I just watched the Invention of Lying last night. While I find Ricky Gervais, Eloise Hawking, half the cast from the funniest canceled sitcom in America, Arrested Development, and Jennifer Garner (despite her unity with that devil, Ben Affleck) to be quite amusing; I must take issue with the use of the word lying. According to my old friends, Merriam and Webster - remind me to introduce you to them sometime, if you aren't yet besties with them - to lie is to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive. According to this movie not to lie is to say the first, and hopefully rudest, thing that pops into your mind, without weighing the merit of the statement or its necessity in the conversation.
This is, in fact, the same misconception employed by the average misanthrope who wishes to protect their cruelty toward others with the famous "I cannot tell a lie" defense. The implication given by both the movie and these honest to a fault folks is that propriety, kindness and measured silence (enjoy it) are dishonest and therefore not worthy of taking up the space they might occupy in the proverbial tool belt and as such are cast off and trampled under foot.
If someone doesn't ask you a question and the information is not germane to the discussion then, dear writer of The Invention of Lying, failing to publicize the details of YOUR constant inner monologue is not a lie. And should someone ask you a question that would elicit the outing of your thoughts, having a brain-to-mouth filter is not lying either. Just because you think it, doesn't make it true; and just because you don't say it doesn't make you deceitful.
I am a big fan of honesty, and by and large I do not espouse lying. But what about this one: Tell the truth in Love. You don't have to tell your friend their cooking sucks (well, it's the TRUTH), especially if they don't ask, just thank them for their generosity and hospitality - because that is both kind and true. You can remain silent during a disagreement rather than blurting out the hurtful (and TRUE) things that you want to say without compromising your integrity. And if and ONLY if, it is absolutely necessary to tell a person something that has the potential to hurt said person 1. Make sure you are the appropriate person to say it 2. Check your motivation 3. Use gentle words so that you stand a chance of being heard. Otherwise, let's just be honest with ourselves, we're just venting, and while it feels good and we all do it, let's not attempt to render our actions noble by saying not to do so would be lying. Cuz that just ain't true, y'all.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Bla Blah Blog About Writing...
I have, at long last, made it to the library and have managed to check out a couple of books that qualify as proper adult reading, previously unread by yours truly. I have not, however, made it past page ten of the first book. Now that I think of it, I never did finish "The Dome" by Stephen King, so maybe I should go back and finish that before taking on anything new. Regardless of the book I am reading, there is always a reason to put it down and do something more important: change a diaper, break up a fight, move the clothes from washer to the dryer, or (and this is my personal favorite) attempt (most futilely) to convince my four year old that writing upside down and backward is not going to fly when he gets to Kindergarten in August. By the time I find the book again, find the place I left off reading - because, no I do not believe in or own any bookmarks - and finally start reading, I am interrupted anew. This happens when I'm blogging, too. In order to avoid Einstein's definition of insanity, I inevitably quit trying to read, and as proved by the queue of yet unfinished blog entries (some of which are about quite interesting topics) saved on my dashboard, quit trying to write.
In my short return to reading (non-children's) books, a few things have occurred to me about writing. I am sure you'll recall my delusion of grandeur post and the fact that I'd like to write a book. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. Maybe a novel about some profound truism of the human condition that evinces my more than passing interest in science. I could be 21st century Madeleine L'Engle (oooh my fascination with Maddy since childhood and my no longer secret desire to be her and belong to her family, and have interesting friends like hers-and oh the impossibility of it all...I could blog about that, maybe I will). I mentioned the LITTLE problem of what I would write about in the first place. This problem became even bigger as I was reading the prologue to "Straight Man" by Richard Russo (recommended to me by my brother-to whom I do not listen and therefore did not get the book at the time, and re-recommended to me by my sister-whom I copy in all things except liking tuna-fish sandwiches...INDIVIDUALITY VICTORY...and therefore I am now reading it). I realized that whatever story I think of that might make a good book is really only an anecdote that might be used within a larger story-line in a REAL book. Additionally, and even more depressingly, every subsequent story-line I drum up in response to this realization carries the same fatal flaw.
And then, in reading the several paragraphs used to describe the physical appearance of the protagonist's friend, I became overwhelmed by the amount of work that must go into developing each and every character. What does each character look like, what is he (or, she) wearing, what does that say about the person's personality and what are the things we cannot know about the person at the outset and what has to be conferred by writing between the lines...and who can just dream all of this up.
