“So, what do you expect to win?” asked the fifty-something year old man, flaunting a bad rash and the smell of coffee, pot and self-inflicted lovemaking.
“Huh?” responded the sprightly teenager as she folded her retro Care Bears t-shirt and nervously clung to her laundry basket.
“Your shorts say ‘Expect to Win.’”
“Oh that was the motto for my high school softball team last year.”
“Really, you were in high school last year?”
“Yep.” She giggled as she added her cotton white panties to her pile of yoga pants and sports bras.
As I watched this perverse dance between a stupid college girl and dirty old man, I felt sorry for the poor girl who clearly suffered from bad mothering. A good mother would have told her.
1. If you wear words on your ass, you always should be cognizant of the fact that there are indeed words on your ass.
2. If you wear words on your ass, you should know what your ass says.
3. If you wear words on your ass, expect your ass to be read by dirty old men expecting to win.
4. Don’t wear words on your ass and put some damn clothes on.
What’s wrong with mothers these days?
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Let’s Play a Game: Dad or Prince
I am a dedicated wife. I am a hardcore Prince fan. I have been romantically linked to my husband for nearly 16 years and married to him for 13 years. I have been listening to Prince regularly for 29 years. Sometimes my dedication to the Purple One makes things a little uncomfortable in my marriage, especially when my twelve-year-old son asks questions while trapped in the car.
Hey Mom, Prince is a stupid name. What is his real name?
Prince Rodgers Nelson. Prince really is his birth name. His dad named him after his band, Prince Rodgers Trio.
What is Dad’s real name?
Birth name Tommy. Legally changed to Thomas when you were a baby. Goes by Tom. He is Dad to you.
Where was Prince born? Minneapolis, Minnesota
Where was Dad born? Orange, Texas.
When’s Prince’s birthday? June 7
When's Dad’s birthday? December 26.
Mom, I think you know more about Prince than dad.
No, I don’t. I know everything about your father and I know almost nothing about Prince.
Who was Prince’s first girlfriend?
Don’t know. Not playing this game. (Impossible to point to just one, but Susan Moonsie, who joined Vanity 6, was Prince’s high school girlfriend.)
Who was Dad’s first girlfriend?”
Not playing this game, kid. (Tina, Toni, Renee or something like that.)
What was Prince’s first job?
Don’t know. Don’t care. Time to move on. (Not sure that he did much but make music. Wrote first song when he was seven, first demo tape done in 1976 and first album released in 1978 when he was 19 years old.)
What’s was Dad’s first job?
Not playing this game but I know for a fact he bagged groceries at Wal-Mart. Your nanny made him walk to work.
What did Prince do in high school?
How would I know? (Played basketball and many instruments)
What did Dad do in high school? Football and baseball. He was great athlete unlike your mother.
So, Mom how many books have read about Prince?
None. I read an article about Prince in Teen Beat the year that Purple Rain came out. That is extent of my biographical knowledge, so let it go.
Mom, every time I use the computer, Prince.org is open.
Keep it up and I got three words for you: Computer Password Protected.
All right then. Dad, where are we going for dinner?
Hey Mom, Prince is a stupid name. What is his real name?
Prince Rodgers Nelson. Prince really is his birth name. His dad named him after his band, Prince Rodgers Trio.
What is Dad’s real name?
Birth name Tommy. Legally changed to Thomas when you were a baby. Goes by Tom. He is Dad to you.
Where was Prince born? Minneapolis, Minnesota
Where was Dad born? Orange, Texas.
When’s Prince’s birthday? June 7
When's Dad’s birthday? December 26.
Mom, I think you know more about Prince than dad.
No, I don’t. I know everything about your father and I know almost nothing about Prince.
Who was Prince’s first girlfriend?
Don’t know. Not playing this game. (Impossible to point to just one, but Susan Moonsie, who joined Vanity 6, was Prince’s high school girlfriend.)
Who was Dad’s first girlfriend?”
Not playing this game, kid. (Tina, Toni, Renee or something like that.)
What was Prince’s first job?
Don’t know. Don’t care. Time to move on. (Not sure that he did much but make music. Wrote first song when he was seven, first demo tape done in 1976 and first album released in 1978 when he was 19 years old.)
What’s was Dad’s first job?
Not playing this game but I know for a fact he bagged groceries at Wal-Mart. Your nanny made him walk to work.
What did Prince do in high school?
How would I know? (Played basketball and many instruments)
What did Dad do in high school? Football and baseball. He was great athlete unlike your mother.
So, Mom how many books have read about Prince?
None. I read an article about Prince in Teen Beat the year that Purple Rain came out. That is extent of my biographical knowledge, so let it go.
Mom, every time I use the computer, Prince.org is open.
Keep it up and I got three words for you: Computer Password Protected.
All right then. Dad, where are we going for dinner?
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The Smack Of Life
Silence. No crying kids. No bloody noses or split open lips. School yards and gym classes around the country are void of tradition and the rite of passage. Yes, it is true. The travesty known as the “dodge ball ban” is being spread across the country.
This wrong must righted as I implore schools and recreation centers to not deprive children of a good smack in the face that is needed as a stinging, bright red reminder that life is hard. Yes, it is dangerous. Yes, it is violent. But so is life off the playground. Just about everything that I needed to know about the world, I learned from a brutal game of dodge ball.
This wrong must righted as I implore schools and recreation centers to not deprive children of a good smack in the face that is needed as a stinging, bright red reminder that life is hard. Yes, it is dangerous. Yes, it is violent. But so is life off the playground. Just about everything that I needed to know about the world, I learned from a brutal game of dodge ball.
- Move fast, stay tough, be aware, watch for your competition or your face will be bloodied.
- Do not cry! No matter how much it hurts, do not cry. Crying is just like peeing your pants in school. Once it happens, the stigma follows you forever and you will never be redeemed.
- People who hate you certainly will use any opportunity to beat the hell out of you with smiles on their faces and in the name of good fun. They will say it is just a game and is not personal. It is never just a game and it is always personal.
- Being picked last for a dodge ball team is damaging to the ego but being picked last to have your nose-bloodied might not be so bad.
- Being slow means you are out of the game first, but that allows you more time to enjoy the demise of others.
- Although unlikely, it is plausible that your opponents will experience head injuries and die on the spot. Sometimes the hope of a blood-spewing aneurism that is messier than a Gremlin being blown up in a microwave is the only thing that helps one get through the day.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Trust Me, I Am Not Contagious!
I am not equipped to raise a popular child. I do not have the wherewithal or sensitivity to understand youthful happiness and joy. Give me an angst-filled, self-loathing child any day and I know exactly what advice to give. “Adolescence sucks. But take comfort in the fact that most of the assholes who tortured you during childhood will gain weight, lose hair or end up in minimum wage jobs in adulthood.”
So as a parent not versed in the charmed life of the popular, I have no ability to understand my son’s athletic friends who are always stopping by, the flurry the female admirers and all the party invitations. I especially have no tolerance for questions like these: “So, my mom, what group were you in when you were in school?”
“No group. I was an individual. A free-spirit.”
“So that means you didn’t have friends.”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“So, you were uncool and a loser?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Really? But you have so many friends now. Are you sure?”
“Okay, what’s up with all the questions? Why are inquiring about my social history?”
“Just wondering.”
“Unpopularity is not genetic. You are not suddenly going to develop uncoolness one day. Don’t believe there is such a thing as the “uncool gene.”
“Okay, so that means you hung out with the smart kids.”
“Not really. I wasn’t really that smart either. I just worked hard and got good grades by studying and applying myself.”
“So, you hung out with the nerds.”
“No, they didn’t much like me either.”
“I can’t believe my mom was a loser."
“Yes son , I was a loser and now I am a librarian. Probably one of the few professions that encourages oddness. The dorkier that I am, the better service people think that they are getting. People expect librarians to be nerds and it gives them comfort. It is the balance of life, child. Now go comb your perfect hair and leave me alone.”
“You’re a dork, mom.”
So as a parent not versed in the charmed life of the popular, I have no ability to understand my son’s athletic friends who are always stopping by, the flurry the female admirers and all the party invitations. I especially have no tolerance for questions like these: “So, my mom, what group were you in when you were in school?”
“No group. I was an individual. A free-spirit.”
“So that means you didn’t have friends.”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“So, you were uncool and a loser?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Really? But you have so many friends now. Are you sure?”
“Okay, what’s up with all the questions? Why are inquiring about my social history?”
“Just wondering.”
“Unpopularity is not genetic. You are not suddenly going to develop uncoolness one day. Don’t believe there is such a thing as the “uncool gene.”
“Okay, so that means you hung out with the smart kids.”
“Not really. I wasn’t really that smart either. I just worked hard and got good grades by studying and applying myself.”
“So, you hung out with the nerds.”
“No, they didn’t much like me either.”
“I can’t believe my mom was a loser."
“Yes son , I was a loser and now I am a librarian. Probably one of the few professions that encourages oddness. The dorkier that I am, the better service people think that they are getting. People expect librarians to be nerds and it gives them comfort. It is the balance of life, child. Now go comb your perfect hair and leave me alone.”
“You’re a dork, mom.”
Monday, July 11, 2011
Yet Another Open Letter to Prince: Why Are You Such an Embarrassment to Your Fans?
Dear Prince:
Months ago, I promised my husband that I would no longer write open letters to you on my blog because it is not a productive use of time for a mother of four, and my correspondence makes me look moderately crazy. But, you did again it and once again I am willing to look insane for your sake. You did something so asinine that I feel behooved as a fan to give you some advice. Shut up! Stop talking and do not give interviews at all.
You have always been a bit of a freakish embarrassment to your fans, but the majority of your most dedicated fans love your crazy ass despite your ramblings that make you look like a semi-retarded, seriously mentally ill nincompoop. But this time you went too far with this mouthful of sexism and racism that recently appeared in the Guardian, "It's fun being in Islamic countries, to know there's only one religion. There's order. You wear a burqa. There's no choice. People are happy with that." When asked about the fate of those unhappy with having no choice, he replied: "There are people who are unhappy with everything. There's a dark side to everything."
It’s fun to not have a choice and to be told what to do by the government? It is fun for women to be suppressed? Suppression equals happiness and fighting for equality is the “dark side?” To try to explain your reasoning for this vitriol would be as difficult as explaining why you wore assless pants or wrote "slave" on your face. Just one more inexplicable stupid ass thing for your fans to accept just like your conspiracy theory that the government is using chemtrails to keep the black man down and your profound observation that the “Internet is dead.” In fact, this statement is just as about as open-minded and progressive as “God came to earth and saw people sticking it wherever and doing it with whatever, and he just cleared it all out. He was, like, Enough."
Although there is no end to your imbecility, you receive unconditional love from your most dedicated fans. You are adored despite the fact you are a crazy old man who wants to seem like an intellectual, but in reality you spent your youth writing brilliant songs about fucking opposed to getting a higher education. Now that you are a distinguished musician who has won just about every award possible in the music industry, you don’t know what to do with yourself. Really the answer is simple. Stop talking, go release the 25 minute version of Xtralovable that your fans desperately want to hear; lock yourself up in the studio; continue to bang your pretty little ballerina (who is young enough to be your daughter) for inspiration and get back to writing sex-laden songs.
Please no more nonsense about gays, chemtrails, the Internet, women or religion. Your social commentary is not wanted or needed. Your music on the other hand is. You are musician, so go make music.
Forever Always Your Fan,
Garbageman’s Daughter
Months ago, I promised my husband that I would no longer write open letters to you on my blog because it is not a productive use of time for a mother of four, and my correspondence makes me look moderately crazy. But, you did again it and once again I am willing to look insane for your sake. You did something so asinine that I feel behooved as a fan to give you some advice. Shut up! Stop talking and do not give interviews at all.
You have always been a bit of a freakish embarrassment to your fans, but the majority of your most dedicated fans love your crazy ass despite your ramblings that make you look like a semi-retarded, seriously mentally ill nincompoop. But this time you went too far with this mouthful of sexism and racism that recently appeared in the Guardian, "It's fun being in Islamic countries, to know there's only one religion. There's order. You wear a burqa. There's no choice. People are happy with that." When asked about the fate of those unhappy with having no choice, he replied: "There are people who are unhappy with everything. There's a dark side to everything."
It’s fun to not have a choice and to be told what to do by the government? It is fun for women to be suppressed? Suppression equals happiness and fighting for equality is the “dark side?” To try to explain your reasoning for this vitriol would be as difficult as explaining why you wore assless pants or wrote "slave" on your face. Just one more inexplicable stupid ass thing for your fans to accept just like your conspiracy theory that the government is using chemtrails to keep the black man down and your profound observation that the “Internet is dead.” In fact, this statement is just as about as open-minded and progressive as “God came to earth and saw people sticking it wherever and doing it with whatever, and he just cleared it all out. He was, like, Enough."
Although there is no end to your imbecility, you receive unconditional love from your most dedicated fans. You are adored despite the fact you are a crazy old man who wants to seem like an intellectual, but in reality you spent your youth writing brilliant songs about fucking opposed to getting a higher education. Now that you are a distinguished musician who has won just about every award possible in the music industry, you don’t know what to do with yourself. Really the answer is simple. Stop talking, go release the 25 minute version of Xtralovable that your fans desperately want to hear; lock yourself up in the studio; continue to bang your pretty little ballerina (who is young enough to be your daughter) for inspiration and get back to writing sex-laden songs.
Please no more nonsense about gays, chemtrails, the Internet, women or religion. Your social commentary is not wanted or needed. Your music on the other hand is. You are musician, so go make music.
Forever Always Your Fan,
Garbageman’s Daughter
Friday, April 15, 2011
Just Devour the Freakin' Boy Already: A Few Thoughts on the Life of Pi
This post contains spoiler information about the Li of Pi. If you are a high school or college student writing a paper or studying for a quiz on the Life of PI, get off the damn computer and read the book. And if you use my comments for your paper, your teachers will bust you for plagiarism. So control yourself and don’t steal from me. However, if you are a non-student and just want to know what the hype is about or this book is the current selection for your book club, read my thoughts before cracking the book.
Fears. I have a few. Getting my hand chewed up in a garbage disposal, being asphyxiated by mashed potatoes, and being nabbed by men in ski masks who will toss me into the back of a fast-moving white van are my among biggest fears. But, I have no fear greater than being mulled to death by an animal; therefore, I am terrified of just about every member of the animal kingdom. Dogs no matter how big or small frighten me and there is simply not enough anti-anxiety medicine available for me to ever enjoy a zoo.
Animals kill. I accept this truth and act accordingly. I do not make animals my pets; I don’t visit them in enclosed settings where they will be really pissed off when they escape. Heck, I have even banned Wonder Pets, Backyardigans and Webkinz from my home. So of course, reading about a boy trapped on a life boat with Bengal tiger for 227 days did nothing for me but induce panic attacks, nauseousness, and headaches.
My symptoms were mostly brought on by violent animal mutilations, excessive vileness and extreme boringness of a lost at sea tale all found of in Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, the winner of the 2002 Mann Booker, a New York Times Best Seller and a supposed modern classic that is rapidly among the ranks of novels taught in high schools and colleges throughout the world. This novel was praised as a “fantastical tale” by USA Today, and the San Francisco Chronicle calls it “…a real adventure…It’s difficult to stop reading when the pages run out.” Coast to coast, continent to continent, Martel’s novel has garnered great reviews and has been acclaimed as an exquisite, original masterpiece by critics and scholars who do not have the gumption to point out that this novel, which touches upon big issues such life, death, the existence of God and the importance of storytelling, is merely derivative of some of literature’s most canonical works.
