogging" is apparently more popular than blogging since it pops up first. (Does this mean I'm using the wrong forum to tout my observations? Perhaps I should attend a local ho-down...which would, if nothing else, provide great fodder for my next blog post, don't ya think?) Worth noting is that on the way to "clogging", you'll see "almighty" pop up as an option. Oh yes, blogging is certainly almighty.

4. Type "wide" and instead you'll get "wife", which will not please many of the married women-folk out there.

5. "Hell" becomes "he'll" because the T-9 programmers - wise as they may be about Dolphin football player egos - are really nerdy guys afraid of using bad words.

6. Start typing "kiss" and you'll get "lip" instead...which was the intention anyway, wasn't it?

7. Try typing "Viagra" and you'll first get "Thai" and then "tiara". Personally, I find the visual of a Thai man on Viagra wearing a tiara worth a thousand giggles.

8. Start typing "money" and you'll get "none". Apropos, no?

9. "Boyfriend" takes you on the road from "any" to "boxes" to "cower" - all words that could tell an intriguing story of one's love life.

10. Type "boss" and first you'll get "cop". For some people, the similarity may not be far off.

11. Here's one to piss off the feminists. Type "girl" and you'll first see "his".

12. And finally, type "home" and the best T-9 error appears..."good". I'll never complain about home being mistaken for good so long as my husband's wife is never mistaken for wide.

Despite the Twelve Days of Christmas theme (could you hear the music as you were reading the list?), I wish those who celebrate a Happy "Chanukah" - a word that comes up on T-9 as "chaotic" "chanting". Ah, I'm afraid the Christians will never figure us out.

Happy Holidays to everyone, and if you'd like to add any T-9 words to the list, feel free to expand this "dictionary", which comes up as "fiction" by the way. I love it.

On Thanksgiving Games (Or, Not your typical Thanksgiving post, I promise)

2010-11-27T08:55:00.002-05:00

Are you familiar with Thanksgiving Day music? Did you even know there were Thanksgiving tunes? Neither did I, but two days ago, a simple game meant to occupy the kids turned our family Thanksgiving into a local musical.

It all started when I felt pity for my two kids for not having cousins to share the family holidays with. I was fortunate enough to grow up with a table full of 'em and so loved all family gatherings. But since my own kids aren't as lucky, they don't enjoy the family dinners like I did, and that makes me sad. So in planning for this year's T-giving dinner at my mother's house, where 13 adults would grace the table with my two children, ages 12 and 9, I decided my kids needed jobs.

I created two questionnaires - one for my rock-musician son, and the other for my silly goofball of a daughter. His question was: Who was your favorite singer or rock group when you were a kid? Her question was: What was the craziest thing you did as a kid or teenager? I then provided the name of every adult in attendance and a space for the kids to fill in the answers. They conducted their interviews during cocktail hour so that during dinner - once the can't-talk-eating silence set it - we'd make a guessing game out of it.

My son began by asking everyone to guess whose favorite group was The Platters. A poor poker face on my father's part revealed him, and when my cousin chose him, Dad broke into song - a tune I could not place, not so much out of lack of familiarity and more out of inability to identify any tune whatsoever. (This from the same man who insists on singing Happy Birthday to me every year over the phone...it's painful, I tell you.)

Next came Dion and the Belmonts. Once Mom was guessed...yep, you got it...she broke into a rendition of Run-around Sue which, at least, was better than Dad's singing. At this point, my son was losing it. He wanted to get through the list. I reminded him that this was the purpose of the game - to get everyone talking, laughing, and discussing something other than politics (which never goes over well in this bi-partisan family).

I won't go through all 13 musical selections, but I will mention my step-father's choice, John Philip Sousa. (What????) With this, everyone broke into Be kind to your web-footed friend, for a duck may be somebody's uncle... Oy vey! But when it was my turn and I was identified as the lover of Styx, I couldn't help myself. Tonight's the night we'll make history, honey, you and I, and I'll take any risk to tie back the hands of time and stay with you here tonight. Yeah, baby, the Best of Times.

Finally, it was my daughter's turn to have everyone guess who had committed what crazy act in their youth. I learned many wonderful things about my family and friends that night, thankfully in rated G version since most of us knew these answers would be shared. Not my cousin Don, though, whose answer was "got married". His wife was there, and later when we went around the table and said what we were thankful for, she said, "I'm thankful I've got a sense of humor." Good woman, my cousin Judy!

Other gems included shooting out street lights with a BB gun, climbing a hotel tower and dropping water balloons on people below until chased away by police, trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records by trying to drink the most water (failed), sneaking into the University of Miami pool at night and jumping off the high dive naked, and cutting off a sibling's long hair while she slept (my personal favorite).

This game lasted the entire dinner as we talked, stared at each other in surprise, and laughed loudly. It was brilliant. And the kids could not once complain of being bored...the greatest part of it all. Everyone enjoyed it so much that I think it will become a family tradition. I've already got question ideas brewing for next year.

What say you? Any fun Thanksgiving traditions you'd like to share?

On Facebook Birthdays (Or, 190 friends? How did that happen?)

2010-11-18T05:00:00.003-05:00

Today (November 16) has been a glorious day, and not only because I celebrated completing another year of life. First, I received my annual phone call from my dear friend in Germany. Even though he was out of town on business and had to search desperately for somewhere to plug in where he was staying, he called me at 7pm my time, which is 1am his time. He'd been stuck in meetings all day and confessed to being a little drunk, and I love him for it.

Second, I received no fewer than 54 birthday wishes from Facebook friends - enough to keep me occupied all morning as little red flag announcements popped up in my FB bar minute by minute. It was great to receive good wishes from people who normally would have had no clue it was my birthday (and who probably wouldn't have cared for not knowing). But as my profile page was filled with wall posts, it occurred to me...what about the other 136 friends in my list?

According to FB, I've got 190 friends, only 54 of whom cared enough to write a short message of happiness on my birthday wall, apparently. And that's just fine with me. Honestly, 54 is five times what I need. If I'd received 190 birthday messages, I might have found myself wishing I hadn't reached this annual milestone. So how did I end up with 190? Here's where Facebook annoys me.

When I first joined, back in 2008, I was very particular about who I requested friendship from and more particular about who I accepted if from. But just like in high school, where peer pressure forced us to sometimes hang with kids we didn't want to hang with, I've accumulated about 100 more FB friends than I care to have. (Not naming names here, of course.) I know how callous I sound, and I'm aware I may lose some FB friends in the wake of this post, but the good news is that any of you reading this are NOT part of the 100 or so I don't care about.

Conceptually, Facebook is a brilliant idea that has mostly been the funnest (yeah, I said "funnest") thing to come along since roller skates. I've loved reconnecting with people I thought I'd never hear from again, and more importantly, I love how connected I am to my overseas and out-of-state friends. For that, I thank the Facebook team almost every day. And as I stayed home today determined to write at least 1000 words, I didn't mind not accomplishing my task since I was busy chatting with FB friends in live chats or speaking to others on Skype (another worldly wonder).

Now, as I prepare to end my birthday, I will put my nasty attitude to rest and instead focus on the blessing of those friends who remembered me on my special day. My life is good and my true friendships - real and virtual - are beautiful. After dinner, I cracked open my Pei Wei fortune cookie and read, "Your life is a dashing and bold adventure." If the cookie says so, it must be true, and my friends are an integral part of it.

On Coexistence (Or, Can't we all just get along?)

2010-11-16T10:25:00.000-05:00

This is the bumper sticker I have on my car. It's been years now, and I'm always pleased when a stranger notices or asks about it. Yesterday, while parked at a red light, I noticed the woman behind me pointing to my sticker and talking to her passenger. I could actually read the driver's lips and saw her mouth "Jewish" as she pointed to the sticker. Then she held up a questioning hand as if to say, Don't know what the other stuff means.

Since the women in the car behind me were obvioulsy unfamiliar with the meaning of the sticker, I thought it would make a great blog post. I'm all about tolerance, but to appreciate my message, you must understand the symbolism. Here's the story...

Piotr Mlodozeniec is the Polish designer of the original Coexist design, which substituted the crescent moon representing Islam for "c", the Star of David representing Judaism for "x", and the cross representing Christianity for "t". Since then, the design has been expanded to cover all types of tolerance.

- for the letter "o", the peace symbol is substituted
- for the letter "e", a male/female symbol is substituted
- for the letter "i", a pagan/Wiccan symbol is substituted
- for the letter "s", a Chinese yin-yang symbol is substituted

All we need now is to color it like the rainbow flag to represent homosexuality, and the design becomes an international message of tolerance and hope.

(If you're interested in helping spread the word, you can do it here.)

On Time Management (Or, Not!)

2010-11-11T12:11:00.000-05:00

I love blogging. I only entered the blogosphere back in February of this year, and I jumped in head first, exhilarated by the hard splash. I set myself on a twice a week posting schedule and honored it for many months. Then it became once a week. (You know what I'm talking about.) And somewhere between once a week and today, I got lost. And I'm disappointed in myself - my harshest critic.

You must understand...the biggest compliment-insult my husband bestows on me is that I'm too efficient. (He's trying to insult me, but I take it with pride.) Never was I a procrastinator - not in childhood and certainly not in adulthood. No, siree. You'll never find me putting off until tomorrow what I can get done and check off my list NOW.

So if procrastination isn't my vice, why haven't I been blogging? Or writing, for that matter? I blame it on my muse. Many of my blogfriends reference a variety of amusing muses (I just wanted to type that), often posting muse avatars to inspire them daily, but I've never gone that route. Admittedly, I've never been able to clearly identify the source of my inspiration...either it was there or it wasn't, and I simply waited (rather patiently, I might add).

But last week I got pissed off. Since the school year resumed, when I've bumped into friends who ask about my writing, I've heard myself say, "My muse went on summer vacation and never came back." It's a charming enough response that elicits smiles, but every time I said it, I was afraid it was true. What if the unknown source of my inspiration never returned? I thought I'd die.

Then I found it. It started with a conversation in October in New York, where I got the idea for my next book. I let it sit for a while, brew inside my head and take shape. Then I picked up my copy of Hollis Gillespie's Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch: Tales from a Bad Neighborhood, and I felt inspired. (If you're not familiar with this book, check it out. It's pee-in-your-pants funny while also being touchingly poignant and beautifully written.) I sat down and started the Preface of my new book and was already on a roll when my lovely blog buddy, Nicole Ducleroir, said I HAD to read Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.

How could Nicole know that I was writing my own memoir and troubled over the narcissistic nature of the whole project? She couldn't, of course. But that, my friends, is an example of serendipity. By picking up King's memoir (already half-way through), I found the courage and attitude necessary to move on with my own project.

So I thank you, Nicole. And I thank Hollis and Steve, too. (Yeah, we're not really on a first-name basis, but hey, this is MY blog.) I still can't promise you'll be seeing me post regularly, but at least I'm writing...and that's a beautiful feeling.

On Tranquility (Or, Ingenious places to find inspiring photos)

2010-10-26T19:45:00.000-04:00

(http://www.hallmark.com/)

I saw this photo on a Hallmark birthday card and just had to have it. I paid the $3.69 even though I have no one at the moment to send the card to, just so I could take the card home, scan the image, and have it for-e-ver. That's how much I love it. I knew I had to find a way to post about it because any writer worth her/his weight in journals would love this picture too, I figured.

I really have nothing remarkable to say, so I'll simply invite whoever is interested to sit down on this bench, lean against whichever pillow suits your taste, take a sip of the cup of Joe (or tea if you prefer), pick a journal from the pile, sit back, enjoy the sunshine, and start writing.

Happy journaling!

On Days Off (Or, Never too old to play hookie)

2010-10-22T05:00:00.000-04:00

Can you ever be too old to play hookie? I think not. In truth, I had to talk myself into it, but that inner dialogue took all but ten seconds. What defines hookie in my world?

According to my W-2, I work part-time. But all of you part-time working moms know that's a bunch of crap. We work double time. Okay, men out there, relax. This isn't going to be a tirade on how underpaid mothers are. Chill out. (Or, chillax. I learned that from the TV show, iCarly. Yeah, I'm that hip.)

Getting back to the topic at hand...defining hookie.
I teach at the college two days a week this semester and spend the other three days taking care of my family life and trying to squeeze some personal accomplishments into those hours too. It's no joke when I tell my husband that my full teaching days are my "days off". The rest of the time feels hectic and often overwhelms me. No June Cleaver here. (And if you're wondering who June Cleaver was, go ask your mother...or your grandmother.)

So this morning, after dropping the kids off at school and then filling my shopping cart at the supermarket, I realized my day was virtually open. Sure, there are 22 student essays to grade, but I've got till Sunday night to make that happen. Still, the non-procrastinator in me said, while unloading the groceries, "Now get to work, Wen. You can shoot these babies out and have the grades posted online before the kids get home if you're diligent enough."

Then the strangest thing happened. I lay down on the sofa. (And yes, Missed Periods, I think that's the correct use of the past tense of "lie".)

Two hours later I woke up.

"Holy cow!" I shouted. (Actually, it sounded very different from that.) Now what? Realizing I was hungry, I prepared myself a salad. It was, after all, 11am, and having had breakfast at 6am made it spot on lunch hour. With my salad bowl on my lap, I sat back on the sofa and turned on the TV. "Just a bit of my favorite show, Ghost Whisperer, recorded on TiVo to keep me company while I eat," I told myself.

Three episodes later, I find myself wiping away tears and actually saying aloud, "That's an awesome show." And now it's 1pm. Holy cow, the morning is gone! I haven't cleaned house, graded any papers, unloaded the dishwasher, or made the beds. (~~Please don't tell my mother about that last one~~. Since Mom reads my blog, I'll claim temporary insanity.)

Anyway, since I have to leave to pick up my daughter in 45 minutes, the only logical thing to do is go online and write a blogpost, right? At least then I'll be able to say I did something productive with my day apart from providing food and sustenance for my family, which is not overrated, I tell you. So here I am, bragging about playing hookie. And believe you me, it feels marvelously decadent to steal a couple hours of sleep and then stare at the unmade beds while I do something for ME.

Oh yeah, and about that next book I'm supposed to be writing...don't ask. It's enough that I was able to talk myself out of hookie guilt for one morning. These days, finding time to write still seems so selfish. I need a muse to convince my over-developed sense of responsibility that it's okay to do the things I love most.

Until then, I'll revel in this morning of hookie. I've got 15 minutes left until I have to get my daughter. Let's see if I can find something soothing and non-productive to do. I think I'll go pet the cat.

On Top of New York, Part II (Or, Virtual and Real Adventures)

2010-10-19T06:42:00.000-04:00

Back in May, I posted On Top of New York (part I), and now it's time for the second installment with a few new adventures to report.

First off, fellow blogger Vicki Rocho of Rambles & Randomness was in New York City just days before me. As one of my dearest blog buddies, it broke my heart not to be able to have Iowa and Florida meet up in the Big Apple, so I found a way to make it virtually happen (our friendship is, after all, virtual). Vicki and I shared a meal at Brasserie Maison, just not at the same time. Here's Vicki:

And here am I. You can see that our virtual conversation was so engrossing that our meal started at night and lingered into the morning hours. That Vicki can talk up a storm, I tell ya.

After leaving Vicki at Maison, I headed off for NBC Studios at 30 Rock, where despite my small bust size and the fact that I'm well over 30, the network thought I'd make a good weathergirl. I had intended on posting the video clip, but the DVD I purchased freezes up my computer. So it looks like it ain't happening for now. Just as well, though. My performance wasn't grounds for quitting the day job.

Instead, I'll show you what it looks like when two childhood friends who grew up like sisters hit middle age and decide to travel together for the first time:

My oldest and dearest friend, Suzanne (on the right)

No fighting, no bickering, no faux sibling rivalry - just great times. I'll close by showing off the view from my brother's fabulous apartment, this time a Manhattan sunset:

All in all, another great New York adventure. I look forward to meeting more of my blog buddies either in the virtual world or in reality since some of you have grown dear to me (probably those of you actually reading this). Until that day, however, we will have to rely on our creativity to make these meetings happen. I mean, if NBC can make me a weathergirl, anything's possible!

P.S. Saw American Idiot on Broadway. Hated it. Felt like an American Idiot.

On Insomnia (Or, An ode to 4:00 AM)

2010-10-15T05:00:00.001-04:00

Where are you, Sleep?
I'm waiting here
for you to whisper
in my ear.

I'm too alert,
it's monkey mind
as dreams allude me.
Please be kind

and let the Sandman
do his best
to sprinkle here
a dose of rest.

How will I do
in morning time
when rushing starts
but I must shine?

If you could bring
one taste of sleep,
I won't denounce
the waking beep.

No, no, instead
I'll stretch and sigh,
so grateful for
some brief shuteye.

So please, I beg,
(Have you no shame?)
or else I'll blog
and curse your name!

[5:00 AM note to self: threatening Sleep and writing angry odes do not bring slumber.]

On Originality (Or, It's all in the voice)

2010-10-12T21:47:00.000-04:00

I've just finished reading a book that captivated me unexpectedly - The Wednesday Sisters by Meg Waite Clayton. In it, one of the characters, Brett, quotes Pulitzer-prize winning author Wiilla Cather as saying:

"There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before."

This got me thinking; what is it that makes one story more enticing than another?

I think about the stories I've written, all the great novels I've read so far, and all the fantastaic tales yet to be told. When you get down to brass tacks, there are a limited number of conflict themes in writing, and every story ever written can fit into one of them (or a combination of them): man vs. man, man vs. nature, man vs. society, man vs. himself, man vs. machine/technology, and man vs. fate. A writer often thinks her story is the most original and unique plot ever devised when, in reality, its themes are based on the same stories humans have been telling since antiquity, in times when oral story-telling was the only way to go.

Why do we keep telling the same tales over and over? Because for every person who has experienced one or more of the above-mentioned challenges (and who hasn't?), the experience is special, individualized, personal, and oftentimes incredibly fascinating and worth telling. It is that fierce desire mentioned by Cather that drives us to write it down, translate thoughts into words, and give voice to what was once simply an idea.

And that is the key, I think. In attempting to answer the question of what makes one story more enticing than another, it isn't the plot or the characters; it's the voice. Meg Waite Clayton's voice is unique, and it spoke to me clearly, without sounding like any other I'd read before. I envy her that. Her story is one of friendship, falling into the combined conflicts of woman vs. society, woman vs. herself, and woman vs. fate. Nothing particularly original, but the voice sure is. I feel that if I were to be fortunate enough to sit down to lunch with Ms. Clayton, I'd know exactly what she'd sound like even before she opened her mouth. It would be like meeting a pen-pal for the first time and having the sensation of familiarity, as if I could say, "I just knew you'd sound like that."

As we fiction writers delve into our latest projects (or search desperately for our misplaced muses, as am I), I encourage you all not to fret so much over how to make your story stand out in a saturated market of bestsellers. Instead, trust in your voice. If you listen carefully enough, you'll realize that no one can really sound like you, except for you. In closing, I will summon the words of one of my favorite animated characters and say, "Bee yourself." (Can you guess who it is?)

On the Bridge (Or, Finally time to tell the tale)

2010-10-03T13:57:00.000-04:00

(http://www.eureka-reservation.com/)

As I stand on this bridge, overlooking a vast river with hundreds of years of historical influence, I ask myself how many people have jumped off. It wouldn’t exactly be suicide since the water below does not flow with the turbulence of a bay, nor is it as frigid as that of the American Great Lakes. It would probably be fun, if one didn’t break a bone upon landing, to fall into these waters and be submerged into the bevy of stories it holds, tales of seafaring captains and crew with great dreams of sailing the ocean of a round planet to discover first the Indies and then, more knowingly, the New World.

Fast forward five hundred years and the ghosts of mariners, merchants, and fisherman surely haunt the winds that blow delicate ripples throughout the murky surface of water whose colors range from deep navy to moss green and even to violet gray, depending on the light in the sky. Along both this river’s shores and spanning this bridge, invisible spirits undoubtedly whisper tales of love lost or wishes fulfilled, to deaf ears.

