Dear Enzio:
I like you. I like you a lot. You are funny, charming, loyal, protective, a keen observer, and you love your family unconditionally. You made me laugh; you made me cry. You made me feel guilty for not buying my kids the dog that they desperately want. You made me want to go to animal shelter and get my children the puppy they passionately desire.
But, my urge to head to the animal shelter soon passed. Guess what, Enzio? You are not a real dog. You are a fictional character created by the clever author Garth Stein, a pet lover who has made a career out of spinning animal yarns. I have always been a sucker for a man with a good line and I am especially suspicious of men who talk to animals. Most likely being kind to animals is just part of Stein’s master plan to get laid. Stein probably has women tossing bras at him at every book signing and speaking event. But, I will no longer be duped by his charismatic, quadruped oracle. My bra will remain firmly in place when I hear Stein speak in November.
By then, I will be over the happy buzz that Enzio the philosopher-dog and Stein gave me. I will be fooled no longer. The Art of Racing in the Rain is a cheesy, schmaltzy, overly sentimental, ridiculously melodramatic book that I absolutely loved. I think I am still in shock; it is not in my nature to like a book that is so simple and concludes with a reasonably happy ending.
As of tomorrow, I go back to disliking dogs and calling animal control when I see a dog off of its leash. There really needs to be at least one person in this town who doesn't think it is fashionable to sneak a pocketbook dog into Walmart or to buy gourmet dog treats at a canine only bakery.
So Enzio, remember I am not a dog lover just a lover of silly dog narratives.
Sincerely,
Garabageman's Daughter
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Second Time Around
“This princess-cut ring will look lovely on your finger since your hand is so small. So, when is the wedding?” asks the smiling sales associate, pretending to care as she watches the short blond with green eyes lift her six-month old son over of the glass counter, loaded with gold and diamonds arranged conveniently and delicately in wedding sets.
“The wedding is in January, but we have been married six months,” said the young mom.
“See, they are married and buying rings after their wedding too,” said a woman in her late thirties.
“Yeah, but they still got that newly married feeling of excitement and hope,” her inconvenienced husband said.
“How many I help you?” asked the sales associate.
“Bands. We need wedding bands,” he said.
“It seems like you are in a hurry. When are you getting married?”
“Twelve years ago,” said the man.
“I won’t ask,” said the sales girl who loses her concentration as four loud kids roll into the store with a large blue double stroller.
“Dad, the baby won’t stay in the stroller,” said the oldest.
“So, that is what you have been up to for the past twelve years. You have a beautiful family, “she said.
The actual ring purchasing goes swiftly with identical replacements selected for both her and him. White gold for him and yellow gold for her. Simple and modest – just as they were when they first married.
He looks at his wife and says, “Go ahead and tell her what you need. So, you don't make the same mistake again.”
‘Ma’am, may I please have my husband’s ring engraved,”
“Certainly. What would you like it to read?”
“Non-Flushable.”
In an effort to maintain professionalism, the sales associate tries not laugh but after turning a faint shade of lavender, she violently released her laugh and said: “You are not the first ones and sometimes our emotions get the best of us.”
“Yes, that is why we don’t have any firearms in our house,” he said.
Note to Handsome Husband: I promise the next time, I go on a destructive binge I’ll only throw out the stuff your mother gave me. Thank you for loving me and not locking me up. The new ring looks as beautiful on your finger as the original did twelve years ago.
“The wedding is in January, but we have been married six months,” said the young mom.
“See, they are married and buying rings after their wedding too,” said a woman in her late thirties.
“Yeah, but they still got that newly married feeling of excitement and hope,” her inconvenienced husband said.
“How many I help you?” asked the sales associate.
“Bands. We need wedding bands,” he said.
“It seems like you are in a hurry. When are you getting married?”
“Twelve years ago,” said the man.
“I won’t ask,” said the sales girl who loses her concentration as four loud kids roll into the store with a large blue double stroller.
“Dad, the baby won’t stay in the stroller,” said the oldest.
“So, that is what you have been up to for the past twelve years. You have a beautiful family, “she said.
The actual ring purchasing goes swiftly with identical replacements selected for both her and him. White gold for him and yellow gold for her. Simple and modest – just as they were when they first married.
He looks at his wife and says, “Go ahead and tell her what you need. So, you don't make the same mistake again.”
‘Ma’am, may I please have my husband’s ring engraved,”
“Certainly. What would you like it to read?”
“Non-Flushable.”
In an effort to maintain professionalism, the sales associate tries not laugh but after turning a faint shade of lavender, she violently released her laugh and said: “You are not the first ones and sometimes our emotions get the best of us.”
“Yes, that is why we don’t have any firearms in our house,” he said.
Note to Handsome Husband: I promise the next time, I go on a destructive binge I’ll only throw out the stuff your mother gave me. Thank you for loving me and not locking me up. The new ring looks as beautiful on your finger as the original did twelve years ago.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
A Word Problem in Motion
So, when you see a red mini-van with a bad hair mama, four screaming kids, and a bright yellow triangle in the window that says “Mom’s Taxi” that means get the hell out of the way or I'll run your ass over. How dear you drive the speed limit when I have exactly nine minutes to get somewhere that according to Google Maps takes 16 minutes? I am a word problem on four wheels and I know exactly how this equation goes down. If I am able to drive 15 miles per hour above the speed limit consistently from the moment I leave my house until I arrive at the rehabilitation center where I take one of my kids 4 times a week, I can get there in exactly 9 minutes, which makes me on time or an acceptable one to two minutes late that is overlooked based on clock variance. If I get behind a car that goes only slightly above the speed limit, I can be a tolerable but slightly rude 10 minutes late. If I get behind a law-abiding Pollyanna in her shiny Prius who is going below the speed limit, I will be the dreaded “Sorry, you are 15 minutes late and we cannot see you even though we really have nothing else to do for the next 30 minutes of your regularly scheduled appointment, so maybe we’ll eat a snack or catch some General Hospital while we send you home and bill you full-price for your appointment. Did you know that good moms bring their children on time? Have a nice day and don’t get road rage on the way home.”
Although counseling and the fear of another enormous ticket for aggressive driving has assuaged my road rage slightly, I still recommend that you get out my way as soon as you can hear the Prince music and see my determined look of disdain as I glare at you in your rearview mirror. If we all follow these easy road rules, there will be less cursing, honking and middle-finger extension.
Although counseling and the fear of another enormous ticket for aggressive driving has assuaged my road rage slightly, I still recommend that you get out my way as soon as you can hear the Prince music and see my determined look of disdain as I glare at you in your rearview mirror. If we all follow these easy road rules, there will be less cursing, honking and middle-finger extension.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Little Bee Fails to Sting: A Few Thoughts on Chris Cleave’s Latest Novel
This post contains a small amount of spoiler information.
A few weeks ago, I posed the question: Is it possible to read too many depressing British novels? Of course, the answer is “no.” However, I have definitely reached my threshold on British literary rubbish disguised as literary fiction and riveting fodder for book club groups. Chris Cleave’s Little Bee fits in the category of good intentions dressed up as literature and is just one more book that can be added to my list of “not good books” that I completed for book club despite my desire to ditch the book in favor of something more likeable and moving. (No offense, selector. You did a great job selecting a book of the perfect length with hot topics that will lead to an interesting discussion. You know I would be complaining even if we would have read Lolita like we originally planned. Blame the author not the selector.)
