600 Kisses

Today, I will wake up my six-year-old on his birthday with 600 kisses, just like I should everyday. We will celebrate not just the day of his birth but every day of his life. Just six-months ago, my husband and I did not know if our son would see his sixth birthday. His diagnosis was grim: Rasmussen's Syndrome, a rare neurological that induces seizures that eventually leads to paralysis and mental retardation. The only cure is brain surgery.

In June, he survived an eight-hour brain surgery that turned off half of his brain. Today, his body doesn't work quite the same but his mind is still clever and bright. My boy with half a brain is not only thriving, but he is doing better than many of the whole-brained children in his kindergarten class.

Today, we celebrate the birthday of our amazing boy with a trip to the zoo.

Ted Hughes’ “Last Letter”: Raw and Unfinished

There are just some things that are not meant for public consumption. A man’s suffering. A man’s grief. A man’s guilt. These things should be kept private. But unfortunately, greed or personal glory prevails over privacy sometimes, especially when there is a captive audience waiting for any delicious tidbit of confession, gossip, or proof. It is true that the literary world’s ravenous appetite for anything and everything related to Sylvia Plath afforded Carol Hughes the opportunity to expose the personal torment of her late husband, Ted Hughes. There has been no shortage of critics, scholars and poetry readers ready to consume and scrutinize not only Plath’s work but also the work of Hughes in order to comprehend her tragic life that ended so abruptly when she gassed herself on February 11, 1963.

Thanks to scholar Melvyn Bragg with the assistance of Carol Hughes, the followers of the Plath/Hughes saga have received the most important document to date, “Last Letter.” This poem was published in the New Statesman recently. The poem was intended to be a part of the Birthday Letters, an award-winning collection of the poems that explores Hughes and Plath’s relationship. The collection was published a few months before his death and is considered to be his masterpiece. Critics and scholars are describing the “Last Letter” as the “missing link” that completes the collection.

Although it is may be the missing link, “Last Letter” is not exactly a poem and not exactly a diary entry. “Last Letter” exists within the menacing shadows of the confessional poem. This work is confessional but not in the confessional style seeped with the dark metaphors that Plath helped make famous along with Robert Lowell, Anne Sexton and John Barryman. Hughes’ poem is part diary entry, part biographical sketch, part remembrance, and part admission of guilt. It is confessional in terms of actual confession. It fully recounts the horrendous missteps and horrific oversights that occurred during the days leading up to Plath’s suicide. According to the poem, Plath mailed her estranged husband a suicide note that was intended for arrival after her death. As Hughes explains:

Your note reached me too soon---that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office

After receiving the note, he rushed to her home where they had some type of argument. She convinced him that she was no longer suicidal and she burned the letter, according to Hughes, “with that strange smile.” Based on his poetic re-telling of events, she begged him to leave and promised to call the doctor. Hughes did not bother to put up a fight. He left Plath and his two children that day to meet his lover, poet Susan Alliston. Hughes and Alliston travelled to Rugby Street where Plath and Hughes were married; they stayed in the same hotel and in the same bedroom where Plath and Hughes honeymooned, according to the poem.During his weekend with Alliston in the Hughes/Plath marital bed, he claims to be haunted by imagined phone calls from Plath. His imaginary is haunting:

Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver---
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

She never did call for his help, and his worry was never enough for him to leave his lover in order to rescue Plath. Instead he stayed in the arms of his lover while Plath suffered through her final days. On her final morning, Plath taped the doors of the bedrooms where her one-year-old son, Nicholas, and her three-year-old daughter, Frieda, slept. She placed biscuits and milk beside their beds and then proceeded to use the carbon monoxide from her oven to end her life. Hughes remained unaware of the situation until the phone finally rang and he answered. He writes: 

Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

This is the ending that we all know but have never seen in such detail from Hughes. This is the document that has the Plath/Hughes community abuzz. But, it is hard to be exuberant about a work so raw and tragic. It is stated that Hughes excluded this poem from the Birthday Letters because it was too personal. This poem has an unfinished feel to it. Moments in the poem are glorious and evocative, but it is clear that he grappled and struggled with every line. How does one convey their darkest hours in exquisite artfulness? Hughes really does not create high art with this poem and, therefore, this work should be examined more in terms of a biographical document than poetry. So, the question becomes: Are there some documents just too personal to share?

