March 1, 2013
The Other Woman
I wasn’t worried when she appeared in my husband’s life or that they had to spend some time together—for work. I didn’t realize how serious it was between them until my husband announced she would be joining us on a trip.
“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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January 10, 2013
The Ties That Bind
My aunt called over the holidays. She’d invited a few of my cousins over for a “ladies’ night” and wondered if I could make it. I was looking forward to seeing everyone for a happy occasion. It seemed many of the circumstances bringing us together recently had been tinged with sadness.
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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May 29, 2012
Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum
I choose books by their covers, wine by its label, and movies by their trailers. And I thought I didn’t care what other people thought of my choices. Until I had an encounter with O. W. Toad.
She doesn’t look like a toad.
I wasn’t always that way. When I was younger, I knew that knowledge was the key (to what I wasn’t sure), and that I was ignorant about many things. I relied on the well-informed and scholarly to choose things that would help me attain knowledge.
I also knew with a certainty that belied my youth, that classical literature was the foundation of knowledge. During high school my brother developed a consuming passion for literature. He devoured it like potato chips. He became my literary mentor. I borrowed his books– Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Tolstoy, Dostoeveky. But I couldn’t devour them. I nibbled at them like they were steamed broccoli. I didn’t enjoy it and if I got any benefits, I wasn’t aware of them (I felt the same about broccoli).
Movies weren’t foundational to knowledge, but they could be building blocks. So I looked to the experts, the movie critics, to guide me into knowledge-acquiring-movie-Nirvana. The critics led me to Pulp Fiction. AAAAHHHH. I wanted to bleach my brain after that. Then their wisdom led me to Sideways. And I wanted to hunt down the critics that had “widely acclaimed” it and demand reparation for the two hours of my life that had been wasted. And while they were at it, they could reimburse me for the movie rental.
In the end, I owe those critics (well, let’s just call it even) because I begin to choose movies without reading reviews first. Move over Quentin Tarantino, I’ve realized I’m not meant to be knowledgeable. Enter Miss Congeniality and Legally Blonde. I don’t care what the critics say.
Literature followed a different path. I just stopped reading for myself; I read to my kids. But when I started grown-up reading again I browsed the bookstore shelves with the anticipation of a teenager with a shiny new driver’s license, getting into a car alone for the first time.
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go…”
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
I didn’t look at the best-seller list or book reviews. I chose the books that called to me. And I began to acquire knowledge. Not the kind I’d thought was necessary. The kind that taught me about other people, living in their own bubbles, trying to give me a glimpse of themselves. Both of us, reader and writer, connecting somewhere in our guts.
After reading lots of contemporary fiction, deciding to read classic literature again was like summoning up the courage to tip-toe into the cold lake water at the beach. I was fearful that if someone didn’t explain it, or tell me what to think, it would be lost on me. In fact, I was so focused on the mechanics I almost gave up. My brother told me to chill and just read it. So I did.
And I still do. And for the five hundred salient points that sail right over my head, I’m smart enough to get three or four. And that gives me plenty of stuff to ponder.
Which finally brings me to the point of this post— Margaret Atwood (also known as O. W. Toad).
I’d been hearing her name often so I decided to read The Handmaid’s Tale. It was not what I was expecting, and it was not like anything I’ve ever read. As I read, I was vaguely aware of a running commentary in the space between my conscious and sub-conscious minds. It went something like this: “What are her views on this (whatever cultural issue)? Is she trashing my views? Is she anti-Christian? Does she…..?” For the first few chapters I waited for a bogeyman to jump out at me and attack. But he never did. And I became engrossed in the tale and the place in Atwood’s gut that had given birth to it. It was an amazing place.
When I finished it, I gave it four stars in my Goodreads/Facebook account before indulging in my usual obsessive information glut (this explains my in-depth knowledge of things like Temple of the Dog, the life of Ernest Hemingway, and the in’s and out’s of NASCAR racing).
Is this where we live now?
I saw things like “anti-Christian” and “mocking traditional values”, and my heart did a little jumpy thing and a thought went through my mind, like a wisp of smoke, incoherent, just a dread— “Maybe I’m not supposed to like Margaret Atwood’s writing. Maybe I should delete my high rating so they won’t know.”
And I wondered if this place is unique to me or do we all live here? In this place where we believe that someone “from the other side” doesn’t have anything relevant to say, and isn’t worth listening to. So we don’t.
