Part of the charm of Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity is Rob Fleming’s Top 5 Lists. Lists organize a lot of information in a succinct, light-hearted format. Lists are easy to read and easy to write. List-making ignites spontaneous, off the top of the head thinking oppose to outlining that requires organized thought.
Lists also are great for bloggers who checked-out nine books from the library in one month; flip-flopped back and forth between four them, ignoring the other five, not finishing any of them and most importantly putting this month’s book club selection on the back-burner. So, as I continue to drudge through The Memory Keeper’s Daughter (yet another book that uses illness as a metaphor to tug at readers' heartstrings and push the plot forward), I offer you a not so charming list of “15 Novels That Have Impacted Me.”
Here you will see my preference for the dark depressing tales with no happy endings in sight. Despite all the violence, murder, suicide, mental illness, prostitution, rape, obsession, depravity, poverty, destitution, isolation, brutality, tragedy, melancholy, and depression in these novels, there is very little physical illness. I’ll take the Dust Bowl, a touch of Arsenic, a fatal car accident and a jump in front of a train any day over Cancer or Down Syndrome.
This list is in no particular order. Due to my time crunch, I’ll fill in short explanations later this week with a few of these novels being worthy of complete blog posts.
1. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
2. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
3. The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
4. Return of the Native, Thomas Hardy
5. Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy
6. Notes from the Underground, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
7. Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
8. Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
9. The Good Earth, Pearl Buck
10. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
11. Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison
12. Loving Frank, Nancy Horan
13. One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
14. Jealousy, Alain Robbe-Grillet
15. Moll Flanders, Daniel DeFoe
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
A Literary Time Waster Known as the Fifteen Authors List
When it comes to time wasters, one needs to be selective. With so many options for squandering one’s time online, one must be fastidious and efficient by seizing opportunities to repurpose time wasters. A few weeks ago, several of my friends on Facebook tagged me in a note asking me to: “List fifteen authors (of any kind: poet, playwright, whatever) who have influenced you and will always stick with you. Don't take too long to think about it -- just list the first fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.”
I normally ignore but notes, but I was intrigued by this task. Well, fifteen minutes transformed into three weeks by the time my list was almost done, people have moved on to ”15 Life Changing Movies” and their “15 Most Favorite Breeds of Dogs.” Movements on Facebook are short-lived, but this task lingered with me. And since I had the list done and don’t have my book read for book club this month, this is a great way to quickly fulfill my daily blog post obligation, complete the Facebook assignment, and show how pretentious my literary tastes really are, all in one effort.
1. Sylvia Plath: An amazing poet with a horribly tragic life who captured my imagination in my college years with her hauntingly dark and melancholy images. Her poetic rendering of her complex relationship with her onerous mother made my fascination with Plath’s writings and life very intimate and undeniable. Once I became a mother, I saw her horrible death at such a young age as less romantic and became less interested in her personal life, but I still remain a fan of her work.
2. Thomas Hardy: Much like Plath, Thomas Hardy’s works are both stunning and full of enormous tragedy. But more effectively than Plath whose poetry vastly surpasses her novel, short stories, play and letters, Hardy was able to write successfully and effectively across my many genres (novels, poetry, and plays) with tremendous skill. His works of fiction have a gravitas associated with them that supposedly put an end to the Victorian novel and made his works among the first Modern novels. Although there is not much lightness, joy and happiness in the works of Hardy, beauty abounds in his characterization, language, and motifs. Without question, Hardy remains my favorite novelist.
3. Tennessee Williams: The Glass Menagerie might have been the first play that I read that was not by William Shakespeare, and I was immediately captured by not only the tragic themes but how dialogue can be used to propel a compelling plot. I went on to read almost all of his plays (I have seen a few of them on the stage, but I am the rare person who likes to read plays a little more than I like to see them). I have been strongly influenced by his character development, dark motifs and dramatic twists. Williams is an American treasure whose plays rank among the best American plays ever written.
4. E. B. White: Although White is mostly known as a children’s author, he is arguably among the world’s greatest essayists. Any writer who even dabbles in essays knows the works of White, and anyone who wants to the master the art of the essay has studied his essays thoroughly. I have read some of his essays so many times that I have large portions of many of them memorized. E.B. White is the essayist who in small doses inspires me to work harder and in large doses makes me curl up in a fetal position, wallowing in by self-doubt, self-pity and self-loathing. Needless to say, I am on a rich but restricted diet of E.B. White. (Every once in a while I am asked: What is an essay and how it differs from short story? If you really want to know pick up a copy of White’s collected essays.)
5. Toni Morrison: This Nobel Prize winning author knows how to weave a yarn that captures the imagination and stirs the soul. Song of Solomon is an epic story that had me riveted and thrilled to turn the next page; The Bluest Eye allowed me to experience an empathy different than I have ever felt previously; Beloved transported me to the time of slavery where I became attached to Sethe and her daughter Denver -- a truly eye-opening novel. Morrison is a challenging author, but she is worth the investment of time in order to read and understand her stunning literary fiction.
6. Arthur Krystal: This author is probably the least famous writer on my list, but he is easily the best essayist that you are not reading. He dismisses humor writing and memoir in preference of the literary essay, and he is very much continuing the tradition of American letters associated E.B. White. When I sit down to write, I stare at homemade sign that reads: “Be Like Arthur.” Arthur Krystal is the modern day gold standard that all essayists should aspire.
7. Harold Pinter: I had no idea who British Playwright Harold Pinter was until I saw his play Old Times staged while I was studying in England. The biting language and dark themes attracted me and made want to read more of his plays. Thanks to my husband, I have read all of his plays and am always astounded by the depth of his characters, his plot twists, and acerbic dialogue. Pinter is a literary phenomenon who greatly deserved the Nobel Prize in Literature that he earned shortly before his death.
8. Mark Twain: Anyone who dabbles in humor should read Twain. Anyone who writes essays should read Twain. Anyone who is an American or wants to be an American should read Twain. Really anyone who can read should read Twain.
9. Christina Rossetti: A minor Victorian poet whose big brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti, co-founded the Pre-Raphaelite movement in art and literature, Rossetti is a fascinating poet who mostly lived in her brother’s shadow and at times would shine on her own with her profoundly feminine poetry in terms of both style and content that touched on themes of motherhood, infertility, repression, and sexuality. Her poetry is simply beautiful and should be enjoyed simply for its beauty.
10. Fyodor Dostoyevsky: When it comes to novelists, Dostoyevsky runs a very close second to Thomas Hardy as my all time favorite. The darkness and tragedy that permeates his works nicely compliments all the depravity, mental illness, and violence; and he is certainly not afraid of an unhappy ending. So much misery and gloom, I just cannot get enough of Dostoyevsky.
11. Gertrude Stein: Truly an innovative marvel who is highly influential and really quite profound, Stein is so much more than a “Rose is a Rose is a Rose.” Her importance exceeds her friendships with Hemingway and Picasso. She was Modernist writer who broke conventions and re-imagined poetry while exploring the conditions of possibilities in politics, art, gender, language, ethnicity, religion and race. I had the wonderful opportunity to spend 18 months of my life reading all of Stein’s works and perusing hundreds of essays about her writing as I earned my Master of Arts in Literature in part by writing a thesis called Becomings: Gertrude Stein's approach to minor literature. (Eventually, I’ll post some of my writing about Stein to my blog, but I really needed a ten year break from the woman.)
12. Dorothy Parker: A depressed, cynical drunk with a caustic tongue and a quick wit, what isn’t there to love? I never tire of reading “The Telephone Call.” She captures with great humor and precision the anxiety we have all felt while waiting for the phone ring—so simple but so brilliant. I must admit that I am completely enamored by her cleverness and have even written a short sketch where I have a conversation with her ghost. (One of my most favorite blog postings that I have been converting into a One Act play for over a year.)
13. Judy Blume: Show me a woman who was a girl in the 1980s and I’ll show you a Judy Blume fan. I highly recommend the essay collection: Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume.
14. Isabel Allende: A novelist who uses elements of Magic Realism, Allende is just a masterful storyteller. Her stories are compelling and her characters, particularly her female characters, are beautifully drawn. She skillfully unifies humor and solemnity while taking her readers on a marvelous journey. (I was happy to see that she is equally spirited in real life as she is in her writing. She was absolutely delightful and hilarious when I heard her speak in San Antonio – a wonderful treat!)
15. Oscar Wilde: Whether I am reading his plays, his poems, his fairy tales or his epigrams, my usual reaction is: “Damn, he is clever.” Wilde is a writer whose brilliance is revealed with each subsequent reading. During my early 20s, I read Wilde so frequently that when my husband bought me a kitten to keep me company while he worked and went to school, I named him Oscar. Sadly, my interest in Wilde’s writing has lasted longer than my interest in cats.
Surprisingly, not nearly as many British authors made my list as I would have suspected. Here are my mostly British Honorable Mentions: Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, Emily Brontë, Charles Dickens, George Eliot, George Bernard Shaw, William Shakespeare, William Blake, Matthew Arnold, Jonathan Swift, John Donne, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Jorge Luis Borges, and Harold Bloom.
I normally ignore but notes, but I was intrigued by this task. Well, fifteen minutes transformed into three weeks by the time my list was almost done, people have moved on to ”15 Life Changing Movies” and their “15 Most Favorite Breeds of Dogs.” Movements on Facebook are short-lived, but this task lingered with me. And since I had the list done and don’t have my book read for book club this month, this is a great way to quickly fulfill my daily blog post obligation, complete the Facebook assignment, and show how pretentious my literary tastes really are, all in one effort.
