“Are you serious?” I asked. I think I was giving him that squinty look. You know, the one that creases your forehead and narrows your eyes.  The look you give a person when you’re thinking REALLY? Then I said, “We’re only going to the store. We know how to get there.”

But when we climbed into the car, she was there between us in the front seat. My husband’s GPS.  ”Her name is Lwaxana,” my husband told me as he handed her to me. Lwaxana? I can’t even pronounce it, but it rolls off his tongue like melted butter.  He even had reason for giving her that particular name. That’s when I realized I had some competition. That smooth talking machine was vying for my position as navigator and who knew what else.

Lwaxana and Deanna Troi.

“I know how to get where we’re going,” I said, looking at her slim, black case with distaste. He ignored me and left her on the console. After a few months, I gave in and used her for longer trips. I’d grudgingly hold her and relay her directions to my husband; her voice is too quiet to hear over the noise of the road. “I’d rather use a print-off from Mapquest,” I’d mutter to her. She didn’t fool me; I knew she was expendable. And she knew that I knew it.

I’m a great navigator. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but after years of living in New York and Ohio, and after our many road trips, I know how to read a map. I have a good internal compass, too. Granted, I screw up occasionally. “The Alibi is on Rochester between Wattles and Long Lake,” I’ll tell my husband confidently when he asks. But after circling the same stretch of a mile for the fifth time, we realize that I’m three miles off, and we’re a half-hour late to meet friends for dinner; I’m remorseful and apologetic. Lwaxana has yet to apologize for her screw ups. And she has made a few.

When we leave to attend a function on Belle Isle in Detroit, my husband hands me Lwaxana before backing out of our driveway. “Start out going south on John R,” she says in her confident, silky voice.

“I’m taking Fifteen Mile,” my husband says.

“She doesn’t like it when you mess her up and she has to recalculate,” I tell him. “She may not say it, but I know she’s waiting to taser me because you’re not listening to her.”

“She doesn’t mind if I change routes.” He defends her. But he’s wrong. She’s a woman and I know she’s planning her revenge on me. I’m not stupid; I read The Help. 

Sharpening their tools.

“I think I’m going to write a blog post about her,” I inform him. “Your other woman.”

“That’s a great idea,” he says and offers to come up with a list of our similarities and differences.

Go right ahead, I think. And when you’re sleeping on the couch, we’ll see if Lwaxana can keep you warm.

We continue our ride downtown. Thank God it’s mostly expressway driving, so Lwaxana remains silent for most of the drive. Maybe she’s using this time to plan how she’s going to taser me the next time Dave doesn’t follow her directions.

By the time we reach Detroit, it’s snowing so hard we see five cars that have spun out and a semi-truck has jack-knifed. Finally, we cross the bridge to the unfamiliar terrain of Belle Isle. Now the snow’s so thick we literally can’t see more than five feet ahead of us. And I say for the first time, “I’m actually glad we have this thing.” I point to Lwaxana because I’m not about to say her name. We follow her directions through the blinding snow and end up at… gates that are chained shut. Obviously the wrong place.

I wouldn’t let her steer my starship.

After a half-hour, we find our destination with no help from Lwaxana. She does nothing to correct the directions and doesn’t apologize for steering us wrong in the first place.

Later that evening my husband hands me some papers. “Here’s some information on Lwaxana Troi for your blog post,” he says. “I’m working on the list of similarities and differences.”

Dave’s List:

How Dawne and Lwaxana are alike

• I look to both of them for guidance
• I don’t always take their advice
• They both speak softly into my ear

How Dawne and Lwaxana are different

• Dawne always laughs at my jokes
• Lwaxana never gets angry when I ignore her
• Dawne is taller

I guess he doesn’t have to sleep on the couch.

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My cousins and I arrived at my aunt’s home with a flurry of greetings. After shedding boot and coats, and sharing news of grown children and photos of grandchildren and great-grandhchildren, we settled around the kitchen table.