Despite the hordes of critics and scholars who praise this book, there is a reasonably large and growing population of disgruntled readers who are coming together to give this award-winning novel poor reviews on the websites for both Amazon and Barnes and Noble. They are also using social networking tools to pan Martel’s work. Although I rarely associate myself with the group of folks known as “common readers,” I too felt compelled to join not one but two groups on Facebook dedicated to disparaging and denigrating this novel – Life of PI Sucks and Life of PI Sucks Ass. I quickly disjoined the groups once I realized I was the only one over the age of twenty and well-read enough to know that Life of Pi is Robinson Crusoe meets Jungle Book meets Moby Dick meets Aesop’s Fables meets Old Man in the Sea meets Heart of Darkness meets Fight Club.
This is the tale of a sixteen-year-old Pi Patel, a son of a zookeeper who is simultaneously Christian, Hindu, and Muslim and finds himself alone in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger named Richard Parker after a ship carrying his mother, father, brother and a zoo full of animals traveling from India to Canada sinks. This sets up a clever spin on the survival tales. Not only does Pi have to survive for months but he has to ensure that the tiger does not eat him. Interesting idea but the delivery is dry and the figurative language is quite unremarkable. Within the second part of the novel, there is a lot of rigmarole about water, food, feces, dangerous sea creatures and a mythical island with man-eating algae. The journey is long for Pi but even longer for the reader until Pi is rescued and a stunning ending occurs.
Thus, Martel gives us the ending that has launched thousands of book club discussions. Does this book reinforce a belief in God or just the opposite? And, on and on and on for book clubs. In the end, the story matters but the delivery of the message is equally as important as the message. So although I think that the big themes of Life of Pi are fascinating, I argue that Martel’s delivery is not the caliber typically associated with Man Booker Prize winners and for this reason, I am making a recommendation that I have never made before as a librarian and hope to never make again. Instead of reading Life of Pi, read the books that influenced Martel, read the Cliff Notes, check out some scholarly criticism and when this book makes it to the big screen, by all means, watch the movie. But, I would recommend skipping this book that fails to deliver a story as compelling and engaging as the profound timeless themes that are contained in this meandering and tedious survival tale.
Fears. I have a few. Getting my hand chewed up in a garbage disposal, being asphyxiated by mashed potatoes, and being nabbed by men in ski masks who will toss me into the back of a fast-moving white van are my among biggest fears. But, I have no fear greater than being mulled to death by an animal; therefore, I am terrified of just about every member of the animal kingdom. Dogs no matter how big or small frighten me and there is simply not enough anti-anxiety medicine available for me to ever enjoy a zoo.
Animals kill. I accept this truth and act accordingly. I do not make animals my pets; I don’t visit them in enclosed settings where they will be really pissed off when they escape. Heck, I have even banned Wonder Pets, Backyardigans and Webkinz from my home. So of course, reading about a boy trapped on a life boat with Bengal tiger for 227 days did nothing for me but induce panic attacks, nauseousness, and headaches.
My symptoms were mostly brought on by violent animal mutilations, excessive vileness and extreme boringness of a lost at sea tale all found of in Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, the winner of the 2002 Mann Booker, a New York Times Best Seller and a supposed modern classic that is rapidly among the ranks of novels taught in high schools and colleges throughout the world. This novel was praised as a “fantastical tale” by USA Today, and the San Francisco Chronicle calls it “…a real adventure…It’s difficult to stop reading when the pages run out.” Coast to coast, continent to continent, Martel’s novel has garnered great reviews and has been acclaimed as an exquisite, original masterpiece by critics and scholars who do not have the gumption to point out that this novel, which touches upon big issues such life, death, the existence of God and the importance of storytelling, is merely derivative of some of literature’s most canonical works.
Despite the hordes of critics and scholars who praise this book, there is a reasonably large and growing population of disgruntled readers who are coming together to give this award-winning novel poor reviews on the websites for both Amazon and Barnes and Noble. They are also using social networking tools to pan Martel’s work. Although I rarely associate myself with the group of folks known as “common readers,” I too felt compelled to join not one but two groups on Facebook dedicated to disparaging and denigrating this novel – Life of PI Sucks and Life of PI Sucks Ass. I quickly disjoined the groups once I realized I was the only one over the age of twenty and well-read enough to know that Life of Pi is Robinson Crusoe meets Jungle Book meets Moby Dick meets Aesop’s Fables meets Old Man in the Sea meets Heart of Darkness meets Fight Club.
This is the tale of a sixteen-year-old Pi Patel, a son of a zookeeper who is simultaneously Christian, Hindu, and Muslim and finds himself alone in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger named Richard Parker after a ship carrying his mother, father, brother and a zoo full of animals traveling from India to Canada sinks. This sets up a clever spin on the survival tales. Not only does Pi have to survive for months but he has to ensure that the tiger does not eat him. Interesting idea but the delivery is dry and the figurative language is quite unremarkable. Within the second part of the novel, there is a lot of rigmarole about water, food, feces, dangerous sea creatures and a mythical island with man-eating algae. The journey is long for Pi but even longer for the reader until Pi is rescued and a stunning ending occurs.
Thus, Martel gives us the ending that has launched thousands of book club discussions. Does this book reinforce a belief in God or just the opposite? And, on and on and on for book clubs. In the end, the story matters but the delivery of the message is equally as important as the message. So although I think that the big themes of Life of Pi are fascinating, I argue that Martel’s delivery is not the caliber typically associated with Man Booker Prize winners and for this reason, I am making a recommendation that I have never made before as a librarian and hope to never make again. Instead of reading Life of Pi, read the books that influenced Martel, read the Cliff Notes, check out some scholarly criticism and when this book makes it to the big screen, by all means, watch the movie. But, I would recommend skipping this book that fails to deliver a story as compelling and engaging as the profound timeless themes that are contained in this meandering and tedious survival tale.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
An Open Letter to Gwyneth Paltrow: How Could You?
Dear Gwyneth:
How could you do it? Why did you do it? Why did you agree to perform Kiss as a duet with Matthew Morrison on Glee? Are you that desperate for money and popularity among young people? You made a horrendous misstep that I will never be able to forgive. There are just some songs that cannot and should not be covered. And when I say “some songs” I am referring to any song by Prince. There is no one on the planet that can perform a Prince song better or even remotely as good as Prince. He is a musical marvel. To try to imitate his musical genius is simply insulting and in this case merely sounds like really bad karaoke.
Kiss is not only one Prince’s biggest hits of his career. It is one of the biggest of the 1980s and probably one of the biggest hits ever. This song is so fantastic that in the mid-80s when Prince originally wrote the song, he intended it to go to his protégée group, Mazarati. After hearing how the band re-orchestrated it, he said, “This is too good for you guys. I am taking it back as my own.” Thus proving once again that Prince is both a music mogul and a royal prick.
I share this story about this song because there is a lesson to be learned here. If Kiss was too good for Mazarati, it is certainly too good for you, Gwyneth Paltrow. So even though I forgave you in 2003 for simply not having the right look, voice and depth of complexity necessary to portray the tragically brilliant Sylvia Plath, I cannot and will not forgive your mutilation of artistic perfection. Shame on you for screwing with Prince’s music and pissing off legions of his hardcore fans.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
How could you do it? Why did you do it? Why did you agree to perform Kiss as a duet with Matthew Morrison on Glee? Are you that desperate for money and popularity among young people? You made a horrendous misstep that I will never be able to forgive. There are just some songs that cannot and should not be covered. And when I say “some songs” I am referring to any song by Prince. There is no one on the planet that can perform a Prince song better or even remotely as good as Prince. He is a musical marvel. To try to imitate his musical genius is simply insulting and in this case merely sounds like really bad karaoke.
Kiss is not only one Prince’s biggest hits of his career. It is one of the biggest of the 1980s and probably one of the biggest hits ever. This song is so fantastic that in the mid-80s when Prince originally wrote the song, he intended it to go to his protégée group, Mazarati. After hearing how the band re-orchestrated it, he said, “This is too good for you guys. I am taking it back as my own.” Thus proving once again that Prince is both a music mogul and a royal prick.
I share this story about this song because there is a lesson to be learned here. If Kiss was too good for Mazarati, it is certainly too good for you, Gwyneth Paltrow. So even though I forgave you in 2003 for simply not having the right look, voice and depth of complexity necessary to portray the tragically brilliant Sylvia Plath, I cannot and will not forgive your mutilation of artistic perfection. Shame on you for screwing with Prince’s music and pissing off legions of his hardcore fans.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Want Ad
Mom, can ask your friends if I can babysit their kids? But, not for free. I am not that nice.
Okay, but we need to make an ad that lists your qualifications and mentions any restrictions and limitations that you may have, so you don’t get in over your head.
So after many drafts, here is the finished product:
Do You A Need Babysitter? If You Do, I’m The Twelve-Year-Old Boy For You.
Qualifications:
If you are interested in hiring this twelve-year-old, please fill out an inquiry form at momswhomocktheirchildren.org.
Okay, but we need to make an ad that lists your qualifications and mentions any restrictions and limitations that you may have, so you don’t get in over your head.
So after many drafts, here is the finished product:
Do You A Need Babysitter? If You Do, I’m The Twelve-Year-Old Boy For You.
Qualifications:
- I am great with kids unless they are my siblings then I am sort of mean to them. But that is because they are annoying and ruined my happiness as a child only. I’ll be nice to your kids. I promise.
- I am really awesome at math. I can teach your kids how to count, add, substract and stuff.
- I am an expert at T.V. watching and playing Game Boy and Wii. I will do these activities regularly with your children.
- Your kids need to be potty trained. I don’t do diapers.
- You must feed your kids before I get there. I don’t cook.
- I prefer kids that are independent and know how to play by themselves.
- I prefer kids that know how to run their own bath water and how to dress themselves.
- I prefer kids that know how to put themselves in bed and fall asleep on their own (unless you pay extra for a bedtime story from a book and even little more for a homespun tale from my brilliant imagination.)
If you are interested in hiring this twelve-year-old, please fill out an inquiry form at momswhomocktheirchildren.org.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Life and Times of a Programming Librarian: Hot Heels and Runaway Apple Juice
Some days are filled with tough lessons and other days are filled with multiple tough lessons. Not too long ago, I learned three brutal lessons in a few short minutes. Lesson One: Carrying popcorn in a 30 gallon hole prone bag is not the most efficient way to transport the snack. Lesson Two: A dropped gallon of apple juice does indeed roll downhill. Lesson Three: A librarian who is carrying a bag full of popcorn big enough to hold a corpse should not wear hot high-heeled boots and a tight skirt to chase a fast rolling apple juice bottle.
But, once the apple juice was retrieved and I followed the Hansel and Gretel like trail of popcorn from the middle section of my minivan through the library parking lot, up the stairwell, across the children’s area and into the community room, I was able to stop hyperventilating and rejoice in my return to library programming. After an almost two and half year break from planning and hosting library programs (due to an out of state move), I made my debut return to library programming by hosting a free Classic Movie Night featuring Yankee Doodle Dandy, which stars James Cagney in the role of the renowned musical composer, playwright, actor, dancer and singer George M. Cohan
Unlike my diva days in my old job when I asked library assistants and circulation staff to do my room and equipment set-ups, I packed up tables, lugged out a multitude of chairs, painstakingly lifted audio equipment, scooped the popcorn into individual serving bags, poured juice and water into cups, and greeted audience members as they entered the room.
“Where’s the popcorn,” a snarly older man questioned.
I pointed him to the table of free snacks.
“Why do you only have juice and water? Have you ever thought of making iced tea and lemonade? And maybe you should offer Sprite too,” suggested a teenage girl who was forced to be there with her grandparents.
“I never thought that. Thank you for your suggestion. Please write it down on a comment card” I replied.
With full bags of popcorn in one hand and a beverage in another, the packed house of movie-viewers fidgeted in their seats with anticipation.
“Welcome. Thank you for coming to our library tonight. You have many choices for entertainment in this town, and we are always pleased when you choose to spend your time here with us at the library. Before I get started I just wanted to remind you to grab a calendar with our upcoming events on your way out. We have a full slate of events for Black History Month, starting with the African Drummers and Dancers that I will be hosting next Saturday. I hope to see you all there, and once again thanks for coming tonight. Take a moment to silence your cell phone and enjoy the show."
Lights out. Remote clicked. Blank screen. Dozens of eyeballs were staring at me and judging my competence. Quick switch from VHS to DVD. The movie began.
“Miss, could you please turn up the volume.
“Sure.
“Could you please turn down the volume?”
“Sure.”
This is the world of library programs—many people with many conflicting requests. A skilled programming librarian can make most of the crowd feel comfortable and welcomed (despite the discontents who attend just for the thrill of complaining). When the crowd is happy, they leave a program feeling great not just about the specific program but the library in general. And if they are especially pleased, they say, “Thank you so much. This was wonderful. I must admit I did not vote for this library, but now I want to tell everyone how great it is.”
For comments like that every program, I would happily chase apple juice downhill in heels for miles.
But, once the apple juice was retrieved and I followed the Hansel and Gretel like trail of popcorn from the middle section of my minivan through the library parking lot, up the stairwell, across the children’s area and into the community room, I was able to stop hyperventilating and rejoice in my return to library programming. After an almost two and half year break from planning and hosting library programs (due to an out of state move), I made my debut return to library programming by hosting a free Classic Movie Night featuring Yankee Doodle Dandy, which stars James Cagney in the role of the renowned musical composer, playwright, actor, dancer and singer George M. Cohan
Unlike my diva days in my old job when I asked library assistants and circulation staff to do my room and equipment set-ups, I packed up tables, lugged out a multitude of chairs, painstakingly lifted audio equipment, scooped the popcorn into individual serving bags, poured juice and water into cups, and greeted audience members as they entered the room.
“Where’s the popcorn,” a snarly older man questioned.
I pointed him to the table of free snacks.
“Why do you only have juice and water? Have you ever thought of making iced tea and lemonade? And maybe you should offer Sprite too,” suggested a teenage girl who was forced to be there with her grandparents.
“I never thought that. Thank you for your suggestion. Please write it down on a comment card” I replied.
With full bags of popcorn in one hand and a beverage in another, the packed house of movie-viewers fidgeted in their seats with anticipation.
“Welcome. Thank you for coming to our library tonight. You have many choices for entertainment in this town, and we are always pleased when you choose to spend your time here with us at the library. Before I get started I just wanted to remind you to grab a calendar with our upcoming events on your way out. We have a full slate of events for Black History Month, starting with the African Drummers and Dancers that I will be hosting next Saturday. I hope to see you all there, and once again thanks for coming tonight. Take a moment to silence your cell phone and enjoy the show."
Lights out. Remote clicked. Blank screen. Dozens of eyeballs were staring at me and judging my competence. Quick switch from VHS to DVD. The movie began.
“Miss, could you please turn up the volume.
“Sure.
“Could you please turn down the volume?”
“Sure.”
This is the world of library programs—many people with many conflicting requests. A skilled programming librarian can make most of the crowd feel comfortable and welcomed (despite the discontents who attend just for the thrill of complaining). When the crowd is happy, they leave a program feeling great not just about the specific program but the library in general. And if they are especially pleased, they say, “Thank you so much. This was wonderful. I must admit I did not vote for this library, but now I want to tell everyone how great it is.”
