My son came home from a party the other day, excited with a piece of news one of his friends had passed on:
"Did you know there's such a thing as the Halloween fairy?"
"No, can't say I did."
"Yeah. And if you leave out all your leftover Halloween candy, she'll bring you a dollar for each piece. My friend got, like, $100 for hers!"
Okay. Let's go at this in a calm manner before I go throttle the mother who thought to teach her child about this so-called Halloween fairy.
Owen is 9. He doesn't believe in the tooth fairy; she only brings you a buck a tooth. He doesn't believe in Santa; you get the presents regardless of whether you sit on his lap or not. He doesn't believe in the Easter Bunny. Again: you keep getting the jellybeans and Peeps long after you've given up on the idea of a giant rabbit bouncing into your home while you sleep and filling your basket with plastic grass and future dentist visits. (Although I welcome "Harvey"'s pookah anytime.)
But a Halloween fairy? You mean I get to go trick-or-treating, load up on more sugar than is decent or even morally right, eat until I keck, and then sell the leftovers for a buck a piece? I get all the crap I can literally stomach AND I get a $100 bonus at the end?
Perhaps this mother had a good reason for buying her kid's candy. It's January 12, and I still have several pounds of chocolate hidden in the cupboards, which I'll use for cookies at some point. I threw away the dwindled pile of lollipops weeks ago (again with the morality of this holiday!), and the other hard candy never even made it to daylight. (Who gives kids hard candy for Halloween. Stop that! First of all, kids don't like it that much. Second of all, I'm not a huge fan of seeing my kids choke. If all you can find is an old bag of Jolly Ranchers, then turn your lights out and don't answer the door.)
So she should have just bought it! She should have said, "Tell you what, child-without-a-name-so-no-one-reading-a-blog-about-you-will-judge-me, hand over the KitKats and the Reese's cups and I'll give you $100." Heck, the kid probably would have handed it over for $75 or $50.
But noooo... you had to create a fairy who does this, thereby putting the burden on all other parents of kids your kid knows to now either (a) allow the Halloween fairy into their house, (b) tell their child the Halloween fairy doesn't love them as much as she loves your child, or (c) tell their child this particular fairy doesn't exist . . . but Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy do.
Sure, like I said, Owen doesn't believe in this particular trinity anymore (don't get me started on the religious side of all of this, okay? I'm SO not in the mood and will beat you down with that bag of Hershey's bars I'm holding onto.), but he has two younger siblings who do.
And has this incident made me think about the morality of teaching my children to believe in SC, EB, and TF but rejecting the HF? A little. But at least SC is a fantasy that's all about hope and joy and anonymous do-gooding that makes us all believe in the unseen spirit of love.
But looking for a way to get the candy out of your kids' hands? When you're the one that let her go out for 5 hours of begging in the first place? (Yes, I said 5 hours. FIVE. That's how long our neighborhood has trick-or-treating.) Next time please PLEASE . . . just give her a sandwich bag instead of a pillowcase and be done with it.
And let me continue to choose which fantasies (not lies!) to perpetuate in my house.
Or be prepared for me to be verrrry generous with your daughter next Halloween, and to perhaps even allow my kids to give her their leftovers in return for a cut of the earnings.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
I'm it
This is my 50th blog post. Sure, not a huge number, especially considering the fact that I started over a year ago. But at least I'm hanging in there, sticking to it, showing I have determination and can follow things through. Or at least can talk a fair amount.
So my friend Shankar tagged me. And here are the rules:
(1) Share 6 non- (though not necessarily un-) important things about yourself on your blog.
(2) Tag 6 blogging friends to then do the same.
(3) Let each person know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
(4) Let your tagger know when your entry is up.
1. I love bluegrass music. Love it. I'd capitalize all four letters of that verb, but I don't want you to think I'm yelling at you. I love it so much that I took a bluegrass harmony class about 4 years back. Twice. And, yes, bluegrass harmony is different from other harmonies. I'd offer you a lengthy explanation, but if you aren't a fan, you probably won't care. If you're a fan or simply curious, however, go here for more information. What I love most about bluegrass, I think, is the honesty and earnestness, the purity of the lyrics as well as the voices. Some of the singers have phenomenal voices that just make you ache with their sincerity; others have average voices that simply say what you're feeling. When my father passed away in '04, my sister and I sang "Will the Circle Be Unbroken" in 2-part bluegrass harmony. It's an old hymn, but we sang the bluegrass tune. Miraculously, I made it through without crying until the very last verse. Here is the Carter-Cash family singing it with their lyrics. Like I said: these aren't beautiful voices, but they mean every word.
