"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."
Friday, January 28, 2011
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.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
New Year, New Goals
I never make New Year’s Resolutions. Making a resolution would be admitting to myself and everyone else (if I dared to put my plans for change on my blog) that I indeed have flaws and areas for improvement. Sure, it probably would not hurt me to add some fruits, vegetables, cheese and yogurt to my diet and cut out a few candy lunches. And yes, tucking aside a little money for the kids’ college education would be a worthwhile endeavor. Being able to find my keyboard under a pile of books and papers might be an advisable pursuit. Likewise, a daily exercise plan would be probably be great for my ass and attitude, but resolving to have a neater office, a richer bank account and a healthier body is just too much of a commitment.
I prefer goal-setting over resolution making. More shades of gray exist in the realm of achieving goals opposed to keeping resolutions, which is a good thing because I failed miserably at my 2010 goals. On January 1, 2010, I set two goals for myself: Learn how to bake cookies without crisp, black smoke emanating bottoms and to complete my one-act play with the working title, “For the Love of a Dead Woman.”
At the time, my goals seemed to be reasonable and attainable unlike past goals of achieving abs that look like Adriana Lima’s, learning Italian in three months, and reading a book a week. But indeed, I set the bar too high yet again.
On the cookie front, I attempted to increase my chances for success by purchasing air-bake cookie sheets (guaranteed to prevent charred bottoms), a cookie baller (a cross between a melon baller and an ice cream scoop that ensures that all cookies are the same size), and a Betty Crocker Cookie Cookbook with easy, semi-homemade recipes that use Betty Crocker cookie mixes as the foundation. With a full arsenal of cookie baking gadgets, I was equipped for success. Indeed, I baked cookies that did not have black bottoms but instead the air-bake cookie sheets prevented crisping to the point that the centers fell out of all my cookies regardless of size, consistency, or type. Once again, I was left scrambling for cookies to take to the Annual Cookie Exchange, so I took the chocolate and peanut butter cups that my eight-year-old daughter made. Of course, I claimed full bakership.
Sadly, my efforts on my one-act play were even less successful than my cookie baking attempts. In an entire year, I added four lines and changed two stage directions that I originally wrote in July 2009. Perhaps I will write a few more lines in 2011.
But what other goals will I try to achieve in 2011? My main goal is to not set expectations too high for myself. So perhaps I’ll finish some books, particularly The Confederacy of the Dunces and The Elegance of a Hedgehog; I might walk somewhere briskly if the weather is warm and I am wearing the proper shoes; I might eat salad if made with spinach, mushrooms and Mandarin oranges; I probably will file a paper or two; and, I could possibly edit and re-write a few of my favorite blog posts. I plan on using my new camera for more than family photos, perhaps even a few artistic shots are in my future. I hope to mail birthday and holiday cards to relatives on time, and I might even bake a cookie with melt in your mouth perfection.
Chances are I won’t do most of the things on the list. But, with a list so long and so vague, some success in 2011 should be eminent.
I prefer goal-setting over resolution making. More shades of gray exist in the realm of achieving goals opposed to keeping resolutions, which is a good thing because I failed miserably at my 2010 goals. On January 1, 2010, I set two goals for myself: Learn how to bake cookies without crisp, black smoke emanating bottoms and to complete my one-act play with the working title, “For the Love of a Dead Woman.”
At the time, my goals seemed to be reasonable and attainable unlike past goals of achieving abs that look like Adriana Lima’s, learning Italian in three months, and reading a book a week. But indeed, I set the bar too high yet again.
On the cookie front, I attempted to increase my chances for success by purchasing air-bake cookie sheets (guaranteed to prevent charred bottoms), a cookie baller (a cross between a melon baller and an ice cream scoop that ensures that all cookies are the same size), and a Betty Crocker Cookie Cookbook with easy, semi-homemade recipes that use Betty Crocker cookie mixes as the foundation. With a full arsenal of cookie baking gadgets, I was equipped for success. Indeed, I baked cookies that did not have black bottoms but instead the air-bake cookie sheets prevented crisping to the point that the centers fell out of all my cookies regardless of size, consistency, or type. Once again, I was left scrambling for cookies to take to the Annual Cookie Exchange, so I took the chocolate and peanut butter cups that my eight-year-old daughter made. Of course, I claimed full bakership.
Sadly, my efforts on my one-act play were even less successful than my cookie baking attempts. In an entire year, I added four lines and changed two stage directions that I originally wrote in July 2009. Perhaps I will write a few more lines in 2011.