It should have occurred to me that there was something stinky in Nigeria when this book was being promoted with this caveat: “The publishers of Chris Cleave's new novel 'don't want to spoil' the story by revealing too much about it, and there's good reason not to tell too much about the plot's pivot point. All you should know going in to Little Bee is that what happens on the beach is brutal, and that it braids the fates of a 16-year-old Nigerian orphan (who calls herself Little Bee) and a well-off British couple--journalists trying to repair their strained marriage with a free holiday--who should have stayed behind their resort's walls…”
When the publisher does not want to give a summary that means there just isn’t much substance there to preview. Actually, there are a lot of ridiculous confrontations and melodrama that occurs throughout the novel but nothing that amounts to a logical plot. During the first three chapters, it appears that Cleave creates a thought-provoking, intriguing novel about the treatment of refugees at immigration detention holding centers. He builds up tremendous suspense about the much touted scene on the beach that brings Little Bee into the lives of Sarah and Andrew, a British couple who have a precocious four-year-old Charlie as well as a troubled marriage due to her affair with Lawrence, a weaselly government employee who is married with children.
After the beach scene (which is not as monstrous and barbaric as the publisher’s blurb intimates) occurs, the book falls apart. Yes, the violence is brutal but it seems to be too unbelievable that mercenaries would perform slow torture and sadistic bargaining opposed to just killing everyone on the beach. Furthermore, why would anyone go to Nigeria to repair their marriage? Andrew and Sarah are both journalists, so they could have been there for work. But, Cleave chooses to have the struggling couple go to a dangerous beach for a second honeymoon—just ludicrous. Since the remainder of the novel hinges on the absurdity of the beach scene, Cleave’s strong start to his novel unravels as he strings one confrontation or melodramatic moment after another to keep the book moving. Even in flashbacks that reveal Sarah and Andrew’s life together, Cleave creates histrionics that just are unbelievable. For instance, the scene where Lawrence introduces his mistress to her husband is hauntingly awkward and darkly comic, but in reality neither the wife nor the husband would have allowed Lawrence to complete his introduction.
But, their meeting is nowhere near as incongruous as the calculating and manipulative banter between Lawrence and Little Bee. Following Andrew’s suicide, Lawrence quickly usurps the dead man’s side of the bed and becomes a possessive fixture in Sarah’s life, which not only makes Little Bee uneasy but makes her equally possessive and aggressive. Little Bee’s response to Lawrence’s threats seems incompatible with her saccharine naiveté. Would a sweet sixteen-year-old Nigerian who seems so ignorant of both British and adult ways really threaten and blackmail a male government employee? Perhaps Cleave is trying to make Little Bee multidimensional, but instead of roundness he creates illogical bipolarity. She deviates from strong to weak with no shades of ordinary in between.
Although Cleave never allows Little Bee to materialize into a believable character, he succeeds in making Sarah the perfect cheating bitch and irresponsible mother who has moments of selflessness, compassion and benevolence. She is neither fully could good or fully bad and possesses a believable amount of ambivalence. Although readers may not like her, her complexity helps redeem the novel. Sadly, she would be a more interesting character if the two men she vacillated between were more distinctive. Andrew and Lawrence are pretty much same man. They both are cowards with very little self-confidence or raison d'être. With his rendering of both men, it is like Cleave looked to American sitcoms writers who only know how to write men as buffoons and subordinates to their smart wives. It is like American comedic writers have forgotten how to write strong men and this is also the case with Cleave. There is nothing manly or attractive about Lawrence and Andrew’s only redeemable quality might be the documentation about Nigeria that he compiled.
The incongruities in Little Bee’s character and the pale sketching of Lawrence and Arthur makes the characterization in this book very flawed. But at the same time, the characterization is probably the best part of this book in comparison to dialogue and plot, which are shoddily put together. The ending of the book is as ridiculous as all the other melodramatic moments in this book. It is a shame that the plot components are not more evolved because it appears that Cleave is trying extraordinarily hard to write an important book about brutality in Africa and the conditions that refugees face when entering England. His research fills his novel; his passion for the topic resonates; his dark wit shines at moments in this novel; and, his awareness of a writerly style necessary to propel a book from competent storytelling to high art is evident. Sometimes his comic moments are just too forced. For instance, the ridiculously long list of suicide methods that Little Bee would employ if the men came to get her is insanely overwrought. Cleave also overloads his book with metaphors. After I read the lovely extended use of the British pound as metaphor, he quickly follows up with nail polish and scars as metaphors – just too much in a small literary space. Metaphors need time and space. No need to show his entire literary prowess in the first 30 pages. But, I really do admire Cleave’s effort with this book. Little Bee would be really great with a different plot, fully developed characters, more realistic dialogue, less metaphors and an alternative ending.
A few weeks ago, I posed the question: Is it possible to read too many depressing British novels? Of course, the answer is “no.” However, I have definitely reached my threshold on British literary rubbish disguised as literary fiction and riveting fodder for book club groups. Chris Cleave’s Little Bee fits in the category of good intentions dressed up as literature and is just one more book that can be added to my list of “not good books” that I completed for book club despite my desire to ditch the book in favor of something more likeable and moving. (No offense, selector. You did a great job selecting a book of the perfect length with hot topics that will lead to an interesting discussion. You know I would be complaining even if we would have read Lolita like we originally planned. Blame the author not the selector.)
It should have occurred to me that there was something stinky in Nigeria when this book was being promoted with this caveat: “The publishers of Chris Cleave's new novel 'don't want to spoil' the story by revealing too much about it, and there's good reason not to tell too much about the plot's pivot point. All you should know going in to Little Bee is that what happens on the beach is brutal, and that it braids the fates of a 16-year-old Nigerian orphan (who calls herself Little Bee) and a well-off British couple--journalists trying to repair their strained marriage with a free holiday--who should have stayed behind their resort's walls…”
When the publisher does not want to give a summary that means there just isn’t much substance there to preview. Actually, there are a lot of ridiculous confrontations and melodrama that occurs throughout the novel but nothing that amounts to a logical plot. During the first three chapters, it appears that Cleave creates a thought-provoking, intriguing novel about the treatment of refugees at immigration detention holding centers. He builds up tremendous suspense about the much touted scene on the beach that brings Little Bee into the lives of Sarah and Andrew, a British couple who have a precocious four-year-old Charlie as well as a troubled marriage due to her affair with Lawrence, a weaselly government employee who is married with children.
After the beach scene (which is not as monstrous and barbaric as the publisher’s blurb intimates) occurs, the book falls apart. Yes, the violence is brutal but it seems to be too unbelievable that mercenaries would perform slow torture and sadistic bargaining opposed to just killing everyone on the beach. Furthermore, why would anyone go to Nigeria to repair their marriage? Andrew and Sarah are both journalists, so they could have been there for work. But, Cleave chooses to have the struggling couple go to a dangerous beach for a second honeymoon—just ludicrous. Since the remainder of the novel hinges on the absurdity of the beach scene, Cleave’s strong start to his novel unravels as he strings one confrontation or melodramatic moment after another to keep the book moving. Even in flashbacks that reveal Sarah and Andrew’s life together, Cleave creates histrionics that just are unbelievable. For instance, the scene where Lawrence introduces his mistress to her husband is hauntingly awkward and darkly comic, but in reality neither the wife nor the husband would have allowed Lawrence to complete his introduction.