Lastly, because as it is with decorating and celebrity deaths my realizations come in threes, as I was transported to the very snow-covered hill William H. Devereaux, Jr. and his car were careening down, tail first, I couldn't even imagine how I would set the scenes in which my story would take place. Supposing the story takes place somewhere that actually exists, how would I remember all the sights, smells and subtleties of each endroit necessary to take the reader to my hometown, the "redrum" house of my teens or my college campus. My answer is that I would have to return to each place, experience it again, attempt to conjure the memories of how it was then, and then write about it there.
In that case, I have to conclude that for me writing a novel would mean years of character sketching and locational research. Then taking these muscles, organs, sinew, and skin and layering them one upon another in order for the story itself to take shape. Layered on what? On a skeleton, on the idea, the substantial well structured support system of the novel, protecting and guiding the characters along their way-and we've already established that is a rib or two at best.
Even as I think, OK-I can do this. Write it down bit by bit. When I think of the un-showering Professor Doofenschmirtz-esque man sporting wide wale, high-water, corduroy pants in the heat of Indian summer as if he hadn't recognized fall's temporary retreat and a peed on poodle color fisherman's cableknit sweater...and how the sweater is nearly the same color as his wild mane of would-be white if not for the aforementioned distaste for daily ablutions crowning glory...and how all of this was announced moments before he entered the room by a cacophonous orchestra of smells-coffee, oil, greasiness not to be confused with oil and a hint of wet dog (whence we know not, as it has been years since we had a dog), write it down. Put it away. Save it for another day, to edit, to weave into a larger tapestry that could become a character to place on a wall of the greater story that will one day become my novel. Even as I think this, the sneaking suspicion that writing is supposed to be an organic, ex-nihilo (well almost) sort of process and all of these contrivances are further proof that I am not at all a writer assails me and I feel like giving up before I've even started.
And such has been my constant inner monologue since starting this foray into literacy...and as such it is yet another reason not to read ever again. Well played, Jessica, truly well played.
Editor's Note: Since the editor sees fit to do NO editing, she thinks it only fair that once in a while she makes herself useful by writing a note. To those of you who take exception to the description herein because you imagine you know who is described thereby, my sincerest apologies. But fear not! You, too, will be featured, in no more glorious terms, in my novel, should my novel ever be written.
In my short return to reading (non-children's) books, a few things have occurred to me about writing. I am sure you'll recall my delusion of grandeur post and the fact that I'd like to write a book. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. Maybe a novel about some profound truism of the human condition that evinces my more than passing interest in science. I could be 21st century Madeleine L'Engle (oooh my fascination with Maddy since childhood and my no longer secret desire to be her and belong to her family, and have interesting friends like hers-and oh the impossibility of it all...I could blog about that, maybe I will). I mentioned the LITTLE problem of what I would write about in the first place. This problem became even bigger as I was reading the prologue to "Straight Man" by Richard Russo (recommended to me by my brother-to whom I do not listen and therefore did not get the book at the time, and re-recommended to me by my sister-whom I copy in all things except liking tuna-fish sandwiches...INDIVIDUALITY VICTORY...and therefore I am now reading it). I realized that whatever story I think of that might make a good book is really only an anecdote that might be used within a larger story-line in a REAL book. Additionally, and even more depressingly, every subsequent story-line I drum up in response to this realization carries the same fatal flaw.
And then, in reading the several paragraphs used to describe the physical appearance of the protagonist's friend, I became overwhelmed by the amount of work that must go into developing each and every character. What does each character look like, what is he (or, she) wearing, what does that say about the person's personality and what are the things we cannot know about the person at the outset and what has to be conferred by writing between the lines...and who can just dream all of this up.
Lastly, because as it is with decorating and celebrity deaths my realizations come in threes, as I was transported to the very snow-covered hill William H. Devereaux, Jr. and his car were careening down, tail first, I couldn't even imagine how I would set the scenes in which my story would take place. Supposing the story takes place somewhere that actually exists, how would I remember all the sights, smells and subtleties of each endroit necessary to take the reader to my hometown, the "redrum" house of my teens or my college campus. My answer is that I would have to return to each place, experience it again, attempt to conjure the memories of how it was then, and then write about it there.
In that case, I have to conclude that for me writing a novel would mean years of character sketching and locational research. Then taking these muscles, organs, sinew, and skin and layering them one upon another in order for the story itself to take shape. Layered on what? On a skeleton, on the idea, the substantial well structured support system of the novel, protecting and guiding the characters along their way-and we've already established that is a rib or two at best.
