A Hard Day's Night

Ok, so learning multiplication tables isn't going so well with Adrian Steward. He had a lot of homework tonight, much of which he should've completed earlier in the week but hadn't until now. So, following a stern lecture from Mommy about study skills, and following thereafter a definition of what Mommy meant by the term "study skills," Adrian got mad. Way pissed off.

He promptly posted some notes on his door:

Do not come in. Homework.
Come in and loose your life!
The last thing you see is my room if you come in.
Danger: Really angry/sad boy.

Ok, so things weren't going well. My friend, Jessica, observed that high drama tends to run in the family. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about ;)
Following his bout of mini-rage, Adrian came out of his room and promptly recited all of his 3 times facts. He got pissed. He learned his stuff. 'nuff said.

Way to go, little man.

Then, happy once more, he crumpled the signs on the door, saying, "Bad signs!" as if scolding them.

ah...parenthood!
In today's News From the Motherland: A happy reunion for Shadow, the dog, and his owner.: http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/dn/localnews/columnists/sblow/stories/DN-blow_11met.ART.Central.Edition1.4a2e309.html

Oh the Horror

Adrian and his best friend, Henry, took a class field trip today to see "The Nutcracker."
"How was it, guys?" I asked.
They responded point-by-point:
"1. There was absolutely no talking in the whole show. They just danced. and...
2. We had to see men in tights"

This last horror was followed by peals of disgust as they searched for the right words.

"Mommy, I mean, really...the men dancers wore these, ugh....cups and you could see also, um, their butt cracks! GROSS!"

...this, coming from the child who likes to run around the house nekkid.

Alas, the finer points of ballet seem to have been lost on the 3rd graders, at least for now.

Red Alert!

THIS JUST IN!!!!

Driving home from school today, Finn and Adrian assured me that they know, for a fact: "there are people in the world who file their teeth and go on a killing spree."

Apparently the incisors are the most popular teeth to file for said spree.

Don't say I didn't warn ya....

Reminds me a bit of one of my favorite characters:

Bat Mitzvah

November 15 was my niece's Bat Mitzvah. Megan had a big party at the Women's Museum at Fair Park. The theme was Night on Broadway, so each table was decorated as a different show (We were seated at the "Lion King" table). There was a huge, 40 foot video screen that flashed pictures of Megan growing up, plus her name in lights. Lots of food stations representing China Town, Little Italy, and other classic NYC types of food. Finn danced all night (literally) and ended up winning the break dance contest. Jessica Goldstein said Finn beating a bunch of Jews breakdancing is like a gazelle outrunning a tortoise. :)

Here's my favorite picture of the night. You can see the video board behind Adrian and I, and Dad being very silly.

Grieving the Loss

A very sad day in the 'Ham.

After 6 years and 72 articles, my career at Birmingham Magazine is drawing to a close. In this bad economy, they've had to lay off free-lance writers, including yours truly. It has been wonderful to find an audience for my thoughts these past years, whether the topic was buying a new minivan, laughing at Adrian's anger as he had to pay taxes in the game of Life, or commenting on the tsunami. "The View" gave me the opportunity to sharpen my thoughts on the world around me and to share those insights with others.

I am very grateful to the magazine for the pages I got. They were wonderful to work with, and maybe someday the column can be restored.

Will a blog function as a substitute? I wonder.

But tonight it's all big sadness and a little Jose Cuervo. My preacher, Sid, recommended Psalm 5, which I've been reading over and over. My Dad and Helga, and even Mom, have given me sympathetic ears. I know when a door closes, supposedly a window opens somewhere else, but it's hard to see that window today. I'm terrified about the hit to my budget bc I had grown accustomed to counting on that income each month. Being a single mother is, in a word, or three words: scary as hell. And the holidays are just a hard time anyway, so the timing is terrible.

I'll try not to grouse more here, but instead will tell all 4 of my dear readers that perhaps this blog will serve as my platform until I can find a sounding board again.

I have made it clear to the Universe, however, and I will restate this here: No more loss. I've lost enough in the last 12 months, and I fucking mean it.

A "Sign" on Election Day?

Is it a "sign" that on Election Day, the city of Homewood put a sign about road construction in my front yard right next to my Obama sign? Read the two signs together and decode the mystery if you can....

In Today's News from the Motherland...a metaphorical election headline: "Election Studies Prove That Life Goes On For Losers" http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/news/politics/local/stories/110408dnpollifegoeson.4a9d7de.html

Halloween in the 'Ham

Thurston and Lovey opt for a civilized Halloween while....