But I hear them.

On a crisp Sunday in May, late in the morning, I stand on the Triana Bridge looking south over the Guadalquivir River in Seville, Spain, and I listen. This is the land where religious tolerance once ruled supreme before dying a shameful death, and where Gypsies are a paradox to be looked down upon and romanticized at the same time. It is also a land where progress, both socially and morally, is always on the move. So I keep my heart and ears open. I hear voices in different languages, laughter of all ages, boat engines humming below, cars rushing by behind me, horse hooves clopping on pavement as they pull carriages of tourists behind them, my own thoughts colliding with each other, and the undecipherable cries of Spanish spirits begging me to stay.

It is said Christopher Columbus set sail from the mouth of this river, and as I visualize that mouth, I wonder what stories of adventure it will some day tell of me.

I must find out.

-------------
This is the opening to a memoir-type story I'm considering writing. I welcome your feedback, even the critical (but kindly-worded) kind.

On Chocolate (Or, The great taste-testing adventure)

2010-09-25T17:43:00.000-04:00

"Everyone's a critic." And now, so are my daughter and I. In attempt to find something creative to do on a rainy Saturday, my 9-year-old daughter and I decided to be our own chocolate critics. As self-proclaimed chocolate connoisseurs, we considered ourselves up to the task. We went to our neighborhood Kilwin's and ordered one of almost everything from the individual cordials/truffles tray. It was an expensive experiment worth its weight in chocolate, not so much because it was delicious but rather because it was enlightening.

(http://www.kilwins.com/)

We sat down outside the store under the covered patio and got to work evaluating each chocolate based on smell, texture, and taste, and finishing it off with a rating from 1 to 10. We sampled eleven different pieces, the first three of which did not come from the glass display but from the open basket section where each individually-wrapped piece sold for 40 cents. The remaining eight pieces came from the counter and sold for over $1 a piece. The results surprised us.

The only two perfect 10's went to the individually-wrapped pansy, a 40-cent item that was rich and pure in its flavor and had just the right amount of bite, and the chocolate mint truffle with its smooth, authentic mint filling. The rest of the high scores were as follows:

-the coffee truffle (smooth, thick filling with an authentic coffee flavor) = 9.5
-butter cream (melty, soft center just like butter cream frosting) = 8
-chocolate heart (individually-wrapped 40-cent item with a pure chocolate flavor) = 6

From this point on, it got ugly:

-amaretto truffle (not so sweet but with a smooth center) = 5
-chocolate dome (individually-wrapped 40-cent item, slightly bitter) = 4
-chocolate bon bon (white chocolate shell with disappointing center) = 3.5

The last three scored so low because their flavors were indistinguishable. Here's our best guess of what we ate:

-Irish cream truffle = 3
-hazelnut truffle (smooth center but no nutty flavor) = 2
-champagne truffle (smelled like coconut!) = 2

When all was said and done, we walked away from the table deeply unsatisfied with an aftertaste that sent us to the water fountain, convinced that the taste of public water would be more pleasing than the bitterness that saturated our tongues.

To close, let me just say this. I LOVE CHOCOLATE. And so does my daughter. But our final analysis is that Kilwin's is overrated and overpriced. We agree that chocolate bliss can be more readily achieved with a Lindor truffle, though I prefer dark chocolate while my daughter will fight to the end that milk chocolate rules.

(http://www.amazon.com/)

We enjoyed our outing despite the disappointing results, but I think our next chocolate critique should take place in Switzerland, preferably in Zurich at the Lindt & Sprüngli store. Anyone care to join us?

On Cynicism (Or, When the learning curve doesn't exist)

2010-09-21T20:25:00.001-04:00

Apparently, I should buy the Shark Navigator Vacuum and the NuWave Oven Pro because my house is filthy and my food isn't being prepared in a healthful manner. This from my 12-year-old addicted to infomercials. Normally, I would link here, but since I have no intention of promoting these products, there'll be no linkage today. Instead I give you the heartfelt plea of my son (and a glimpse into the mind of a child with Asperger's Disorder):

"But Mom, with the Shark you'll never lose suction and it's easy to maintain. With only four easy payments of $49.95, you can get the Shark AND the free Shark Steam Mop, which is a $99 value!"

I don't know...never losing suction? He's got a point there, I guess.

The good news is I don't have to pay any attention to my son's hard sell because my 9-year-old daughter is doing my mommy job for me. She berates him for his naiveté as she tries to convince him that the advertisers want him to believe what they say, that the product just looks amazing, and that it's actually not a great deal.

The thing is just one year ago, my daughter was right there on that band wagon with her brother, trying to sell me on other house-improvement tools like Command hooks and picture frame hangers. But somewhere between eight and nine years old, the cynicism kicked in. Somewhere between crooked teeth and the first phase of braces, the skeptical side showed its face. Somewhere between Dora the Explorer and iCarly, the world taught my little girl to be a skeptic. I imagine it's developmentally appropriate, but it's all new to me given the path my son has taken.

I ask myself if cynicism is taught or caught, and in the case of my daughter, it has definitely been caught. But what about my son? Is it my job as his parent to teach him this characteristic? Or is it all right for me to let him live in gullible bliss, believing everything he hears (which he does) and also being incapable of telling a lie (even a white one)? Recognizing people's ulterior motives is an important skill, and my son needs to be taught this while my daughter has picked it up instinctually. Yet it pains me to have to consciously teach such an attitude of distrust.

I am reminded of the adage, "Ignorance is bliss." But I feel I would be remiss in letting my son walk through middle school with such ignorance since other kids will be quick to blow up his bliss given the first chance to mock him.

This is my task then...to teach my son to see the possible hidden lies, to understand there is bad to balance out the good, and to go through his days with the understanding that not all that glitters is gold - which is a whole other battle to fight since he takes everything literally. Euphemisms, adages, colloquial expressions...torture for a person with Asperger's.

I suppose I could sit back and let my daughter take care of things for me since she's usually eager to criticize her brother and teach him these lessons so painfully. Okay, there's my cynical side, which negates the above-asked question of whether my daughter's cynicism was caught or taught. At least I know I'm doing my job well with her.

What say you? Is cynicism a necessary survival trait?

On Long Hair (Or, A Lady Godiva Complex?)

2010-09-15T18:10:00.000-04:00

It's five minutes before test time in a college classroom, but the scuttle in the hall outside has nothing to do with the chapters in question and everything to do with hair accessories.

"Does anyone have a ponytail holder? I forgot mine," a twenty-something girl shouts.
"I've got a clip," a thirty-something woman offers.
"My hair's too thin for those things," a forty-something woman says. "That's why I need rubberbands."
The first girl nods in empathy.
"I have an extra scrunchy," another young woman announces.
The first girl sighs with relief as she accepts the fabric-covered elastic. "Life saver."

When I was in college, this pre-exam interchage would never have happened. The styles back then included bobs...

(http://www.wonderfulworldofhair.tripod.com/)

mullets...

(http://www.zimbio.com/)

and teased hair sprayed so thickly that strands rarely fell into the face.

(Yeah, it's me. Junior year of college. My hair's not thick enough to get really big, but you get the idea.)

Since hair fashions, like any other type of fashion, are always changing, long hair eventually came back in style. First, it was long straight hair, causing every wavy- and curly-haired girl to buy a flat iron or seek expensive Keratin treatments. But now it seems long, natural tresses are in, so anything goes.

Which leads me to the college classroom observation. In the class being tested, there are thirteen females ranging in age from 18-47, and each and every one of them (including me, the professor) has hair at least five inches below the shoulder. (And not one of them has bangs - another aspect of hair fashion that seems to have gone the way of perms.) These women ususally wear their long hair loose and flowing, but today almost all of them have it pulled back in a bun or the sloppy-style ponytail, another fashion newbie. They look so darned studious it's all I can do not to stand up and cheer them on to an "A".

Why is long hair so popular? With all the maintenance required for most of us to make long hair look good, why does this fashion continue coming back around?

Easy. It's feminine, versatile, and flattering to most faces. While it takes a naturally beautiful face to pull off a short hair style well, an otherwise average-looking girl is flattered by long layers around her face. And no man can deny the sex appeal of a woman wearing an up-do to expose typically-covered neck and shoulders.

Despite our historical (not to be confused with hysterical) cries for equality, it seems we women still crave the feeling of femininity. And why not? We are not men, after all, and working with our sexuality, sensuality, or whatever we've got has always been a useful tool in this man-controlled world. From the 11th century days of Lady Godiva (whose long mane did more than simply cover her necessities) to the 21st century hair fashions, long hair is here to stay.

Lady Godiva

(http://www.list.co.uk/)

So how do you wear your hair?

On Sad Stories (Or, William Faulkner was spot on)

2010-09-09T12:11:00.000-04:00

William Faulkner said, “Between grief and nothing, I will take grief.” I’m not a Faulkner fan - let's be clear about that - but these particular words ring true for me. As they do for many of us. In Meg Waite Clayton’s novel, The Wednesday Sisters, she asks:

“Why are we drawn to sad stories?...No one wants sad in real life. You want the sad life behind door number one, Monty, or the happy ending behind curtain number two? And yet sad plays well in literature. Romance and tragedy. Romeo and Juliet, Anna Karenina…Why is that?”

I got to thinking, and here’s what I came up with:
We say we want happy endings in our stories, but when that happens without incident, we’re cynical about it. “That could never happen so easily.” Or we’re envious of the characters for not having achieved that happiness without struggle. “Not real, no way,” we claim. So even though we want things to go well for our characters, we feel cheated or ripped off if it’s unbelievable.

Happiness is fleeting. We feel exhilarated, but it’s hard to carry that joy around for long since, ironically, it is that happiness that gives us the power to move on. Sadness, on the other hand, sits deep within us for a spell, doing some damage and causing a ripple effect as we contemplate our misery. It reminds us we are alive.

How many of us have said to ourselves while perusing options for DVD rentals, "I'm in the mood for a good cry"? We never call it a bad cry. Think about it. Sharing in a character's sadness is like traveling through cyber-space. It's virtual sadness, which feels as real as the real thing but doesn't way us down the way our own grief could. It's cathartic.

Sad songs do the same thing for our souls. They help us feel passionate about something but then allow us to move on. Because even though the music and lyrics stirred up something real within us, they don't bog us down with real troubles. I, for one, like to be stirred but not shaken. But as Faulkner implied, given the choice to be shaken up or left stagnant, I'd take shaken up any day. Drama queen, you say? Perhaps. But life is messy.

What say you? Are you ever up for a stirring tear-jerker, or does that kind of story suck the life out of you?

On the Kindness of Strangers (Or, When it's okay not to be kind)

2010-09-06T05:00:00.001-04:00

Imagine this scenario:

You're in a waiting room with people coming and going. A stranger several seats away asks you to watch her laptop while she runs to the restroom. You nod, and the woman is gone. One moment later, another stranger casually approaches the laptop, unplugs it, and wraps the whole thing under her arm as she walks away.

What do you do? Do you yell to her to stop? Maybe it's the first stranger's friend picking up the computer for her. I mean, who would be so brazen as to steal a computer in front of another person?

When the first stranger returns from the restroom and finds her computer gone, she turns to you with unabashed anger. "Where's my computer?!" Suddenly, the problem is yours because you took responsibility for a stranger's possession.

This kind of thing happens more frequently than you'd imagine. Because of this, I decided years ago not to accept responsibility when a stranger innocently asks me to "watch their stuff". So yesterday, when the first part of the above scenario happened, I smiled kindly at the woman and apologized, explaining that I wouldn't take responsibility for her computer. Oh, the dirty look that followed. And all I'm thinking is how does she know that I'm not the exact person who would steal it?

The woman left the computer anyway, which means if she was prepared to do so, she shouldn't have asked me in the first place. If she's that trusting, she should have simply taken the risk, hoping that nobody would have touched the laptop since I was present.

For the record, I once witnessed a mother ask another woman to watch her toddler sleeping in the stroller so she could run to the bathroom. People...please!

I hate not to be the Good Samaritan, but this is setting yourself up for trouble. If I sound cynical, answer me this. Why does airport security specifically advise travelers not to accept goods from others in the airport and to report abandoned luggage? Life can be beautiful, but it's also pretty dirty sometimes. Agreeing to take responsibility for a stranger's property is never wise. And asking strangers to take on that burden is unfair.

If your item is that valuable, pack it up and take it with you. And if you're really willing to leave it for a few moments, go for it (but not with young children) and hope that honesty and morality will prevail. Like Anne Frank wrote in her diary, "Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart."

On Bucket Lists (Or, Wollen wir tanzen?)

2010-09-01T19:58:00.000-04:00

I've never given thought to a bucket list, mostly because I can't imagine what would happen if I managed to accomplish all the items. Would that mean it was time to kick the bucket? Or time to make a new list? I'd spend a lifetime making lists, checking them off, and then chasing after new lists, which feeds the possibility of frightening addictions if you ask me (which I know you didn't, but you get my two cents' worth anyway).

That nonsense having been said, I was watching an episode of Samantha Brown's Passport to Europe, and everything changed for me in about two minutes, which was about how long she spent on the segment in Vienna, Austria that would inspire item #1 on my bucket list.

She danced at a Viennese Ball.

(http://www.austria.info.uk/)

The Vienna Ball season runs annually from the New Year through February. The above shot shows the opening of a ball where the debutantes open the dance with the first Waltz of the evening. After they've done their rounds, the public joins in for the rest of the evening. And apparently "the public" could be anybody. Yeah, even you or I could buy a ticket to a ball, don our finest threads, and dance like princesses in venues worthy of royalty but open to Joe Schmos like us. I watched Samantha Brown glide across the floor doing the Waltz - which, for the record, is a relatively simple dance to learn - and looking so fairy-tale elegant that I said out loud (and I was alone when I said this), "I want that to be me."

At this point, I should mention that I've been coveting Samantha Brown's job for years, but this is the first time I actually believed it possible for me to have that kind of moment...that is, without having her meet up with an accident for me to get there.

As soon as my husband came home, I told him about my new bucket list, the one with only one item on it. He was nonplussed.

Hubby: With all the worldly adventure out there to conquer, you want to dance the Waltz at a Vienna Ball?

Me: Yes. I mean, Ja.

Hubby: I want to go white-water rafting on the Colorado River, class 5 rapids.

Me: Wunderbar. Enjoy.

Hubby: You want to Waltz in Vienna. (a statement, but it's filled with incredulity)

Me: You don't like dancing. I get it. But think of the level of THAT challenge - learning the Waltz so you could take me to Vienna and treat me like a princess, just for one night of fairy-tale romance.

Hubby: (the ultimate romantic, truth be told) OK. As soon as I win the lottery - item #1 on MY bucket list.

I may not have a date on the calendar for my Viennese Ball, but just dreaming about its possibility fills me with hope...which I guess is the main purpose of a bucket list anyway.

What say you? What's on your bucket list?

On A Beautiful Death (Or, A Toast to Rose)

2010-08-28T18:07:00.002-04:00

I don't watch much TV, but once I got over my Sex and the City-in-syndication addiction, I moved on to Ghost Whisperer. I am not ashamed to say I love that show. However, I am on the fence about the concept of spirits only remaining earthbound because of unresolved issues. I kind of liked imagining my grandfather and my step-sister watching over me. I'll even confess that when my cats suddenly stare at the air and move their ears, I like to think it's my other dear cats who've passed on. Except that Ghost Whisperer says spirits at peace cross over into the light.

So much for being watched over in good faith.

There are times, though, when imagining a spirit moving on is a soothing thing. I'm reminded of this as I prepare to go to my best friend's grandmother's funeral tomorrow. I was literally born with my best friend (our moms are best friends and conveniently had their daughters eight days apart in the same hospital), so I knew "Nana", as she was affectionately called, all my life.

When my best friend and I were seniors in high school "Pop-Pop" passed away, making Nana a widow. I remember the tears at that funeral and wondering how long my own grandparents would remain in my life. Five years later, I lost both my maternal grandparents. And eleven years after that both my paternal grandparents. (Yes, I thought it strange that both couples passed in the same year.) So by the age of 33, I had no more grandparents.

Now, at 43, I will say my good-byes to Nana, who lived to be 98 years old. I think most people will understand when I say that I'm not sad. I'm not even sad for my best friend and her parents. Don't get me wrong; I feel their loss and know that mourning is appropriate and natural. But when I think about Nana's life, the love she had around her always from her local children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, I feel joy for Nana, and I hope her family does, too. I want to rejoice in the good health that she experienced for the majority of her life. No painful diseases or crippling syndromes to wear down her days. No estrangement from family members she might have wronged. No living to watch her own children or grandchildren die before her.

That's not to say that Nana didn't have her worries and strife. We all do. Especially if we're blessed to live 98 coherent years. She was even lucky enough to have her best girlfriend by her side her entire adult life. That would be "Grandma", my best friend's other grandmother. And Grandma is still with us, which I suppose means Grandma will be one of the saddest people in attendance tomorrow.

So today I memorialize Nana, aka Rose. I send my love and thoughts to my best friend, Suzanne, and her family, and I pray for Nana to cross over so she can be with Pop-Pop.

I also send my prayers to all my blogfriends so that you, too, may be as lucky as Rose and have friendship, family, good health, and a sound mind for as long as time allows. Only then can death be beautiful.

On Lessons from the Lil' Ones (Or, All fanagle and no jenk)

2010-08-12T05:00:00.006-04:00

Three women + three glasses of wine + Japanese food + twelve flavors of frozen yogurt = four hours of girl talk and lots of revelations. Ah, the wondrous bonding of girl time. It's the reason we live longer as widows than men do as widowers...we've always got our girls. This particular dinner was with an old friend I hadn't seen in ages and a friend of hers I'd met once before. It's nice to know that in adulthood, three is not a crowd but rather a trifecta of the Sisterhood, the Motherhood, and the Wifehood. The only reason we stopped talking after four hours was because of our obligations to the latter two hoods. But our continuous thread of conversation could have gone on indefinitely.

The most enjoyable part of our talk involved our tales of motherhood. Among the three of us there are seven children between the ages of 8 and 16, all full of insight and self-taught life lessons to share. Here are the top 10 lessons that may just teach you something you might otherwise have not known.

Lesson #1 (from a 9-yr-old): Just because you can doesn't mean you should, as in, "Just because you can throw the cat over the stair rail doesn't mean you should." (Yeah, my mind was spinning too, wondering why that example seemed to her the best illustration.)

Lesson #2 (from a 9-yr-old): I'm old enough to be left alone. But when you want me to do chores, I'm just a little girl.

Lesson #3 (from an 11-yr-old): Even girls who get Straight A's can be ripe for a good fist fight because "Impulse control isn't all it's cracked up to be, Mom."

Lessson #4 (from a 12-yr-old): When a twelve-year-old gets her period for the first time, it is NOT okay to tell Dad...unless he's going to take her out for ice cream. Coldstone Creamery works best.

Lesson #5 (from a 10-yr-old): If you dial 9-1-1 and then hang up immediately, the police will still come. It might take 10 frickin minutes, but they'll come, and they'll lecture you about wasting their time when they could have been out saving someone else's life who may be dying right now because of you. (This is great, because Mom doesn't have to inflict any punishment. The shame of it all is enough for the child.)

Lesson #6 (from a mother): When going on a family cruise, make sure to take Grandma along so she can occupy kids long enough to give you and Hubby "private" time. Five minutes should do it.

Lesson #7 (from an 8-yr-old): You're never too old to sleep in your parents' bed. It stops them from making strange noises in the middle of the night, plus if you fanagle it right, you get your bedroom redecorated as an incentive to return to it.

Lesson #8 (from an 11-yr-old): If your parents are strict and you are frugal enough, you can eventually save your allowance to buy your own cell phone. Then you just have to butter up Grandpa so he'll add you to his cell phone plan.