1. Sylvia Plath: An amazing poet with a horribly tragic life who captured my imagination in my college years with her hauntingly dark and melancholy images. Her poetic rendering of her complex relationship with her onerous mother made my fascination with Plath’s writings and life very intimate and undeniable. Once I became a mother, I saw her horrible death at such a young age as less romantic and became less interested in her personal life, but I still remain a fan of her work.
2. Thomas Hardy: Much like Plath, Thomas Hardy’s works are both stunning and full of enormous tragedy. But more effectively than Plath whose poetry vastly surpasses her novel, short stories, play and letters, Hardy was able to write successfully and effectively across my many genres (novels, poetry, and plays) with tremendous skill. His works of fiction have a gravitas associated with them that supposedly put an end to the Victorian novel and made his works among the first Modern novels. Although there is not much lightness, joy and happiness in the works of Hardy, beauty abounds in his characterization, language, and motifs. Without question, Hardy remains my favorite novelist.
3. Tennessee Williams: The Glass Menagerie might have been the first play that I read that was not by William Shakespeare, and I was immediately captured by not only the tragic themes but how dialogue can be used to propel a compelling plot. I went on to read almost all of his plays (I have seen a few of them on the stage, but I am the rare person who likes to read plays a little more than I like to see them). I have been strongly influenced by his character development, dark motifs and dramatic twists. Williams is an American treasure whose plays rank among the best American plays ever written.
4. E. B. White: Although White is mostly known as a children’s author, he is arguably among the world’s greatest essayists. Any writer who even dabbles in essays knows the works of White, and anyone who wants to the master the art of the essay has studied his essays thoroughly. I have read some of his essays so many times that I have large portions of many of them memorized. E.B. White is the essayist who in small doses inspires me to work harder and in large doses makes me curl up in a fetal position, wallowing in by self-doubt, self-pity and self-loathing. Needless to say, I am on a rich but restricted diet of E.B. White. (Every once in a while I am asked: What is an essay and how it differs from short story? If you really want to know pick up a copy of White’s collected essays.)
5. Toni Morrison: This Nobel Prize winning author knows how to weave a yarn that captures the imagination and stirs the soul. Song of Solomon is an epic story that had me riveted and thrilled to turn the next page; The Bluest Eye allowed me to experience an empathy different than I have ever felt previously; Beloved transported me to the time of slavery where I became attached to Sethe and her daughter Denver -- a truly eye-opening novel. Morrison is a challenging author, but she is worth the investment of time in order to read and understand her stunning literary fiction.
6. Arthur Krystal: This author is probably the least famous writer on my list, but he is easily the best essayist that you are not reading. He dismisses humor writing and memoir in preference of the literary essay, and he is very much continuing the tradition of American letters associated E.B. White. When I sit down to write, I stare at homemade sign that reads: “Be Like Arthur.” Arthur Krystal is the modern day gold standard that all essayists should aspire.
7. Harold Pinter: I had no idea who British Playwright Harold Pinter was until I saw his play Old Times staged while I was studying in England. The biting language and dark themes attracted me and made want to read more of his plays. Thanks to my husband, I have read all of his plays and am always astounded by the depth of his characters, his plot twists, and acerbic dialogue. Pinter is a literary phenomenon who greatly deserved the Nobel Prize in Literature that he earned shortly before his death.
8. Mark Twain: Anyone who dabbles in humor should read Twain. Anyone who writes essays should read Twain. Anyone who is an American or wants to be an American should read Twain. Really anyone who can read should read Twain.
9. Christina Rossetti: A minor Victorian poet whose big brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti, co-founded the Pre-Raphaelite movement in art and literature, Rossetti is a fascinating poet who mostly lived in her brother’s shadow and at times would shine on her own with her profoundly feminine poetry in terms of both style and content that touched on themes of motherhood, infertility, repression, and sexuality. Her poetry is simply beautiful and should be enjoyed simply for its beauty.
10. Fyodor Dostoyevsky: When it comes to novelists, Dostoyevsky runs a very close second to Thomas Hardy as my all time favorite. The darkness and tragedy that permeates his works nicely compliments all the depravity, mental illness, and violence; and he is certainly not afraid of an unhappy ending. So much misery and gloom, I just cannot get enough of Dostoyevsky.
11. Gertrude Stein: Truly an innovative marvel who is highly influential and really quite profound, Stein is so much more than a “Rose is a Rose is a Rose.” Her importance exceeds her friendships with Hemingway and Picasso. She was Modernist writer who broke conventions and re-imagined poetry while exploring the conditions of possibilities in politics, art, gender, language, ethnicity, religion and race. I had the wonderful opportunity to spend 18 months of my life reading all of Stein’s works and perusing hundreds of essays about her writing as I earned my Master of Arts in Literature in part by writing a thesis called Becomings: Gertrude Stein's approach to minor literature. (Eventually, I’ll post some of my writing about Stein to my blog, but I really needed a ten year break from the woman.)
12. Dorothy Parker: A depressed, cynical drunk with a caustic tongue and a quick wit, what isn’t there to love? I never tire of reading “The Telephone Call.” She captures with great humor and precision the anxiety we have all felt while waiting for the phone ring—so simple but so brilliant. I must admit that I am completely enamored by her cleverness and have even written a short sketch where I have a conversation with her ghost. (One of my most favorite blog postings that I have been converting into a One Act play for over a year.)
13. Judy Blume: Show me a woman who was a girl in the 1980s and I’ll show you a Judy Blume fan. I highly recommend the essay collection: Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume.
14. Isabel Allende: A novelist who uses elements of Magic Realism, Allende is just a masterful storyteller. Her stories are compelling and her characters, particularly her female characters, are beautifully drawn. She skillfully unifies humor and solemnity while taking her readers on a marvelous journey. (I was happy to see that she is equally spirited in real life as she is in her writing. She was absolutely delightful and hilarious when I heard her speak in San Antonio – a wonderful treat!)
15. Oscar Wilde: Whether I am reading his plays, his poems, his fairy tales or his epigrams, my usual reaction is: “Damn, he is clever.” Wilde is a writer whose brilliance is revealed with each subsequent reading. During my early 20s, I read Wilde so frequently that when my husband bought me a kitten to keep me company while he worked and went to school, I named him Oscar. Sadly, my interest in Wilde’s writing has lasted longer than my interest in cats.
Surprisingly, not nearly as many British authors made my list as I would have suspected. Here are my mostly British Honorable Mentions: Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, Emily Brontë, Charles Dickens, George Eliot, George Bernard Shaw, William Shakespeare, William Blake, Matthew Arnold, Jonathan Swift, John Donne, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Jorge Luis Borges, and Harold Bloom.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Post Thanksgiving Reflections
Being thankful and giving thanks. There are so many ways to express gratitude on Thanksgiving. A little turkey craft, which is actually an outline of a three-year-old’s hand that holds words of thankfulness on his curved thumb and crooked pinky. A thanksgiving card, a festive Fall bouquet, six candles that when put together spell T-H-A-N-K-S. These small gestures remind us of all our beautiful blessings that inspire gratitude. Most of us give thanks for our families, our health, our home, our careers and the glories of living in a free country.
After Thanksgiving passes, we quickly toss out gratitude in the spirit of greed, frugality, and competitiveness. We knock over Grandma to get a quesadilla maker originally priced at $46.99 for $12.99; we steal a XBOX Kinect out of a distracted shopper’s cart; and, we trick a teenage sales girl into taking an extra 10-percent off our Sing-A-Ma-Jigs due to packaging damage.
As we get lost in the chaos of the Holidays, we forget to give thanks for the little things that may be too trivial or too superficial to articulate on the big day devoted to giving thanks. But as one who never shies away from superficiality and frivolity, here are just a few little things that make me thankful.
After Thanksgiving passes, we quickly toss out gratitude in the spirit of greed, frugality, and competitiveness. We knock over Grandma to get a quesadilla maker originally priced at $46.99 for $12.99; we steal a XBOX Kinect out of a distracted shopper’s cart; and, we trick a teenage sales girl into taking an extra 10-percent off our Sing-A-Ma-Jigs due to packaging damage.
As we get lost in the chaos of the Holidays, we forget to give thanks for the little things that may be too trivial or too superficial to articulate on the big day devoted to giving thanks. But as one who never shies away from superficiality and frivolity, here are just a few little things that make me thankful.
- I am thankful for my four children who are so good looking, intelligent, funny and athletic that they make the average child look vastly inferior.
- I am thankful that my husband has retained his good looks over years and looks just damn sexy with a tinge gray in his goatee.
- I am thankful for my DKNY jeans that makes my ass look better at the age of 37 than it did at the age of 19.
- I am thankful for the clothing manufacturers who cut their patterns larger and assign smaller dress sizes than they did 10 years ago. According to most dressmakers, I am the same size I was in high school despite my Freshman 15 that morphed into the First Child 40.
- I am thankful that the Candy, Pie, Fudge and Cookie Season has finally arrived and I will fully indulge thanks to the dressmakers who say I am the same size as I was in high school.
These are just a few of the things that make me grateful. As you embark on the Holiday Season, please remember to count your blessings and eat much pie.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The Unspoken Hero
Day after day, he learns of his son’s headaches and vomiting through his wife’s accounts, which are sometimes peppered with histrionics, hysteria, bitterness and anger. He deftly sorts the facts from the melodrama; advises his wife to remain resilient and resolute; and, frequently reminds her that being hysterical, accusatory and mean will only hinder their efforts in getting their son treatment. Despite his worries and fears, he remains stoic for the family. He sacrifices and suppresses his own desires to be home with his son to continue to provide for his family by traveling all over the world for his job. With the exception of work interactions, his life is solitary and lonely Monday through Friday until he returns to his wife and children.
