Audiobooks: My House Has Never Been So Clean

The days of audiobooks being for long car rides or marathon training are long gone.  With smartphones, apps, easy downloadables and expectations of frantic multitasking, the audiobook has moved from the car stereo and portable CD player to the palm of our hands and our back-pockets.   

Downloadable audiobooks are not just a trend; they are significant part of how readers now enjoy books. Here are just a few advantages to using downloadable audiobooks:  

1.     Great way to pad your Goodreads reading list.  It is true listening to a book is equivalent reading a book, so you can double or triple your book completion rate by listening to books while multitasking. Time to burn through that list of Classics that you have wanted to get back to since college.

2.     No need for dancing breaks. Listening to music is great for housecleaning, but in my case results in far too many dancing breaks; whereas, my hyper-focused audiobook listening frequently results in cleaning the same spot a few times. Who knew dusting could be so relaxing and thought-provoking?

3.     Spoken-language is beautiful. Hearing words read out loud is a different experience than reading silently in your read. Sometimes adults need to storytime too. Feels good all over.

4.     Audiobooks can make an average book great. A great audiobook reader takes the mundane and makes it spectacular. Case in point: Most of my book club thought that Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain was average to good. I initially gave it two thumbs-up until someone asked me, “Did you think the dog was talking to you?” Yes! Yes, I did.       

Enjoying audiobooks has never been so simple with products like Audible (a fee-based subscription service from Amazon); Overdrive (a free service available at most libraries with your library card) and OneClick (also a free service available at most libraries with your library card).    

Two Old Ladies and a Book Club

Two elderly ladies walk up to the reference desk, "Could you please show me where the book club kits are?"

I escort the women to the shelf with more than 30 kits and explain that each kit has 10 books and a manual with discussion questions, author information, and a sign-out sheet. I ask, "How many people do you have in your book club?"

First woman says, "About 7 or 8. Who knows how many we'll have by the meeting. They seem to be dropping like flies."

Second woman says, "Dying or quitting."

First woman says to second woman, "Dying. We lost one a few weeks ago. Do you want her spot?"

Banned Books Week: Celebrate Your Right to Read

Obscene, blasphemous, violent, smutty, gory, profane, and racially charged—this is how the censors describe some books. They say, “No.” They say you can’t read it. They say that they know better. They say they are protecting children and preserving values in the community. They say, “No.”

“Yes” is what I say.  Yes, you can have what you want to read. Ask me and I will do my best to give you “obscene, blasphemous, violent, smutty, gory, profane, and racially charged” if that is what you want. If that is not what you want, I will help you find what you do want.

I am public librarian. I will protect and defend your right to read whatever you want, even if you are a kid. I do this each and every day. But, this week is particularly special because it is Banned Books Week, an annual event celebrating the freedom to read. It was launched in 1982 in response to a sudden surge in the number of challenges to books in schools, bookstores and libraries. According to the American Library Association, more than 1,300 books have been challenged since the inception of the event.

This year, I am defending your right to read about underwear clad superheroes, gay penguins, bondage, ghosts and a potty-mouthed Native American. All these topics have been the subject of book challenges. According to the American Library Association, there were 464 challenges reported to the Office of Intellectual Freedom in 2012, and many more go unreported. The 10 most challenged titles of 2012 were:

1. Captain Underpants (series), by Dav Pilkey
   Reasons: Offensive language, unsuited for age group

2. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, by Sherman Alexie
   Reasons: Offensive language, racism, sexually explicit, unsuited for age group

3. Thirteen Reasons Why, by Jay Asher
   Reasons: Drugs/alcohol/smoking, sexually explicit, suicide, unsuited for age group

4. Fifty Shades of Grey, by E. L. James.
   Reasons: Offensive language, sexually explicit

5. And Tango Makes Three, by Peter Parnell and Justin Richardson.
   Reasons: Homosexuality, unsuited for age group

6. The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini.
   Reasons: Homosexuality, offensive language, religious viewpoint, sexually explicit

7. Looking for Alaska, by John Green.
   Reasons: Offensive language, sexually explicit, unsuited for age group

8. Scary Stories (series), by Alvin Schwartz
   Reasons: Unsuited for age group, violence

9. The Glass Castle, by Jeanette Walls
   Reasons: Offensive language, sexually explicit

10. Beloved, by Toni Morrison
    Reasons: Sexually explicit, religious viewpoint, violence

Garbageman's Daughter and the Limerick

The first day of National Poetry Month seems like a swell time to take on limerick writing.

There once was a Garbageman’s Daughter    

Who really looked much like her father

She liked to make messes

And never confesses

She was just a Garbageman’s Daughter



The Haircut

 “Justin Bieber got a haircut and it looks stupid,” she said as entered her family’s mini-van.  

“Well, hello to you too. And, just so you know a talentless pop star’s hair is no concern of yours. Smart girls think about their future and their needs. They think about their homework and getting the best grade in the class. As a smart girl, you should take pride in the fact that you are learning both Spanish and Chinese. You should be proud that you are as good at math as any boy in your class. You don’t have to worry about silly boys and their stupid hair because you are a smart.”