Even as I think, OK-I can do this. Write it down bit by bit. When I think of the un-showering Professor Doofenschmirtz-esque man sporting wide wale, high-water, corduroy pants in the heat of Indian summer as if he hadn't recognized fall's temporary retreat and a peed on poodle color fisherman's cableknit sweater...and how the sweater is nearly the same color as his wild mane of would-be white if not for the aforementioned distaste for daily ablutions crowning glory...and how all of this was announced moments before he entered the room by a cacophonous orchestra of smells-coffee, oil, greasiness not to be confused with oil and a hint of wet dog (whence we know not, as it has been years since we had a dog), write it down. Put it away. Save it for another day, to edit, to weave into a larger tapestry that could become a character to place on a wall of the greater story that will one day become my novel. Even as I think this, the sneaking suspicion that writing is supposed to be an organic, ex-nihilo (well almost) sort of process and all of these contrivances are further proof that I am not at all a writer assails me and I feel like giving up before I've even started.
And such has been my constant inner monologue since starting this foray into literacy...and as such it is yet another reason not to read ever again. Well played, Jessica, truly well played.
Editor's Note: Since the editor sees fit to do NO editing, she thinks it only fair that once in a while she makes herself useful by writing a note. To those of you who take exception to the description herein because you imagine you know who is described thereby, my sincerest apologies. But fear not! You, too, will be featured, in no more glorious terms, in my novel, should my novel ever be written.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Yeah, I am bloggin about American Idol
This week's American Idol results show sent me into a bit of a tailspin of inner blabbing. I've actually been able to edit my own inner monologue these days, thanks largely to this blog. I have a basic two bin thought process of late...I start thinking a thought, I stop myself and ask whether or not I would want to blog about this thought, essentially rating its inherent bloggability - inventing your own words is perfectly kosher, ask Lewis Carrol. If it is blog-worthy, I continue with that line of thought, if not I chuck it in the do not think on such things bin. AKA the garbage can of my mind.
Somehow tonight's American Idol has managed to stay out of the mental trash and thoughts about it are running, sprinting even, through my brain. I must get these thoughts out, so I am forced to write about American Idol.
First of all: Reuben Studdard (I probably should google that spelling-but I won't for now) was a snoozefest. Despite the fact that i strongly dislike morbid obesity, I don't think it is appropriate for the formerly properly appelled "Velvet Teddy Bear" to lose weight. He now, inappropriately, looks like the tortured Velveteen Rabbit. Plus his singing was booooooooooooorrrrrring...zzzzzzzzz, oh, good it's over.
Luckily, Ryan came on the scene and by way of acting like he LOST his mind took the spotlight quite off Reuben's less than exciting singing. Seriously, though, Ryan Seacrest has gone off the deep end of polite behavior. I am no fan of Simon Cowell, to be sure, I cringe when I find myself agreeing with him, but I in NO WAY condone Ryan gettting all up in Simon's personal space. I am a firm believer in the bubble, demarcated by an invisible arc whose radius is no less than an entire arm's length from one's center. Take two steps back and continue your speech, on second thought, nix that, and shut it.
The real highlight of the night came from none other than U-S-H-E-R. I love Usher, and I realize that many of you, especially those of you who are older than I, will demur (yeah that's right, I SAID DEMUR, and I used that word CORRECTLY, look it up...excuse me, almost fell down a rabbit hole there) but I love Usher. I guess he is cute in a clockwork orange meets R and B sort of way. And he can sing (despite some slightly off, due to breathlessness, thanks to singing and dancing moments) and he can dance. Plus he reminds me of my younger, carefree, day(s?) or a romantic notion I have of those days. What I loved most about Usher tonight was his use of the euphemism gosh. Well played, Usher. Way to use, and make your back-up singers use, and EVEN Will-I-am use the phrase Oh My gosh. It was so endearing to hear him use that phrase over an over. Perhaps to fully understand why, I will have to explain Jessica's hierarchy of filthy language. At the very top of the worst words is the do not utter name of G_d unless you are praying to Him. Second is the c word-and I'm guessing you all know why. Next is damn, because it is not our place to try to condemn our brother or sister to hell (followed closely on its heels by dang and dag because those words just SOUND SILLY). The low men on the curse totem pole (mostly cuz I LOVE using them) are the s word (which is not stupid, as my children think it is), the f word (because of its wonderful versatility - it could easily be my favorite word, despite the fact that it is extraordinarily naughty) and ass (because there are just so many opinions out there).
Then in a surprise, and seemingly desperate for attention twist, Diddy came out to perform. Really? Because I wasn't originally expecting a third performance, and then when I realized there would be one, I figured it would be another selection from Raymond V Raymond. Alas, no such luck, my ears were about to be full frontal assaulted by the non singing, non rapping stylizations of the D the I the D ... oh yea you guessed it, the megalomaniac Diddy. It seemed strange because Puff is so full of himself and performing on American Idol seems a little needy. Mostly, I just wasn't looking for a white clad seizure when I turned on the TV this evening, so when I found my self at the receiving end of a spasm inducing strobe light firing squad, I had to question the whole scene. After some consideration, I am just going to have to force this bunch of thoughts into the garbage bin, because it has already taken up too much of my time.