I sat quietly for a moment, looking at the faces of the women gathered there, remembering our shared past. I felt the tug of connection that had been missing for so long, lost in the busyness of raising my own family and the isolating blanket of grief I’d wrapped around myself. I loved those familiar faces; they made up a large part of my life. Yet for all their familiarity they’d changed, not so much from the passage of time, but from the lives they’d lived and all they’d seen. And I realized we’d entered a new season of our family life, together.

Spring

When I was born, our family was in the midst of its springtime– seven brothers and sisters (of which my mother was the youngest) their spouses and children (thirty-one kids between them). We saw each other often back then. When we got together, it was always a party and I don’t mean a Norman Rockwell-type party. I mean the dad’s in the basement, drinking beer, watching a ball game and playing Euchre. The mom’s at the kitchen table, after preparing enough food to feed a small Polish city and putting it out on a wood-covered pool table, munching on special mom goodies, and gossiping (in a nice way, of course). Then there were the kids— unsupervised, unchaperoned, unfettered and best friends. We were in heaven. Life was good.

Summer

As the thirty-one cousins grew up, the family remained close. Maybe not quite as close as we had been when we were younger, but we still got together often and when we did it was still a party. And those of us that didn’t play Euchre with the dads were still unsupervised, unchaperoned and unfettered. But now most of us were old enough to drink. That made for more “fun”.

We cousins began to get married, standing up in each others weddings, with the new spouses becoming a welcome part of the chaos that was our family.  And as the summer of the family wore on, babies came and families grew. And we didn’t see each other as much as we had in the early summer. But when we did, it was still a party.

Until one of the uncles died, sending a chill over the summer of our family. And yet even in that death we were together, many of us blessed to be in his hospital room with him when he drew his last breath in this life.

Summer was the era of “Girls Gone Polish”—the cousins and the aunts and the music. The highlight of our summers was the outdoor concert. We’d arrive an hour early to get good seats on the hill at Meadowbrook Music Theater, coolers packed with the usual goodies and exotic drinks like “Sex on the Beach” or “Fuzzy Navels”. I sometimes think we didn’t go as much for the music as we did for the autographs. Can anyone ever forget surrounding Roy Orbison’s bus until we got the zillion autographs we were after (a shout-out here to Aunt Dolores) or, if the bus managed to elude us, scouting out nearby Marriot hotels in search of autographs? Have the Righteous Brothers ever forgotten the late night phone call to their hotel room asking them to send down their autographs on the hotel napkins?

Autumn

Autumn came suddenly to the family during an unexpected snow storm. That was the day the youngest cousin died in a tragic car accident on an icy road. That was the day my brother John died.

John had a great love for the family; he was one of those that was always at its heart and core. And even when most of us were too busy to attend this or that graduation or get-together or party, John was there. The death of a beloved cousin, and the youngest on top of that, was painful for everyone. Even so, somehow it made me different from them; I didn’t fit in anymore. I was afraid John would get left behind and I couldn’t bear that. So, I took him to all the family functions with me, and I’d watch the festivities from a distance, with John.

As I sat at my aunt’s table, gazing at the faces it suddenly struck me that each woman sitting there had suffered her own heartbreaking loss since John’s death— the loss of a mother, a sister, a brother, a husband, a father. Yet, I saw a strength and beauty emanating from each of those women that had been lacking in youth. The love we’d always had for each other had deepened and matured. I took a deep breath and settled back into my chair, so grateful for the comfort of being with my family again.

It was a bittersweet moment, because I realized summer had passed and winter would soon be upon us. But I was thankful for our autumn, the most vibrant season of all.

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Hello all, this is Dave, the other half of the Dawne/Dave marriage (actually, the other 2/3′s based on girth). Dawne is struggling to come up with something for a post, and since Christmas draws nigh she’s very busy (stressed).  She left herself logged on and walked away, and me being the helpful sort I thought maybe I’d contribute – just keep it between you and me.