For comments like that every program, I would happily chase apple juice downhill in heels for miles.
Monday, February 14, 2011
A Letter to the Single Ladies
To Women Both Young and Old Who Are Unbetrothed, Uncommitted, Untethered and Painfully Free:
On this Valentine’s Day while you celebrate your freedom and embrace your singlehood, I want you to know that marriage is hard work. Compromise, listening, tenderness towards another, occasional selflessness, the donning of make-up and matching clothes not made out of fleece, putting out when sleep would be preferred, cooking for the tastes of another -- these are things that are expected in a relationship. A lot of sacrifice, pain and toil but there is a pay off and that pay off occurs every February 14.
Single ladies, each year on Valentine’s Day, I wake up and gleefully shout, “Yes, I am not alone.” I celebrate the fact that I will not spend the day crying in my copy of Wuthering Heights, nor will I spend my evening hiking up my skirt a little while handing out books by Lee Child and Michael Connelly to unsuspecting, adventure-seeking male library patrons. No need for acts of amorous desperation. I am not the old maid that in my youth I always expected that I would become. I am loved by a beautiful and exceptional man who is not a freak (which even after 15 years together, I am still astounded that I found a non-freak who not only tolerates my freakish ways but generally appreciates and loves my quirks, eccentricities, oddities and plain craziness ). Not only I am fortunate enough to have the love of a wonderful man who spoils me all year long with kind gestures of affectation and simply amazing gifts (mostly of a chocolate variety) throughout the year, but he is also a romantic who does acknowledge the holiday of love annually.
So single ladies, as I smell my flowers and allow my heart-shaped milk chocolates to swish and swirl across my tongue, I think of you today with pity and say “I am so happy to not be one of you.”
Better luck next year and Happy Valentine’s Day (even if you are alone, lonely and feeling a little desperate.)
With Love,
Garbageman’s Daughter
XOXOXOXO
Author’s Note: Please hold the hate mail. I neither believe you nor care if you are single by choice. Get off the computer, put on a nice dress and go to your local bar, laundromat , grocery store or soft serve place to find someone as equally desperate and lonely to keep you company for the evening.
Also, a special Happy Valentine’s Day to my Sweetie. Wish you could be here today.
On this Valentine’s Day while you celebrate your freedom and embrace your singlehood, I want you to know that marriage is hard work. Compromise, listening, tenderness towards another, occasional selflessness, the donning of make-up and matching clothes not made out of fleece, putting out when sleep would be preferred, cooking for the tastes of another -- these are things that are expected in a relationship. A lot of sacrifice, pain and toil but there is a pay off and that pay off occurs every February 14.
Single ladies, each year on Valentine’s Day, I wake up and gleefully shout, “Yes, I am not alone.” I celebrate the fact that I will not spend the day crying in my copy of Wuthering Heights, nor will I spend my evening hiking up my skirt a little while handing out books by Lee Child and Michael Connelly to unsuspecting, adventure-seeking male library patrons. No need for acts of amorous desperation. I am not the old maid that in my youth I always expected that I would become. I am loved by a beautiful and exceptional man who is not a freak (which even after 15 years together, I am still astounded that I found a non-freak who not only tolerates my freakish ways but generally appreciates and loves my quirks, eccentricities, oddities and plain craziness ). Not only I am fortunate enough to have the love of a wonderful man who spoils me all year long with kind gestures of affectation and simply amazing gifts (mostly of a chocolate variety) throughout the year, but he is also a romantic who does acknowledge the holiday of love annually.
So single ladies, as I smell my flowers and allow my heart-shaped milk chocolates to swish and swirl across my tongue, I think of you today with pity and say “I am so happy to not be one of you.”
Better luck next year and Happy Valentine’s Day (even if you are alone, lonely and feeling a little desperate.)
With Love,
Garbageman’s Daughter
XOXOXOXO
Author’s Note: Please hold the hate mail. I neither believe you nor care if you are single by choice. Get off the computer, put on a nice dress and go to your local bar, laundromat , grocery store or soft serve place to find someone as equally desperate and lonely to keep you company for the evening.
Also, a special Happy Valentine’s Day to my Sweetie. Wish you could be here today.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Condolences to Frieda Hughes
Dear Frieda:
Please accept my greatest sympathies and condolences on the 48th anniversary of your mother’s death. Each year on February 11 when I am celebrating my oldest child’s birthday and embracing the joy that his arrival brought me, I briefly reflect upon the enormous loss that occurred on February 11, 1963 – the loss of not only a brilliant poet but the loss of a mother for an almost three-year-old and a one year old. Frequently, on this date when poetry fans and scholars remember Sylvia Plath the Poet, they overlook Sylvia Plath the Mother who left two young children behind when she succumbed to her depression and took her own life.
As a young woman, I was drawn to your mother’s poetry due to her haunting images, maudlin themes and tragic tone; her complex relationship with her mother that she so richly captured in her poetics made me reflect upon my own turbulent relationship with my mother. Just like your mother’s absence probably felt like a strong presence in your life, my mother’s presence always felt like an absence. Much of that inexplicable absence subsided when I became a mother and replaced longing with an abundance of love. I hope that you too have found abundance of love despite all the tradegy in your life.
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| Sylvia Plath with Frieda and Nicholas |
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| Sylvia Plath with Frieda and Nicholas |
So today, it is with sadness that I think about your mother’s maternal experiences cut short and your experiences without a mother in your life. I think about how you, the daughter of two brilliant poets, have persevered and have honored the reputations of both your mother and father. You have been dignified and poised over the years as you have shared details about the Plath-Hughes family. And even though the Plath-Hughes relationship was filled with turbulence, you and your late brother Nicholas were beautiful results of that union -- a union that lives on in their masterful poetry and in you. So today on the anniversary of your mother’s death, I wish you peace, comfort and an abundance of love.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
The Last Burrito
February 10, 1999 6:20 p.m.
“Two large potato and cheese burritos with grilled onions, corn pico de gallo, ranch dressing and sour cream on a jalapeño tortilla for me and a spinach tortilla for her,” he said nervously as he watched his wife uncomfortably shift her weight to slide onto a metal chair.
Her husband delivered their burritos to the table and delicately touched her cheek as he said, “Eat up. This is our last meal without a kid.” Just an hour before their trip to the burrito shop, they were told" "Go home and pack your bag because your baby is going to be big, maybe nine or ten pounds. He needs to be taken early to prevent complications. You are expected at the hospital at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow”
Although they had eight months and three weeks to prepare, shock, surprise, panic, and excitement permeated their last meal of freedom and continued to prevail as they quickly made final adjustments to the nursery, packed their bags complete with a baby bunting for the cold February ride home, called the expectant grandparents and quietly whispered about their future in the dark until they drifted into sleep.
February 11, 1999 2:10 a.m.
“Wake up. Wake up. I am in labor.”
“No, you are not. Go back to sleep. We don’t have to be at the hospital until 8 a.m.,” he said.
This great labor debate continued for six hours and finally at 8 a.m., the expectant parents arrived at the maternity ward. Three hours later, they were greeted with a mucus covered baby boy who was 7 lbs 3 ounces, 21 inches long, and was a horrid shade of purple with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. His looks improved somewhat after the cord was clipped and air entered his lungs. Within minutes of his birth, screaming and eating became his past times and not much has changed in the past twelve years, except that he is a much better looking.
And yes, potato and cheese burritos are one of his favorite foods.
Author's Note: A special happy birthday to my brilliant and beautiful smart-aleck twelve year old who gives me plenty of material for this very blog. You are adored by your parents, siblings and grandparents.
“Two large potato and cheese burritos with grilled onions, corn pico de gallo, ranch dressing and sour cream on a jalapeño tortilla for me and a spinach tortilla for her,” he said nervously as he watched his wife uncomfortably shift her weight to slide onto a metal chair.
Her husband delivered their burritos to the table and delicately touched her cheek as he said, “Eat up. This is our last meal without a kid.” Just an hour before their trip to the burrito shop, they were told" "Go home and pack your bag because your baby is going to be big, maybe nine or ten pounds. He needs to be taken early to prevent complications. You are expected at the hospital at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow”
Although they had eight months and three weeks to prepare, shock, surprise, panic, and excitement permeated their last meal of freedom and continued to prevail as they quickly made final adjustments to the nursery, packed their bags complete with a baby bunting for the cold February ride home, called the expectant grandparents and quietly whispered about their future in the dark until they drifted into sleep.
February 11, 1999 2:10 a.m.
“Wake up. Wake up. I am in labor.”
“No, you are not. Go back to sleep. We don’t have to be at the hospital until 8 a.m.,” he said.
This great labor debate continued for six hours and finally at 8 a.m., the expectant parents arrived at the maternity ward. Three hours later, they were greeted with a mucus covered baby boy who was 7 lbs 3 ounces, 21 inches long, and was a horrid shade of purple with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. His looks improved somewhat after the cord was clipped and air entered his lungs. Within minutes of his birth, screaming and eating became his past times and not much has changed in the past twelve years, except that he is a much better looking.
And yes, potato and cheese burritos are one of his favorite foods.
Author's Note: A special happy birthday to my brilliant and beautiful smart-aleck twelve year old who gives me plenty of material for this very blog. You are adored by your parents, siblings and grandparents.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Mysterious Quarter
“Oh my God, there is a quarter in his poopy diaper! Do you think he swallowed a quarter? Did he swallow a quarter? No, he didn’t swallow a quarter. He must have been playing with a quarter, and it fell in his diaper. Do you think that is what happened?” Do you think he swallowed a quarter, or that it accidentally fell in his diaper?” I hysterically questioned.
“Be quiet the Steelers got the ball,” replied my eleven-year-old son.
“Yeah, you don’t talk during football,” said my husband.
Yes indeed, my three-year-old and I learned an important lesson on Super Bowl Sunday, you should never swallow a quarter during fourth quarter.
“Be quiet the Steelers got the ball,” replied my eleven-year-old son.
“Yeah, you don’t talk during football,” said my husband.
Yes indeed, my three-year-old and I learned an important lesson on Super Bowl Sunday, you should never swallow a quarter during fourth quarter.
A Special Thank You
A special thank you goes out to the library patron who saw me leaving the staff break room, stopped me suddenly and whispered, “Your skirt is tucked in your pantyhose.” There is no thank you big enough for the woman who saved me from being followed by snickering pre-teen boys and divorced middle-aged men with librarian fetishes. Thanks to her devout usage of the library and her keen sense of observation, a library scandal was averted for now or at least until my next wardrobe malfunction.
However, having my skirt covering my ass did not stop the creep old guy from standing uncomfortably close to me while I repeatedly climbed under the desk to unplug the printer. This is the kind of stuff they don't teach in library school.
However, having my skirt covering my ass did not stop the creep old guy from standing uncomfortably close to me while I repeatedly climbed under the desk to unplug the printer. This is the kind of stuff they don't teach in library school.
Monday, February 7, 2011
A Marriage Not a Wedding
Texan meets Yankee. Whirlwind courtship. Engaged exactly six months after their first date. Wedding day set. His parents in Texas. Her parents in Pennsylvania. The couple in Colorado. Who will travel? Wedding day postponed. Struggling graduate students. Wedding day rescheduled. Difficult friends who rebel against a New Year's Eve wedding. Date postponed again. A year goes by. Bride dreams of a Catholic wedding. Groom has no preference for location or type of ceremony. Texas? Pennsylvania? Colorado? Where will the wedding be? Bride wants to wear her grandmother's wedding dress. Mother of the bride disagrees and insists a new dress should be purchased from the most prestigious bridal store in Central Pennsylvania. No wedding date set and no location determined. Twenty three months go by...
Until he says, "Get your ass in the car. We are getting married."
Quick phone calls to their parents. "We are tired of waiting. We are getting married this weekend, just the two of us." Suitcases packed and loaded in a two-door Jeep Cherokee. Steep hill, tight curve, deep into a weathered canyon. Rushing rivers like the kind in beer commercials. Small town. Dirt road for a few miles. Dead end. Quaint baby blue and pale yellow Victorian house. A romantic bed and breakfast. Charming, secluded and complete with an innkeeper certified as a pastor though a snail mail correspondence course. The same man who marries couples in the morning leaves warm, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on their night stand in the evening.
Green dress shirt and tan pants for the groom. Simple black dress for the bride. Too cold for an outdoor wedding. An unnaturally happy baker who serves as the witness, photographer and wedding coordinator situates the couple in front the fireplace. Innkeeper/pastor greets the couple briefly and starts chanting a Navajo prayer. The bride cries tears of joy. The pastor who specializes in creating divine peach stuffed French Toast transitions into a little Whitman, Emerson and Tennyson. The bride cries more. Watching the bride cry makes the baker cry too. The baker gives the bride a tissue. The bride blows her nose. Rings are exchanged. The couple kiss. Ceremony concludes with an Apache poem. Finally after nearly two years of debate, discussion and planning, the wedding is over and the marriage begins with a mountain hike and a day of reading by a fire.
No undercooked chicken and overpriced wine. No dancing with sweaty old uncles. No ugly bridesmaid dresses or overbearing mothers. No fake smiles and insincere pleasantries. Just him, her and their private happiness. A marriage not a wedding.
Author's Note to Handsome Husband: Getting in that vehicle with you thirteen years ago has resulted in years of happiness and four amazing children. Skipping the fanfare and focusing on our future together was the most beautiful decision we could have made. I am looking forward to many more days of hiking and reading with you. Happy Anniversary, my wonderful husband.
Until he says, "Get your ass in the car. We are getting married."
Quick phone calls to their parents. "We are tired of waiting. We are getting married this weekend, just the two of us." Suitcases packed and loaded in a two-door Jeep Cherokee. Steep hill, tight curve, deep into a weathered canyon. Rushing rivers like the kind in beer commercials. Small town. Dirt road for a few miles. Dead end. Quaint baby blue and pale yellow Victorian house. A romantic bed and breakfast. Charming, secluded and complete with an innkeeper certified as a pastor though a snail mail correspondence course. The same man who marries couples in the morning leaves warm, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on their night stand in the evening.
Green dress shirt and tan pants for the groom. Simple black dress for the bride. Too cold for an outdoor wedding. An unnaturally happy baker who serves as the witness, photographer and wedding coordinator situates the couple in front the fireplace. Innkeeper/pastor greets the couple briefly and starts chanting a Navajo prayer. The bride cries tears of joy. The pastor who specializes in creating divine peach stuffed French Toast transitions into a little Whitman, Emerson and Tennyson. The bride cries more. Watching the bride cry makes the baker cry too. The baker gives the bride a tissue. The bride blows her nose. Rings are exchanged. The couple kiss. Ceremony concludes with an Apache poem. Finally after nearly two years of debate, discussion and planning, the wedding is over and the marriage begins with a mountain hike and a day of reading by a fire.
No undercooked chicken and overpriced wine. No dancing with sweaty old uncles. No ugly bridesmaid dresses or overbearing mothers. No fake smiles and insincere pleasantries. Just him, her and their private happiness. A marriage not a wedding.