On the other hand my beautiful boys, dressed in bleeding masks for God's sake, scared the hell out of this Samford sorority girl, who recovered and then graciously agreed to a photo op.

Yes, it is Halloween in the 'Ham.

Snow in Reno

SNOW IN RENO!!!!!

Sounds like a bad show tune...but feels like Christmas!

Cara the Friendly Ghost

Oh Lawd, the kids found a Ouija board downstairs!
Let me preface my remarks by saying that I believe in Ouija boards largely because the most skeptical man in the world trembles at the sight of them:
Ed Bachant.
When I was in high school, my best friend and I were playing Ouija and talked to a ghost who lived in the board. She had been a slave during the Civil War, and she was still plenty angry. At one point, she spelled out the words: F*#*! You. This was a phrase neither my best friend nor I would ever have used at the time, so we were totally scared. We ran downstairs and told Mom and Ed about it. For those of you who know Ed, you can imagine him circa 1983: Out of date sideburns, an unfiltered Lucky Strike, a glass of CC & 7. Mom was nonplussed by the whole story primarily bc it would have involved maternal intervention, which was not her strong suit, but Ed, on the other hand, jumped back.
"Those things are scary! There are ghosts in Ouija boards and lemme tell ya something else. You have to get rid of the board. Throw it out. It won't burn."
This last claim sparked my older brother's curiosity. Mike was a Mythbuster before such a thing existed, so he promptly lit a fire in the fireplace that warm August night and tossed in the Ouija board.
Damn if it didn't burn.
Not one bit.
Now Mother's maternal concern was activated. Big hair standing on end, can of Miller Lite shaking in her left hand, cigarette quaking in the right, she exclaimed, "Ed, do something!!" Ed was, as always, largely paralyzed, so Mike took the intact board out of the flames, put it in a Hefty bag, and left it at the curb for the Plano, Texas sanitation services to deal with.
Flash forward 25 years. The boys have found a Ouija board left over from husband #2 (insert all kinds of commentary here. The door is wide open begging for metaphor). Anyway, despite my protestations, the boys insisted we play with it, so I said ok. I figured I'd steer the little triangle thingee if stuff got weird; I wouldn't let there be a repeat of my experience. Turns out, it wasn't a repeat at all. Our ghost is named Cara, born in 1856. She was a milenar, married to Jaspar (rhymes with Caspar the friendly ghost I hope). The boys asked if she thought they were cute (This was their first question). The board spelled back: I Do.
They asked why she was here. She spelled: Saf here nice
Where was she from: Egypt
Did she like the Van Halen cd we were listening to: She spelled: Odd.
I asked if she knew Sifu. She wrote back his name: John
The boys asked if she was a "hot ghost" and she spelled: Man like my face and leg.
We asked if there was anything she wanted to say to us. She spelled out: clean warm here.
I asked if she traveled around. She spelled: On wind
I asked what was the most beautiful place she's ever been to. She spelled out: Cyprus.

I gotta tell ya, it was kinda cool, kinda freaky. If our subconsciouses were spelling the words, how in the world did we come up with Cyprus? And milenar? I had to look that word up bc I wasn't 100% sure it meant hat maker.

So, I figure, what the heck. We have a friendly ghost around the house. Keeps things interesting...

In news from the Motherland: (and I quote the headline directly) Man Attacks Inflatable Gorilla in Parking Lot!!! http://crimeblog.dallasnews.com/archives/2008/10/dallas-police-blotter-man-atta.html

Grease is the Word

It's been too long since I've visited the blog, so I return, inspired by my dear friend, Jessica, who asked for my blog web address, so I reckon I oughta write something.... :)

If I've learned one thing about being on stage again, it's that doing theater at 42 is not the same as doing it in college. Girlfriend gets tired. Plumb wore out. But in a good way. To put it in New Forest speak, one exerts a lot of chi on stage and that takes a toll. I've really enjoyed my small part as the big-breasted Miss Lynch. It's quite comical having to put socks in my bra every night, but that's the only way for me to even approximate cleavage. Strangely, this is not the first time I've had to put socks in my bra for a show. In 1986, I played Cissy in "Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean" and once again, boobs were required. It might be my fate to play small roles with big boobs. I think there's a metaphor in all of this...

It's the midpoint of the semester, the time when the desk gets way overloaded and my ADD goes into such overdrive that I shut down. I've felt at complete loose ends for a couple of weeks now, but today broke that spell. Cool outside, about 70, light breeze, eating lunch with Frank, Tommy, Andy, Lindsey and Brent at Jacksons... It felt like we were in California. Laughter, coctktails, sunshine, and a cupcake. All very good.