2. I totally lack any sense of direction. Ron says I've put up my own roadblock here and that I could have a better one if I weren't convinced I can't. But he's wrong. I took Owen to the doctor earlier this week and didn't realize until we were on our way that Ron had taken my GPS out of the car. I had the directions written down, so I figured I could get there and then would just reverse those directions to get home. Yet I went west instead of east at a crucial point and kept going. I knew I was heading in the wrong direction on the right street, but I got so flustered I had to pull over to look at a map and calm down for a few minutes. Looking at the map was useless because I still couldn't figure out where the heck I was on that street. Any normal person would have simply turned around 15 minutes earlier, but I was afraid that maybe I really heading in the right direction and would eventually hit home. Or Iowa. What should have been a 15-minute ride home turned into almost an hour. And I blame Ron for taking out that GPS. Yes, that's right. It's his fault, not mine, that I don't know east from west.
3. I spent a summer in college working at a vegetarian cafe on Kauai and during the three months I was there, I ended up at the beach no more than 5 times. I may as well have been on the mainland, but I adored (most of) the customers and all of the people I worked with, so the experience was still amazing. My favorite fellow employee was a talented artist who washed dishes and was a descendant of Ponce de Leon. My least favorite customer was a man who owned a sushi bar a few doors down and propositioned me for $1500 after throwing me up against a wall. When I said no, he threatened to make things "unpleasant" for me if I ever told anyone. His name was Brad and if I knew his last name I'd tell you that, too. The worst part of that experience, however, was having my boyfriend's father ask what I'd done to lead him on. Nice.
4. I tend to have a hard time letting things go from my past. But I rarely actually get angry at or hurt by people anymore. Anger and hurt are wasted emotions, and my energies are better spent on taking care of myself and the people I love.
5. When I was 3, I had a pair of shiny red vinyl boots that I wore everywhere. I came across a picture of myself in them a couple of days ago and was surpised at how young I was. I had always thought I was 6 or 7 when I owned them because I remember them so vividly: the way they felt on me, the way they smelled, the sound they made when I walked. In the picture, I'm pushing my baby brother, Sean, around in a doll carriage. Sean was born at home--a planned home birth because the doctor said it was cheaper than going to the hospital. And since Mom had already had 6 of us before him, she kind of had the hang of the delivery thing. But then the doctor charged her an exorbitant amount for the housecall and my parents didn't save a penny in the end. After he was born, my dad brought me into the room to meet Sean. I left to go get a photo album and then proceeded to show my parents pictures of myself. Apparently, I wasn't fond of being upstaged.
6. I tend to ramble on.
Tag time:
1.Rachel K.
2.Marian
3. David S.
4. Nathaniel
5. Jenny P.
6. Sherry
So my friend Shankar tagged me. And here are the rules:
(1) Share 6 non- (though not necessarily un-) important things about yourself on your blog.
(2) Tag 6 blogging friends to then do the same.
(3) Let each person know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
(4) Let your tagger know when your entry is up.
1. I love bluegrass music. Love it. I'd capitalize all four letters of that verb, but I don't want you to think I'm yelling at you. I love it so much that I took a bluegrass harmony class about 4 years back. Twice. And, yes, bluegrass harmony is different from other harmonies. I'd offer you a lengthy explanation, but if you aren't a fan, you probably won't care. If you're a fan or simply curious, however, go here for more information. What I love most about bluegrass, I think, is the honesty and earnestness, the purity of the lyrics as well as the voices. Some of the singers have phenomenal voices that just make you ache with their sincerity; others have average voices that simply say what you're feeling. When my father passed away in '04, my sister and I sang "Will the Circle Be Unbroken" in 2-part bluegrass harmony. It's an old hymn, but we sang the bluegrass tune. Miraculously, I made it through without crying until the very last verse. Here is the Carter-Cash family singing it with their lyrics. Like I said: these aren't beautiful voices, but they mean every word.
2. I totally lack any sense of direction. Ron says I've put up my own roadblock here and that I could have a better one if I weren't convinced I can't. But he's wrong. I took Owen to the doctor earlier this week and didn't realize until we were on our way that Ron had taken my GPS out of the car. I had the directions written down, so I figured I could get there and then would just reverse those directions to get home. Yet I went west instead of east at a crucial point and kept going. I knew I was heading in the wrong direction on the right street, but I got so flustered I had to pull over to look at a map and calm down for a few minutes. Looking at the map was useless because I still couldn't figure out where the heck I was on that street. Any normal person would have simply turned around 15 minutes earlier, but I was afraid that maybe I really heading in the right direction and would eventually hit home. Or Iowa. What should have been a 15-minute ride home turned into almost an hour. And I blame Ron for taking out that GPS. Yes, that's right. It's his fault, not mine, that I don't know east from west.
3. I spent a summer in college working at a vegetarian cafe on Kauai and during the three months I was there, I ended up at the beach no more than 5 times. I may as well have been on the mainland, but I adored (most of) the customers and all of the people I worked with, so the experience was still amazing. My favorite fellow employee was a talented artist who washed dishes and was a descendant of Ponce de Leon. My least favorite customer was a man who owned a sushi bar a few doors down and propositioned me for $1500 after throwing me up against a wall. When I said no, he threatened to make things "unpleasant" for me if I ever told anyone. His name was Brad and if I knew his last name I'd tell you that, too. The worst part of that experience, however, was having my boyfriend's father ask what I'd done to lead him on. Nice.
