When Life is Good

By now, it's 2008 officially. Ahhh...I wonder how many months it will take to get used to writing 2008 on everything? Except for that, the change in the fourth digit of the way the world has agreed to calculate time units doesn't change a thing. It doesn't make me feel like I can be a different person this year than last year, or make renewed commitments to eat better or exercise more frequently. Midnight tonight is just part of the continuation of life; of me; of you. I've got a dear, if currently snoring, husband next to me in front of the fire, a peaceful home despite some present remodeling turmoil, and very dear friends and family to love and to love me. If that's not enough to motivate me to change for the better, one digit of four is not likely to do it either.

But there has been a fire in the fireplace for the last several hours, defying my toes to remain icy. David and I still are young enough to feel giddy at staying up late because there's no work tomorrow, eating dark chocolate brownies with whipped cream and recklessly drinking coffee after 7 pm. Living dangerously. And I'm old enough to think that could possibly be living dangerously. Well, it was fully caffeinated. Oh, yes, life is good.

Usually when David tries to convince me that some event we shared was an actual date, I usually narrow my eyes at him and disdainfully dispel any such myth that he has obviously pulled straight out of his...imagination. But, tonight I had to agree wholeheartedly that our dinner of ratatouille and cous cous counted as a date, since there were candles at dinner and dancing in the kitchen while we prepared it. (Shhh! The kitchen dancing is a secret!) And that's how life is very good sometimes.

I'm just happy to be here in this place, in this time, to experience life as it unfolds. Getting older really is a good thing, isn't it? Well, up unto a point, I should probably say. I'm still on the upswing, and find that as I age, I feel more comfortable with the process that is living. Maturity, as it increases in bits here and there, immeasurably, and then a greater sense of contentment with where I find myself to be. To be sure, there's still so much change to be made in my life, plenty of heartache to be had over the things I can and can't change, and so many character flaws to overcome. But instead of refusing to face them or admit them, I look forward to the changes I can make, while asking for God's help to strengthen me every step of the way to make my life better--to make it better, and make it somehow good.

If Darth Vader Had Ever Designed A Salad...

It's funny the things we remember from the mean streets of Kindergarten. It really was the first time in my life that real and tangible enemies came into the picture and presented themselves in various forms. The first was a boy named Jerry Don. He was blond and was, in my 5-year-old condemnation, a "meanie" of a high degree. I was always a sensitive child ["Hello, Narcissism, how are you this fine evening?" "Oh, flourishing, flourishing--and how do you think I am?"], and it seemed to be Jerry Don's especial mission in life to get me to cry. This wasn't an especially difficult task, but he seemed to get something out of it anyway.

I remember one particular day when his method was to block the aisle so that I couldn't get to my desk to sit down, and if I moved to the next aisle over to get around him, he just hopped over as well, thereby blocking every route to my desk and staring me down. The conflict ended with me crying from the utter helplessness and frustration I felt. I probably could have punched him, but my mother discouraged this kind of behavior among my sisters and me, and anyway, I was a sensitive child--empathetic and unwilling to solve my problems via violence, even though I probably would have found that to be much more satisfying in the short-term. I chose tears, instead. I don't remember exactly what happened after the release of tears. I think the teacher came back into the room at that moment and he had to let me pass. But my first real enemy had made an appearance.

The second was of a different kingdom altogether: school lunch salad. It was this anemically pale pile of iceberg lettuce (iceberg always sounds so exciting--I mean, it is named after this beautiful, dangerous, and exhilarating frozen wonder--but it always fails to deliver on the splendor of its nomenclature) which was accompanied by a mealy tomato wedge and perhaps a few slivers of uninspired carrot. All this was topped with a dressing that was always blobular, somewhat wiggly, and usually an alarming shade of orangey-peach. Needless to say, I have since always had a healthy suspicion of orangey-peach colored blobs served on salads.