Lesson #9 (from a mother of a pre-teen girl...to me): YA is hot right now. Forget what you want to write and go write a YA novel. Make some money, and then go do what you want. (She so doesn't get why I write...and apparently believes I'll never make money doing it.)

Lesson #10 (from a 9-yr-old): When Mommy and Daddy make scary noises at night from behind their locked bedroom door, and you ask Mommy if she's okay, and she says, "I fell down, and it hurt. But I'm all right now. Go to bed," ...that is jenk.

With these newfound tidbits of knowledge, I hope you parents out there can sleep a bit easier. Just knowing that your kids have become masters of manipulation and bedroom espionage should be enough to inspire your own time with your peeps. After all, it is the battle wounds and adventures that unite us the hood that is parenting.

On Justin Bieber (Or, I said, On Justin Bieber! What, are you deaf?)

2010-08-09T05:00:00.031-04:00

I survived the Justin Bieber concert! I said, I survived the Justin Bieber concert! What? What? I can't hear you. You want me to stop screaming? I'm not screaming! And what's that damn ringing noise? Oh yeah, I survived the Justin Bieber concert, but my eardrums didn't.

And so it goes. 22,000 fans - most of whom were female and under the age of 15 - screamed for Justin and put the power of performance amps to shame. Female screams have a higher decibel level than male screams, and young female screams are higher than mature female screams. Therefore, it stands to reason that before Justin Bieber actually goes through puberty, he will be too deaf to hear his own voice cracking.

Until that day, however, I have to admit the boy can put on a show. He can dance like all get-out, play guitar while suspended in a sparkling ball, and play the drums. Who knew? I've also heard he writes much of his own music. Can Taylor Swift dance like that? I'm just sayin'.

It's a good thing the boy put on a great show because I know three little girls who would have given him what-for if he hadn't pulled through. The thrill of being at his show was brand new for the girls when we pulled up to the arena. I say brand new because until that moment, they had believed we were all going to girls' night out dinner. They'd been good sports about it all since what they really wanted to do that night was see Justin Bieber, but with ticket prices being prohibitively expensive n' all...they understood. Except that one week earlier, my friend had scored a handful of free tix for club seats. At that moment, the made-up girls' night out story was born as she and I secretly looked forward to the all-u-can-eat smorgasbord and open bar. Yeah, baby, open bar, which is the least they could provide to all the parents who were doomed to lose their hearing before the night's end.

So we're heading out to our special surprise dinner location when we "accidentally" get stuck in arena traffic. With three girls and three moms in the car, the next few moments went something like this:

Presley: "Why aren't we moving? I'm hungry."
Me: "Sorry, girls. Bieber traffic."
My daughter: "Aw, Mom!"
Me: "I should have known better. Sorry."
Denise: * crosses arms over chest* "Now we have to watch all those people going into the concert. That's so unfair!"
Denise's mom: *smirk*
Presley: "Can't you get in the faster lane? Over there."
Me: "Neh, we're already in this lane."
Presley's mom: "I have an idea."
Presley: *rolls eyes*
Me: "What?"
Presley's mom: *digs through purse and then waves tickets in the air* Let's go to the Justin Bieber concert!

Here is the look from the backseat...

And here we all are ready to ~~have our eardrums blown out~~ enjoy the concert.

Here's the proof we were there. See the Justin Bieber screens in the background? Like my daughter's braids? It took me almost an hour to do these but amazingly less than two minutes for her to take them out the next day. Argh. Still, it was worth it since I caught her on camera...AT THE JUSTIN BIEBER CONCERT!

For the next 24 hours, I was her hero. But life has now resumed normalcy since hero worship dies an even faster death than those braids did.

Ah, Justin...may your shining star burn slightly longer.

On Looking Back (Or, A Tribute to Karen Carpenter...and my mother)

2010-08-05T05:00:00.030-04:00

"When there's no getting over that rainbow, when my smallest of dreams won't come true, I can take all the madness the world has to give, but I won't last a day without you." In 1972, Karen Carpenter's silky voice sang to me from my mother's record player as the hum of the vacuum cleaner tried to drown out the ill-fated singer. At six years old, I believed my mother to be happiest while cleaning house on a quiet Saturday and listening to her favorite 33, the Carpenters.

(If you're asking yourself what a 33 is, you were born too late to appreciate the magic of Karen and Richard Carpenter, the duo who shaped my childhood and so many of the pleasant memories I have of my mother. I should also mention Carole King's Tapestry album, in case you're feeling motivated to research mellow rock of the early 1970s.)

By the time I was old enough to collect 45s (again, if you're too young, look it up on Wikipedia), I had moved on to Elton John, Olivia Newton John, and Grand Funk Railroad. But the Carpenters were my cornerstone of childhood happiness.

Fast forward a number of years to last Saturday night as I'm cleaning up the kitchen after a wonderful meal cooked by my amateur chef of a husband. He's out doing exercise, and the kids are playing quietly. (Only a parent can truly appreciate the sanctity of such a moment.) I turn on the stereo and select the Carpenters' A Song for You from the CD player. This 1972 album includes the song I Won't Last a Day Without You, whose lyrics I cited above. Nostalgia is a dastardly demon, and as I raise my voice to belt out the chorus of this song - surprising myself by knowing every last lyric even though it has been a lifetime since I've heard the song - my throat locks itself in a knot of tears that sneak up from Lord knows where so that I can't even finish the chorus without crying.

Why? you ask.

I do not know.

All I know is that my tears smack me across the face and say, "That's what you get for letting sleeping dogs lie."

"What sleeping dogs?" I ask.

Nostalgia gently lays its hand on my shoulder. "You've just had a nice family dinner (even though your daughter refused to eat the delectable saffron fish and garlic broccoli), and now you're enjoying the meditative peace of cleaning up...just like your mother used to do. How can you not get it, Wendy?"

I stop wiping down the dining room table and sit for a moment. I listen to Karen Carpenter and I think of my mother. There really were so many things that were unpleasant about my childhood, but when I listen to the Carpenters, all I can think about is how beautiful those years were, how safe and happy I felt at times.

In these days of parenting, I often find it to be the hardest job I've ever had. I think back to my own childhood and imagine my mother having it so much easier than I do. But the truth is that she had her own stuff to deal with, which didn't come to light until I was older. I've always associated the music of the Carpenters with a feeling of peace and security. But this particular evening, as I wash dishes and clean as my mother once did while the children played in the secure confines of their home, Karen Carpenter's voice speaks to me. She reminds me that very little is actually as it seems, and sometimes that is AOK. We all have some childhood memories best viewed through rose-colored glasses. We do this for self-preservation. But if we dare to wake the sleeping dogs and stir up trouble, we're reminded that chaos is a natural part of life and that it's all right to live in a world that's less than rosy, more of a muddled color that isn't always pretty.

Listening to the Carpenters sing that night made me see that my childhood wasn't perfect, nor was it terrible. It was a mixed drink of peace and comfort stirred with insecurity and longing. But once swallowed, it went down smoothly and settled in my heart with an aftertaste more sweet than bitter, which is why the soothing voice of Karen Carpenter could bring me to tears of sweet nostalgia.

Earlier that day, I had realized that my children had long reached the age of remembering childhood events, and I asked myself what they would remember about this time when they were older. How would they view me? Despite the arguing and age-appropriate power struggles, will they grow into adults who hear a certain song and get choked up because it reminds them of me?

I wondered. And I hoped. (Later on, I asked my daughter if there was any music that reminded her of me. She said, "Spanish music and Beautiful Girls [by Sean Kingston] because you like that song." She's right.)

As I tried to resume singing along with the Carpenters, I remembered my mother. Despite the bad times, she was my rock, the solid stone of security in my life. The love that kept me strong. Even though we don't speak every day, she is still a crucial part of my life. So to her, I dedicate the Carpenter's lyrics, with a slight change. (We'll call it poetic license.)

"When there's no getting over that rainbow, when my smallest of dreams won't come true, I can take all the madness the world has to give, but I won't last a day without your love."

On Free Hugs (Or, What the world needs now is love sweet love)

2010-08-02T05:00:00.001-04:00

I'm about four years too late to spread some sunshine. So deflating. My depression began a few days ago when a Facebook friend posted the video below. I was awed by the outcome and felt motivated to make it happen in my hometown. After further research into the Free Hugs Campaign, however, I learned that people from cities all over the world had jumped on board long ago - about 4 years to be exact - and had learned the hard lesson that most town law enforcement agencies were interrupting the movement by demanding permits. You know...health concerns and all...because hugging can certainly spread the worst of the worst diseases, right? Or we could knock someone over and then, hello...did someone say lawsuit?

I even had another friend on board (remember Jen from Finding Thesea?), and we were thinking of who else we could draft to join us on our day of doling out free hugs. We were trying to decide which song we'd use to accompany the awe-inspiring video we'd eventually post after our day of sharing the love. (What the World Needs Now Is Love Sweet Love???) We'd even gone so far as to talk about what clothing we should wear to appear appropriately welcoming but not too enticing (a challenging feat for two hot ladies like us...maybe). It was going to be the community service event of our summer.

But no.

Instead, I invite you to view the video and feel the warmth that Jen and I would have loved to pass on. If this is the only way I can do it, then by God, this is how it will be done. I send a free hug to every one of you, and to all the people in your lives who I don't know, and to all the people in your town, and to all your followers. I encourage you to share the love by linking, if you'd like. I don't want this to sound like an appeal for more followers, so link at your own discretion. I'm truly just in it for the hugs.

On Samantha (Or, The winner is...)

2010-07-30T10:43:00.001-04:00

Okay, so in my mind's eye, the closest celebrity snapshot I could find to resemble Samantha is actress Lauren Graham (Gilmore Girls). The two pics below are how I imagine Sami in her 20s, when she first arrives in Seville, and then a bit later, after a comfortable adjustment to expat life.

According to reader comments, Al at Publish or Perish was the closest. Actually nailed it. (And dare I say, he might like to nail Lauren Graham? Sorry, Al, shouldn't have gone there, but I did.) Speaking of Al, I want to congratulate him on finally being able to hold in his hands a hard copy of his novel, Veiled in Shadows, soon to be available online. (That's your prize, Al, for guessing Samantha's appearance correctly - a free plug!)

Thanks, everyone, for playing along. Happy Weekend!

On Visualization (Or, She looks like what?)

2010-07-29T05:00:00.003-04:00

Stealing an idea today from Jen at Unedited, who presented her followers with a fun game (in my opinion). The idea is to post a snippet from a WIP (Work in Progress, for my non-writer friends) and ask readers to describe the MC's (Main Character's) appearance. This idea came about when Jen realized that her idea of a character was often completely different than what her readers had in mind. So as I work on this next novel, I give you a very random clip of Samantha as she takes her first Spanish taxi ride upon arriving in Seville for the first time. The only background info you need is that Samantha is telling this story in retrospect. In present time, she is a 40-year-old woman who has been living the expat life for many years.

Okay, here we go. Read on and tell me what Samantha looks like. I'll reveal a photo image of Samantha in a few days.

“Señorita, I take you somewhere?” A taxi driver held open his trunk for my luggage as I stood on the curb obviously looking helpless and American.

“Sí, gracias.” I handed him a piece of paper with my new address on it.

The driver eyed it for a second and then nodded his approval. He tossed my two bags haphazardly into the trunk, slammed it closed with more force than was necessary, and ushered me quickly into the back seat. “Traffic get bad soon. We go fast.”

As we zoomed through traffic and weaved from lane to lane, coming precariously close to other cars and proving that Seville cabbies were probably even more efficient than New York drivers, I sat in the back seat of that taxi feeling a sensation I’d never felt before. Confidence. It was the most daring venture I’d ever set out on, a time when confidence should have been the last thing I felt. It seemed fear, doubt, and even indecision had forgotten to find their way into my luggage when I packed up for my life of drinking coffee in streetside cafés and strolling Spanish calles.

On Growing Up (Or, Oh, to borrow your brain, Tom Robbins, just for one day of writing)

2010-07-26T05:00:00.044-04:00

I am not a book critic, and I never plan for my blog to bungee jump off that bridge. But I did an impulsive thing the other day while at the library; I checked out a book. Actually, the impulsive part was that I chose a book I’d already read. (I hardly ever double read.) Back in high school, I remember loving this book for its quirky story, so much so that as I stared at the spine and read the familiar title, I couldn’t remember one single detail from the story. All I could remember was how much I loved it and how I’d gone and read another book by that peculiar author, Tom Robbins. For a man with a particularly normal name, he is anything but common.

I'm so glad I re-read Still Life with Woodpecker because as the story all came back to me, so did my affirmation of the brilliance of Tom Robbins. (I don't smoke, but I actually debated purchasing a pack of Camel cigarettes yesterday as I stared at the label behind the drugstore counter. If you want to know what I'm talking about, read the book.) Here today, I will not review his book but rather offer you tidbits of the lovely and eccentric language of Tom Robbins as used in the two novels of his that I’ve read: Still Life with Woodpecker and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.

Still Life’s home base is Seattle, where “A gelid wind, Alaska decals on every piece of its luggage, lingered in the rain without a sneeze…” (If I hadn't been reading a library copy of the book, I swear I'd have highlighted this phrase and practiced it until my writer's brain could come up with a similar way to describe the heat of South Florida.)

The underlying theme of Still Life is the protagonist’s quest to find out how to make love stay. Princess Leigh-Cherie is in love with Bernard Mickey Wrangle, aka the Woodpecker. The author’s response to Leigh-Cherie’s question: “Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if loves stays, it can have half. It will stay.”

Come on! Even if you’re unfamiliar with Junior’s Deli, how can you not love this man?

Here are two more gems:

“Sometimes one gets the feeling that life still thinks it’s living in Paris in the ‘30s.” (I’m personally all for life’s delusional thinking on that one.)

“They glared at her the way any intelligent persons ought to glare when what they need is a smoke, a bite, a cup of coffee, a piece of ass, or a good fast-paced story, and all they’re getting is philosophy.” (I know this look very well because I feel I’ve passed it around a few times.)

Robbins spends a LOT of time philosophizing in all his books, which might drive some readers to the point of taking the aforementioned bungee jump without first attaching the bungee cord, but I for one have to agree with the attitudes Robbins shares with us. Oh, you want a sample? (Well, you’re getting one anyway. I mean, if you’ve read this far, you must like something about Robbins’s writing, right?)

On humanity, Robbins says, “Humanity has advanced, when it has advanced, not because it has been sober, responsible, and cautious, but because it has been playful, rebellious, and immature.” Which ties in to this next topic. “Growing up is a trap…When they tell you to shut up, they mean stop talking. When they tell you to grow up, they mean stop growing. Reach a nice level plateau and settle there, predictable and unchanging, no longer a threat.”

That brief treatise has stuck with me recently. When I find my children asking me to participate in childlike play and I hesitate, I hear Robbins warning me not to grow up. He tells me not to settle for the adult rules placed on me so long ago. He reminds me it’s perfectly healthy and better for my growth as a person to let myself be childlike every now and then – especially with my kids.

In a recent post, I included a photo of my son jumping through the sprinkler, and I remarked how my neighbors would think I was crazy acting like a kid if they caught me doing that. Tom Robbins reminds us all that those neighbors feel threatened because they themselves are stifled. Who are we, the reckless neighbors, to break the rules of growing up? In rebellion, I've just returned from a water park with my kids, where I let myself be jettisoned from the superslide and be sprayed from every direction with blasting water along the lazy river. I laughed the whole time. (Take that, cranky neighbors!)

So in honor of my children and Tom Robbins, I encourage all of us to continually grow, to go on playing, to always want to know more, to never completely conquer our fears or realize all of our dreams, to only stop being a threat once we die. Only then is the game truly over.

On Seatbelts (Or, I dare you not to be moved)

2010-07-22T05:00:00.001-04:00

A couple of days ago, I read a post by KLM at A Rock in My Pocket, where she found herself questioning the seemingly stupid behavior or poor decisions made by us quirky human beings. (Like what makes an overweight middle-aged woman think she'll look hot donning a bikini? And why would someone buy a full shopping cart worth of watermelons...without also purchasing vodka?) In her comments section, I said it was always good to question life but suggested that perhaps she was asking the wrong questions.

Well, hah! The joke is on me because the next day, while driving, I saw three moron drivers not wearing seatbelts. And yes, I asked myself Why? Why? Why? With all we know today about car accident statistics, how can there be any excuse for not wearing your seatbelt? I just don't get it.

So for those of you out there who, just maybe, are making a similarly moronic decision when you drive, I ask you to watch the following video.

To quote one of my favorite movie characters, "And that's all I have to say about that."

On Messing with Nature (Or, This was supposed to make it better?)

2010-07-19T05:00:00.002-04:00

I love lizards. Being a native South Floridian, I really have no other choice. I grew up with them running in my house at the call of any open door, so catching them became necessity, especially since I didn't want them to suffer a fate worse than death - being toyed with by my cats. (It's the only cruel side of felines I've seen so far.) And since my husband is not a fan of lizards, it's a good thing I am. As is my daughter. Which is why I took her today to the Miami Museum of Science. After all, it was Lizard Day!

Imagine a dog show but with lizards. And I ain't talkin' about the kind that sneak in your door and become cat prey. No, no, no. These lizards could be cat predators. So you can imagine my daughter's thrill to discover she could not only pet these reptiles but even hold them.

Holding a Bearded Dragon (this one was missing three of its feet and part of its tail because, as a baby, it had been in a cage with too many lizards and the food supply ran low. Yeah, you heard me...lizard cannibalism.)

The lizards on display included Bearded Dragons, as shown above, various breeds of Monitors...

Monitor Lizard (http://www.bbc.co.uk/)

...and lots of large Iguanas. How large, you ask? Well, let me show you.

This guy needed a harness, and to give you a little perspective...

...my daughter is petting him while his owner struggles to keep his hind legs from kicking. She said it was like holding a toddler over her arm.

In addition to the lizards on display, humans were given the opportunity to "eat like lizards" (minus the tongue thrusting). Chefs were lined up stir frying worms and crickets, and small bowls of fried worms were available for snacking. For dessert, there were cookies that looked like the chocolate chip variety, except they were cricket-chip cookies. To answer the question burning in your head, NO! I did not taste any of this, but my brave daughter had a fried worm and my father (a fascinated tag-along) really like the cookies.

Now, since I've mentioned my father, I should get to the point of this post, which is the horrible discovery he and I made while touring the hall of lizards on display by proud owners.

A young man was holding a strawberry-blond colored dragon with no scales. It's called a Silkback Dragon. He invited us to touch its skin, bragging about how rare this breed was. The skin felt smooth (silky) and dry, and it had wrinkles in many spots as if the skin couldn't bounce back from having been rubbed there seconds earlier. The guy said their skin is so sensitive without its scales that you have to rub lotion on it frequently to prevent cracking and infections. He added that if the Silkback got out, it would die almost instantly. The rest of the conversation went more or less like this:

Dad: How did this breed come about?
Guy: Oh, we breed them like this?
Dad: Why?
Guy: Well, it started as an accident, while trying to improve the breed. You know, make a better gene pool.
Dad: Another lesson in why you shouldn't mess with nature.
(At this point, I'm thinking the conversation is over since Dad has ventured sarcastically into socio-political territory. But the guy doesn't get the hint.)
Guy: Oh, no. Look how beautiful they are. The color is so vibrant. We breed them like this now because they're so rare and exotic.
Dad: (incredulous) On purpose?
Me: (infuriated) Are you kidding me?
Daughter: How sad.
Guy: No, these guys go for almost $500 for an adult, $250 for a baby.
Me: This is so wrong. You made a mistake that hurts the lizard and now you're doing it on purpose?

At this point, Dad grabs my elbow and politely tries to escort me away from the man, mumbling in my ear, "Not the time to get political." I give him a look but surrender because I know it will be much more satisfying to blog about this than to take on a man with a five-pound lizard in his hand.