But what other goals will I try to achieve in 2011? My main goal is to not set expectations too high for myself. So perhaps I’ll finish some books, particularly The Confederacy of the Dunces and The Elegance of a Hedgehog; I might walk somewhere briskly if the weather is warm and I am wearing the proper shoes; I might eat salad if made with spinach, mushrooms and Mandarin oranges; I probably will file a paper or two; and, I could possibly edit and re-write a few of my favorite blog posts. I plan on using my new camera for more than family photos, perhaps even a few artistic shots are in my future. I hope to mail birthday and holiday cards to relatives on time, and I might even bake a cookie with melt in your mouth perfection.
Chances are I won’t do most of the things on the list. But, with a list so long and so vague, some success in 2011 should be eminent.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The Marriage of Black-Eyed Peas and Sauerkraut
“Eat it. Eat now. It is just one bite,” said the Garbageman’s Wife.
“No. The smell is killing me,” I replied.
“Now! You need it for good luck,” insisted the Garbageman.
“No. I am good with bad luck,” I said.
“Now. Your brother and sister already had theirs. You’ll sit here all day,” he said.
Three hours later, I held my nose and swallowed the sauerkraut in hopes that my newly digested good luck would come in the form of a boyfriend, front-page placement in the school newspaper and an “A” in math class. This tradition continued every year until I graduated from college and moved far enough away to not smell the annual stench of rotten cabbage that wafted across three state lines.
Living in Texas where they eat black peas and cabbage (the non-kraut, non-rotten still edible variety) on New Year’s Day, I no longer had to engage in the Pennsylvania Dutch Tradition of sauerkraut, pork, mashed potatoes (yet another food with a bizarre unappealing consistency that caused me to sit hours at the dinner table) and dumplings. Finally, I could eat pork and dumplings without them being tainted by lumps and putridity. Or, so I thought until my then boyfriend now husband decided that he wanted to go Pennsylvania Dutch for the New Year.
So for the past fifteen years, I have been stinking up my kitchen for my Texan and my half-Texan, half-Pennsylvanian children who mostly love sauerkraut. This year will be no different; I will throw two pork roasts into a pan loaded with lots of sauerkraut. Once the pork becomes tender and juicy, I will toss a Bisquick mixture over the bubbling juices to create fresh dumplings. Potatoes will be loosely mashed and mixed with butter and heavy cream on the stove-top. A small pot of black-eye peas will be warmed for the Texan by marriage. Much like the amalgamation that occurs when cornbread dressing and bread stuffing both appear on our table on Christmas Day; our New Year’s Day meal is truly a unification of cultures and childhood traditions.
After the New Year’s Day feast is complete, the family will commune at the table in a stench-filled dining room for a lucky meal. My boys will beg for more sauerkraut and mashed potatoes, and once again, I will hold my nose and digest a mouthful of stinky, rotten good luck. If sauerkraut is the taste of good luck, what is the taste of bad luck?
“No. The smell is killing me,” I replied.
“Now! You need it for good luck,” insisted the Garbageman.
“No. I am good with bad luck,” I said.
“Now. Your brother and sister already had theirs. You’ll sit here all day,” he said.
Three hours later, I held my nose and swallowed the sauerkraut in hopes that my newly digested good luck would come in the form of a boyfriend, front-page placement in the school newspaper and an “A” in math class. This tradition continued every year until I graduated from college and moved far enough away to not smell the annual stench of rotten cabbage that wafted across three state lines.
Living in Texas where they eat black peas and cabbage (the non-kraut, non-rotten still edible variety) on New Year’s Day, I no longer had to engage in the Pennsylvania Dutch Tradition of sauerkraut, pork, mashed potatoes (yet another food with a bizarre unappealing consistency that caused me to sit hours at the dinner table) and dumplings. Finally, I could eat pork and dumplings without them being tainted by lumps and putridity. Or, so I thought until my then boyfriend now husband decided that he wanted to go Pennsylvania Dutch for the New Year.
So for the past fifteen years, I have been stinking up my kitchen for my Texan and my half-Texan, half-Pennsylvanian children who mostly love sauerkraut. This year will be no different; I will throw two pork roasts into a pan loaded with lots of sauerkraut. Once the pork becomes tender and juicy, I will toss a Bisquick mixture over the bubbling juices to create fresh dumplings. Potatoes will be loosely mashed and mixed with butter and heavy cream on the stove-top. A small pot of black-eye peas will be warmed for the Texan by marriage. Much like the amalgamation that occurs when cornbread dressing and bread stuffing both appear on our table on Christmas Day; our New Year’s Day meal is truly a unification of cultures and childhood traditions.
After the New Year’s Day feast is complete, the family will commune at the table in a stench-filled dining room for a lucky meal. My boys will beg for more sauerkraut and mashed potatoes, and once again, I will hold my nose and digest a mouthful of stinky, rotten good luck. If sauerkraut is the taste of good luck, what is the taste of bad luck?
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