4. I tend to have a hard time letting things go from my past. But I rarely actually get angry at or hurt by people anymore. Anger and hurt are wasted emotions, and my energies are better spent on taking care of myself and the people I love.
5. When I was 3, I had a pair of shiny red vinyl boots that I wore everywhere. I came across a picture of myself in them a couple of days ago and was surpised at how young I was. I had always thought I was 6 or 7 when I owned them because I remember them so vividly: the way they felt on me, the way they smelled, the sound they made when I walked. In the picture, I'm pushing my baby brother, Sean, around in a doll carriage. Sean was born at home--a planned home birth because the doctor said it was cheaper than going to the hospital. And since Mom had already had 6 of us before him, she kind of had the hang of the delivery thing. But then the doctor charged her an exorbitant amount for the housecall and my parents didn't save a penny in the end. After he was born, my dad brought me into the room to meet Sean. I left to go get a photo album and then proceeded to show my parents pictures of myself. Apparently, I wasn't fond of being upstaged.
6. I tend to ramble on.
Tag time:
1.Rachel K.
2.Marian
3. David S.
4. Nathaniel
5. Jenny P.
6. Sherry
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Losing her head
For Christmas this year, all my 6-year-old daughter wanted was an American Girl doll. Before I actually purchased the (ridiculously expensive) doll, I must have asked Emma 100 times if she was sure she wanted the doll. She has never been a doll kind of girl--a product, perhaps, of being the only sister of three very boy-like brothers. Yes, she loves clothes and makeup (no, I don't let her wear it) and gymnastics and flitting around in glittery shoes several sizes too large, but the nurturer in her has been sorely lacking since birth.
Apparently residency in the Chicago area requires all little girls to have at least one of these (ridiculously expensive) dolls and to even have tea with her occasionally. So when a friend of mine came to visit several weeks before Christmas, her own AG-loving daughter in tow, I pulled Emma out of school (makeup: no; truancy: yes) and made the brief trek to downtown Chicago to the AG store. I had no intention of buying her a doll while we were there, as I had already purchased one, now safely tucked away in my closet, online. But Emma fell in love with Emily, an auburn-haired WWII-era doll. And I relented. I at first tried to tell her she couldn't have her until Christmas but then "had to" give in again or be the only mother in that store making her daughter cry (makeup: no; truancy: yes; peer pressure: yes).
Emily has been with us for more than a month now, and the bloom remains on the rose. Emma loves her, sleeps with her, dresses her in the several outfits she ended up with as Christmas gifts, and puts her hair up in less-than-flattering 'dos (refusing to brush her hair as obstinately as she refuses to brush her own). The purchase was a successful one, and Emma's not going to tire of the (ridiculously expensive) doll in the near future.
Then last night, Ivan struck. I was in the kitchen when I heard Emma screaming. And it was the kind of scream that, being a mother, told me exactly what had happened before she even got to the top of the basement steps. Her 3-year-old brother had just hurt Emily--severely.
To see Emma running toward me with Emily's head in one hand and her body in the other was disturbing on a couple of different levels. One, severed heads are never pleasant to me, even those belonging (or that previously belonged) to dolls. And two, the look of utter misery on Emma's face and her agonizing wails were heartbreaking. I understood at that moment that Emma loves this doll more than she has ever loved anything in her little life. Anything, not anyone. I have no doubt she would be more upset about something happening to her brothers, her father, or me than she was by this, but still I can see she's learning to be a nurturer now.
Or perhaps I'm just projecting onto her my own fears as a mother. I was completely ill equipped to be a mom when I got pregnant with my oldest. He was a surprise, and although I was excited eventually, my first reaction to the news was to break down in tears: "I can't be a mom!" I told Ron. "I don't know how to be one." He laughed and hugged me, but I was completely serious. Yes, I had always wanted to be a mother--in theory. But when that pregnancy test turned up positive in reality, I was scared out of my mind. And for the first year of his life, I went around in a sort of daze, unsure how to remain myself while giving that self so completely over to this squirmy, squiggly thing that couldn't even have a conversation with me.
I was not born a nurturer. I never had pets, never really wanted them. I had a younger brother and sister I did a fine job ignoring for most of my childhood. And I, too, never played with dolls, tending more toward tree forts and Sasquatch hunts. But I've learned how to at least feel like one over the last 12 years.
Emily's head is back on now. She's doing fine, recovering nicely. Emma's fine again as well, although she did wake me early this morning after a nightmare. I didn't ask what it was about. Some things don't bear repeating. But if her nightmares are anything like mine, they have to do with loving something so much that you go a little crazy with fear. Yes, being a mother is all about losing your head.