So here I am saying THIS IS WRONG. I'm all for stem cell research to help cure or prevent diseases, birth defects, and the sort, but causing a genetic "accident" and then intentionally propogating it because it's fasciniating and brings in big money...this is worthy of an OMG. Or an OMFG. (And I hate those acronyms. Don't get me started on LOL, or LMFAO.)

If there are any of you out there considering purchasing an exotic lizard as a pet, please, please, please make sure it has scales. A scaleless lizard is as cruel a breeding trick as is a hairless cat. (Though admittedly much more attractive. I mean, what good is a cat who can't entertain me by hacking for minutes before upchucking a hairball?)

But seriously folks, bald may be in fashion for human men these days, but men have that choice to make. (And I must say, I like it.) Lizards, on the other hand, need their scales. Don't let the uber-exotic lure you into making inhumane choices.

On the Lies We Tell Our Children (Or, Does dishonesty have its merits?)

2010-07-15T05:00:00.006-04:00

No Santa Claus or Easter Bunny in our house, but definitely a Tooth Fairy...until the 6-year-old figured it out. When you've got clever kids for whom innocence was not meant to last, these "lies" live a short shelf life. We don't really think of them as lies, but they are. Sweet, joyful, tender lies, but lies none the less. When kids eventually find out the truth, they are hopefully wise enough to realize the stories were told not only to them but to all children, and so the lie doesn't sting so badly.

But what of the lies we tell our children to protect them? The ones that we pray will never be revealed.

When I was 12 years old, my rabbit died. We lived next to an agricultural testing ground that was cordoned off by a fence that bordered our neighborhood. It was pretty on the other side of the fence. When I asked my father what he'd done with Marshmallow (yes, she was white and fluffy), he said he'd buried her over the fence where she'd be safe and protected.

I believed him.

When I was in my twenties, it hit me one day that the fence was unclimbable with its barbed wire. And my "I can't lift heavy boxes because of my back" father would never climb a fence, especially not with a box filled with dead rabbit under his arm. So I challenged him.

Me: Did you really bury Marshmallow in the agricultural testing grounds?
Dad: No, I threw her over the fence.
Me: What???
Dad: Don't worry. I threw her far enough in so nobody would smell her decomposing.

That was Dad for ya.

To say I was angry would be doing the English language injustice. To say I was hurt would be closer to accurate. He had lied to me, and my mother had supported it, the willing accomplice. Then it hit me; in reality, what other option did my father have? In South Florida, you can't really bury anything deep enough in this limestone rock. Gardening works, but not burying dead animals far enough down to keep scavenging dogs from digging them right back up. So my Dad throwing Marshmallow over the fence was probably the wisest option. And lying to me about it was probably done out of love (or laziness, I'm still not sure).

But I am sure that being a parent faced with teaching lessons of death and mourning to a child is one of the most difficult tasks. Pets serve that purpose very well. If we're lucky, they are our teachers before we lose family members or friends. And when a parent is faced with treating their child compassionately while also protecting them from further pain, the lie becomes more justifiable.

Last night, my husband and I were talking about the compounding lies we've told our kids regarding what happened to their deceased pets, and we prayed they would never find out. We told those lies out of love and, quite honestly, out of respect for our children's desires to handle the deceased in what we saw as an unreasonable manner. But some day the kids will figure it out, because they're curious. And that's when they'll process the mixed message they received in their youth - the one that said, "Never tell a lie."

In a recent post, I referenced one of Missed Periods' posts, and I'm about to do it again, indirectly. Never say never. Absolutes don't serve an honest purpose in the real world. When children are little, we tell them never to lie. But as they grow and mature, they learn that all humans tell "white" lies because lying is essential to socializing well in this world and protecting people's feelings. (Actually, I don't care how you are today, but I'll pretend I do to be polite. That, my friends, is lying.) Lying is also necessary to tell a good joke, by the way.

And when our children figure out the truth about life, they will understand that sometimes lies have their place in our world. Hopefully, they will forgive their parents, who, at the grandparents' advice, consecrated the hamster's grave (2 of them, actually) and "relocated" the corpses with the intention of preventing resurfacing of the dead due to heavy rains or pesky opossums. All this after the mourners had marked the graves with stones emblazoned with Sharpie markers. (They even returned the next day to plant flowers on the site.)

Sweet eternal dreams, dear Remy (hamster #1) and Joey (hamster #2). May you rest in peace (wherever you are), and may you know that you were deeply loved.

That is no lie.

Remy & Joey

On Youth (Or, We only live once...or so I'm told)

2010-07-12T05:00:00.015-04:00

First and foremost, I want to say...VIVA ESPAÑA!
Okay, now onto the post of the day.
-------------
"Youth is wasted on the young". That quote usually refers to people in their 20s having the benefits of youth without appreciating its value. I prefer to travel farther back in time to childhood and say, "Only the young can handle youth." The series of photos below should serve as evidence in helping prove my case.

Exhibit #1:

I look at my daughter and her friend and wish I could both physically and spiritually behave the way they do. I'm sure I could muster the emotional strength to let myself go and jump as high as I can, but I'd pay for it later when my heels, ankles, and knees ache in retribution. (No, kids. Mommy can't play tonight. She's high on Naproxen because Advil wasn't strong enough.)

Exhibit #2:

Many of you have seen this shot before (last post), but I repeat it to focus on the expression of pure joy on my daughter's face. She is free, open to the world, and unhibited - an emotion most adults can't experience without the aid of alcohol or some other substance. If someone caught me doing this and captured it on film, I'd possibly lose my job for being accused of drinking mid-day and playing hooky.

Exhibit #3:

This shot was taken about 4 years ago, but my daughter still feels free to make such facial expressions whenever the mood suits her. When I loosen up enough to do this, my kids tell me I'm "freakin' them out". (What's a girl to do?)

Exhibit #4:

The kids were told a surprise awaited them inside the plastic peanut-filled box. I dare even one of you grownups to dive into a box with this much gusto. Go ahead. I'll wait. Then I'll call the paramedics for you.

Exhibit #5:

I call this shot "Leap of Faith". My son's eyes were closed as he tried to avoid the water spray, but I'm sure you can imagine the thrill of making such a jump. Why can't I run through the sprinklers like this? Again, I'm envisioning neighbors calling Child Protective Services if they caught me in such an act. (She was jumping around like a six year old. The nerve of that woman. Who does she think she is to be enjoying life at her age?)

Exhibit #6:

And finally, who hasn't enjoyed a good cannonball jump into the swimming pool? My son and his two buddies took on the challenge, so I tried my hand at it afterwards. Except when I did it, I splashed the entire pool deck, burnt my knees and bum in the landing, and ended up coughing up liquid chlorine as my kids shouted, "Geez, Mom. You're embarrassing us!"

Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case. In protest, I propose we all picket the powers that be and demand a bit of our youth back. So what if we have to load up on painkillers afterward or tolerate disapproving glares of other grownups. If for just a few moments in time we could feel the joy of youth again, I'm sure we'd all be happier and more successful adults. After all, we only live once.

On Falling in Love...with my hometown (Or, After 43 years, I get it)

2010-07-05T21:33:00.001-04:00

It takes some people a day and others a weekend to fall in love with South Florida beaches. I, on the other hand, am a slow learner. Born and raised in Miami, I took the beach for granted. I was never a sun worshipper, preferring a chlorinated swimming pool to the stinging salt of the ocean, and I found sand a pervasive nuisance. Apparently, the sun was blinding me from the bigger picture.

After four years away at college and three years of European living, I had determined that my hometown did not rank on my top-10 list of beautiful cities. And even 14 years after moving to the next county north, I still tell people I only live here because I was born here and my extended family is here. As if I'm trapped in some pissant town where no one would ever want to be.

Except that all that changed this weekend. It all started with a bike ride and ended with me saying, "I had no idea this existed in my city. Where in God's name have I been all these years?" But since a picture is worth a thousand words (and you certainly don't want to read 1000 words in this post), I'll start here...

Here I'm standing on the veranda of the Pelican Grand Beach Resort on Fort Lauderdale Beach. I swear I could spend all day sitting in one of these rockers just reading or working on my WIP. Glorious. And to find out that low season is actually affordable, especially for a resident like me who doesn't have to pay airfare to get here.

And just down the road is this gin joint...

The Casablanca Cafe, complete with piano bar and Moroccan decor. Dining on the porch provides a beach view (directly behind me as I took the picture). In fact, here I am...

Ta da!

After discovering these fabulous landmarks (and enjoying a delicious Cobb salad rich with avocado!), I happened upon actual neighborhoods right on the beach. With cottages that look like this...

http://www.fortlauderdale.olx.com/

and this...

http://www.southflorida.blockshopper.com/

Okay, so this one isn't exactly a cottage, but you get my drift. Point is, I thought Broward County was all condos and boring suburban communties that look like mine. But I am so wrong.

I also discovered Hugh Taylor Birch State Park. What??? Yes, right off the beach is this gem, where my friend Linda and I rode our bikes forever just wandering the myriad of paths that resemeble this one...

http://www.luxuryexperience.com/

Anyway, for the first time in 43 years, I am in love with my city and all its yet-to-be-discovered nooks that I'm finally willing to take the time to seek out. My daughter agrees with me. In fact, here's her take on Fort Lauderdale Beach...

I call this shot "Alegría"

So to all potential visitors I may host in the future, I send out a hearty Welcome! and an advisory to bring comfortable walking shoes and strong legs for bike riding. I promise you that my town will blow you away, and it will have nothing to do with a hurricane.

On Finding Thesea (Or, Any Dead Body Will Do)

2010-06-28T05:00:00.004-04:00

A few days ago, I spent less than 48 hours on Florida’s Treasure Coast enjoying some girl time with my friend Jennifer. If you’ve read my most recent post, you know about the swimsuit shopping fiasco, but wait till you hear what that ocean air can do to a girl.

It all started when I arrived in Jensen Beach…which is usually where things do start, I realize…upon arrival. (Note to self: work on story openers) So I was excited to change into relaxation mode, having driven 2 hours through rush-hour traffic. (Okay, that’s a lie. Traffic actually wasn’t so bad, but saying it was creates the necessary tension to segue into the need for winding down.)

I had barely unpacked when Jen offered me a mixed drink in a plastic cup and said, “Let’s take a walk on the beach.” Which was right outside her back door…literally (that’s for Missed Periods ;-)) Okay, so it wasn’t literally because her back door is eleven flights closer to heaven. But after taking the elevator back down to earth, we were there.

We’re walking along the beach with waves rolling in so loudly we have to raise our voices to hear each other as we sip from our plastic cups. (We might as well be in a crowded club.) Can’t be more than twenty minutes that have passed when we both realize the breeze here is reeeeealy strong, which must explain why we’re having a hard time keeping our balance. Or maybe it’s that we never had dinner and have just consumed a double shot of God knows what.

We make our way back upstairs where Jen prepares us a snack while I peruse her apartment, checking out the décor. There, on the kitchen wall, is this picture:

As you can see, the letters are written in all caps and are very close together. So perhaps you’ll understand why I ask Jen the following:

"Who’s Thesea? Why do we need to find her?"

I seriously ask that.

Jen looks up at me and says, “No more drinkie for you.”

* * *

The next day, I find THE SEA, and we spend our time, sans alcohol, enjoying a more appropriate stroll along the beach, collecting colorful seashells (and even a crab leg), and enjoying not having to do anything for anyone else. It feels good.

View from Jen's 11th floor apartment

Self-potrait: I actually look tan. Ha!

So when night falls again, we want to head out. Except that in this town, there is no night life. In fact, Frommer’s has this to say about the town we are in: “Nightlife on the Treasure Coast may as well be called nightdead because there really isn't any!”

We spend a couple of hours at a charming but sleepy outdoor bar on the intercoastal...

Sunset view from charming-but-sleepy outdoor bar

...and spend the whole of our time there fighting the ocean breezes in a losing battle against keeping our hair out of our faces.

For a brief moment, we actually win that battle. (At least I do.)

Then we head home to close up the night by leaving our cell phones in the apartment (So bold we are!) and sitting on the edge of the deck, watching the foam of the high tide pour onto the shore. We can see this perfectly because a full moon illuminates the midnight sky as if God has lit a soft lantern just for us. We are bathing in the serenity of the moment, feeling grateful to have this chance to love and respect what Mother Nature has powerfully created.

Morning shot taken from where we sat on the top step of the deck

Then, in a town with nightdead, we begin to imagine the wonders going on beneath the water’s surface.

Jen: Wouldn’t it be cool if the Loch Ness monster suddenly came up out of the waves and came to eat the seaweed on the beach?

Me: (shaking my head) It’s 84 degrees out…at night…with the ocean breeze. Scottish Nessie would die of heat stroke in our sea. Now, a dead body washing ashore…that would be cool.

Jen: (looking at me incredulously) Oh, really. What would you actually do if that happened?

Me: I’d run upstairs and call 9-1-1.

Jen: (giggling) And then we’d put on our makeup and get all dolled up so we look good on the live news cameras.

Apparently, there isn’t enough serenity in the world to erase dark thoughts or vanity. And Frommer’s was obviously spot on when they described this town as dead. It's what brings about conversations such as the one Jen and I had.

Still, it is a beautiful place where I was able to see this from Jen's balcony when I awoke the next morning.

I don't know what Frommer's says about the Treasure Coast sunrise, but dead body or no dead body, waking up to this view was more stimulating than any adventure I didn't have.

On Swimsuit Shopping (Or, Guess! what I didn't buy)

2010-06-24T05:00:00.006-04:00

Ask most women what the two most heinous errands they might have to run are and most will agree they are shopping for jeans and shopping for swimsuits. For the moment, I'm good on jeans. In fact, I recently cut sugar out of my diet (for a variety of reasons) and have since lost 8 pounds, which means I can wear my skinny jeans again! All you women out there know that I'm not talking about the trendy today-fashion of skinny jeans. No. You know better. So for all the men out there, I'll explain that a girl's skinny jeans are the ones she bought at her thinnest but usually can't wear. They sit in her closet awaiting the brief escape from her normal eating habits when she can finally get back into them. It ususally only lasts a few weeks, but hey...if it happens, it's a thrill. And when she jumps off the wagon, those skinny jeans will remain in the closet for an eternity, serving as a motivational icon of what could be.

Anyway, you would think that if I can fit into my skinny jeans, I'd have no problems going swimsuit shopping, which was my actual task at hand this morning since I am leaving this evening to spend a few days with my friend Jen at her beach condo on the coast. Being the non-snob that I am, I started at Target, planning on hopping over to Walmart if I did not divide and conquer at Target.

I tried on five suits of varying style. With each suit, I looked in the mirror at my 5'-6", 125-pound frame and thought, How can I look this bad? I looked around the dressing room stall for the special lights that focus directly on the derrier to accentuate the cheeks that hang out from the swimsuit bottom, but I could not find them. So I looked for the magic mirrors that capture the image of a relatively flat stomach and then alter it to include waves, dimples, and small rolls. But I couldn't find those either.

I imagined the women (Lord, I hope they're women!) watching me through their security cameras as they laugh and shout, "Now, while she's got her back turned, full power fluorescent lighting to make her skin look sallow against the print of that suit!" *cheers among the crowd* "Well done, ladies. From the expression on her face, she obviously thinks she's a fat pig. That'll teach that skinny bitch to go swimsuit shopping with pride."

They obviously don't work on commission.

After failing miserably at Target, I decided to simply cross the road and go into my local mall and give Macy's a go. Walmart was so far away, plus I had lots of Macy's coupons in my car. Decision justified.

In Macy's I tried on another five suits. But since this is Macy's and not Target, I decided they have more advanced technology in their dressing rooms. They must have mirrors that can capture my image, alter it with some Photoshop-type program, and reflect it back to me with the 8 pounds I've just lost plus an additional 10, for good measure. Need I say that I walked out of that dressing room with no potential purchase in hand and the strong urge for a shot of Tequila? And I hate Tequila!

http://www.fugly.com/

Here's a trick mirror that works in reverse. The stores definitely don't have one of these.

I walked through Macy's with a heavy heart (and apparently a much heavier behind than I'd envisioned) and was making my way to the exit when I spotted the absolutely cutest blouse in the whole wide world. I may not know my own butt, but I sure know what makes my chest look good, and this blouse was the goods. I quickly tried it on in the dressing room of a different department (where such trickster mirrors are not necessary...unless you're trying on jeans) and was thrilled to see that I was right. Yay, I was right about what would look good on me. *audible sigh of relief followed by the harsh realization that I should not be walking out of Macy's with anything but a swimsuit*

Ignoring my inner voice of reason (sorry, hubby, but sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do), I paid for the Guess! brand blouse, got my 25% discount, and left Macy's with a big smile on my face. As for how I'll feel about wearing a black blouse instead of a bathing suit while baking in the sun with Jen, can't say just yet. But maybe after a shot or two of Tequila, I won't give a damn.

On Words Put to Music (Or, Kiss me, for no reason, simply because your heart wants to)

2010-06-17T05:00:00.025-04:00

Yesterday, my few leisure minutes of reading time were interrupted by the flow of a melody traveling down the stairs and into my cozy family room. I stopped, mid-page (yes, I did) and listened to the song dance in my ears. It was the most soothing music I’d heard in a while – the a cappella voices of my daughter and her best friend.

I didn’t recognize the melody, but it didn’t matter. The sweet richness of nine-year-old girls singing together as they did God knows what in my daughter’s bedroom (I could have sworn they were on Club Penguin) was enough to remind me that written words are precious but words put to melody are heavenly, especially when the right voices bring them to life.

And that got my mind wandering to some of my favorite song lyrics. Long after my reading time, my husband came home from work and sent me on my evening walk while he fed the kids dinner. With iPod in pocket, I walked my neighborhood, listening to my favorite Spanish music, and appreciating the incredible talent of a good songwriter. We writers put so much heart into our craft, and I believe talented lyricists deserve the same respect.

I realize many of you may not be familiar with Latin vocalists, but in case you’re a fan of Google Translator, I recommend you check out Alejandro Sanz’s Cuando Nadie Me Ve, where he sings:

When nobody sees me

I can be or not be

When nobody sees me

I spin the world in reverse

When nobody sees me

My skin doesn't limit me
(Trust me, it sounds lyrically delicious in Spanish.)

And Camila’s Besame, where they sing:

Kiss me as if the world will end

Kiss me, without reason, simply because your heart wants to

On the English language scene, some of my favorites include Al Stewart’s Year of the Cat (yeah, I realize I’m dating myself) and Billy Joel’s Summer Highland Falls (did it again!). But remember, I’m in it for the lyrics here.

Anyway, I hope I’ve brought a little la-la to your day, just as my daughter and her friend brought song to mine. What are some of your favorite lyrics?

On Vuvuzelas (Or, Is this word one of Eukzyman’s creations?)

2010-06-14T05:00:00.006-04:00

[Note: For those unfamiliar with Eukzyman, please click here.]

An invisible angry swarm of bees is overtaking the World Cup games, and the South Africans are doing absolutely nothing about it. I realize it’s hard to track down anything that can’t be seen, but you’d think with an event being broadcast internationally there’d be some real incentive to come up with a quick fix anti-invisibility spray. And Lord knows we can hear the darn bees.

And now I’m told they’re not bees after all but rather vuvuzelas, which is an even stranger word to type than it is to say. What is this noxious, noisy thing that the South African fans consider tradition at all their soccer games? The vuvuzela – a bugle that has to be blown so hard it gives fans bruised lips – can reach 131 decibels, which is almost as loud as a gunshot. The word comes from Zulu and is said to mean – wait for it…making a loud noise.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/

So to those who mock my sensitivity and call it white noise, I flick my thumb against my teeth at you.