Author's Note to Handsome Husband: Getting in that vehicle with you thirteen years ago has resulted in years of happiness and four amazing children. Skipping the fanfare and focusing on our future together was the most beautiful decision we could have made. I am looking forward to many more days of hiking and reading with you. Happy Anniversary, my wonderful husband.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Volunteer to Bridge the Divide
On one side of town, frustrated affluent, stay-at-home moms call the school district weekly and email their children’s teachers regularly to see if they can get off the bench and be upgraded from a reserve to a fully vetted volunteer among the ranks. In our city’s best neighborhoods that have accordingly the city’s best schools, moms who are not selected to be classroom volunteers or room moms within the first three to five days of school are wait-listed.
Across town other schools send out emails almost weekly seeking volunteers to help with literacy classes, run after-school homework clubs and assist in the library and technology labs. The moms with children at these schools are typically not available to volunteer due to work and familial obligations. On this side of town, many of these families are maintained by single parents or require two incomes to keep the family stable. Volunteering is not viable regardless of desire and want.
Due to the uneven availability of district volunteers, the schools that have a plethora of volunteers appear to have higher test scores, less attendance problems, less cases of disciplinary action and less drop outs. Inequalities are startling district wide, and it is time for volunteers to start thinking about assisting children who are not as fortunate as their own. And really question the reason why they volunteer at their kids’ schools? Do they want to micromanage their own children? Get praise from their kids’ teachers? Hang out with their friends who also volunteer? Make their friends who work feel bad for not volunteering? Granted most volunteers give their time for the right reasons and genuinely want to assist teachers and students, but these most active volunteers are typically found in good schools where children are already excelling. Parents who volunteer at their children's schools also tend to give their children great support at home.
So perhaps it is time for volunteers to start thinking about kids who do not have as much parental support as their children and to start giving a hand to children who really could use one.
Across town other schools send out emails almost weekly seeking volunteers to help with literacy classes, run after-school homework clubs and assist in the library and technology labs. The moms with children at these schools are typically not available to volunteer due to work and familial obligations. On this side of town, many of these families are maintained by single parents or require two incomes to keep the family stable. Volunteering is not viable regardless of desire and want.
Due to the uneven availability of district volunteers, the schools that have a plethora of volunteers appear to have higher test scores, less attendance problems, less cases of disciplinary action and less drop outs. Inequalities are startling district wide, and it is time for volunteers to start thinking about assisting children who are not as fortunate as their own. And really question the reason why they volunteer at their kids’ schools? Do they want to micromanage their own children? Get praise from their kids’ teachers? Hang out with their friends who also volunteer? Make their friends who work feel bad for not volunteering? Granted most volunteers give their time for the right reasons and genuinely want to assist teachers and students, but these most active volunteers are typically found in good schools where children are already excelling. Parents who volunteer at their children's schools also tend to give their children great support at home.
So perhaps it is time for volunteers to start thinking about kids who do not have as much parental support as their children and to start giving a hand to children who really could use one.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Smell My Butt
“Get away from me! You stink,” the eleven-year-old boy yells at his three-year-old brother.
“Smell my butt. Smell my butt. Smell my butt,” the three-year-old screams while chasing his big brother.
“Mom, change him!” demands the older boy, who is now considered by the school district to be gifted and talented but did not use the toilet successfully until he was four years and three months old.
“Are you poopy?” the mother asks the younger boy.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to use the potty today?”
“No.”
“Big boys use the potty. Are you going to use the potty?”
“Let me think about it,”
Silence.
“Still no.”
“Well, we are going to try today and you can get a treat for just trying.”
“Don’t care.”
“We’ll see about that. You’re all clean. Go play.”
“Now do you want to smell my butt?”
“Smell my butt. Smell my butt. Smell my butt,” the three-year-old screams while chasing his big brother.
“Mom, change him!” demands the older boy, who is now considered by the school district to be gifted and talented but did not use the toilet successfully until he was four years and three months old.
“Are you poopy?” the mother asks the younger boy.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to use the potty today?”
“No.”
“Big boys use the potty. Are you going to use the potty?”
“Let me think about it,”
Silence.
“Still no.”
“Well, we are going to try today and you can get a treat for just trying.”
“Don’t care.”
“We’ll see about that. You’re all clean. Go play.”
“Now do you want to smell my butt?”
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Book Is a Book Even If It Is Electronic
Ebooks: Love them or hate them they are a technological development that is here to stay. So, it was somewhat surprising to see that a bookstore in Portland, Oregon is calling ebook readers “soulless faux-literary technology” and is offering to give out “good old fashioned books” in exchange for Kindles. The Microcosm store is offering between $139 to $189 worth of books for any Kindle that is handed over to them. They argue that ebook readers are fad technology that is killing print (but at the same time do not reveal if the Kindles will be donated, resold or trashed).
The argument that ebooks supplant printed books is simply preposterous. There is a market for both ebooks and their printed counterparts. To claim that ebooks are causing the downfall of print resources is just a knee-jerk reaction to something new, something different. New and different doesn’t mean inferior or superior.
Somewhere along the line (probably with the success of the Amazon’s Kindle and their announcement that ebooks are now outselling printed books), people started pitting ebooks and printed books against each other, which is really quite silly. The intellectual content is exactly the same, only the delivery method is different. And furthermore, each format has their pros and cons, and neither format has to be used exclusively by readers. According to a Newsweek poster published on August 10, 2010, only 15-percent of ebook reader owners will actually stop purchasing printed books.
Why not embrace all formats, hardcover, paperback, audiobooks and ebooks? Just like there is a reader for every book, there is a publishing format right for every situation. There are several factors to consider when selecting a book. First of all, due to digital rights management issues not all publishers and authors are releasing books in e-formats or audio formats, so you may simply be limited by availability. Second, what is the purpose for reading the material? School assignments, leisure, or research. Your intent and purpose for reading will greatly impact format selection. Third, what type of access do you need to the book? Do you need search capabilities for research, electronic notes or space to write notes within the margins, a tangible object for gift giving or a book signing, auditory features necessary to accommodate special needs, the option to lend, donate or the sell the book, or the convenience of carrying multiple books in one lightweight device? Lastly, what format brings you the most personal joy?
In some ways, having multiple formats of books is just like having multiple types of shoes, there are times and places when one type is better than other. There are other times when just about any type of shoe would work, but you are just in the mood for strappy heels instead of the platform sandals.
So just like there is no need to toss out your pumps in favor of flats only, there is no need to ignore printed books in favor of your new Kindle and Nook. But at the same time taking your Nook to bed makes you no less of a bibliophile than the reader who is snuggled up with a ratty old copy of Tale of Two Cities.
Embrace the content over the container.
The argument that ebooks supplant printed books is simply preposterous. There is a market for both ebooks and their printed counterparts. To claim that ebooks are causing the downfall of print resources is just a knee-jerk reaction to something new, something different. New and different doesn’t mean inferior or superior.
Somewhere along the line (probably with the success of the Amazon’s Kindle and their announcement that ebooks are now outselling printed books), people started pitting ebooks and printed books against each other, which is really quite silly. The intellectual content is exactly the same, only the delivery method is different. And furthermore, each format has their pros and cons, and neither format has to be used exclusively by readers. According to a Newsweek poster published on August 10, 2010, only 15-percent of ebook reader owners will actually stop purchasing printed books.
Why not embrace all formats, hardcover, paperback, audiobooks and ebooks? Just like there is a reader for every book, there is a publishing format right for every situation. There are several factors to consider when selecting a book. First of all, due to digital rights management issues not all publishers and authors are releasing books in e-formats or audio formats, so you may simply be limited by availability. Second, what is the purpose for reading the material? School assignments, leisure, or research. Your intent and purpose for reading will greatly impact format selection. Third, what type of access do you need to the book? Do you need search capabilities for research, electronic notes or space to write notes within the margins, a tangible object for gift giving or a book signing, auditory features necessary to accommodate special needs, the option to lend, donate or the sell the book, or the convenience of carrying multiple books in one lightweight device? Lastly, what format brings you the most personal joy?
In some ways, having multiple formats of books is just like having multiple types of shoes, there are times and places when one type is better than other. There are other times when just about any type of shoe would work, but you are just in the mood for strappy heels instead of the platform sandals.
So just like there is no need to toss out your pumps in favor of flats only, there is no need to ignore printed books in favor of your new Kindle and Nook. But at the same time taking your Nook to bed makes you no less of a bibliophile than the reader who is snuggled up with a ratty old copy of Tale of Two Cities.
Embrace the content over the container.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Pre-Teen Communication Dilemma
"I hate my life," said the eleven-year-old boy.
"Why?" I questioned.
"I can't call my friends."
"Sure, you can. Use the phone in the kitchen."
"No one talks on home phones anymore."
"What do you your friends talk on?"
"Their cells, of course. I am the only one without a cell phone."
"Just like you are the only one without bottled water."
"Yes."
"Here's idea for you. You can do what I did as a kid. Go outside, walk to your friends' houses and knock on their doors."
"No, I just need a phone. When can I get one?"
"After you get a job and start paying for your own bottled water."
"Why?" I questioned.
"I can't call my friends."
"Sure, you can. Use the phone in the kitchen."
"No one talks on home phones anymore."
"What do you your friends talk on?"
"Their cells, of course. I am the only one without a cell phone."
"Just like you are the only one without bottled water."
"Yes."
"Here's idea for you. You can do what I did as a kid. Go outside, walk to your friends' houses and knock on their doors."
"No, I just need a phone. When can I get one?"
"After you get a job and start paying for your own bottled water."
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Medicine as Art: A Few Thoughts on Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghase
No spoiler information is contained in this post.
A good book. A page turner. I love when I get my hands on one. But I must admit, I am the type of person who can put a good book down. It is always with guilt and regret, but I get distracted by other books, spend too much blogging instead of reading, or just fiddle around with my kids. Sometimes it can take me months to read books that are compelling and I never make it through books that do not grab me.
So, I must admit that I was a little surprised when I read the 658 page novel Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese in three days. To say this spellbinding, captivating novel is a page tuner is a crude understatement. Cutting for Stone is a gripping epic that sweeps through six decades and three continents, making the reader part of the powerful and heartrending journey.
Verghese’s debut work of literary fiction is so far-reaching in scope and depth that it cannot be pigeonholed into one genre. There is a touch a mystery, much romance, tons of action, many thrills, a tremendous amount of humor, a plethora of heartbreak, a multitude of surgical drama and most importantly, luminous storytelling.
Despite the high page count and larger-than-life story, the plot of the novel is really quite simple. A beautiful Indian nun who works in a hospital in Ethiopia conceals her pregnancy for nearly nine months, suddenly goes into labor, and gives birth to twins in the middle of night. She dies immediately following the birth which results in the twins’ distraught father (a brilliant British surgeon who was unaware of the pregnancy) to flee the country minutes after the birth. Left behind are twin boys, Marion and Shiva who both eventually embark on careers in medicine after being raised by two kindhearted, loving, compassionate doctors and their zany support staff --a bunch of madcap, doting characters similar to those found in a Dickens novel.
Unlike a Dickens novel, Verghese writes fully developed character histories that are meticulously recounted by Marion, the biological son of surgeon Thomas Stone and Sister Mary Joseph Praise and the adopted son of Hema and Gosh. With meticulous detail, Marion reveals what he knows about the mystery surrounding the twins' conception, their birth, their mother’s death and the disappearance of their father, which propels the action of the novel that unfolds into a saga about family, coming of age, betrayal, love, loss, social unrest, medicine, forgiveness and redemption.
If Stone’s abandonment and betrayal is the stimulus of the first portion of the novel, Shiva’s betrayal of Marion and all the events that spiral out of control after the betrayal drives the latter part of the novel. Secrets, lies, impulsiveness, insensitivity, and selfishness run as rampant in this novel as does kindness, compassion, healing, tenderness, passion and love. Just about every human emotion is rendered eloquently and believably. Verghase is a master at capturing the human spirit without relying on clichés and sappiness. He successfully manages to balance good and evil; life and death; mysticism and realism; and medical care and human acts of comfort.
Balance is a trick that Verghase seems to know well since by profession he is both a doctor and a writer (published two memoirs prior to his work of fiction). It is through his fiction writing that he is able to offer profound observations about and scathing accusations towards the field of medicine. Throughout the novel, he takes a strong line that doctors need to see patients as humans with one doctor asking: “What treatment in an emergency is administered by ear?” After a long silence in a room filled with medical practitioners, another doctor responds, “Words of comfort.”
Comfort -- this is precisely what Verghase offers his readers although he gives a lot of discomfort, upheaval, distress and agony too. But no matter if he is providing details on a bowel removal, discussing the foul smell associated with young women with fistula or explaining the motivation of Eritrean guerrilla fighters, Verghase wastes no words, finds beauty in grotesqueness and makes art out of science.
Verghase is a truly masterful novelist who pulls his readers into a lush and thrilling world where emotions and empiricism commingle beautifully to make a whirlwind saga that holds the reader captive until the end. Cutting for Stone is truly a marvel of a novel.
A good book. A page turner. I love when I get my hands on one. But I must admit, I am the type of person who can put a good book down. It is always with guilt and regret, but I get distracted by other books, spend too much blogging instead of reading, or just fiddle around with my kids. Sometimes it can take me months to read books that are compelling and I never make it through books that do not grab me.
So, I must admit that I was a little surprised when I read the 658 page novel Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese in three days. To say this spellbinding, captivating novel is a page tuner is a crude understatement. Cutting for Stone is a gripping epic that sweeps through six decades and three continents, making the reader part of the powerful and heartrending journey.
Verghese’s debut work of literary fiction is so far-reaching in scope and depth that it cannot be pigeonholed into one genre. There is a touch a mystery, much romance, tons of action, many thrills, a tremendous amount of humor, a plethora of heartbreak, a multitude of surgical drama and most importantly, luminous storytelling.
Despite the high page count and larger-than-life story, the plot of the novel is really quite simple. A beautiful Indian nun who works in a hospital in Ethiopia conceals her pregnancy for nearly nine months, suddenly goes into labor, and gives birth to twins in the middle of night. She dies immediately following the birth which results in the twins’ distraught father (a brilliant British surgeon who was unaware of the pregnancy) to flee the country minutes after the birth. Left behind are twin boys, Marion and Shiva who both eventually embark on careers in medicine after being raised by two kindhearted, loving, compassionate doctors and their zany support staff --a bunch of madcap, doting characters similar to those found in a Dickens novel.
Unlike a Dickens novel, Verghese writes fully developed character histories that are meticulously recounted by Marion, the biological son of surgeon Thomas Stone and Sister Mary Joseph Praise and the adopted son of Hema and Gosh. With meticulous detail, Marion reveals what he knows about the mystery surrounding the twins' conception, their birth, their mother’s death and the disappearance of their father, which propels the action of the novel that unfolds into a saga about family, coming of age, betrayal, love, loss, social unrest, medicine, forgiveness and redemption.
If Stone’s abandonment and betrayal is the stimulus of the first portion of the novel, Shiva’s betrayal of Marion and all the events that spiral out of control after the betrayal drives the latter part of the novel. Secrets, lies, impulsiveness, insensitivity, and selfishness run as rampant in this novel as does kindness, compassion, healing, tenderness, passion and love. Just about every human emotion is rendered eloquently and believably. Verghase is a master at capturing the human spirit without relying on clichés and sappiness. He successfully manages to balance good and evil; life and death; mysticism and realism; and medical care and human acts of comfort.