The thing I remember most is not the physical makeup of the salad, but the importance of them. They were not just a nutritionless pile of plant cells, topped with a cry for help; they represented the Jerry Don who stood firmly between me and putting my sticker on the big white poster board of lunch accomplishment. It hung on the wall for all to see, and each child had a long row of small squares to be filled in every day with a shiny metallic star if they finished their lunch. So many children had so many stars! Some had these long, proud rows of stickers, which reflected enticingly in shades of magenta, blue, green, and silver. And then there was mine. One star. Obviously, all those children with so many stars were born with taste buds that functioned only at partial capacity, and were also gifted with an ability to eat orangey-peach colored blobules on command. They were rewarded accordingly with the opportunity to post their star on the day's square. Every day we formed in our single file line before leaving the cafeteria, and every day the stark emptiness of my row stared at me in cold, matte judgment. I was different. I could not eat orangey-peach blobules without gagging, even though I desperately wanted to shovel down that all-important portion of my daily nutrition so that I, too, could be proud of my achievements in salad-eating.

On the other hand, maybe it is ok to be stubborn about some things. To this day, I defy blobule dressings. I embrace Newman's Raspberry Walnut Vinaigrette because it resembles a liquid and is generally awesome. Jerry Don turned out to be a nice guy in high school, so I also embrace letting go of grudges occasionally. I defy the societal rewards for being mindless robots working for appreciation in the form of sparkling stars on poster boards. I embrace Romaine and many of its leafy brethren. I shall spurn iceberg as long as we both shall live. Unto death! [Brandishes light saber and charges off into the night].

The Curse of an Evil Jezebel: Home Improvement

It starts so very innocuously. But there, lurking beneath the surface, is a pit of despair so filled with terror that it is only whispered about by decent folks, and spoken of in hushed tones around the campfire as a warning to the young. "Oh, honey, I think I'll get some curtains to replace those wretched flowered ones in the dining room. You know, something simple that will go with anything." And so it begins.

That cruel mistress called Home Improvement has ensnared you with her promise of "simple curtains" so quickly that you are irrevocably trapped by the time you can even begin to realize your folly. The "simple curtains" are installed and the flowered ones are relegated to the Salvation Army heap with little ado. "Well, that was easy enough, wasn't it? I can't believe it took us that long to do that!" you might say with naive optimism while standing back to appreciate your handiwork. But as your eyes pass over the rest of your dining room, into the living room and kitchen, you begin to sense that something is very amiss here. Eyes narrowed, you keep going back over your old living room curtains that now appear very dusty, the smudges on the wall which have leaped out of nowhere, the picture on the wall that has drifted slightly askew, and the carpet which appears to have contracted the mange. In vivid contrast, the new curtains almost sparkle in their brilliance and modernity. Simple? Indeed, madam. Indeed!

Thus you find yourself in the throes of the dreaded Natural Law of Incongruent Decoration Age. When any new item (N) is placed in close proximity to non-new items, the non-new items (nn) look worse by a calculable rate which is represented by the following equation: Where N=$17.99x4+C(cost of curtain rod), nn=10, and B=the badness of appearance of nn: B = N x 1jillion to the power of nn divided by pi.

I did the math and it's actually true. [Clutches chest and weeps brokenly on a faded cushion which previously looked just fine]. Insidious, is it not? As I'm sure you are aware, the NLIDA is irreversible. Even if you ripped down your new curtains and shoved them in a dark and gloomy closet, their perfect brilliance would haunt your mind, just like the dangerous knowledge of those coconut-pecan brownies lying in wait for you in that chaste container on the counter by the toaster.

This is our story. I can only hope that by sharing it, you and your loved ones may escape the ensuing trauma that we have been subject to for the past many months. I will try to find the strength to finish it before Home Improvement has a chance to mete out its campaign of total punishment upon me.