Then I shook my head and the smoke cleared. I did not delete my rating and I won’t delete my opinion. I can’t live in that place. If I did, I’d have to love Pulp Fiction.
Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum
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May 6, 2012
Books– The Next Endangered Species?
Yesterday, the warm afternoon breeze held a hint of summer. It whispered in my ear, prodding me to grab my handbag and say a quick good-bye to my family. I slipped out the door and into the car. I wasn’t escaping to the outdoors on that beautiful day; I was escaping to the bookstore.
The bookstore and I have an intimate relationship. Some of you will scoff and say, “A person can’t have a relationship with a place.” Well, a bookstore isn’t simply a brick and mortar building. It’s a place where books reside. Many of the books have an air about them that’s so palpable, they seem to breath. Of course, there are those books that are nothing more than pulp and ink and one can only hope for their demise.
People work there, and shop there, and browse there; they take what they need from the books like a plant taking water from the earth. And all these things combine to make an atmosphere that can only be found in a store that houses books. This is the place I have a relationship with. It’s the place I spent much of my young adult life.
After I had kids the relationship changed. I spent many enjoyable (and a few unenjoyable) hours in the children’s section; I never seemed to make it over to grown-up fiction. My time for reading had vanished, unnoticed in the busyness that became my life.
It wasn’t until last summer, after many years apart, I resumed my relationship with the bookstore. Every few months, it calls to me, and I steal away filled with anticipation. I love losing myself among the shelves while time stands still. My eyes feast on the myriad of colors, sizes and words that define each book and make each unique among its many siblings. I peruse the shelves, pulling out anything that catches my eye. I always make sure to go over the bottom shelf thoroughly in an effort to make up for the unfair disadvantage of being housed in that location.
Sometimes, I find “the book” right away. Other times, two or three vie for my affections. I limit myself to purchasing one. If I have two books beckoning to me, I may not be strong enough to resist the temptation to read them both, thus digging a hole of backwork that will take me a week to climb out of.
I buy my book and head home in time to make dinner. But the experience doesn’t end at the bookstore doors. It’s just begun. There’s the sweetness of anticipation. I know that later, I’ll curl up in my favorite rocker, or sit on creaky glider on the patio, and lose myself as I read.
Something happened recently that filled me with foreboding, and made me wonder if my relationship with the bookstore was in danger. I was sitting with other parents in the lounge during basketball practice. I was the only one in the room with a print book. Everyone else was engaged with an electronic device. For a moment, I felt like a dinosaur that had stumbled from its place in the museum exhibit. Then I was struck with a chilling thought: “Are print books an endangered species?”
“History does not repeat itself, but it does rhyme.”– Mark Twain
Of course, nobody can predict the fate of print books, but I find myself thinking back to the days of vinyl music— albums and single records. It’s not the same situation, nor were the stakes as high, but looking back may give us some perspective.
OMG. Paul’s not wearing socks. He must be dead.
You’d buy the album for its music, but an album was more than music. For some, the covers and liner notes were amazing works of art. They became a genre on their own. In fact, since 1964 there has been a Grammy Award for Best Liner Notes. If you have no idea what an album cover or liner note is, I think maybe the point of the discussion is hidden in there somewhere.
When CD’s came along, their tiny format made cover art and liner notes seemed laughable next to the grandeur of an album’s. But in time, the music industry crafted their own style of CD liner notes and covers. The liner notes and covers of old were forgotten. It seemed that nothing had been lost.
But we’ve face another paradigm shift in music. It’s modern format is electronic; CD’s are becoming obsolete and the need for physical packaging is rapidly dwindling. And the internet and Youtube are replacing liner notes and cover art. And it doesn’t seem to be such a big deal. I wonder if, in reality, it’s a much bigger deal than we realize.
I’ve never read an e-book. Who knows? Maybe it will be just as enjoyable reading a Nook out on the glider. And bedtime stories read from i-Pads will gently erase memories of printed books. But I’m not sure if any place can take the place of a bookstore.
A bedtime story.
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January 3, 2012
Avoiding the Warden
I’ve mentioned my muse many times. I respect my muse but I’m also intimidated by her; I suck up to her as much as possible. After reading virtualDavis’s comment I realize that in the process of kissing up to the muse, I’ve neglected mentioning my other writing collaborator. virtualDavis refers to this entity as a warden; I refer to mine as an editor, although warden is also fitting.