But, their meeting is nowhere near as incongruous as the calculating and manipulative banter between Lawrence and Little Bee. Following Andrew’s suicide, Lawrence quickly usurps the dead man’s side of the bed and becomes a possessive fixture in Sarah’s life, which not only makes Little Bee uneasy but makes her equally possessive and aggressive. Little Bee’s response to Lawrence’s threats seems incompatible with her saccharine naiveté. Would a sweet sixteen-year-old Nigerian who seems so ignorant of both British and adult ways really threaten and blackmail a male government employee? Perhaps Cleave is trying to make Little Bee multidimensional, but instead of roundness he creates illogical bipolarity. She deviates from strong to weak with no shades of ordinary in between.
Although Cleave never allows Little Bee to materialize into a believable character, he succeeds in making Sarah the perfect cheating bitch and irresponsible mother who has moments of selflessness, compassion and benevolence. She is neither fully could good or fully bad and possesses a believable amount of ambivalence. Although readers may not like her, her complexity helps redeem the novel. Sadly, she would be a more interesting character if the two men she vacillated between were more distinctive. Andrew and Lawrence are pretty much same man. They both are cowards with very little self-confidence or raison d'être. With his rendering of both men, it is like Cleave looked to American sitcoms writers who only know how to write men as buffoons and subordinates to their smart wives. It is like American comedic writers have forgotten how to write strong men and this is also the case with Cleave. There is nothing manly or attractive about Lawrence and Andrew’s only redeemable quality might be the documentation about Nigeria that he compiled.
The incongruities in Little Bee’s character and the pale sketching of Lawrence and Arthur makes the characterization in this book very flawed. But at the same time, the characterization is probably the best part of this book in comparison to dialogue and plot, which are shoddily put together. The ending of the book is as ridiculous as all the other melodramatic moments in this book. It is a shame that the plot components are not more evolved because it appears that Cleave is trying extraordinarily hard to write an important book about brutality in Africa and the conditions that refugees face when entering England. His research fills his novel; his passion for the topic resonates; his dark wit shines at moments in this novel; and, his awareness of a writerly style necessary to propel a book from competent storytelling to high art is evident. Sometimes his comic moments are just too forced. For instance, the ridiculously long list of suicide methods that Little Bee would employ if the men came to get her is insanely overwrought. Cleave also overloads his book with metaphors. After I read the lovely extended use of the British pound as metaphor, he quickly follows up with nail polish and scars as metaphors – just too much in a small literary space. Metaphors need time and space. No need to show his entire literary prowess in the first 30 pages. But, I really do admire Cleave’s effort with this book. Little Bee would be really great with a different plot, fully developed characters, more realistic dialogue, less metaphors and an alternative ending.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Are you sure I read the right book? Review of The Help by Kathyrn Stockett
"You won't be able to put this book down." I heard this statement from many friends and patrons when they were recommending Kathryn Stockett's The Help. Their accolades set my expectations high and created great anticipation. It did not take long for my expectations to plummet, the anticipation to dissipate, and for me to put the book down.
Set in the early years of the Civil Rights Movement, this novel explores the complex relationships between black domestics and their white employers. The story unfolds through the voices of Aibileen, a sweet silent maid who loves caring for white babies until they grow-up to be just like their parents; Minny, a sassy, hefty black maid with a drunken, abusive husband; and, Skeeter, a white, upper-class recent graduate of Ole Miss who wants to change the world with her writing.
It is the stereotypical rendering of the three stock characters as well as inaccurate dialects, a multitude of historical errors and meandering subplots that give this book a false sense of gravitas. Despite its good authorial intentions, The Help is just a well-meaning, pseudo-political fluff piece that is a quick, easy read and a perfect candidate to be a best seller. It is a book with socio-political commentary that doesn’t require too much investment or effort on the reader’s part. Reading this book is like throwing money in collection plate during mass; you know it supports a good cause but you are just relieved it doesn’t require too much work on your part.
From the start, Stockett sucked me into this book with her sympathetic portrayal of Aibileen, a black maid who has raised 17 white children and is mostly seen taking care of the feisty Mae Mobley. Stockett goes out of her way to draw strong dichotomies between Aibileen, the sweet nurturing nanny who is protective of the baby and Mae Mobley’s white mother whose emotions towards her daughter range from indifferent to neglectful to hostile. Stockett sends her message: Black nannies raise white babies better than their white mamas. She repeats this idea consistently throughout the book by having just about every white character fondly recall their black nanny. But when it comes down it, Aibileen is just the stereotypical good, loyal maid who blindly obeys white authority.
Similarly, Minny is the stereotypical “Mammy” in every way from her short, rotund figure to her sassy mouth to her amazing cooking skills. It seems like Stockett watched Gone with the Wind a bunch times as inspiration to create Minny. The smart-mouth maid only becomes a redeemable character when her storyline is linked to Miss Celia, the poor white girl who like the black maids is discriminated against by the southern high society ladies. But although there are some tear-jerking scenes between Celia and Minny, there is not enough substance to elevate these characters beyond the caricatures of the white trash matron and the Mammy.
Then, there is the third and most despicable main character, Skeeter. Technically, she is the heroine of book; the white woman who is going to help the condition of black domestics by writing about their lives and their relationships with their white employers. I am trying to not be offended that more than one person has told me Skeeter reminds them of me. I guess at twenty-three I too would have put lives at risk to get a book deal and a great job at a magazine in New York. Skeeter is completely selfish and reckless with the lives of her sources, who could have been severely punished under the Jim Crow laws for speaking out negatively against their white employers. Skeeter’s only intention with writing the book is to get the job that she wanted. She exploited and used black women to achieve her goals, which completely undermines the point of her book. The same implication can also be applied to Stockett and The Help. She takes on a somewhat noble pursuit but mostly just creates a watercooler topic that would appeal to book clubs. Sadly, she achieved her goal with this book. The marketing for this book is geared towards book clubs and general readers that propel books to the New York Times Best Seller List.
This book has all trappings of a book club sensation/Walmart end-cap. I am so done being trapped and tricked by lure of good reviews by general readers. I am officially done with the New York Times Best Sellers unless the books have also won the National Book Award, the Pulitzer, or the Mann Booker Prize. Life is too short for substandard popular books. I would have been better off spending my time reading To Kill a Mocking Bird. (No offense to my friends who like this book, but I found this work to be absolutely unpalatable.) It is weak on substance and downright pejorative. A close reading of this book reveals it to be highly racist and formulaic. All the black women talk in a Southern dialect and the white southern women all speak like the Queen of England. Any awareness that Stockett was trying to create is completely eroded by her caricatures, inconsistent language usage, improbable plot twists and racist stereotyping. The Help does not measure up to the hype in any way. Don’t waste your time or money.
Set in the early years of the Civil Rights Movement, this novel explores the complex relationships between black domestics and their white employers. The story unfolds through the voices of Aibileen, a sweet silent maid who loves caring for white babies until they grow-up to be just like their parents; Minny, a sassy, hefty black maid with a drunken, abusive husband; and, Skeeter, a white, upper-class recent graduate of Ole Miss who wants to change the world with her writing.
It is the stereotypical rendering of the three stock characters as well as inaccurate dialects, a multitude of historical errors and meandering subplots that give this book a false sense of gravitas. Despite its good authorial intentions, The Help is just a well-meaning, pseudo-political fluff piece that is a quick, easy read and a perfect candidate to be a best seller. It is a book with socio-political commentary that doesn’t require too much investment or effort on the reader’s part. Reading this book is like throwing money in collection plate during mass; you know it supports a good cause but you are just relieved it doesn’t require too much work on your part.
