Praise for Single Parents

Parenthood is tiring. Single parenthood is lonely exhaustion. Meals for just one adult and kids. Bath duty every night alone. Bedtime stories, baseball games, school events, tantrums, potty training, sick kids, teething, dirty bedrooms, bus-stop like bathrooms for the boys, sibling fights, homework, and tattling all handled by one parent.

This is my life Monday through Friday every week.

But unlike real single parents, I do not have to earn the money in addition taking care of the kids and the house. My husband provides for us financially and emotionally when he is gone. When the weekend arrives, hugs, kisses and tickles abound.

It is not always easy but I am not really alone. So, I admire all those single parents out there, both mothers and fathers, who do it all without any support. Raising great kids that will grow into responsible, productive adults is tough; doing it alone is simply miraculous.

Longing for the Days of the Traditional Love Note

Traditional Romantic: Flowers, love notes, home-made candlelight dinners, and books of poetry with hand-written inscriptions.

High-Tech Romantic: Sexy texts, flirtatious emails, dedicated blog following, and spontaneous instant messaging.

My husband is both traditional and high-tech. But, now he is has transformed into a high-tech, travelling show-off who sends me pictures like this:

Handsome Husband, here is a new rule: You can send me pictures of food only if the accompanying  innuendo is as thick and sugar-filled as the chocolate syrup in the picture. Otherwise, I will only accept personally crafted pen and ink drawings of the desserts that you are eating in Germany. A handwritten letter of your unbridled love enhanced by a few pieces of chocolate and an original poem all mailed with foreign postage would be much appreciated too.

First Comes Marriage then Comes the Devastation: Review of Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach

Ian McEwan’s astonishingly heartbreaking book, On Chesil Beach opens with the line: "They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible." McEwan’s opener is a good indication that this novel is about young love, sex, unspoken expectations and paralyzing repression that simply isn’t going to end well for the couple. The suspense of the work is built around the questions of what has caused their great miscommunication; how badly will their honeymoon go and what consequences will be suffered due to an awkward wedding night?

The two innocents in question are Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting. He is a historian who is the son of a principled schoolmaster and a sweet, brain-damaged mother. She is a virtuoso violinist who is the daughter of a workaholic corporate tycoon and a workaholic mother who is an Oxford philosopher, preferring Schopenhauer over her own daughters. After a yearlong tender (but not particularly intimate) courtship, the couple exchange marital vows, receive lovely well-wishes from friends and family, and finally are alone in the honeymoon suite on their wedding night.

"What stood in their way?" asks the narrator, "Their personalities and pasts, their ignorance and fear, timidity, squeamishness, lack of entitlement or experience, then the tail end of a religious prohibition, their Englishness and class, and history itself."

Alone in that room with the four-post bed taunting them, the couple possess innocence, hope and promise. But, it does not take long for their naïveté to be jaded through a series of miscues, fumbling and ham-fisted caresses. She approaches the marital bed with a sense of “visceral dread” and he follows her with feelings of excitement, nervousness and inadequacy. None of their uncertainties are articulated verbally, and they grossly misinterpret each other’s non-verbal cues. She is so fearful that her legs twitch and he misreads it for excitement. This series of miscommunication creates a bizarre tragicomedy that focuses on the intimate details of their consummation but in no way enters the realm of slapstick or eroticism. The comedic elements of the sexual awkwardness become devastatingly tragic in a very short period time.

The sexual encounter occurs in real time and the life-alerting events unfold in probably less than two-hours. In order to break-up the drama in the bedroom while also heightening the suspense, McEwan’s interweaves the stories of both of their upbringings and the mythology that they created about their accidental meeting and subsequent betrothal. Their class, their parental relationships, their educations, their passions, their values, their anxieties and their differing music tastes all climb into bed with them and dance towards reconciliation, but the beat is never found and the perpetual stumbling knocks them both down permanently and irreparably. The beauty is in watching their synchronicity tragically dissipate into experienced ruins.

The magic of this book is how much richness fills 160 pages. The brevity of this book makes it more of a novella than a novel technically, but it is a complete novel in every way. McEwan, who has a reputation for creating cold characters in his forensic style of prose, in this work crafts beautifully rounded characters with lushness and precision. Both Edward and Florence are likable and believable. Their warmth is felt through the page and pulls the reader into their calamity. While creating such full portraits of his main characters, he also touches upon the issues of class, politics, familial influences, repression, miscommunication, and social expectations in 1962 prior to the sexual revolution.

With the pure grace and poise exhibited in this novel, it is no surprise that it was short-listed for the Man Booker Prize in 2007. This work of literary fiction epitomizes what great fiction is -- interesting characters, original plot, intriguing setting, emotional dialogue, and a satisfying ending even if it is not a happy ending. Yes, this book is tragic and depressing. A month later, I still get a little sad when I think about Edward and Florence. But can one ever get enough tragically heartbreaking English dramas? Of course not.

A Few Notes and Arbitrary Thoughts about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Publishers must think that readers in America and Great Britain are either prudish or simple or both. Someone in the publishing world decided that readers would not buy an English translation of a book with the title Men Who Hate Women, which is the original name for the first novel in Stieg Larsson’s crime thriller trilogy. Marketers probably believed that The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was sexier, more appealing and perhaps a more mysterious title that would pique readers’ interests. Perhaps a sexy title would distract from all the problems in this strange mess of a book (that oddly entices, repulses, intrigues, and bores me in an alternating sequence.) This book has so many problems that it is best to get them out of the way immediately:

1. Granted the title is catchy and provocative, but it is hugely misleading. Although the rail-thin, emotionally damaged girl with the dragon tattoo, properly known as Lisbeth Salander, is a crucial part of the novel, she is by no means the main protagonist and plays only a moderate role in the novel’s plot, suspense, and action. This book is truly about men who hate women. Salander, who at one point is described as the perfect victim, is an example of a female that has been hated by men specifically and exploited under a patriarchal order her whole life. But, she is just one of the many characters in this book.