Lunch? Definitely Yes! (or: An Odd Poet is Me)

Kami, do you remember this one? You and Eric had asked me if David and I could do lunch with you guys. I promise that I don't use drugs--but the response:

Lunch? Definitely Yes!
by Dr. J. Suesslark-Whitworth

We'll be there,
and we'll be square,
with purple hair
and fleece underwear

Then hunger shall lack
Since we'll have our snack
Which comes from a sack
(Sonic could get some flack)

"Please Sir, can I have some more"
Of the fries which have the oily core?
And I'd be much obliged if you would pour
Some extra Heinz from the packets, four?

On Social Courage

I just have a whitewashed memory book, anymore. Most of us probably do. We remember through our little kid or teenager eyes and sometimes we probably don't remember it right. And sometimes, there's not any right to remember; only wrong. But even those people, with so much to forget, probably fight to make some good come out of it. We're all looking to find a good place. A place to let our minds rest when we try to understand who and what we are, and from where we've come.

Specifically, I'm remembering Corey, and how I always felt like a coward for not standing up for him. He must have had such a hard time--a hard life like I never knew, for all my self-absorbed analysis of childhood and "woe-is-me!" attitude about poor lil ol me. So sad, for me to wear clean clothes to school every day. So sad, to have access to running water. So sad, to have a mom and grandparents who provided for me and loved me. So sad, to have siblings that sheltered me. However did I manage?

If I could go back and do it over again with knowledge, I wouldn't go back to tell off people whom I disliked, which I'll admit to have fantasized about (c'mon, admit it--you have, too). I wouldn't care if I was more popular--after all, to be popular in high school seems to be directly associated with having ever-present drama in your life, and that's never been my style. I hope, instead, that I would be more happy with who I was because I'd be less selfish. I'd look to see if there was something I could do for those who really needed a lift. I always felt wrong inside when people would make fun of Corey for smelling unwashed and sometimes like urine, for wearing the same clothes over & over without a change, for being unkempt, for being dirt poor. But he was nice to me, always. Respectful. Never leering at girls like some creeps did or being generally pervy and disgusting as so many of my male counterparts got away with in high school. I don't remember ever being snide about Corey, but I also don't remember ever going out of my way to do anything worthwhile for him either. I tried to mostly be nice to everyone, and he was no exception. That he seemed to appreciate my being nice to him (or perhaps just appreciating the fact that I was not actively mean) only furthers my guilt. I didn't even try and he was grateful. I'm sure it was a really horrible experience every day--maybe at home, too, but I don't know any of the particulars because I never got involved. But I do know how it was for him most of the time at school, since we rode the same bus and had several of the same classes together in a small school. I saw him being harassed by other boys who had something to prove, and sometimes by those girls that enjoyed exerting their social power on the powerless in order to feel superior. Through all this, all I did was to not treat him as badly. But I was passive.

Sometimes I think just treating someone like everyone else is not good enough. Maybe we're supposed to treat a person better, sometimes, than if he were like all the rest. Maybe he needs it more, because he doesn't get it anywhere else. But I was a coward, and it was a lot easier for me to be focused on my own problems, however pale they seem by comparison in today's light. What could I have done? Helped to buy him clothes, without him knowing (I have heard of someone doing this for a classmate who could not afford any new clothes--she guessed at his size, bought them with her own money, and left the clothes for him at the office with instructions for them not to tell him who it had come from--he never knew, and I didn't hear this from her, either). I certainly didn't have much extra money growing up, but I could have sacrificed something in order to share with him if I'd been less selfish. Maybe I could have been a friend to him, too. Maybe I could have publicly defended him to his tormentors, and risked being a complete outcast. Would it really have been so bad, to have some actual principles? But, this is easy to say, from my perfect lens into the past. It's too late for me to be a more decent person to Corey--I've long since moved away, and haven't heard anything about him. But I wonder, is there another Corey in my life that I have overlooked? Is there someone who needs my social courage, and yours?