Then upon returning, he comforts his sick child, cleans up vomit, entertains his other children and reassures his wife. He remains formidable despite his own anxieties and concerns. He serves as the voice of rationality and reason that offsets his wife’s hysteria, irrationality and habitual madness. He is the force that moves his family through an intolerable situation and makes it all more bearable. He is the backbone of his family.
Author’s Note: Over the past few days, my narratives have made me look like a lone warrior in the battle to get my son the treatment he needed. Although I may have been the one struggling with the doctors, I was never fighting the battles alone. My husband was there in every decision and reminded me to not be hysterical or spiteful. Even though my storytelling techniques may leave him out occasionally, my husband is present in all the tales of our family.
Then upon returning, he comforts his sick child, cleans up vomit, entertains his other children and reassures his wife. He remains formidable despite his own anxieties and concerns. He serves as the voice of rationality and reason that offsets his wife’s hysteria, irrationality and habitual madness. He is the force that moves his family through an intolerable situation and makes it all more bearable. He is the backbone of his family.
Author’s Note: Over the past few days, my narratives have made me look like a lone warrior in the battle to get my son the treatment he needed. Although I may have been the one struggling with the doctors, I was never fighting the battles alone. My husband was there in every decision and reminded me to not be hysterical or spiteful. Even though my storytelling techniques may leave him out occasionally, my husband is present in all the tales of our family.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Relief by Artifical Means
After weeks of headaches and vomiting due to hydrocephalus, a build-up of cerebral spinal fluid (CSF) pressure in the brain, my son will finally be relieved of these symptoms when a shunt is placed his body that will flow from beneath his skull to his bowels. Placing a foreign object in the body is always risky because there is a chance the man-made device could cause infection or simply stop working making his vomiting and headaches return in a stronger capacity. It is said that one in three shunts need revisions in the first year although those statistics are somewhat discouraging, the overall benefits of a shunt outweigh the risks.
So, after a year of enormous life changes, my son will endure one more change to his body -- a change for the better we hope.
So, after a year of enormous life changes, my son will endure one more change to his body -- a change for the better we hope.
Monday, November 22, 2010
A Prescription for Fun
No time for extensive blog posting today. My son and I are under strict doctor’s orders to have lots of fun in order to see what happens to the pressure in his brain. So, a plethora of air hockey, Wii, X-box, Connect Four and Uno are on the menu for us today.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Tapas Still Elude Me
Some things are just not meant to be. Clearly, my enjoyment of tapas in a fine dining establishment is just not meant to be. Somehow I have managed to go to a restaurant not once but twice this month with the intention of ordering tapas, but my good culinary intentions led me down the path of ravenousness once again and wishing I would have filled my tummy before I went to a local lounge. Same old story. I was late to the moms’ night out event, and it didn’t occur to me to ask for a food menu because I had no hungry screaming children with me.
Or, perhaps I forgot to order because I was too focused on making comparisons between the false advertising and the reality of the lounge. “A darkly burning enclave with walls nearly a century old that hold the memories and merriment of travelers and the surrounding neighborhood alike” was in actuality a small, damp, cold basement with some nice leather furniture and a bunch of candles.” If they did indeed have “unforgettable fare,” the waiter forgot about it since I was never given a food menu. Although my company was delightful and the jazz music was lovely, the only “continuation of yesteryear” occurred when the frail old people, who slowly sipped their gin and tonics, continued to breathe.
Overall, I failed to experience the “evening of revelry” that was promised in lounge’s online advertisements. Some people are just too square for a night life, and I am one of those people. Socialization is highly overrated; I am going back to eating dinner out with my husband and kids. I never forget to order at Red Robin where I can get bottomless fries—now that’s some revelry.
Or, perhaps I forgot to order because I was too focused on making comparisons between the false advertising and the reality of the lounge. “A darkly burning enclave with walls nearly a century old that hold the memories and merriment of travelers and the surrounding neighborhood alike” was in actuality a small, damp, cold basement with some nice leather furniture and a bunch of candles.” If they did indeed have “unforgettable fare,” the waiter forgot about it since I was never given a food menu. Although my company was delightful and the jazz music was lovely, the only “continuation of yesteryear” occurred when the frail old people, who slowly sipped their gin and tonics, continued to breathe.
Overall, I failed to experience the “evening of revelry” that was promised in lounge’s online advertisements. Some people are just too square for a night life, and I am one of those people. Socialization is highly overrated; I am going back to eating dinner out with my husband and kids. I never forget to order at Red Robin where I can get bottomless fries—now that’s some revelry.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
The Party You Have Reached Is Ignoring You
Dear Children:
For the third time this month, I will attempt an evening out of the house that is non-work related. Let me be clear that emergencies are rare, and I should only be contacted if there is a true emergency. Your brother pulling your hair is not an emergency. Not being able to find Purple Bear is not an emergency. Discovering that we are out of yogurt and apples is not an emergency. Heck, don’t bother calling me if there is a fire. What can I do? It’s not like I am going to fight the fire. I’ll deal with it when I get home. You have a very capable babysitter; feel free to bother her as frequently as needed.
As for me, I will be, according to the description of the lounge, traveling back to "a bygone era of exquisite service, timeless style, classic cocktails, and expert cuisine.” I will “step away from one world and descend underground into another—a darkly burning enclave with walls nearly a century old that hold the memories and merriment of travelers and the surrounding neighborhood alike.” I could, “sip a handcrafted martini from a signature drink menu, or partake in that perfect pairing of wine and unforgettable fare.” I just want some tapas and water, but nonetheless, I will have, if not interrupted for two brief hours, an “evening of revelry, live music, and familiar comfort that is the continuation of yesteryear.”
If I get knocked out of yesteryear to deal with lost underwear and turf wars over Pillow Pets, I will have four grounded children firmly situated in the harsh reality of today.
Just so we are clear.
Your Loving Mother
For the third time this month, I will attempt an evening out of the house that is non-work related. Let me be clear that emergencies are rare, and I should only be contacted if there is a true emergency. Your brother pulling your hair is not an emergency. Not being able to find Purple Bear is not an emergency. Discovering that we are out of yogurt and apples is not an emergency. Heck, don’t bother calling me if there is a fire. What can I do? It’s not like I am going to fight the fire. I’ll deal with it when I get home. You have a very capable babysitter; feel free to bother her as frequently as needed.
As for me, I will be, according to the description of the lounge, traveling back to "a bygone era of exquisite service, timeless style, classic cocktails, and expert cuisine.” I will “step away from one world and descend underground into another—a darkly burning enclave with walls nearly a century old that hold the memories and merriment of travelers and the surrounding neighborhood alike.” I could, “sip a handcrafted martini from a signature drink menu, or partake in that perfect pairing of wine and unforgettable fare.” I just want some tapas and water, but nonetheless, I will have, if not interrupted for two brief hours, an “evening of revelry, live music, and familiar comfort that is the continuation of yesteryear.”
If I get knocked out of yesteryear to deal with lost underwear and turf wars over Pillow Pets, I will have four grounded children firmly situated in the harsh reality of today.
Just so we are clear.
Your Loving Mother
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Beware of the $15.00 Jar of Pasta Sauce
Intricately stacked bottles filled with bright orange liquid wrapped in decorative white labels, much prettier than your standard grocery store shelves. With beautiful well-balanced displays of overpriced kitchen objects and fanciful pantry items with French names and organic ingredients, Williams-Sonoma sucks me in every time. Just like walking around Hobby Lobby gives me the false bravado that I could macramé something, perusing the displays at Williams-Sonoma fills me with the sensation that I could be a great chef.
So, I grab the orange bottle that contains Pumpkin Parmesan Sauce. The artisan label complete with a beautiful sketch of a pumpkin tells me that if I buy this bottle of sauce, my family will enjoy: A celebration of the autumn harvest, our handcrafted pasta sauce makes it easy to savor authentic Italian regional flavors at home.…As convenient as it is delicious, this artisanal sauce makes it easy to whip up a memorable meal. Simply heat the sauce, toss with your favorite pasta and serve.
I turn the bottle over and see the $15.00 price tag and put it back on the shelf only to have my husband snatch it immediately.
“The kids are so not worth a $15.00 bottle of pasta sauce,” I argued.
“Tough. We are trying it,” he replied firmly.
I was glad that I lost the battle and continued to fill our cart with ridiculously overpriced items.
The following evening, I heated the sauce in a pan and brought lobster and crab stuffed ravioli to a gentle boil for a special Sunday night dinner for my kids since their dad was already on an airplane destined for Connecticut. I topped the plump stuffed pasta circles with the slow-roasted pumpkin infused with heavy cream, aged Parmesano-Reggiano cheese, caramelized onions and roasted garlic.
I refrained from stealing a taste until everyone was seated and served. Most of us took a bite simultaneously with only my eleven-year-old son being the holdout and his ravioli were covered in butter instead of the pumpkin sauce.
“Gross,” said the six-year-old boy, who requests salads for lunch and prefers peppermints to chocolates.
“It’s okay,” says the eight-year-old girl, an already wonderful cook who aspires to be a professional chef someday who won’t have to get pseudo-gourmet flavor from a jar.
“I don’t like it,” said my three-year-old.
The kids were right. A mix of pumpkin, Parmesan and vomit stirred with feet covered our pasta. We scraped off the sauce to salvage a few raviolis, but we just mostly devoured our corn and sweet peas.
The remaining pasta was tossed in the trash and along with my trampled desires for a delicious dinner.
At $15.00 for the sauce, $10.00 for the ravioli and $1.75 total for a can of peas and a can of corn, I could have ordered pizza for less money and had happier children.