On Saturday, we had some friends over, and as they sat on the sofa with my husband watching the U.S.-England game, you can bet I was elsewhere in the house occupying myself. And that is another challenge. You see, last week my air conditioner drain pan overflowed because, apparently, we hadn’t been flushing out the line properly. (Actually, we hadn’t been flushing out the line at all.) So $500 later, a service call to completely clear the mold-laden line and clean the coils and blower has my system running again. Except that now the thing is so powerful, what with all that gunk not weighing it down anymore, that it runs much more loudly making a high-pitched whirring noise that my son (who has perfect pitch) confirms is a solid "C" note.

Between vuvuzelas and my a/c, I had a pertual headache.

So when my friend Eloisa asked me why I wasn't watching the game with them, I told her I wasn't interested in soccer, which is no lie.

Eloisa: "Aw, come on."
Me: "I can't tolerate that buzzing noise."
Eloisa: "What buzzing noise?"
Me: (With incredulous stare) "You can't hear the vuvuzelas?"
Eloisa: "The what?"
Me: "The vuvu- Oh, forget it!"
Husband: "Is Wendy saying something?"
Me: "You all need your hearing checked."
Husband: "Howard didn't get checked. He's the goalie. You don't know anything about soccer, Wendy."

I rest my case.

On the Dark Side (Or, Help me be brave)

2010-06-10T05:00:00.019-04:00

I've returned to my WIP, and it scares me. I don't write horror, or mystery, or thriller, or sci-fi, or paranormal fiction. Still, I'm scared. Of the dark.

In one of my older stories, I experimented with writing sex since I'd been such a prude on paper until that point. It was fun, titillating even. But now it's time to try out the dark side, sans the mask-covered, heavy breathing paternal villain. Oh, wait. I just realized that my "villain" is, in fact, a heavy breather and a father. Uh-oh.

The victim is a girl who, from age 7 until 10, receives the sexual attention of her father, who tucks her in at night with a bedtime story and a "massage", claiming it will help her calm down and relax before sleep. When Daughter starts to develop, Father ceases to come to her bed at night, which sends her into the arms of a local drug dealer who gives her "treats" in exchange for sex. All this at 10 years old.

Let me back up here and explain that neither of these two characters is a major player in my novel, but both are necessary to tell my bigger tale. So I only have to deal with their story in one, long, painful chapter. It's a side of life that is relevant to my plot, which I believe balances itself out with other fascinating characters like the clairvoyant who can see her own death and the chain smoking Swiss-Russian who can recite quotes from Tolstoy's Anna Karenina.

My concern comes with the possibility of upsetting readers. Now, now, don't jump down my throat about being such a wimp. What I mean is that since my novel is not a story of incest or sexual abuse, will this one chapter jar my readers, who will have already become accustomed to my beach-book style of writing?

Recently, after having read both of my published novels, a reader compared my style to that of Danielle Steel. Though I wouldn't exactly say I model myself after her, I thought about Steel's commercial success and said to myself, Not so bad. With that in mind, I'm wondering how dark I can get. My prostitute-drug addict, pre-adolescent character isn't about to throw herself in front of a moving train, but on another level, I feel her story is much darker than any Tolstoy tragedy.

Vivien Leigh as Anna Karenina

www4.big.or.jp

I believe in this story and its potential for mass appeal. So in the end, I suppose I have to be brave and write what must be written. If when that day comes for you all to read this WIP turned published novel, I hope you won't be disappointed or consider tying me to the railroad tracks. If, however, you'd like to see my story turned into a made-for-television movie, I won't be too snobby to graciously accept the creation of a Facebook fan page to promote it.

To all my writer blogfriends out there, I encourage you, too, to have the courage to tell your story without fear of judgment. So much harder to do than to say, trust you me, but hopefully worth it.

On Girls’ Night Out (Or, Too old for the walk of shame)

2010-06-07T05:00:00.004-04:00

You know what the second Sex and the City movie is good for? Bringing girlfriends together for a night of debauchery. Apart from that, not much. As one of the true devotees to the Sex and the City series, I can say that this film was crap. Carrie spends the whole of the movie searching for that “sparkle” she and Big used to share. The only sparkly moment, however, was a jewel of a scene between Charlotte and Miranda when they suck down drinks and confess that motherhood is not enough and that losing a good nanny is a more frightening notion than your husband cheating on you with said nanny. Miranda’s repeated clipped command Take a sip! had me laughing out loud and wishing I could down a martini with her and Charlotte, all the while crying the I-hear-you-sister chant (even though I am one of those mothers that Charlotte and Miranda pitied for having no help).

And please don’t get me started on the fashion. (Okay, you read the word fashion so now I have to bitch.) As one of Carrie’s contemporaries, I’ve always loved her style, and even though I know of no women who walk Manhattan dressed like Carrie did in the series, I accepted it because, well, it was Carrie. But in this movie, pleeeeease! When Carrie headed out to the spice bazaar – a sea of men in robes and women in burkas – she pranced around in a purple and white, full-length taffeta skirt and a T-shirt that says I adore Dior. I lost it.

photo by http://www.idailymail.co.uk/

Did the writer/director think that viewers would be too blind to find Carrie in the crowd – the only woman with an exposed face and a flowing wave of honey-colored tresses? Or were they intentionally slapping me in the face with the symbolism of Carrie as the free and independent woman? Whatever. I’m sure this film did wonders for Western and Middle Eastern diplomacy.

But that’s not really what I came to talk about today. (It’s just that sometimes a girl’s got to get these things off her chest, ya know?) What I really want to discuss is what happened after the movie.

[Disclaimer: If you're reading this post, Mom, it's all tongue-and-cheek. Although I love hearing from you, feedback is really not necessary on this one ;-)]

Inspired by the camaraderie of female friendship (if not the fashion), I headed out to enjoy the night life with my girls, Eloisa and Melanie. I hadn’t been to a club in a loooong time, proven by my schoolgirl glee at being offered free cover ($20) and free drinks for entering a club. Just because I have breasts. Apparently, this is commonplace in these parts where the clubs invite women in for free because the bars make their killing on stupid men trying to hook up. Those guys will hock their most-prized body part without thinking twice if it will get them a drink and the chance to get laid.

Good thing I was out to enjoy girl time with Elo and Mel, who is the only single one in our group. We drank and danced and took goofy pictures with all three cameras. (Ooh, could you please take a picture of my friends and me as we stick our chests out and smile in our wide-eyed drunken stupor? Aw, thanks. Now this camera. Now this camera. Too kind.) Then we drank and danced some more. And some more. And some more.

Me, Elo, Mel

Don't ask how many drinks I've had, but notice I've put my glasses back on to help myself see.

Four hours later, I knew there was no way in hell I was driving home. Mel lives very close to the club, so I slept on her sofa. For a whopping three hours before she woke up to get ready for Saturday morning boot camp. Crazy bitch. Not even 6:00 in the morning and I found myself still dressed to kill but with hair disheveled and make-up faded from sweat, second-hand smoke, and exhaustion. I did the walk of shame back to my car. Except that I wasn’t leaving a guy’s apartment. So what did I have to be ashamed of? Probably just the memories of a time long passed. And as my feet ached in my gold-strapped sandals, I muttered, “I’m too old for this.”

I headed home along the emptiest highway I’ve ever seen – the smoothest ride I’ve had on that road. Although it was heavenly watching the sun come up as I drove traffic-free, I prayed Hollywood would wait at least another two years before releasing another Sex and the City movie. As I said before, I’m too old for this and, I’m afraid, so is Carrie Bradshaw.

On Humble Pleas (Or, A Letter to Mother Nature)

2010-06-03T05:00:00.007-04:00

Dear Mother Nature,

It is the beginning of June, which in my neck of the woods signals the official start of Hurricane Season. I know you are a busy lady what with the damage we humans are doing to your planet and the havoc you feel you must wreak to put us in our place. But I write you today to tell you how much I love and respect you.

I’m not trying to butter you up here (but if that will help, I’ll butter away). I’m simply trying to let you know that for so many of us, you are the epitome of beauty and the most deserving entity of reverence. My two children, in fact, love you so much that the elder can’t stand the notion of littering and wants me to do everything in my power to prevent stepping on any of your creatures, no matter how pesky or potentially painful they can be. And the younger tries, usually in vain, to plant all she can to appreciate the splendor of your flowers, especially those that attract caterpillars. She also loves lizards, frogs, snakes, turtles, and almost every member of the rodent family. (I’ll admit she’s not at all a fan of the arachnid family, but can you really blame her?)

I tell you all this because I am afraid. You are a source of great power, and I have seen what your storms can do. I know this has been a rough year for many of my brethren who have suffered from your earthquakes, in particular. But as hurricane season begins, I am quickly reminded of the eerie storms that have ravaged the Gulf and Atlantic coastlines and their surroundings.

Photo by cfnews13.com

I was born and raised in South Florida, yet I didn’t truly see what you could do until August of 1992, when you sent Hurricane Andrew to Miami. The tidal surge from Biscayne Bay swiftly turned my childhood home into fodder for my nostalgic ramblings. After that, things were relatively quiet until 2004, when you sent four hurricanes to South Florida. Mercifully, you spared my part of town from severe damage.

However, in 2005, you seemed notably angrier than usual and sent another four storms to South Florida. Katrina hit Miami but did most of her damage to New Orleans. You finished South Florida’s storm season with Hurricane Wilma, who graciously took the roof from my house during an unseasonably cool time of year. Wilma was no Katrina, but as the eighth storm to pass over in a 15-month period, she knocked the wind out of my spirit. For a very long time. (Though I did come up with some inventive ways to live without electricity or running water. Did you know that child potty seats and kitty litter make for a great waste disposal system, even for grown-ups?)

Now, forecasters are predicting a storm season busier than 2005. And I am terrified. If the roof (finally replaced 16 months after Hurricane Wilma) goes again, I think I will flip my lid. And if the whole house goes, I’m afraid my fortitude will crumble with it.

How can I appeal to you? Do you accept sacrificial offerings? On some days, I’ve got two small humans to proffer. (Okay, you know I’m joking, right? Really? You do know that humor is a human way to deal with anxiety and fear, don’t you? So we’re good?) But seriously. Please hear my plea because as much as I bitch about the summertime climate in South Florida, I know I’m blessed to live here the other six months of the year. You did more than well when you offered your hand in the creation of this land, and my family and I are trying our best to take care of it. In return, I request that you please try your best to take care of us too.

From the bottom of my humble heart, I send my love and honor.

Forever yours,

Wendy

On Spring, (Or, Have you ever seen an indigo daisy?)

2010-05-31T05:00:00.005-04:00

Happy Memorial Day! A few weeks, ago, Terresa at The Chocolate Chip Waffle had a contest to write a poem with Spring as the theme. In that spirit, I wanted to share the following poem, written by my 9-year-old daughter for a school assignment. The instructions were to use the first letters of Spring to come up with words or phrases, and they had to incorporate a rhyming pattern. Here is her contribution to the world of poetry:

Sweet flower scents fill the air,

Pink tulips bloom everywhere,

Roots underground push up flowers,

Indigo daisies sprout in just a few hours,

Nothing can stop spring from coming,
Golden drops of sunshine are falling.

Since only in poetry can daisies be indigo, I find this deliciously vivid. And I love her ever-knowing notion that nothing can stop spring from coming.

If you'd like to share a spring poem, post it in the comments, and I'll put together a compilation for my next post. Of course, with summer looming so close (and I say looming as only a South Floridian can), you may choose that season as your inspiration instead. Happy writing....!

On Top of New York (Or, My brother moves outta da city, I kill 'em)

2010-05-27T05:00:00.007-04:00

Today I am on top of the world for winning the ForeWord Reviews 2009 Book of the Year Award for Looking for Anita, but last weekend I was on top of New York. And it's no Chrysler Building or Empire State Building for sure. No Ma'ams and Sirs. This is the roof of my brother's building, on approximately the 40th floor. The penthouse takes up the top two floors and my brother lives on the 37th, so you get an idea of the spectacular view he wakes up to each day. No, wait. You can't really understand until you see this panorama series I took, which is what he sees out his window. That's right, baby. A three-direction view from the East River to downtown to the Hudson River.

East River View (looking across to Queens)

Downtown View

Hudson River View (looking across to New Jersey)

So you can see why I love my New York trips so much. I've always loved this city, its energy, its life, its history, its possibilities. But notice how I listed energy first.

My husband and I have very different ideas of the ideal vacation. His dream locale includes either a wild river ripe for rafting or a secluded beach with a tree-hung hammock begging his rest. My dream locale, on the other hand, looks something like this...

Greeley Square Park

That's right. Put me in a cafe or a park smack dab in the center of a bustling city - American or European - and I'm in heaven, more relaxed than you'll ever see me at home. My husband once noted that he and I get our rejuvenation from different sources. He said that since he’s an introvert, he gets his energy from calmness. Peaceful or natural places give him the energy he needs to recharge. I, in contrast, am an extrovert, which according to him means that lively or social environments provide me with the energy I need to recharge.

I don’t know how much water his theory holds, but I’ll buy some of it. Still, I think he’s missing something key here. I think it’s the anonymity of big cities that comforts me. I particularly love parks and gardens nestled amidst the hub-bub of chaos. The contrast soothes me. I can escape into the beauty of nature, knowing that at any moment I can walk back out into the everflow of the city and lose myself in the crowd.

Here's another example...

Madison Square Park

Just a stone's throw from Union Square. Can you believe it? My brother lives equidistance between this park and Greeley Square Park, which is why I tell him, "If you ever move out of Manhattan, I'm disowning you. You have no right to take away my apartment in the city. You hear me, baby brother?"

I've said my peace. And so far, he's obeying. I know I am one lucky girl to have a free apartment in Manhattan. And I know I am one even luckier lady to have my brother in my life. Of course, if he ever moves out to the Rocky Mountains, my husband will be the one singing his praises. For now, however, I love feeling on top of New York. On my next visit, I promise to post a tour of Central Park, the tranquil center that keeps the heart of New York beating.

So what say you? Energy or serenity…which feeds your soul?

On Just Rewards (Or, I WON!!!!!!!!!)

2010-05-26T17:18:00.000-04:00

Just had to share my excitement. At the BEA today in New York City, ForeWord Reviews announced winners of their 2009 Book of the Year Awards, and................

I WON!!!!!!!

Looking for Anita won Gold in the category of General Fiction.

I am woman. Hear me roar!!!!!!!!!!!!!

On Being Unplugged (Or, She's Come Undone)

2010-05-24T05:00:00.003-04:00

This is a transcription from a handwritten post...

I am hand writing this post from an airplane because I didn't bring my laptop on my New York journey (pleasure trip to visit brother). Yes, that means I am using a pen and pressing it against paper. Does anyone remember this sensation? I'm forming actual letters through this pen-to-paper process though I'm not sure my penmanship is worthy of being called legible. I'm using purple ink because, for me, writing by hand feels like an antiquated art form that deserves all the fanfare of preparing a beautiful painting. So I choose violet, my favorite color, followed closely by lavender and lilac. (See a pattern here?)

Anyway, I'm not sure how long this handwriting thing will last since one of the other charms of this art form includes hand cramps. I had forgotten. It's been so long.

Being unplugged is hard. It's like being deprived of chocolate, to which I am seriously addicted. Oh my, does this man I'm addicted to the Internet? Let's see...restlessness, irritability, headache (could be the cabin pressure), helplessness, anxiety, tension...Yep, the only things missing are the shakes and the sweating, which is only because this plane is so cold inside. I guess it's official. I'm addicted to the Internet. And more notably to blogging.

I mean look. I'm sitting here in the MIDDLE seat of a packed flight, HAND writing my Monday morning post in a travel journal! What other proof do you people need?

I hit 70 followers on Friday and I feel obligated to produce for every one of you all. But that's a good thing. Because I love the blogosphere and all the incredibly dedicated, creative, inventive, passionate, funny-as-hell, kind-hearted, motivating, encouraging, and similar-minded souls I've met here.

So as I hum The Guess Who tune, "She's Come Undone" in an attempt to drown out the deafening whir of the plane's engine and try to ignore the ringing in my ears and the near-arthritic pain in my right hand, I soldier on 'n on 'n on for you, my loyal followers, my blog buddies, my addiction enablers. Because you're worth it!

On Paying it Forward (Or, I'm gonna win this thing if it kills me)

2010-05-20T05:00:00.003-04:00

Gotta admit. I'm not usually one for blogfests and contests, but this one's got me going gaga over trying to earn all the points possible. And there are LOTS of points possible to earn. It's B. Miller's Pay it Forward contest. If you're a writer, this is definitely up your alley. His rules:

The grand prize for this giveaway is the winner's choice. EITHER a $25 gift card to Barnes & Noble (or Borders, Amazon, etc - whichever you prefer) sent directly to your preferred mail receptacle, OR...
If you are a writer with published work available for purchase, B. Miller will buy your novel/story collection/chapbook, etc., up to a value of $25. He will also read your work and give a review on your chosen website, as well as a review and a plug on his blog, Twitter, and Facebook fan page. He will go to his local library and booksellers and ask that your work be stocked on their local shelves in Greenville, South Carolina. And, if you're willing, he will do a guest feature on his blog for you, complete with interview and links to your media.

As I said, there are many ways to get points. Best to check out his Pay it Forward post to learn the details. But one of the things I must do, apart from promoting B. Miller's contest, is to post a story about a time I paid it forward. And I begin...

Last year while in my local supermarket, I was checking out when I heard an older woman complaining about her condo shuttle being delayed. She was upset because all her groceries were bagged and she was worried the perishables would spoil if she had to wait too long.

The manager was trying to console her, but the woman was becoming more agitated by the moment. As soon as my groceries were bagged, I asked her if I could take her home. She must have been well in her 80s and looked at me as if I had magically appeared to save her day. The look alone made me feel I had done the right thing by offering, even if she refused.

But she accepted.

Her name was Ruth, she told me. I loaded her groceries and headed for the general part of town where all the condos are, but guess what? Ruth didn't know exactly where she lived since she didn't drive and relied on the shuttle to take her places. So in the end, it still took her about 20 minutes to get home since I had to shoot up every street and ask her if it looked familiar. Eventually we hit the jackpot, and she recognized her building. I unloaded her groceries and carried them to the first floor unit where Ruth gave me a warm hug and told me I was her angel.

As I drove the ten minutes it would take me to get home, I didn't care what had happened to my own perishables because I knew Ruth would have a nice evening.

So there you have it, may pay-it-forward story. Feeling motivated to make your own pay it forward moment? I hope so.

On Forethought (Or, Morons with Gumption)

2010-05-17T05:00:00.001-04:00

I’m eight years old sitting in the back seat of the car trying to hold my breath and coming dangerously close to passing out. We are driving by a cemetery, and childhood superstitions die hard. My biggest fear when passing that cemetery was that traffic would back up, which it inevitably did as the ongoing construction along Miami’s Palmetto Expressway (SR 826) spread like cancer.

From http://www.miamism.com/

I was born and raised in Miami, and getting from point A to point B usually involved traveling the Palmetto. I became very familiar with all the landmarks along the way, including the huge cemetery that always forced me to turn blue as I attempted to hold my breath as we passed it by. That construction I mentioned started in the 1970s and continues today. I kid you not.

And that leads me to the real purpose of this post. Lifelong highway construction projects…where’s the forethought?

Back in 1989, a friend from Miami moved north to the next county. She gave me directions to her new apartment, which required me to travel a highway I’d never heard of in South Florida. It was called I-75 and led to another strange highway called the Sawgrass Expressway (SR 879). As I traveled the empty 10-lane highway whose exit and entrance ramps were clover leaves large enough to encircle a European village, I wondered what morons had put so much money into a highway when there were no towns as far as the eye could see. What a frickin waste of money.

Fast forward 20 years. I now travel I-75 more frequently than I traveled the Palmetto as I followed the herd 13 years ago and became a resident of one of the many new towns that sprang to life in the late 1980s, blossomed after 1992’s Hurricane Andrew ravished southern Miami-Dade county, and grew into a 70,000-person city. And still, there has been no construction, apart from some minimally-invasive road resurfacing.

Why?