Balance is a trick that Verghase seems to know well since by profession he is both a doctor and a writer (published two memoirs prior to his work of fiction). It is through his fiction writing that he is able to offer profound observations about and scathing accusations towards the field of medicine. Throughout the novel, he takes a strong line that doctors need to see patients as humans with one doctor asking: “What treatment in an emergency is administered by ear?” After a long silence in a room filled with medical practitioners, another doctor responds, “Words of comfort.”
Comfort -- this is precisely what Verghase offers his readers although he gives a lot of discomfort, upheaval, distress and agony too. But no matter if he is providing details on a bowel removal, discussing the foul smell associated with young women with fistula or explaining the motivation of Eritrean guerrilla fighters, Verghase wastes no words, finds beauty in grotesqueness and makes art out of science.
Verghase is a truly masterful novelist who pulls his readers into a lush and thrilling world where emotions and empiricism commingle beautifully to make a whirlwind saga that holds the reader captive until the end. Cutting for Stone is truly a marvel of a novel.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Modern Day Penny Candy
Twelve root beer barrels, twenty red Swedish fish, and six pieces of double bubble, three jawbreakers, two bubble gum cigarettes, and a strip of candy buttons: This was my typical order at the local corner store on my way home from school. I did not have a lot of money, but a few nickels and dimes were enough to bring me quick satisfaction at a low cost.
I recently had this same feeling while shopping in Apple’s application store. Everything is priced to sell quickly to capitalize on impulsive shopping and the human urge to want something for nothing or close to nothing. So far, I have only downloaded free applications. Even with free, there is a cost: Time.
In the time it took me to select and download four different list makers, I could have crossed off three to four actual items on a real to-do list written on paper. I could have watched three movies during the time I spent on the Moviefone app., and I probably could have flown to New York, toured the MoMA and flew home during the time I was lost in the museum’s wonderfully textured and detailed free application.
So although sticky notes for the iPhone are not as delectable as Necco wafers, the penny candy of the 21st Century is just as sweet as the original but gentler on the waistline and teeth.
I recently had this same feeling while shopping in Apple’s application store. Everything is priced to sell quickly to capitalize on impulsive shopping and the human urge to want something for nothing or close to nothing. So far, I have only downloaded free applications. Even with free, there is a cost: Time.
In the time it took me to select and download four different list makers, I could have crossed off three to four actual items on a real to-do list written on paper. I could have watched three movies during the time I spent on the Moviefone app., and I probably could have flown to New York, toured the MoMA and flew home during the time I was lost in the museum’s wonderfully textured and detailed free application.
So although sticky notes for the iPhone are not as delectable as Necco wafers, the penny candy of the 21st Century is just as sweet as the original but gentler on the waistline and teeth.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Bedroom Decor Redefined
Perfume, a jewelry box, a mirror, and candles – these items could be found on a typical woman’s dresser. But most typical women do not have four kids who beat the hell out of each other with toys of cranial destruction.
On any given day, you will find a few knight swords, a light saber, a lacrosse stick, tinker toys, a wood wand, and a noise popper on my dresser, known as the impound for preschooler contraband. It never fails that within five to seven minutes of me returning confiscated toys to my children that I retrieved them once more after I hear “Mom, _____ hit me in the face with the ______.” With every incident, the offending child lands in time-out and their weapon of choice returns to the confines of my dresser.
As I seize more and more toys, they are becoming more creative in their weapon choices – shoes, belts, matchbox cars, puzzle pieces and Lincoln logs all have been used to inflict pain. Yesterday, a soft Webkin’ was smashed in the face of the six-year-old boy by the eight-year-old girl, so these warriors are becoming more adept at adapting and utilizing the weapons that surround them. If I wasn’t so mortified by their brutality, I would be in awe of their innovativeness.
So toy by toy, their bedrooms become sparser and my dresser becomes more cluttered. Sure, someday I aspire to have a finely decorated dresser like kind you see in Elle Décor, but for now I am resigned to the decorating style of a Toys R Us catalog gone bad.
On any given day, you will find a few knight swords, a light saber, a lacrosse stick, tinker toys, a wood wand, and a noise popper on my dresser, known as the impound for preschooler contraband. It never fails that within five to seven minutes of me returning confiscated toys to my children that I retrieved them once more after I hear “Mom, _____ hit me in the face with the ______.” With every incident, the offending child lands in time-out and their weapon of choice returns to the confines of my dresser.
As I seize more and more toys, they are becoming more creative in their weapon choices – shoes, belts, matchbox cars, puzzle pieces and Lincoln logs all have been used to inflict pain. Yesterday, a soft Webkin’ was smashed in the face of the six-year-old boy by the eight-year-old girl, so these warriors are becoming more adept at adapting and utilizing the weapons that surround them. If I wasn’t so mortified by their brutality, I would be in awe of their innovativeness.
So toy by toy, their bedrooms become sparser and my dresser becomes more cluttered. Sure, someday I aspire to have a finely decorated dresser like kind you see in Elle Décor, but for now I am resigned to the decorating style of a Toys R Us catalog gone bad.
Monday, January 24, 2011
A Few Thoughts on Football
The state where I grew up is a football powerhouse. Great high school teams, great college teams and a great professional team. People love football in Pennsylvania. It is truly the regional pastime. The state where my husband grew up is also a football powerhouse. Great high school teams, great college teams and a great professional team. People love football in Texas. It is truly the regional pastime.
In my case, I loved a football loving Texan, and I pretended to love football the way he pretended to love contemporary art. Once our courtship became a legal transaction, pretenses dropped and indifference settled. Truthfully, as someone who is T.V. free, rarely listens to the radio, and never peruses the sports pages online or in print, I would not even know that it was football season if it wasn’t for Facebook and innumerable posts about the Pittsburgh Steelers. (Many funny posts about dead Ravens and crashed Jets appeared. I wonder what they’ll prognosticate for the Packers.)
As relatives, friends and old classmates from my native state cheer on their home team, I suppose I should feign a “Go Steelers!” or “Get’em Black and Gold” as the pride of the Pittsburgh tries for their seventh Super Bowl win. But, I really can’t seem to muster the enthusiasm. As a kid, I claimed to be a Dallas Cowboys fan just to piss off my father, which was my exact logic that I used at the age of eighteen when I registered to vote as a Republican. Although both alignments helped me to land my husband, I subsequently have abandoned both the Cowboys and Republicans, making me a woman without political and football team affiliation. Is it un-American to have nether?
No, independence and jumping on the bandwagon of the winning team or political party is the American way. It is as American as finger foods, pedestrian halftime show entertainment, commentary from washed-up, retired football players and overwrought commercials. So although I will watch this year’s Super Bowl without team allegiance, I say bring on the bite-size snacks on sticks and silly beer commercials. It is an American tradition.
In my case, I loved a football loving Texan, and I pretended to love football the way he pretended to love contemporary art. Once our courtship became a legal transaction, pretenses dropped and indifference settled. Truthfully, as someone who is T.V. free, rarely listens to the radio, and never peruses the sports pages online or in print, I would not even know that it was football season if it wasn’t for Facebook and innumerable posts about the Pittsburgh Steelers. (Many funny posts about dead Ravens and crashed Jets appeared. I wonder what they’ll prognosticate for the Packers.)
As relatives, friends and old classmates from my native state cheer on their home team, I suppose I should feign a “Go Steelers!” or “Get’em Black and Gold” as the pride of the Pittsburgh tries for their seventh Super Bowl win. But, I really can’t seem to muster the enthusiasm. As a kid, I claimed to be a Dallas Cowboys fan just to piss off my father, which was my exact logic that I used at the age of eighteen when I registered to vote as a Republican. Although both alignments helped me to land my husband, I subsequently have abandoned both the Cowboys and Republicans, making me a woman without political and football team affiliation. Is it un-American to have nether?
No, independence and jumping on the bandwagon of the winning team or political party is the American way. It is as American as finger foods, pedestrian halftime show entertainment, commentary from washed-up, retired football players and overwrought commercials. So although I will watch this year’s Super Bowl without team allegiance, I say bring on the bite-size snacks on sticks and silly beer commercials. It is an American tradition.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Leak and the Book
“…You just met one of the foremost liver surgeons in the world, a pioneer of liver transplants.”
“What’s his name?”
“Thomas Stone.”
Awww yes, the father appears. Does Thomas know that he was just in the same operating room with one of his twins? What will happen when they….
“Mom, my teeth hurt.”
Repeat of teeth brushing, Anbesol for kids and chewable Tylenol, bed, and sleep.
“….Even without makeup, hers would always be a stunning face. Although it was summer, she wore a long wool coat tied tight around the waist, and she hugged herself as if she were cold. She stood there motionless, like a small animal caught invading the territory of a predator, paralyzed and unable to move.”
Damn. She is alive. I thought that bitch died when she hijacked the plane. That is one long lost love that should have stayed lost. Why doesn’t someone tell him that she just isn’t into him? What a ho. Not worth his time. He needs to…
“Mom, the ceiling is leaking,” said the eleven-year-old boy.
“Put a bucket underneath it and I’ll deal with it in about 170 pages,” I said without ever averting my eyes from the book.
“Mom, the ceiling is going to crash down and flood our whole house. The water is gushing out,” he insisted.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes! Put your book and go downstairs!” he said.
Even with the enormous fissure and the threat of the ceiling caving, all I could think about was how a crack spewing water was such a small problem compared to the impending threat of Tuberculosis from a guerrilla solider who screwed almost all of the Eritrean army.
But then reality hit and the immediacy of flash flooding in my basement overshadowed the love affair between the terrorist whore and the brilliant surgeon.
Book closed. Leak stopped. The cuckold waited between the pages while I managed the repairman; fixed breakfast; made an appearance at my favorite non-profit’s open house to help recruit new members; witnessed kindergarten Show and Tell and drove the kids to chess practice.
Then, finally when all things and people were calm, the book remained open until all characters were rendered silent, and I deeply felt their absence.
Author’s Note: If you want to know what marvel of a novel nearly caused me to allow my house to flood, check back on Thursday, January 27 for my full review of the enchanting, mesmerizing, and magnificent novel that is the same caliber of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Middlemarch by George Eliot.
“What’s his name?”
“Thomas Stone.”
Awww yes, the father appears. Does Thomas know that he was just in the same operating room with one of his twins? What will happen when they….
“Mom, my teeth hurt.”
Repeat of teeth brushing, Anbesol for kids and chewable Tylenol, bed, and sleep.
“….Even without makeup, hers would always be a stunning face. Although it was summer, she wore a long wool coat tied tight around the waist, and she hugged herself as if she were cold. She stood there motionless, like a small animal caught invading the territory of a predator, paralyzed and unable to move.”
Damn. She is alive. I thought that bitch died when she hijacked the plane. That is one long lost love that should have stayed lost. Why doesn’t someone tell him that she just isn’t into him? What a ho. Not worth his time. He needs to…
“Mom, the ceiling is leaking,” said the eleven-year-old boy.
“Put a bucket underneath it and I’ll deal with it in about 170 pages,” I said without ever averting my eyes from the book.
“Mom, the ceiling is going to crash down and flood our whole house. The water is gushing out,” he insisted.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes! Put your book and go downstairs!” he said.
Even with the enormous fissure and the threat of the ceiling caving, all I could think about was how a crack spewing water was such a small problem compared to the impending threat of Tuberculosis from a guerrilla solider who screwed almost all of the Eritrean army.
But then reality hit and the immediacy of flash flooding in my basement overshadowed the love affair between the terrorist whore and the brilliant surgeon.
Book closed. Leak stopped. The cuckold waited between the pages while I managed the repairman; fixed breakfast; made an appearance at my favorite non-profit’s open house to help recruit new members; witnessed kindergarten Show and Tell and drove the kids to chess practice.
Then, finally when all things and people were calm, the book remained open until all characters were rendered silent, and I deeply felt their absence.
Author’s Note: If you want to know what marvel of a novel nearly caused me to allow my house to flood, check back on Thursday, January 27 for my full review of the enchanting, mesmerizing, and magnificent novel that is the same caliber of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Middlemarch by George Eliot.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The Stress of Fine Print
“Mom, I got a flyer today about gifted and talented kids coping with stress,” said my son who is sixth grade.
"Really. Do you want to go?"
“I don’t need to go. I am the least stressed kid that I know. Stress just bounces off of me.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, smart kids don’t have to stress. It is easy being smart. I do nothing and get good grades. The dumb kids should be stressed.”
“That’s not nice. Don't talk like that.”
“Well, it is true.”
Four Days Later
“Mom, I need you to call the school.”
“Why?”
“I need you to tell them I want to go to the workshop on stress.”
“Why?”
“I can get out of class if I go. I threw the paper way because I thought it was after school.”
“No, I am not calling. A truly gifted and talented child would have read the fine print.”
“But, Mom, you love calling the school. You always say you are going to call my counselor and teachers. This is your chance to call."
"No."
"Mom, I need to be around kids like me with so much stress."
"No."
"Please, Mom."
“Feeling a little stressed now, kid?”
"Really. Do you want to go?"
“I don’t need to go. I am the least stressed kid that I know. Stress just bounces off of me.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, smart kids don’t have to stress. It is easy being smart. I do nothing and get good grades. The dumb kids should be stressed.”
“That’s not nice. Don't talk like that.”
“Well, it is true.”
Four Days Later
“Mom, I need you to call the school.”
“Why?”
“I need you to tell them I want to go to the workshop on stress.”
“Why?”
“I can get out of class if I go. I threw the paper way because I thought it was after school.”
“No, I am not calling. A truly gifted and talented child would have read the fine print.”
“But, Mom, you love calling the school. You always say you are going to call my counselor and teachers. This is your chance to call."
"No."
"Mom, I need to be around kids like me with so much stress."
"No."
"Please, Mom."
“Feeling a little stressed now, kid?”
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Culinary Warfare and Gifts of Spite
Fits of anger. Acts of spite. Unanswered phone calls. Ignored emails. Nasty verbal exchanges. Impromptu trip to strip clubs. Hot, untouched dinner dumped down the garbage disposal. Honey splattered on a windshield with pennies thrown on top. Wedding rings flushed. Unlimited ways to express rage towards a loved one.
However, trips to and gifts from some of the finest art museums in the world is a rather strange way to express fury. But this is my husband’s preferred way to needle me. Years ago in the midst of long-distance miscommunication, he would go to strip clubs and pay with our debit card to make sure I knew exactly where he was. In my younger days, I would cry torrents but now I just say, “Have fun.” Since gentleman clubs no longer spike my ire, my husband, who travels for work weekly, has taken to visiting the places I wish I could visit and eating the food from all over the world that I wish I could eat, but cannot because I am at home making dinner, washing clothes, doing homework and driving our children to chess and Chinese classes.
Sure, his passive-aggressive method of sending me pictures of New York Style Pizza and New York Style Cheesecake from Manhattan infuriates me and his trips to museums make me yearn for my college days of art history field trips. But, when it comes down to it, I lose nothing in these silly disputes. Instead, I gain a husband who is more knowledge about art and brings me great gifts from top museums, like a canvas tote from the MoMA in New York (which features the museum’s recognizable logo in an ant motif to coincide with The Museum of Modern Art's Dalí: Painting and Film exhibition). Wonder what next week’s quibble will bring from San Francisco?
Author's Note: Handsome Husband, thank you for the tote bag. I love it. And when I carry it back and forth to the library loaded with books, no one knows that I haven't been to that museum in 15 years. So, thank you for making me look cultured and well-traveled without enduring a TSA pat down.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Advice from the 24 Inch Pulpit
Sometimes in moments of deep contemplation while questioning my faith and my choices, I ask myself: “Is Oprah Winfrey the Devil?” Probably not, but she does have a cult following who will read anything she says to read and will buy her favorite things because if Oprah loves them everyone else should too.