2. This 590 page book is about 300 pages of unedited, unnecessary rubbish that meanders and takes up space. The intended financial intrigue is anything but intriguing and could be completely cut from the book, particularly in the last few chapters following such a thrilling climax. Plus, the entire detailed family lineage is cumbersome.
3. Alone Salander and Michael Blomviskt are emotionally dysfunction flat characters. The story drags through their introductions and personal travails. Together, they ignite the novel and make pages practically turn themselves. It should not have taken 300 pages for the characters to meet.

4. With the exception Henrik Vanger, there are no positive portrayals of men (even Blomvist is severely flawed). And, the villains are just pure evil. The best villains in literature are complex with a streak of good that is dominated by their more sinister ways.

5. The plot and subplots reach a ridiculous level of absurdity and improbability, but yet the ride into ludicrousness is quite exhilarating.

6. The references to technology will eventually make the book feel dated before its time.

7. The relationship between Erica Berger and Blomviskt is unbelievable and poorly sketched. It is not likely that any husband would stand for his wife sleeping with another man that regularly for such a sustained period of time. Larsson  gives us an on-paper scenario of the relationship without the complexities of human emotions. Likewise, most of the supporting cast members are either cardboard or tissue paper.

8. Finally, the biggest turn off for me and the main reason why I will not read the remaining two books: Excessive sexual violence with gratuitous details. Larsson’s portrayal of violence against women (and some men) is fascinating and I believe well-intended for advocacy and education, but the book would have been brought to a closer level of literary fiction if the violence would have been toned down, and the brutality would have been discussed in different terms. All those terrible things could have occurred with less gruesome depiction.

Although I am sure there are more things that I could list, why be nitpicky? Once readers get beyond a few stock supporting characters and the boring financial plot, they can devour this wonderful mess of a book that is an absolute page-turner in parts. Without a doubt, this is a mysterious and exhilarating crime thriller that may be more sophisticated than some of its contemporary peers. There are numerous umbrella themes in this novel that kept me hooked. (Book Club Moms, start thinking about these topics that we’ll be discussing tonight.) Here are some the best and most interesting themes, characters and events in this novel:

1. Sexual, physical and emotional abuse against women and children is the most dominant theme in the book. Although Larsson goes to great length to provide gory details, he is not necessarily being exploitative of women and children. With the inclusion of the sexual assault statistics at the beginning of each section, Larsson is educating his readers. He is absolutely writing a parable of sorts (albeit twisted, complex and gratuitous at times). He seems to be taking an approach of advocacy against the violence towards women opposed to portraying it for commercial gain. (There is no doubt that is a debatable assertion.)

2. Although Lisbeth Salander is not the heart of the novel as the title suggests (Or, is she? A point worth discussing), she is a fascinating anti-hero. She is a young woman who is emotionally crippled and has been declared a ward of the state due to incompetency. But at the same time, she is a highly functional dysfunctional person. She is firm on her convictions: a bad life doesn’t give a person an excuse to abuse another person; if you have a problem fix it yourself and do what it takes to get the job done even if it means breaking the law. She is simultaneously simple and complex. But, it could be argued she is far simpler prior to meeting Blomvist. Her character really borders on cliché in the first half of the book. Was any one surprised that an attractive tattooed, leather-wearing girl with multiple piercing and nearly shaved hair was bi-sexual? That is a stock character from the 1990s. She becomes a far more original character when she inexplicably, unwittingly and unwillingly falls in the love with Blomvist. Salander is a new kind of feminist.

3. The romance between Salander and Blomvist buoys this book to a different level. Perhaps crime thriller aficionados did not take much notice of the romance, but it was really the only thing that motivated me to continue reading. I was only moderately interested in Harriet’s disappearance, vaguely interested in the serial killing subplot, didn’t really care about the crazy Vanger clan, was terrified by the violence and was completely bored by the Wennerstrom affair. Salander and Blomvist keep the book moving and their chemistry is complex, sexy, fascinating and passionate. Larsson’s masterfully pairs two damaged, unconventional protagonists to make a perverse super couple that solves crimes and helps to heal each other to some extent. The twists and turns of their relationship were more intriguing and mysterious than the mystery they were solving. The condition of their relationship on the final page of this book made me want to read the second book until I read the prologue of The Girl Who Played with Fire.  All the violence starts up again, so I’ll just have to find a summary of the next two books to see what happens to Salander and Blomvist.

Other important things to consider: the link between Nazism and violence against women and children; the role of parental guidance or lack of it in the lives of these characters; friendship and trust; religious fanaticism, privacy, and journalistic ethics.

Although The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is a highly flawed book, it cannot be dismissed as a genre read. Larsson tackles enough serious issues in this novel for to be considered social commentary. If it wasn’t for book club, I would have never read this book. But, I guess it doesn’t hurt to leave my comfort zone every ten or twelve years. Now back to E.M. Forster’s Howards End.

Synapses Passing in the Morning Light

She hears him whisper “good morning” from a distance. His presence rouses her from a serene slumber. She rushes to the window, but he has fled. She smells the faint trail of his cologne and wonders.

Summer Brain Drain

Widespread concern exists for the trend called "summer learning loss," which is what happens to children when they forget some of the information learned during the previous school year. Sometimes children may take weeks or months to regain the knowledge they lost while hanging out at the pool or playing video games in the basement for three months.

Across the United States, some schools have adopted year-round academic schedules, and many communities have developed camps, library events and fun educational activities to promote learning in active and creative ways during the summer months.

Although it is wonderful that this problem has garnered national attention, what research has been done on the phenomenon that I like to call the “Parental Summer Beatdown.” What inquiries have been done to discover what happens to the parental spirit every time a child says, “I am bored,” “There is nothing to do here,” or “This is boring” ? How much self-esteem do parents lose every time they pack up a picnic, sunscreen, an array of balls, Frisbees, and kites to take to the park only to have their children say “I don’t want to go”? Even worse than the children not wanting to go is taking the whole family to the park and having them want to leave after 20 minutes, six pushes on the swing and three times down the slide.