Have I failed to mention her because I’m avoiding her and her warden-like tendencies? Or is it because editors are overworked, underpaid and just don’t get the same attention as muses? The editor isn’t as awe-inspiring as the muse, but she’s just as important.
If my editor/warden looked like Robert Redford, I’d spend a lot more time with him.
I was first introduced to my editor in my sophomore year of high school in my Advanced Comp. class. I was intimidated by the upperclassmen that made up the class and by the teacher too. They all seemed much more literary than I. I kept my mouth shut, my ears open and did the work.
Then we got an interesting assignment. We were told that each of us had an inner editor that was naturally adversarial. This editor hampered and tampered with our writing by getting us to focus more on the reader’s reaction and less on the actual content. These editors also filled us with such paranoia about the mechanics of writing we were paralyzed to true creative writing.
The assignment consisted of three parts. The first was to describe your inner editor, physically and mentally. The second was to spend one hour writing everything that came to your mind without editing any of it. The last part consisted of re-imagining your internal editor as a friend not an adversary.
I really got into this assignment. It’s one memory of high school that hasn’t faded into a huge fuzzy blob in my mind (Thank you Lord that the rest has). I found it easy to visualize my adversarial editor. In a nutshell, she was a tall blond in a tweed suit, hair pulled severely back into a knot. She sat at an immaculate desk waiting to trounce me. And trounce me she did. I just hadn’t realized it before.
My friends and I could put these guys to shame.
The second part of the assignment was slightly more intriguing. Imagine me, an adolescent angst ridden girl who could look out her window and see the house of her unrequited love (who was probably out with that FRESHMAN). Add to that the fact that my friends and I swore like sailors when out of earshot of parents or teachers. Then throw in my inclination to snarkiness (even if the word snarky wasn’t yet in existence). That editor of mine never had a chance. As soon as I wrote the first f***, she was forgotten and I was free. This was in the days of long hand and I sat on my bed and wrote non-stop for an hour. The thought of my teacher reading it made me smile. He didn’t know what he was in for.
The third part, re-imagining your editor, was a turning point for me. I remember my editor’s hair was loose and she wore jeans. And we became friends. She wasn’t a warden anymore; she was a collaborator.
My teacher was astonished by my paper. I’m sure he’d never noticed me before I gave him the very detailed inner-workings of my mind. I got an A+ and a “Why are you hiding your light under a bushel?” in the margin. He even talked to me about it after class. Since then, my editor has become my cheerleader. We’re on the same side.
But I’ve realized recently that in re-creating my editor, I’ve created a monster…
I’ve created a monster…
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December 13, 2011
Avoiding the Muse
Greetings,
I guess you could consider this a guest post since the writer of this blog has gone AWOL. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for days but she’s not taking any of my calls.
Oh, I guess I should tell you who I am. I’m Dawne’s Muse. I apologize for her disappearance, but I’m sure she’ll be back posting at the beginning of the year.
Meanwhile, I’ll be attending the semi-annual Muse Retreat and Convention with my fellow muses. If your muse is missing over the holidays, chances are they’re attending as well. We always have a great time recharging our “inspiration batteries” and swapping ideas. I’m hoping to get John Steinbeck’s Muse’s autograph while I’m there and a glimpse of Stephenie Meyer’s Muse. But I’ll make sure to keep my distance; I’ve heard some “interesting” things about her.
Dawne and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and we look forward to confabulating with you in 2012.
Peace and Blessings,
Dawne’s Muse
PS- I thought coming up with the inspiration was the hard part of writing. But the actual writing of the thing is more difficult than I thought. Don’t let Dawne know, or she’ll never let me hear the end of it.
Writing the actual post is not in my job description
November 20, 2011
Thanks For the Memories
Thanksgiving is the the quiet, pastoral younger sibling to that jubilant, festive darling, Christmas. There’s a calmness surrounding Thanksgiving, like a deep breath before the whirlwind of the approaching holiday. I look out my window at the bare tree branches and gray sky and snapshots of Thanksgivings past roll through my mind.