So, I grab the orange bottle that contains Pumpkin Parmesan Sauce. The artisan label complete with a beautiful sketch of a pumpkin tells me that if I buy this bottle of sauce, my family will enjoy: A celebration of the autumn harvest, our handcrafted pasta sauce makes it easy to savor authentic Italian regional flavors at home.…As convenient as it is delicious, this artisanal sauce makes it easy to whip up a memorable meal. Simply heat the sauce, toss with your favorite pasta and serve.
I turn the bottle over and see the $15.00 price tag and put it back on the shelf only to have my husband snatch it immediately.
“The kids are so not worth a $15.00 bottle of pasta sauce,” I argued.
“Tough. We are trying it,” he replied firmly.
I was glad that I lost the battle and continued to fill our cart with ridiculously overpriced items.
The following evening, I heated the sauce in a pan and brought lobster and crab stuffed ravioli to a gentle boil for a special Sunday night dinner for my kids since their dad was already on an airplane destined for Connecticut. I topped the plump stuffed pasta circles with the slow-roasted pumpkin infused with heavy cream, aged Parmesano-Reggiano cheese, caramelized onions and roasted garlic.
I refrained from stealing a taste until everyone was seated and served. Most of us took a bite simultaneously with only my eleven-year-old son being the holdout and his ravioli were covered in butter instead of the pumpkin sauce.
“Gross,” said the six-year-old boy, who requests salads for lunch and prefers peppermints to chocolates.
“It’s okay,” says the eight-year-old girl, an already wonderful cook who aspires to be a professional chef someday who won’t have to get pseudo-gourmet flavor from a jar.
“I don’t like it,” said my three-year-old.
The kids were right. A mix of pumpkin, Parmesan and vomit stirred with feet covered our pasta. We scraped off the sauce to salvage a few raviolis, but we just mostly devoured our corn and sweet peas.
The remaining pasta was tossed in the trash and along with my trampled desires for a delicious dinner.
At $15.00 for the sauce, $10.00 for the ravioli and $1.75 total for a can of peas and a can of corn, I could have ordered pizza for less money and had happier children.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Is No News Actually Good News?
After four MRIs and seven doctor visits in the past three weeks, there is still no explanation for my son’s vomiting and headaches, which did not start until four months after his brain surgery. Since the vomiting has almost completely subsided and the headaches have decreased in frequency, duration and intensity, the neurosurgeon will not be placing an external drain in his head at this time. Instead, observation at home will continue for three weeks, and he will then return for yet another MRI. At that time, we will discover if excessive brain fluid and pressure are the causes of his malaise.
I guess it could be considered good news that we will not be at the hospital Thanksgiving week like we anticipated, but we will all still be living in uncertainty. It does not matter where we eat our turkey if we are all together and moving towards medical resolution for my son. But for now, we will continue to live in certain uncertainty and take small bites of our yams and bread stuffing with a healthy dose of anxiety.
I guess it could be considered good news that we will not be at the hospital Thanksgiving week like we anticipated, but we will all still be living in uncertainty. It does not matter where we eat our turkey if we are all together and moving towards medical resolution for my son. But for now, we will continue to live in certain uncertainty and take small bites of our yams and bread stuffing with a healthy dose of anxiety.
The Cyberspace Police Should Give You a Ticket...
If you left your car alongside the road, it would be towed, you be ticketed and would be responsible for getting your vehicle out of the impound. So, why shouldn't there be repercussions for abandoning your blog?
When writers establish blogs, they are taking on a commitment. Bloggers make promises to their readers (which may only be their moms, spouses or strangers who also have the same predilection for silent movies, musty old books and New Wave music from the 1980s). Creating a blog is making a promise to deliver timely content updates. When bloggers fail to update their blogs, they fail their readers.
According to a 2008 survey by Technorati, which operates a search engine for blogs, only 7.4 million out of the 133 million blogs the company tracks were updated in the 120 days prior to the survey, which means about 95 percent of blogs were abandoned. It is estimated that about 40,000 people a day start a blog with many of those blogs being abandoned after one or two posts.
If you are not going to stick with it, why go to the trouble of picking a host service, customizing a fashionable blog theme and creating content? Writing a poem or painting a picture would be a more efficient and successful use of your brief burst of creative energy. Why waste your time and disappoint your readers (in particular me) when your zany fashion tidbits, unusual recipes with Huckleberry and wacky advice columns are not longer updated regularly. There is no need to clutter my Blogger Reading List with your lackluster dream that no longer captures your imagination; it is too much of an emotional roller coaster to become a devoted blog follower only to return to my favorite blogs to find stale posts floating in cyberspace.
If you are not going to update your blog, the polite thing to do is either to delete it, or write a short statement such as "Under Construction." "Thanks for stopping by. Be sure to stop by later." "No longer blogging, but please enjoy my archive.” "Too damn busy to update my blog with pictures of smiling kids and clever anecdotes about their mispronunciations that sound like dirty words.” Or, “My blog is a suckish graveyard."
Really any of those would work and would save you from being permanently exiled from my Blogger Dashboard.
When writers establish blogs, they are taking on a commitment. Bloggers make promises to their readers (which may only be their moms, spouses or strangers who also have the same predilection for silent movies, musty old books and New Wave music from the 1980s). Creating a blog is making a promise to deliver timely content updates. When bloggers fail to update their blogs, they fail their readers.
According to a 2008 survey by Technorati, which operates a search engine for blogs, only 7.4 million out of the 133 million blogs the company tracks were updated in the 120 days prior to the survey, which means about 95 percent of blogs were abandoned. It is estimated that about 40,000 people a day start a blog with many of those blogs being abandoned after one or two posts.
If you are not going to stick with it, why go to the trouble of picking a host service, customizing a fashionable blog theme and creating content? Writing a poem or painting a picture would be a more efficient and successful use of your brief burst of creative energy. Why waste your time and disappoint your readers (in particular me) when your zany fashion tidbits, unusual recipes with Huckleberry and wacky advice columns are not longer updated regularly. There is no need to clutter my Blogger Reading List with your lackluster dream that no longer captures your imagination; it is too much of an emotional roller coaster to become a devoted blog follower only to return to my favorite blogs to find stale posts floating in cyberspace.
If you are not going to update your blog, the polite thing to do is either to delete it, or write a short statement such as "Under Construction." "Thanks for stopping by. Be sure to stop by later." "No longer blogging, but please enjoy my archive.” "Too damn busy to update my blog with pictures of smiling kids and clever anecdotes about their mispronunciations that sound like dirty words.” Or, “My blog is a suckish graveyard."
Really any of those would work and would save you from being permanently exiled from my Blogger Dashboard.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Hey Amazon, Any Plans To Play Nice With Libraries?
If you are in the market for an e-book, do not have the disposable income and/or desire to purchase all your e-books and are an avid library user, I strongly advice against purchasing any version of Amazon’s Kindle. Although I am not a technology aficionado or an expert on e-books, I am librarian who frequently disappoints enthusiastic new Kindle owners when I tell them that they cannot download our library’s e-books. The general assumption from patrons both in-person and on message boards is that somehow library technology is behind the times and needs to catch up to modern day conveniences.
This is simply not the case: Libraries are not lagging. Amazon just does not play well with others. There are two reasons why e-books from major e-content distributors for libraries will not work with the Kindle.
1. Library loaned e-books are available as EPUB books, which are not compatible with the Kindle, but can be used on Sony Reader and the Barnes & Noble Nook.
2. The Kindle does not support the Digital Rights Management software that is produced by Overdrive (one of the most commonly used e-book distributors for libraries).
Both of these issues could be resolved if Amazon was willing to corporate with outside vendors, but at this point, Amazon has no plans to fix either issue. However, Amazon has made an announcement that they will not sue libraries for purchasing Kindles and Kindle books in order to lend them to their patrons. Amazon states that this violates their Terms of Service Agreement, but they will cut libraries a break. How generous of Amazon to not sue non-profit libraries that are paying full retail price for their products because they won’t allow library e-books to work on their products. Even Apple, the most proprietary company on the planet, allows some Overdrive and NetLibrary products to operate on their devices.
When it comes down to it, consumers have many choices and there plenty of e-book gurus out there that will happily break down every make and model of every eBook reader on market. A plethora of reviews and comparisons exist to tell you about design, content, screen size, resolution, product weight, battery life and memory. If you are in the market for eBook reader, check out those reviews to find the product that best serves your needs. But if are a library user who believes that you should be able to use your tax dollars to access both print and electronic resources, please select any of the fine e-book readers out there, other than Amazon’s Kindle.
This is simply not the case: Libraries are not lagging. Amazon just does not play well with others. There are two reasons why e-books from major e-content distributors for libraries will not work with the Kindle.
1. Library loaned e-books are available as EPUB books, which are not compatible with the Kindle, but can be used on Sony Reader and the Barnes & Noble Nook.
2. The Kindle does not support the Digital Rights Management software that is produced by Overdrive (one of the most commonly used e-book distributors for libraries).
Both of these issues could be resolved if Amazon was willing to corporate with outside vendors, but at this point, Amazon has no plans to fix either issue. However, Amazon has made an announcement that they will not sue libraries for purchasing Kindles and Kindle books in order to lend them to their patrons. Amazon states that this violates their Terms of Service Agreement, but they will cut libraries a break. How generous of Amazon to not sue non-profit libraries that are paying full retail price for their products because they won’t allow library e-books to work on their products. Even Apple, the most proprietary company on the planet, allows some Overdrive and NetLibrary products to operate on their devices.