From the start, Stockett sucked me into this book with her sympathetic portrayal of Aibileen, a black maid who has raised 17 white children and is mostly seen taking care of the feisty Mae Mobley. Stockett goes out of her way to draw strong dichotomies between Aibileen, the sweet nurturing nanny who is protective of the baby and Mae Mobley’s white mother whose emotions towards her daughter range from indifferent to neglectful to hostile. Stockett sends her message: Black nannies raise white babies better than their white mamas. She repeats this idea consistently throughout the book by having just about every white character fondly recall their black nanny. But when it comes down it, Aibileen is just the stereotypical good, loyal maid who blindly obeys white authority.
Similarly, Minny is the stereotypical “Mammy” in every way from her short, rotund figure to her sassy mouth to her amazing cooking skills. It seems like Stockett watched Gone with the Wind a bunch times as inspiration to create Minny. The smart-mouth maid only becomes a redeemable character when her storyline is linked to Miss Celia, the poor white girl who like the black maids is discriminated against by the southern high society ladies. But although there are some tear-jerking scenes between Celia and Minny, there is not enough substance to elevate these characters beyond the caricatures of the white trash matron and the Mammy.
Then, there is the third and most despicable main character, Skeeter. Technically, she is the heroine of book; the white woman who is going to help the condition of black domestics by writing about their lives and their relationships with their white employers. I am trying to not be offended that more than one person has told me Skeeter reminds them of me. I guess at twenty-three I too would have put lives at risk to get a book deal and a great job at a magazine in New York. Skeeter is completely selfish and reckless with the lives of her sources, who could have been severely punished under the Jim Crow laws for speaking out negatively against their white employers. Skeeter’s only intention with writing the book is to get the job that she wanted. She exploited and used black women to achieve her goals, which completely undermines the point of her book. The same implication can also be applied to Stockett and The Help. She takes on a somewhat noble pursuit but mostly just creates a watercooler topic that would appeal to book clubs. Sadly, she achieved her goal with this book. The marketing for this book is geared towards book clubs and general readers that propel books to the New York Times Best Seller List.
This book has all trappings of a book club sensation/Walmart end-cap. I am so done being trapped and tricked by lure of good reviews by general readers. I am officially done with the New York Times Best Sellers unless the books have also won the National Book Award, the Pulitzer, or the Mann Booker Prize. Life is too short for substandard popular books. I would have been better off spending my time reading To Kill a Mocking Bird. (No offense to my friends who like this book, but I found this work to be absolutely unpalatable.) It is weak on substance and downright pejorative. A close reading of this book reveals it to be highly racist and formulaic. All the black women talk in a Southern dialect and the white southern women all speak like the Queen of England. Any awareness that Stockett was trying to create is completely eroded by her caricatures, inconsistent language usage, improbable plot twists and racist stereotyping. The Help does not measure up to the hype in any way. Don’t waste your time or money.
Monday, August 23, 2010
No Mess Confetti
My children beg me to not throw them birthday parties. Friends avoid me during pregnancy, so I won't offer to host baby showers. My ladies group always comes up with excuses for why our quarterly tea should not be at my house. My husband never invites business associates over for dinner because he doesn't want to overwhelm me or cause me unnecessary work. He says sweet things like, "Our money is less valuable than your time" when he pays for birthday parties at the latest kiddie hotspot, which in our town changes about every month.
I am starting to think that my friends and family do not believe that I am capable of implementing a themed birthday party with homemade dinosaur shaped cupcakes or a black-tie dinner party that would use a complicated algorithm to determine the size of the canapé in relation to guest importance -- the more important guest the smaller the hors d'œuvres.
It is true that for my moms’ group cookie exchange that I used a Betty Crocker chocolate chip cookie mix, added cherry chips to make them look homemade, and of course, conveniently forgot to bring the recipe that was required. But, how else was I going to get Christmas cookies from people who knew what they were doing? Yes, I buy the most complicated pasta salad at Kingsoopers and place it in my own serving bowl every year for the neighborhood picnic and proudly say "thank you" when complimented for my culinary sophistication.
It is only when I try to do the work myself when it all falls apart in the form of a two-tiered round Funetti birthday cake that crumbled upon immediate pan removal. My eight-year-old spent her birthday trying to glue her cake back together with icing. She gave up and asked if we could go buy a Hannah Montana cake. I did buy her the cake, but there is hope for her ninth birth, which is nine months away. I plan on using tips and tricks found the home entertaining website: http://homeconfetti.blogspot.com/ (However, plans and follow through are two different concepts.)
Although it is not likely that I will implement a single creative idea from this fun and innovative website dedicated to entertaining, I always get a whimsical feeling that maybe someday I’ll make party invitations without cutting my fingers, bake cakes without setting off the smoke alarm, put something cute in my kids lunch boxes that was made by me and not found at Target. Perhaps the next time my sister has a baby, I could make the amazing Alphabet Block centerpiece created by the website designer opposed to just buying a gift and sending well-wishes from a far. Not likely, but it is nice to engage in a delightful domestic fantasy or two while I am standing in line at the finest bakery in town.
I am starting to think that my friends and family do not believe that I am capable of implementing a themed birthday party with homemade dinosaur shaped cupcakes or a black-tie dinner party that would use a complicated algorithm to determine the size of the canapé in relation to guest importance -- the more important guest the smaller the hors d'œuvres.
It is true that for my moms’ group cookie exchange that I used a Betty Crocker chocolate chip cookie mix, added cherry chips to make them look homemade, and of course, conveniently forgot to bring the recipe that was required. But, how else was I going to get Christmas cookies from people who knew what they were doing? Yes, I buy the most complicated pasta salad at Kingsoopers and place it in my own serving bowl every year for the neighborhood picnic and proudly say "thank you" when complimented for my culinary sophistication.
It is only when I try to do the work myself when it all falls apart in the form of a two-tiered round Funetti birthday cake that crumbled upon immediate pan removal. My eight-year-old spent her birthday trying to glue her cake back together with icing. She gave up and asked if we could go buy a Hannah Montana cake. I did buy her the cake, but there is hope for her ninth birth, which is nine months away. I plan on using tips and tricks found the home entertaining website: http://homeconfetti.blogspot.com/ (However, plans and follow through are two different concepts.)
Although it is not likely that I will implement a single creative idea from this fun and innovative website dedicated to entertaining, I always get a whimsical feeling that maybe someday I’ll make party invitations without cutting my fingers, bake cakes without setting off the smoke alarm, put something cute in my kids lunch boxes that was made by me and not found at Target. Perhaps the next time my sister has a baby, I could make the amazing Alphabet Block centerpiece created by the website designer opposed to just buying a gift and sending well-wishes from a far. Not likely, but it is nice to engage in a delightful domestic fantasy or two while I am standing in line at the finest bakery in town.
Friday, August 20, 2010
School Cures Slothfulness
Lazy summer days are wonderful if you are not a lazy. For the indolent, summer days equal slothfulness with a sunburn. When the schedule is wide-open and everything seems to be elective, it is easy to opt to do nothing. During the school year, we are slugs robed as overachievers, but without someone telling us when and where to go, we return to our natural languid ways. This is the problem my family faces every summer. I offer to sign-up the kids for baseball, soccer, math, chess, and science camps, but they always decline. I load our summer schedule with lunchtime concerts, storytimes, splash parks and hiking trails, and they refuse to leave the house. I am just their mom, not an institution with authority that they actually respect. Choosing to be go-getters during the summer seems counterintuitive to the whole concept of summer vacation, but by the end of summer, my kids start seeking structure and stimulation even if they do not admit. A few days before school started, my eleven-year-old son was taking practice ACT tests just for fun, and my eight-year-old daughter cleaned all three bathrooms without being asked (although this was probably more about my incompetence than actual boredom).