Speaking of Jacksons and good....Jackson Browne was in town last night, but I couldn't go see him bc I was in Grease. A worthy trade-off, but came home after the show, poured a big glass of wine, and listened intently to his first two albums, and once again I'm deeply in love with Jackson Browne, or his music at least. If I were a song, I'd be any song he recorded pre 1980. Despite my passion for Frank Sinatra, I have to say that "Your Opening Farewell" is my favorite song of all time. It's hard to explain, but it's like Mary Oliver says in that line "[He is] speaking directly to my soul." Sitting on the porch under the flying animals, tipsy, thinking, it occured to me, it's like there is an empty space in my soul, a place with deep hunger, and something about his music fills that space. So y'all go get ya some Jackson Browne, circa 1975 and take a listen. It's some good stuff.


Off to stuff my bra and hop on stage!

In today's news from the Motherland: Rats in Frisco! Quelle horreur...
http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/dn/latestnews/stories/102608dnmetrats.1498aabdb.html

Her Technicolor Years

Beloved friend Greg Fraser and his wonderful colleague, Chad Davidson, came to speak to my creative writing class last Friday. Just being around their passion and energy was enough to kick my poetry writing habit, (oh sad, bruised thing) back into gear. One of the things Greg and Chad encouraged my students (and me) to do is to experiment with language, something I know I should do but don't do enough. Hence the poetry dry spell.
So, in the spirit of free play, I gave myself an assignment. I have 13 students in creative writing class. I assembled a couplet from each of their most recent poems, pasting the whole thing together into one long, 13 stanza poem. What has emerged is actually kinda fun.

I have no idea who this woman is I've ended up writing about, but I like her.

Here's the result:

Her Technicolor Years

Wars just simply lean against her.
Out the train window cities smear into names.

Somewhere a butler loses his bowler, driftwood and sandy,
but her kiss remains, ginger spooned.

Somewhere a rider falls from a horse,
and she, her own worst enemy, sucks a bone clean.

It wasn’t always like this. Guardian angels solved
the music, broke the silence, and she used to listen

to their warm guitars. She used to break down,
breathe deep, twist into poetry and paradox.

She used to give herself over. Seditious.
But soon, mutiny and tequila. The highest degree

of accidental epiphany, and her sky, weak in the knees,
called her name, unsung fragment.

Soon continuously cherry. Not soon enough,
her labyrinth fate. So it goes. We all grow old.

We all think in latitudes, read the Times,
excuse ourselves, return to our metal seats,

but not her. Tell her fairy tales. Tell her the war zone will turn
out to be liquid possible. Tell her a getaway ride

will appear, a benefactor. She appears quite shocked
but her ginger kiss belies the prize. What she cannot have

reveals another shift, another city, what she cannot muffle
she learns to rupture until only a tendril of sound,

ceaselessly tangled, shambles its way up. Somewhere her duties
remove their spectacles, stare her down. Shyly she smiles.

...and you matter

Passengers, let me break this down for you. Listen up.

Poetry is some dangerous shit.

So there I am, sittin' at the kitchen table long after dinner, tired, rushed, just trying to prepare for class. I'm teaching creative writing and we have a little textbook I assigned bc I like its title: The Poetry Home Repair Manual. The students were to read Chapter 6 from the book, a chapter about writing about feelings. I figured this would be a good exercise for the little tikes since beginning students in general tend to wax a bit too emotional in poems, as do I, so no glass house here.
Anyway, I'm tired, I'm skimming, the pages say blah blah blah. Then the textbook offers a little poem on page 57 as an example of how to write successfully about feelings without succombing to sentimentality. Ok, I thought, a little Richard Hugo poem. I'll glance over it, then start the laundry then go to bed.

Ha.

By the end of the poem, people, I am reduced to tears. I am slumped over the breakfast table with Ezra sniffing the book like it might be food, and I am sobbing. Wracking sobs. Big ol' crying jag. Psycho. Embarrassing. Poor Frank traipses in, singing as he often does, ready to tell a funny story about old Nekkid Lonnie, and he finds me there red-eyed, snotty and undone as if my dog had just died. What must this scene have looked like? I just pointed to the poem and wailed. Smart man didn't read it, not yet. "Let's get some food in you," he wisely counseled, and we headed out in the night to the local O'Charleys where two old black men were huddled in the parking lot over the raised hood of a car just carryin' on. One cheeseburger later, order was restored. (Well, to us. Order was not yet restored to the two gentlemen still puzzling over automotive difficulty).