Since we’re talking about Christmas, I’d like to tell you about a gift I gave to Dawne: the moment I became a far better husband than I was before (and also a better all around person). I didn’t realize at the time that’s what was happening.

Like everyone, when I was growing up, I learned how to do things the way that my family did them. That way may not be the only way, but since they’re the way I learned them, they seem like the “right” way.

The “right” way to mow a lawn.

I learned how to do things like mow the lawn, take out the trash, and make a sandwich. I ate a lot of sandwiches (and still do), so my mom decided to free up several hours a week by teaching me how to make my own.

One of the things she taught me was that if you pull out a piece of bread near the end of the loaf, the bread has a big side and a little side (because the crust is angled, if you’re having trouble visualizing this you need to spend some time making your own sandwiches). My mom explained when the aforementioned situation occurs the little side of the bread slices should be on the outside of the sandwich and the big side on the inside since its greater surface area allows more spread or condiment to be applied thereto, thus increasing the sandwich’s overall yumminess quotient.

As my mom spoke I saw the light and swore to live my life accordingly from that day forward.

Then, down the road, I got married.

Overall, Dawne and I have always been a happy couple. Like any couple, we occasionally have our disagreements, and many times those disagreements are about how to do things the “right” way.

Also, there’s something that happens once you’ve lived with someone for a while– you get comfortable around them. I know that doesn’t sound like a spectacular insight but stick with me on this. What I mean is that you act around them differently than you do around others. You let them see more of what’s inside you, and sometimes what’s inside can be pretty childish.

Not only that, but things about our spouses that drive us crazy, we tolerate in others. Many times we’re far more forgiving of those we barely know. With those we know well we’re comfortable enough to let them see how their actions make us feel, even when those feelings reveal that we’re fairly petty.

Okay, now back to sandwiches and Dawne.

One day, after we were married, Dawne asked if I was hungry.
“Sure,” I answered.
“Can I make you a sandwich?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said again (I stick with what works).
And then she made the sandwich, applying the spread to the LITTLE SIDE OF THE BREAD!

I lost my mind. How uncouth could she be? Had this woman been raised by wolves? Had I really married a troglodyte?

I don’t exactly remember what I said to her, but it was on the opposite end of the spectrum from “Thanks for making me a sandwich, dear.” Now, here’s the important part: even though I don’t remember what I said, I remember exactly what I was thinking when I said it— I was thinking I was an idiot.

Christmas gift from my in-laws.

I’m yelling at my wife for buttering the wrong side of the bread? Really? I can blow off all kinds of slights by strangers but I can’t let this slide? Yes, there was the fact that what she did bothered me and I felt comfortable enough around her to let her know it, but on a deeper level, the problem was that what she did bothered me at all. And, ironically, that was the moment I became a better person because at that moment, I became aware how petty I could be. And by being aware of it, and being able to recognize it, I could work on fixing it.

To end the story, I apologized and got my sandwich (with a side of humble pie). Five kids later,  Dawne and I have a pretty good marriage. On my better days I can ignore minor problems. Not just refrain from making a hurtful comment about them, but truly ignore them. I’m not perfect in this area; I’m still a work in progress, but I can recognize when I’m letting the little stuff get to me.

This is something everyone can learn to do, and its one of the best gifts you can give. You give it to everyone, and you give it most to those you are closest to and most comfortable around. It’s not found under a tree and you don’t have to wait for Christmas to give it. And the best part is it’s free.

]]> http://dawnewebber.wordpress.com/2012/12/30/a-word-from-dave/feed/ 11 dawnewebber The Right Way to Mow the Lawn PBJ with love Christmas gift from my in-laws. Giving gifts, present, package, Christmas http://dawnewebber.wordpress.com/2012/12/17/the-unthinkable-becomes-thinkable/ http://dawnewebber.wordpress.com/2012/12/17/the-unthinkable-becomes-thinkable/#comments Tue, 18 Dec 2012 03:03:37 +0000 Dawne Webber http://dawnewebber.wordpress.com/?p=2547 ]]> There is one thing every person (there are seven of us) in my family has in common. We are Hobbit and Lord of The Rings fanatics. Our family rule for Tolkien is “You have to read the book before you see the movie.” Through the years, my husband read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy to our four oldest children. And after a few stops and starts, he and our ten-year-old, D³, finished reading The Hobbit just in time for the movie. Everyone was thrilled when we got tickets to the midnight showing for the entire family.