So when school started this week, there was no sadness. We love school and all the scheduling headaches that come along with it. The homework, the nightly sustained silent reading, math facts, name writing practice, digging up creative and interesting things for show-and-tell, soccer practices, football practices, chess club, horseback riding, Chinese class, piano lessons and swimming lessons. Scheduling conflicts and time management nightmares abound. How I am I suppose to be at soccer practice, football practice and working at the library all at the same time? Calendar chaos. This is what I love about the school year. I morph into the pushy, overbearing part-time working mother trying to create “well-balanced” children while simultaneously developing killer Facebook status updates to make all my mom friends feel completely inadequate. My children transform into those “hurried children” that appear on 20/20 and 60 Minutes exposés. For nine months of the year, my naturally lazy children are overachieving athletic and academic superstars.
This is why we love school.
So when school started this week, there was no sadness. We love school and all the scheduling headaches that come along with it. The homework, the nightly sustained silent reading, math facts, name writing practice, digging up creative and interesting things for show-and-tell, soccer practices, football practices, chess club, horseback riding, Chinese class, piano lessons and swimming lessons. Scheduling conflicts and time management nightmares abound. How I am I suppose to be at soccer practice, football practice and working at the library all at the same time? Calendar chaos. This is what I love about the school year. I morph into the pushy, overbearing part-time working mother trying to create “well-balanced” children while simultaneously developing killer Facebook status updates to make all my mom friends feel completely inadequate. My children transform into those “hurried children” that appear on 20/20 and 60 Minutes exposés. For nine months of the year, my naturally lazy children are overachieving athletic and academic superstars.
This is why we love school.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Damn Cotton Ball
Never understood those parents who cried on the first day of kindergarten. What is there to cry about? For seven hours, your kid becomes someone else’s problem. What is there not celebrate? Shopping with one less whiny kid. Housecleaning without PB&J hands undoing your work. Daytime television that has nothing to do with a purple dinosaur or a yellow bird. Plus, it isn’t too bad for the kid either. Reading, writing, cooperation, and self-expression through finger painting – those first crucial steps in their education that will lead them through high school graduation and onto college, finally giving you the space for that sewing room you always wanted. Kindergarten is just a good deal all around.
If I would have had a blog when my first two children went to kindergarten, I would have definitely made fun of those parental cry babies. But, this time around with my third child, kindergarten did not feel like a party. Keeping him at home seemed like a much better option, but he did not agree. He was kindergarten bound despite my reluctance. With his backpack firmly in place, he marched into the classroom covered in primary colors. As he proudly started his public education, I snapped photographs without a tear in my eye. Then, his teacher handed me a cotton ball with a piece of paper attached that said:
…As you hold this cotton ball in your hand, the softness will help you to recall the gentle spirit of your child. After you wiped your tears, take a deep breath and smile knowing that together we will both work to help your child grow to the best of their ability…
I sobbed all day until I retrieved my child from school.
He hugged me and said, “Kindergarten is awesome. It was the greatest day ever!”
If I would have had a blog when my first two children went to kindergarten, I would have definitely made fun of those parental cry babies. But, this time around with my third child, kindergarten did not feel like a party. Keeping him at home seemed like a much better option, but he did not agree. He was kindergarten bound despite my reluctance. With his backpack firmly in place, he marched into the classroom covered in primary colors. As he proudly started his public education, I snapped photographs without a tear in my eye. Then, his teacher handed me a cotton ball with a piece of paper attached that said:
…As you hold this cotton ball in your hand, the softness will help you to recall the gentle spirit of your child. After you wiped your tears, take a deep breath and smile knowing that together we will both work to help your child grow to the best of their ability…
I sobbed all day until I retrieved my child from school.
He hugged me and said, “Kindergarten is awesome. It was the greatest day ever!”
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A Needle of Time
Old. This is what she sees when she looks in the mirror. One needle prick to the forehead. Stress. This is why she never looks in the mirror. Second needle prick to the forehead. Many children in a few quick years. Third needle prick to the forehead. A husband who sees her but never looks at her. First needle prick to the right eye. A town full of college students. First needle prick to the left eye. The cover of Vogue. Second needle prick to the right eye. A party invitation with the word “reunion” embossed in gold. Second needle prick to the left eye. Thirty-seven years. Fifty units. Stretching, pulling, tightening and erasing of time.
As she tries to constrict and confine time, youth squirms in the table beside her.
Young but limited. One needle prick to his left calf. Ran like gazelle ahead of the pack. Now he limps like a wounded animal, not fully aware of his injury. Second needle prick to his left calf. A once pre-school switch hitter who is now too weak to hold a baseball bat. First injection to his left arm. A once monkey bar virtuoso who is now regulated to the slides and swings. Second injection to his left arm. Five-years-old. Twenty units. Injecting and projecting towards the childhood he should have.
As she tries to constrict and confine time, youth squirms in the table beside her.
Young but limited. One needle prick to his left calf. Ran like gazelle ahead of the pack. Now he limps like a wounded animal, not fully aware of his injury. Second needle prick to his left calf. A once pre-school switch hitter who is now too weak to hold a baseball bat. First injection to his left arm. A once monkey bar virtuoso who is now regulated to the slides and swings. Second injection to his left arm. Five-years-old. Twenty units. Injecting and projecting towards the childhood he should have.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Please Return My Husband’s Pants to the Forwarding Address
Attention Bargain Shoppers:
The next time you are at an unclaimed baggage store, if you see a lavender Joseph & Feiss button down men’s dress shirt that looks very masculine despite the color and a white Uomo Pronto button down dress shirt covered with fine blue and red stripes and a taupe pair of Givenchy pants with a small vinaigrette stain on the bottom left leg, please purchase them and return them to me. These items as well as the rest of my husband’s clothes, toiletries and laptop accessories were not abandoned and unclaimed as the title of the store suggests.
Would anyone take the time to pack luggage, lug it through the airport, and cope with unfriendly baggage handlers to only abandon their belongings in favor of going to their 8 a.m. business meeting naked? Unclaimed baggage is just another phrase for lost and incorrectly routed suitcases that were never tracked by down apathetic, disengaged union airline workers who don’t have the desire or ambition to execute their job well because they get a paycheck regardless of their actual work performance. Of course, if you tell airline workers that they suck at their jobs, you could be arrested by the Homeland Security Office. Good to see the United States Government protects the tired, the lazy, and the generally apathetic who do not make eye-contact or offer a modicum of customer service.
Is a little bit of compassion too much to expect when you lose your pants?
Please contact me if you find my husband’s pants.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
The next time you are at an unclaimed baggage store, if you see a lavender Joseph & Feiss button down men’s dress shirt that looks very masculine despite the color and a white Uomo Pronto button down dress shirt covered with fine blue and red stripes and a taupe pair of Givenchy pants with a small vinaigrette stain on the bottom left leg, please purchase them and return them to me. These items as well as the rest of my husband’s clothes, toiletries and laptop accessories were not abandoned and unclaimed as the title of the store suggests.