Apparently residency in the Chicago area requires all little girls to have at least one of these (ridiculously expensive) dolls and to even have tea with her occasionally. So when a friend of mine came to visit several weeks before Christmas, her own AG-loving daughter in tow, I pulled Emma out of school (makeup: no; truancy: yes) and made the brief trek to downtown Chicago to the AG store. I had no intention of buying her a doll while we were there, as I had already purchased one, now safely tucked away in my closet, online. But Emma fell in love with Emily, an auburn-haired WWII-era doll. And I relented. I at first tried to tell her she couldn't have her until Christmas but then "had to" give in again or be the only mother in that store making her daughter cry (makeup: no; truancy: yes; peer pressure: yes).
Emily has been with us for more than a month now, and the bloom remains on the rose. Emma loves her, sleeps with her, dresses her in the several outfits she ended up with as Christmas gifts, and puts her hair up in less-than-flattering 'dos (refusing to brush her hair as obstinately as she refuses to brush her own). The purchase was a successful one, and Emma's not going to tire of the (ridiculously expensive) doll in the near future.
Then last night, Ivan struck. I was in the kitchen when I heard Emma screaming. And it was the kind of scream that, being a mother, told me exactly what had happened before she even got to the top of the basement steps. Her 3-year-old brother had just hurt Emily--severely.
To see Emma running toward me with Emily's head in one hand and her body in the other was disturbing on a couple of different levels. One, severed heads are never pleasant to me, even those belonging (or that previously belonged) to dolls. And two, the look of utter misery on Emma's face and her agonizing wails were heartbreaking. I understood at that moment that Emma loves this doll more than she has ever loved anything in her little life. Anything, not anyone. I have no doubt she would be more upset about something happening to her brothers, her father, or me than she was by this, but still I can see she's learning to be a nurturer now.
Or perhaps I'm just projecting onto her my own fears as a mother. I was completely ill equipped to be a mom when I got pregnant with my oldest. He was a surprise, and although I was excited eventually, my first reaction to the news was to break down in tears: "I can't be a mom!" I told Ron. "I don't know how to be one." He laughed and hugged me, but I was completely serious. Yes, I had always wanted to be a mother--in theory. But when that pregnancy test turned up positive in reality, I was scared out of my mind. And for the first year of his life, I went around in a sort of daze, unsure how to remain myself while giving that self so completely over to this squirmy, squiggly thing that couldn't even have a conversation with me.
I was not born a nurturer. I never had pets, never really wanted them. I had a younger brother and sister I did a fine job ignoring for most of my childhood. And I, too, never played with dolls, tending more toward tree forts and Sasquatch hunts. But I've learned how to at least feel like one over the last 12 years.
Emily's head is back on now. She's doing fine, recovering nicely. Emma's fine again as well, although she did wake me early this morning after a nightmare. I didn't ask what it was about. Some things don't bear repeating. But if her nightmares are anything like mine, they have to do with loving something so much that you go a little crazy with fear. Yes, being a mother is all about losing your head.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Christmas bells
My favorite Christmas carol is "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." Any tune will do: Calkin's or Mainzer's. Or Casting Crowns. Or John Gorka.
The history behind the hymn is more heartbreaking than the hymn itself. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote it Christmas Day 1864, months before the Civil War ended. Just 4 months after the war began in 1861, his wife was killed in a horrific accident in their home. Her dress caught fire while she was melting sealing wax to hold together her young daughter's hair clippings. Henry tried to put the fire out and succeeded, but only after her injuries were too serious to survive. She died the next day. And his wounds--severely burned arms, hands, and face--were too great for him to even attend her funeral.
In 1863, his oldest son, Charles, was critically wounded in the war. He survived but was crippled for life.
The years of the Civil War weren't good for anyone. More than 600,000 men lost their lives, and more than half of those lives were lost due to disease. In 1864 alone--the year Longfellow wrote "Christmas Bells"--61,000 of the Union Army were killed in 5 battles alone from May to June. Longfellow was from Massachusetts.
The original poem contained 7 stanzas, only 5 of which are included in the hymn. The missing 2 (preceding the final verse) are:
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound the carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn, the households born
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
In reading about the history of the song and poem, I wondered how Longfellow could have summoned the faith for the final verse:
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth good will to men."
But that's what faith is: summoning a belief in something that makes absolutely no sense. And that's what Christmas is about, regardless of whether you believe in Christ or not. Yes, it's about His birth, but it's also about believing in the good in all of us. It's about believing we can get along for a season, that we can celebrate together, that we can find it in us to give to others--give them more than just gifts, give them hope.
And that's what this song does for me. It's bleak and dark and heartbreaking, but it reminds me that even in our most painful moments, it's okay to believe "the wrong shall fail, the right prevail."
The history behind the hymn is more heartbreaking than the hymn itself. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote it Christmas Day 1864, months before the Civil War ended. Just 4 months after the war began in 1861, his wife was killed in a horrific accident in their home. Her dress caught fire while she was melting sealing wax to hold together her young daughter's hair clippings. Henry tried to put the fire out and succeeded, but only after her injuries were too serious to survive. She died the next day. And his wounds--severely burned arms, hands, and face--were too great for him to even attend her funeral.