After a one week luxurious beach vacation, a trip to grandma’s house five states away, a soccer camp, a few festivals on the weekends, swimming at the neighborhood pool for a couple hours a day and a little Vacation Bible School for the religious types (although I find that many of non-pious friends are happy to lie about their church going habits and expose their children to dogma they don’t believe in just to get their kids out of the house at a low cost), what else is there to do? Yard sprinklers are so 2002; sidewalk chalk is also passé, and the concept of kicking your children outside after breakfast and allowing them back inside at dinner time is no longer considered to be safe or politically correct. Too much sun exposure is harmful, but excessive videogame playing and T.V. watching isn’t so good either.

What are exhausted, frustrated parents who don’t have degrees in early childhood education suppose to do? Every parenting magazine in the world is chock-full of fun ideas that allegedly will keep children busy and squealing in delight for months. These activities work on laboratory rats, not real children.

The only option is to pack their backpacks, fill their lunch boxes, give them a map to the school, and send them on their way. Eventually, teachers will return and let them in.

Don’t Choke on the Bratwurst

Dear Husband:

I hope you are reading this upon your safe arrival in Germany. Thank you for checking my blog, so you can be closer to me despite the ocean that separates us. Romantic. Now please open your suitcase. In the top left pocket, you will find a picture of our four beautiful, smiling, and quiet children. Cute. They are quiet because you have a pixel representation of them. I will have the not so quiet version for fourteen days by myself, which brings me to the next item you will find. In the large pocket in the left bottom, you will discover a neatly folded black duffle bag. You are to take this duffle bag to one or two chocolatiers in Germany and load it up. Four kids for fourteen days alone, there is not enough chocolate in the world, but this will be a good start. Please leave room for the cookies and pastries that you will purchase the morning of your departure. The foil that you will find inside the duffle bag will keep the items fresh. (Simply repeat the procedure you used to bring me chocolate-filled donuts from Dunkin’ Donuts in Chicago since that donut shop does not exist anywhere near our health conscious community.)

The bag needs to be so full of confections that the customs officers peg you for either a freak or a criminal or maybe both. When you are asked why you have a bag full of chocolates, cookies, and pastries, simply respond: “I am neither freak nor criminal. I dearly love my wife who has made my children 42 meals, given 14 baths, changed 84 diapers, read 29 stories, and broken up at least 32 fights while I have been enjoying bratwurst, sauerkraut, spaetzle, and strudel, sleeping alone in a comfortable bed, watching television free of Diego and Dora, and touring castles each evening after work. I hope she accepts these gifts as a gesture of my gratitude and adoration because my lovely wife is sweeter than the world’s sweetest chocolate.”

Since the second part isn’t likely to happen, pick up some Turkish Delight too.

Have a safe journey and return home to me soon.

Your Adoring and Long-Suffering Wife

On Bill Collecting

Anytime between January and August 1997, you may be been on the receiving end of a telephone call that went something like this: “Hi, I am a bill collector with the ABC Collection Agency. You owe $_________ on your ________ account. Your balance must be paid in full and is due in my office today. So, let’s take care of it now. Will you be paying by electronic check? Please pardon my pushiness that was just the script. I am required to read it. I really don’t care if you do or do not pay your bill. I am sure you have a very legitimate reason for not paying your bill that is none of my business. If you want, I can note that you are out of work, but I can guarantee that someone from my office will continue to call you. But, please don’t hang up on me. I need this job, so I don’t end up in collections like you. If you are talking to me, no one else from my company is jamming up your telephone lines. They are very annoying that way. But, I can’t complain. This is a surprisingly well-paying job that keeps the lights on while I pursue my freelance writing.

Unfortunately, most aspiring writers, unlike our actor/model counterparts, do not have the looks nor the bodies necessary to moonlight as exotic dancers. Trust me, I would much rather take off my clothes then do something as dirty and corrupt as bill collecting. Furthermore, I would gladly take some playful humiliation and jovial degradation over the misery and agony that is part of the writing life. Existence would be so much easier if I could collect dollar bills in a G-string. Instead of paying your credit card bill, you would put dollar bills in my G-string, right? Well, there is no need to answer my question. Thank you for listening to me. I have spent my required 60 seconds trying to convince you to pay your bill. Have a nice evening.

When Greed and Genius Collide

Prince possesses musical genius. Prince possesses a greedy soul. When his music and his thirst for money collide, his art suffers, his fans suffer and ultimately his legacy suffers. Despite his amazing musical innovations in the 1980s that made him an icon, he repeatedly jeopardizes his career and his reputation in his pursuit of capital. He claims that his dispute with Warner Bros. that triggered his name change to an unpronounceable symbol was over creative output. Nope, that’s just artistic pretense. It was about the money. Nothing more, nothing less. No one forced him to sign that contract, and he simply didn’t sell enough albums to get his big pay day. Being a bad businessman is not the same as being a slave to the system, and he should have known better than to scribble the word "slave” on his cheek – a despicable moment for him that has irrevocably damaged his place in music history.

Well, Prince continues to soil his reputation and still appears to be a bad sport in the music industry as seen with his recent remarks about downloadable music: "The Internet is completely over," said Prince. "I don't see why I should give my new music to iTunes or anyone else. They won't pay me an advance for it and then [the public] gets angry when they can't get [the music]."

Since Prince does not play nicely with anyone. His new music is not available in retail stores or legally online. His newest album 20TEN is only being distributed legitimately through the newspapers and magazines in Europe that gave him a fat advance for his product. It is unknown how and if the album will be distributed in the United States.