This poem is infinitely fascinating and revealing but incredibly personal. I felt like a voyeur reading this work, and I couldn’t help but think of the effect that the release of this poem will have on Frieda Hughes. Over the years, she has given many interviews to change public opinion about her father. She speaks highly of her mother as poet, not as a parent. Frieda was just toddler and Nicholas was an infant when their mother abandoned them through suicide. Hughes is the only parent that they knew and for that reason Frieda vehemently defends her father. She has pointed out that Hughes was not the only volatile and difficult figure in that explosive marriage. Plath, who suffered from mental illness, destroyed Hughes’ poetry on two different occasions. Their marriage was complex, passionate and hostile. Their marriage was not as simple as the critics, scholars and readers would like it to be. She was hardly the dutiful poet/housewife who tolerated his constant cheating. But unfortunately, this guilt-ridden poem portrays their marriage in exactly those terms. This poem will be damning to Hughes’ already sullied reputation. It does not show him as a great man or a great poet. This poem is personal art and private ruminations. It is does not congeal in either style or tone with the other exceptionally polished poems in Birthday Letters. Although it may be caused for celebration among biographers and scholars, the tremendous tragedy that devastated the Plath-Hughes family resonates in this poetic confession. 

Author’s Note: This poem along with two early handwritten drafts of this poem appear in the October 11 issue of the New Statesman. Many unreliable versions of this poem appear on the Internet. For an authoritative and legal version of the poem, I recommend purchasing the periodical or going to your local public or academic library to access it in print or electronic form. I found the full version of the poem, from the comfort of my office chair, by using my library card and remote access to the EBSCO Database, Academic Search Premier .

Snuggies, Sickos and Safeways

Is it socially acceptable to wear a Snuggie in public? This was going to be my topic for today’s post. However, when I started my literature survey (or in reality my blog survey), I discovered that there are many, way too many people who have tackled the issue of the Snuggie in numerous sick, very sick ways. Of course, you got all the drunken Snuggie wearers doing pub crawls and hooking up with strangers. Then, the hook-ups lead to a plethora of posts about Snuggies and sexual games.

Sure, like so many bloggers out there, I have considered mentioning the luxury of public sex that is afforded by the Snuggie, but ruled that a tangent like that would be far too crass and irrelevant for my art form that is loaded with sophisticated taste and propriety. Instead, I prefer to celebrate how the Snuggie is the perfect gift for someone as cheap and easy as me. Truly, this is the gift for the person who doesn’t have everything but doesn’t really want everything and is always cold. I am that person. I am easy to please, encourage the purchase of only inexpensive gifts preferably in the form of chocolate and am always cold. Some attribute my constant frigidness to having a cold-heart, being cold-blooded, exhibiting an underactive thyroid or simply being the daughter of Satan. No matter what the reason, I can’t get enough of flannel pajamas, footed sleepers, fuzzy slippers, velour floor length bathrobes, turtlenecks, wool skirts, wool socks, thermal underwear, and down jackets. The Snuggie is a perfect addition to my arsenal of warm accoutrements.

So no matter what the naysayers post on their blogs and Facebook statuses, Snuggies are not just a stupid pop culture trend like Pet Rocks, Pokémon cards or Silly Bandz. Snuggies have fuction and purpose; the Snuggie has a raison d'être and that reason is glorious warmth, delightful comfort and general stylishness. Some may the Snuggie is a blanket with sleeves. They would be right. But, it is so much more. Truly, one of the greatest innovations in the 21st Century so far. Those who dismiss and ridicule the Snuggie are just jealous that they didn’t think of sewing a pair of sleeves onto a blanket cut of zebra and tiger print fabric.