In 1863, his oldest son, Charles, was critically wounded in the war. He survived but was crippled for life.
The years of the Civil War weren't good for anyone. More than 600,000 men lost their lives, and more than half of those lives were lost due to disease. In 1864 alone--the year Longfellow wrote "Christmas Bells"--61,000 of the Union Army were killed in 5 battles alone from May to June. Longfellow was from Massachusetts.
The original poem contained 7 stanzas, only 5 of which are included in the hymn. The missing 2 (preceding the final verse) are:
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound the carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn, the households born
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
In reading about the history of the song and poem, I wondered how Longfellow could have summoned the faith for the final verse:
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth good will to men."
But that's what faith is: summoning a belief in something that makes absolutely no sense. And that's what Christmas is about, regardless of whether you believe in Christ or not. Yes, it's about His birth, but it's also about believing in the good in all of us. It's about believing we can get along for a season, that we can celebrate together, that we can find it in us to give to others--give them more than just gifts, give them hope.
And that's what this song does for me. It's bleak and dark and heartbreaking, but it reminds me that even in our most painful moments, it's okay to believe "the wrong shall fail, the right prevail."
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Confessions of a petty thief
Okay. It's time to fess up.
When I was in middle school, I used to steal change from the cash register at my parent's bookstore in order to support my candy habit. All told, I probably took about $50 worth, maybe more. This coming from the daughter the rest of the family dubbed "The Golden Child" years ago. I never caused my parents a moment's worry, never rebelled, never talked back (okay, did that once and only once), never missed curfew, never drank, smoked, did drugs. Just stole from them when I was in the sixth grade.
I confessed to my parents years ago, and they granted me amnesty. Besides, my father knew I came by this candy addiction honestly. I inherited it from him.
As a kid, I recall that his favorites were licorice anything, orange slices, spice drops, Jujubes, and circus peanuts, the only one we agreed on. Although, in a bind, I ate the orange slices and jujubes, too. My own favorites and the ones for which I pilfered all that change are nearly too numerous to recount, but I can at least begin: Sugar Babies, Sugar Daddies, Charleston Chews, Pixie Stix, Fun Dip, and Dinosaur Eggs. Willie Wonka used to make those last ones (the candy company, not Gene Wilder or Johnny Depp), but not anymore. They were large, sour, egg-shaped gobstoppers that changed color as you sucked on them until you got to the center, which was a sweet-tart. mmm. They lasted forever . . . or at least until I could scrounge up the change to buy another.
This one isn't the candy kind. That would be disgusting. This is like the one my mother gave me from my father's antique collection after he passed away.
I'd like to say my palate has matured in the last nearly 30 years, but then I'd be adding lying to my list of sins. I enjoyed a handful of mini Gobstoppers (do they even make the large ones anymore?) for dessert tonight. And I have to confess they were, technically speaking, my kids' Gobstoppers. My sister sent them before Halloween, but I don't let my kids have hard candy, so I never actually handed them over. Is that stealing? I prefer to say I merely rescued my children from a potential choking hazard, which is something any good mother would do.
Anyone out there have a favorite candy from childhood?You don't even have to admit you still eat it. And I'll assume if you DO still eat it, you acquire it honestly.
Off to go do some good deeds now so I can get back on Santa's nice list. I hear he sometimes brings candy.
When I was in middle school, I used to steal change from the cash register at my parent's bookstore in order to support my candy habit. All told, I probably took about $50 worth, maybe more. This coming from the daughter the rest of the family dubbed "The Golden Child" years ago. I never caused my parents a moment's worry, never rebelled, never talked back (okay, did that once and only once), never missed curfew, never drank, smoked, did drugs. Just stole from them when I was in the sixth grade.
I confessed to my parents years ago, and they granted me amnesty. Besides, my father knew I came by this candy addiction honestly. I inherited it from him.
As a kid, I recall that his favorites were licorice anything, orange slices, spice drops, Jujubes, and circus peanuts, the only one we agreed on. Although, in a bind, I ate the orange slices and jujubes, too. My own favorites and the ones for which I pilfered all that change are nearly too numerous to recount, but I can at least begin: Sugar Babies, Sugar Daddies, Charleston Chews, Pixie Stix, Fun Dip, and Dinosaur Eggs. Willie Wonka used to make those last ones (the candy company, not Gene Wilder or Johnny Depp), but not anymore. They were large, sour, egg-shaped gobstoppers that changed color as you sucked on them until you got to the center, which was a sweet-tart. mmm. They lasted forever . . . or at least until I could scrounge up the change to buy another.
This one isn't the candy kind. That would be disgusting. This is like the one my mother gave me from my father's antique collection after he passed away.
I'd like to say my palate has matured in the last nearly 30 years, but then I'd be adding lying to my list of sins. I enjoyed a handful of mini Gobstoppers (do they even make the large ones anymore?) for dessert tonight. And I have to confess they were, technically speaking, my kids' Gobstoppers. My sister sent them before Halloween, but I don't let my kids have hard candy, so I never actually handed them over. Is that stealing? I prefer to say I merely rescued my children from a potential choking hazard, which is something any good mother would do.