When it comes down to it, consumers have many choices and there plenty of e-book gurus out there that will happily break down every make and model of every eBook reader on market. A plethora of reviews and comparisons exist to tell you about design, content, screen size, resolution, product weight, battery life and memory. If you are in the market for eBook reader, check out those reviews to find the product that best serves your needs. But if are a library user who believes that you should be able to use your tax dollars to access both print and electronic resources, please select any of the fine e-book readers out there, other than Amazon’s Kindle.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Relax: You Are Not a Sinner, Criminal or Loser
I will hear your confessions. I will listen to your excuses. I will tolerate your begging. I will smile at your negotiation tactics. But in the end, I do not have the power and authority invested in me to absolve of your library fines. I am a mere reference librarian; you must seek absolution from the circulation department.
As a front-line librarian, I spend a portion of my time at the reference desk reassuring people that it is not a moral failing to have an overdue book. A library fine is nothing like a speeding ticket fine; there was no crime committed. Sometimes you just need that extra five days past your due date to finish The Elegance of the Hedgehog; sometimes a book sits on your nightstand untouched until you exhausted all renewals and that 10 cent a day fine eats away at your cheapskate soul until you finally read the book in two days; sometimes your kids throw the Caillou DVD case behind the couch and put the DVD in an Arrested Development DVD case during a quick clean-up of the entertainment center, resulting in $4.60 in fines.
Although you may think you are letting your library and community down when you are delinquent, in actuality, you are helping your library. Fines are substantial revenue generators for non-profit libraries, even at 10 cents a day for books and 25 cents a day for DVDs, which is the standard fee at many libraries across the country. It is time to stop thinking of your library fines as a punishment and start thinking about your overdue charges as a generous donation or an extended use fee (meaning you actively choose to keep the item and pay a small charge for the extra time.) Every time your kid stuffs the Diary of a Wimpy Kid under her bed for weeks, you are helping your library.
So even though, many patrons pride themselves in never having a library fine, I feel pretty confident (although it has yet to be confirmed) that there is not a special reading room in Heaven for patrons with perfect reading records, so be daring and watch those episodes of Californication for an extra day or two. Your library record is confidential, so no one will ever know, but the Ultimate Librarian.
As a front-line librarian, I spend a portion of my time at the reference desk reassuring people that it is not a moral failing to have an overdue book. A library fine is nothing like a speeding ticket fine; there was no crime committed. Sometimes you just need that extra five days past your due date to finish The Elegance of the Hedgehog; sometimes a book sits on your nightstand untouched until you exhausted all renewals and that 10 cent a day fine eats away at your cheapskate soul until you finally read the book in two days; sometimes your kids throw the Caillou DVD case behind the couch and put the DVD in an Arrested Development DVD case during a quick clean-up of the entertainment center, resulting in $4.60 in fines.
Although you may think you are letting your library and community down when you are delinquent, in actuality, you are helping your library. Fines are substantial revenue generators for non-profit libraries, even at 10 cents a day for books and 25 cents a day for DVDs, which is the standard fee at many libraries across the country. It is time to stop thinking of your library fines as a punishment and start thinking about your overdue charges as a generous donation or an extended use fee (meaning you actively choose to keep the item and pay a small charge for the extra time.) Every time your kid stuffs the Diary of a Wimpy Kid under her bed for weeks, you are helping your library.
So even though, many patrons pride themselves in never having a library fine, I feel pretty confident (although it has yet to be confirmed) that there is not a special reading room in Heaven for patrons with perfect reading records, so be daring and watch those episodes of Californication for an extra day or two. Your library record is confidential, so no one will ever know, but the Ultimate Librarian.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Cherokee Dance
Key in the ignition. Nothing. Turn air conditioner on. Turn on the heater. Open driver side door. Slam it behind me. Lift up hood. Look inside for I don’t know what. Slam the hood shut. Open and slam the passenger door. Open and slam the back door three times. Open driver’s door and slam it. Put the key in the ignition. It starts. This is the Cherokee Dance done with love at least two to three times a week. Perhaps it is time to take my old 1995 Jeep Cherokee into the shop for a tune-up. With her 201,501 miles, she is running a little sluggish these days, and some days has no get up and go at all. Back in June 2004, she was diagnosed with a condition that would eventually result in transmission failure. For six years now, she has beaten the odds and keeps chugging along without first gear. She does zero to 35 in about four and half minutes. Yeah that was me the other day; I made you late for work. But as long as I don’t pull out into traffic or have to be at my destination too fast, my old girl gets me where I need to go.
Some say (well mostly my husband’s parents) that it is time to retire her to the junkyard, but that would be like euthanizing Grandma. Our Cherokee, which was an engagement gift from my parents, has been a part of our family since the summer of 1996 and has been part of every crucial milestone in my adult life. My husband and I drove her from Pennsylvania to Texas to Colorado to start our lives together in the Rocky Mountains in 1996; we brought home our first child in the backseat in 1999. To keep him from getting lonely, I sat with him in the backseat for the first three years of his life until his sister came along in a matching car seat. We then drove our beloved vehicle back to Texas in 2002 and had two more kids. When we returned to Colorado in the summer of 2008, the mechanic recommended that we tow her. Just another naysayer. We did not listen and she made the trip like a disabled triathlon runner in the Special Olympics.
Yes, it is true that when our family of six needs to ride in her five passenger capacity body we have to draw straws to see which family member stays at home. This is why; the old girl mostly remains in the pasture known as our driveway while we comfortably voyage in a red Dodge Grand Caravan complete with a navigation system, a DVD player, stow-and go storage and leather seats. Sure, it has a nicer chassis, but who develops an emotional attachment to a Dodge? The minivan may be newer and more functional than a vehicle with only five seats, two-doors, manually operated windows, locks that you have to remember to push down and technicolor coffee and milk stained upholstery that carries most illnesses that are typically only found in Third World Countries, but the Dodge minivan will never be a member of our family like our beloved Jeep Cherokee.
Some say (well mostly my husband’s parents) that it is time to retire her to the junkyard, but that would be like euthanizing Grandma. Our Cherokee, which was an engagement gift from my parents, has been a part of our family since the summer of 1996 and has been part of every crucial milestone in my adult life. My husband and I drove her from Pennsylvania to Texas to Colorado to start our lives together in the Rocky Mountains in 1996; we brought home our first child in the backseat in 1999. To keep him from getting lonely, I sat with him in the backseat for the first three years of his life until his sister came along in a matching car seat. We then drove our beloved vehicle back to Texas in 2002 and had two more kids. When we returned to Colorado in the summer of 2008, the mechanic recommended that we tow her. Just another naysayer. We did not listen and she made the trip like a disabled triathlon runner in the Special Olympics.
Yes, it is true that when our family of six needs to ride in her five passenger capacity body we have to draw straws to see which family member stays at home. This is why; the old girl mostly remains in the pasture known as our driveway while we comfortably voyage in a red Dodge Grand Caravan complete with a navigation system, a DVD player, stow-and go storage and leather seats. Sure, it has a nicer chassis, but who develops an emotional attachment to a Dodge? The minivan may be newer and more functional than a vehicle with only five seats, two-doors, manually operated windows, locks that you have to remember to push down and technicolor coffee and milk stained upholstery that carries most illnesses that are typically only found in Third World Countries, but the Dodge minivan will never be a member of our family like our beloved Jeep Cherokee.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Ceiling, Really?
Dear Eldest Son:
Since you like math so much, here are a few facts for you to contemplate. The average width of a toilet seat is 15.7 inches and the average head circumference for an almost twelve-year-old boy is 15 inches; therefore, with 0.7 inches of head room, I would like to know why you can’t manage to get on your knees, hug the toilet real tight and hit the target with your vomit. Out of my four children, only you are not capable of properly aiming your vomit. If your three-year-old brother can hold his own barf bucket steadily during a two-hour minivan excursion, throw up three times, and not get a drop on his clothes or his car seat, how does a sixth grader who completes math problems at a tenth grade level manage to not only miss the toilet completely but hit all four bathroom walls, the bathtub, the floor, the hand towels and the ceiling? The ceiling, really? How did you make your vomit defy gravity?
It was one thing when you were one-year-old, vomited all over yourself, smiled with delightful relief and started screaming once you felt that mushiness of your puke through your sleeper. You were a baby. Even when you were a four-year-old and couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time, I was grossed out, dry-heaving beside you, but I could understand your inability to control your gag reflex. But at as a middle school student, it is time show some self control, boy!
With each passing day as you get closer to the age of twelve, I realize that you are not likely to ever move out. You will never find a college roommate that will tolerate puke on the carpet, and you certainly won’t find a wife willing to aim your head towards the toilet. Dear son, I love you, but I don’t want to be cleaning up your vomit for the rest of my life. You will find a bucket, mop, and Lysol in the bathroom, please use these items accordingly.
Your Loving Mother
Since you like math so much, here are a few facts for you to contemplate. The average width of a toilet seat is 15.7 inches and the average head circumference for an almost twelve-year-old boy is 15 inches; therefore, with 0.7 inches of head room, I would like to know why you can’t manage to get on your knees, hug the toilet real tight and hit the target with your vomit. Out of my four children, only you are not capable of properly aiming your vomit. If your three-year-old brother can hold his own barf bucket steadily during a two-hour minivan excursion, throw up three times, and not get a drop on his clothes or his car seat, how does a sixth grader who completes math problems at a tenth grade level manage to not only miss the toilet completely but hit all four bathroom walls, the bathtub, the floor, the hand towels and the ceiling? The ceiling, really? How did you make your vomit defy gravity?