His short-sighted, greedy decision to not sell the CD in the United States feels like a personal insult. I have bought every crap album since 1996. No matter what the asking price or his method of distribution, I would have purchased whatever he offered. Well, until a few days ago.

His unfriendly attitude towards his fans led me to strongly consider selling my entire collection, loaded with out-of-print and rare items. I told myself: No more buying of Prince merchandise, no more travelling to see him, and no more listening (not even to “The Beautiful Ones”). A clean break. A Purple free life. My husband failed to believe me, but I was resolute.

Then, I heard 20TEN.

How much harm can a little greed do?

Send & Suffer

Everyone knows the golden rule: Do not send emails when you are angry. I never follow this rule and the results are never good. To help promote emailing safety, I have created a set of guidelines for when not to send email even when you really, really want to share your most immediate and passionate thoughts. Here are a few times when you should resist the urge to hit send:

1. Under the influence of alcohol (This rule only applies to email; if you are a Facebook friend of mine, your drunken status updates amuse me greatly and prevent me from sending angry emails. Please Drink & Facebook).
2. Angry at your husband, and he is in Vegas with easy access to an ATM, alcohol and strippers. (It is not worth the months of marriage counseling. Just bottle up your bitterness and jealously until he returns).
3. You are angry and the person who made you angry is your boss. (Do you really need further explanation on that one?)
4. When you are in an artistic slump and looking for creativity in all the wrong places. (Keep your bad poetry and dignity intact).
5. Feeling sentimental. (Wait ten minutes and your children will suck any sentimentality right out of you.)
6. When you are sleep deprived. (Go to sleep. Sex dreams about inappropriate people would be a much better use of your time.)
7. When you are hungry. (Go eat and your perspective will change).
8. When you are bored and lonely. (Leave your computer and talk to the real people in your house).
9. When you are watching an old movie. (Probably okay to email after but not during the film. Select from your address book carefully.)
10. When are you reading an Irish weepy. (Only email if you don’t mind getting the response that reads: You are a big dork.)

Please read this list carefully. As a person who sends at least one offensive email a week, I advise you to think before you click.

On Leisure Reading

Books that are New York Times Best Sellers, can be purchased from endcaps at Walmart, and have been converted into cinematic events tend to repel me. Books that are translated into English, win awards and are published posthumously intrigue me. Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo fits all the descriptions. While reading this Swedish novel, I spend so much time in anguish about the quality of the work that I forget how much I am enjoying it. Although there is not much literary style going on (which could be partially from the translation), the action is gripping. Very entertaining.

If sex is not just for procreation, then reading is not just for learning. I have entered the world of recreational reading. Stieg Larsson today Stephenie Meyer and Janet Evanovich tomorrow? Not likely.

The Gardenia and the Cowboy Hat

Tonight she wears a Gardenia, floating precariously above her left ear and not really restraining too many of her chestnut strands. Her dress is black, short and trimmed in red sequins that highlight her olive complexion. It is too short for a woman of her age, according to Glamour. Yoga and the South Beach Diet have served her well. Her three-inch heels accentuate her calves, making her Cha-cha-chá in “Copacabana” a little bolder and her kick-step in “I Love New York” noticeably higher. Lounge Lizard, this term disgusts her. She likes to think of herself as a moonlighting opera singer; a classicist who misread directions and ended up playing in the wrong house – The Elks Club instead of Teatro Alla Scala.

It is a good and stable gig every Tuesday evening that pays $25 and includes the All-You Can-Eat Spaghetti Dinner, bottomless sodas and seven cankerous, wrinkly fans who get aroused by tapping her bottom with their canes. She does not sing for the money. Her husband owns the biggest hardware chain in New Mexico and is looking to expand nationally. She makes her own money, at least a little, as a social worker in the greater Albuquerque area where she spends more time moving line items around on complicated state budgets than moving children out of unsafe homes. She is as ineffective with children in need as she is with her own adult son and daughter, who simply do not need her.

Bureaucracy and ineffectuality fade when Minerva (known by her friends and family as Mina) takes the stage for 45 minutes every week. On this night, she starts with "Blue Moon," sitting in a rickety oak chair under a peculiar royal blue spotlight. Her rendition begins with Ella Fitzgerald- like improvisation, but quickly morphs into a more buttoned-up version tinged with nervousness and the vocal range of a professionally trained opera singer. Cacophony hangs in the rafters waiting to make an appearance, but before dissonance fully arrives on stage, she sees the glow of the red exit sign reflecting off of his black cowboy hat. Clarity resumes and she smoothly transitions into “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Confidence, charm, eloquence and beauty. She has it all when he is there. He has been coming every week for seven months, always arriving after she is on stage and always leaving before she exits the stage. Each time he walks out, it is like he leaves the note on her windshield all over again: “The ring is yours. Take comfort in your music. Love always, Max.”

The ring, the note, a box filled of gold-embossed invitations (still in a storage unit twenty-two years later), a few of his abstract paintings and a handful of his poorly executed poems is all she has to show for their three years together at an prestigious art school in the Northeast. Boundless, care-free youthful love and an impulsive proposal. Her passion for her music ignited his passion for the opera singer – her drive, her commitment to her craft made Minerva all the more beautiful. She was a serious artist, and he was nothing more than a dilettante with unnaturally white teeth and good posture. A bit of guitar playing, poetry loaded with murky, moderately macabre images and too many 50-cent words, multi-media sculptures, black and white photographs, excessive charcoal drawings of nude women, and some paint thrown on canvas that fell in strangely refreshing ways that appealed to old women in upscale garden and bridge clubs. Like all his artistic phases, he eventually tired of opera and gained interest in contemporary dance. He followed the dancer to the Ukraine before graduation and later shared a loft with an environmental poet in Paris then bedded a novelist in Milan. Eventually, in Barcelona, he married a professor of Spanish who is fourteen years his junior; they have three-year-old twin boys and a sheep dog named Hank. Eleven months ago, they moved to Santa Fe to open an art gallery.