Although I stopped watching Oprah years ago, I must admit that a piece of advice that I heard on her show has radically impacted how I define and carry myself. Probably in 1999 or 2000, when she allowed real people to actually talk on her show and not just celebrity doctors, psychiatrists and chefs, a young woman told Oprah that she wanted to be an actress. In her typical browbeating way, Oprah said: “You don’t want to be an actress. You want to be a star. If you want to act, go act.”
Although her advice did not inspire me to join a local theater company, at that moment, I stopped obsessing over where I have been published and where I wanted to publish. I am writer because I write. Nothing more and nothing less.
Truthfully, the concept could not be simpler. Do what you love and don’t worry about the economic or potential career impacts. If you want to be a photographer take pictures; want to be a runner then run; if you want to be singer then sing. Fulfillment comes from the action not the paycheck. (Every adult soon learns career happiness is a childhood myth).
However, there are limits to this counsel, if you want to be surgeon, don’t go cutting on your dog.
Although I stopped watching Oprah years ago, I must admit that a piece of advice that I heard on her show has radically impacted how I define and carry myself. Probably in 1999 or 2000, when she allowed real people to actually talk on her show and not just celebrity doctors, psychiatrists and chefs, a young woman told Oprah that she wanted to be an actress. In her typical browbeating way, Oprah said: “You don’t want to be an actress. You want to be a star. If you want to act, go act.”
Although her advice did not inspire me to join a local theater company, at that moment, I stopped obsessing over where I have been published and where I wanted to publish. I am writer because I write. Nothing more and nothing less.
Truthfully, the concept could not be simpler. Do what you love and don’t worry about the economic or potential career impacts. If you want to be a photographer take pictures; want to be a runner then run; if you want to be singer then sing. Fulfillment comes from the action not the paycheck. (Every adult soon learns career happiness is a childhood myth).
However, there are limits to this counsel, if you want to be surgeon, don’t go cutting on your dog.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Commitment Issues
Commitment, faithfulness, and devotion -- overrated and not necessary in a modern day society. Nobody sticks to just one at a time nowadays, and I am no exception. Tried 73 different options in 2010 and only finished 27 times.
Yes, my librarian's interest led me down the path of 73 different books, and I only completed 27. This is an atrocious reading record for a librarian since the average librarian completes more than 100 books a year. I always intend to finish what I start but then boredom, restlessness and interest in something more interesting causes me to abandon my old, worn book for the hot new one.
But in 2011, I will break this habit and finish most of the books that I begin. I will only abandon a book if it is too bloody, too scary, or too pedestrian. Life is too short for banal and mediocre books. But if the fiction is literary and the story is even a little compelling, I will remain faithful. This year, I will complete 60 books and will not desert more than 10 novels. This is the year that I will be something that I have never been -- loyal.
Yes, my librarian's interest led me down the path of 73 different books, and I only completed 27. This is an atrocious reading record for a librarian since the average librarian completes more than 100 books a year. I always intend to finish what I start but then boredom, restlessness and interest in something more interesting causes me to abandon my old, worn book for the hot new one.
But in 2011, I will break this habit and finish most of the books that I begin. I will only abandon a book if it is too bloody, too scary, or too pedestrian. Life is too short for banal and mediocre books. But if the fiction is literary and the story is even a little compelling, I will remain faithful. This year, I will complete 60 books and will not desert more than 10 novels. This is the year that I will be something that I have never been -- loyal.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Comment If You Would Like...
"Where is the comment section?" "Why don’t you let people comment on your blog?" "If you are so concerned with what people think, why not let them tell you?"
These are the questions that are frequently asked of me.
“Spammers,” I reply.
That is a lie. I don't care about spam; I just don't want people mucking up my art. I know this sentiment may seem pompous, bitchy and even crazy. All three adjectives are probably true and are words that suit me well.
So even as a crazy, pompous bitch, I am a huge proponent of the First Amendment. I am all about intellectual freedom, which is why I am a reporter turned librarian. As a librarian, I encourage library patrons to use Web 2.0 features, but I hypocritically prohibit reader interaction on my Internet presence.
After coming to terms with the fact that I am a fearful, control freak with a touch of megalomania, I am finally ready to give up a little control and open up my blog to comments.
Who knows? The comments might even inspire a new post or two, so let the commenting commence.
These are the questions that are frequently asked of me.
“Spammers,” I reply.
That is a lie. I don't care about spam; I just don't want people mucking up my art. I know this sentiment may seem pompous, bitchy and even crazy. All three adjectives are probably true and are words that suit me well.
So even as a crazy, pompous bitch, I am a huge proponent of the First Amendment. I am all about intellectual freedom, which is why I am a reporter turned librarian. As a librarian, I encourage library patrons to use Web 2.0 features, but I hypocritically prohibit reader interaction on my Internet presence.
After coming to terms with the fact that I am a fearful, control freak with a touch of megalomania, I am finally ready to give up a little control and open up my blog to comments.
Who knows? The comments might even inspire a new post or two, so let the commenting commence.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Massages for Mamas
So, is it a Moms’ Night In or a Moms’ Night Out when you go to someone’s house for an evening of fun? I suppose it is a Moms Night Out because you have gone out of your house to go into someone's house. But, the event is inside a house, so is it a Mom’s Night In?
Moms’ Night In or Moms’ Night Out? Semantics really don’t matter when the food is so beautiful and tasty; the wine flows steadily; the massages are soothing; the just for mom craft is minty fresh and blissful on the skin; the company is delightful; and, the hostess is a rising star in the party planning community.
So, no matter whether you called it a Moms Night In or a Moms’ Night Out, it was perfection.
Moms’ Night In or Moms’ Night Out? Semantics really don’t matter when the food is so beautiful and tasty; the wine flows steadily; the massages are soothing; the just for mom craft is minty fresh and blissful on the skin; the company is delightful; and, the hostess is a rising star in the party planning community.
So, no matter whether you called it a Moms Night In or a Moms’ Night Out, it was perfection.
There Is No Such Thing as a Free Giveaway
Free. Everybody wants something for free these days. Well, I tell you what Mrs. Ross, my eleventh grade economics teacher told me, “There is no such thing as a free lunch.” This is a simple way to say that someone always foots the bill for something that you get for free.
I have been thinking about this concept quite bit lately since there have been many giveaways recently on almost every blog that I read regularly. Frequently, these giveaways are re-gifted crap that the writer doesn’t want; something that the blogger has made; or, a gift donated by a sponsor looking to stir up business. But no matter how and where the gift comes from, someone always foots the bill.
So, the question becomes do I want to foot the bill to give my readers something? Do I want to hassle with a contest and go through the trouble of shipping the winner their free giveaway paid for by me? Although I have plenty of crap to giveaway, I have asked myself what does this buy me? Happy readers? Probably. Do I care? Probably not. In reality, how would doing a giveaway on my blog benefit me?
It wouldn’t really do much other than create more work and give me more reasons to ignore my children. And, when it really comes down to it, I am a giver every day. I give out the gift of tough love. I tell you that your children aren’t as good looking and smart as you think they are. I tell you that the New York Times Best Sellers you read are not in my league. I point out that you’re a lazy parent with your Elf on the Shelf; and, I let you know that your nervous smile makes you look desperate and slightly pathetic. Yes indeed, I give you, my readers, a gift every day.
In return, you should be sending me Thank You gifts. Perhaps my contest should be: Who can send Garbageman’s Daughter the best Thank You gift?
So please get to work on this exciting new contest, I will announce the winner in two weeks. The winner will receive nothing from me other than the privilege of being mentioned on my blog.
Thank you for your participation, and remember there are many creative things you can do with chocolate and tea.
I have been thinking about this concept quite bit lately since there have been many giveaways recently on almost every blog that I read regularly. Frequently, these giveaways are re-gifted crap that the writer doesn’t want; something that the blogger has made; or, a gift donated by a sponsor looking to stir up business. But no matter how and where the gift comes from, someone always foots the bill.
So, the question becomes do I want to foot the bill to give my readers something? Do I want to hassle with a contest and go through the trouble of shipping the winner their free giveaway paid for by me? Although I have plenty of crap to giveaway, I have asked myself what does this buy me? Happy readers? Probably. Do I care? Probably not. In reality, how would doing a giveaway on my blog benefit me?
It wouldn’t really do much other than create more work and give me more reasons to ignore my children. And, when it really comes down to it, I am a giver every day. I give out the gift of tough love. I tell you that your children aren’t as good looking and smart as you think they are. I tell you that the New York Times Best Sellers you read are not in my league. I point out that you’re a lazy parent with your Elf on the Shelf; and, I let you know that your nervous smile makes you look desperate and slightly pathetic. Yes indeed, I give you, my readers, a gift every day.
In return, you should be sending me Thank You gifts. Perhaps my contest should be: Who can send Garbageman’s Daughter the best Thank You gift?
So please get to work on this exciting new contest, I will announce the winner in two weeks. The winner will receive nothing from me other than the privilege of being mentioned on my blog.
Thank you for your participation, and remember there are many creative things you can do with chocolate and tea.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Gertrude Stein’s Contradictory Reputation
Gertrude Stein is Gertrude Stein’s best critic. Throughout her writing, she displays a thoughtful comprehension of her reputation as more of a literary celebrity than a literary figure. In Everybody’s Autobiography, she states: “It always did bother me that the American public were more interested in me than in my work. And after all there is no sense in it because if it were not for my work they would not be interested in me so why should they not be more interested in my work than in me [?]” Stein’s observations still hold true today. Stein’s fame derives less from her literary achievement and more from her residence at 27 rue de Fleurus with her lover Alice B Toklas, where she collected fine modernist paintings by her friends Matisse, Picasso, Gris, Picabia, and Cézanne, and entertained well-known writers such as Ernest Hemingway, Sherwood Anderson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Virgil Thomson and Thorton Wilder.
When considering Stein as a literary celebrity, critics tend to consider Stein’s influence on some of the most important artists in the twentieth-century as being far more important than her own writings. Volumes of criticism attest that Stein’s literary persona maintains an enduring placement in the study of literature, but her writing holds only a tenuous connection to literary history. As a result of her contradictory reputation, Stein’s works are both absent and present canonically. Her writings frequently appear in anthologies and in the classroom but usually only the works that are most reader friendly such as Three Lives, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas or famous lines such as “Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose” or “Pigeons on the grass alas.”
When considering Stein as a literary celebrity, critics tend to consider Stein’s influence on some of the most important artists in the twentieth-century as being far more important than her own writings. Volumes of criticism attest that Stein’s literary persona maintains an enduring placement in the study of literature, but her writing holds only a tenuous connection to literary history. As a result of her contradictory reputation, Stein’s works are both absent and present canonically. Her writings frequently appear in anthologies and in the classroom but usually only the works that are most reader friendly such as Three Lives, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas or famous lines such as “Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose” or “Pigeons on the grass alas.”
The inclusion of her accessible works provides a sampling of the writing that receives concurrent praise and condemnation. For instance, Stein’s contemporary Edmund Wilson, a literary critic, insists: “Most of us balk at her soporific rigmaroles, her echolaliac incantations, her half-witted-sounding catalogues of numbers…[But] whenever we pick up her writings, however unintelligible we may find them, we are aware of a literary personality of unmistakable originality and distinction.” Agreeing with her predecessor, critic Randa Dubnick states in her book, The Structure of Obscurity: Gertrude Stein, Language and Cubism: “The pleasures of reading Stein are not easy ones, but they are there. She should be read, at least in small doses, by anyone seriously interested in twentieth-century literature….” Wilson and Dubnick encourage reading Stein the literary eccentric to gain additional insight about her contemporaries and the landscape of twentieth century literature but discourage spending too much time with Stein’s writings.
In the other extreme, some critics prefer to focus on Stein’s expressions of difference and forms of experimentation as a means to make her the literary matriarch for women and gays. Although these readings foster close analysis and expand exposure for Stein’s more complex and significant writings, many of these agenda-laden approaches promote one-dimensional molar readings of Stein that further fragment and isolate Stein’s already fragmented experiments by taking them out of context from the developments and movements in Stein’s work. Agenda-oriented readings under the rubrics of feminism, queer theory, and ethnic studies tend to emphasis Stein as a marginalized writer instead of a “minor writer” (a term that Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari explicate in their theory of minor literature).
I have experienced both these approaches to Stein first hand. The extent of my undergraduate study of Stein occurred during a lecture on Hemingway when the professor told the class that Stein’s “Rose is Rose is Rose is Rose” influenced Hemingway ‘s writing (this was the same professor who only mentioned Sylvia Plath as a student of Robert Lowell’s). Although Stein was not studied in the literature department, her picture appeared on the pamphlets for the student gay, lesbian, bisexual, and trans-gendered organization. Looking back on this rejection of Stein in the literature department and at the acceptance of Stein on the sociopolitical front made me question if Stein is a major and minor writer. Arguments can be made for both sides but regardless of which approach is used Stein’s critics return her to the status of literary celebrity or political activist.
My frustration with the classifications and divisions within Stein criticism led me to look for another way to read Stein. After approaching Stein in many formulaic ways that criticism supports, I found that Deleuze and Guattari’s theory of minor literature circumvents the criticism that limits the discussion of Stein to a series of binaries such as major/minor, canonical/marginalized, and literary celebrity/literary figure. Deleuze and Guattari’s theory of minor literature frees Stein’s criticism from previous one-dimensional readings and provides a new framework for reading Stein.
Although from a critical perspective, I prefer reading Stein within Deleuze and Guattari’s framework, no critical school of thought is necessary to enjoy the writings of Gertrude Stein. The important thing is just to give Stein, probably one the most unique, innovative and underrated authors in literary history, a try. If you are unsure which of Stein’s work to start with take a look at the sensual and unconventional Tender Buttons: Objects, Food and Rooms. Here is a link for the full-text: Tender Buttons
In the other extreme, some critics prefer to focus on Stein’s expressions of difference and forms of experimentation as a means to make her the literary matriarch for women and gays. Although these readings foster close analysis and expand exposure for Stein’s more complex and significant writings, many of these agenda-laden approaches promote one-dimensional molar readings of Stein that further fragment and isolate Stein’s already fragmented experiments by taking them out of context from the developments and movements in Stein’s work. Agenda-oriented readings under the rubrics of feminism, queer theory, and ethnic studies tend to emphasis Stein as a marginalized writer instead of a “minor writer” (a term that Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari explicate in their theory of minor literature).
I have experienced both these approaches to Stein first hand. The extent of my undergraduate study of Stein occurred during a lecture on Hemingway when the professor told the class that Stein’s “Rose is Rose is Rose is Rose” influenced Hemingway ‘s writing (this was the same professor who only mentioned Sylvia Plath as a student of Robert Lowell’s). Although Stein was not studied in the literature department, her picture appeared on the pamphlets for the student gay, lesbian, bisexual, and trans-gendered organization. Looking back on this rejection of Stein in the literature department and at the acceptance of Stein on the sociopolitical front made me question if Stein is a major and minor writer. Arguments can be made for both sides but regardless of which approach is used Stein’s critics return her to the status of literary celebrity or political activist.