Before I could say that to my ten-year-old daughter, I saw this image:

 

Hundreds of my hours have been lost looking at, daydreaming about and obsessing over this man’s hair. You cannot love Prince’s music and not have strong emotions about his hair. Just can’t be done.  Now when I say hundreds of hours, I am not talking about flipping through Tiger Beat when I was a kid and Prince was a pop phenomenon.  I am talking about putting the kids in front the T.V. with a bag of goldfish, so I could read the endless chatter about the Purple Wonder’s  follicles.

There is one theory that he keeps his short when he is in love. (Disagree. His hair  was shaggy and sexy when he was married to Mayte.)  Then, there is the belief that he changes his hairstyle based on type of musical genre he is pursuing at the time. Short hair for the French-style music of 40s in Under the Cherry Moon and long, rock-n-roll hair for Graffitti Bridge. Then of course, everyone wants to know if he wears a wig or hair plugs.

Personally, the pictures of Prince with long hair induces much rapid hand-fanning and longing gauzes at the computer screen on my part. And, I do love the new Afro because it makes me think back to the days when he was young and was just plain filthy.

So with this image dancing around in my head:

 

I answered, “His hair will grow back. Look at Julia Roberts and Kerri Russell. They both endured bad haircuts and survived. However, cutting Justin Timberlake’s curls was just a bad idea. Those cute little ringlets distracted from the fact that boy just can’t sing.”

  

 

Forgotten and Found

Forgotten

No evidence exists to understand why they forgot. It is unknown if he or she briefly remembered and intentionally forgot. Or, if sadness, apathy, anger, or hatred ran so deep that the mind simply refused to remember.

So when it was reported to her via email around 8 p.m. on a Thursday evening, “Mom called today to say Happy Anniversary,” she continued with her work at a nearby library. Champagne corks remained unpopped, celebratory kisses remained trapped behind depressed lips. There was no mention that this was the anniversary of when they promised themselves to each other ten years ago. They slept side by side like two half-moons whose arcs nearly collide but remain separated by the vacuousness of loneliness.

There was nothing left to do but to divide belongings, decide the least detrimental way to let the house slide from their grip and determine the fate of their children. They were falling down a snow-covered hill, no longer fresh and beautiful, but now filled pebbles, dirt, and dead weeds that cut into their unprotected skins as they tumbled. The free-fall could not be stopped. When they hit the bottom, nothing would remain.

Found

But, they did not die. Only material goods were lost. So like nomads, they left in middle of the night with the children and very few belongings. They headed West like so many restless wanderers before them in hopes of something better.  He told her she was beautiful. She cooked his favorite meals. There were flowers, walks, and holding hands until they fell asleep. They lived in house with no furniture but slowly piece by piece, the house became full again.  

 

Happy 15th Anniversary to my loving, steadfast husband.

Open Letter to Santa: You Failed Me!

Dear Santa:

I am writing today to say, “You screwed me over.”  You screwed me over big time. Look to the left, Santa. What do you see?   A smiling boy and you.

I see a missed opportunity.  I see Santa Clause slacking off and depriving me of a treasured moment as a parent – the screaming child picture.  What is wrong with you? Do you not know how to give a little pinch? Can you not whisper, “My reindeer love to eat two-year-olds.”?

There is nothing more horrific but yet oddly amusing about young children screaming like they are watching the stuffing being pulled out of their favorite teddy bears.  Tears make great photographs. Childhood smiles are a First World indulgence.

So Santa, you owe me.  I would like to you to scour the Earth and steal every Elf on the Shelf cleverly hanging from chandeliers and sticking out of silverware drawers. All stockings should be filled with broccoli and carrots.  Toys should be replaced with unwanted clothes, and wanted clothes should be replaced with canned goods.

All I want for Christmas this year are a few million crying children. If you follow my conditions, I will forgive you for not giving me this:

 Sincerely,

Garbageman’s Daughter

When Politics are Too Personal to Keep Private: Why I Am No Longer a Closeted Democrat

Author's Note: This originally appeared as a guest blog post on Growing Up Fort Collins (http://growingupfortcollins.com) on November 6, 2012.

Politics are personal, too private to share. You should never tell anyone who you supported with your vote. This is the lesson I learned in a tenth grade political science class. Good advice and a recommendation that I intended to follow my entire life. I planned to never share my political leanings with extended family, friends, or co-workers for three reasons. First, I did not want to give my kids something to rebel against. As a daughter of a lifelong Democrat as soon as I got the right to vote, I registered Republican. Second, my parents and in-laws already have a long list of my wrong doings. Political affiliation did not need to be added to the list. Third, it’s fun to make them guess.
There’s plenty in my profile that would make me difficult to politically brand. I grew up in rural Central Pennsylvania with a dad, grandfather, and brother who hunted regularly. So, I must be an antigun control Republican. I am the daughter, granddaughter, and sister of garbage men, so I must be a blue-collar supporting Democrat. I married a Texan, so certainly I am a diehard Republican. I am a public librarian, which means I am a Socialist, right? I was raised Catholic, which would make me a pro-life Republican. I have been a Feminist since I learned the definition of the word, which probably makes me a pro-choice Democrat (and maybe even a secret lesbian). I am a mother of four who clearly isn’t a big proponent of birth control, so probably a Republican? Also, I have disabled child who was born healthy and was stricken with a rare neurological disease that resulted in him having half of his brain disconnected from his body, leaving him with mild paralysis on the left side of his body. Does this mean I am a pro-welfare state Democrat who wants the government to take care of my handicapped kid for the rest of his life?