No degree. No real legal work history. No credibility. No capital and not a lot drive. Only three artists trust Max to sell their work, and one is his brother. Even his brother gives him lesser pieces, keeping his high-dollar works for the real art dealers. Max fills the remainder of the gallery with a hodgepodge of his work. He sells enough pieces to afford a condo in Santa Fe’s art district and to send the boys to an elite preschool. On the weekends, his wife works in the gallery to push Southwestern pieces on their Spanish-speaking customers. Every time she hits upon a trilled "r," Max turns slightly pink and his mouth quivers with a sense of familiarity. He frequently caresses her shoulder and puts his hand around her waist. His life is good.

Tonight, Minerva does not wait for the band members to bow. She does not talk to her fans. She leaves the stage amidst applause and runs into the parking lot.

“Stop,” she yells.

They look at each other, knowing they should embrace. Should it be a tight squeeze like lovers at an airport who are finally reunited after weeks of separation? Or, should it be a contained, respectful hug like at funerals, or the sweet but generic grasp felt at weddings and baptisms? They stop short of touching. She motions her head towards the door. He follows her to the bar.

She struggles to start small talk with the man who left her twenty-two years ago with a note and no songs to sing and now has suddenly re-appeared in her life with no explanation.

“Why?” she asks.

“I just like the way you sing.”

Her eye twitches and she clenches her fist.

He grabs her hand and places his fingers in between hers.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, I guess, I do.”

They remain at the bar, holding hands but not looking at each other. They each sneak a few peeks, but mostly stare at the clock that indefinitely reads 9:15. There was no need for words. The silence was only broken by the hostess, “Mina, it is time for you and your friend to leave.”

He kissed her check and walk out the door. She watched until she could no longer see the trim of his hat.

The Next Best Thing in Contemporary Art

The two-year-old art prodigy who has recently come under my tutelage (well, two years ago by the process of birth) has strayed away from his traditional medium of crayon scribbles on the wall, which are comparable to Cy Twombly’s but much better. Since he has managed to cover all our walls, door, and cabinets with his etchings and has even managed to get a few scrawls on my checkbook, the artist known as Chubby Curls has discovered new places to put his art.

Today, he experimented in a very swift manner (while I was breaking up a fight between his old brother and his old sister in the basement) with chocolate syrup and paper towels on ceramic tile floor. His work is a little Dada, a little Surrealist, somewhat reminiscent of Allan Kaprow’s “Happenings” in the 1960s and is far more innovative than the work of Vik Muniz, a gimmick artist who works in chocolate.

Could it be time to call 60 Minutes for a story about my child art prodigy, or should I see if Planned Parenthood would like to use this image in their next ad campaign?

Separation of Art and Life

When Michael Jackson was accused of pedophilia for the second time, I donated my copies of Thriller and Bad to the Friends of the Library. I removed him from our family playlists and changed the radio stations on the first beat of his songs. I do not watch Roman Polanski's movies and my husband has a firm stand against anything by Woody Allen. When I turned 30 and realized I was the same age as Sylvia Plath was when she abandoned her children, I stopped re-reading her work and started reading Ted Hughes. She was the better poet, but he was the better parent. Child abandonment through suicide is tragic, not artful or romantic. Plath’s crime is not necessarily her suicide, but instead her confessional poetry that dwells in depression, self-loathing, blame, and anger. These are not places that I want to visit anymore, so her art no longer captures me.

Plath as well as her contemporaries Anne Sexton and John Berryman, who all committed suicide, are great examples of how artists aren’t known for their stability. Substance abuse problems, divorce, adultery, spousal abuse, child neglect, mental illness and suicide run rampant in the art community. Unfortunately, the more tragic an artist’s life is the more appealing he or she becomes to the masses. There has been a longstanding belief that good art can only be born out of great tragedy, simply not true. But, are there tragedies so sad and crimes so awful that the artist’s work should not be separated from the artist’s life? Is there a point that you should say, “You are not a good person and I will no longer support your art,” or does art always supersede life?

If You Are Pennsylvania Dutch and Can Make Fantastic Funnel Cake, Please Come Be My Neighbor

Great funnel cake is beautifully golden on the outside and is light, airy, and fully-cooked on the inside as every swivel and swirl comes together in a tight, deep fried glorious mass that is exactly the size of a paper plate and is fully smothered in powdered sugar. Enough sugar that your nose gets dusted every time you take a bite. It is the combination of gentle crunchiness, fluffy moistness and an abundance of sugary topping that is the mark of a phenomenal funnel cake.

Unfortunately, my great funnel cake drought started when I left Pennsylvania in August, 1995. Clearly, if you look at my hips and thighs, you can tell that I am not opposed to eating average, bad, and awful funnel cake if I am really hungry and jonesin’ for lard covered in powdered sugar. But, a great funnel would be a glorious Earthly delight. In fact, I am not even expecting the whole cake to be great, just one scrumptious bite. A bite that is as delicious as the funnel cakes from my childhood summers in the humid Keystone State, where the smells of funnel cakes, cow manure, and lonely smoke covered carnies with tragic eyes that made me love them all came together in a speculator potpourri at fireman’s festivals, county fairs and church bazaars. Bad funnel cake simple cannot be found in Pennsylvania. Fantastic Funnel cakes are made through natural instinct. It is our culture. It is who we are. Pennsylvanians (even the non-Pennsylvania Dutch) are the supreme funnel cake makers.

Coloradoans and Texans are not even good funnel cake makers. It is not terribly surprising in Colorado where people eat healthy and exercise by choice, not doctor’s orders. Coloradoans simple don’t have the cholesterol saturated heart to succeed. The best festival food I have experienced in the Centennial State has been roasted asparagus. If it is not fried and covered in powdered sugar or chocolate, it should not be called festival food.