Anyone out there have a favorite candy from childhood?You don't even have to admit you still eat it. And I'll assume if you DO still eat it, you acquire it honestly.
Off to go do some good deeds now so I can get back on Santa's nice list. I hear he sometimes brings candy.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The "Twilight" of my years...
I'm 39 years old. I know that. I don't try to pretend I'm younger. I don't lie about my age when people ask it.
When I was 21, I was flying from Hawaii to Phoenix, tanned and young, happy with the memories of a summer spent working at a vegetarian cafe. The flight attendant came down the aisle before the flight started, stopped at the boy in front of me, leaned over him, and asked, "Is this your first time flying?" He answered, "Yes." She said, "Then wait here after the plane lands, and we'll make sure you get to your connection."
Then she smiled as she leaned over me next and said, "And is this your first time flying, too?" I smiled back at her and said, "Noooo," thinking my boyfriend had found a way to play a trick on me. She asked how old I was, and when I told her I was 21, she stood up straight and looked horrified. "I am SO sorry," she said. "I thought you were much younger and that maybe you needed help getting to your next gate." I politely thanked her and told her I'd been traveling on my own for some time now and could make my connection without help.
So that was nearly 20 years ago. No one's going to mistake me as a kid anymore--nor a teenager, nor would I likely get carded in a bar. And all that's just fine with me. I was never comfortable as a teenager--not remotely. I didn't know how to talk to most other teens, didn't know how to care about the things they cared about, didn't know how to giggle and roll my eyes and gripe about my parents and form cliques for the exclusive purpose of being exclusive. I was never in danger of being voted Homecoming Queen or Most Popular or class president. In many ways, I feel like I skipped over those years entirely, going straight from the girl who might have needed help finding her next gate to the young woman flying home alone after a summer on Kauai.
But--and it's a pretty big and telling but, I think--I love YA fiction. Perhaps it's precisely because I skipped over those years that I dwell in them now. I read plenty of adult fiction, too, of course. In fact, I'd say my reading taste is more eclectic than the average reader's. But I have a tender little spot in my heart right now for the YA label, such a tender little spot that not only do I read it but I write it as well.
So (and here we get to the point) I was drawn to the Twilight series when it came out however many years ago. And I read the sequels within a week of publication, having very firm opinions about whether I preferred Edward or Jacob (Jacob, by the way) and whether I thought Bella was a strong young woman (no, by the way) and whether the name Renesmee is THE lamest name ever of any character ever (that'd be a yes).
And when word spread that the movie was in the works, I had opinions about their choice for Edward (not happy at first, but he grew on me) and Bella (I liked the actress but not her rendering of Bella) and the previews of the special effects (do I really need to comment on this?). I eagerly awaited the movie's opening, ready to sit with my popcorn and pass judgment.
What I was NOT ready to do and had not awaited, eagerly or otherwise, was the experience of watching this with hundreds (literally) of teenage girls who are the real deal. They're teenagers! They're the girls I never "got" in high school. They're the ones who talked about makeup and shoes and cheerleading tryouts while I passed them in the halls, well aware of their eyerolling as I did. They're the reason, I confess, I was okay with skipping right to 21.
Here's what it was like in that theater last night:
The lights went out for the previews: SCREAM! The previews ended: SCREAM! The Cullens walk into the cafeteria: SCREAM! Then Edward comes in: OMG! OMG! SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM!!! And when the girls weren't screaming, they were talking out loud about how Edward or the other vampires looked in that last scene. "I know! Did you see him! OMG I LOVE him!" Carlisle Cullen comes to Bella's beside: SCREAM! Edward's car squeals in to save Bella: SCREAM! They almost kiss: SCREAM! Even after it was over, girls were screaming every time a still shot of one of the Cullens popped up on the screen. We were waiting outside for some of the girls we brought (none of whom screamed, I'm happy to say) and several groups of girls came out a different exit, all still screaming and holding their hands up to their faces like they couldn't contain themselves. One girl ran over to the movie poster and took a picture with her phone, nearly in tears with excitement. I've never seen anything like it. It was like watching those old news reels of the Beatles fans. If I hadn't been there in that theater, I wouldn't have believed it.
And now it's official: watching "Twilight" made me realize I'm old. I'm not just 39. I'm old! And I have been for a long time. Only, I didn't notice until last night when the screams drowned out half the dialogue and the sighs drowned out the other half, and all I could think was, "Thank God I'm not a teenager." I was so inept the first time that the thought of living through those years again and again and again as vampires do horrifies me.
(And don't bother me with details such as "Vampires don't really exist." My blog, my musings.)
When I was 21, I was flying from Hawaii to Phoenix, tanned and young, happy with the memories of a summer spent working at a vegetarian cafe. The flight attendant came down the aisle before the flight started, stopped at the boy in front of me, leaned over him, and asked, "Is this your first time flying?" He answered, "Yes." She said, "Then wait here after the plane lands, and we'll make sure you get to your connection."