Because there are many ways to judge and pigeonhole who I am; I concluded it was best to keep mum during the political season. My plan was I would remain unbiased and unaffiliated in the public arena (also known as Facebook). So when the opportunity arrived to see President Obama at Colorado State University, I decided to approach the experience as a non-partisan trip for my kids to have the chance to hear the first African-American President speak; a way to be a part of the political process. We were there to make memories, learn about politics and be part of history.
After a hot bus ride from the transit center to the university, long lines to get through airport style security, my children’s endless pointing at and gushing over how the United States Secret Service looked they came straight out of a movie (personally reminded me of Agent Cobra Bubbles from Lilo and Stitch), and long-winded speeches by every Democratic politician in Colorado, President Obama took the stage.

 

As I listened to President Obama recount a charming story about his last trip to Fort Collins in 2008 and his desire to take a nap in the brisk Fall weather back then, my seven-year-old son said, “Mom, I am hot. I am hungry. Let’s go now.”

“Just a few minutes, I promise. We can go eat anywhere you want when we are done. Do want pizza, ice cream, chili cheese fries, hummus with naan? How about a new Mario Brother’s game for your Gameboy if you are quiet for just a few more minutes?” My efforts at bribery were failing fast. I wanted to blame his restlessness on his brain injury, but he was just being a typical bored second-grade boy.

Suddenly, my floundering negotiations were halted by my thirteen-year-old son grabbing his little brother’s arm. “Stop it. Do you know who that is? That is the man who is responsible for you having insurance. You will not disrespect him. Go sit down and be quiet.”

“Leave me alone” he yelled and then ran off to the nearest tree to pout.

That was it. That was the moment when I realized I did not have the option to be unbiased, bi-partisan when it came to politics and my kids. Tragedy has shaped our political choices. We know who we are politically and now we bear a political responsibility to openly support the courageous president who accomplished what other political leaders before him could not, passing a national healthcare plan.

No more private politics for us. Sometimes politics become so personal they must become public. My family and families like us are the faces of Obamacare. We are committed to the belief that access to affordable healthcare should be an inalienable right for all Americans. Holding this belief means developing a tough skin and accepting the fact that we have friends and family who do not agree with us and will never agree us. I wanted my kids to know that some people believe that paying for other people to have healthcare will hurt their own families’ finances and access to their current physicians and pharmaceutical plans. So, I try to tell my kids that both views come from a position of love for their families.

My thirteen-year-old never buys that the Republican stand on healthcare comes from a position of concern; especially since he was told by other eight-graders that if his little brother couldn’t take care of himself when he grew-up than he deserved to die. Tough not to internalize. Every ugly statement against Obamacare feels like a personal attack on my son. Every vote against Obama feels like a vote against my son, especially hard-hitting knowing that family members voted for the other guy. But politics are not about the “I”, it is about the “we.” So, our family has made a commitment of money and time to the Obama campaign. Closeted Democrats, we are no more.

Being open about our support of Obama and his plans to move the country forward has made us beleaguered, worn and nervous with so many battleground states up for grabs on this Election Day. But no matter what way it shakes out, my children know that we do not need the government to take care of their brother. We will take care of our own and continue to advocate for those who need a hand-up. This cause is our cause. We are the face of Obamacare and that is a family secret that we will not keep private.

 

 

Let Me Tell You Why You Are a Starving Artist

Dear Small-Time, Small-Venue Performers:

These days, I hear you call yourself a starving artist, living hand to mouth on the art that you make or perform. Well, have you ever wondered why you are not a well-fed, plump artist? Well, let me tell you, artists who eat, do the following: answer their phones, return emails, send out emails to get gigs; and, have a website that works. The really well-fed ones have a performer Facebook page.

If you are a performer and you make your living by performing then you need to make it easy for people like me (a public librarian) to hire you. You can do this by getting a phone and remembering to pay the bill. Cell phone or landline, really doesn’t matter as long as you keep it turned on. If you have a website, it needs to be updated more than once a decade with full descriptions of what you do, videos of your performance, a list of past performances, and current contact information. Make sure your email address works and check your email regularly. If keeping an Internet provider for your email address is a problem, use a cloud service like Hotmail, Gmail or Yahoo.

And by all means, if you can get an email that says, "I may be interested in hiring you," which really means "I will pay you for your talent,” you certainly should answer that email promptly. It is absolutely unacceptable to check your email every two months and then be shocked when I already booked someone else for the performance.