It was one thing when you were one-year-old, vomited all over yourself, smiled with delightful relief and started screaming once you felt that mushiness of your puke through your sleeper. You were a baby. Even when you were a four-year-old and couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time, I was grossed out, dry-heaving beside you, but I could understand your inability to control your gag reflex. But at as a middle school student, it is time show some self control, boy!
With each passing day as you get closer to the age of twelve, I realize that you are not likely to ever move out. You will never find a college roommate that will tolerate puke on the carpet, and you certainly won’t find a wife willing to aim your head towards the toilet. Dear son, I love you, but I don’t want to be cleaning up your vomit for the rest of my life. You will find a bucket, mop, and Lysol in the bathroom, please use these items accordingly.
Your Loving Mother
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
My Good Deed
“Mom, can we have a snack?" asked my eight-year-old daughter anchored by her three brothers and a set of twin eight-year-old girls from down the street.
I reached into the pantry and grabbed a white box adorned with a small picture of a blonde girl with braids wearing a blue bonnet and a huge smile framed by naturally bright red lips. I reached deep into the slender box and retrieved six brown rectangles decorated with pastel circles and covered with shrink wrap.
“What is it?” said the perplexed brunette.
“A Little Debbie Brownie,” I responded.
“What does that mean?” asked the other perplexed brunette.
“You have never had a Little Debbie? " I inquired.
“No,” said twin number one.
“Really? You have never seen a box like this before. What about these or these?” I asked while holding a box of yellow Twinkies in my left hand and a bag of Oreos in my right hand.
“No,” said twin number two.
This really did not come as much of a surprise since my family lives in a town like Lake Wobegon but better. Here all the children range from well-above average to presidential. My four children are squarely in the middle of the pack in the position of “somewhat exceptional.” Their rankings have possibly been stunted by their extensive exposure to simple sugars, trans fat and hydrogenated oils.
“What does your mom give you as snacks?"
“Grapes and apples. Sometimes she makes his hot chocolate and warm chocolate chip cookies,” said the first twin with the other one nodding in agreement.
“Really. Fruits and homemade cookies. You poor kids," I said with a sympathetic smile. “Enjoy your Little Debbie. When you are done with the brownie, have an Oatmeal Crème Pie. I am sure it is nothing like the cookies your mom makes with rolled oats.”
I reached into the pantry and grabbed a white box adorned with a small picture of a blonde girl with braids wearing a blue bonnet and a huge smile framed by naturally bright red lips. I reached deep into the slender box and retrieved six brown rectangles decorated with pastel circles and covered with shrink wrap.
“What is it?” said the perplexed brunette.
“A Little Debbie Brownie,” I responded.
“What does that mean?” asked the other perplexed brunette.
“You have never had a Little Debbie? " I inquired.
“No,” said twin number one.
“Really? You have never seen a box like this before. What about these or these?” I asked while holding a box of yellow Twinkies in my left hand and a bag of Oreos in my right hand.
“No,” said twin number two.
This really did not come as much of a surprise since my family lives in a town like Lake Wobegon but better. Here all the children range from well-above average to presidential. My four children are squarely in the middle of the pack in the position of “somewhat exceptional.” Their rankings have possibly been stunted by their extensive exposure to simple sugars, trans fat and hydrogenated oils.
“What does your mom give you as snacks?"
“Grapes and apples. Sometimes she makes his hot chocolate and warm chocolate chip cookies,” said the first twin with the other one nodding in agreement.
“Really. Fruits and homemade cookies. You poor kids," I said with a sympathetic smile. “Enjoy your Little Debbie. When you are done with the brownie, have an Oatmeal Crème Pie. I am sure it is nothing like the cookies your mom makes with rolled oats.”
Monday, November 8, 2010
Missed the Tapas, Where’s the Dead Dog?
I am so relieved. I am relieved that Garth Stein did not bring Enzo with him to his talk about his New York Times Best Seller, The Art of Racing in the Rain because I would have eaten him. Yes, I would have devoured Enzo’s decaying corpse and wiped the moldy tendons from my lips the same way that Enzo licked the squirrel’s blood off his face and ate curdled yogurt off the baby’s highchair. In fact, I was so hungry that while Stein was sharing tales about the writing process and how tough it was to sell a book narrated by a dog, I stared at his burgundy loafers, wondering if there was a piece of gum or sticky Laffy Taffy on his soles. Hunger replaced the excitement that I felt earlier.
So consumed by anticipation for the event, I spent most of my day bouncing back and forth between housework, laundry, and Facebook – doing none of them with focus or concentration. Well, with one exception, I did manage to write blog entries, Facebook posts and emails about my hot black leather boots. My boots consumed all my thoughts and distracted me from properly doing my husband’s laundry. One load of pants, one load of dress shirts and one load of socks and underwear. It was the same every week until this week. I forgot to turn on the dryer for the third load, resulting in soggy socks and dripping underwear 15 minutes before my husband was scheduled to catch the airport shuttle.
My laundry faux-pas resulted in me driving my husband to the airport, eating half a bambino burger from Good Times in the car and arriving 45 minutes late to the chic restaurant where the Book Club Mamas were meeting for appetizers and drinks before the author talk. Not wanting to appear undignified, I declined offers of both bread and crackers. I soon realized this was a mistake when I started seeing parachutes landing behind the author’s head and the six rows in front of me looked like gigantic Hershey bars. Next time, I’ll just drop my earring and pick up the scraps, or I could just arrive promptly.
So consumed by anticipation for the event, I spent most of my day bouncing back and forth between housework, laundry, and Facebook – doing none of them with focus or concentration. Well, with one exception, I did manage to write blog entries, Facebook posts and emails about my hot black leather boots. My boots consumed all my thoughts and distracted me from properly doing my husband’s laundry. One load of pants, one load of dress shirts and one load of socks and underwear. It was the same every week until this week. I forgot to turn on the dryer for the third load, resulting in soggy socks and dripping underwear 15 minutes before my husband was scheduled to catch the airport shuttle.
My laundry faux-pas resulted in me driving my husband to the airport, eating half a bambino burger from Good Times in the car and arriving 45 minutes late to the chic restaurant where the Book Club Mamas were meeting for appetizers and drinks before the author talk. Not wanting to appear undignified, I declined offers of both bread and crackers. I soon realized this was a mistake when I started seeing parachutes landing behind the author’s head and the six rows in front of me looked like gigantic Hershey bars. Next time, I’ll just drop my earring and pick up the scraps, or I could just arrive promptly.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Hittin' the Club...Again
A short black sleeveless dress, black kneehigh leather boots, black pantyhose and a sexy burgundy scarf will be my attire when I go clubbing tonight for the second time in four days – book clubbing that is. Even bookworms need a social life and sometimes bookworms splurge on a babysitter to discuss a rather mediocre book, not once but twice. Truthfully, Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain is really not worth all the trouble, but it just happens to be the book that our dog friendly community selected for its version of a One Book, One City program. So, Stein’s arrival in town is the Book Club Mamas’ excuse for a night on campus in our college town. Wearing nice clothes, eating delicious food, and having splendid drinks are my primary motives, but if the author actually looks like his picture on the back of his book, the talk could be riveting too.
Oh, the nightlife of a clubbing bookworm…
Oh, the nightlife of a clubbing bookworm…
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Adorable Canine Redeems Lame, Cheesy Novel: A Few Thoughts on The Art of Racing in the Rain
Shocked! This was the look on the faces of my fellow book club members when I gave Garth Stein’s “The Art of Racing in the Rain” a thumb in the middle during our traditional opening Thumb up/Thumb down ceremony. It was strongly anticipated that I would not like this book because I am petrified of dogs; I ridicule gimmicky narratives; I do not typically read New York Times Best Sellers; and, most importantly, I despise uplifting endings.
For all the above reasons, I really should have loathed this book, but I did not on two simple grounds: Enzio, the charming narrating dog suckered me in with his jokes and wisdom and the racing metaphors absolutely captured my imagination. In actuality, The Art of Racing in the Rain is a simplistic story of a man, a woman, their child, the man’s dog and the woman’s horrible parents. Not much interesting happens. Man gets dog; man marries woman; dog and woman don’t care for each other too much; woman gets cancer; and the grandparents try to steal the child from her father. In terms of plot, this novel is really sort of puerile until the dog comes along and gives the reader an “under the table” view.
Enzio narrates every detail with a four-legged perspective. We hear from his point of view the details of human mating rituals; we learn what is like for a dog to discover a rancid chicken nugget under a kitchen table; we experience firsthand a dog’s thirst for squirrel’s blood and how that is a magnificent metaphor for irrational acts of human passion. And of course, Enzio charismatically draws us in with his T.V. addiction, hatred of monkeys and ardent belief that he would transform into a human upon his death. Reviewing that list, it still surprises me that this ridiculous book appealed to me, but the success of this book lies in the humanistic portrayal of the universe from a non-human point of view. Furthermore, it gave me that tingling in the nose about to cry feeling many times.
In fact, for a moment or two, I adored Enzio so much that I wished I liked real life dogs (not likely to ever happen). Enzio is a literary device not a dog, a literary device that makes this non-dog-lover’s experience with this novel very different than a dog lover’s encounter. Generally, dog-lover’s were ecstatic about this book. For the non-dog lover, Stein’s book is a light, tolerable read. If you have a few hours to kill, this one will make you laugh and tear up a little.
For all the above reasons, I really should have loathed this book, but I did not on two simple grounds: Enzio, the charming narrating dog suckered me in with his jokes and wisdom and the racing metaphors absolutely captured my imagination. In actuality, The Art of Racing in the Rain is a simplistic story of a man, a woman, their child, the man’s dog and the woman’s horrible parents. Not much interesting happens. Man gets dog; man marries woman; dog and woman don’t care for each other too much; woman gets cancer; and the grandparents try to steal the child from her father. In terms of plot, this novel is really sort of puerile until the dog comes along and gives the reader an “under the table” view.