Then she smiled as she leaned over me next and said, "And is this your first time flying, too?" I smiled back at her and said, "Noooo," thinking my boyfriend had found a way to play a trick on me. She asked how old I was, and when I told her I was 21, she stood up straight and looked horrified. "I am SO sorry," she said. "I thought you were much younger and that maybe you needed help getting to your next gate." I politely thanked her and told her I'd been traveling on my own for some time now and could make my connection without help.
So that was nearly 20 years ago. No one's going to mistake me as a kid anymore--nor a teenager, nor would I likely get carded in a bar. And all that's just fine with me. I was never comfortable as a teenager--not remotely. I didn't know how to talk to most other teens, didn't know how to care about the things they cared about, didn't know how to giggle and roll my eyes and gripe about my parents and form cliques for the exclusive purpose of being exclusive. I was never in danger of being voted Homecoming Queen or Most Popular or class president. In many ways, I feel like I skipped over those years entirely, going straight from the girl who might have needed help finding her next gate to the young woman flying home alone after a summer on Kauai.
But--and it's a pretty big and telling but, I think--I love YA fiction. Perhaps it's precisely because I skipped over those years that I dwell in them now. I read plenty of adult fiction, too, of course. In fact, I'd say my reading taste is more eclectic than the average reader's. But I have a tender little spot in my heart right now for the YA label, such a tender little spot that not only do I read it but I write it as well.
So (and here we get to the point) I was drawn to the Twilight series when it came out however many years ago. And I read the sequels within a week of publication, having very firm opinions about whether I preferred Edward or Jacob (Jacob, by the way) and whether I thought Bella was a strong young woman (no, by the way) and whether the name Renesmee is THE lamest name ever of any character ever (that'd be a yes).
And when word spread that the movie was in the works, I had opinions about their choice for Edward (not happy at first, but he grew on me) and Bella (I liked the actress but not her rendering of Bella) and the previews of the special effects (do I really need to comment on this?). I eagerly awaited the movie's opening, ready to sit with my popcorn and pass judgment.
What I was NOT ready to do and had not awaited, eagerly or otherwise, was the experience of watching this with hundreds (literally) of teenage girls who are the real deal. They're teenagers! They're the girls I never "got" in high school. They're the ones who talked about makeup and shoes and cheerleading tryouts while I passed them in the halls, well aware of their eyerolling as I did. They're the reason, I confess, I was okay with skipping right to 21.
Here's what it was like in that theater last night:
The lights went out for the previews: SCREAM! The previews ended: SCREAM! The Cullens walk into the cafeteria: SCREAM! Then Edward comes in: OMG! OMG! SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM!!! And when the girls weren't screaming, they were talking out loud about how Edward or the other vampires looked in that last scene. "I know! Did you see him! OMG I LOVE him!" Carlisle Cullen comes to Bella's beside: SCREAM! Edward's car squeals in to save Bella: SCREAM! They almost kiss: SCREAM! Even after it was over, girls were screaming every time a still shot of one of the Cullens popped up on the screen. We were waiting outside for some of the girls we brought (none of whom screamed, I'm happy to say) and several groups of girls came out a different exit, all still screaming and holding their hands up to their faces like they couldn't contain themselves. One girl ran over to the movie poster and took a picture with her phone, nearly in tears with excitement. I've never seen anything like it. It was like watching those old news reels of the Beatles fans. If I hadn't been there in that theater, I wouldn't have believed it.
And now it's official: watching "Twilight" made me realize I'm old. I'm not just 39. I'm old! And I have been for a long time. Only, I didn't notice until last night when the screams drowned out half the dialogue and the sighs drowned out the other half, and all I could think was, "Thank God I'm not a teenager." I was so inept the first time that the thought of living through those years again and again and again as vampires do horrifies me.
(And don't bother me with details such as "Vampires don't really exist." My blog, my musings.)
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Note to casting directors
Because I'm sure dozens are reading this blog...
Yet I have something to say to them if they were so inclined to listen. And here it is:
Stop casting well-known actors as the villains in TV dramas. Just stop it. Stop! Do you think we're stupid (don't tell my kids I used that word, please)? Do you think we don't know that when Scott Wolf shows up in the third scene of CSI he's going to be the guy the cops are looking for? Sure, he's not an A-list actor these days, but he's familiar enough that we know he's not going to be gone by the next scene. And tossing Chris Daughtry in to throw us off doesn't work. He's not an actor; he's a singer. Of course, he's not going to be the one to sweat it out when the cops drag him in for questioning. He had a few good lines last night, but he was just the surprise guest star, not the jerk who ran the girl over with his car then fled the scene.
This is why I don't watch TV dramas anymore--at least not the police dramas. I only watched it last night b/c I was reading a good book and can multi-task. I don't watch the dramas because "who done it" is never a mystery. Never. Ever. And I want to scream at Gary Sinise (whom I adore, by the way) and his ilk: "It's Scott Wolf!! You know . . . 'Party of Five?' He's your guy. Don't let him leave the precinct."