Finally, Kara DioG's apparent disconnect with the human condition as evidenced by her sad inability to comprehend the simple psychology behind Tim Urban smiling and laughing through week after week of hilariously vicious commentary and criticism put the final nail in my thought coffin and buried me alive with a heaping garbage pile of multi-directional mental discourse centered around American Idol. I really refuse to believe she is that stupid. You really don't understand why he is uncomfortably laughing at the insanely funny and yet devastatingly hurtful things you guys say to him, week in and week out, despite his sincere attempts to take in and obey your so called "constructive" criticism? Really? I don't buy it. You really think he doesn't understand what you are saying? Because your intellect is so lofty and your wordmsithing so devastatingly clever that his puny brain cannot fully wrap itself around your meaning? Because he is three years old and not twenty so his vocabulary and grasp of the English language has not yet developed properly? OK KARA you keep telling yourself that, because as it turns out, the joke is on you.
Despite all of this, I will tune in next week.
Somehow tonight's American Idol has managed to stay out of the mental trash and thoughts about it are running, sprinting even, through my brain. I must get these thoughts out, so I am forced to write about American Idol.
First of all: Reuben Studdard (I probably should google that spelling-but I won't for now) was a snoozefest. Despite the fact that i strongly dislike morbid obesity, I don't think it is appropriate for the formerly properly appelled "Velvet Teddy Bear" to lose weight. He now, inappropriately, looks like the tortured Velveteen Rabbit. Plus his singing was booooooooooooorrrrrring...zzzzzzzzz, oh, good it's over.
Luckily, Ryan came on the scene and by way of acting like he LOST his mind took the spotlight quite off Reuben's less than exciting singing. Seriously, though, Ryan Seacrest has gone off the deep end of polite behavior. I am no fan of Simon Cowell, to be sure, I cringe when I find myself agreeing with him, but I in NO WAY condone Ryan gettting all up in Simon's personal space. I am a firm believer in the bubble, demarcated by an invisible arc whose radius is no less than an entire arm's length from one's center. Take two steps back and continue your speech, on second thought, nix that, and shut it.
The real highlight of the night came from none other than U-S-H-E-R. I love Usher, and I realize that many of you, especially those of you who are older than I, will demur (yeah that's right, I SAID DEMUR, and I used that word CORRECTLY, look it up...excuse me, almost fell down a rabbit hole there) but I love Usher. I guess he is cute in a clockwork orange meets R and B sort of way. And he can sing (despite some slightly off, due to breathlessness, thanks to singing and dancing moments) and he can dance. Plus he reminds me of my younger, carefree, day(s?) or a romantic notion I have of those days. What I loved most about Usher tonight was his use of the euphemism gosh. Well played, Usher. Way to use, and make your back-up singers use, and EVEN Will-I-am use the phrase Oh My gosh. It was so endearing to hear him use that phrase over an over. Perhaps to fully understand why, I will have to explain Jessica's hierarchy of filthy language. At the very top of the worst words is the do not utter name of G_d unless you are praying to Him. Second is the c word-and I'm guessing you all know why. Next is damn, because it is not our place to try to condemn our brother or sister to hell (followed closely on its heels by dang and dag because those words just SOUND SILLY). The low men on the curse totem pole (mostly cuz I LOVE using them) are the s word (which is not stupid, as my children think it is), the f word (because of its wonderful versatility - it could easily be my favorite word, despite the fact that it is extraordinarily naughty) and ass (because there are just so many opinions out there).
Then in a surprise, and seemingly desperate for attention twist, Diddy came out to perform. Really? Because I wasn't originally expecting a third performance, and then when I realized there would be one, I figured it would be another selection from Raymond V Raymond. Alas, no such luck, my ears were about to be full frontal assaulted by the non singing, non rapping stylizations of the D the I the D ... oh yea you guessed it, the megalomaniac Diddy. It seemed strange because Puff is so full of himself and performing on American Idol seems a little needy. Mostly, I just wasn't looking for a white clad seizure when I turned on the TV this evening, so when I found my self at the receiving end of a spasm inducing strobe light firing squad, I had to question the whole scene. After some consideration, I am just going to have to force this bunch of thoughts into the garbage bin, because it has already taken up too much of my time.