Enzio narrates every detail with a four-legged perspective. We hear from his point of view the details of human mating rituals; we learn what is like for a dog to discover a rancid chicken nugget under a kitchen table; we experience firsthand a dog’s thirst for squirrel’s blood and how that is a magnificent metaphor for irrational acts of human passion. And of course, Enzio charismatically draws us in with his T.V. addiction, hatred of monkeys and ardent belief that he would transform into a human upon his death. Reviewing that list, it still surprises me that this ridiculous book appealed to me, but the success of this book lies in the humanistic portrayal of the universe from a non-human point of view. Furthermore, it gave me that tingling in the nose about to cry feeling many times.
In fact, for a moment or two, I adored Enzio so much that I wished I liked real life dogs (not likely to ever happen). Enzio is a literary device not a dog, a literary device that makes this non-dog-lover’s experience with this novel very different than a dog lover’s encounter. Generally, dog-lover’s were ecstatic about this book. For the non-dog lover, Stein’s book is a light, tolerable read. If you have a few hours to kill, this one will make you laugh and tear up a little.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Memo to Aspiring Babysitters: If You Want to Watch My Kids You Better Dehoochie Your Facebook Profile
Dear Applicants (all 42 of you):
Thank you for your interest in watching my four amazing and beautiful children; your life will truly be enriched by being around them. Likewise, I would expect that you would have something special and heartening to offer my children. To earn the privilege of watching my children, you must not look like a slutty party girl on your Facebook profile. If your “likes” include tequila, beer, hooking-up with strangers in public restrooms under a full-moon, and having Cool Whip licked from my tummy, I will not hire you. And, it is not because I am old and jealous. Sure, those two facts are true, but I am a public servant. My public will not take kindly to a sign that reads: “No reference librarian today because her babysitter was too hung over to watch her kids.”
I need reliability and maturity. It also doesn’t hurt if you are as haggard and ugly as a copy of War and Peace that has been checked out a multitude of times. Plain Janes are encouraged to apply.
If I do not respond to your application, this means you were too pretty, too fun, too dumb, or too young.
However, if you were smart enough to checkout your potential employer’s Facebook profile like I checked out yours, please email me a copy of my blog link and I’ll hire you immediately. Smart, innovative girls are encouraged to apply.
Sincerely,
Your Potential Boss
Garbageman’s Daughter
Thank you for your interest in watching my four amazing and beautiful children; your life will truly be enriched by being around them. Likewise, I would expect that you would have something special and heartening to offer my children. To earn the privilege of watching my children, you must not look like a slutty party girl on your Facebook profile. If your “likes” include tequila, beer, hooking-up with strangers in public restrooms under a full-moon, and having Cool Whip licked from my tummy, I will not hire you. And, it is not because I am old and jealous. Sure, those two facts are true, but I am a public servant. My public will not take kindly to a sign that reads: “No reference librarian today because her babysitter was too hung over to watch her kids.”
I need reliability and maturity. It also doesn’t hurt if you are as haggard and ugly as a copy of War and Peace that has been checked out a multitude of times. Plain Janes are encouraged to apply.
If I do not respond to your application, this means you were too pretty, too fun, too dumb, or too young.
However, if you were smart enough to checkout your potential employer’s Facebook profile like I checked out yours, please email me a copy of my blog link and I’ll hire you immediately. Smart, innovative girls are encouraged to apply.
Sincerely,
Your Potential Boss
Garbageman’s Daughter
Thursday, November 4, 2010
An Open Letter to Prince Regarding His Most Recent Asinine Business Decisions
Dear Prince:
A few weeks ago, you announced your Welcome to America Tour. This announcement was greeted with great excitement by your most devout American fans, despite the ridiculous name of the tour. You are an American citizen. Why are you coming to America? Don’t you already live here and have a lot of properties that you don’t pay taxes on until the tax authorities chase you down and demand payment? And, why you are not doing the 20TEN tour in the United States like you did in Europe and like you will do in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates? And why are you stuffing your show with a bunch of artists that no one wants to see? And of course, the most important question, why are starting your tour just a few days before Christmas?
I know you don’t celebrate Christmas and that you need replenish your bank accounts given your huge tax penalties and the ridiculous amount of lawsuits that you lost in 2010. (Did no one ever tell you not to sue babies and not to make a deal with a stinky perfume company just because their name reminds you of the Bible?) Do you really need to burden your fans with your problems? Sure, you are worth the $173.00 sticker price for tickets on the floor and possibly worth the $500 per person for a table in the exclusive Purple Circle. But, why right before Christmas?
Do you not realize that you are old? Since you are old this means that most of your fans are old and are parents. You would like to think that your fans hot twenty-somethings but that is not the case. Face reality, your fans are mostly women between the ages of 35 and 48 who were kids when you took the pop music world by storm in 1984 with Purple Rain. Yes, it is true. Your fans don’t have taut asses and perky breasts, they are bunch of stretch mark laden, cellulite riddled moms who are going to try to look like Vanity (circa 1982) by squeezing their sagging, misshapen breasts and post-baby bellies into retro trampy dresses, lining their eyes heavily in black to mask their crows feet and wearing thigh-high boots to hide the spider veins. This really should have occurred to you once your promoters used the line “maybe your parents told you about him” to sell tickets to younger audiences.
So, although I have no problem being an “old fan,” who is willing to place financial burden on my family and will happily wear my streetwalker boots that hide my cankles, I am not thrilled about wearing so little clothing on the East Coast in the middle of winter. (Still searching for fashionably floozy dress that can easily be converted into a conservative dress that is appropriate for my library’s reference desk.) From the financial burden to the weather forecast, a concert in December is just bad idea, but you are “The Prince of the Bad Idea.”
In fact, 2010 has really been a banner year for your bad ideas. You started the year off with your depressingly dreadful fight song for Minnesota Vikings, which caused thousands, no hundreds (most football fans don’t know who you are) to blame you for their loss. Then, you followed that travesty with a couple of crap demos and fled to Europe for a few magnificent shows with fantastic set-lists (I know this because bootlegged copies of the shows were available almost immediately. Great job trusting the Europeans. They gladly steal from you just like the Americans.) You deprived your American fans of legal opportunities to hear those songs and then further screwed over your American fans by only releasing 20TEN (a really solid musical offering) through newspapers and magazines in Europe. You got your money upfront with no thought of your fans. Most of your fans didn’t care because they had an illegal copy of the CD within 24 hours of the release in France. But, now you are releasing a deluxe version of 20TEN. So, fans will soon pay an obscene amount of money for a CD that they partially possess. You know your hardcore fans are completists and will purchase every brilliant, average and horrid piece of music you put out.
Yes, 20Ten Deluxe is just another example of the way you screw over your fans. Redundant, frivolous albums, ridiculously overpriced inconveniently timed concerts not to mention all the embarrassing things you say like “the internet is dead” that forces your fans to defend your crazy ass. If there ever was an artist who did not deserve fans, it would be you, Prince. But for some reason the fans like the way you screw us. You don’t deserve it, but you’ll see me and thousands of your other fans when you come to America. See you then.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
A few weeks ago, you announced your Welcome to America Tour. This announcement was greeted with great excitement by your most devout American fans, despite the ridiculous name of the tour. You are an American citizen. Why are you coming to America? Don’t you already live here and have a lot of properties that you don’t pay taxes on until the tax authorities chase you down and demand payment? And, why you are not doing the 20TEN tour in the United States like you did in Europe and like you will do in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates? And why are you stuffing your show with a bunch of artists that no one wants to see? And of course, the most important question, why are starting your tour just a few days before Christmas?
I know you don’t celebrate Christmas and that you need replenish your bank accounts given your huge tax penalties and the ridiculous amount of lawsuits that you lost in 2010. (Did no one ever tell you not to sue babies and not to make a deal with a stinky perfume company just because their name reminds you of the Bible?) Do you really need to burden your fans with your problems? Sure, you are worth the $173.00 sticker price for tickets on the floor and possibly worth the $500 per person for a table in the exclusive Purple Circle. But, why right before Christmas?
Do you not realize that you are old? Since you are old this means that most of your fans are old and are parents. You would like to think that your fans hot twenty-somethings but that is not the case. Face reality, your fans are mostly women between the ages of 35 and 48 who were kids when you took the pop music world by storm in 1984 with Purple Rain. Yes, it is true. Your fans don’t have taut asses and perky breasts, they are bunch of stretch mark laden, cellulite riddled moms who are going to try to look like Vanity (circa 1982) by squeezing their sagging, misshapen breasts and post-baby bellies into retro trampy dresses, lining their eyes heavily in black to mask their crows feet and wearing thigh-high boots to hide the spider veins. This really should have occurred to you once your promoters used the line “maybe your parents told you about him” to sell tickets to younger audiences.
So, although I have no problem being an “old fan,” who is willing to place financial burden on my family and will happily wear my streetwalker boots that hide my cankles, I am not thrilled about wearing so little clothing on the East Coast in the middle of winter. (Still searching for fashionably floozy dress that can easily be converted into a conservative dress that is appropriate for my library’s reference desk.) From the financial burden to the weather forecast, a concert in December is just bad idea, but you are “The Prince of the Bad Idea.”