The night finally arrived and I sat in the dimly lit theater next to D³, listening to the hum of anticipation playing through the crowd while waiting for the lights to go out. Suddenly the midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises and the carnage wrought by James Holmes flashed through my head and a feeling of dread came over me. My eyes searched the crowd. Were there any lunatics lurking among the excited movie-goers? I checked out the exits and looked at my daughter sitting next to me. If anything happened should I shove her under the seat or climb on top of her? And I had a quiet thought, deep down in the center of my being—I wondered if I would have the courage to die for her.

The next day D³ confided in me that she had thought of The Dark Knight Rises when we were at the theater and had decided she’d hide under a seat if anyone started shooting. A few hours after our conversation, twenty-eight people were dead in Newtown, Connecticut. Twenty-seven murdered; twenty of them children.

Unthinkable. That’s a word we use to describe such a tragedy. At one time, such brutality in our midst was unthinkable, but if a ten-year-old is aware of its threat at the midnight showing of The Hobbit, it’s not unthinkable anymore.

In trying to make sense of the tragedy we look for answers and that includes finding someone or something to blame. We’ll blame the shooter’s parents, blame the gun-control laws, blame  the shooter’s dysfunction and mental health. We will be carried away on a tide of “Who’s to blame?” ultimately politicizing and demeaning the entire ordeal.

But the truth at it’s core is that Adam Lanza and James Holmes and countless others are the only ones responsible for their actions. Despite their circumstances, their mental health, their upbringing, the weapons available to them, the time spent gaming, the movies they watched and music they listened to, they were each confronted by a choice. And they chose evil. How many other thousands of people in very similar circumstances remain anonymous because they did not choose the evil that tempted them.

As for making sense of it, we will never be able to make sense of the such things because they are ultimately senseless. It’s against human nature to commit such heinous acts against others. It is goaded on and strengthened by malignant forces working on a level that we can’t fathom. We’ve all been furious at someone before but handled it without resorting to, or even seriously considering, murder. Senselessness is a fundamental characteristic of evil and evil is the force behind such violence.  And that is the answer to the ultimate question—”Why?”

In every tragedy, for some reason, God becomes part of the drama. People who never give any thought to God when things are going well (except to mindlessly intersperse “Oh my god,” throughout conversations) begin to think about God. Some pray to Him, some question Him (God, why do you allow evil?),  some blame Him (God, you should not have allowed this. You should have protected those children). But God is not responsible for our decisions or our actions. Free will is ours and God will not override our will with His.

But these questions remain: “Where was God?”  and “Why was evil allowed to triumph?” The answers are that God was there in the midst of the massacre and evil did not triumph. Adam Lanza was not the only one faced with a choice. All the adults were faced with a choice that day–”Save myself or save the children.” And God was there when they chose to save others because no matter how good a person is, it is not possible, of one’s own strength, to choose to die for another. Right now, sitting in front of our glowing computer screen, it’s easy to say we’d die for a loved one or even a stranger in danger. And we’d like to think we would. I think I’d have forfeited my life for my daughter’s but honestly I can’t even begin to imagine being in such a situation, much less how I’d really react. Try to imagine for a moment dying. And then imagine choosing your death over your life to save another. Can you honestly say you’d be strong enough to do it?