Would anyone take the time to pack luggage, lug it through the airport, and cope with unfriendly baggage handlers to only abandon their belongings in favor of going to their 8 a.m. business meeting naked? Unclaimed baggage is just another phrase for lost and incorrectly routed suitcases that were never tracked by down apathetic, disengaged union airline workers who don’t have the desire or ambition to execute their job well because they get a paycheck regardless of their actual work performance. Of course, if you tell airline workers that they suck at their jobs, you could be arrested by the Homeland Security Office. Good to see the United States Government protects the tired, the lazy, and the generally apathetic who do not make eye-contact or offer a modicum of customer service.
Is a little bit of compassion too much to expect when you lose your pants?
Please contact me if you find my husband’s pants.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
Monday, August 16, 2010
Paradise
My eleven-year-old who starts sixth grade today says that he is "happy to finally return to paradise."
So if school is paradise, what does that make home?
So if school is paradise, what does that make home?
Friday, August 13, 2010
Premature Maturity
Seeing signs that read "No Means No" and "Date Rape is a Crime" along a hallway for sixth graders is quite disturbing and I hope unnecessary.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Hug
Today, I hugged that man who rescued my son when God failed my family. While others prayed to a deity who allowed my child to be afflicted by continual seizures that ravaged the left side of his body, only one man laid hands and a scalpel on my child to end the seizures. The hand of God did not make an appearance and my son’s seemingly miraculous medical turnaround is not a miracle. It is the result of phenomenal technology, innovative medical research and the craftsmanship of one extraordinary surgeon. For months, my faith has been in doubt. My doubts have now vanished and I am once again a believer – a believer in science.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
On Reading Novels
Most of my library colleagues read one to three books a week. I don’t quite finish books at that speed. In fact, my monthly novel completion rates are so low that I fear that the American Library Association would take back my Master of Library Science degree if they discovered what a bibliographic slacker I am.
Fortunately, I compensate with name-dropping.
Fortunately, I compensate with name-dropping.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Candy
Milk chocolate candy bars, gummy worms, chocolate-covered cherries, or Sour Patch Kids. It doesn’t really matter. I am not that picky about my breakfast. Yes, I said breakfast, so please withdraw that judgment you just passed on me. It’s not like I am cooking up Meth in the garage. I never eat my sugary meal in front of the kids, and I always tell them that I eat a well-balanced breakfast high in protein and loaded with whole grains before they wake. Sometimes my daughter finds the wrappers only to scold with me the words, “Mom, you can’t eat sugar for breakfast and it is not good to lie either.” I refrain saying it is a coping strategy and instead make the kids chocolate chip pancakes covered in blueberry syrup a touch of a powered sugar and a dollop of whipped cream. The mood turns happy (for about three hours).
Monday, August 9, 2010
Sweet Rewards
Two weeks ago, my husband left me with four kids as he took off for Germany. I sent him with a duffel bag and clear instructions on what to bring back. No complicated, frivolous or expensive requests. I only requested one thing: Candy.
He delivered.
There is no substitute for my husband being at home with us, but if I had to come up with partially satisfying replacements, candy, marzipan, and loose leaf black tea would be good starts.
Thank you, my sweet husband.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Anticipation
Mopped floors, dusted book shelves, fresh sheets, sanitized toilets, Windex treatment on the mirrors, toys neatly tucked away in bins, laundry folded in drawers and sparkling clean coffee pot. New dress, new black pumps, new tube of pale pink lipstick with a glossy sheen, a spray tan and plucked eyebrows. Clean children and homemade chocolate pie. The return of one very handsome and adored husband.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
An Eleven-Year-Old's Review of 20TEN
After playing Prince's latest album 20Ten for my oldest child, his response was brief: "The music is awful and your dancing only makes it worse."
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Two Different Covers for the Same Book
I have a split bibliographic personality with the two facets coexisting in perfect harmony like both sides of a Shakespearean oxymoron. I am simultaneously a literary snob and an advocate of literacy through recreational reading. You will frequently hear me say that I do not read books that you can find on the end-caps at Walmart, and I would rather have all the blood sucked out of me than read a Stephenie Meyer book. I only read a New York Times Best Seller if it is an award winner or has received phenomenal reviews in some of the finest newspapers and magazines in the United States and the United Kingdom. I spend my time reading great books. I know they are great because someone with authority has told me so. I wait for book critics, professors, and prize committees to tell me what to read. When I am particularly desperate for a great new book, I ask for recommendations from my librarian co-workers who are professional reading advisers by trade. I am not ashamed to admit that I never pick out a book just because it has a provocative title or curious cover. Who has time to be wrong?
However, while I am donning my metaphorical librarian bun, my bibliophile elitism stays repressed and only my advocacy for literacy prevails. I support the tenet: A book for every reader and a reader for every book. This basically means that even the crap, according to my personal standards, deserves to be read and loved. When a patron tells me that James Patterson is great writer, I do not choke on my tongue. Instead, I give her more Patterson books than she can carry; too bad I can’t hire one of the assistants in the “Patterson Machine” to carry the books for her. And, when I am not distributing James Patterson books, I give out Twilight like relief workers in Africa give out Penicillin and rice. I would be a wealthy women if I got paid every time, I handed out Star Wars, Pokémon, The Diary of a Wimpy Kid, or Daisy Meadow's fairy books -- all dreadful books that appeal to reluctant readers. Heck, I have even added David Pilkey’s Captain Underpants series and his Ricky Ricotta’s Mighty Robot books to my list of regular recommendations for kids who do not like to read. It is not great literature, but all readers need to start somewhere. David Pilkey today, Lois Lowry tomorrow?
However, while I am donning my metaphorical librarian bun, my bibliophile elitism stays repressed and only my advocacy for literacy prevails. I support the tenet: A book for every reader and a reader for every book. This basically means that even the crap, according to my personal standards, deserves to be read and loved. When a patron tells me that James Patterson is great writer, I do not choke on my tongue. Instead, I give her more Patterson books than she can carry; too bad I can’t hire one of the assistants in the “Patterson Machine” to carry the books for her. And, when I am not distributing James Patterson books, I give out Twilight like relief workers in Africa give out Penicillin and rice. I would be a wealthy women if I got paid every time, I handed out Star Wars, Pokémon, The Diary of a Wimpy Kid, or Daisy Meadow's fairy books -- all dreadful books that appeal to reluctant readers. Heck, I have even added David Pilkey’s Captain Underpants series and his Ricky Ricotta’s Mighty Robot books to my list of regular recommendations for kids who do not like to read. It is not great literature, but all readers need to start somewhere. David Pilkey today, Lois Lowry tomorrow?
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Not Sexy, Sweaty or Pretty: Get Over It
If I want to learn how to make minestrone, chicken cacciatore and spinach frittatas, I can pay $44 and head to the local recreation center for a three-week class on Italian cooking. After ingesting an abundance of carbohydrates, I could take a clogging class, throw some pottery, or learn the basics of cartooning. If I was looking for a low-cost outdoor adventure, I could go hiking, break out the bow and arrow for some archery, or tackle my fear of heights with rock climbing. If I was an athlete looking for a team sport, I could play basketball, flag football, softball, or kickball.
However, the one thing that I cannot do at the recreation center is take a writing class other than “How to Be Travel Writer.” It is true that short story writing, poetry creation and playwriting classes do not result in a bunch of sweaty guys drinking bottled water or culminate with cheesy watercolor paintings of sailboats and wild flowers configured with a poor sense of perspective and illogical proportions, but the end result of a writing class is no less than dramatic than a good kickball game and no less creative than fusing glass or making a mosaic in a day.