I managed to teach the poem to my students this morning. I mangaged even to say the last 3 lines of the poem outloud without dissolving. I put on my professor hat and explicated the hell out of that mutha, because people, this is what I do. When the world gets to be too much, I analyze till I'm blue in the face. Hence my job. Defense mechanism? Oh yes. Do I care? Oh no.

Here, then, is "Letter to Kathy from Wisdom" by Richard Hugo.
(I am reminded of Frank Sinatra Jr.'s warning about his father's album, "Only the Lonely": He said it should only be sold by prescription.
I offer the same caution. This poem may slide right over you. I hope it does. But for us overly-sensitive types, oh mercy. )

LETTER TO KATHY FROM WISDOM
My dearest Kathy: When I heard your tears and those of your
mother over the phone from Moore, from the farm
I've never seen and see again and again under the most
uncaring of skies, I thought of this town I'm writing from,
where we came lovers years ago to fish. How odd
we seemed to them here, a lovely young girl and a fat
middle 40's man they mistook for father and daughter
before the sucker light in their eyes flashed on. That was
when we kissed their petty scorn to dust. Now, I eat alone
in the cafe we ate in then, thinking of your demons, the sad
days you've seen, the hospitals, doctors, the agonizing
breakdowns that left you ashamed. All my other letter
poems I've sent to poets. But you, your soft round form
beside me in our bed at Jackson, you were a poet then,
curving lines I love against my groin. Oh, my tenderest
racoon, odd animal from nowhere scratching for a home,
please believe I want to plant whatever poem will grow
inside you like a decent life. And when the wheat you've known
forever sours in the wrong wind and you smell it
dying in those acres where you played, please know
old towns we loved in matter, lovers matter, playmates, toys,
and we take from our lives those days where everything moved,
tree, cloud, water, sun, blue between two clouds, and moon,
days that danced, vibrating days, chance poem. I want one
who's wondrous and kind to you. I want him sensitive
to wheat and how wheat bends in cloud shade without wind.
Kathy, this is the worst time of day, nearing five, gloom
ubiqitous as harm, work shifts changing. And our lives
are on the line. Until we die our lives are on the mend.
I'll drive home when I finish this, over the pass that's closed
to all but a few, that to us was always open, good days
years ago when our bodies were in motion and the road rolled out
below us like our days. Call me again when the tears build
big inside you, because you were my lover and you matter,
because I send this letter with my hope, my warm love. Dick.

Richard Hugo, Making Certain it Goes On, Norton

Squaws and Apostrophes

I feel compelled to post an urgent missive from my friend Jessica about the horrors of a misplaced possessive apostrophe (see below). You'll never think of non-dairy creamer or native peoples the same again...

in Jessica's words:
In other news, I was ranting about the Land O’ Lakes ½ and ½ individual creamer on the breakfast table at the Anchorage yesterday. The name of the product, printed bold as brass on the lid, just below the picture of the native American princess, is Mini Moo’s ½ & ½.
Unless the aforementioned royalty is named Indian Princess Mini Moo, shouldn’t someone in this billion dollar company have caught the misuse of the possessive apostrophe? My favorite husband, not bothering to hide his smirk, suggested that her name could indeed be “Mini Moo” and that it is unlikely that this punctuation gaffe was unintentional. On further contemplation, I’ve decided that he is correct (unseemly enjoyment at my justifiable outrage aside) and I intend to draft a letter to the parent company, asking them to justify the outrageous disregard with which they abuse our mother tongue. Truly, once we turn our backs on the benevolent governance of punctuation, how will we make ourselves understood?! Before I receive my screed back littered with corrections to my own punctuation usage, this is not a nitpicky, “Oxford comma or not” type situation, but an egregious misuse of an important, versatile piece of punctuation, with unambiguous rules for usage in relation to the plural/possessive.

Finn's Prayer

Last Sunday, our friends Kevin and Laura were married during church services at Edgewood. It was a lovely ceremony that the kids and I thoroughly enjoyed. At bedtime, the boys were saying their prayers. Adrian did his usual: "Dear Lord, please let no robbers come." Finn, on the other hand, expressed other, um, apprehensions:

"Dear Lord, thank you for all you have given us. Thank you for this day. Please help Kevin and Laura to... (he paused to find the right words here)...to not freak out about having marriage. I can't think of any other way to say that Lord, so please forgive me."

In a moment of less-than-inspired parenting, I accidentally burst out laughing. This made Finn smile and he freely admitted in his 30 year old way, "It's true, though, Mommy. Love is complicated."