In fact, 2010 has really been a banner year for your bad ideas. You started the year off with your depressingly dreadful fight song for Minnesota Vikings, which caused thousands, no hundreds (most football fans don’t know who you are) to blame you for their loss. Then, you followed that travesty with a couple of crap demos and fled to Europe for a few magnificent shows with fantastic set-lists (I know this because bootlegged copies of the shows were available almost immediately. Great job trusting the Europeans. They gladly steal from you just like the Americans.) You deprived your American fans of legal opportunities to hear those songs and then further screwed over your American fans by only releasing 20TEN (a really solid musical offering) through newspapers and magazines in Europe. You got your money upfront with no thought of your fans. Most of your fans didn’t care because they had an illegal copy of the CD within 24 hours of the release in France. But, now you are releasing a deluxe version of 20TEN. So, fans will soon pay an obscene amount of money for a CD that they partially possess. You know your hardcore fans are completists and will purchase every brilliant, average and horrid piece of music you put out.
Yes, 20Ten Deluxe is just another example of the way you screw over your fans. Redundant, frivolous albums, ridiculously overpriced inconveniently timed concerts not to mention all the embarrassing things you say like “the internet is dead” that forces your fans to defend your crazy ass. If there ever was an artist who did not deserve fans, it would be you, Prince. But for some reason the fans like the way you screw us. You don’t deserve it, but you’ll see me and thousands of your other fans when you come to America. See you then.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A Letter To My Children: No Christmas Presents This Year
To My Four Beautiful Angels:
It is with moderate sadness that I must inform you that there will not be Christmas presents under the tree this year. I know it is tough to swallow, but you must hear the truth. Your mother is an addict. My drug of choice skyrocketed to popularity in the early 1980s and became hottest drug out there with maybe one thrilling exception. I became hooked at the fragile age of nine. Your grandmother tried to limit my exposure, heeding the warnings the Phil Donahue and Tipper Gore. But, I just used behind her back. When my most people moved on to more relevant stimulants in the 1990s while my favorite elixir underwent a dreadful name change, I stayed committed. Today, my addiction to Prince remains intact despite his age and flavorless presentation.
In order to satiate my need for all things Prince, your father and I will be traveling to the IZOD Center in New Jersey to see Prince a few days before Christmas, which means we’ll have to cut back this year on non-essentials, like your Christmas presents. To make it up to you, here is what we have to offer: While we are gone you can stay up as late as you want and eat as much junk food as you desire. And, here’s the good part: You do not have to donate any of your toys to charity this year. Instead, you can wrap up your gently used crap and exchange it amongst each other. It will feel like Christmas until you see what exactly is inside the boxes, which will just dash your dreams and ultimately create one of your worst childhood memories ever. But you know, sometimes life just isn’t fair. Sometimes you have to sacrifice to make those around you happy.
Remember children: It is better to give than to receive. This year, you will be giving to your mother. As consolation, I’ll bring home a concert t-shirt that you all can take turns wearing. See not so bad after all.
I am glad that we have resolved this matter amicably, and it will be a very Merry Christmas -- well at least for me.
Love always,
Your Mother
It is with moderate sadness that I must inform you that there will not be Christmas presents under the tree this year. I know it is tough to swallow, but you must hear the truth. Your mother is an addict. My drug of choice skyrocketed to popularity in the early 1980s and became hottest drug out there with maybe one thrilling exception. I became hooked at the fragile age of nine. Your grandmother tried to limit my exposure, heeding the warnings the Phil Donahue and Tipper Gore. But, I just used behind her back. When my most people moved on to more relevant stimulants in the 1990s while my favorite elixir underwent a dreadful name change, I stayed committed. Today, my addiction to Prince remains intact despite his age and flavorless presentation.
In order to satiate my need for all things Prince, your father and I will be traveling to the IZOD Center in New Jersey to see Prince a few days before Christmas, which means we’ll have to cut back this year on non-essentials, like your Christmas presents. To make it up to you, here is what we have to offer: While we are gone you can stay up as late as you want and eat as much junk food as you desire. And, here’s the good part: You do not have to donate any of your toys to charity this year. Instead, you can wrap up your gently used crap and exchange it amongst each other. It will feel like Christmas until you see what exactly is inside the boxes, which will just dash your dreams and ultimately create one of your worst childhood memories ever. But you know, sometimes life just isn’t fair. Sometimes you have to sacrifice to make those around you happy.
Remember children: It is better to give than to receive. This year, you will be giving to your mother. As consolation, I’ll bring home a concert t-shirt that you all can take turns wearing. See not so bad after all.
I am glad that we have resolved this matter amicably, and it will be a very Merry Christmas -- well at least for me.
Love always,
Your Mother
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Advance Planning
Calendar Entry for September 1, 2011: Commission a skilled seamstress to design and sew four cute and original costumes for Halloween 2011.
Somewhere in recent history the word “homemade” transformed in meaning from being too poor to shop at Walmart to being the symbol of sincere, tenderly devout maternal love. Mothers, who know how to drive a sewing machine and wield a needle and thread, appear to love their children more than I do. Whether or not, these mothers actually care for their children more than I care for mine is far from my chief concern. Perception and impressions are everything, and using my credit card with love is no longer making the right impression.
Just like all my delicious cookies and cakes that come from a slightly above average baker in town, I must find a competent but not too fantastic seamstress or no one believe that I conceived and constructed the festive attire, unless I have a contingency plan.
Calendar Entry for July 17, 2011: Post to blog. “Just started a sewing class at the recreation center. The instructor says, I am the most skilled novice that she has ever encountered. In fact, she speculates that I might be a descendant of Betsy Ross.”
No need to actually enroll in the class. Problem solved.
Somewhere in recent history the word “homemade” transformed in meaning from being too poor to shop at Walmart to being the symbol of sincere, tenderly devout maternal love. Mothers, who know how to drive a sewing machine and wield a needle and thread, appear to love their children more than I do. Whether or not, these mothers actually care for their children more than I care for mine is far from my chief concern. Perception and impressions are everything, and using my credit card with love is no longer making the right impression.
Just like all my delicious cookies and cakes that come from a slightly above average baker in town, I must find a competent but not too fantastic seamstress or no one believe that I conceived and constructed the festive attire, unless I have a contingency plan.
Calendar Entry for July 17, 2011: Post to blog. “Just started a sewing class at the recreation center. The instructor says, I am the most skilled novice that she has ever encountered. In fact, she speculates that I might be a descendant of Betsy Ross.”
No need to actually enroll in the class. Problem solved.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Great Halloween Debacle
 |
| Substanially less than their typical Halloween loot. |
“Mom, you are a trick or treating failure,” said the caustic eleven-year-old in the adorable oversized Luigi costume that made him look like a nine-year-old.
“This is the worst Halloween ever. We should have kept dad and sent you to Philadelphia. He is great at trick or treating. We always get more candy and have more fun with him,” he yelled at me while walking in our quiet neighborhood populated with old people who don’t turn on their lights.
“Good. That was my goal to make your Halloween suck. Glad I succeeded,” I yelled back. “I took you down the street with the big houses thinking they would have the best candy. Sorry for trying something different.”
“I hate Halloween. It is a stupid holiday,” he responded.
The eight-year-old Snow Princess chimes in, “I just wanted to go down the hill like dad always takes us. But oh no, mom is too lazy. She is too wimpy to push the stroller back up the hill.”
“I love Halloween,” interrupted the three-year-old who is also dressed like Luigi from the Super Mario Brothers.
“You are so sweet. Do you want to go to more houses?”
“Can we go home now?” said the gorgeous olive skinned six-year-old suitably dressed as Mario.
“Sure, because I just spent an hour getting all of you ready just so we can go home 35 minutes later.”
We open the door. The kids grudgingly throw their candy on the table.
“Pathetic,” said the oldest.
“Don’t take off your mustaches. I need pictures,” I said.
All three mustaches and hats hit the floor followed by the princess headdress.
“Hats back on and stand against the wall, so I can get a damn picture. Stand up straight and smile”
“You get three tries and then we are out of here,” said the disgruntled pre-teen.
“One. Two. Three. We are done.”
They took off running.
“Worst Halloween ever. What was the point? I am going to bed.” The group followed him, depriving me of my usual hugs and kisses.
“Good. Happy Halloween.”
Lights off for the kids and a three candy bar night for me.
Back Off Dentists: Their Mouths Are Rotten But Their Teeth Are Clean
Dear Dentists and Other Fun Ruiners Obsessed with Dental Hygiene:
Please allow me to enlighten you and share a well-known secret among fun, lighthearted germy people, toothbrushes are not treats! In fact, putting a toothbrush in the bag of a wide-eyed, smile-flashing, costume-clad toddler is just cruel. So cruel that my three-year-old cried when a bristle stick was thrown in his sack of goodies.
Thank you for generosity but my children already have toothbrushes, and we don’t give a damn about your anti-candy campaign. So next time, throw us some Tootsie Rolls, Double Bubble gum, Kit Kats or even some stickers, but please keep your toothbrushes to remedy your own sick, plaque fetishes.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter and Her Traumatized Three-Year-Old
 |
| Four kids but five toothbrushes. Guess my teeth looked plague encrusted too. |
Please allow me to enlighten you and share a well-known secret among fun, lighthearted germy people, toothbrushes are not treats! In fact, putting a toothbrush in the bag of a wide-eyed, smile-flashing, costume-clad toddler is just cruel. So cruel that my three-year-old cried when a bristle stick was thrown in his sack of goodies.
Thank you for generosity but my children already have toothbrushes, and we don’t give a damn about your anti-candy campaign. So next time, throw us some Tootsie Rolls, Double Bubble gum, Kit Kats or even some stickers, but please keep your toothbrushes to remedy your own sick, plaque fetishes.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter and Her Traumatized Three-Year-Old
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