So, now that I have inadvertently used almost 400 words to appreciate the virtues of the Snuggie, I finally return to my original question. Is it socially acceptable to wear a Snuggie in public? Sure. How offensive could it be? No more offensive than the muffin-top sporting mamas wearing Skinny jeans at their local Safeway. So, today the too-much-information fashionistas will have some competition from the mom in the pink Snuggie who is happily pushing a shopping cart with her three-year-old boy and his dirty purple Care Bear. Hope to see you there.

Advice: Check Out His Books Before His Looks

Less than eight days to get a copy of Jean Paul Sarte’s No Exit and Existentialism Is a Humanism. Huge presentation due for a literature class on “Alternative Realities in Modern and Post-Modern Literature.” (Title of the class clearly made up by a nearly senile professor with more tenure than sense). Agreed only to be the first presenter to intimidate my other classmates and to establish myself as a real presence in graduate school. Figured the university library would own such seminal titles. Nope, they were not owned by the library. Interlibrary loan was about a two to four week process and the only two local books stores in town would also have to order the book (This was 1995 prior to popular online book stores).

Out of desperation, I asked classmates if they owned the books. One of the graduate assistants said, “I know a guy.” The guy came through with the books. My presentation earned me a fantastic grade, numerous accolades from the professor but mostly pity from my classmates who were not awed or intimidated, just shocked that I had nothing better to do with my time than study. Out of sympathy, they offered a half-hearted invitation to bar grand opening in the downtown. They really didn’t want me there and I didn’t really want to be there. But since I completed my entire semester’s worth of papers in the first three weeks of school and just finished re-reading Wuthering Heights for fun, I had absolutely nothing to do but go to a bar.

Turned out that the guy with books and I were the only ones without dates that night. Just plain awkward. I was the only Northerner among a bunch of Texans that called every drink “Coke” even if it was Sprite, orange juice, or beer. As I was trying to figure out what hell “fixin” meant, the guy with the books asked me about my presentation which led to more literature which led to poetry talk which led to Sylvia Plath. This guy loved Plath more than me. He knew way more than the average smart, poetry guy who feigns interest in Plath and quotes “Daddy” to get in young ladies’ pants.

The guy with the books knew enough Plath to get me to say “yes” forever.

When Mother Is Away...

Father allows the children to dress any way they desire. However, when I examined my four children only my oldest child looked like he paired togther clothes that he found in two different dumpsters. I would like to blame this on my husband, but I must shoulder the responsibility for my eleven-year-old having no idea how to dress himself. I have picked out his clothes for him everyday since birth. The dressing process requires no thought on his part. Shirt, pants, underwear, socks, and shoes wait for him every morning in the downstairs bathroom. He showers, puts on the designated clothes, and then tops it off with his backpack that I loaded for him.  I thought this made me a good and caring mother. No, this means I am going to have a child who lives in my basement until I die and he moves into his sister's basement. 

When I tell my son that he will most likely spend the rest of his life in my basement, he responds, "Have you looked at me?" 

Indeed, he is face pretty. But if his pretty face continues to be framed by stripes and plaids, we'll eventually be building an outside entrance for our basement.

Gone Library Conferencing

Will my kids arrive to their games on time today? What will they eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner? Will the children be stinky when I get home? These are questions that I am not going to ponder today. They will be in their father’s care while I learn about a new community reference project that could enrich my library; hear about 21st Century Libraries: The Challenges and Opportunities; learn a few tips for Summer Reading; and, discover enough ideas to have a whole year of craft activities in my library.

Late, hungry, dirty kids -- Not my problem.

Lunch and Shopping, Librarian Style

Beautiful white tablecloth covered with black linen napkins, sparkling white plates, beautiful crystal glasses and a ridiculous amount of silverware. Servers clad in black uniforms with somewhat robotic visages quickly clearing plates and replacing them with new ones. A delicious green salad with grilled chicken followed by a delectable, sinful, fluffy three-layer chocolate mousse on a petite dessert plate garnished with caramel in abstract forms. Not a single multi-purpose children’s menu and paper placemat in sight; absolutely no crayons on the table, not a single spill or mid-lunch emergency bathroom run. Civil small talk with grown-ups about libraries.