I should not have to contact one of your colleagues from ten years ago or hunt down a venue where you played for an hour about four years ago. I should not have to ask a librarian in a city many miles away for your phone number and email. This is not good business for anyone. This wastes my time, and it means potentially no income for you.

Even if you are on a hiatus from performing or if your group has disbanded, it is your responsibility to set-up an automatic reply email that provides that information. If you are on tour, busy, or just experiencing a lazy streak, you need to send an automatic reply email that says you will be reply within 72-hours. Then, you need to actually reply, so an event planner can move on quickly if you are unavailable.

Although there are seems to be an endless supply of starving artists out there, event planners for institutions like libraries, schools, nursing homes, senior centers, museums, recreational centers and children’s hospitals tend to have specific needs that must be filled by specific types of performers. In other words, if you specialize in performances for children or multicultural presentations, you will be in high demand. Sometimes depending on your geographical area and local demographics, you may be the only performer that fits an institution’s need. For instance, if you do African stories and you live in rural Iowa, you are going to get a lot of calls during Black History Month. You need to be prepared to answer in a timely fashion to not cause panic and worry for the scheduler who may be banking on you and you alone for her multicultural celebration. If you perform Hispanic dance or music and you live Texas, you better answer those emails quickly and with a reasonable quote, or the planner will just find someone else.

Non-profits (especially libraries) have a specific methodology for planning events for their communities; it is not party planning. A performance in a downtown library which serves people of all racial, ethnic and economic backgrounds is not the same as little Sally’s birthday party in the suburbs, so you need to be aware of your market and their needs. A random clown can work anywhere but will be competing against other random clowns. A clown who creates his show around the summer reading program theme in his area can most likely work every day all summer long. Know your area and create a niche for yourself.

In regards to higher-paying gigs in the for-profit sector, I have limited information on their procedures because as a committed non-profit-making librarian I tend to shun those who use skills similar to mine to actually earn a livable wage. But, I do know libraries and will leave you with a few “musts” if you want to have a successful career as a small venue performer.

1. Keep all contact information current and updated regularly.
2. Make video or audio recordings of your performances available on your website.
3. Occasionally send emails to libraries and other non-profits announcing your services.
4. Know your niche and market prior to peak times. Multicultural performers need to be targeting venues about three to six months before to a specific heritage month. Children’s performers need have their performances for summer reading in place at least nine months to one year in advance.
5. Keep your fees within reach of non-profits. Libraries tend to have limited budgets but are very good, solid customers. They pay on time and will recommend you when contacted by other libraries if you are entertaining and professional.
6. Arrive on time. Seems obvious, but tardiness is a huge problem in the arts community.
7. Maintain courteous prompt communication from the time of the initial contact until the final performance. Confirmation calls prior to performance are essential.
8. Remember to take your cell phone with you on the way to performance.
9. Figure out driving directions in advance and allow time to get lost.
10. If you are feeling overwhelmed by any part of the process from booking to marketing to collecting payment, consider hiring a booking agency. Many specialize in small venue performances and charge fair fees. In most cases their fees, are just tacked onto the performance price resulting in higher cost for the library and not subtracting from your profit.

Simply, by following these ten steps, you will go from starving artist to well-fed artist in no time.

Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter

An Open Letter to Prince: A Few Thoughts on Your Comeback Tour

Dear Prince:

As you may know, Whitney Houston is dead. Michael Jackson is dead. Some people may call this a tragedy. I call it opportunity. Yes, Prince Rogers Nelson, this is an opportunity for you to prey upon people’s fears. Fears of you dying before they see you in concert. Fears of their own morality. As their favorite pop stars from their childhood continue to perish; they start to wonder if you are next or if they are next. Now is the time to capitalize on these worries by announcing the “See Me Before I Drop Dead Tour.”

On this tour, you need to break out the hits from the 1980s and keep your crappy, overproduced music from the 1990s and your nice but overlooked music from the 2000s deep in your fault. You need to give your fans a little of your hump the piano freak show. Once you start humping that piano, why don’t you just play all your filthy ditties and make it the “Dirty Forever Tour.” Bring all those freaky hits on the road: “Head”, “Jack U Off”,and” Let’s Pretend We’re Married.” Of course, you must perform Erotic City, not the instrumental version that you have been teasing fans with for a decade, but the full vocal, “We can fuck until the dawn, making love 'til cherry's gone” rendition.
This is what people want. Real people; people who have more or less forgotten about you. Ignore your 47 hardcore fans who whine and complain every time that you play “Purple Rain” or “Kiss.” And, only want you to do set-lists of the unreleased but heavily bootlegged favorites such “Empty Room” and “Wonderful Ass.” Those fans do not matter; they are crazy (says the woman who rationally writes you an open letter nearly every month).