This supernatural strength the principal, the teachers and the others were given in no way detracts from what each of them did. They were faced with a choice, and they chose good, and I mean good in the truest, deepest sense of the word. And in their choice they will be forever remembered. When evil threatens to overwhelm us, those that sacrificed their lives are the ones that renew our faith in humanity and give us the strength to carry on, for a light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

After the panic subsided (with a little help from a mug of mulled wine), I decided to publish the post anyway because:
A. I didn’t have a back-up post.
B. Maybe my mistake will teach others to practice due diligence before posting things on the internet that will be available to the entire world to read forever. Unfortunately, I know from experience that I probably have not learned my lesson yet.

Below is the now obsolete post, although I think a vote is still appropriate. After all this hoopla, I’m sure the word will make the dictionary someday. But I think I’m getting ahead of myself…

A few weeks ago a new word came to me. I’m not sure if it was a humorous inspiration from my muse, or a dig about my poetic posts from my hyper-critical internal editor. The word came to me after I visited the Query Shark and read:

 ”Bad poetry is very easy. Good poetry is hard.  Poetry that illuminates and enhances art work, uses language for developing minds, and doesn’t bore the pants off the adults reading it either…well, that’s a real trick.”

-Query Shark aka Janet Reid

Reading that brought to mind the few poesies that had flowed with relative ease out of my head and onto my blog—The Ubiquitous Earworm:A Ballad and Black Friday Blues— to name a few. And I felt a tremor of anxiety. It hadn’t occurred to me when I posted them that they might in fact, be taken as serious poetry or even worse, that someone might think I had taken them as serious poetry.

Robert Frost a true poet.

Then it hit me. What I wrote wasn’t poetry. I wrote foetry. Or was it fauxetry?

Before I could enjoy the new-found word, I encountered the dilemma. Which way should it be spelled? Both rhyme with poetry, and although foetry makes more sense and looks better, it will inevitably on occasion, be pronounced fo-tree, thus rendering it useless. Fauxetry, on the other hand,  is very awkward. But the chances of mispronouncing it are rare, unless one is unfamiliar with the word “faux” and those people won’t care about the spelling anyway.

Blogging foetry/fauxetry sensation

I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Merriam or Collins get a hold of this word. It’s imperative that we, the people, decide the spelling now while it’s in our hands. But in order to make an informed decision some pertinent information, such as the definition, is needed.

Foetry/fauxetry improved upon but still bad.

Definition of FOETRY/FAUXETRY

fo·et·ry/faux·et·ry\noun \ˈfō-ə-trē

Examples of FOETRY/FAUXETRY

1. Any verse that contains the word Nantucket is an example of foetry/fauxetry.

Related to FOETRY/FAUXETRY

Synonyms: discordant, simple, Roses are red

Antonyms: poetry, literary

If “bucket list” can make the cut…

Now that you’re well-informed on the subject, make your mark in history by voting for the best word for the job before they decide for us.

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I’m happy to say now our Christmas family movie is Scrooge, the musical starring Albert Finney. My family has come to terms with this tradition (although every year, someone fondly recalls the Christmas we watched Highlander). I think they’re even beginning to look forward to Scrooge. I heard S² humming “Thank you very much” yesterday.

Scrooge has always had a special place in my heart, the Grinch, too.  As I lay in bed a few nights ago, pondering metaphysics, God, and man I naturally began to think of those two great characters of classic literature.

Yes, they each have an experience that shatters their existence and makes them realize they can never go back to life as it used to be. But the fact that they don’t want that life back is what makes them so interesting. Unfortunately, my late night ponderings don’t stop there. I begin to wonder what happens to the Grinch and Scrooge after Christmas.

Perhaps the Grinch moves to a small  Scandanavian-style chalet at the edge of Whoville. Cindy Lou Who stops by for a visit. She and Max romp around filling the air with giggles and whatever noise dogs make when they’re having fun. The Grinch’s big baby blue eyes crinkle as he smiles. The next day after Cindy Lou has been there for an hour, the Grinch finds himself on the front porch with his Grinch fingers nervously drumming. By the end of the month, he is hiding under his bed, leaving Cindy Lou and the other little Whos pounding mercilessly on his front door. His wide blue eyes are getting squintier and squintier. But the Grinch doesn’t want to go back to his old ways.