I'm also not a huge mystery reader, although it was a mystery I was reading last night. Sure, I attended Bouchercon this year, the big mystery convention. But I attended primarily because it was (relatively) inexpensive, I wanted to meet a friend in person finally who was going, and because Charlaine Harris was there. Generally, I don't bother picking up a mystery because I can figure out pretty quickly who the killer is and I'm always annoyed the detective in the story can't. This isn't a slam to mystery authors, and I'm not implying I'm smarter than the average mystery reader. I just don't have the patience to wade through a book once I know the outcome. Sure, I'm occasionally surprised (Anne Perry, for instance), but the writing has to be really stellar for me to stay engaged otherwise.
The mystery series I'm reading currently is so good that I don't even care about the solving, though. It's by Phil Rickman and is about a female vicar in England (do they have "vicars" elsewhere?) who becomes an exorcist for the church. It's not anywhere near as creepy as it sounds and the writing is just. so. incredible. that I forget to try to figure out who the bad guys are. It's a thoroughly engaging read that goes beyond any mystery series or author I've ever read before.
Maybe that's what the problem is with "CSI," "Law & Order," and other police dramas: the writing needs to outshine the casting. If I were so into the story that I don't care when Scott Wolf comes into the scene, then I'd be engaged enough to care about how the mystery gets solved from there or how the characters interact with each other or what the dialog is like. Great dialog will keep me reading or watching virtually anything. Thus my love of "Buffy"--I didn't watch every single blasted episode of that series to find out if Buffy and Angel stay together or if Spike ever wins her over. I watched it because I loved the dialog. It was brilliant.
But I digress. Back to the casting directors: Stop. Seriously. Please. You're more insulting than reality shows. Then again, if I'm not watching you, I can be reading more, can't I? Or waiting for Joss Whedon's new show, "Dollhouse," to premier in February.
So nevermind. As you were. Just be aware you're not fooling any of us.
Yet I have something to say to them if they were so inclined to listen. And here it is:
Stop casting well-known actors as the villains in TV dramas. Just stop it. Stop! Do you think we're stupid (don't tell my kids I used that word, please)? Do you think we don't know that when Scott Wolf shows up in the third scene of CSI he's going to be the guy the cops are looking for? Sure, he's not an A-list actor these days, but he's familiar enough that we know he's not going to be gone by the next scene. And tossing Chris Daughtry in to throw us off doesn't work. He's not an actor; he's a singer. Of course, he's not going to be the one to sweat it out when the cops drag him in for questioning. He had a few good lines last night, but he was just the surprise guest star, not the jerk who ran the girl over with his car then fled the scene.
This is why I don't watch TV dramas anymore--at least not the police dramas. I only watched it last night b/c I was reading a good book and can multi-task. I don't watch the dramas because "who done it" is never a mystery. Never. Ever. And I want to scream at Gary Sinise (whom I adore, by the way) and his ilk: "It's Scott Wolf!! You know . . . 'Party of Five?' He's your guy. Don't let him leave the precinct."
I'm also not a huge mystery reader, although it was a mystery I was reading last night. Sure, I attended Bouchercon this year, the big mystery convention. But I attended primarily because it was (relatively) inexpensive, I wanted to meet a friend in person finally who was going, and because Charlaine Harris was there. Generally, I don't bother picking up a mystery because I can figure out pretty quickly who the killer is and I'm always annoyed the detective in the story can't. This isn't a slam to mystery authors, and I'm not implying I'm smarter than the average mystery reader. I just don't have the patience to wade through a book once I know the outcome. Sure, I'm occasionally surprised (Anne Perry, for instance), but the writing has to be really stellar for me to stay engaged otherwise.
The mystery series I'm reading currently is so good that I don't even care about the solving, though. It's by Phil Rickman and is about a female vicar in England (do they have "vicars" elsewhere?) who becomes an exorcist for the church. It's not anywhere near as creepy as it sounds and the writing is just. so. incredible. that I forget to try to figure out who the bad guys are. It's a thoroughly engaging read that goes beyond any mystery series or author I've ever read before.
Maybe that's what the problem is with "CSI," "Law & Order," and other police dramas: the writing needs to outshine the casting. If I were so into the story that I don't care when Scott Wolf comes into the scene, then I'd be engaged enough to care about how the mystery gets solved from there or how the characters interact with each other or what the dialog is like. Great dialog will keep me reading or watching virtually anything. Thus my love of "Buffy"--I didn't watch every single blasted episode of that series to find out if Buffy and Angel stay together or if Spike ever wins her over. I watched it because I loved the dialog. It was brilliant.
But I digress. Back to the casting directors: Stop. Seriously. Please. You're more insulting than reality shows. Then again, if I'm not watching you, I can be reading more, can't I? Or waiting for Joss Whedon's new show, "Dollhouse," to premier in February.
So nevermind. As you were. Just be aware you're not fooling any of us.
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