You owe it to your fans to give them the salaciousness that they desire. Give them the shagging songs they crave. Actually, you owe it to this fan, who finally got out from under her parents' control, moved near a big city, and scraped up enough money for a ticket, the year that you stopped saying “fuck.” The wholesome, religious Prince is a has-been, wash-up who appeals to no one but a few fringe Prince fans (who like me buy everything you put out no matter how crappy it is; reads every ridiculous and embarrassing thing that you say; looks at every freaky photoshopped image that makes you look like youthful alien from the “land of once cool, now pathetic rock stars.” Seriously man, you are not Dorian Gray; there is no harm in growing old).

Prince, I know you will not go for this idea. You have repeatedly shunned the past and have done just about everything you possibly can do to permanently ruin your legacy by being a litigious, unfaithful, smug prick whose failed marriages, destroyed friendships, bad business deals, lawsuits against fans and vitriolic statements about burqas, gays, and the Internet have at times overshadowed your musical genius.
  
But whether you want to or not, this is what needs to be done. It is time relive the past, don the purple lamé trench coat and play “Baby, I’m a Star” until your high-heels on your boots break. This is what fans want. I know this because this is what people tell me. Yes, people me tell—as if I were your personal assistant or manager—that they want to see you in concert before they die or before you die.
If I were your manager you would not be a has-been; you would still get radio play like the Madonna who is still as charismatic but talentless as ever; you would have never scrawled “slave” on your face; you would have manned up and maturely finished your contact with Warner Bros. with the quality of music expected from a musician of your stature; you would have never sued fans for enduring enough pain to put your symbol on their bodies or loving you so much that they videotaped their babies dancing to your music. And certainly, you would be doing the “See Me Before I Drop Dead Tour.”

Because you know, no matter how much Botox you get or how many girls you bang who are younger than “Purple Rain,” you will eventually die. So, why not make a ton of that money and give fans what we desperately want…how your music made us feel back in the day. Please let us relive that one more time before you drop dead.

Best Regards,
Garbageman’s Daughter
Devoted Fan for 29 Years and 4 Months

Funny Sh*t My Son Says

How did Oscar Wilde’s parents discipline him? How much time did Dorothy Parker spend in time-out? Perhaps it is a little presumptuous and even a little egotistical to compare myself to the parents of two of most witty writers to ever live. Perhaps my child isn't the next Oscar Wilde but he is exceptionally witty and clever. Simply put: He is the funniest person that I ever met.
So to commemorate my first son's thirteenth birthday. Here are some of his witticisms:

• I got an idea. Let me do your taxes and you can let me keep all the money I save you.
• If college doesn’t work out, I can be the guy who makes guacamole at Chipotle. I make delicious guacamole.
• I could never be rock star because I could not wear skinny jeans.
• Mom, are all your friends cooler than you?
• “About 90-percent of the people I meet are dumbasses,” he said, which triggers a disapproving look from his mother. “Have you never been to middle school? If I didn’t cuss, they would think I was a freak.’
• The difference between Madonna and Prince is that Madonna is a woman and Prince just acts like one.
• The only thing, Mom, that could make this Prince song worse is your dancing.
• We don’t entertain. We go to other people’s houses for entertainment.
• I cannot be funny on spot. I need to mock others and feed off their stupidity to truly be hilarious.
• I don’t debate for fun. I debate because other people are stupid and I need to let them know that.
• You just say that you are supporter of the arts to make yourself look better and smarter. No one really gives a crap about the arts.
• Mom, I sounded so smart in science class…No, mom that was sarcasm. I was talking about cabbage. No one sounds smart talking about cabbage.
• I don't really enjoy writing and even work that hard at it. I am just good at it with no effort all.

Happy Birthday to my dear son who has the perfect combination of smarts, wit, good looks and charm to become a great man and inspiring leader since he already is a great son and brother.

Engagement Revisited: Our Love Is a Purple Dented Volvo

“Boring” was the one word response that I got from my husband when I emailed him the story of our engagement.

“Boring! This story could be a metaphor for our entire relationship as it foreshadows all the future collisions that we will survive,” I typed and hit sent.

“I didn’t know our relationship was a purple Volvo with a dent in it,” he replied.

Yes, our love is a dented purple Volvo and today on fourteen year wedding anniversary, I recall the day of our Engagement (A rewrite from the boring version that I originally sent my husband.)

Six month dating anniversary, March 23, 1996. She was joyful. He was nervous. Harsh Texas winds. A canceled picnic lunch and a defunct stroll in the park left him struggling for a romantic back-up plan in a rather grim, culturally barren city. Window shopping at the mall followed by a lunch at a Thai restaurant was the best he could, or so she thought.

After brushing her hair one last time, she heard Van Morrison’s Crazy Love and walked into the living room to discover her boyfriend on bended knee with an open ring box and a slight quiver in his hand. Before he could ask, she said, “Yes.”

Giggles, hugs and kisses followed until they finally left for lunch. Excitement got the better of him as he failed to check the rearview mirror and backed into a moving purple Volvo. The perfect beginning to a collision filled relationship…

Happy Anniversary, my brilliant and gorgeous husband who truly is a saint for putting up with my histrionics and bad cooking. You’re stuck with me forever.