Following the meal, child-free forums on live music programs for libraries; how to offer training for free using cloud-based services; and how to implement a family literacy program. An entire notebook filled with words and not a single stick-figure drawing, heart or scribble anywhere on the paper.

Lots of learning followed by plenty of play. A little guitar hero for grown-ups, a plethora of chocolate, hors d'oeuvres filled with ingredients that only adults would eat; tons of free stuff strategically labeled with the names of book vendors and library furniture companies; and, a booth filled with a variety of librarian t-shirts.

A full belly, an enriched mind and a new black, long-sleeved bling t-shirt that says “Librarian” in clear and red rhinestones. A great day in a child-free zone known as a library conference.

Librarians Swarm Northern Colorado

It is not every day that a library conference is held in my backyard. (Okay, maybe not exactly my backyard but only 13.9 miles and 26 minutes away). But, this year for the first time ever, the Colorado Association of Libraries Conference is being held in Northern Colorado and I am ridiculously giddy. A conference center packed with hundreds of librarians from all over the state. The bunheads, school librarians, the progressives, the traditionals, corporate librarians, the moderns, academic librarians, the lipstick librarians, the overall wearing youth librarians, the public librarians, the IT geeks, the ponytail sporting children’s librarians will all be together in one building talking about what we love best—libraries.

Copious note taking and question asking by day. Carousing and reveling by night. Nothing says serious research and reference like swarms of tipsy librarians on the loose in a college town. Let the Conference Commence!

Sweet Absurdity

“November Fourth is National Candy Day. We could celebrate by donating our kids’ leftover Halloween candy. What do you think?” asked the goodhearted mother of four.

Waiting, waiting…okay, I am ready. Crack a smile or lay the punch line on me. Nope. Nothing. She is serious. She has lost her mind and wants to give away candy—my candy, well my kids' hard-earned candy—four days after Halloween, the second best candy holiday in the realm of candy holidays. It is only second behind Easter due to the quality. Cadbury Eggs and Russell Stover Easter Eggs are made from a far superior type of milk chocolate than your run-of-the-mill Kit Kats and Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bars that are frequently dispensed on Halloween night.

“You look pale? You don’t like the idea, do you?” she asked.

How do I tell someone so smart, energetic and positive that her idea might be the most asinine plan I have heard since Prince recorded 20Ten and decided to not release it in the United States. At this moment, this candy initiative is making Prince look like a business mastermind.

“What kind of person gives their own candy away? Why would I do that? Why would anyone do that? I am afraid I cannot endorse a service project that involves the sacrifice of any sugar-related items. Let’s just donate gloves or pencils or something, ” I said with a positive and supportive “let’s go team” attitude.

Yes, my candy is safe. However, I like the idea of telling my kids that we are going to donate their candy. I’ll say we are giving it to old people so they can have few morsels of delight before they croak. This is a much better option than “the tooth fairy stole it to protect your teeth.” Last year, my son did not believe that the State Legislature of Dentists mandated a three pieces of candy per child per month law. He threatened to Google it; I threatened to take away cake, cookies and brownies away too. He dropped his challenge, and I safely tucked the remaining Halloween candy into my underwear drawer. Yes, the candy donation story is a much more believable story, and I’ll be celebrating national Candy Day with a nice drawer full of candy.

National Candy Day is my new favorite candy holiday.

Author’s Note: After I had 24 hours to recover from the idea that anyone would be willing to give away their stash of candy, I actually think it is a pretty good idea. There are number charities that accept donated candy, so I’ll be passing on details soon once I find local options. Stayed tuned and if you are feeling extra generous there is a garbageman’s daughter out there who is accepting any and all candy donations.

Bye, Bye, Bye to the Baby Years

Time to sell the crib. Give away the last of the diapers (provided he ever starts using the potty.) Put the sippy cups on the top shelf for company use only. No more baby blue clothes or cute onesies. My baby is no longer baby. He is a three-year-old today and is my last baby. I should be relieved that I can work full-time in fifteen years, but I am just mostly sad that the baby years are behind us. Could it be time for baby number five?   