Finally, Kara DioG's apparent disconnect with the human condition as evidenced by her sad inability to comprehend the simple psychology behind Tim Urban smiling and laughing through week after week of hilariously vicious commentary and criticism put the final nail in my thought coffin and buried me alive with a heaping garbage pile of multi-directional mental discourse centered around American Idol. I really refuse to believe she is that stupid. You really don't understand why he is uncomfortably laughing at the insanely funny and yet devastatingly hurtful things you guys say to him, week in and week out, despite his sincere attempts to take in and obey your so called "constructive" criticism? Really? I don't buy it. You really think he doesn't understand what you are saying? Because your intellect is so lofty and your wordmsithing so devastatingly clever that his puny brain cannot fully wrap itself around your meaning? Because he is three years old and not twenty so his vocabulary and grasp of the English language has not yet developed properly? OK KARA you keep telling yourself that, because as it turns out, the joke is on you.
Despite all of this, I will tune in next week.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Little Musings and Delusions of Grandeur
I watch a lot of TV. At night, and so as it is with drinking, it is OK. I was watching FlashForward last night, and I got to thinking about physics, and time travel and great works of fiction. The first thing that struck me is that I need to start reading again. Good books, reread the oldies, read some of the oldies that, likely due to their banishment from our home for espousing witchcraft or something of that nature, I never read, read some newbies, read some differenties, read some bad books-because sometimes you really can't judge a book by its cover. The very act of reading makes a person smarter, sharpens the mind. Plus, reading expands vocabulary, informs, teaches, entertains and is all-around good for you.
The next thing I thought of is how much I have always harbored a secret desire to write a great American novel. Something on the order of East of Eden or The Great Gatsby or Fahrenheit 451. (Yes, this is where the delusions of grandeur come in.) In my mind I am a great writer. In the minds of most of my English teachers throughout the years, I am a C student. My writing is too stream of consciousness, too poorly researched and lazily put together, too fraught with spelling mistakes, too whatever it was they didn't like about it. It hurt, and colored the way I thought about writing-I began to hate writing and think I was a bad writer (and perhaps I am, and yet again maybe it is all subjective, feel free to REFRAIN from commenting on this line of thought). Their destructive words colluded with my tendency toward laziness to rob me of more than a few good years of writing.
More recently, someone near and dear to me wrote an amazing novel that, for several reasons, chased me away from the idea of writing anything of my own. The first reason is pretty straight forward, its sheer awesomeness made me think "ugh I could NEVER write anything this good, I couldn't even try." The second is a little more convoluted, and quite honestly, insane. Because this unnamed person is so close to me, the simple fact that she wrote a novel in light of the Pauli Exclusion Principle (no two electrons may occupy the same quantum state-from which we get the idea that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time)means I may not write a novel. Insane, I know. IIIIIIIIII KNOOOOOOOOOOOW.
Not that I even have an idea WHAT I would write this chef d'ouevre about, nor that I have any real idea how one would go about writing a novel. Research and discipline and editing and rejection-I'm sure-all stuff I am really not interested in. I just have this delusion of grandeur. Well, at least I have this blog, and practice writing less than once a week. There's a step in the right direction, right? Although, by the same token, how many millions out there will be writing a book as a natural progression from their blog. Speaking of millions, there are millions of literal morons who have written books, and QUITE a few of them have done so with great success. And so goes the see saw, tug-o-war, back and forth inside my mind.
Lemme take you back to the subject...Reading. A good place to start all this (or stop it) novel writing would be to get back on the horse and read, because reading is FUN-damental.
PS: I would probably have to come up with some original material. Mostly, I would have to overcome a lot of deep-seated laziness (I had originally planned on blogging about a couple of other delusions I have, but I've tired of writing - QED) so the world is safe for now.
The next thing I thought of is how much I have always harbored a secret desire to write a great American novel. Something on the order of East of Eden or The Great Gatsby or Fahrenheit 451. (Yes, this is where the delusions of grandeur come in.) In my mind I am a great writer. In the minds of most of my English teachers throughout the years, I am a C student. My writing is too stream of consciousness, too poorly researched and lazily put together, too fraught with spelling mistakes, too whatever it was they didn't like about it. It hurt, and colored the way I thought about writing-I began to hate writing and think I was a bad writer (and perhaps I am, and yet again maybe it is all subjective, feel free to REFRAIN from commenting on this line of thought). Their destructive words colluded with my tendency toward laziness to rob me of more than a few good years of writing.
More recently, someone near and dear to me wrote an amazing novel that, for several reasons, chased me away from the idea of writing anything of my own. The first reason is pretty straight forward, its sheer awesomeness made me think "ugh I could NEVER write anything this good, I couldn't even try." The second is a little more convoluted, and quite honestly, insane. Because this unnamed person is so close to me, the simple fact that she wrote a novel in light of the Pauli Exclusion Principle (no two electrons may occupy the same quantum state-from which we get the idea that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time)means I may not write a novel. Insane, I know. IIIIIIIIII KNOOOOOOOOOOOW.
