I hate New Year's Eve. Even as a high schooler, one who was capable of seemingly infinite poor choices, each strung lazily onto the next, I hated the holiday. I have always avoided the night like the plague, or like a bottle of Blue Nun. Whichever comes first...though I suspect one is always the predecessor to the other.
If I were prone to conspiracy theories, I would claim an underground liaison between network television and local beer distributors, for even the paltry t.v. offerings on New Year's Eve seem to utter "GO! DRINK! LOTS!"
Yet, each New Year's Eve evening, I dig in my heels and put up with more Lawrence Welk and J-Lo than is healthy for one person's heart.
After watching a 10/11 interview with local lawyer Herb Friedman last night, in which he was offering free taxi rides to any and all revelers, I became more convinced than ever that this is an evil holiday. Name one other holiday in which lawyers offer their advice and services for free. Heck, name one other moment in all of history in which such an offering is made. "Dead man walking." It's all I could hear as I watched Herb's lips moving.
Despite my distaste for the night, I have had some enjoyable ones in my 49 years. Family friends, the Carters, used to offer a Greenwich-Mean-Time New Year's Eve party...one in which the changing of the years was celebrated at 9 p.m., local time. Of course, I would have attended any party at the Carter's house, such was their reputation for good food and fun. But that they'd even figured out a way to make New Year's Eve fun? And end it all by 9 p.m.? Genius, pure genius!
And the whole Holt clan had a memorable New Year's Eve at the Rippe's house, as one millennium melted into another. I think we even managed to stay up until midnight, if for no other reason than to make sure that the world was not coming to an end. By the time we'd gotten home from the Rippes, I snuck into the basement and drained the tub, certain that we would not need 38 gallons of life-saving water, come morning.
For a few years, downtown Lincoln hosted First Night, an alcohol-free event in which dozens of venues offered all kinds of free entertainment. THAT was a good idea, although I suppose it had to end, given that downtown Lincoln also is home to 3,456 bars, all of which were doing a fine, liquid business, as well.
Ironically, after one of our First Night outings, our group of friends suddenly developed a wicked thirst for something bubbly, driving far too fast to the Russ's on 17th and Washington--that year-round circus where no good ever occurs--snagging the last bottle of booze they'd sell that night.
One blurry hour later, we broke the glass cover off our stereo cabinet, after thrusting our hips too vigorously to "I Want to Live in American," which was blasting from the speakers. One of our friends spent the night between Mark and me, secure in our king-sized, though ever-spinning bed. It was my only New Year's Eve that would be followed by a big bowl of Tylenol for breakfast.
No night holds more potential for utter disaster and disappointment than New Year's Eve. I'm no party pooper, though. I would never get in the way of someone else's fun. In fact, if I can help it, I never get on a road on New Year's Eve, for fear of getting in the way of someone else's fun.
Speaking of fun, I must remember to get some new AA batteries today. My Scrabble Scramble is starting to blink out. And I'm going to need that puppy, come tomorrow night.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
"Efficient" Would Be My Middle Name if It Weren't Such a Long Word
On the rare occasions when I'm asked to describe myself, I will usually utter the word "efficient," among other things. "Efficient" is the shinier, less abrasive word for "impatient." It also makes me feel better about my hurried self. And anyway, if someone's going to give me the chance to find my own words, then I'm going for a little spit and shine, thank you.
In my quieter, slightly-more-honest moments, though, I know what "efficient" really means.
It means a 35-year-old hairstyle that requires neither styling nor, I suppose, much hair.
It means inky mistakes in the daily crossword, cloaked under great heaps of vocalized confidence.
Drive-thru tacos in wobbly, grease-soaked shells.
Clipped conversations with half-deaf grandparents.
It means occasional bouts with hemorrhoids.
"Efficient" is used dental floss stretched out across the porcelain shoulder of our still-damp bathtub.
It is angular, imperfect smears of blush, usually applied in the dark while I'm on the toilet.
In our living room, "efficient" is cool, green paint spattered along the edges of our ceiling, inches away from its wall-bound kin.
It is two Thanksgiving meals and a few rounds of Yahtzee followed by an early-morning c-section and the Oklahoma game, new daughter in tow.
"Efficient" is single-sentence paragraphs, nearly free of pesky punctuation. (Thus the reason some hives are beginning to emerge as I type this particular paragraph.)
"Efficient" is a 60-second encounter with the daily Word Jumble, a 31-minute church service, an absence of family Christmas letters. It is a fuzzy memory of a long-ago love affair with all things Faulkner.
But "efficient" is nothing without languorous interruptions, without the detailed steps of planning a trip abroad. It is nothing without the practice of real, palpable, unbearable patience as life takes its pretty time to reveal the next storyline. It is hollow without hospice or holiday meals or heaps of free time each summer.
Like most things of value, "efficiency" requires paradox to make it pop. And when it does pop? Best be looking or you might miss it.
In my quieter, slightly-more-honest moments, though, I know what "efficient" really means.
It means a 35-year-old hairstyle that requires neither styling nor, I suppose, much hair.
It means inky mistakes in the daily crossword, cloaked under great heaps of vocalized confidence.
Drive-thru tacos in wobbly, grease-soaked shells.
Clipped conversations with half-deaf grandparents.
It means occasional bouts with hemorrhoids.
"Efficient" is used dental floss stretched out across the porcelain shoulder of our still-damp bathtub.
It is angular, imperfect smears of blush, usually applied in the dark while I'm on the toilet.