My Private Online Joy

For years, I knew these type of websites existed, but I never dared sully my address bar with those particular URLs. I, instead, fantasized about the images and accompanying sounds, but would never succumb to my curiosity. I did not want to be “one of those people.” I did not want to be judged or ridiculed. So, my fascination remained closeted and unfulfilled for years.

But one day, when one man was so outraged and disgusted that he pursued litigation against three of these websites, I cratered and devoured the forbidden sites with the same passion that I have while spooning strawberry icing directly from the can into my mouth. I needed to know. I had to know what would possess a man to sue his fans and to take litigation against three websites solely created to honor him with praise and appreciation. On that day, November 7, 2007, I allowed myself the guilty pleasure of visiting of www.housequake.com, www.princefams.com and www.prince.org.

During that particular dark November day, not only was I sucked in by the ligation but I was intrigued by the song that accompanied the cease and desist letter -- a nice little hate-filled ditty called P.F.U.N.K. that focuses on the horridness of Prince’s fans and how they use him to get 15 minutes of their own fame. A spiteful song and a lawsuit should have been enough to blackened the fan sites forever perhaps only illuminated with a bright purple message: “What kind of dick sues his fans?” “You are crazy wash-up who doesn’t deserve fans.” “You were brilliant in the 80s but you sort of suck now.” “No one under the age of 35 knows who are.”

Any of those messages would have been both adequate and accurate. But no, fans did not fold despite the efforts of the pint-size bully. Instead the boards continued to operate and were loaded with universal praise for the song that dismisses the very fans who are praising it. Prince says, “Screw you, fans.” Fans respond with: “We love you, Prince.” Thus, providing me with further evidence that hardcore Prince fans are even crazier than the man they idolize.

As a longtime Prince fan, I delved into fan boards not to learn more about Prince but to discover what I have in common with other Prince fans. Not a damn thing. Most of those people are freakin’ insane albeit entertaining and fascinating in their freakiness. Despite my intrigue and strange adoration for them, I am quite frightened by their purple knowledge and would never consider posting anything to the board. Chances are that I wouldn’t know which protégée he was banging in 1988 or who his band members were for the 2002 Musicology tour date in Oslo. One factual mistake or admitting that “Dolphin” is my favorite song on The Gold Experience would make me the subject of ridicule among the most devout Prince fans – the ones who know where he was, what he was doing, who was doing it with, and what he was wearing for just about every day of man’s life. The regulars on prince.org make me look like a casual “I love Purple Rain and Sign O’ the Times” kind of fan.

I originally went to prince.org looking to find answers to questions like: “Why did you become fan?” and “Thirty years into his career, why are you still hanging out when most of civilized culture has moved past Prince?” I haven’t really found answers to those inquiries. But, there are plenty of answers to questions like: “Is purple really Prince’s favorite color?”, “What Prince songs are most commonly played at strip clubs?”, “'Head' or 'Jack U Off', which do you prefer?”, “Does Prince need Wendy and Lisa again?” “Why doesn’t Prince like black girls?”

Heck, even the music icon being behind on his taxes has ignited debate, causing the typical Prince Apologists versus Prince Realists drama that fills the board on just about every post. The Prince Apologists, who truly believe that man can do nothing wrong, argue that his people just didn’t pay his taxes for him and the Prince Realists (who are called haters by the apologists) argue that his people only do or don’t do what they are told. If Prince wanted to pay his taxes, they would have been paid. This is pretty much how all discussions go; the Delusional versus the Realists. But no matter how extreme the perspective, there is no aspect of Prince’s music or life that is not discussed and debated. And, if you are ever confused about the year, you will be told repeatedly that it is not 1984 anymore. (This is a fact that my hair has refused to accept.) Although it is not 1984 anymore and Prince’s best music is long behind him, www.Prince.org is a fascinating place to visit if you are hardcore fan, a casual listener or a hater.

Together at Last

In the past twelve weeks, he has spent 60 nights in a hotel room alone; has taken 24 plane rides; has eaten at 37 restaurants, and has gone 60 nights without bedstories and hugs.