Sure, the administrators at the recreation center can blame their exclusion of writing classes on a lack of instructors and limited participation. This is the excuse they gave me last Fall when they canceled the playwriting class that signed-up for in order to have some guidance to complete the my one-act play. Their bureaucratic and pleasant response to pacify me and to subdue my outrage actually was just an attempt to conceal the fact that writing classes are not sexy or marketable. E.B. White was absolutely correct when he asserted that essayists are second class citizens, and in my town all writers are dismissed. We are unappealing to recreation planners because writers are mostly grumpy and moderately crazy. Our craft is horribly laborious and tiresome. There is no instant gratification as in the case of swimming, bingo playing, and belly dancing.
It also appears that our community college has adopted the same discriminatory attitude against writing classes on their roster of non-credit continuing education classes. I could learn how to improve my digital photography, pick up some conversational Spanish, or enroll in a motorcycle riding class, but I will not be learning anything about plot or setting in a junior college environment that should want to promote communication. With both affordable outlets blatantly ignoring “writerly types” in the community, I am left with the option of taking classes with the local writers group (which I think consists of scam artists who prey upon people’s dreams of becoming bestselling authors), or enrolling at the state university down the street and subjecting myself to high expectations, stern demands, tough criticism, a heavy workload and grades. I was looking for cheap and easy, not an expensive commitment that will just result in self-loathing.
So kids, here is the lesson to be learned from my dilemma: pick a hobby that either results in body secretions or pretty works of art.
However, the one thing that I cannot do at the recreation center is take a writing class other than “How to Be Travel Writer.” It is true that short story writing, poetry creation and playwriting classes do not result in a bunch of sweaty guys drinking bottled water or culminate with cheesy watercolor paintings of sailboats and wild flowers configured with a poor sense of perspective and illogical proportions, but the end result of a writing class is no less than dramatic than a good kickball game and no less creative than fusing glass or making a mosaic in a day.
Sure, the administrators at the recreation center can blame their exclusion of writing classes on a lack of instructors and limited participation. This is the excuse they gave me last Fall when they canceled the playwriting class that signed-up for in order to have some guidance to complete the my one-act play. Their bureaucratic and pleasant response to pacify me and to subdue my outrage actually was just an attempt to conceal the fact that writing classes are not sexy or marketable. E.B. White was absolutely correct when he asserted that essayists are second class citizens, and in my town all writers are dismissed. We are unappealing to recreation planners because writers are mostly grumpy and moderately crazy. Our craft is horribly laborious and tiresome. There is no instant gratification as in the case of swimming, bingo playing, and belly dancing.
It also appears that our community college has adopted the same discriminatory attitude against writing classes on their roster of non-credit continuing education classes. I could learn how to improve my digital photography, pick up some conversational Spanish, or enroll in a motorcycle riding class, but I will not be learning anything about plot or setting in a junior college environment that should want to promote communication. With both affordable outlets blatantly ignoring “writerly types” in the community, I am left with the option of taking classes with the local writers group (which I think consists of scam artists who prey upon people’s dreams of becoming bestselling authors), or enrolling at the state university down the street and subjecting myself to high expectations, stern demands, tough criticism, a heavy workload and grades. I was looking for cheap and easy, not an expensive commitment that will just result in self-loathing.
So kids, here is the lesson to be learned from my dilemma: pick a hobby that either results in body secretions or pretty works of art.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Two Year Anniversary of Being T.V. Free
A family relocated in Colorado with their T.V. stuck in the Lone Star State equals a crisis of Texas-size proportions. Panic struck the household for about two weeks, and the kids had nothing to do but punch each other and throw their toys all over the floor. Eventually, their sibling fights became theatrical Kung Fu street fights in homemade dramas and the mess making was replaced by craft creation.
The number of books read in the household tripled and family game night meant playing Uno and Rummikub instead of watching a football game. Family hikes, backyard baseball games and Frisbee throwing occurred many times a week. I started blogging shortly after our television moratorium and wrote roughly 500 to 1000 words daily, spending about as much time writing as I previously spent watching soap operas during the day.
We were one-hundred percent television free for about a year until the discovery of the Hulu. Then, it went to hell for most of the family, except for me who has not watch a television show on a computer or television set since June 17, 2008. (However, there has been a strong case made that I have replaced my television time with Facebook; there might be something to that argument.) With the use of Hulu, the kids just duplicated their old TV watching patterns. A huge, disappointing setback until I figured out a little thing called password protection. I now hold the key or should I say password for their TV watching.
Being a T.V. free family is not easy. As most moms know, television sets are great babysitters even if our pediatricians do not approve. But once screen time is eliminated, family communication, physical activity, and creativity appear more regularly and fully.
The number of books read in the household tripled and family game night meant playing Uno and Rummikub instead of watching a football game. Family hikes, backyard baseball games and Frisbee throwing occurred many times a week. I started blogging shortly after our television moratorium and wrote roughly 500 to 1000 words daily, spending about as much time writing as I previously spent watching soap operas during the day.
We were one-hundred percent television free for about a year until the discovery of the Hulu. Then, it went to hell for most of the family, except for me who has not watch a television show on a computer or television set since June 17, 2008. (However, there has been a strong case made that I have replaced my television time with Facebook; there might be something to that argument.) With the use of Hulu, the kids just duplicated their old TV watching patterns. A huge, disappointing setback until I figured out a little thing called password protection. I now hold the key or should I say password for their TV watching.
Being a T.V. free family is not easy. As most moms know, television sets are great babysitters even if our pediatricians do not approve. But once screen time is eliminated, family communication, physical activity, and creativity appear more regularly and fully.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Muma and Pookie
Her trembling fingers made her knitting needles clink together like drumsticks in the hands of a novice, but she was no neophyte. A three time Blue Ribbon Winner at the local farm show and a two time Honorable Mention in the county fair, Muma (the appellation given to her by her oldest granddaughter and pronounced muhm-uh) was a champion knitter who did not allow her arthritis to thwart her while she alternated her knit stitches and purl stitches with an occasional Italian curse word. Celebrex did not stop her pain, and neither did the stroking of her Rosary beads, but she developed an addiction to both. She rocked back and forth in her shabby and tattered blue recliner that surprisingly never crumbled under her rotund figure, commonly associated with Italian grandmothers who hocked Ragu spaghetti sauce on television. She intended to make five blankets—one for each of her grandchildren—while she still had some yarn.
She twisted burgundy and rose together in a traditional two-row afghan for her first grandchild, Pookie, who sat at her feet spinning a different kind of yarn. Pookie, a seventeen-year-old self-proclaimed feminist, had no time to learn how to knit, and she never paid attention when she was forced to make pizza dough or homemade pasta. Domesticity seemed futile and frivolous in relation to her plans for an adventurous career in tabloid journalism, mostly focused on UFO sightings, Elvis conspiracy theories, and alien babies opposed to predictable and mean-spirited celebrity gossip.
“Please tell me, Muma, the story about what happened in the kitchen,” said Pookie.