Because those morons I referred to earlier were actually brilliant city planners with enough foresight and gumption to build these new highways THE RIGHT WAY. I mean, there’s no way they could have predicted the exodus that Hurricane Andrew would cause, so these morons were rather visionary when they found the chutzpah to fund this highway. The speed limit is 70mph, faster than anywhere else in the tri-county area, and even during rush hour, traffic moves through wide-enough lanes that seem to cry out, Drive me and be free.

I still drive down to Miami frequently to visit family and friends, as I did yesterday. And every time I do, as I sit idle on the Palmetto Expressway so close to the cars next to me that I can reach over and change their radio stations if I don’t like them (which I’d do if I weren’t afraid of getting shot), I turn to my husband and say for the umpteenth time, “We are never moving back to Miami.”

It is only when my nostalgia for childhood sets in that I miss the days of holding my breath until the verge of almost passing out. Otherwise, I am a fool for wide open spaces when it comes to highways. If I want to be trapped to the point of immobility among a throng of strangers, I go to New York City – my favorite place in this country and definite fodder for a future post as I’ll be visiting the Big Apple very soon.

So drive safely and join me in my cheers of support for those signs that say END CONSTRUCTION. I’m all for it.

On Summer Vacation (Or, The Babysitter Jackpot)

2010-05-13T05:00:00.002-04:00

School’s Out for Summer! This mantra became commonplace in the 1970s when rocker Alice Cooper turned it into an anthem. When I was a kid, summer vacation was the coveted fun time of year. As an adolescent, it was the epoch of love or, at the very least, serious crushes. As a parent, however, I hate summer!

As I work hard during the school year to keep the routine and ensure financial security for my family, summer turns out to be the biggest slap in the face. No matter how well I plan ahead, summertime becomes a financial black hole where money is poured in and then sucked out faster than paychecks can be deposited into accounts. Let me explain.

School ends, and the working mother says to herself, Well, at least there’s summer camp. But there isn’t. Most summer camps do not start until a full week after public school has let out. Some wait two weeks. I guess they assume families want time to travel, which would be a beautiful and considerate notion if all of America could afford such a luxury. And let’s not forget that the average price of a summer day camp is $1000 for a four-week session, costing around $2000 per child for the full summer. Then we’re also supposed to pay for a family vacation? I don’t think so.

Anyway, after at least a week of paying babysitters out the wazoo, summer camp commences. Except that it’s so strenuous on the kids, between the heat, the onslaught of junk food, and the sudden physical activity of which they were deprived during the school year, that the children will get sick at least once during the summer camp session. More money lost to babysitters or time away from work.

When the family has finally survived summer camp, the still-working mother says to herself, Well, at least the new school year is starting. But it isn’t. Most summer camps finish two weeks before public schools resume. More time for travel, I suppose. And certainly more money to be made in the babysitting industry.

While I’m on my soap box about family travel and the elitist suppositions of many, I want to mention that a few unnamed private schools in South Florida have a full extra week of vacation during the school year. This occurs around Presidents’ Day weekend, after the recent winter break and Martin Luther King, Jr. four-day weekend and just before the week-long spring break. This February break is called Ski Week. Need I say more?

What I’m trying to say here is that summer vacation is not, for most working mothers, what is was for us as kids. And that saddens me. I don’t like feeling so bogged down by the end of the school year. And I don’t like feeling stressed during a season that is supposed to be filled with the kind of times that memories are made of. (Did I mention that I live in South Florida, where hurricane season only adds to this beautiful array of woes?)

So what’s a working girl to do? I know… stop complaining and start appreciating this brief time in my children’s lives when summer vacation is their respite from the drudgery of schoolwork and the rigidity of routine. I know that the day will come, sooner than I think, when summers will be all mine again, when I won’t have to spend the academic year pinching pennies to save up for summer camp, and when I will listen to my grown kids gripe about their own summertime family expenses.

That’s when I will suddenly sit up from my beach lounger, realizing the financial relief I have to offer, and ask, Do you need a babysitter?

On South Florida Storms (Or, A Blink in Time)

2010-05-10T05:00:00.003-04:00

I actually wrote this post last summer as a journal entry to remember a moment I found poetic. I give it to you today, updated for coherence purposes...

Lightening strikes and we’re all suddenly friends. That’s more or less what happens when strangers are thrown together in one of South Florida’s many summertime rainstorms. At least, that’s what happened to me on one sticky July afternoon last summer while trying to leave Bed Bath and Beyond.

The skies had been clear when we all entered the store. None of us carried umbrellas. And when the blue suddenly turned to black, the afternoon sky lit up with blinding flashes of light followed immediately by booming crashes. We all gathered together inside the store, watching the automatic doors open and close as their magnetic sensors overreacted to our nervous pacing.

An Indian woman bowed her head in embarrassment as her three pre-school-aged daughters squealed with each thunder strike. The rest of us looked on with sympathy, relating both with the mother shamed by her daughters’ raucousness and with the little girls fearing for their lives.

To my left, an older woman confessed to an aromatherapy fetish, as we both perused the display of oils and reeds for sale at the exit. “I didn’t come here to buy this stuff today,” she admitted, “but maybe this is God’s way of telling me to treat myself.” She randomly grabbed for one of the twenty-dollar boxes of sandalwood oil and scuttled over to the checkout counter, but not before glancing back at me with a look that begged my confidence.

I held a finger to my lips and whispered loudly, “I won’t tell a soul.”

Standing just beyond arms’ reach was an incredibly handsome young man whose dark Latin eyes remained fixed on the torrential rains outside. How fortunate I was, I realized, to be able to watch him so closely and yet appear to be doing nothing of the sort.

I enjoyed the physical proximity of these strangers, and I felt a kinship with the seven other people trapped with me in the store for what we perceived to be a great disruption of our daily schedules but what was really only a blink in time.

After a few moments of silence, but with the rain still blowing by horizontally, a large golden bolt cut through the sky.

(Photo by Glen Wurden)

Before we could open our mouths in awe, a deafening thunder clap shook the building and brought tears to the eyes of the woman to my right. With a trembling hand, she wiped her eyes. “I felt that in my heart,” she said.

The handsome young man wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

For the first time in minutes, the three little girls were absolutely silent.

The oddest part about the fifteen or so minutes that I spent with these people is that none of us used the cell phone. Usually when people want an easy way out of feeling alone, they open their phones and get to work finding someone to gripe to. But not this day. We all seemed to find an unspoken comfort in knowing that there were already others nearby who understood our frustration, and our fear.

The crying woman said she had never seen a storm so angry (obviously not an experienced Florida resident), and the aromatherapy woman, now having returned with her newest purchase, held her nose in the air and said she could smell the delicious rain. The handsome young man smiled at me and said nothing, which was just fine. I smiled back, enjoying the mystery of the moment and pretending we shared a private story. The three little Indian girls returned to their dancing, a mixture of merriment and terror. Their mother rolled her eyes and stated with an air of wisdom, “Ah, what the rains can do!”

Eventually, the lightening subsided and the rain began to fall vertically. Then it got softer, and we all realized it was time to resume our lives.

In the true romantic form of a writer, I accepted that the end of our moment had come. Determined to document my experience as soon as possible, I boldly took the first step toward the exit doors and announced my departure. “It’s been a little slice of heaven,” I said, saluting my stranger-friends with a quick smile.

Crying Woman smiled back.

Aromatherapy Woman held up her package in a parting salutation.

Indian Mother and her girls waved goodbye enthusiastically.

Handsome Young Man tipped his head ever-so-subtly.

Grabbing my own purchase close to my chest, I faced the rain and darted nimbly to my car. As I drove away, I felt a strange sadness. I didn’t even know their names. And I never would. It was just a blink in time.

On Silence (Or, My perfect Mother's Day morning)

2010-05-09T10:47:00.000-04:00

My house is silent. No voices. No television, Wii, or PS3. No running air conditioner. No running dishwasher or washing machine. Nothing. Except for the click click of my fingers typing away on the keyboard. My house is silent. And I like it. Very much.

Soon, the husband and kids will return from the pool. The A/C will kick into gear as the outside temperature rises well above 80 degrees. The TV and PS3 will go on as the kids enjoy their lazy Sunday after a good swim. The lawn mower will buzz in the background as dear hubby mows the overgrown grass. Childish bickering will ensue (between the kids - not hubby and me), and the noise will return. I'll be okay with that because that is the rhythm of my life. And it's all good.

But for now, my house is silent. And I like it. Very much.

Happy Mother's Day to me ;-)

On Being Tagged (Or, 5 things that people apparently want to know about me)

2010-05-07T10:40:00.001-04:00

I got tagged. And though I'm usually not a fan of these games, I don't want to disappoint Jackee at Winded Words. I mean, if she really wants to know this stuff about me...okay. Here we go:

Where were you five years ago?
1. Wondering where the 21 years since high school had gone. (You can see I have no qualms about revealing my age.)
2. Cursing Mother Nature for the 4 hurricanes brought to South Florida after the 4 storms of 2004. It was Hurricane Wilma, the last one of the 2005 season, that took our roof off.
3. Planning our relocation to Atlanta (see #2) also because hubby was very disillusioned with job at that time. (Relocation never happened b/c he got fantastic job offer in Jan, 2006. One month later, we contracted roofer to replace roof.)
4. Pulling my son out of public school as I finally realized he needed more help than they could offer. (He's still at his private school and just now starting to excel.)

5. Welcoming our two new kitties to the family after favorite cat companion died. (My beloved Carina, pictured below; brought back from our time living in Bologna, Italy; she lived to 10 but had to give in to cancer.)

Where would you like to be five years from now?

1. Working solely on writing novels (and maintaining my blog, of course!)

2. Earning enough money to buy my 16-year-old son a used car so he can take his overy-social sister around town (she'll be 14)...so I can continue with #1.

3. Looking at myself in the mirror and saying, "Not too shabby for 48!"

4. Vacationing at my apartment in Spain, or Italy... and working on #1.
5. Fortunate enough to have my parents and in-laws healthy and sound of mind.

What is on your to-do list today?
1. NOTHING! It's my first day of freedom since the winter semester ended.
2. Actually I had to drop some stuff off at the post office, so I rode my bike there (check!), which leads to #3...
3. Get some exercise (check!)
4. Have coffee with a friend in an hour...because I haven't seen her in a while and because I can!
5. Catch up on all my blog reading (almost check!)

What five snacks do you enjoy? (Oh, this is an easy one.)

1. Chocolate
2. Chocolate
3. Chocolate
4. Chocolate
5. Chocolate
(How cool is this chocolate keyboard? It would be the only thing that could stop me from writing.)

What five things would you do if you were a billionaire?
1. Fund massive research in autistic spectrum disorders (see #4 from first group)
2. Fund massive research in Ulcerative Colitis and other bowel diseases
(have you figured out what goes on in my family yet?)
3. Fund massive renovations of my local Humane Society so they can keep sick animals separate from those who come in healthy.
4. Pay off all my credit card debt and throw the suckers away.

5. Buy 3 apartments; one in Seville, Spain (for me); one in Tuscany (for my husband); and one in NYC (for me again 'cuz I'm the billionaire, right?)

This corner unit will do with the glass windowfront overlooking Calle Betis in Seville. This steet (in the lower right of image) is flanked by the Guadalquivir River, so this is essentially the view looking out those glass windows...

Am I right, or am I right?

Whew. Okay. Not going to tag anyone because I'm a believer in treating others as you would like to be treated. Which is why I owe a thank-you to Jackee. If she hadn't treated me the way she likes to be treated, I would never have learned everything about her that I did (in her "5" list), and I have to admit that making my own 5 list was kinda fun. So gracias and grazie to Jackee. (Re-read lists if you need clarification ;-))

On Writing (Or, My Words Are My Children)

2010-05-06T05:00:00.003-04:00

I hesitated to post this because I've often heard that writers shouldn't write about the art of writing for its own sake. But my mind ran off in a strange direction, so I'm going with it...

I’ve heard it said that writers write because we have no other choice. The drive to write is a force that comes from within and compels us to put on paper (or computer monitor) the thoughts, dreams, stories, and whatnot that refuse to stay put inside our heads, where they often belong, no doubt. The intended result is a sense of fulfillment, of having accomplished something.

I have known this to be true for almost as long as I can remember. And I have an impressive memory that can be documented back to when I was nineteen months old, I kid you not. But that’s fodder for another time.

Now, at forty-three years old, I am still writing and feeling rather unfulfilled. Why?

I guess I’ve always believed my writing would save me in some way, release the burdens that weighed me down, set free the longing and nostalgia that bring me more pain than pleasure, make me into the undeniably amazing woman that I so yearn to be…! You get the idea.

Apparently, I am wrong.

So why do I write then?

I have no idea.

No earthly idea.

Wait…

I’ve got it.

I write because keeping all this junk in my head would make me explode…or implode…I’m not sure which.

Getting it out is like finally being able to see the thing that’s been bothering me so I can analyze it, figure it out, break it down until I’ve gotten…absolutely nowhere.

Okay, let me try again.

It’s like the words that materialize were born in my brain, grew there briefly, and now need to be free, Mom. Ya know, just be free already! I’m a grown-up word who wants to live and see the world. I can’t stay cooped up there inside your head, bumping around in your brains. It’s gross! I need out. So thanks, fingers, for setting me free already. Took ya long enough!

Now what?

Once my precious words leave my head and make it onto the page, I don’t feel much better. Oh, sure. In the short run, I do, because I can see my thoughts and ideas come to fruition in print! But then I feel sort of empty, like those empty nesters that send their kids off to college with a sigh of relief but then come home to find the house frighteningly still. It’s not so much that they miss their kids, in my opinion, but rather that they’re stuck with a more awful dilemma…what to do now.

When I release my words, I feel liberated but, at the same time, mournful of the loss. Inside my head, those words had such potential, but once on paper, they seem to lose their promise. I love them, as I always will, but I have to accept that they are only words, out there with all those other words of the universe. They will have to make their own way and let people decide if they will be accepted as words of wisdom, words of entertainment, or just plain nonsense.

In the end, though, I suppose it really doesn’t matter. Because they’re my words. I put them out there, and I must be proud of them. I did the best I could and then set them free. Maybe they’ll end up doing nothing more than getting deleted into someone’s recycle bin or lining the proverbial birdcage. Or maybe they’ll end up inspiring someone else to love and cherish their own words, nurture them, and then set them free to explore the world. And then I will have done something good. Through my words.

And that is why I write.

On NOT Passing the Buck (Or, You'd think after 19 years I'd have this thing down pat)

2010-05-03T05:00:00.013-04:00

I need you, my blogfriends. I need to vent about the "other" career I have - the one they pay me for. I'm an ESL professor, and I'm presently feeling less than professor-like.

A couple of days ago, I gave my grammar students their final exam - a composition meant to demonstrate that they've learned all their grammar and are ready to move onto the next level, Advanced Composition.

But they are not. Most of them are barely squeaking by. And I am ashamed.

Many of my colleagues in this situation would start by blaming the students as being pig-headed and lazy about thinking while they write. Others would remind me that they can't all be successes. After all, many of these people would never have been eligible for a university career in their home country, but ours is a community college with doors open to all.

But I don't buy it. I've always taken responsibility for my actions, and I feel these guys are failing because of me. If I vent about this to my colleagues (the ones whose opinions I respect and who I think are on my side), they'll surely act more as cheerleader than constructive critic. So what's a girl to do?

I know that quite a few of my followers out there are teachers. If any of you teach grammar and/or composition, I'd love to hear some of your teaching tips. I've been doing this since 1991 (a time before many of you could write your own decent paragraphs), yet I know I can still learn so much from others.

To my readers who are not teachers, you may still have good advice since most of you are writers. My eyes and ears are open to you all. And I thank you in advance. Mwah!

On Car Gremlins (Or, How many ‘70s and ‘80s pop culture references can I squeeze into one blog?)

2010-04-29T05:00:00.001-04:00

*Author’s warning: Those under 40 may need to click on hyperlinks before finding this post even remotely funny.*

Yes, they really exist...those little creatures that live deep in the bowels of your car’s engine, waiting to mess with you just when your warranty is due to expire.

Case in point: I bought my Nissan Rogue in the summer of ’08, and as I quickly approach 36,000 miles, things begin to get sticky. I’ve loved this car since the day I bought it. No buyer’s remorse for me. Not one stinkin’ drop. (Not even after two recall repairs.)

And then, about a month ago, I notice my mileage dangerously close to 36,000, when much of my warranty dies. Since I was raised in a family that doesn’t believe in extended warranties, I’ve survived nicely with that philosophy through several cars already. But with this purchase, I was living on the edge buying a brand new model before Nissan had time to work out the kinks. And yes, there are kinks.

Okay, let me get down to brass tacks here. It makes a whining noise when I accelerate. Not much more to explain, particularly since this is not the interesting part of my story.

The real fun began yesterday, when I scheduled the time to stop by the Nissan dealer to let my techie guy hear the noise I’d been complaining about for over a month. He suspected a transmission problem (“We may have to rebuild the whole shebang.”) but said he had to hear it and so I should stop by when I could. “When I could” took a very long time.

So I’m driving to the dealer, psyched to finally be putting this baby to rest before I hit 36,000 miles, when it occurs to me that for the first time in weeks, I DON’T HEAR THE NOISE!

“Are you kidding me?” I irately ask the car gremlins.

Silence. But from somewhere deep inside my car, I hear the gremlins trying so hard to stifle their giggles.

I play with the gas pedal, gunning it intermittently and trying to recreate the sound that may indicate a transmission overhaul. No luck. Then I touch the pedal gently, goading it on with my playful touch, but the gremlins apparently don’t respond well to flirting. So I curse like a drunk sorority girl (I had my fair share of practice in my day), but the gremlins aren’t offended. They just sit back and whisper their wagers loudly enough for me to hear, “A buck says I can make her lose her mind before lunch.”

“Ya think so?” I yell back. “My time is worth much more than that, so get out the Benjamins, Mogwai, ‘cuz this girl ain’t goin’ down without a fight!”

The gremlins giggled some more.

So I headed to Nissan anyway, hoping that with the miles of driving I’d tire out the gremlins, thus revealing the nature of the problem. As Nissan approached on the left, my frustration got the better of me. I let my left turn pass me by, deciding to turn around and head home until later. (Lunchtime was approaching and I was actually very hungry. Plus, I had to pee.) As I passed Nissan again, now heading north, I heard an ever-so-faint whining noise.

“Yes!” I shouted, feeling sure the gremlins had let their guards down when I’d decided to head home. I turned around and approached Nissan, only to make my third pass by the dealer when engine silence took over again. My southbound approach wasn’t appeasing the gremlins, and I knew I was losing this battle. So once again, I made the U-turn and headed north, passing Nissan for my fourth time and feeling like Clark Griswold: “Look kids, Big Ben...Parliament!”

I went home, answered Nature’s call, ate lunch, headed back out to the supermarket, returned home with groceries, and STILL no noise. Now I was pissed off. I hopped in the car one last time and headed for Nissan. I figured the tech guy has been through this kind of thing plenty of times, so No, he won’t think I’m crazy, and maybe – just maybe – his ears will be immune to gremlin witchcraft and he’ll hear my noise and say, “Ahhhh!” Then the moon will be in the Seventh House and Jupiter will align with Mars. And peace will guide the planets, and love will steer the stars.

You know what happened? Determination paid off. Because when Tech Guy got into the car, the gremlins must have decided to take their afternoon siesta. And voila! The faintest trace of engine whining rose above the din of the road noise. Tech Guy explained to me what it was, assured me it was “normal” for the Rogue, and sent me on my way with the comfort of knowing my transmission was not going to fall out from under the car while I was driving it. He also pointed out that Nissan had recently decided to warranty the transmission up to 120,000 miles since it was a new model with potential issues. (Insert here Homer Simpson’s “D'oh!”)

As I drove home, I enjoyed the silence instead of being angry with it. Then the gremlins spoke to me in their creepy Munchkin voices and said, “We’ll get you next time (giggle, snort, giggle, snort).”