As for Scrooge, he spends Christmas partying at his nephew’s home. The next day, unused to such frolicking, he sleeps in for the first time in decades. He drags himself from bed just in time for dinner and heads over to the Cratchit’s to check on Tiny Tim and inveigle a dinner invitation. The Cratchit’s are overjoyed to see him. At first his free and liberally shared advice are welcome, but when he tries to improve upon Mrs. Cratchit’s plum pudding things get a little tense.

Scrooge can really party.

Okay, I know you’re wondering where I get the chutzpah to speculate on the behavior of such beloved characters. And yet I feel qualified to such speculation because Scrooge, the Grinch and I have a lot in common. We each tend (to put it mildly) towards grinchiness but we each desire to change. This desire is precipitated by events that affected each one of us so deeply we realize we can’t continue living as we did.

The event that changed my life happened over seventeen years ago, but it has influenced my life every day since. In itself, it is about the most mundane and unmemorable thing you could imagine. We were driving in our van (on Nineteen Mile Road, two-thirds of the way between Dequindre and Ryan Road, for the Michiganders among you). Suddenly my mind was filled with a sudden blinding revelation: God. This is very difficult to write because there are absolutely no words to describe it—a feeling, an intuition, an awareness, understanding, pure unadulterated joy. Nope. None of these come close. I’m not asking you to understand or even believe me.  Quite frankly, it’s not something you can experience just from reading my words (even if I could find some). What’s important here is the fact that this experience was so true and real to me that it changed my life.

I knew God was real. How cool (again, words can’t quite do it, so cool will have to do.) And I decided that I was going to change; I was going to always be good. Not because God demanded it, or because I wanted His approval, but because I loved Him and I wanted to be good for Him. And for myself. I hadn’t realized how unhappy I was until I was surprised by joy.

I floated on a cloud for a few days. But reality (the reality of myself) set in when I had to drive somewhere. I tried SO hard to be good and kind to the other drivers. But there were so many “idiots” on the road, my resolve crumbled. In fact, not only did I revert to my old self, I was worse than I usually was. What the heck was wrong with me? I did not want to behave this way.

But I learned, as I’m sure the Grinch and Scrooge would have if they were real, that a lifetime is a hard habit to break and bad is so much easier than good. But bad habits, even a lifetime of them, can be broken no matter how long it takes. For me, it’s possible with God’s help.

It would be possible for the Grinch and Scrooge, too. I think the Grinch would have moved to a secluded cabin in the woods, visiting the Who’s every week for some good times and a dinner of roast beast. Eventually, he’d begin inviting the Who’s to his cabin for a day of cross-country skiing and an evening of s’mores and cocoa in front of a blazing fire. As for Scrooge, he could have become a very successful business consultant (they weren’t called that back then) and philanthropist. Maybe he’d fall for a jolly widow and they’d live happily ever after.

As for me, I try to take one day at a time. As long as I don’t have to watch Highlander on Christmas…

Highlander, the perfect Christmas movie?

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]]> http://dawnewebber.wordpress.com/2012/12/03/scrooge-a-grinch-and-a-girl/feed/ 11 dawnewebber grinch 2 Scrooge can really party. Highlander, the perfect Christmas movie? http://dawnewebber.wordpress.com/2012/11/22/black-friday-blues/ http://dawnewebber.wordpress.com/2012/11/22/black-friday-blues/#comments Thu, 22 Nov 2012 22:53:36 +0000 Dawne Webber http://dawnewebber.wordpress.com/?p=2402 ]]>

Black Friday comes but once a year
It sets the world upon its ear.
Sane people leave their home before
The dawning sun has yet drawn near.

Thanksgiving’s but a passing chore
A sacrifice to gods of more.
Windshields cleared of winter’s frost
We must be early to the store.