Regina Spektor: A Crazy, Amazing Kind of a Girl

I had an opportunity to go see Regina Spektor perform at the House of Blues in Dallas a couple of weeks ago. A friend and crazy girl of the best sort--Em--invited me, and even though I hadn't the slightest who this singer was, I'm absolutely game for live music experiences when they don't include Soak (yes, I realize this probably dates me somewhat and proves that I hold grudges decades later than I should). The night before the concert, I checked out her Myspace, of course, the Wikipedia, and created a Pandora station to see if I could get a preview of what I should expect. The myspace page offered 4 recent (and possibly most popular) songs for free listens-Fidelity, Us, Samson, and On the Radio. At least one of them sounded familiar, but I thought I could dig it, since I let the four songs loop for about an hour with increasing appreciation. The Pandora songs were primarily her earlier work, so there were some memorable lines about "Crispy, crispy Benjamin Franklin" babysitting her four children...it was interesting, to say the least. I enjoy the lyric with an off-the-wall feel (They Might Be Giants, Belle & Sebastian, Sufjan Stephens) that strays beyond the usual feel-good sensation of the year kind of songwriting (cue Ben Folds' "One Down").

But this concert--it was truly impressive even for someone who couldn't be called a fan--yet. Regina just had herself as singer, pianist, and rhythm (tapping her finger on the the mic or stamping a foot on the wood floor of the stage for emphasis) for most of the show--the guy who opened for her "accompanied" one otherwise a capella song with fantastic human drum machine skills. I hope someone recorded that and it will make it to YouTube if it hasn't already. She must have perfect pitch--never a sour note, except for the obviously intoxicated girls on the lower level who kept singing along--badly-- despite the laser beam eyes pointed in their general direction and requests for them to please shut it--Regina was so diplomatic, though, and ignored it, unlike the rest of us. There were times when I had to laugh out loud because of the lyrics of the songs [oh, so you want details now? Well, maybe I'll give you some, if you're really good, but maybe you should just listen for yourself, hmm? "On the Radio" is a good place to start. You can find the video, along with several others, here. ]

The videos are fine, but I rather like to see someone belting out their songs live--forehead getting all wrinkled with concentration, instead of doing the lip-synced versions in music videos which ask the singer to be as made-up and botoxed-looking as possible, even if the facial expressions while singing cannot be at all realistic. What's so unattractive about forehead wrinkles when such beautiful sounds are making their way to your ears? You think so too? I'm glad we're all on the same page here.

The Wikipedia has a good article on her history, musical background, and all that sort of thing, so I don't feel inclined to reinvent the wheel. Just giving one woman's reaction here. I will link to the NPR interview where Regina talks a good bit about her style and fiction songwriting philosophy. If you like her music, it's well-worth the 8 minutes or so of your time.

Back to the concert: I found it endearing that so many people there obviously thought the world of this singer. Ok, maybe not the kind which makes you throw underwear on the stage (thankfully), but people really loved her. And why not? She seems to deserve it much more than your average visible musician these days. She worked hard to give us her music in such a beautiful way, seems very humble about her circumstances of growing fame, and is honest about her music--it's fiction! It's very much about storytelling, not necessarily revealing the depths of her soul (what right do we have to demand the depths of anyone's soul just because we pay for their time?)

Maybe musicians aren't always as lovable as we want them to be. Maybe we also just read too much into music, lyrics, and the emotions that we want to believe the songwriter had. Well, maybe someone did feel deeply enough to write a song, but maybe for every one of those there are 50 more out there just looking to fill 3 minutes with the lowest common denominator of lyrical and musical arrangements. I certainly am no expert--I only speak as I find. But this singer/songwriter seemed different. One guy yelled out at a quiet moment "Regina, you changed my life!" which is hard to believe, but you never know. Maybe he was having a life crisis over his hair length and "Sampson" helped him see the light. How can I say?But I especially loved the guy in front of me-- late middle-aged and who I would have assumed was brought here against his will by his wife. But he was one of the biggest fans there! He was so into the concert--did the clapping, audience participation, and at a quiet moment yelled at the tone-deaf girls to "shut up down there!" with his own personal cheering section behind him. "Woooo! You tell 'em!" Wild stuff and excellent times. It's refreshing to experience such a cross section of ages at a concert--not just your average teen girl kind of fan, but a very nice kettle of fish indeed.