Now in Texas where festival foods abound and if something stays still long enough it will get fried, I rarely found funnel cake and when I did locate it, either it had the taste and texture of coal or the center was gooey and gag inducing. Although we experienced many fantastic fried Twinkies and amazing fried Nutter Butters, funnel cakes in the Lone Star State consistently failed to please. And, so my quest for the perfect funnel cake outside of Pennsylvania continues. But since finding a glorious cake is not likely, feel free to take pity on me. If you are from Pennsylvania and know how to make great funnel cake, please come be neighbor. I’ll make the tea and my son will mow your yard. It will be a great friendship built on carbohydrates and fats, what more could be desired?

Review of 20TEN: The New CD by the Artist Currently Known as the Jerk Who Blows Off His American Fans

So, I managed to resuscitate the Internet and squeezed enough life out of it to illegally listen to Prince’s new CD just so I could be disappointed immediately. I was expecting an average to downright dreadful album since it is only being distributed through magazines and newspapers in Europe and the United Kingdom. (The last album he disseminated by newspaper was Planet Earth and was not worth the price of the paper.) I was preparing myself for a huge disappointment, which is exactly what I got.

20TEN is superb and cannot be purchased in the United States, reflecting that Prince really has no understanding of the music industry, his fans, or even his own music. It is through his short-sighted, greedy business decisions that he fails his fans repeatedly. Despite his cynical view that people only want free downloadable music, fans want to buy this album either online or in record stores. 20TEN is now scattered all over the internet for download, for single song listening without download, and for purchase on eBay. Turns out the Europeans are not so loyal. Sadly, the most common response to this album is: When and where can I buy it. His greed-driven methodology serves as nothing more than a huge missed opportunity for Prince both professionally and financially. There is much love for this album, which would have probably translated into more money than the healthy advances he received from the magazines and newspapers.

Elation over his latest musical offering has transformed incarnations of Prince fan sites that usually look like of princesucks.com into venues of purple love, praise, joy and shock. 20TEN is whimsical, fun, funky, well-composed, not over-produced and fully embraces the Minneapolis sound associated with him. With this album, he fully accomplishes the vision that fell short on 2009’s MPLSound CD, which was the stale and boring step-sister to the gorgeous guitar-driven Lotusflow3r. He fully embraces his past without copying himself too much. Even though he rethreads on some old territory, there is a freshness and lightness that overlays the songs, making 20TEN paradoxically old and new. It contains a feeling of familiarity (accomplished through the heavy use of synths and Linn drum) that is comforting, fun and just plain funky; this one gets listeners dancing immediately. Dance music and Prince are synonymous, and he has reclaimed his claim to fame.

The sounds are addictive although there is not a single song that is radio friendly. There is nothing particularly groundbreaking here, but it is an album that can be embraced upon first listening (which is pretty unusual because most Prince albums are growers even for hardcore fans). 20TEN has a fantastically fun summer feel mixed with the elements of pop, R&B, funk, rock and New Wave (very reminiscent of his Dirty Mind/Controversy era).

Although the CD may not be perfectly even the lowlights contain highlights, and the highpoints on the album are cause for celebration. Like the majority of Prince CDs, it contains a variety of genres and many songs that are hybrid tunes. The standouts on the albums are the dance tracks. "Beginning Endlessly" is an innovative song that succeeds in merging sex and God in an upbeat, interesting way with a catchy melody that gets in stuck in listeners heads for hours. "Lavaux" is another fun dance track that contains all of Prince’s vocal ranges. "Sticky Like Glue" is sexy smooth funk. "Compassion" has a nice beat although the hypocritical ass really should choke on his lyrics while he counts his Euros, leaving his American fans in an uncompassionate lurch.

Great dance tracks are never enough for the artist. Prince being Prince can never just stay in his comfort zone. He pushes himself into foreboding futuristic, electro-funk areas with "Laydown," which is absolutely the most original and noteworthy song on 20TEN. "Laydown" is the darkest sound on the album and is probably closest to anything on current radio. Over the past 20 years, Prince has struggled with rap because he simply cannot do it. But, he has managed to develop his own style (sometimes called Prince-hop) that embraces elements of electronica, hip-hop, funk and R&B that is just fun and catchy. This song has a mesmerizing sci-fi, other-world quality to it and contains the album’s most provocative line: “If your girlfriend didn’t have the surgery maybe she could see what I see.” Sure, real rap fans would laugh at lines like: “From the heart of Minnesota, here come the purple Yoda guaranteed to bring the dirty new sound,” which is hilarious since Prince is a 52-year-old Jehovah Witness and self-proclaimed celibate who does not make dirty sounds anymore. Plus, no one finds a Star Wars reference particularly gangsta. But, the “Purple bounce, bounce" parts get the crowds bouncing. This song is absolutely worth Googling for a listen or two.

Another song that is worth Googling just for its God-awful cringe-worthiness is "Everybody Loves Me." This song falls into the awesomely bad category and has fans divided. Many fans love this song for its ridiculous cheesy, Sesame Street inspired lyrics and interesting funk/New Wave grooves. Others (me included) think it is an embarrassing travesty. To say this song is horrendous is far too complimentary, but at the same time, it is so bad it becomes perversely interesting much like "Mr. Goodnight" (on the Planet Earth CD). Worth one listen but there is too much delightful music on 20TEN to waste too much time with this track.

Overall, the only thing about 20TEN that fully disappoints is the distribution method. So, go grab an illegal copy of this online and enjoy this capricious, pleasurable, and whimsical summer album that will be forgotten about in a few weeks. But for now, let the booty shaking and baby-making commence!

Author's Note: I do not have a legal copy of the CD only because there are no current options to purchase it in the United States. I would have happily paid the asking price and have plans to obtain a legal copy when it is released Germany. In the meantime, I will continue to blissfully listen to my less than legal digital copy without remorse but much disgust towards the artist.