NST or No Speak Text

No one would ever accuse me of being a particularly ethical person, so when my twelve-year son was lazy enough to leave his Facebook account open on his computer, I had no choice. I had to snoop through his messages.

Since snooping truly is one of the great perks of motherhood, I was rushing with adrenaline to get a peek into my son’s life since he tells me nothing other than “whatever” and “yeah.” But my spying quickly halted when I got to something that looked like HGFGD WFTYKPL BHLT. Not a vowel or a mark of punctuation anywhere in sight.

Now I know that my son goes to one of the best middle schools in town, and they tell me he is gifted and talented. So, one would think that the boy could write polysyllabic words and use fancy things like colons and semi-colons, but his time is too valuable to write in complete sentences. What I call articulation and competent literacy he calls "uncoolness." He tells me all the time that I am lame for sending him text messages with capital letters and periods.

So as I stare at the wall of capital consonants, I would be better off reading Braille or Russian since the extent of texting knowledge is any Prince song from the 1980s and WTF. I soon give up and hope that my child isn’t selling pot out of our basement or making plans to lose his virginity to an $8.00 whore on Colfax. But these are the things that I will never know until a police officer comes knocking on our door because I NST.

The Pep Talk

Our knuckles slam into each other as we both reach for the volume button on the car radio when Pumped Up Kicks comes on with its catchy melody and clever homicidal chorus.

“Mom, you are too old to like that song,” said the twelve-year-old middle schooler who has never experienced social alienation a day in his life.

“I like it. It sums up high school for me,” said his kindhearted, gentle mother with a delicate smile.

“Psycho! My mom is a psycho. That song is about killing people. Did you want to kill people?”

“Of course not. No. Absolutely not. Well, not exactly….probably not. At least not in real life…maybe in my head. You know what… it is complicated. Fantasies of homicide and suicide fill the teenage experience. Then you grow up and those sick fantasies fade away and are replaced by a whole another slew of dreams and hopes that ultimately go unfilled until you eventually die unpublished, broke and alone.”

“You are a terrible mother. Do you ever listen to yourself? That is not something a good mother would say.”

“Son, you are a bright kid with a bright future ahead of you. Do not kill yourself or others. Better?”

“See you are the reason, I never have friends come over. You have serious problems.”

Observation: Know What Your Ass Says

“So, what do you expect to win?” asked the fifty-something year old man, flaunting a bad rash and the smell of coffee, pot and self-inflicted lovemaking.

“Huh?” responded the sprightly teenager as she folded her retro Care Bears t-shirt and nervously clung to her laundry basket.

“Your shorts say ‘Expect to Win.’”

“Oh that was the motto for my high school softball team last year.”

“Really, you were in high school last year?”

“Yep.” She giggled as she added her cotton white panties to her pile of yoga pants and sports bras.
As I watched this perverse dance between a stupid college girl and dirty old man, I felt sorry for the poor girl who clearly suffered from bad mothering. A good mother would have told her.

1. If you wear words on your ass, you always should be cognizant of the fact that there are indeed words on your ass.
2. If you wear words on your ass, you should know what your ass says.
3. If you wear words on your ass, expect your ass to be read by dirty old men expecting to win.
4. Don’t wear words on your ass and put some damn clothes on.

What’s wrong with mothers these days?

Let’s Play a Game: Dad or Prince

I am a dedicated wife. I am a hardcore Prince fan. I have been romantically linked to my husband for nearly 16 years and married to him for 13 years. I have been listening to Prince regularly for 29 years. Sometimes my dedication to the Purple One makes things a little uncomfortable in my marriage, especially when my twelve-year-old son asks questions while trapped in the car.

Hey Mom, Prince is a stupid name. What is his real name?

Prince Rodgers Nelson. Prince really is his birth name. His dad named him after his band, Prince Rodgers Trio.

What is Dad’s real name?

Birth name Tommy. Legally changed to Thomas when you were a baby. Goes by Tom. He is Dad to you.

Where was Prince born? Minneapolis, Minnesota

Where was Dad born? Orange, Texas.

When’s Prince’s birthday? June 7

When's Dad’s birthday? December 26.

Mom, I think you know more about Prince than dad.

No, I don’t. I know everything about your father and I know almost nothing about Prince.
Who was Prince’s first girlfriend?

Don’t know. Not playing this game. (Impossible to point to just one, but Susan Moonsie, who joined Vanity 6, was Prince’s high school girlfriend.)

Who was Dad’s first girlfriend?”

Not playing this game, kid. (Tina, Toni, Renee or something like that.)

What was Prince’s first job?

Don’t know. Don’t care. Time to move on. (Not sure that he did much but make music. Wrote first song when he was seven, first demo tape done in 1976 and first album released in 1978 when he was 19 years old.)

What’s was Dad’s first job?

Not playing this game but I know for a fact he bagged groceries at Wal-Mart. Your nanny made him walk to work.

What did Prince do in high school?