Check out Regina Spektor, and see her live if possible! She's a breath of fresh air.

Honesty In Typing

So, here's my gift to you: honesty in typing. Whatever coes out I'm just going to let it sit there and be a testimony to the need for my anal retentive drafting. Already, I went back to edit part of that sentence. Maybe I can't even greewrite anymore? I'm an editing MACHING! I hope this is adding your hilarity. 'To your hilarity of the morning, that is. I feel like I'm at a nudist colony, only to discover that everyone else is still wearing turtlenecks and twills.

Here's a random tidbit: I clearly remember the first time I heard the word "Chateau." I was just a kid, and we were watching some charley brown special on tv. they said it several times and I remember being so struck by it, and not being terribly sure what it meant at first. thus began a love affair with hoity toity words that would last a lifetime. "By the time she was an octogenarian, J'Non would have gratuitously worked in the words "multitudinous" "nefarious" "polysyllabic" and "sesquipidalianistic" (not to mention "octogenarian") in more than one missive to unsuspecting friends. She also developed an unhealthy addiction to Boggle, but after several trips to rehab, she gave up on her dream to be free of those lettered fetters that bound her... She was buried with her original Boggle set (not the gold-plated version, which was pretty to look at but which lacked the sentimental value of the original)."

YES!!! I started editing mid-paragraph ago! I JUST CAN'T DO IT!!! I am shamed... This must be what it feels like to try and quit smoking. Where's my nicorette for over-drafters?

Memo: TPS Reports Due Today

Today is "have some fresh donuts on us and forget about the things you don't like about us here at the office" day. I already had breakfast, but I still accepted when one was offered me and I inhaled 3/4 of it with an ease that borders on absurdity. I know it will make me feel like crap in about 10 minutes, yet still I take bites between sentences. As I chew the final bite placidly, I realize that my armpit itches slightly because I forgot to apply deodorant this morning. I don't have a spare with me. This does not bode well for the other occupants of the building, but neither does the recent inhalation of aforementioned donut).

(Note: This was written back when I was working in the "corporate world." Now, if I forget my deodorant, I just walk into the bathroom and apply liberally).

Chickenesque

With half of her forearm uncomfortably inside the chicken, J'Non realized with sudden clarity why it was people preferred to buy disjoined chicken.

Several minutes before:
Once the attractively concealing blue package was removed from the body, she narrowed her eyes at the opening in the back of the chicken. "I think I remember that sometimes there are parts in there" she mused, and gamely thrust in a hand to see if the poultry cave was occupied. Indeed, there were several cold and squishy occupants of questionable identity, some of which were helpfully detached from the main carcass. These were dispensed with quickly, accompanied by an almost imperceptible curl of her upper lip.

Upon embarking on another sweep, she found with some alarm that several of the aforementioned unidentified squishy chicken objects seemed to be attached somehow. Breathing an audible "Ugh," she pulled firmly at the USCO's until several released, albeit sullenly. With a slight shiver, she widened the opening just enough to scan the interior for any recalcitrant that might remain. Indeed, something whitish and bean-shaped clung doggedly to the cavity. Just what it might be, she didn't know, but it certainly looked like an organ. Maybe even a lobe. She shuddered at the thought. Steeling her own bean-shaped organs, she reached in and squeezed with all her might to extract it. It fought mightily for so small a warrior, but it ultimately fell upon its fallen brethren, into that special hades for the bean-shaped and whitish.

And that is why people pay 3 prices for boneless, skinless chicken.