That would be my child :)

Celebrity Collage by MyHeritage

Apparently Adrian bears comparison to small Japanese women I've never heard of. Hmmm...
The Claudia Cardinale parallel can only spell trouble. She's just the kind of gorgeous Italian actress he will date one day :)
...and as for Tyra Banks, don't get me started on Adrian's obsession with all things African-
American. While I see no resemblance between my nordic, fair-haired boy and uber supermodel Tyra, in his soul I know Adrian has some Tyra-like qualities. Actually he's probably more like Shaft, but again, these are the complexities of the little man!

MyHeritage: Family tree - Genealogy - Celeb - Collage - Morph

Celebrity Collage by MyHeritage

Mommy looks like Tom Cruise. Finn looks like Katie Holmes. Something ain't right.
I'm especially tickled that Finn also bears resemblance to a saint on the one hand, and Jack Black on the other.

MyHeritage: Family tree - Genealogy - Celeb - Collage - Morph

Celebrity Collage by MyHeritage

I dig the FLT3 / Alan Alda comparison...I always had a thing for Hawkeye.
But David Soul?! Lawdy lawdy. Frank-is-Hutch! I could just swoon. And the fact that David Soul is a British citizen only makes the comparison more apt. I say Huzzah.

MyHeritage: Celebrity Collage - Family reunion - Old pictures

Celebrity Collage by MyHeritage

I'm so excited! I bear a 66% comparison to Leonard Nimoy! The Annette Bening comparison is quite flattering, to be sure, but freakin' Spock!? And let's not forget the Nimoy is not only a gifted actor, but, more importantly, a gifted poet. Oh yes, very exciting indeed.

And I don't know what to say about the Tom Cruise likeness. Cracks me up.

MyHeritage: Family trees - Genealogy - Celebrities - Collage - Morph

She's Brown Sugar and Spice But If You Don't Treat Her Nice...

Here's Foxy Brown lounging in the fancy Red Roof Inn hotel bed in scenic Monroeville, Louisiana. Miss Foxy is gratified that such a fine establishment takes dogs, and she will happily bust a cap in the ass of any hotelier who takes issue with canines. Miss Foxy enjoys offering her assistance to Finn during reading time. During this particular photo, she is disgusted by the banality of the prose in Finn's book, and she is choosing to avert her gaze to express her keen literary disgust. Finn reminds her that he isn't reading War and Peace for crying out loud, but Miss F.B. is having none of it. Harumph. Pass the Proust.


...and now for her namesake. I beg you: compare and contrast:
Yes, that's right. If you don't treat her nice, she will put you on ice! This goes for both Foxy Brown's.
...and don't you forget it!

Man's Best Friend

The Dudette requested pictures of Foxy Brown, so please allow me to introduce to you one of the most important castaways on our little island...

Note to Passengers

Maybe I should explain the title of my blog.

One of my favorite stories comes from the Dude. Seems the Dude (aka Mike) was riding the El in Chicago a few years ago, and the train broke down. Commuters were confused. Connections were being missed. Chaos ensued. The conductor of the train (or some such voice of authority) came over the PA system and tried to restore order. Unfortunately, the only sound everyone heard was some version of Charlie Brown's teacher: "Waaa waa wuh wahh wahh."

More chaos. More confusion. "Is this our stop?" "Are we on the pink line?" "How long will it take to fix this train?" "Este tren esta loco!"

Then, with the force of a deus ex machina, a voice emerged out of the darkness in booming clarity:

"Passengers, let me break it down for you."

The nature of the malfunction was clarified. Order was restored. Peace ruled once again in the land.

I have always loved this story. I love the idea of a weary, hot, exasperated voice emerging from the periphery of our lives and offering one of life's most precious gifts: clarity. Where is this voice when I'm in the throws of a major decision? Why can't this voice boom from nowhere in my classroom some days when the students are dense and the teacher is tired?

So, in honor of that valiant conductor, I hereby name this blog. Dear readers, I will break it down for you as best as I know how.

In today's News from the Motherland...It's hotter 'n hell in the Great State. Apparently it will feel like 110. God bless Texans everywhere:
http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/dn/latestnews/stories/080108dnmethotjuly.36f076e.html

Baby's First Blog

Blog.
The word sounds like someone throwing up. Blllooooooooooog.

Nevertheless, I shall enter the 20th century and blog away!

Lemme give a blog-tastic shout out to all my homeys:

Yo Baby FLT3. You so blog hot.
Yo Profiles in Cuteness. So very cute.

Other bloggers out there? Gee, maybe one or two?

I shall blog plenty post haste, but first, ice cream!

ciao for now....