How would I know? (Played basketball and many instruments)

What did Dad do in high school? Football and baseball. He was great athlete unlike your mother.

So, Mom how many books have read about Prince?

None. I read an article about Prince in Teen Beat the year that Purple Rain came out. That is extent of my biographical knowledge, so let it go.
   
Mom, every time I use the computer, Prince.org is open.

Keep it up and I got three words for you: Computer Password Protected.

All right then. Dad, where are we going for dinner?

The Smack Of Life

Silence. No crying kids. No bloody noses or split open lips. School yards and gym classes around the country are void of tradition and the rite of passage. Yes, it is true. The travesty known as the “dodge ball ban” is being spread across the country.

This wrong must righted as I implore schools and recreation centers to not deprive children of a good smack in the face that is needed as a stinging, bright red reminder that life is hard. Yes, it is dangerous. Yes, it is violent. But so is life off the playground. Just about everything that I needed to know about the world, I learned from a brutal game of dodge ball.

• Move fast, stay tough, be aware, watch for your competition or your face will be bloodied.
• Do not cry! No matter how much it hurts, do not cry. Crying is just like peeing your pants in school. Once it happens, the stigma follows you forever and you will never be redeemed.
• People who hate you certainly will use any opportunity to beat the hell out of you with smiles on their faces and in the name of good fun. They will say it is just a game and is not personal. It is never just a game and it is always personal.
• Being picked last for a dodge ball team is damaging to the ego but being picked last to have your nose-bloodied might not be so bad.
• Being slow means you are out of the game first, but that allows you more time to enjoy the demise of others.
• Although unlikely, it is plausible that your opponents will experience head injuries and die on the spot. Sometimes the hope of a blood-spewing aneurism that is messier than a Gremlin being blown up in a microwave is the only thing that helps one get through the day.

Why should today’s youth be deprived of these life lessons? Let dodge ball live!

Trust Me, I Am Not Contagious!

I am not equipped to raise a popular child. I do not have the wherewithal or sensitivity to understand youthful happiness and joy. Give me an angst-filled, self-loathing child any day and I know exactly what advice to give. “Adolescence sucks. But take comfort in the fact that most of the assholes who tortured you during childhood will gain weight, lose hair or end up in minimum wage jobs in adulthood.”
 
So as a parent not versed in the charmed life of the popular, I have no ability to understand my son’s athletic friends who are always stopping by, the flurry the female admirers and all the party invitations. I especially have no tolerance for questions like these: “So, my mom, what group were you in when you were in school?”

“No group. I was an individual. A free-spirit.”

“So that means you didn’t have friends.”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“So, you were uncool and a loser?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Really? But you have so many friends now. Are you sure?”

“Okay, what’s up with all the questions? Why are inquiring about my social history?”

“Just wondering.”

“Unpopularity is not genetic. You are not suddenly going to develop uncoolness one day. Don’t believe there is such a thing as the “uncool gene.”

“Okay, so that means you hung out with the smart kids.”

“Not really. I wasn’t really that smart either. I just worked hard and got good grades by studying and applying myself.”

“So, you hung out with the nerds.”

“No, they didn’t much like me either.”

“I can’t believe my mom was a loser."

“Yes son , I was a loser and now I am a librarian. Probably one of the few professions that encourages oddness. The dorkier that I am, the better service people think that they are getting. People expect librarians to be nerds and it gives them comfort. It is the balance of life, child. Now go comb your perfect hair and leave me alone.”

“You’re a dork, mom.”

Yet Another Open Letter to Prince: Why Are You Such an Embarrassment to Your Fans?

Dear Prince:

Months ago, I promised my husband that I would no longer write open letters to you on my blog because it is not a productive use of time for a mother of four, and my correspondence makes me look moderately crazy. But, you did again it and once again I am willing to look insane for your sake. You did something so asinine that I feel behooved as a fan to give you some advice. Shut up! Stop talking and do not give interviews at all.

You have always been a bit of a freakish embarrassment to your fans, but the majority of your most dedicated fans love your crazy ass despite your ramblings that make you look like a semi-retarded, seriously mentally ill nincompoop. But this time you went too far with this mouthful of sexism and racism that recently appeared in the Guardian, "It's fun being in Islamic countries, to know there's only one religion. There's order. You wear a burqa. There's no choice. People are happy with that." When asked about the fate of those unhappy with having no choice, he replied: "There are people who are unhappy with everything. There's a dark side to everything."

It’s fun to not have a choice and to be told what to do by the government? It is fun for women to be suppressed? Suppression equals happiness and fighting for equality is the “dark side?” To try to explain your reasoning for this vitriol would be as difficult as explaining why you wore assless pants or wrote "slave" on your face. Just one more inexplicable stupid ass thing for your fans to accept just like your conspiracy theory that the government is using chemtrails to keep the black man down and your profound observation that the “Internet is dead.” In fact, this statement is just as about as open-minded and progressive as “God came to earth and saw people sticking it wherever and doing it with whatever, and he just cleared it all out. He was, like, Enough."