Not that I even have an idea WHAT I would write this chef d'ouevre about, nor that I have any real idea how one would go about writing a novel. Research and discipline and editing and rejection-I'm sure-all stuff I am really not interested in. I just have this delusion of grandeur. Well, at least I have this blog, and practice writing less than once a week. There's a step in the right direction, right? Although, by the same token, how many millions out there will be writing a book as a natural progression from their blog. Speaking of millions, there are millions of literal morons who have written books, and QUITE a few of them have done so with great success. And so goes the see saw, tug-o-war, back and forth inside my mind.
Lemme take you back to the subject...Reading. A good place to start all this (or stop it) novel writing would be to get back on the horse and read, because reading is FUN-damental.
PS: I would probably have to come up with some original material. Mostly, I would have to overcome a lot of deep-seated laziness (I had originally planned on blogging about a couple of other delusions I have, but I've tired of writing - QED) so the world is safe for now.
Summer Skin
Of late, I have been revisiting a favorite album from a few years back, Plans by Death Cab for Cutie. The melancholy tunes of all the songs and the lyrics of Summer Skin in particular make me both nostalgic for the sun and sea soaked ete's (how do you put an accent aigu on your "e" fraincais on this puppy?) of my preteen years on Long Island's Fire Island and mournful over an adolescence that I romantically fantasized about during those years, which, when it came and went, turned out to be quite less romantic.
This isn't going to be a blog (should I end up posting it, which perhaps I won't, we shall see) about what-ifs and what might-have-beens. You could become imprisoned in a dank, death-filled, windowless cell much like Edmond Dantes (one of my favorite literary characters during that time in my life) in the Count of Monte Cristo in that Chateau d'IF, if you let yourself. And to what end? So, coming as a surprise to even myself, this is the end of this entry. Walk on.
This isn't going to be a blog (should I end up posting it, which perhaps I won't, we shall see) about what-ifs and what might-have-beens. You could become imprisoned in a dank, death-filled, windowless cell much like Edmond Dantes (one of my favorite literary characters during that time in my life) in the Count of Monte Cristo in that Chateau d'IF, if you let yourself. And to what end? So, coming as a surprise to even myself, this is the end of this entry. Walk on.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Down on McBean
I think we all can agree that few things are funnier than someone inadvertently performing a split. So put down your coffee, unless you like the feeling of blowing coffee out through your nostrils (which is sometimes even funnier than accidental splits) because that's the kind of story this is going to be.
My two year old, regular readers may recall, recently had an incident wherein he broke his teeth requiring thousands of dollars worth of dental work. This same child had been diagnosed with a VSD, ventricular septal defect, which is just scary medical speak for a relatively innocent and fairly common (as defects go) hole in the muscle wall between the two lower chambers of the heart. So, with dental surgery looming on the horizon, all parties involved (parents, pediatrician and dentist alike) thought it prudent to determine whether or not this hole was still present and if prophylactic administration of antibiotics would be necessary.
Beware the ides of March. Little did I know the soothsayer's warning was for me as well as Julius Caesar when I left the house for the pediatric cardiologist's office this morning. We got to the beautiful Santa Clarita Medical Plaza on McBean Parkway and rode the elevator all the way to the second floor, got out and proceeded to suite 200. We waited in the perfectly minimally decorated lobby for less than a minute and were led back to a bright, antiseptic examination room. The kid was a champ and the exam was over in five minutes flat. The doctor told us the hole had indeed closed and all he heard was an innocent extra heart sound which was no cause for concern, and if he hadn't been an experienced cardiologist he probably wouldn't have even heard that. Excellent all is well. Now off to Starbucks across McBean to meet my friend for her birthday coffee.
My mind was more on this friend than anything else - because she, like me, places great expectations upon the event of her birthday, but knowing the soothsayers warning, and Julius Caesar's ultimate prophecy-fulfilling demise, she is wary of the day letting her down as it inevitably does year after year. I walked to the curbside, two year old holding my right hand, six week old cradled in my left arm. Sidebar: I haven't been using my sling the past couple of days because one of the ladies from church told me she saw a bit on the news about babies suffocating inside the sling, and because I haven't had a chance to research any of this, better safe than sorry. We press the button and await the green walk sign.