Muma sighed, continued to twist the yarn, and replied: “You already know this story. It is nothing really special and no one knows for sure what happened. It was his word against hers, and she was too dead to talk. The police weren’t able to prove a thing. My brother-in-laws, your great uncles believed that their mother, your great grandmother Magdalene was shooting off her mouth; probably telling your great grandfather to stop drinking, work more hours at the railroad, pick up his clothes off the floor or something like that. Supposedly, she was a real nag of a woman. Your great grandfather, who was known for his temper, his love of his booze and his preference for young women, probably threw her against the wall. She hit her head and died immediately. Grandpa Rudolph never confessed, and the police ruled it an accident. It was an accident and not a murder, which is why the family never sold the house. I still use Magdalene’s ravioli recipe to this day in her house.”
Disappointed by her grandmother’s disinterested delivery of the most scandalous story in the family’s history, Pookie moved onto a mystery that captured Muma’s imagination—the disappearance Amelia Earhart. Muma, who was 19 at the time of the pilot’s failed trip around the world, recounted all details of each explanation of her disappearance and insisted the female pilot simply was too astute to run out of gas or to navigate to the wrong destination. Bad flight planning, sudden crash, or capture and murder by the Japanese. These theories bored Pookie, but stitch by stitch Muma tangled the clues into the blue and gold blanket for the second grandchild.
By the time Muma started the third blanket, the setting changed once again. This time to a poor Italian immigrant community along the Jersey shore. Muma was the third oldest out of eleven children, 7 girls and 4 boys. The sisters shared two adjoining bedrooms and divided up shoes, dresses and make-up. None of them were allowed to date, so they would take turns covering for each other. When the youngest daughter ended up pregnant at the age of 16, a baby boy named Anthony was adopted by the oldest sister and her husband. Muma told Pookie never to repeat the story. It was a family secret that no one knew (Her recounting was the third time that her granddaughter heard that tale).
The fourth blanket started with the romance of Muma and her husband Rodolpho, who was called Rody. She was working as a waitress, and he was regular customer. He tried to pay her with sand dollars when she explained with a stern but slightly flirtatious tone that only legal tender could be accepted, he offered to pay dollar bills if she would go for a walk on the beach with him. She accepted, and they were married 7 months later. She gave birth to her first daughter at the age of 35 and the second daughter came along when she was 37. The second birth occurred in 1954 when women were more concerned about traditional maternal moirés than the risks of “advanced maternal age.” After telling the tale of her daughters’ births, Muma completed a navy blue and white blanket for the Pookie’s oldest cousin.
With four blankets complete and one blanket to go, Pookie assumed that with every stitch and with every word, they will get another minute that would turn into another day, another week, another year. Muma would knit and Pookie would record stories as if they were characters in a magic realism novel creating a great blanket of words and fibers that would be thicker than the Tallgrass Prairie and longer than Appalachian Mountain Range.
Pookie planned to delay the completion of the fifth blanket, an elaborate royal blue and cream pattern. The twisting and twirling started with the death of Rody and Muma’s life as a widow and a single-mother to two girls, ages 5 and 3. As a woman with an eighth-grade education, she took a job at the local shoe factory; she put buckles on women’s shoes until her knuckles bled. They were poor but proud. Both girls stayed out of trouble, married young, and never took the time to learn how to knit. They both dreamed of store bought clothes and new furniture. “My hopes for them came true,” she said as she completed the fifth blanket, and a few weeks later, all her knitting came to an end. The five blankets were distributed to the five grandchildren.
Today, Pookie keeps the yarn alive as she tells her own daughter about the mysterious death of the woman who created the family’s ravioli recipe.
She twisted burgundy and rose together in a traditional two-row afghan for her first grandchild, Pookie, who sat at her feet spinning a different kind of yarn. Pookie, a seventeen-year-old self-proclaimed feminist, had no time to learn how to knit, and she never paid attention when she was forced to make pizza dough or homemade pasta. Domesticity seemed futile and frivolous in relation to her plans for an adventurous career in tabloid journalism, mostly focused on UFO sightings, Elvis conspiracy theories, and alien babies opposed to predictable and mean-spirited celebrity gossip.
“Please tell me, Muma, the story about what happened in the kitchen,” said Pookie.
Muma sighed, continued to twist the yarn, and replied: “You already know this story. It is nothing really special and no one knows for sure what happened. It was his word against hers, and she was too dead to talk. The police weren’t able to prove a thing. My brother-in-laws, your great uncles believed that their mother, your great grandmother Magdalene was shooting off her mouth; probably telling your great grandfather to stop drinking, work more hours at the railroad, pick up his clothes off the floor or something like that. Supposedly, she was a real nag of a woman. Your great grandfather, who was known for his temper, his love of his booze and his preference for young women, probably threw her against the wall. She hit her head and died immediately. Grandpa Rudolph never confessed, and the police ruled it an accident. It was an accident and not a murder, which is why the family never sold the house. I still use Magdalene’s ravioli recipe to this day in her house.”
Disappointed by her grandmother’s disinterested delivery of the most scandalous story in the family’s history, Pookie moved onto a mystery that captured Muma’s imagination—the disappearance Amelia Earhart. Muma, who was 19 at the time of the pilot’s failed trip around the world, recounted all details of each explanation of her disappearance and insisted the female pilot simply was too astute to run out of gas or to navigate to the wrong destination. Bad flight planning, sudden crash, or capture and murder by the Japanese. These theories bored Pookie, but stitch by stitch Muma tangled the clues into the blue and gold blanket for the second grandchild.
By the time Muma started the third blanket, the setting changed once again. This time to a poor Italian immigrant community along the Jersey shore. Muma was the third oldest out of eleven children, 7 girls and 4 boys. The sisters shared two adjoining bedrooms and divided up shoes, dresses and make-up. None of them were allowed to date, so they would take turns covering for each other. When the youngest daughter ended up pregnant at the age of 16, a baby boy named Anthony was adopted by the oldest sister and her husband. Muma told Pookie never to repeat the story. It was a family secret that no one knew (Her recounting was the third time that her granddaughter heard that tale).
The fourth blanket started with the romance of Muma and her husband Rodolpho, who was called Rody. She was working as a waitress, and he was regular customer. He tried to pay her with sand dollars when she explained with a stern but slightly flirtatious tone that only legal tender could be accepted, he offered to pay dollar bills if she would go for a walk on the beach with him. She accepted, and they were married 7 months later. She gave birth to her first daughter at the age of 35 and the second daughter came along when she was 37. The second birth occurred in 1954 when women were more concerned about traditional maternal moirés than the risks of “advanced maternal age.” After telling the tale of her daughters’ births, Muma completed a navy blue and white blanket for the Pookie’s oldest cousin.
With four blankets complete and one blanket to go, Pookie assumed that with every stitch and with every word, they will get another minute that would turn into another day, another week, another year. Muma would knit and Pookie would record stories as if they were characters in a magic realism novel creating a great blanket of words and fibers that would be thicker than the Tallgrass Prairie and longer than Appalachian Mountain Range.
Pookie planned to delay the completion of the fifth blanket, an elaborate royal blue and cream pattern. The twisting and twirling started with the death of Rody and Muma’s life as a widow and a single-mother to two girls, ages 5 and 3. As a woman with an eighth-grade education, she took a job at the local shoe factory; she put buckles on women’s shoes until her knuckles bled. They were poor but proud. Both girls stayed out of trouble, married young, and never took the time to learn how to knit. They both dreamed of store bought clothes and new furniture. “My hopes for them came true,” she said as she completed the fifth blanket, and a few weeks later, all her knitting came to an end. The five blankets were distributed to the five grandchildren.
Today, Pookie keeps the yarn alive as she tells her own daughter about the mysterious death of the woman who created the family’s ravioli recipe.
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