In the past twelve weeks, she has made 225 meals for the kids; given 60 baths; changed 205 diapers; drove kids to 32 practices and tucked children in bed 60 times all by herself.

Finally after twelve weeks, the entire family will be under one roof for a whole week.   

The Long Short Ride

Dead car battery. Husband and kids are gone for the day. Friends are getting ready for our event and not answering their phones. Taxi cab not available in 10 minutes. So, car service seems like the most reasonable option to get me across town to meet my friends for our charity luncheon.

A dirty brown car, most likely a late 1970s model maybe something like a 1976 Chevy Chevelle, lacking hubcaps pulls into the driveway. A man with curly long hair, sporting brown tinted sunglasses, a tan and white flowered shirt underneath a brown leather vest and a pair of faded jeans gets out of the car. He signals for me to snap out my brief but deep “fight or flight” concentration. Choice: Be late and make us all late or enter a scene from a Stranger Danger Awareness film? I select film stardom.

He opens the door and I scoot across the cracked leather seats, noticing a green apple scented air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. It stopped working long ago.

“Where are you going?”

“Washington Street”

“What is the house number?”

“I don’t know. I told your dispatcher.”

“Okay, just take me to Washington Street. I know the house when I see it.”

Not given the address by the dispatcher. Makes no sense. Yep, I am going to die today. This isn’t a Stranger Danger movie. This is a snuff film. He is the director/producer and I am the star. I am going to be tortured and murdered with the footage streamed to snuffit.com, showing me wearing the wrong textures. I have on denim tie-dye dress paired with a black silk cardigan that my husband got me in Germany that just screams expensive. The dress is very Colorado but cardigan says Uptown. I heard that the moms from the neighborhood where they trim the toilet seats in gold are going to be there. So, I added a little panache, a little style, a little nouveau riche to my wardrobe….and a lot of desperate overcompensation. Garbageman’s daughter. Humble upbringing and a lifetime of bad hair. Lifetime of overcompensation. Wonder if I’ll have to overcompensate in Purgatory…”

“Where are you going today?”

“Going to a friend’s house. Then, off to a charity in event in Denver for our moms group.”

“You’re a mom.”

“Yes and a librarian.”

“Librarians are cool…l always think of librarians as spies... so mysterious and they know everything.”

Here where go again and man with a librarian fetish. So by spy, he means freak in the bed. If I would have known that libraries were such fetishized aphrodisiacs, I would not have wasted so much of my youth writing. Should have become a library clerk in high school, probably would have been felt up before I was nineteen…

“I have a kid too. He is eight and a brilliant musician. He is going to follow his destiny. The destiny that could have been mine when I was eight. We are sending him to a music conservatory in Massachusetts. One of the best in the country. He’ll live there and only come home for holidays.”

Yes, Mr. Car Driver, I am sure he is. And, my kid is going the University of Iowa’s writing program at the age of the eleven followed by his own column in Computer World magazine writing about the use technology among middle school kids….

“Turn right here, please.” He failed to listen to me and entered the neighborhood several blocks away from my friend’s house.

“Oh this neighborhood brings back memories. Almost all my firsts, the bad kind of firsts, were in this neighborhood. First beer, first whisky, first sexual encounter, first hit of pot, first bad LSD trip…”

Jump. I am just going to jump. How fast could the car be moving? 20, 25, 35 miles per hour. How bad could it be? A few broken bones, a little blood, a ripped cardigan. No, I can’t rip my cardigan. My new phone. I could call for help. If only, I paid attention when my husband showed me how to dial. Facebook. I’ll post “Save Me.” Nope. The Facebook status update is passé. Email. Not fast enough. Jumping is my only option…

“Sir, there is the house. Please let me out.”

Car stops. I handed him some cash and quickly slammed the door behind me. I embrace my friend and ask, “Can I please have a ride home this afternoon?”

Celebrating Two Years of Floating in the Blogosphere

With no subject matter, no plan, no goals, and no audience, I started blogging two years ago. With no subject matter, no plan, no goals and a small but loyal audience, I am still blogging.