Although there is no end to your imbecility, you receive unconditional love from your most dedicated fans. You are adored despite the fact you are a crazy old man who wants to seem like an intellectual, but in reality you spent your youth writing brilliant songs about fucking opposed to getting a higher education. Now that you are a distinguished musician who has won just about every award possible in the music industry, you don’t know what to do with yourself. Really the answer is simple. Stop talking, go release the 25 minute version of Xtralovable that your fans desperately want to hear; lock yourself up in the studio; continue to bang your pretty little ballerina (who is young enough to be your daughter) for inspiration and get back to writing sex-laden songs.

Please no more nonsense about gays, chemtrails, the Internet, women or religion. Your social commentary is not wanted or needed. Your music on the other hand is. You are musician, so go make music.

Forever Always Your Fan,

Garbageman’s Daughter

Just Devour the Freakin' Boy Already: A Few Thoughts on the Life of Pi

This post contains spoiler information about the Li of Pi. If you are a high school or college student writing a paper or studying for a quiz on the Life of PI, get off the damn computer and read the book. And if you use my comments for your paper, your teachers will bust you for plagiarism. So control yourself and don’t steal from me. However, if you are a non-student and just want to know what the hype is about or this book is the current selection for your book club, read my thoughts before cracking the book.

Fears. I have a few. Getting my hand chewed up in a garbage disposal, being asphyxiated by mashed potatoes, and being nabbed by men in ski masks who will toss me into the back of a fast-moving white van are my among biggest fears. But, I have no fear greater than being mulled to death by an animal; therefore, I am terrified of just about every member of the animal kingdom. Dogs no matter how big or small frighten me and there is simply not enough anti-anxiety medicine available for me to ever enjoy a zoo.

Animals kill. I accept this truth and act accordingly. I do not make animals my pets; I don’t visit them in enclosed settings where they will be really pissed off when they escape. Heck, I have even banned Wonder Pets, Backyardigans and Webkinz from my home. So of course, reading about a boy trapped on a life boat with Bengal tiger for 227 days did nothing for me but induce panic attacks, nauseousness, and headaches.

My symptoms were mostly brought on by violent animal mutilations, excessive vileness and extreme boringness of a lost at sea tale all found of in Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, the winner of the 2002 Mann Booker, a New York Times Best Seller and a supposed modern classic that is rapidly among the ranks of novels taught in high schools and colleges throughout the world. This novel was praised as a “fantastical tale” by USA Today, and the San Francisco Chronicle calls it “…a real adventure…It’s difficult to stop reading when the pages run out.” Coast to coast, continent to continent, Martel’s novel has garnered great reviews and has been acclaimed as an exquisite, original masterpiece by critics and scholars who do not have the gumption to point out that this novel, which touches upon big issues such life, death, the existence of God and the importance of storytelling, is merely derivative of some of literature’s most canonical works.
 
Despite the hordes of critics and scholars who praise this book, there is a reasonably large and growing population of disgruntled readers who are coming together to give this award-winning novel poor reviews on the websites for both Amazon and Barnes and Noble. They are also using social networking tools to pan Martel’s work. Although I rarely associate myself with the group of folks known as “common readers,” I too felt compelled to join not one but two groups on Facebook dedicated to disparaging and denigrating this novel – Life of PI Sucks and Life of PI Sucks Ass. I quickly disjoined the groups once I realized I was the only one over the age of twenty and well-read enough to know that Life of Pi is Robinson Crusoe meets Jungle Book meets Moby Dick meets Aesop’s Fables meets Old Man in the Sea meets Heart of Darkness meets Fight Club.

This is the tale of a sixteen-year-old Pi Patel, a son of a zookeeper who is simultaneously Christian, Hindu, and Muslim and finds himself alone in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger named Richard Parker after a ship carrying his mother, father, brother and a zoo full of animals traveling from India to Canada sinks. This sets up a clever spin on the survival tales. Not only does Pi have to survive for months but he has to ensure that the tiger does not eat him. Interesting idea but the delivery is dry and the figurative language is quite unremarkable. Within the second part of the novel, there is a lot of rigmarole about water, food, feces, dangerous sea creatures and a mythical island with man-eating algae. The journey is long for Pi but even longer for the reader until Pi is rescued and a stunning ending occurs.

Thus, Martel gives us the ending that has launched thousands of book club discussions. Does this book reinforce a belief in God or just the opposite? And, on and on and on for book clubs. In the end, the story matters but the delivery of the message is equally as important as the message. So although I think that the big themes of Life of Pi are fascinating, I argue that Martel’s delivery is not the caliber typically associated with Man Booker Prize winners and for this reason, I am making a recommendation that I have never made before as a librarian and hope to never make again. Instead of reading Life of Pi, read the books that influenced Martel, read the Cliff Notes, check out some scholarly criticism and when this book makes it to the big screen, by all means, watch the movie. But, I would recommend skipping this book that fails to deliver a story as compelling and engaging as the profound timeless themes that are contained in this meandering and tedious survival tale.