The smell of turkey baking, the Thanksgiving parade on the TV (whether anyone’s watching it or not) followed by the Lion’s game (we may actually watch it this year), and the sound of Christmas music (Thanksgiving is the first official day of listening to Christmas music here, although every year someone tries to cheat and listen to it earlier). These are the traditions that have woven the background of Thanksgiving celebrations since my childhood, but every year has a unique flavor all it’s own.
One of my earliest memories is the parade and castle at Hudon's.
When I was very young, we would spend Thanksgiving at my grandparent’s home. I can remember the heavy, unreadable stare of my grandpa during the meal. I didn’t realize it then, but the stare was one of amusement because my eating habits fascinated him. None of the food on my plate could touch, much less mix with any other food (making gravy verboten). I ate one thing at a time until it was finished, then I would turn my plate to the next item and eat that until it was gone. I continued in this way until the plate was empty or I came to something I wouldn’t eat. As our family grew, I was a relieved to add a child’s table in another room and be out of his range of vision.
Another snapshot takes place when I was in high school. Thanksgiving was celebrated at our house and we used the good china. I remembered that I just wanted to be alone, so I offered to do all the dishes myself (By hand. It was the good china after all). My family and our guests disappeared. The snapshot is yellowed and fuzzy, but I think I see a few tears trickling down the face of a teenager enjoying a solitary wallow in her angst. I know I broke one of the china coffee cups. My daughter inherited the china, and you can see the hairline crack on a cup handle that was glued back together.
What better way to begin Thanksgiving than an early morning walk with the one you love.
The next snapshot is taken a few years later in the first apartment my husband and I shared in upstate New York. He worked third shift so we were often up before dawn. I remember going out for a walk on a frosty Thanksgiving morning before the sun came up. We went back to the apartment and I prepared a magnificent Thanksgiving feast: a twenty pound turkey (literally), a gallon of mashed potatoes and three pumpkin pies. I was used to cooking for seven people and I couldn’t seem to make the adjustment to cooking for two. I couldn’t understand why the potatoes looked untouched at the end of the meal. I was sure my husband hadn’t eaten enough, and I kept asking him if he wanted more potatoes. He declined and pointed out that two people would not make much of a dent in a meal prepared for seven.
A feast for two, with enough leftovers to last until next Thanksgiving
The next snapshot is more of a feeling than an image. We moved to Ohio (both of our families lived in Michigan) and had the first grandchild on both sides. Suddenly holidays were not as enjoyable as they had been. There were more responsibilities and schedules to determine. Would we go back to Michigan or was someone planning to come to Ohio? What time would be spent with my family? What time spent with his? The list went on and on…
I finally told our families that Thanksgiving was our holiday. We were spending it alone at our own home. Nobody really minded; it made it easier for everyone else too. Once again I found the peace of Thanksgiving.
After we’d lived back in Michigan for a few years, I had my parent’s over for Thanksgiving, because they were in the midst of moving and didn’t have a refrigerator at the time. We were in the middle of the meal, and suddenly my dad said in astonishment, “Hey, Dawne. This stuffing is really good.” Who knew I had it in me?
November 17, 2011
Grinched to the Max
What do the following have in common? Jon Bon Jovi for his hair. John Steinbeck for his writing. Mother Theresa for her unconditional love. Celine Dion for her voice. Justin Verlander for his pitching. Any drummer for their talent.
They’re all people I admire for some quality they possess and I lack.
Perfect ’80s Hair
Then there’s Max. You might know Max because of his association with Cindy Lou Who, the urchin famous for her huge, innocent eyes, cooing voice and perky antennae; and with the Grinch, whose heart grew three sizes and who had the strength of ten grinches plus two. And whose teeth didn’t move with his mouth when he talked (How cool is that?). Max, the Grinch’s dog, is the simple sidekick, relegated to the shadows of the limelight. Yet he’s the one I’ll spend my life trying to imitate, because he has something I lack and I want.
First of all, Max is perpetually happy. What does he have to be happy about? His life is rough. For starters, he lives in a cave on a mountain— with the Grinch. Yeah, the Grinch’s heart may have grown three sizes, but he was no picnic before that. I know people like the Grinch. Frankly, I can be a grinch myself. Grinches are not easy to live with.
Max is devoted to the Grinch. I’m sure the Grinch never said thanks, gave Max a card on his birthday, or even patted him on the head. Poor Max. Lack of appreciation can be a bitter thing. I know. I can being doing dishes for a sick child, while grumbling about their lack of gratitude— “I cooked dinner too. Doesn’t that child realize I’ve been in this kitchen for four hours? He should be on his knees thanking me for doing the dishes for him.”