My frustration with the classifications and divisions within Stein criticism led me to look for another way to read Stein. After approaching Stein in many formulaic ways that criticism supports, I found that Deleuze and Guattari’s theory of minor literature circumvents the criticism that limits the discussion of Stein to a series of binaries such as major/minor, canonical/marginalized, and literary celebrity/literary figure. Deleuze and Guattari’s theory of minor literature frees Stein’s criticism from previous one-dimensional readings and provides a new framework for reading Stein.
Although from a critical perspective, I prefer reading Stein within Deleuze and Guattari’s framework, no critical school of thought is necessary to enjoy the writings of Gertrude Stein. The important thing is just to give Stein, probably one the most unique, innovative and underrated authors in literary history, a try. If you are unsure which of Stein’s work to start with take a look at the sensual and unconventional Tender Buttons: Objects, Food and Rooms. Here is a link for the full-text: Tender Buttons
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Skinny on the Skinny
“I need some new jeans, but not skinny skins,” said my eleven-year-old son.
“Got it. Pants with full-size legs and ankle holes,” I said.
“Skinny jeans suffocate me. I could never be a rock star,” he said with a grimace.
Yet another career to cross off the list. A lifetime in my basement seems more likely every day.
“Got it. Pants with full-size legs and ankle holes,” I said.
“Skinny jeans suffocate me. I could never be a rock star,” he said with a grimace.
Yet another career to cross off the list. A lifetime in my basement seems more likely every day.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Just Say Yes to Bottled Water
“Mom, a sixth grader got busted for selling drugs and was sent to Juvie over Christmas break, and another sixth grader is expelled for the rest of the school year for buying drugs,” said my eleven-year-old son.
“You would never buy drugs would you? You have too many great things in your future to screw up your life,” I replied.
“Drugs are stupid and my money is too valuable. I need it to buy bottled water since you won’t get it for me.”
Bottled water over drugs—bet that is a strategy that Nancy Reagan never considered.
“You would never buy drugs would you? You have too many great things in your future to screw up your life,” I replied.
“Drugs are stupid and my money is too valuable. I need it to buy bottled water since you won’t get it for me.”
Bottled water over drugs—bet that is a strategy that Nancy Reagan never considered.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Happiest Time of Year
“No Solicitation” are the two words that appear on a gold sign near the entrance of our development. This sign serves a warning for bible beaters, painters, magazine pushers, landscapers, tree huggers with their never ending petitions and boys with mediocre popcorn to not knock on our doors. Clearly, no one in these particular groups can read, and at least once a week, someone wants to trim my hedges, paint my house, have me advocate for the pursuit of more alternative energy resources or pray to their God.
“Thank you for stopping by, but I am not interested,” I say as I quickly shut the door.
I do this repeatedly until the day when my favorite solicitor arrives at our door.
I open the door happily and say, “I thought you would never arrive.”
The three and half foot tall girl clad in a brown polyester vest adorned with bright colored patches stares as me as she starts adding dollar signs in her head.
“Ma’am would you like eight boxes of Thin Mints again this year.”
“I think this year I need to increase my order to nine boxes of Thin Mints, six boxes of Samoas®, and six boxes of Tagalongs® and two boxes of Do-si-dos®.”
“Would you like to write your check now or when I deliver them,” she asks.
“I’ll write it now."
As I write my check. I start to feel guilty, thinking about all the starving people in villages that I could help feed. My remorse quickly dissipates when I realize that cookies would be detrimental to someone suffering from malnutrition. So instead, I start thinking about hiding places for the Thin Mints. (The top selling Girl Scout Cookie with 25-percent of sales. My husband’s favorite Samoas® are close behind with 19-percent of sales.)
This is pretty much our routine every year. I buy a ridiculous amount of cookies, hide them in my closet and sock drawer, and eat Thin Mints for all three meals. I don’t worry about the extra calories too much because I remove fruit, vegetables, eggs, and all sources of dairy and protein from my diet. While I enjoy my round, crumbly mint-flavored meals, my husband swears we’ll never buy Girl Scout Cookies again.
“They pimp those girls out, I am telling you. They use little girls to make money,” argues my husband every year. “It should be about the kids and not about a CEO making $500,000 off the shoulders of children.” In actuality the CEO of the Girls Scouts of America makes $453,000 as reported by a Dallas television station in May 2010.
I must agree the executives at Girl Scouts of America could be called Cookie Madams for raking in big salaries while, “Nationwide, girls receive an estimated 10 – 20% of the purchase price of each box of cookies sold as proceeds,” according to the organization’s own website. Considering that cookies generate over $700 million in sales annually that seems like a miniscule cut for such hardworking scouts.
Perhaps I should be more outraged, but I will not allow any semblance of a social conscience hinder my enjoyment of the happiest time of year, Girl Scout Cookie Season.
Merry Thin Mints and Happy Samoas® to you.
“Thank you for stopping by, but I am not interested,” I say as I quickly shut the door.
I do this repeatedly until the day when my favorite solicitor arrives at our door.
I open the door happily and say, “I thought you would never arrive.”
The three and half foot tall girl clad in a brown polyester vest adorned with bright colored patches stares as me as she starts adding dollar signs in her head.
“Ma’am would you like eight boxes of Thin Mints again this year.”
“I think this year I need to increase my order to nine boxes of Thin Mints, six boxes of Samoas®, and six boxes of Tagalongs® and two boxes of Do-si-dos®.”
“Would you like to write your check now or when I deliver them,” she asks.
“I’ll write it now."
As I write my check. I start to feel guilty, thinking about all the starving people in villages that I could help feed. My remorse quickly dissipates when I realize that cookies would be detrimental to someone suffering from malnutrition. So instead, I start thinking about hiding places for the Thin Mints. (The top selling Girl Scout Cookie with 25-percent of sales. My husband’s favorite Samoas® are close behind with 19-percent of sales.)
This is pretty much our routine every year. I buy a ridiculous amount of cookies, hide them in my closet and sock drawer, and eat Thin Mints for all three meals. I don’t worry about the extra calories too much because I remove fruit, vegetables, eggs, and all sources of dairy and protein from my diet. While I enjoy my round, crumbly mint-flavored meals, my husband swears we’ll never buy Girl Scout Cookies again.
“They pimp those girls out, I am telling you. They use little girls to make money,” argues my husband every year. “It should be about the kids and not about a CEO making $500,000 off the shoulders of children.” In actuality the CEO of the Girls Scouts of America makes $453,000 as reported by a Dallas television station in May 2010.
I must agree the executives at Girl Scouts of America could be called Cookie Madams for raking in big salaries while, “Nationwide, girls receive an estimated 10 – 20% of the purchase price of each box of cookies sold as proceeds,” according to the organization’s own website. Considering that cookies generate over $700 million in sales annually that seems like a miniscule cut for such hardworking scouts.
Perhaps I should be more outraged, but I will not allow any semblance of a social conscience hinder my enjoyment of the happiest time of year, Girl Scout Cookie Season.
Merry Thin Mints and Happy Samoas® to you.
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Funny Ghost Writer
"Mom, who writes your blog for you?" said my eleven-year-old son who is sternly prohibited from reading my blog, but reads it regularly despite his parents' wishes.
"What makes you ask that?" I replied.
"You are not funny in real life," he said.
"Oh, you caught me. You know my secret. Your dad writes my blog for me, so people won't think I am boring and uptight," I said.
"Yeah that makes sense. Dad is the funny one."
"Right, Dad is the funny one."
"What makes you ask that?" I replied.
"You are not funny in real life," he said.
"Oh, you caught me. You know my secret. Your dad writes my blog for me, so people won't think I am boring and uptight," I said.
"Yeah that makes sense. Dad is the funny one."
"Right, Dad is the funny one."
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Water Bottle
"Mom, I don't use water fountains anymore. I saw a kid throw up in one, so now I need bottled water," said the eleven-year-old.
"Sure, you can take a water bottle," I replied.
"No, I don't do water bottles. I need bottled water," he said.
"I don't do negotiations with unemployed eleven-year-olds. So, will it be the red bottle, the blue bottle or the vomit-covered fountain?" I asked.
"Blue," he said.
"That's what I thought. Have a good day."
"Sure, you can take a water bottle," I replied.
"No, I don't do water bottles. I need bottled water," he said.
"I don't do negotiations with unemployed eleven-year-olds. So, will it be the red bottle, the blue bottle or the vomit-covered fountain?" I asked.
"Blue," he said.
"That's what I thought. Have a good day."
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Garbageman's Daughter Answers Your Questions
Dear Readers:
When I started my blog over two years ago, I was my only reader and my biggest fan. Over time my readership has increased and so have the questions about my blog. So, I wanted to share my answers to the most frequently asked questions:
1. Are you really a Garbageman's Daughter? You bet. My family's garbage business was started about 55 years ago by my grandfather. After his death, my father and brother took ownership. As a teenager, I was embarrassed by my blue collar roots and frequently lied about my dad's profession. I even told a date that my father owned a convenience store. Now I am very proud of my humble roots and that is why I selected The Adventures of the Garbageman's Daughter as the title for my blog.
2. Is your hair as bad in reality as it is in the drawing that advertises your name? Yes and probably much worse. Some may say bad hair is a curse. I say, "It is a trademark." In fact when selecting an image for my blog, I did an online search for "bad hair."
3. Are your children headless? No, my children do indeed have heads. However, I have decided to never show the faces of my children because I am not a mom blogger. As I frequently tell people, I only write about my kids when it is good for my art. Even then, I tend to make them more funny and interesting than they really are. If you know me, you know what my kids look like. If you don't know me, imagine the four most attractive children you have ever seen and make them 10 times better looking. Then, you'll know what my children look like. Luckily, their gorgeous looks compensate for their other shortfalls.
4. What is your blog about? "About" is a nebulous word. Does it have to be "about" anything? There is no unifying theme to my blog other than the chaos of my mind.
5. Why do some of your blog posts appear, disappear and reappear? Sometimes I write things that were fun or interesting ideas in my head but come out as manure in the written form. Sometimes I pull the manure from the blog, but then I re-post it when I remember that you can't get a beautiful flower without the manure. Bad writing is a necessary step to get good writing. So, I keep the bad stuff as reminder to work harder -- unless the post just really sucks then it disappears forever.
6. Do you get paid to blog? Nope. I write 1,500 word essays just for the fun of it.
7. Do you have plans for your blog or your writing? No. I am a librarian by day and a blogger by night. I have no plans to leave my day job.
8. Why do you hate Michael Jackson? He is and will forever be the King of Pop, why don't you get that? These are two of my favorite questions that get sent to me anytime I write anything somewhat critical of the late pop star. I don't hate Michael Jackson; I just stopped listening to him when was an accused pedophile. After his death, I just couldn't muster up any type of enthusiasm to revisit his music. I prefer to leave my memories of Michael Jackson in the 1980s where they belong.
9. Are your stories true? Sometimes. It is safe to assume that at least three sentences in every post are true. Otherwise, I lie and call it art.
10. Garbageman's Daughter, you are hilarious and I can't get enough.. Are you married? Yep, but thanks for asking.
So, there you have the top ten most commonly ask questions about me and the Adventures of the Garbageman's Daughter. Keep those questions coming.
Sincerely,
GMD
When I started my blog over two years ago, I was my only reader and my biggest fan. Over time my readership has increased and so have the questions about my blog. So, I wanted to share my answers to the most frequently asked questions:
1. Are you really a Garbageman's Daughter? You bet. My family's garbage business was started about 55 years ago by my grandfather. After his death, my father and brother took ownership. As a teenager, I was embarrassed by my blue collar roots and frequently lied about my dad's profession. I even told a date that my father owned a convenience store. Now I am very proud of my humble roots and that is why I selected The Adventures of the Garbageman's Daughter as the title for my blog.
2. Is your hair as bad in reality as it is in the drawing that advertises your name? Yes and probably much worse. Some may say bad hair is a curse. I say, "It is a trademark." In fact when selecting an image for my blog, I did an online search for "bad hair."
3. Are your children headless? No, my children do indeed have heads. However, I have decided to never show the faces of my children because I am not a mom blogger. As I frequently tell people, I only write about my kids when it is good for my art. Even then, I tend to make them more funny and interesting than they really are. If you know me, you know what my kids look like. If you don't know me, imagine the four most attractive children you have ever seen and make them 10 times better looking. Then, you'll know what my children look like. Luckily, their gorgeous looks compensate for their other shortfalls.
4. What is your blog about? "About" is a nebulous word. Does it have to be "about" anything? There is no unifying theme to my blog other than the chaos of my mind.
5. Why do some of your blog posts appear, disappear and reappear? Sometimes I write things that were fun or interesting ideas in my head but come out as manure in the written form. Sometimes I pull the manure from the blog, but then I re-post it when I remember that you can't get a beautiful flower without the manure. Bad writing is a necessary step to get good writing. So, I keep the bad stuff as reminder to work harder -- unless the post just really sucks then it disappears forever.
6. Do you get paid to blog? Nope. I write 1,500 word essays just for the fun of it.
7. Do you have plans for your blog or your writing? No. I am a librarian by day and a blogger by night. I have no plans to leave my day job.
8. Why do you hate Michael Jackson? He is and will forever be the King of Pop, why don't you get that? These are two of my favorite questions that get sent to me anytime I write anything somewhat critical of the late pop star. I don't hate Michael Jackson; I just stopped listening to him when was an accused pedophile. After his death, I just couldn't muster up any type of enthusiasm to revisit his music. I prefer to leave my memories of Michael Jackson in the 1980s where they belong.
9. Are your stories true? Sometimes. It is safe to assume that at least three sentences in every post are true. Otherwise, I lie and call it art.
10. Garbageman's Daughter, you are hilarious and I can't get enough.. Are you married? Yep, but thanks for asking.
So, there you have the top ten most commonly ask questions about me and the Adventures of the Garbageman's Daughter. Keep those questions coming.
Sincerely,
GMD
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Snow
What’s the attraction? What’s the allure? Why is snow the superior form of precipitation over rain, hail or sleet? Why do people, particularly young people, feel the need to wrap themselves in so many layers that free mobility is compromised just to play in crystallized precipitation? Why is there so much anticipation and excitement with every snowfall? Why is there so much boo-hooing when there is not snow for Christmas? Do people who write songs and poems about snow actually live in cold weather states?
Sure, it is pretty for the first hour or two until the trucks and the dogs have their way with it. Some may consider it great fun to shape the crystallized precipitation into a ball and hurl it at a friend, foe or spouse; it is not so fun to be on the receiving end of the freezing sphere. Nor is too fun to be the recipient of the “ice down the pants prize”, which is an annual award in my house with me being the only beneficiary.
Wouldn’t a better game be a “Throw a Snuggie over mommy and force a cup of hot tea in her hand?” This game never occurs nor does “Let’s shovel the driveway and melt the snow off the stairs so mom doesn’t fall on her ass yet again in front the school bus driver and mail carrier.” It is these inconveniences caused by snowfall—shoveling, bad driving conditions, ice, dirt residue, and skin-cracking cold temperatures that people don’t consider when they are glued to their television waiting for their favorite precipitation to arrive.
If there was ever an overrated form of precipitation, it is snow.
Sure, it is pretty for the first hour or two until the trucks and the dogs have their way with it. Some may consider it great fun to shape the crystallized precipitation into a ball and hurl it at a friend, foe or spouse; it is not so fun to be on the receiving end of the freezing sphere. Nor is too fun to be the recipient of the “ice down the pants prize”, which is an annual award in my house with me being the only beneficiary.