The green man lights up and we begin our traverse of the ten lane parkway. Are ten lanes really necessary and how am I expected to get the three of us across in less than 25 seconds? Off we go. About half way across McBean I begin to feel pride welling up. Here I am walking at a pretty brisk pace and my two year old (formerly known as hole in the heart man) is really keeping up, and the baby is sound asleep, well done, mom. Ah, yes, here's another true saying: Pride goeth before the fall. I notice that the truck in the right turn lane, the last lane before the safety of the other curb, is really creeping up into the crosswalk. Desiring to beat both big bad construction man in his white truck and the flashing red hand's countdown from 5, 4, 3...I speed up a little. I have about five steps left, four, three...I put my left foot out. My skinny, fancy, bejeweled Judas flip-flop slips out from under me. My left leg goes FLYING out both in front of me and slightly to my left. My right foot slips behind and under me, folded in a perfect hurdlers stretch position. My rear end falls STRAIGHT down onto my right leg and foot. Instinct holds my baby tight in my arm, and raises my right hand high so as not to drag the two year old down with me. Muscle memory, from long lost athletic days of yore, presses me INSTANTLY back up on my feet and ...two, one, I reach the curb just in time to beat the red don't walk sign. Success. Unlike Lot's wife, I do not allow myself the much desired rearward glance. I do not let myself look to see who witnessed my humiliation, and who is deserving of future mental arguments against their inability to stop and help a mother out.
Instead I soldier on. I have a coffee to drink and a birthday to celebrate. I round the corner between Corner Baker and Starbucks and think to myself that could have been MUCH worse, I am so glad that white truck didn't run me over. I am so glad I was able to land perfectly on my but and pop straight up. I am soooo relieved that the two year old somehow was so focused on hurrying across the street he didn't even notice I fell, much less fall himself! And I am uber-grateful that the baby slept through it all. Push the glasses back up the nose, run a hand through my hair and walk up to Starbucks. About a minute later, searing pain starts shooting through my right big toe. And throbbing. And now I can't walk. I look down at my foot and see this:
Well not that...it didn't look like an injury, yet. It looked black, so I figured it was just a stain from the street. Moments later, while ordering my coffee (extra shot of espresso today, because I deserve it after that bit of insanity on McBean) I look down and realize the foot is swelling and I can't exactly move my big toe. In fact I should probably be at the doctor right now, but I don't really need pain meds (I mean, I would like them, and I am in a LOT of pain, but pain meds and being the mom of four active boys don't really mix) and they probably don't brace a broken toe (if it even is broken, which I am guessing it is not) plus I really needed to come home and blog about it.
I'm not sure if it is the caffeine, or the memory of what happened, or the foot injury itself, but I feel shaky and exhausted. Beware the ides of March, you may just end up down on McBean in a half split.
My two year old, regular readers may recall, recently had an incident wherein he broke his teeth requiring thousands of dollars worth of dental work. This same child had been diagnosed with a VSD, ventricular septal defect, which is just scary medical speak for a relatively innocent and fairly common (as defects go) hole in the muscle wall between the two lower chambers of the heart. So, with dental surgery looming on the horizon, all parties involved (parents, pediatrician and dentist alike) thought it prudent to determine whether or not this hole was still present and if prophylactic administration of antibiotics would be necessary.
Beware the ides of March. Little did I know the soothsayer's warning was for me as well as Julius Caesar when I left the house for the pediatric cardiologist's office this morning. We got to the beautiful Santa Clarita Medical Plaza on McBean Parkway and rode the elevator all the way to the second floor, got out and proceeded to suite 200. We waited in the perfectly minimally decorated lobby for less than a minute and were led back to a bright, antiseptic examination room. The kid was a champ and the exam was over in five minutes flat. The doctor told us the hole had indeed closed and all he heard was an innocent extra heart sound which was no cause for concern, and if he hadn't been an experienced cardiologist he probably wouldn't have even heard that. Excellent all is well. Now off to Starbucks across McBean to meet my friend for her birthday coffee.
My mind was more on this friend than anything else - because she, like me, places great expectations upon the event of her birthday, but knowing the soothsayers warning, and Julius Caesar's ultimate prophecy-fulfilling demise, she is wary of the day letting her down as it inevitably does year after year. I walked to the curbside, two year old holding my right hand, six week old cradled in my left arm. Sidebar: I haven't been using my sling the past couple of days because one of the ladies from church told me she saw a bit on the news about babies suffocating inside the sling, and because I haven't had a chance to research any of this, better safe than sorry. We press the button and await the green walk sign.