Then there’s Max, oblivious to the lack of gratitude. Can anyone forget the single, pathetic antler tied to his head? It weighed a ton, and it looked ridiculous. (I’m resisting the urge to compare Lady Gaga here.) Talk about lack of gratitude; the Grinch won’t even let Max ride in the stupid sleigh. But Max never complains. He doesn’t even question it.
I was in a situation similar to the antler incident and believe me, I didn’t handle it like Max. I was the elf in the school Christmas play and my grandma made an extravagant green felt costume for me, complete with a curly pointed hat and curly pointed shoes. Every single pointy point was embellished with little jingle bells. I hated it, especially those shoes. I cried, protested, argued and probably screamed against the fate that put me in those shoes. I’m sure I would have been an adorable elf, had I been wearing a smile instead of a grimace. Granted I was only in second grade, but I don’t think I’d handle it much better now, unless Max came to mind.
Imagine bells on all the points and a grimace instead of a smile.
Some people would say Max is “simple”, maybe even dimwitted. They’d pity poor misguided Max. Some would try to explain to Max how awful his life really is and point out how little he has to be thankful for. Some would snicker behind his back, blaming him for not having the backbone to stand up to the Grinch. Would Max ignore them, or would he be enlightened and unhappy?
I’d say Max’s foolishness is wiser than most people’s wisdom. Max is like a leaf on the sea, floating on top of stormy waves as easily as he floats on placid water. As for me, I can float tranquilly on the placid water, but when my expectations are thwarted, I fight the waves and end up exhausted and half dead.
I wonder how Max feels about the Grinch’s transformation. Is it possible for Max to be any happier than he already is? Is his happiness level constant because he rolls with whatever life throws at him, good and bad? Does he always live in the moment, knowing but not worrying that the next moment will be different than the one he’s living now? Can you imagine the joy and peace that fills someone who is simply thankful to be alive?
I wonder if the Grinch ever learns anything from his dog, Max.
The Grinch, Cindy Lou and Max too.
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November 14, 2011
Each to His Passion
We are each created with a spark inside of us. Some of us try to ignore it. Maybe we think it’s something to be ashamed of. Whatever the reason, it remains a tiny ember occasionally flaring up, leaving us feeling as though we did something embarrassing in public.
Some of us fan the spark and it flares up with a glorious flame if used wisely or a hideous flame if given free reign. This spark gives heat and color to our lives. And it has the power to fill us with joy or drown us in misery.
This spark is passion. Not sexual passion. That spark resides in the anatomy. Not the passion of faith, which is so powerful it doesn’t reside in you; it engulfs you. The passion I’m talking about is the one that resides in the heart and mind. Have you ever watched someone animated by their passion? It really is a fascinating sight, even if their passion is something you find uninteresting.
Football Passion--Maybe fascinating isn't the right word.
I ignored my passions for a long time for many reasons: I didn’t have enough time, money or energy to devote to them. I felt numb until the spark flared in me and filled me with a forgotten excitement and joy. Not only did I like that feeling, I needed it. I needed something to be passionate about.
Each of us is created with a unique pre-loaded passion library. Sorry no refunds or exchanges; we have to take what we get. But that’s ok. We still have choices. Take my drum passion. There are so many things I could do with that (?). For example, I could become a professional RockBand drummer. I could play in competitions and tournaments, like the sixteen-year-old who dropped out of school to become a professional Guitar Hero competitor. I realize it’s not a wise choice, so I decide to focus on the listening and watching aspect of my drum passion.
If Neil Peart fails out, what hope is there for me?
But I long to use my passion for creating. So I read Stephen King’s words on talent again, because they capture essence of the passion of creating :
“…when you find something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening (or reading), every outing is a bravura performance because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic.”
When asked if he did it for the money, he replied: “…I never set a single word down on paper with the thought of being paid for it…I have written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side–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.”
Hmmm. What shall I focus on creating? More kids? I’m good at that, but I don’t think so. I’m content with the five I have. Scrapbooks? No, I’m not as passionate about that as I once was. A cottage garden landscape for my yard? I’m passionate about that, but I also inadvertently kill every plant I come into contact with. I couldn’t live with that heartache (not to mention the expense of replacing dead landscaping).