Wouldn’t a better game be a “Throw a Snuggie over mommy and force a cup of hot tea in her hand?” This game never occurs nor does “Let’s shovel the driveway and melt the snow off the stairs so mom doesn’t fall on her ass yet again in front the school bus driver and mail carrier.” It is these inconveniences caused by snowfall—shoveling, bad driving conditions, ice, dirt residue, and skin-cracking cold temperatures that people don’t consider when they are glued to their television waiting for their favorite precipitation to arrive.
If there was ever an overrated form of precipitation, it is snow.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Obsequiousness is Not Objectivity: A Few Thoughts on Sarah Thornton’s Seven Days in the Art World
The beauty of being a librarian is that sometimes I stumble across a book that I did not know that I wanted to read, which was the case when re-shelving a display led me to Seven Days in the Art World by Sarah Thornton. I was immediately captured by the brief synopsis on the back of the book, “A fly-on-the-wall account of the smart and strange subcultures that make, trade, curate, collect, and hype contemporary art.” The publisher promises the book to be a heavily researched account that pieces together hours of observation and more than 250 insider interviews, and Thornton claims, in her introduction, that as a researcher she is like a “cat on the prowl…curious and interactive but not threatening. Occasionally intrusive, but easily ignored.”
Much like a cat that preens and prunes meticulously, Thornton neatly organizes her ethnography into seven chapters that represents seven different days and seven different aspects of the contemporary art world: an auction (at Christie’s New York), an art school “crit” (at the California Institute of the Arts in Valencia), an art fair (Art Basel), an artist’s studio (belonging to Japanese artist Takashi Murakami), a prize (Britain’s prestigious Turner Prize), a magazine (Artforum) and a biennale (Venice).
Although she intends for the seven chapters to delve deep into the contemporary art world, she provides a surface account of a bizarre world filled with a plethora of air-kissing, trite gossip, a strong sense of self-importance and way too much disposable income that is used to sway the art markets with little regard for aesthetics. Throughout her investigative journey, Thornton follows two different but intersecting paths – money and art. By alternating chapters between the power-players with inflamed egos who buy the art and the progressive artists with inflamed egos who make art, Thornton attempts to show the dynamics and tension between art making, art speculation and art purchasing. But what she gives us is an uneven portrait of the art world with little insight into why someone buys art, what makes one type of art favored over another type, why some startling, innovative contemporary artists are effectively ignored by critics and collectors, and what happens to art works once they are devoured by the status seeking nouveau-riche.
Perhaps Thornton begins her investigation seeking these answers but somewhere in her journey, Thornton loses her resolve, her journalistic verve, her investigative determination, her point-of view and merely becomes a puppet for powerful collectors, curators, critics, dealers, and auctioneers. The chapters on the Christie’s auction, the Art Basel Fair and the Venice Biennale read like a diary of a high school trumpet player who has a crush on the star quarterback and just got befriended by manipulative cheerleaders who have ulterior motives. Thornton becomes so consumed in the universe of money that she fills these chapters with pompous (albeit unwittingly funny) quotes and miniscule, tedious details, making her appear as a gossipy braggart instead of a reporter. Blinded by a whirlwind of glamour and glitz, she feels compelled to share the minutia with her readers with paragraphs such as:
“Back at Cipriani, a British collecting couple are having a dip. He floats; she performs a regal head-up breaststroke. She tells me, in the nicest way, that she finds it irritating when “sporty” Americans insist on pounding up and down the pool. I tell her I am Canadian and she quickly commends this year’s Canadian pavilion as “the best since 2001.” This is Thornton’s general theme: Rich people buy art and too much of this book is devoted to buyers who do not know anything about what they are buying or even why they are buying it. Thornton remains unperturbed by all the gold-lined ignorance and fails to undercover the hypocrisy and artifice of it all. It was no surprise that in her acknowledgements, she admits to allowing certain interviewees to read and make corrections to her drafts; she can’t be an informant if she is going nark on herself. But clearly, she does not want her love affair with the art world to end badly.
In fact, the only art world players who do not seduce her are the artists. Either she does not find artists as sexy as art buyers or she remembers that she is a reporter in their presence. In the chapters about the art school “crit” at the California Institute of the Arts in Valencia, Japanese artist Takashi Murakami’s art studio and Britain’s prestigious Turner Prize, Thornton keeps her distance and allows their dramas to unfold naturally. She fastidiously records a smug MFA student saying “Creative is definitely a dirty word….It’s almost as embarrassing as beautiful, sublime, or masterpiece.” And reveals pop-art superstar Murakami ruminating about his idol Warhol, “I am jealous of Warhol. I’m always asking my production team, ‘Warhol was able to create such an easy painting life, why [is]our work so complicated?’ But, the history knows! My weak point is my oriental background.” Thornton does not shy away from revealing artists’ flaws, foibles and eccentricities.
Artistic eccentricities and idiosyncrasies run rampant in Thornton’s chapter on the Turner Prize 2006, which would have made an outstanding standalone essay in an art periodical with its suspense, humor, tension, and rawness. As she introduces the four nominees to her audience, she reveals two artists to be down-to earth and accessible (Phil Collins, a video artist and Mark Titchner who works in different mediums) and portrays the two female artists, sculptor Rebecca Warren and painter Tomma Abts, as media-phobic, self-absorbed prima donnas. Thornton’s interactions with the artists intermixed with the antics of Nick Serota, director of the Tate; the appearance of Yoko Ono as the prize presenter; and, the tempers and temperaments of the jury makes for an entertaining tale. Sadly, the strength of this chapter is not echoed anywhere else in Thornton’s work.
If the chapter on the Turner prize is the Thornton’s strongest than the chapter that examines Artforum is undeniably the weakest. I must confess after being bored by all the rich people bidding on art at Christie’s in Chapter One, I jumped forward to Chapter Five, The Magazine. Admittedly, the chapter on Artforum contributed greatly to me checking out this book. As a person who loves art and also writes, I probably have fantasized a time or two about being published in Artforum, which Thornton describes as “a trade magazine with crossover cachet and an institution with controversial clout.” She argues that “Artforum is to art what Vogue is to fashion and Rolling Stone was to rock and roll.” Her one-line assessment holds the truth, but she fails to reaffirm the sentiment in the rest of the chapter.
Thornton’s investigation of Artforum is her opportunity to reveal the big reveal; spill the big secrets that give insight into the currents and waves that move and shape the art world. She does not do more than obsess over the writers’ clothes , “Dressed like a dandy in a jacket, vest and tie of remarkably well coordinated plaids… “ and “Dressed entirely in black, with a hairless head and solemn manner “ and “Bright-eyed, compact, clad in a vermillion suit” as well as what the staffers eat “…Thai noodles out cardboard take boxes .“ This chapter is made up of polemical tidbits, guarded explanations and rehashed common knowledge. Her time at Artforum reveals nothing revolutionary or even newsworthy other than she had to trade writing for Artforum’s online magazine in return for having access to their offices. Once again Thornton tosses out her objectivity for acceptance from the insiders.
Thornton’s conversion from outsider to insider in her Seven Days in the Art World, made me remember my two days in art world and my conversion from an outsider who desperately wanted to be an insider to an outsider who discovered insiders are bunch of elitists with expensive shoes and no taste. As a commission-only sales assistant at a small-time art gallery in downtown Denver, located beside an adult novelty shop and across the street from two x-rated theatres, I was forced to push overpriced subpar artwork to people looking for the perfect accessory to match their couch. In theory, the idea of working in a room covered in art is as great working in a building filled with books. But unlike the library where my help is appreciated and my education is respected, patrons of the art gallery felt compelled to flash their money and seemed more annoyed than appreciative of any art knowledge that I attempted to share. Knowing how much insurance to buy for their art work was far more important than knowing about the influences present in the work. I did not have the stomach to mix my love of art with other’s people’s money, so I quickly bailed without a two-week notice and started working in more artful, kinder, gentler profession—bill collecting. Having someone call me “a skank” for asking them to make a payment on their past due Discover credit card bill was far less demoralizing than being asked to call an artist to see if he could re-do a painting in hues of pink and burgundy that would be better suited for the client's bedroom.
Although my foray in the art world was brief and disconcerting, my love of art remained unscathed. So it is with sadness and disappointment , I return Seven Days in the Art World to the shelf. But, I still hope that one day I will walk out of the library with the book that truly tells me how and why the art world spins.
Much like a cat that preens and prunes meticulously, Thornton neatly organizes her ethnography into seven chapters that represents seven different days and seven different aspects of the contemporary art world: an auction (at Christie’s New York), an art school “crit” (at the California Institute of the Arts in Valencia), an art fair (Art Basel), an artist’s studio (belonging to Japanese artist Takashi Murakami), a prize (Britain’s prestigious Turner Prize), a magazine (Artforum) and a biennale (Venice).
Although she intends for the seven chapters to delve deep into the contemporary art world, she provides a surface account of a bizarre world filled with a plethora of air-kissing, trite gossip, a strong sense of self-importance and way too much disposable income that is used to sway the art markets with little regard for aesthetics. Throughout her investigative journey, Thornton follows two different but intersecting paths – money and art. By alternating chapters between the power-players with inflamed egos who buy the art and the progressive artists with inflamed egos who make art, Thornton attempts to show the dynamics and tension between art making, art speculation and art purchasing. But what she gives us is an uneven portrait of the art world with little insight into why someone buys art, what makes one type of art favored over another type, why some startling, innovative contemporary artists are effectively ignored by critics and collectors, and what happens to art works once they are devoured by the status seeking nouveau-riche.
Perhaps Thornton begins her investigation seeking these answers but somewhere in her journey, Thornton loses her resolve, her journalistic verve, her investigative determination, her point-of view and merely becomes a puppet for powerful collectors, curators, critics, dealers, and auctioneers. The chapters on the Christie’s auction, the Art Basel Fair and the Venice Biennale read like a diary of a high school trumpet player who has a crush on the star quarterback and just got befriended by manipulative cheerleaders who have ulterior motives. Thornton becomes so consumed in the universe of money that she fills these chapters with pompous (albeit unwittingly funny) quotes and miniscule, tedious details, making her appear as a gossipy braggart instead of a reporter. Blinded by a whirlwind of glamour and glitz, she feels compelled to share the minutia with her readers with paragraphs such as:
“Back at Cipriani, a British collecting couple are having a dip. He floats; she performs a regal head-up breaststroke. She tells me, in the nicest way, that she finds it irritating when “sporty” Americans insist on pounding up and down the pool. I tell her I am Canadian and she quickly commends this year’s Canadian pavilion as “the best since 2001.” This is Thornton’s general theme: Rich people buy art and too much of this book is devoted to buyers who do not know anything about what they are buying or even why they are buying it. Thornton remains unperturbed by all the gold-lined ignorance and fails to undercover the hypocrisy and artifice of it all. It was no surprise that in her acknowledgements, she admits to allowing certain interviewees to read and make corrections to her drafts; she can’t be an informant if she is going nark on herself. But clearly, she does not want her love affair with the art world to end badly.
In fact, the only art world players who do not seduce her are the artists. Either she does not find artists as sexy as art buyers or she remembers that she is a reporter in their presence. In the chapters about the art school “crit” at the California Institute of the Arts in Valencia, Japanese artist Takashi Murakami’s art studio and Britain’s prestigious Turner Prize, Thornton keeps her distance and allows their dramas to unfold naturally. She fastidiously records a smug MFA student saying “Creative is definitely a dirty word….It’s almost as embarrassing as beautiful, sublime, or masterpiece.” And reveals pop-art superstar Murakami ruminating about his idol Warhol, “I am jealous of Warhol. I’m always asking my production team, ‘Warhol was able to create such an easy painting life, why [is]our work so complicated?’ But, the history knows! My weak point is my oriental background.” Thornton does not shy away from revealing artists’ flaws, foibles and eccentricities.
Artistic eccentricities and idiosyncrasies run rampant in Thornton’s chapter on the Turner Prize 2006, which would have made an outstanding standalone essay in an art periodical with its suspense, humor, tension, and rawness. As she introduces the four nominees to her audience, she reveals two artists to be down-to earth and accessible (Phil Collins, a video artist and Mark Titchner who works in different mediums) and portrays the two female artists, sculptor Rebecca Warren and painter Tomma Abts, as media-phobic, self-absorbed prima donnas. Thornton’s interactions with the artists intermixed with the antics of Nick Serota, director of the Tate; the appearance of Yoko Ono as the prize presenter; and, the tempers and temperaments of the jury makes for an entertaining tale. Sadly, the strength of this chapter is not echoed anywhere else in Thornton’s work.
If the chapter on the Turner prize is the Thornton’s strongest than the chapter that examines Artforum is undeniably the weakest. I must confess after being bored by all the rich people bidding on art at Christie’s in Chapter One, I jumped forward to Chapter Five, The Magazine. Admittedly, the chapter on Artforum contributed greatly to me checking out this book. As a person who loves art and also writes, I probably have fantasized a time or two about being published in Artforum, which Thornton describes as “a trade magazine with crossover cachet and an institution with controversial clout.” She argues that “Artforum is to art what Vogue is to fashion and Rolling Stone was to rock and roll.” Her one-line assessment holds the truth, but she fails to reaffirm the sentiment in the rest of the chapter.
Thornton’s investigation of Artforum is her opportunity to reveal the big reveal; spill the big secrets that give insight into the currents and waves that move and shape the art world. She does not do more than obsess over the writers’ clothes , “Dressed like a dandy in a jacket, vest and tie of remarkably well coordinated plaids… “ and “Dressed entirely in black, with a hairless head and solemn manner “ and “Bright-eyed, compact, clad in a vermillion suit” as well as what the staffers eat “…Thai noodles out cardboard take boxes .“ This chapter is made up of polemical tidbits, guarded explanations and rehashed common knowledge. Her time at Artforum reveals nothing revolutionary or even newsworthy other than she had to trade writing for Artforum’s online magazine in return for having access to their offices. Once again Thornton tosses out her objectivity for acceptance from the insiders.
Thornton’s conversion from outsider to insider in her Seven Days in the Art World, made me remember my two days in art world and my conversion from an outsider who desperately wanted to be an insider to an outsider who discovered insiders are bunch of elitists with expensive shoes and no taste. As a commission-only sales assistant at a small-time art gallery in downtown Denver, located beside an adult novelty shop and across the street from two x-rated theatres, I was forced to push overpriced subpar artwork to people looking for the perfect accessory to match their couch. In theory, the idea of working in a room covered in art is as great working in a building filled with books. But unlike the library where my help is appreciated and my education is respected, patrons of the art gallery felt compelled to flash their money and seemed more annoyed than appreciative of any art knowledge that I attempted to share. Knowing how much insurance to buy for their art work was far more important than knowing about the influences present in the work. I did not have the stomach to mix my love of art with other’s people’s money, so I quickly bailed without a two-week notice and started working in more artful, kinder, gentler profession—bill collecting. Having someone call me “a skank” for asking them to make a payment on their past due Discover credit card bill was far less demoralizing than being asked to call an artist to see if he could re-do a painting in hues of pink and burgundy that would be better suited for the client's bedroom.
Although my foray in the art world was brief and disconcerting, my love of art remained unscathed. So it is with sadness and disappointment , I return Seven Days in the Art World to the shelf. But, I still hope that one day I will walk out of the library with the book that truly tells me how and why the art world spins.
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