The green man lights up and we begin our traverse of the ten lane parkway. Are ten lanes really necessary and how am I expected to get the three of us across in less than 25 seconds? Off we go. About half way across McBean I begin to feel pride welling up. Here I am walking at a pretty brisk pace and my two year old (formerly known as hole in the heart man) is really keeping up, and the baby is sound asleep, well done, mom. Ah, yes, here's another true saying: Pride goeth before the fall. I notice that the truck in the right turn lane, the last lane before the safety of the other curb, is really creeping up into the crosswalk. Desiring to beat both big bad construction man in his white truck and the flashing red hand's countdown from 5, 4, 3...I speed up a little. I have about five steps left, four, three...I put my left foot out. My skinny, fancy, bejeweled Judas flip-flop slips out from under me. My left leg goes FLYING out both in front of me and slightly to my left. My right foot slips behind and under me, folded in a perfect hurdlers stretch position. My rear end falls STRAIGHT down onto my right leg and foot. Instinct holds my baby tight in my arm, and raises my right hand high so as not to drag the two year old down with me. Muscle memory, from long lost athletic days of yore, presses me INSTANTLY back up on my feet and ...two, one, I reach the curb just in time to beat the red don't walk sign. Success. Unlike Lot's wife, I do not allow myself the much desired rearward glance. I do not let myself look to see who witnessed my humiliation, and who is deserving of future mental arguments against their inability to stop and help a mother out.
Instead I soldier on. I have a coffee to drink and a birthday to celebrate. I round the corner between Corner Baker and Starbucks and think to myself that could have been MUCH worse, I am so glad that white truck didn't run me over. I am so glad I was able to land perfectly on my but and pop straight up. I am soooo relieved that the two year old somehow was so focused on hurrying across the street he didn't even notice I fell, much less fall himself! And I am uber-grateful that the baby slept through it all. Push the glasses back up the nose, run a hand through my hair and walk up to Starbucks. About a minute later, searing pain starts shooting through my right big toe. And throbbing. And now I can't walk. I look down at my foot and see this:
Well not that...it didn't look like an injury, yet. It looked black, so I figured it was just a stain from the street. Moments later, while ordering my coffee (extra shot of espresso today, because I deserve it after that bit of insanity on McBean) I look down and realize the foot is swelling and I can't exactly move my big toe. In fact I should probably be at the doctor right now, but I don't really need pain meds (I mean, I would like them, and I am in a LOT of pain, but pain meds and being the mom of four active boys don't really mix) and they probably don't brace a broken toe (if it even is broken, which I am guessing it is not) plus I really needed to come home and blog about it.
I'm not sure if it is the caffeine, or the memory of what happened, or the foot injury itself, but I feel shaky and exhausted. Beware the ides of March, you may just end up down on McBean in a half split.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Homage to the Ladies of Hollywood
I would blog about the Oscars, specifically the fashion of the Oscars, but the girls at gofugyourself.com have that all wrapped up. I COULD blog about something original (or something I think is original) scurrying around in my brain. But it feels like a lazy Monday. And thanks to a terrible, non-redemptive movie about the great Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas I was recently TRICKED into watching combined with Oscar's vast array of red carpet ladies each with (as Tina Fey so wittily put it) "gollum arms" hanging onto their respective youths, I feel inspired to bring you a bit of pirated and revamped poetry:
A Parody of Do Not Go Gentle By Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and shave away under an acid peel;
Rage! rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise women at their end know wrinkles are right,
Because their skin had been pulled and tortured they
Do not go graceful into that good night.
Good women, the last wave by, crying how tight
Their gollum arms might have clung to their youth,
Raaaaaage! rage against signs of their proper age.
Wild women who caught their first featherlift just right,
And learn, too late, they grieved (by overuse) it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave women, near death, who see with blinded sight
Through slanted slits the emotionless faces of their peers,
Rage, rage against those young ladies who may still smile and frown and cry.
And you, my mother, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fine lines and mousey grays
But you, Hollywood mavens, Do not go graceful into old age
Rage, rage against the notion that you can't be 27 forever.
This made me laugh...it was also funnier in my head, before I forgot half of my edits during the morning shuffle.
A Parody of Do Not Go Gentle By Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and shave away under an acid peel;
Rage! rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise women at their end know wrinkles are right,
Because their skin had been pulled and tortured they
Do not go graceful into that good night.
Good women, the last wave by, crying how tight
Their gollum arms might have clung to their youth,
Raaaaaage! rage against signs of their proper age.
Wild women who caught their first featherlift just right,
And learn, too late, they grieved (by overuse) it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave women, near death, who see with blinded sight
Through slanted slits the emotionless faces of their peers,
Rage, rage against those young ladies who may still smile and frown and cry.
And you, my mother, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fine lines and mousey grays
But you, Hollywood mavens, Do not go graceful into old age
Rage, rage against the notion that you can't be 27 forever.
This made me laugh...it was also funnier in my head, before I forgot half of my edits during the morning shuffle.
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