Writing in the Margins

“Hey Mom, what is Club Mondo and why were you going there on a Thursday night?,” my eleven-year-old son asks as he shows me page 117 in my copy of David Cooperfield that I read and annotated while studying in England. Before I could answer, he asked and why does your underlining stop around page 320. Did you not finish the book?”

Lesson learned: Need to check the margins of my books before replacing my grounded (already TV-free, restricted from computers) son’s fantasy and sci-fi books with scrawl-filled personal copies of Victorian literature classics. (This technique will be featured in chapter three of my book, Parenting for Dorks Who Astonishingly Managed to Breed).

That embarrassing moment prompted me to peruse the margins and covers of my other books. I discovered a rather long exchange with one of my classmates about our professor on the inside cover of an American Literature anthology that went something like this:

—So, do you think he combs his beard?

—No, do you think he bathes?

—Probably not.

— I think he is the real Thomas Pynchon.

—Why?

—Only the author could be that in love with his books.

This furtive between the covers conversation took place in 1993. To this day, there are no still pictures of Thomas Pynchon, other than a few from his teen years. Could the real Thomas Pynchon be writing his next book in a tiny office at a small liberal arts school in Central Pennsylvania? Maybe.

When I wasn’t speculating about the identity of American authors, sometimes I would actually write comments about the text, which I preferred over highlighting or underlining. It is too easy to get entranced by gorgeous language or high drama that results in dripping yellow fingers and a page so bright that its glow can be seen from miles away in the bucolic environment that I escaped in favor of a different, but almost identical, bucolic landscape enhanced by a college. Taking the time to think of a response is more erudite than mindlessly underlining, except in my case with comments like “Gatsby is really pathetic,” “Hemingway is a sexist ass,” and “Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant” in response to Crime and Punishment. Not exactly worthy of scholarship like Sylvia Plath’s earmarked and scribbled upon copy of the Great Gatsby where she wrote phrases, such as “stage property” and “no real relation to child” in the paragraphs that focus on Daisy and Tom Buchanan’s relationship with their daughter, Pammy. This is why her copy of Great Gatsby is located in the archives of the University of South Carolina and mine is on the bottom of the overflow book crates in our garage, absorbing stench and growing mold.

However, to buck my trend of puerile and insipid statements inside my books, I did write myself a note on the flyleaf of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, “Must make brilliant and beautiful commentary in margins. Be smart and witty.” Off to a great intellectual start as you see with that message.

Since my literary commentary offers no insight into the history of literature, world affairs or my personal depth, the treasures inside my books’ margins are the notes and scribbles that capture a particular moment. Sometimes I doodled in the top margin or sketched self-portraits. Not really self-portraits, just my eyes, over and over again. Sometimes I wrote myself notes and reminders like “Call dad” or “Stop touching his arms. He will think you are a freak.” Yes, he thought I was freak; too much arm touching resulted in a “B” for the semester in Critical Theory, but he married me despite my freakish ways.

Much like my notes reveal insights of a past consciousness, personalized inscriptions on the front endpapers emblazoned by characters from past romances capture personal history and shed light on the experiences that led me to my current place. Poetic in theory. But, in reality, seeing writing from ex-loves irritated my husband. What should one do with books that were received as gifts and contain the handwriting of former sweethearts? These bibliographic possessions caused many disagreements in the early years of my marriage before kids and careers when we engaged in ridiculous arguments probably just so we could make-up later. Although my husband and I have an enormous merged library, all the books in question are mine. The waitresses, who my husband banged in college, did not know how to read, so therefore, he never received books as gifts (although one hook-up managed to purchase a Hallmark card and etch a cliché message about shaking the Earth or something). Given my penchant for bibliophilists with used book store addictions, I possessed many books that held memories and secrets from the past. My husband wanted to exorcise all the ghosts from our book collection. Bickering, crying, pouting, and whining. None of my methods worked until I learned the art of holding out. My book collection has remained intact, and my husband still has that vapid card.

Even though some people believe it is practically sacrilege to write in book, I find that the real beauty, history, and life of a novel can be found in the margins. Words simply appear stagnant on a printed page framed by blank margins until someone reads them and responds in the sidelines, forever becoming one with the story.

One More Open Letter to Prince that Will Go Unanswered, Leaving Me Utterly Frustrated and Disgruntled

Dear Prince:

It is me again. No need for alarm, so please do not have your people send me a cease and desist letter this time. Certainly, there is no need for a restraining order either. I do not live in the country where you choose to reside, give concerts and release your albums. I live in the United States, and you spend your time in Europe. Why? Because you think that they do not mock your new music and refrain from uploading your songs to file-sharing websites, like the Americans do. You are wrong. They do. Within minutes of you stepping on stage at Montreux Jazz Festival on July 18, 2009, I had pictures of you on stage in that red suit trimmed in zippers. I knew you started the show with When I Lay My Hands on You followed by Little Red Corvette. Within 24 hours, I had audio and video recordings of both shows.

So, go ahead and continue to trust your European fans and continue to tell your American fans, “No more candy for you” because of all the “haters on the Internet,” and we will continue to download your music from the comfort of our office chairs, post and re-post our favorite videos of you on YouTube, and call you an idiotic tool, who is determined to destroy his legacy. Really, who are you to judge us? When you pay your taxes on time, stay married to your next wife without cheating, and hold up any part of a legal obligation, perhaps you can complain about file-sharing, done by people who love you and your music.

As I have said over and over again, you need to be locked up and released only to make music and look pretty for the camera. Your business decisions are asinine, and you say way too much nonsense. Seriously, it was just a few months ago that I wrote about your ridiculous chemtrail comments and your idiotic statements about homosexuality. I still can’t explain the suing the baby incident; suing fans who are not old enough to read really makes you look like a dick. And now, how I am ever going to justify your statement: "The Internet's completely over…like MTV. At one time MTV was hip and suddenly it became outdated." You are a musician not an intellectual, businessman, or philosopher. Hire an accountant, a business manger, a lawyer, and a public relations expert and go make music, brilliant music preferably.