Employees tired and acting sauced
Cranky at the sleep they’ve lost,
Dream of running from their post
To flee from shoppers that accost.

Snaking lines from coast to coast
The winner buying up the most
The savings clearly worth the woe
Thanksgiving giving up the ghost.

Black Friday is Thanksgiving’s foe,
And so their armies each shall grow.
Visions of peace then let us show:
Both sides under the mistletoe

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There is nothing as lonely as sharing something created in the depths of your gut and getting no response.

I saw a commercial for the TV show Dance Moms: Season 2. It featured two out-of-shape moms putting down their equally out-of-shape daughters and their dancing. Seriously?  The public is clamoring for this kind of thing so loudly that the powers-that-be carved out a block in their programming schedule and dumped their financial resources into another reality show of this caliber?

Girls costumes provided by Fredericks of Hollywood.

This isn’t really a rant about reality tv. It’s more of a lament. It’s shown me the disparity between what’s successful and what I’m driven to write, and I wonder if the struggle against the tide is worth it anymore.

I read a post by Ross Gale and Tony Woodlief that put into words and brought into focus the irrepressible urge to express and share something of ourselves with others:

“We’d have to whisper our little truths of moans and water pools in hopes that our stories would turn others back to their own hidden stories, thereby sparking that blessed epiphany we readers have experienced and which keeps us coming back to the writers we love, the epiphany that can be summed up in this way:

Yes, I have felt this too, and I see you have felt it, and so I am not alone.”

It reminded me of a mantra I’ve repeated ad nauseam to myself and to other writers:

“I’ve written because it fulfilled me… I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.” Stephen King

But that’s a delusion I’ve been laboring under. I realize now that’s only one part of the mystery of creating something.

When other writers have expressed fear that their writing will never be published, I’ve knocked it right back at them: “You’re not writing to be published. You’re writing for the pure joy of the thing.” But I was wrong. Not only do we write for the pure joy of the thing, we write to connect with others in the deepest most hidden part of our being.

And I think in these days of  Dance Moms, something titled The Wife Swapping Vampires of Detroit has an exponentially greater chance of getting published than something titled East of Eden or To Kill A Mockingbird.

Wife-Swapping Vampires of Detroit

I”m not knocking escaping occasionally. I’ve spent many pleasurable hours with Victoria Holt, Janet Evanovich, and Emily Giffin. Not only have I watched What Not to Wear, I’ve made my unsuspecting guests watch it as well. And I’ve found myself caught up in the drama of Saying Yes to the Dress more than once.

And this isn’t about literary scholarship. This is much more simple and basic. It’s about something that touches you so deeply it has the power to bring real tears to your eyes. Not the easy tears of sentimentality. But the hot and heavy tears of self-discovery. Or the tears that leak out of you when you’ve read something so true and brilliant that the wonder of it can’t be contained inside of you. Or the tears of sorrow and relief at finding someone who not only understands your pain and dismal failings but has lived them as well.

Escape has become the end to the means. People are afraid to look inside themselves, afraid to face what lies hidden there. And I feel a tingling of dread at the thought that if John Steinbeck or Irene Hunt were writing today they’d remain unknown, their place on the bookshelves occupied by marshmallow fluff.

Boo, Scout, Atticus and Heck. No marshmallow fluff here.

And now I have to come clean with you.

As I started to publish this post, my finger hovered over the publish button and I had a second thought: This is kind of a cynical downer of a post. Who wants to read about writerly angst? Maybe I should just delete it and try for something humorous.

But I will not cave. I will hit the publish button and let the chips fall where they may.

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It’s been awhile since a book has grabbed me right from the first page, but this book had it all. The characters were gray, not Fifty Shades, but hundreds of shades. And for any person, fictional or flesh, lots of grays are the most interesting colors. The plot was amazing. Unpredictable in its turmoil. So many places it could go. I was so excited to be on the ride. I was tempted to pull an all-nighter and read it from cover to cover, but I had to get up early the next day. I dreamed about the book that night (seriously); I’ve never dreamed about books I’m writing much less ones I’m reading.