To which I replied, “Bring it on, boys. I’ve got a flashlight in my car and I’m not afraid to use it. And if that doesn’t do it, I’m not opposed to driving this baby into a movie theater and blowing the whole thing up.”

That’ll learn ‘em.

On Belated Thanks (Or, When will Hallmark start making cards for this?)

2010-04-26T05:00:00.006-04:00

Thanks are overdue. So overdue, in fact, that I've already posted in my sidebar the pics of my two most recent awards without giving due credit...and that's a bit shameless, I realize.

First off, thanks to Courtney at Southern Princess for the Stylish Blogger Award. It's a particular honor to receive it from her since her blog is one of the most stylish on my blogroll. Southern Princess has a unique theme that really helps me separate Courtney from the herd, and that is more than helpful as the number of blogs I follow quickly multiplies exponentially.

I pass this award onto these very stylish bloggers:

Karen Hooper at Eternal Moonshine of a Daydreaming Mind (I love her header.)

Julie at A Day in the Wife (She adds music, whether we like it or not.)
Anissa at Anissa Off the Record (Her color scheme is unique.)
Samantha Bennett at Show and Tell (Again, I like her header.)
Kathi at Kathi's Writing Nook (Her header has the most beautiful butterfly ever.)

Second, I give a big blogger hug to both Nicole at One Significant Moment at a Time and MissV at Rambles and Randomness for the Beautiful Blogger Award.

This award asks me to share seven things about myself, so here it goes:

1. I miss Seville, Spain more than words can express - even from a writer. Last week was the April Fair in that glorious city, and I was wishing more than anything I could be there wearing my Flamenco dress, drinking fino (no, that's not "vino"), and dancing my heart out. These two pictures show me in full Flamenco garb at the April Fair of 1991.

2. A couple days ago, as I was reading A Day in the Wife's post about how her husband was mocking her dedication to blogging, my own husband walked up to me and said, "Can you stop blogging for one second to talk to me, or will you stop breathing?"

3. My daughter is going to sleep-away camp this summer for the first time (Thanks, Grandma!), and every time I think about it, I get a knot in my throat to imagine her away from me for so long.

4. I love blogging! I only started in February of this year, and I feel I've found my calling...until I find the inspiration to write my next novel.

5. I wish I could organize a Blogger get-together - perhaps in NYC - where all my followers and all those I follow could unite so I could meet you ALL in person.

6. I love coffee but have to drink decaf because of a sensitivity to caffeine. (And no, it doesn't make me hyper. I can do that all on my own!)
7. I'm using lucky number 7 to brag about my incredible kids. My son is gifted on the drums and electric guitar. He models himself after Joe Satriani, and I'm convinced that some day, Satriani will model himself after my son. My daughter is so inventive that she can convert her nightstand into a car. No kidding - she just convinced my husband to pick up some training wheels from the bike store so her car can cruise. (Don't ask how I came to allow her to do this.) Some day, I tell you, she's gonna change the world.

So there you have it. I now pass this Beautiful Blogger Award onto five bloggers who I've recently started following, mostly because I'd like to learn 7 new things about them:
Jayne at A Novice Novelist
Annika at A Swede Abroad
Jackee at Winded Words
Portia Sisco
B. Miller Fiction

And if anyone else is serious about a Blogger get-together, my brother has a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. I'm sure it could hold 100 of our closest blogging buddies ;-)

P.S. I just responded to someone's blog, and the word verication was "fuclayfe". I swear.

On the New Blogger/Alien Dictionary (Or, Do you speak Eukzy?)

2010-04-22T05:00:00.045-04:00

First and foremost, let me thank Roxy at A Woman's Write for the Supportive Comments Award.

Since this award is about offering support, I pass it onto the six people who contributed to this post, plus one extra for offering her condolences on the loss of my cat (very supportive, indeed) ;-(

The winners are:
Fairyhedgehog
Jayne
B. Miller
Nicole Ducleroir at One Significant Moment at a Time
Courtney Barr at Southern Princess
KLM at A Rock in My Pocket
Terresa at The Chocolate Chip Waffle

And now, as promised, I welcome you to the New Blogger/Alien Dictionary (very abridged version), "comade" with my Followers. Here you will find an introduction to this newly-discovered language, which has infiltrated Blogger's Word Verification system. I hope you'll be able to glean some insight into the twisted minds of both the aliens trying to take over the Internet and your fellow bloggers.

I wish to note that this idea was borrowed from Denae at My Real Life Was Backordered, as suggested by Kaylie.

DEFINITIONS
coitted - (vb.) To coit.; This is the real description for when you go to cut paper with scissors but your scissors just glide through, so you don't cut the page, you coit it.
(by Jayne)

comake - (vb.) to collaborate on making something; ex: "Hey, wanna comake these cupcakes with me?"
(by B. Miller)

impol - (n.) 1) Textspeak for impolite; 2) The Instant Messenger Secret Police; (adj.) anything skuzzy
(by Fairyhedgehog)

Neddis - (n.) An insult directed at annoying people named Ned
(by Nicole Ducleroir at One Significant Moment at a Time)

chemi - (n.) Eukzyman's favorite happy dance *see PROPER NOUNS for clarification*
retalipt - (catch phrase), Eukzyman is tight lipped on the issue.
(both by Courtney Barr at Southern Princess)

Exabiesp - (interjection) An expression of joy. Ex: Is that chocolate for me? Exabieeeeeeeeeesp!
(by KLM at A Rock in My Pocket)

bilad - (n.) a subgroup of quadrupeds
(by Samantha Bennet at Show and Tell)

PROPER NOUNS
Eukzyman - (n.) the self-elected leader of the aliens
(by me)

Vladimon - (n.) Eukzyman's second in command (He used to be a Bulgarian wrestler.)
(also by KLM)

USAGE
Now, here's an entire sentence involving the famed ruler, Eukzyman, so you can see other vocabulary in practice:
Undinats nuballi vachesti. Dicatele ingdede consin, Eukzyman!

Which translates in English to:
Check out this blogger. She is awesome, Eukzyman! (spoken by Vladimon and taken from my previous post, On Word Verification - 4/15/10)

Well, I hope this brief dictionary has, at the very least, entertained you today. It should help explain why I refuse to remove Word Verification from my comments section...it's just too much fun! If you'd like to become a "comaker" of this dictionary and help expand the content, I'm happy to hear your definitions...so long as it isn't anything too "impol".

On Rendering Me Speechless (Or, I must have done something good)

2010-04-19T05:00:00.036-04:00

Happy Monday to you all! Before I start today's scheduled entry, I must first give thanks and toot my own horn (which is really what today's post was about anyway)...

First thanks: To Lola at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword for giving me the Butterfly Award.

Despite the grammatical error in the award's description (no fault of Lola's, I'm sure), it is an honor. I know we're supposed to pass these awards on, but since this one is not specific (like awards for commenting, or creativity, or humor, etc.), I choose not to single anyone out as being the coolest blog on my blogroll. I chose to follow you ALL for a reason.

Now for tooting (my horn, silly): I'VE HIT 50 FOLLOWERS! Strangely enough, I never had the goal of having a bunch of followers because I feel obligated to follow everyone back, and I'm not that good of a multi-tasker. Still, I'm thrilled. And in true going-against-the-grain spirit, I will not hold a contest. (Mostly because I have nothing good to give away right now.)

Instead I will ask those who comment on this post to include a made-up definition of the word verification "word" that appears when you respond. I will include these in my next post as part of the New Blogger Dictionary, co-authored by Wendy Ramer and her followers. Sound like fun? I hope so.

OK, time for a post...so here we go.

Last Thursday was a remarkable day. I'm only posting about it now because I had already prepared a post for that day. So here's my story.

It all started when my nine-year-old daughter came down the stairs, presumably to have breakfast and get ready for school. Instead, the first words out of her mouth were a series of questions fired off one after the other:

"Why do all living things have to die?
Why can't they live forever?
Why do some people live longer than others?
Why do some medicines work on some people but not on others?"

Oy! Now I know why my mother always drank coffee first thing in the morning...so she could deal with the myriad of out-of-left-field questions I must have thrown at her. Since my daughter is very much like me, I suddenly realize the steamroller effect I must have had on my mother.

Anyway, I was speechless. So before tackling my daughter's questions, I asked her a much simpler one: "What's on your mind, sweetie?"

Turns out she was thinking about our cat, Pluto, who died about a year ago at the tender age of four.

Diabetes had suddenly attacked his system, and within one month - despite immediate vetinerary care and insulin - his organs shut down completely. Since my daughter doesn't believe in God (see past post: On Coexisting), all her questions were thrown at me. And despite my bumbling answers, my daughter seemed content and a bit more relaxed. I felt I handled the whole thing rather well...for not being God, that is.

I went to work feeling quite proud of myself. I had no idea that my ego had much more inflating to go through until one of my students answered the following question (to practice Unreal Conditionals in Grammar class): If you could have another person's brain, whose brain would you want?

The first student chose Abraham Lincoln and followed up with her valid reasons. Then came the guy I will now affectionately refer to as Golden Boy, who said, "If I could have another person's brain, I would choose yours, Professor."

Oh me, oh my! I was momentarily rendered speechless for the second time in the same day, and I'm sure I also blushed. Finally, I composed myself and asked why.

The answer? (Keep in mind this is a class of second language learners - ESL - so their priorities may surprise the average student.) "Because you are intelligent, funny, and you speak very well."

But you forgot beautiful and a remarkably talented writer. Still, I was touched. And once again speechless.

To finish it all off, when I picked my daughter up from school, she hugged me (unsolicited!) and told me I was a good mommy. If you understood how infrequently I receive such praise from said daughter, you would appreciate how I found myself speechless for the fourth (and, thank God, final) time that day.

I'm not sure what I've done lately to deserve such accolades, but in the words of Julie Andrews from The Sound of Music, Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.

On Word Verification (Or, Are aliens trying to take over via the Internet?)

2010-04-15T19:48:00.000-04:00

Really. Is the word verification thing even necessary? Does it actually protect us from spammers or predators or assassins or whoever we're supposed to be protected from?

And who comes up with these words? I pray to God that they're computer generated, or else there are some sick people out there getting paid to come up with words that border on the lascivious and hygienically vulgar.

Out of my fascination with these words that I have to type without questioning their origin, I began to write some of them down. That’s when I realized what’s really going on here – it’s an alien language.

Don’t believe me? Behold the following sentence, taken directly from my last seven attempts to post a comment on fellow bloggers’ sites:

“Undinats nuballi vachesti. Dicatele ingdede consin, Eukzyman!”

I’m convinced the Eukzyman is their leader, and the aliens in my computer are trying to get a message to him that is of the utmost urgency. In fact, I’m going to Google Translator right now to see what I can make of it.

Hmm…interesting. I was able to loosely translate the message to mean:

“Check out this blogger. She is awesome, Eukzyman!”

O.K., so maybe I shouldn’t be so paranoid. These aliens are actually smart dudes.

On Poetry (Or, My thing for poets named Robert)

2010-04-12T05:00:00.003-04:00

I’ve written many poems in my life, but I’m not a poet. What I mean to say is that I see myself as a writer, a storyteller…not a poet. But I’d like to take this time to share with you two poems that inspired me at different times in my youth. They’ve always stuck with me, for very different reasons.

The impetus for writing this blog today is that I’ve just come across a child’s book of poetry (amongst the many “outgrown” books in my son’s home library), and this book is on the poetry of Robert Louis Stevenson. It has the first of my favorite poems, the one I fell in love with circa age seven, when I appreciated the theme for the simple childhood fancy it was: The Swing.

How do you like to go up in a swing,

Up in the air so blue?

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,

Till I can see so wide,

Rivers and trees and cattle and all

Over the countryside –

Till I look down on the garden green,

Down on the roof so brown –
Up in the air I go flying again,

Up in the air and down!

Reading that poem now, I think I also like it because of its metaphor for life. Most people compare life to a roller coaster, but in my experience, life is more like a swing – with the beautiful moments never lasting long enough and the terrible moments thankfully disappearing just as quickly. Back and forth I go, up and down, seeing great expansive vistas and then small comforting sights, again and again, on my swing of life.

The second poem of my heart is by another Robert – Robert Frost. I read it in S.E. Hinton’s book, The Outsiders, when I was about twelve years old. By that age, I had become a bit too introspective for my own good and had already developed a heightened sense of sentimentality for the passage of time. So this poem touched me: Nothing Gold Can Stay.

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower,

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Need I say more? Even today, reading these words makes my throat tighten up as I get all sappy realizing that my babies haven’t been babies for many years now. I also realize how similar Stevenson and Frost’s themes actually are, which is probably what has cemented them so firmly in my memory.

This leads me to share with you one final poem, which I wrote in high school after being inspired by Frost’s above-mentioned poem. I copied the meter but made this one my own: The Dreamer Knows No Sadness (by Wendy Minsker aka Wendy Ramer).

As the dreamer wastes her day,

Reality far away,

She realizes not her crime

In wasting precious time.

So many things she’ll miss,

Caught in her world of bliss,

Ignoring the truth and madness,

The dreamer knows no sadness.

I still love this poem for all the innocence and wisdom I tried to portray when I wrote it in the heat of adolescence. In one way, I am that dreamer. Sadly enough, in another way I am not, letting pragmatism and reality steal from me what could be beautifully blissful moments.

And sometimes that part of me really brings me down. Because as I swing through my life, I am constantly reminded that nothing gold can stay.

*****
For those who read On Truth or Lies (4/1/10), I just found the picture of me as the temporary maid-of-honor. Check the post to see the annoyed bride and me.

On the Sweet Blog Award (Or, Who will I accidentally slight this time?)

2010-04-10T12:18:00.000-04:00

Who knew that giving constructive criticism could result in receiving the Sweet Blog Award? Apparently, there are people out there who don’t get offended by comments that are genuinely meant to help them. I don’t mean to sound cynical; it’s just that in most cases, I’ve seen that things don’t always turn out so nicely.

It’s different today because Nicole, at One Significant Moment at a Time, has awarded me this honor after I responded to both her pleas for advice on a query letter. And both times I picked at something – constructively, I believe – in addition to leaving some positive comments. Because Nicole is a writer who obviously wants to improve her craft, she took all the bloggers’ comments to heart. And so there are awards to acknowledge.

The Sweet Blog award is meant for a blog that you think is so friendly and makes you want to visit it often. I also think it pertains to bloggers who post helpful and kind comments. With this award, I have to pass it on to 10 people and those people need to make a post about the award (including the picture and the person who gave it to you).

Now wait, people. If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, you’re a bit tired of these awards. (It’s okay to admit it.) But the “sweet” side of me sees these as the equivalent of The Screen Actors Guild Awards, where your peers want to give credit where credit is due. It’s not the Academy Awards, but even better in a way because of the confidence these awards inspire.

So my ten blogs to honor as being very visitor-friendly?
1. Courtney Barr at Southern Princess
2. Aleighopolis (since we are members of our own mutual admiration club)
3. DL Hammons at Cruising Altitude
4. Dangerous with a Pen
5. Anissa Off the Record
6. KLM at A Rock in My Pocket
7. Maybe Genius
8. Lola Sharp at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword
9. Elaine AM Smith at Still Writing
10. Roxy at A Woman’s Write

This is not to say that the other blogs I follow aren’t stupendous and friendly. It’s just that in this peer-honoring practice of award giving, I’m trying to be fair and recognize everyone. I really do love you all…in that blogger way ;-)

On Cockroaches (Or, When It’s Appropriate to Get Foul-Mouthed in front of Your Students)

2010-04-05T05:00:00.004-04:00

The other morning, as I was trying to administer an exam to my students, an uninvited guest made a mockery of my professionalism.

I had just handed out the exam booklets and asked for quiet when a student in the front row informed me that a cockroach had just run under my rolling backpack.

Now, send me a lizard, a beetle, a garden snake, even a spider, and I’m all right. I can handle it. But not a cockroach.

I ask the student, “Was it a little one (holding my thumb and index finger so close that they’re almost touching) or a giant one?” (I don’t even estimate the size with my fingers since the thought terrifies me.)

“Oh, not that giant,” my charming student says and then holds his fingers about three inches apart.

It’s a Palmetto bug…and they fly. I freak. I lift the backpack quickly hoping the roach will scurry away, but nothing comes out.

“I saw it go under there,” the student swears, and I begin to wonder if this isn’t a ploy to distract me during the exam.

I look up at the class and shout, “Keep your eyes on your own paper!”

Everyone laughs.

“I’d let this go,” I explain to them, “but I absolutely cannot tolerate roaches.”

One student suggests, “Maybe it crawled inside your bag.”

My face contorts like a stroke victim’s as I imagine this, and I reach into my backpack and pull out my pencil case, throwing it feet away from me onto the floor.

Nothing.

“No talking!” I command, knowing how panicked I sound. I pull out folders and let them sift through my fingers haphazardly as they also become strewn on the floor.

Still nothing.

I look up. “Quiet!” I yell, though nobody is saying anything.

They are simply staring at this scene as I dance around on tiptoes, waiting for the roach to show himself or fly into my face, as only Palmetto bugs can do. It’s amazing how silly I look. And I know this because I have temporarily floated out of my body and am watching this scene from above. Consciously, I want to maintain control and just let my students take their stupid exam. But my body is restless with fear. My disembodied self shouts to my physical self, Stop moving! Just for one minute, stop moving! But I can’t.

Finally, I kick the backpack over, and sure enough, the roach is clinging to the bottom of my bag.

“There he is!” shouts a female student.

“Is he alive?” I ask and then notice his antennae moving nervously. I grab a dictionary from atop my desk and bravely smash the roach, which runs under my backpack now lying on its side. I kick the backpack away again, and the roach goes running. The student who originally advised me about the roach’s existence sucks in his breath excitedly. Again, I smash the roach with the dictionary, and he begins to quiver and spasm (the roach - not the student).

“He’s still alive!” yells Female Student.

At this point, I lose all decency. I stand over the already injured roach and smash it repeatedly with the dictionary, shouting through clenched jaw, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I hear myself saying this, knowing that impropriety is not what has endeared me to my students. Still, I cannot stop myself from muttering the “F” word repeatedly…and I hear them laughing.

With the roach finally dead as a doornail (what do live doornails look like?), I start to breathe again. I hear my heart pounding in my ears and remember I have a class of students in front of me. I stand up straight, point my index finger and waggle it at them, saying, “Now get to work.”

Diligently, they lower their eyes to their papers and commence their exam. They look frightened, and I’m not sure if it’s due to the challenging nature of the test or the knowledge that their professor is a lunatic who will be assigning their grades and determining their fate for the next semester.

But I don’t care. That roach made me lose face with my students (I surely had nothing to do with it), and I hate him. I take no responsibility for what transpired in that classroom. But just in case that roach was the embodied spirit of a yogi guru, I will meditate with full dedication this evening and ask for forgiveness. Maybe I’ll even record myself doing so and post it on You Tube so my students can see the serene side of me.

Or maybe I’ll just start carrying bug repellent inside my backpack.

On the First Page Blogfest (Or, Here's something I've never shared before)

2010-04-02T11:20:00.002-04:00

In honor of Kelly's Compositions First Page Blogfest, I'm submitting the first page of a genre that is admittedly out of my league, but I wanted to try it anyway. This is a WIP that has lay dormant for some time now as I patiently await the inspiration to bring it back to life. Hope it pleases...

I want to stay here forever. I tell Galya so as I walk through Faerinspirra’s canopied forest, watching my best friend’s silver-blue wings flutter a few paces ahead of me.

Galya’s silver hair sparkles – just a hue deeper than her wings – and her tawny eyes glow as she turns around suddenly, waits for me to catch up, and then sits on my right shoulder. A faint breeze brushes my ear as her wings slowly come to a halt.

"We should stop and rest, Alex,” she says softly.