Of course, I decided on writing, not because it’s the least expensive, but “for the pure joy of the thing.” And writing rekindles my passion for reading. It’s like a passion bonus. If you need to be recharged, indulge in one of your passions. It can be great adventure. Who knows where it will lead. The only thing you can be sure of is the euphoria that fills you when you’re doing something you love.
November 2, 2011
Behind the Hype– SETs, STDs, and Lurkers.
Blogging is not the easy, jot-down-your-thoughts, hit-the-publish-button, and out-it-bursts-into-the-blogosphere-like-a-newborn-babe, it appears to be. Creating a post can be like creating a baby. At times, it’s so enjoyable and exciting you never want to stop. If you weren’t so tired you’d write another one right away. Occasionally it can be tedious. You close your eyes and push the publish button, glad that the effort to just get it done is behind you.
I love this picture!
But blogging is more complicated than creating a baby. There’s much more to it than writing and clicking “publish”. For example, the terms people use in search engines such as Google, have a great impact on a blog. Dave Grohl is a huge part of my blog. The terms “Dave Grohl drums” and “Dave Grohl drumming” chauffeur an amazing amount of people here. In fact, they’re the top two search engine terms (SET’s) that refer people to my blog. “Bunion” is a close second. That my blog is so closely associated with bunions leaves a warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Obligatory photo of Dave Grohl
Not everyone is searching for something as mundane as Dave Grohl’s drum kit (although it is enhanced by a vulture), or Brennan Boesch’s girlfriend (I don’t know who she is, people!). There are some very interesting individuals searching for some very colorful things. A few of the more bizarre terms that led to my blog include:
“women who polish their husbands toes”
“stop drop and roll does not work in hell lyrics”
“he waited two years till first sex”
And the winner of the most bizarre search term used to find my blog:
“first time outside crossdressing cool air sound of my heels”
I did my own web and image search on this term just to see what else popped up. I didn’t see my blog listed, but when I searched under images I came across Michelle.
This photo was on the seventh page of the image search.
Referrers are another necessity in the blogger’s world. Referrers are other blogs and web sites that link to your blog. A short time after I began blogging, I noticed some strange looking referrers. They became my favorites because they were generating half of my traffic. I was crushed when I found out they were “spam referrers”. They seem to have the same purpose in the blogosphere as the tiny annoying pests that inhabit the real world, such as mosquitoes and lice.
WordPress strongly advises a blogger to report spam referrers so that they can be blocked from using WordPress blogs for their devious purposes. This caused an ethical dilemma for me. Follow the rules and weed out the spammers (I am a rule follower by nature) or keep the spam referrers because it makes my blog look like it’s getting twice the hits it’s actually getting. In the end, I opted for justice for the spam scum, but there are days when my stats are so low I long for a few spam referrers just to perk me up.
Spam: It’s not welcome here.
At one time I thought the number of comments a blog had was indicative of the amount of traffic that blog got– comments equal blog life. ”Poor little unread blog,” I used to think about the blogs with few comments. Then I became the blogger, and I could see the amount of traffic stopping by my blog daily. And that number in no way corresponded to the dismal number of comments I was receiving. I still don’t get many comments, but I have a lot of lurkers. A “lurker” is an affectionate term bloggers use to describe readers that don’t make themselves known by posting comments.
I was a lurker myself for a while. Before I began writing my blog, I read blogs. But I had no desire to leave a comment. Who cared what I had to say? Hadn’t the blogger said it all in the post? Then I read a blog post about Christian Louboutin heels for Barbies, and I felt compelled to comment. I was too nervous to type my comment cold-turkey on-line. It took two days of editing a Word Doc. to perfect my first comment: “Those are the only Louboutin’s I’ll ever be able to afford”. After that, I wrote and edited all my comments before posting them, until I began writing my own blog and realized comments didn’t need to be perfect. Posts did. (In a perfect blogosphere anyway).
There is so much more I could tell you. My battle with the SEO (Search Engine Optimization) monster, and the disappearing blogroll. One of these days, when my muse is AWOL and I’m desperate for a post, I’ll let you in on that hype, too.
PS– In case you’re wondering about the STD’s in my headline, it was an underhanded ploy for some traffic. I may fight spam, but I’m not against a little hype.
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