The next day I grabbed it at the first opportunity. When the sledgehammer hit, I shook my head, dazed. Maybe I was mistaken and the author hadn’t meant to use the plot as a weapon. The second hit by the sledgehammer crushed me. The beautiful shades of gray that had painted such a nuanced picture earlier were replaced with black and white. And the flesh and blood characters were replaced with cardboard stereotypes. And when the characters perched on their soapboxes, they forgot everything that had made them real. Nothing on the cover or dust jacket had prepared me for this.

The first whack was unexpected.

The damn book was nothing more than a  political agenda in disguise.

And for a contemporary best-selling novelist to use her status so insidiously is nothing more than a betrayal of her talent and of the readers that expect more from her. The saddest part is that instead of wasting her talent and throwing the original plot under the bus in exchange for a pamphlet of propaganda, the author could have made her point more forcefully by painting it into a beautiful thought provoking novel.

That’s not to say that what she preaches is wrong, or that she shouldn’t be allowed to write her opinions. But her method is like a mother giving a child a dish of ice cream and hiding the liver and onions in it, thinking she’ll fool the child into eating something healthy. The child doesn’t eat it, and hates liver and onions more than ever. And now she doesn’t trust her mother either.

How could the author not see that she could have remained true to the characters and original plot and still made her point? In the end, she was preaching to the choir. The people she was attempting to convert were just offended. Nothing changed.

A sledgehammer is not an effective evangelization tool, no matter what you’re preaching, be it your political, religious or moral ideals.

Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn’d.
-William Congreve

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For those of you unfamiliar with “Who’s Your Tiger?” it’s a marketing ploy that’s recycled whenever the current marketing strategy bombs or gets old. It’s successful with fans that take the team very seriously, the game slightly seriously (or not), and young children. I’m under the impression that those Tiger fans who are die-hard baseball enthusiasts feel that such a slogan is only worthy of the proletariat.

There are as many ways to choose a Tiger as there are Tigers. I’ll venture to say that some fans take the easy way out and choose the superstar that’s currently winning the media popularity contest. Others use stats, and still others have a Tiger chosen for them because they get a jersey with a name on it for their birthday. They’re stuck.

Happy Birthday

I’d like to say I choose my Tiger by logic or statistics. But I will maintain my integrity and admit I choose my Tiger based on emotions and/or hormones. I’m not proud of that, but it’s a fact of my life I’ve learned to accept. I’ve had two Tigers in my life (although Mark “The Bird” Fidrych will always hold a special place in my heart). Nate Robertson was the first (cut me some slack.) He became my Tiger in 2006 but I was loyal to him until the bitter end, (those of you whose Tiger was Brandon Inge can understand).

I tried to use a form of hormonal logic when I chose a Tiger after Nate left. I’ve chronicled  my journey here if you’re interested in the sordid details. If not, suffice it to say Brennan Boesch became my new Tiger in his rookie year. And he still is my Tiger. I think.

This season I started noticing Alex Avila because he reminded me of someone. I finally realized he reminded me a cute Shih Tzu. This isn’t a slam against his manliness. Any man that can start the game clean shaven and have picture-perfect scruff by the ninth inning has no need to defend his masculinity.

Am I the only one who sees a resemblance?

I didn’t realize how dangerous the situation had become until Alex was put on the Disabled List (DL in baseball speak. I know a few things) and I missed him a lot. I started feeling guilty when Brennan came to bat and I wasn’t very interested. And I began to whine, “When is Alex Avila coming back?” (nothing against Gerald Laird). As I listened to  the familiar buzz of my whining, I realized that I was indeed Tiger Conflicted.

I am a very loyal fan (as the Nate Robertson incident proves), and I will never throw Brennan Boesch under the bus.

But I am ecstatic that Alex Avila will be back in the game tonight.

Look what I found! Maybe for my birthday…

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