Once you make some brilliant music start playing nice with the record labels and music distributors. It has been more than 15 years since your dispute with Warner Bros. Quit being a baby. Admit you were wrong, and beg them to take you back. Let them release re-mastered box sets of your hits. Tap your vault and give us high quality versions of those brilliant, static-filled bootlegs that your fans have been spinning for twenty-years. Put on a fake smile and do real album promotion that involves more than one appearance on Ellen and two songs on the Tonight Show.

Prince, you can fix this. It is time to think about keeping those 14 fans that you still have in the United States. Make this right. Please release 20TEN in this country, so we do not have to resort to using social networking tools to beg people in Europe to send us the album. Begging is pathetic. But if I must beg, I will. Whatever, it takes to get your latest album.

You don’t deserve a fan like me. I have been loyal for twenty-eight years and will continue to buy every crappy album you release. It’s called unconditional fandom. So, how about a little unconditional sanity, business acumen and non-dickish ways in return? I am so excited to get your new album. Just imagine what could happen if you became excited about your fans again.

Sincerely,

Garbageman’s Daughter

Not An Ordinary Spa

Succulent salmon with fresh lemon wedges, lightly seasoned rice pilaf, a baked sweet potato with butter and brown sugar. Chocolate cake for dessert and a mixed fruit smoothie as a beverage for me. For my son, veggie quesadillas with sour cream and mild picante sauce, French fries and carrots with a brownie and a root beer float – all delivered by room service. A delicious meal prior to our trip the luxurious game room complete with X-Box, Wii, air hockey, loads of toys ranging from cars to dolls to Legos to Lincoln Logs to plastic dinosaurs. One cabinet full of games—Rummikub, Guess Who?, Uno, Monopoly, Memory, Connect Four —another cabinet loaded with arts and crafts—ceramics, foam project kits, beads, sequins, wiggly eyes, yarn, thread, acrylics, water colors, pastels, markers, crayons, colored pencils. My son paints ceramics while I pretend to be Lee Krasner on a small canvas beside him. While our works of art dry, we play air hockey. The boy wins four to one over his mother three times. We grab some Skip-O, Hit the Deck and Spiderman Uno and return to our room, where we order some snacks on demand. Our specially designated dietitian helps us pick out a few items to put some weight on my thirty-three pound five-year-old, who weighs less than his two-year-old brother. An Apple pie, blueberry muffins, mozzarella cheese sticks, Breeze juice boxes that contain extra protein, and a few fruit roll-ups are delivered to our room just in time for an impassioned game of Spiderman Uno on our red floor mat in our private room. The boy continues his winning streak until bedtime and climbs into his adjustable bed that is almost as fun as a roller coaster. He falls into a deep slumber with no shaking or trembling. His morning begins with cartoons and French Toast in the multi-purpose room with the other five-year-olds on the floor. The kids who are able to talk make jokes as they get ready for another day of working out with their personal trainers and masseuses. My son plays volleyball and soccer with his trainers until he is exhausted and ready for a nap. An afternoon snooze is always a perk until scrub- wearing staff wakes him for a procedure or two. They perform the tasks quickly, and he gets to dip into the Toy Treasure Chest filled with stuffed animals, Styrofoam footballs, Hot Wheels, and multi-packs of Play Doh – this isn’t your typical plastic toy filled junk drawer found at local dentist offices and public libraries. The boy tends to pick cars but also grabs a few Beanie Babies for his little brother, a stuff animal connoisseur. When all his workouts and procedures are done for the day, we visit the wagon corral—a vast sea filled with a plethora of Red Radio Flyer wagons. We grab a wagon and leave for a stroll around the grounds, stopping for a dinner picnic on the lawn and an impromptu mother-son soccer game. After our scenic saunter, we visit the on-site family library and grab a few Dr. Seuss books and a healthy supply of Laura Numeroff and Todd Parr. We also pick up some movies and X-Box games, and make a quick stop at the gift shop for candy bars and flamboyant furry slippers. Red slippers for the boy that look like Elmo is dancing on his feet and bright rainbow strips for his mother that remind me of sherbet that has been in the freezer so long that it collects fur. On our return trip to the sixth floor, we ride the elevator with some of the guests from the seventh floor. My son smiles and talks to them. I keep my eyes averted to try not to see their bald heads, sterile face masks, isolation gowns and IV cords. Shameful, I confess. Too much to swallow, knowing that some those sweet baby faces will never step off the elevator, walk out of the building and get into their parents cars for good like my son will, despite his left-side weakness and vision deficit. When the arrival bell dings, we exit and veer left to retrieve our clean clothes from the laundry room. We return to our suite to begin our evening routine all over again. Occasionally, we are bothered by concierges with the fancy title of Child Life Specialists, who give us brochures on swimming, horseback riding, basketball, dancing, pottery, fly fishing and piano lessons. The pamphlets have lush pictures with smiling children galloping through fields and striving for Carnegie Hall. The fine print on the bottom of the dark green brochure reads: “Activities for children with disabilities.” We ignore the fine print like we do on every other document and plan a summer filled with horseback riding and swimming. We also discuss his eventual return to the soccer field. In the midst of our scheduling, a lady dressed in pink Minnie Mouse scrubs interrupts us with some important news. “You are going home tomorrow.” My son and I look at her with surprise. They are throwing us back to our regular life three weeks early. We are joyful that we will be reunited with our four other family members, but we are sad that our wonderful mother-son vacation has come to an end. The next day, we fill the red wagon with our suitcases, 13 stuff animals, 11 Hot Wheels, a bag full of new toys, and enough Mylar balloons that my son could be Fort Collins’ next balloon boy (minus the freakish father). I load the car with my child and our belongings. I make adjustments to the balloons, clear my rear-view mirror, and start rolling out of the parking garage, looking forward to the road ahead.