I spot a field of acacia stumps – the devastating remains of the war between Ardnaxela and Mergen’s armies – and I sit hesitantly on the purple plateau that once gave life to one of Faerinspirra’s oldest dens.

Galya flutters onto a stump. She begins to rub her small palms together vigorously. I have been in this forest long enough to know that my friend is preparing Durgan’s Elixir, an intoxicating drink spawned from the heart of faeries and served to humans in order to help them tolerate pain. Galya is going to break my heart, and I know there is nothing I can do about it.

In resignation, I accept the liquid-filled walnut shell that Galya offers me. I slowly pour the elixir into my mouth. At first, it feels cool against my teeth, but quickly the temperature rises. I feel a warmness that scares me and calms me at the same time. The thick fluid gets hotter and hotter until I am not sure which burns more – Durgan’s Elixir or the sting of my own tears.

On Truth or Lies (Or, I never got to carry the big flowers)

2010-04-01T05:00:00.006-04:00

Truth or lies – did you play the game? In response to my ~~Bald Faced Liar~~ Creative Blogger Award, here are my answers:

1. When my second child was eighteen months old, I fell from a horse and broke my back. Fortunately, it was the one vertebrae that can be broken without causing paralysis, so I spent six weeks in a back brace and on virtual bed rest, unable to pick up my needy toddler, who took out her frustration on her older brother by pulling out a clump of his hair so fiercely that he still (seven years later) has a small permanent bald spot.
Lie: This actually happened to my best friend, though her boy did not lose his hair as a result of the horse fall.

2. At twenty-two years old, I was slated to be the maid-of-honor at a dear friend’s wedding. The night before, we went out for her bachelorette party. I got so drunk that I woke up the next morning in a luxury hotel room, all alone and having no idea how I had gotten there. (This was before the age of cell phones.) My last memory had been doing shots with two gorgeous guys at a club with my girlfriends and then stupidly agreeing to continue partying with them in their hotel. I don’t remember what happened in that hotel room, but after sneaking out and hailing a cab to the hotel where my friend was getting married, I discovered I had been dethroned by the bride for my abhorrent behavior and demoted to bridesmaid.

Lie: I was actually the bridesmaid in this story, though I did act as maid-of-honor until the hungover one showed up. Here, I'm pictured temporarily holding the "bigger" bouquet, which I eventually had to turn over to the the maid-of-honor when she finally showed up and was allowed to walk down the aisle. Her mother was in attendance, and the bride didn’t want to create havoc by having to explain everything.

3. When I was eight months pregnant, I got into a car accident when I pulled out of a parking lot and onto the main road. I hit an oncoming Jaguar that had been obscured by a bush. Thankfully, I had an older car with no airbag, so my belly was alright, but as I got out of the car and saw the other driver getting out of the Jaguar, I recognized her as my ex-boyfriend’s mother. She approached me, established that I was okay, and then said, “You had it coming for breaking up with my son.”
Lie: I did get into a car accident while 8 months pregnant, hitting a Jaguar with my little Honda Civic, but the driver was a complete stranger.

4. When I was a toddler, the pediatrician decided my legs weren’t growing properly and I was put into leg braces. The doctor was very concerned I would be very “small”, well under five feet tall due to my leg condition. Today I am 5’-6”.
Lie: I did wear leg braces as a toddler but only for “duck feet”.

5. My ex-boyfriend was a white South African (during the Apartheid years) who spent a short time in a Johannesburg prison for helping his black best friend beat up a group of white guys who were bullying them.
Lie: My ex-boyfriend was South African but never spent time in a prison. (At least, he never told me that he had.)

6. My paternal grandfather was a Jewish man who had three wives in his life, the first of which was my grandmother and the third of which was a Taiwanese girl he married when he was 70 and she was 26. They had one daughter (my father’s sister and therefore my aunt), who was raised in Taiwan as a Buddhist. When she was 18 years old, she came to New York to study at the university, met an Orthodox Jewish boy, went to Israel with him, and stayed there for a year to convert to Judaism. So at 43 years old, I now have a 29-year-old Jewish Taiwanese aunt.
True: 100% accurate. At my aunt’s wedding, I found it ironic that my grandfather’s remains rested in a Buddhist Temple in Taipei while his daughter was dancing at her Orthodox Jewish wedding in New York (only with women, of course). Here we are in a NYC deli about 3 years ago , when I was a redhead:

7. I have a Chihuahua who has survived being literally run over by a car. She ran across the street just in time to get caught up in the car’s tire well, which made a horrifying thump-thump noise as it spun her around (as I screamed in shock), but she ran away with nothing more than a small limp.

Lie: But I did witness this happen to my neighbor’s Chihuahua. I remember screaming so loudly and then laughing with relief as the little rat limped across the street faster than a bat outta hell.

So there you have it. What more can I say? I suppose I could tell you the middle part of my grandfather's story - the part about his second wife and her fascinating offspring - but that's fodder for a blog all its own.

On the Creative Blogger Award (Or, My pants are on fire!)

2010-03-29T05:00:00.040-04:00

First off, let me note that my blog has had a facelift (my first dance with cosmetic surgery!), and I'd like to hear your opinions.

Now on to more important things...
A few weeks ago, I was awarded the Sunshine Blog Award, and now another honor has graced my blog: Lesa's ~~Bald Faced Liar~~ Creative Writer Blogger Award, thanks to Lindsey, at Dangerous With a Pen. Aw, shucks guys! (I'm blushing.)

So all I've got to do is list 7 things about myself, 6 of which are lies but one of which is 100% true. Then I'll award 5 more bloggers with this honor. OK, here it goes...

1. When my second child was eighteen months old, I fell from a horse and broke my back. Fortunately, it was the one vertebrae that can be broken without causing paralysis, so I spent six weeks in a back brace and on virtual bed rest, unable to pick up my needy toddler, who took out her frustration on her older brother by pulling out a clump of his hair so fiercely that he still (seven years later) has a small permanent bald spot.

2. At twenty-two years old, I was slated to be the maid-of-honor at a dear friend’s wedding. The night before, we went out for her bachelorette party. I got so drunk that I woke up the next morning in a luxury hotel room, all alone and having no idea how I had gotten there. (This was before the age of cell phones.) My last memory had been doing shots with two gorgeous guys at a club with my girlfriends and then stupidly agreeing to continue partying with them in their hotel. I don’t remember what happened in that hotel room, but after sneaking out and hailing a cab to the hotel where my friend was getting married, I discovered I had been dethroned by the bride for my abhorrent behavior and demoted to bridesmaid.

3. When I was eight months pregnant, I got into a car accident when I pulled out of a parking lot and onto the main road. I hit an oncoming Jaguar that had been obscured by a bush. Thankfully, I had an older car with no airbag, so my belly was alright, but as I got out of the car and saw the other driver getting out of the Jaguar, I recognized her as my ex-boyfriend’s mother. She approached me, established that I was okay, and then said, “You had it coming for breaking up with my son.”

4. When I was a toddler, the pediatrician decided my legs weren’t growing properly and I was put into leg braces. The doctor was very concerned I would be very “small”, well under five feet tall due to my leg condition. Today I am 5’-6”.

5. My ex-boyfriend was a white South African (during the Apartheid years) who spent a short time in a Johannesburg prison for helping his black best friend beat up a group of white guys who were bullying them.

6. My paternal grandfather was a Jewish man who had three wives in his life, the first of which was my grandmother and the third of which was a Taiwanese girl he married when he was 70 and she was 26. They had one daughter (my father’s sister and therefore my aunt), who was raised in Taiwan as a Buddhist. When she was 18 years old, she came to New York to study at the university, met an Orthodox Jewish boy, went to Israel with him, and stayed there for a year to convert to Judaism. So at 43 years old, I now have a 29-year-old Jewish Taiwanese aunt.

7. I have a Chihuahua who has survived being literally run over by a car. She ran across the street just in time to get caught up in the car’s tire well, which made a horrifying thump-thump noise as it spun her around (as I screamed in shock), but she ran away with nothing more than a small limp.

I must confess that there is a smidgeon of truth to every one of these, but only one is honestly valid. I will patiently await your guesses to see how clever you all are. And now I pass on this honor to...

Jm Diaz at An Ulterior Motive
Aleighopolis
Sweatpants Mom
Julie at A Day in the Wife
Alan at Unauthorized Insights

For the record, I follow many other amazingly creative bloggers (see my bloglist for proof!), but I choose these five because I'm pretty sure they haven't already put out one of these "liar" lists, and I'm also curious to see what they'll come up with so I can learn more about them.

Thanks again to Lindsey for having faith in my creativity ;-)

On Siblings in Close Quarters (Or, Infanticide: Is it misunderstood?)

2010-03-24T18:38:00.003-04:00

In the wild, there are some animals that eat their young, a seemingly barbaric act called infanticide. As of today, however, I amend that definition to say “an understandable act”. Yes, I’ve just survived (barely) a twenty-minute car ride with both my children, and might I say, they are both damned lucky to not have been eaten. (What is the word for siblings who eat each other? Because that potential was also very prevalent in the car this afternoon.)

What was the fighting over?

Does it really matter? The fact is that when my son and daughter are forced to share a confined space, someone’s going down. As it happens, the three of us survived, but as I now sip my Blackstone Cabernet Sauvignon, my hand occasionally twitches in nervous spasm, sprinkling me with drops of red wine that signify the blood almost shed earlier today. As the Jewish holiday of Passover approaches, the symbolism is perfect; I spill the “blood” in memory of those who almost perished in the car and in celebration of my freedom to blog about it all, having lived to tell the gruesome tale. Oh, so truly scary.

I remember growing up with my younger brother. We fought interminably, probably pushing my mother so close to the edge of insanity. Still, when I share my troubles with her, she seems to remember those years about as vividly as a woman remembers the pain of childbirth, which is what pushes us to have a second child…that tendency to forget all the pain as soon as we hold our perfect baby in our arms.

“Oh, you guys weren’t that bad,” Mom insists.

That is when I reconsider my edge-of-insanity remark and think that my mother actually lost it years ago. I don’t know how she couldn’t see it, but I hated my brother. I can only say that now (knowing he may very well read this) because he knows that today he is one of my favorite men in this world, sharing that spot only with my husband and my son, who I affectionately call Little Man on days I haven’t been trapped with him and his sister in the car. My brother is so cool and so on my side that I can’t imagine ever having hated him so much.

Here we are circa 1972. Notice my hands on hips stance as I think, I'm not smiling while standing next to him, if that's what you're thinking, Mom!

But I did hate him. And I remember that. Which is the only solace I have at moments such as these. Moments when I fear that I may commit infanticide soon if my otherwise beautiful children don’t start loving each other NOW. I figure that as long as I keep my hopes intact and my belly full, my children just might survive their youth and grow up to be great friends in adulthood.

Until then, I’ll continue coloring my hair to cover up the gray they’re giving me. And instead of spilling “blood” from my wine glass, I’ll drink the stuff up and celebrate the truth…which is that I am damn lucky to have these sibling-hating angels in my life.

On Coexisting (Or, God is Gray)

2010-03-22T05:00:00.002-04:00

In my blogs, I try to balance the nostalgic and the sentimental with the tongue-in-cheek. But today, I wax a bit serious. Please forgive my transgression as I tell you about the other day in the car, on a gloriously beautiful South Florida day, when I got sucked into the following conversation with my spiritual son and my scientific daughter. (Warning to sensitive readers: This one's about God.)

Son: Who invented the word “stupid”? Did God invent it?
Me: No, people invent words to describe things they experience.
Son: But God made people, right?
Me: Yes…
Son: So why did God make people stupid?
Me: (after contemplating the most honest yet least judgmental answer I could come up with) I guess it’s just part of being human sometimes.
Daughter: (setting her own record for waiting to jump in on a conversation) God’s not real.
Son: How do you know that?
Daughter: You can’t prove that God’s real.
Me: (finally proud to have a kick-ass response to my know-it-all daughter) But you can’t disprove it either.
Daughter: You can’t prove it.
Me: You can’t disprove it.
Daughter: Soooo! You can’t prove it!
Me: You’re going to have to brush up on your debate skills if you’re going to be a successful litigator some day.
Daughter: I don’t want to be a Little Gator. I want to be a Seminole! (referring to the Florida State Seminoles and thus cementing her desire to do exactly what her die-hard University of Florida Gator-fan father would resent)

I gave up the debate because when driving a car, it’s often hard to tell whether the moral argument or the semantic argument is worth battling. However, my children’s differing views on God are a minute-scale example of how the rest of the world feels about the issue. And if two children from the same upbringing can’t make peace with their differences and learn tolerance, how in God’s name can the rest of the world?

Admittedly, my husband and I have probably confused the kids quite a bit. I mean, we don’t send them to religious school yet enforce the observance of the holiest days of the year. And my husband breaks away from his upbringing every Saturday morning to partake in Zen meditation at a local Buddhist temple. He explains that one practice is not in conflict with the other. But when you’re a kid, gray is a hard color to see, since black and white are much more easily recognizable.

At this time, I’d like to mention my own difficulty in distinguishing between God and organized religion because I believe that belief in the former does not require affiliation with the latter. I see the purpose of organized religion and can acknowledge its benefits. But get me on my soapbox (or my blog) and you’ll hear me scream from the highest heights my disdain for what we do to each other in the name of religion. We hate each other, insult each other, and even kill each other over who is right and who will be damned, when the truth is that nobody knows the truth. We all get by on our faith (or adamant rejection of faith, which is a belief system all its own). And as long as we are kind to each other and respect each person’s right to free will, what difference does it make which compass we use to guide ourselves down that road to good living?

On my car, I have a bumper sticker that frequently attracts inquiries of where I got it. It says, “Coexist” and is written in a variety of symbols from religions all over the world. I believe in this philosophy whole-heartedly. And when my son, daughter, and I finally arrived home from our outing, I walked them around to the back of the car and pointed to my bumper sticker.

Daughter: But you can’t prove that God exists!
Son: I don’t want to coexist with her!
Me: (in exasperation) Oh, my God!

As we walked into the house, I reminded myself that they are immature eleven- and nine-year-olds.

So what’s the rest of the world’s excuse?

On Rambling (Or, Samantha Brown had better watch her back)

2010-03-18T05:00:00.008-04:00

I want Samantha Brown’s job. If you’re not sure who she is, she’s the charming and charismatic host of the Travel Channel’s Passport to Europe, or Latin America, or wherever you want to go. (She’s also the only person I follow on Twitter who has responded to my tweets. Thanks, Sam!) I’m home sick today, which means that between the frequent bathroom visits (I won’t get more graphic than that), I can relish back-to-back episodes of Samantha Brown’s Passport to Great Weekends segment, where she took me first to Brooklyn and then to Cape Cod.

(Here she is crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Doesn't that look like a better way to spend a dreary Wednesday?) Now I want her to come to South Florida so I can take her around my stomping grounds and be on her show – since I can’t steal her job.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually love my teaching job, where I get to meet people as exotic as Samantha does. (I teach English as a Second Language at a local college.) The big difference is that Samantha gets to travel to these exotic places and then say good-bye to these people while I spend sixteen weeks with mine and then have to give them a final grade, which they often don’t like. Well, the philosophy is that professors don’t give grades; students earn them. But nine out of ten students don’t buy that crap, and so I’m left having to look them in the eye when they sometimes fail, wishing I could instead hop a plane outta there as quickly as Samantha Brown does.

So as the sixty-degree rain falls from the oppressive gray sky today, exacerbating my headache and stomach cramps, I’m wishing I were somewhere else, maybe snuggled before a fire in an Alpine ski lodge or nestled comfortably in a hammock on Bali (channeling the fantasies inspired by Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love). If I had Samantha Brown’s job, I could do that and then spend the rainy days blogging about it.

(For the record, Microsoft Word does not yet recognize “blog” as a noun or a verb. How behind the times is that? It also doesn’t recognize “jonesing”, which is what I wanted to write earlier instead of “wishing”.)

Anyway, I’m rambling, which is what sick people do when they’re bored and jonesing to be somewhere else, to have someone else’s job, or just to feel well enough to stay away from the bathroom for more than thirty minutes. Incidentally, I just had to renovate my bathroom due to leaky wall tiles, and though it’s the last thing in the world I would have chosen to spend money on, I have to say it looks great. I also have to thank God I didn’t get this stomach bug one week earlier when dust coated the sink counter and a man named Jack lowered my A/C to 65 degrees and spent his days blaring country music while he worked. I like country music ‘n all, but I was home on Spring Break and so had to listen to Dierks Bentley sing about a Long Trip Alone, which is what I really wanted to take on my break instead of having to endure frigid temperatures inside my own home. I tell you, it just ain’t fair.

Then again, I could have needed the toilet every few minutes, which I guess puts things into perspective. And since perspective is a hard thing to find when you’re rambling on ‘n on ‘n on, I thank you for staying with me on this blog about absolutely nothing. I love you all!

P.S. (Beware: shameless plug coming) Did I mention that my novel, Looking for Anita, is a finalist for the ForeWord Reviews 2009 Book of the Year Awards?

On the Sunshine Blog Award (Or, I’m kvelling!)

2010-03-11T16:17:00.000-05:00

I am new to the blogosphere – only been here since February 5th, in fact. But this morning, I’m breaking from routine in a big way. I usually blog weekly, Thursday mornings being my post days, and this morning I posted my latest entry. But at 4:00pm, it’s already playing second fiddle to my exciting news...

I’ve been given the Sunshine Blog Award by fellow blogger, Julie, The Wife. And I am kvelling! For those unfamiliar with Yiddish vernacular, it means I’m so excited that my pits are sweating. Okay, maybe that’s not a literal translation, but I am incredibly honored and excited enough to re-blog (is that a word?) on the same day as my crazy post about living in Ikea. (Please see below this post for more details.)

So as a recipient of the Sunshine Blog Award, I have some rules to follow.

First, after posting the award on my blog, I must pass on the award to five other bloggers. This is actually challenging since I haven’t yet developed an extensive bloglist. (Remember, I’ve only been here 5 weeks.) And I don’t want to throw this award around casually since it means I am honoring those who bring a ray of sunshine to my days through their inspiring and “sunshiny” blogs. And since I can’t reaward those already awarded (Aleighopolis and Anissa off the record), here’s how I’m handling it:

1. Eternal Moonshine of a Daydreaming Mind, and…

2. Megan Rebekah Blogs....and Writes: both great writers’ blogs that always make me smile.

3. Sweatpantsmom: very fun. Thanks for the sunshine.

4. Unauthorized Insights by Alan Williamson:. Alan, I hope this inspires you. As one of my writer’s group colleagues, your humor column has always made me laugh, and I’d like to see more of that ilk in your blogs, which are clever but a bit too short for me. I WANT MORE! So spread your sunshine generously, dude.

5. What Could Happen?: I salute you Julie Powell. Even though you don’t post very often, you were the first blog I searched back in February. And it was through you that I found Julie, The Wife, who led me to everyone else!

Second, I must link these recipients in my post.
Done.

Third, I must comment about this award on their blogs.
Will do.

Fourth, I must link Julie, The Wife's blog, A Day in the Wife, since she honored me with this award.
Done.

And fifth, I must list five things about myself. Okay. Here it goes…

1. I had so much fun taking those pictures in Ikea. Thanks to my bud, Linda, for all her photography help.

2. I have a menstrual headache today…argh! (But receiving this award has helped.)

3. The weather in South Florida sucks today. (But again, this award has sent a ray of sunshine into these dreary skies.)

4. I had yummy lunch with my husband today since I’m on spring break from the college and therefore could.

5. My kids are growing up too fast. I’ve tried pressing on their heads and stepping over them when they’re lying on the floor watching TV, but they resist my efforts and keep getting taller and more mature. Maybe I should take away their food???

So that’s it. (For those who don’t know me well yet, please don’t take the food deprivation thing seriously.) Now those who have been awarded have to follow these rules and help spread the honors. I’m walking on sunshine, and so should you!