In our living room, "efficient" is cool, green paint spattered along the edges of our ceiling, inches away from its wall-bound kin.
It is two Thanksgiving meals and a few rounds of Yahtzee followed by an early-morning c-section and the Oklahoma game, new daughter in tow.
"Efficient" is single-sentence paragraphs, nearly free of pesky punctuation. (Thus the reason some hives are beginning to emerge as I type this particular paragraph.)
"Efficient" is a 60-second encounter with the daily Word Jumble, a 31-minute church service, an absence of family Christmas letters. It is a fuzzy memory of a long-ago love affair with all things Faulkner.
But "efficient" is nothing without languorous interruptions, without the detailed steps of planning a trip abroad. It is nothing without the practice of real, palpable, unbearable patience as life takes its pretty time to reveal the next storyline. It is hollow without hospice or holiday meals or heaps of free time each summer.
Like most things of value, "efficiency" requires paradox to make it pop. And when it does pop? Best be looking or you might miss it.
Monday, December 27, 2010
I Miss Miss Manners. . .
Several years ago, a friend with a fine palate told me about M&N Sandwich Shop. At the time, it was a hole in the wall just above a head shop near 27th and Randolph. My friend told me the guy who owns the place is a native New Yorker who whips up a mean sandwich.
That was enough for me to stop by.
And the cigarette dangling from the proprietor's face, its half-bent ashes hovering above the prosciutto and Swiss, was reason enough for me to act like I'd left my money in the car. Needless to say, I didn't return.
Until today, that is, lured there by a Groupon coupon from my sis and the appealing notion of eating something other than ham. (We'd gotten one of those snazzy spiral-cut honey hams for Christmas which, four days and fourteen meals ago, really was pretty terrific but had now lost a bit of its shine and was starting to clog me up a bit.)
A fire moved M&N catty corner from its original digs, into a building even more precarious than the first, where it shares the space with a pawn shop, a head shop and a vacuum business. We pulled into the tight back lot, and weaved our way around two crack heads and a half dozen Mormons, all of whom were exiting the unmarked back door.
This could either be a good sign or a bad one, I thought to myself.
Turned out to be the latter.
Underneath a simple sign listing our menu options was a disturbing series of jaundiced, laminated photos of sandwiches, each looking like they'd been made sometime in the 50s, and left to air dry ever since. A few customers sat at two of the tables. Mark and I settled (and I use the word correctly) on a couple of Philly steaks, wondering what had happened to the cold meats and cheeses of the restaurant's former self.
Already, the vibe was less than appealing. And then we set out to pay the tab. Mark presented the Groupon, which the guy grabbed with a mixture of disgust and dismay. Owing a few more bucks on the bill, Mark then presented our debit card.
Apparently, the sign that read "We take cash, checks and credit cards" was a misprint.
Whatever spittle wasn't stuck in his scraggly beard now made its way in our direction as the owner lambasted us for even showing up in his restaurant, taunting us that we must enjoy the idea of him not making a penny.
By the time he'd finished chewing our asses and moved on to busily microwaving our thin-sliced Italian meats, the remaining Mormons sitting at the table across from us looked downright flummoxed, uncertain which of us was in greater need of their prophetic pamphlets.
When we got home, and removed our sandwiches from their styrafoam containers, I half wondered what I'd find between the two slabs of bread. Eyes closed and molars gnashing crazily, I crammed a half of my sandwich into my gullet as quickly as I could.
Maybe he was just having a bad day. Maybe we were insensitive, gouging him with the deadly Groupon-and-debit-card combo. Maybe the sandwich was delicious. I'll never know, though, because the encounter had left too bad a taste in my mouth to enjoy it.
That was enough for me to stop by.
And the cigarette dangling from the proprietor's face, its half-bent ashes hovering above the prosciutto and Swiss, was reason enough for me to act like I'd left my money in the car. Needless to say, I didn't return.
Until today, that is, lured there by a Groupon coupon from my sis and the appealing notion of eating something other than ham. (We'd gotten one of those snazzy spiral-cut honey hams for Christmas which, four days and fourteen meals ago, really was pretty terrific but had now lost a bit of its shine and was starting to clog me up a bit.)
A fire moved M&N catty corner from its original digs, into a building even more precarious than the first, where it shares the space with a pawn shop, a head shop and a vacuum business. We pulled into the tight back lot, and weaved our way around two crack heads and a half dozen Mormons, all of whom were exiting the unmarked back door.
This could either be a good sign or a bad one, I thought to myself.
Turned out to be the latter.
Underneath a simple sign listing our menu options was a disturbing series of jaundiced, laminated photos of sandwiches, each looking like they'd been made sometime in the 50s, and left to air dry ever since. A few customers sat at two of the tables. Mark and I settled (and I use the word correctly) on a couple of Philly steaks, wondering what had happened to the cold meats and cheeses of the restaurant's former self.
Already, the vibe was less than appealing. And then we set out to pay the tab. Mark presented the Groupon, which the guy grabbed with a mixture of disgust and dismay. Owing a few more bucks on the bill, Mark then presented our debit card.
Apparently, the sign that read "We take cash, checks and credit cards" was a misprint.
Whatever spittle wasn't stuck in his scraggly beard now made its way in our direction as the owner lambasted us for even showing up in his restaurant, taunting us that we must enjoy the idea of him not making a penny.
By the time he'd finished chewing our asses and moved on to busily microwaving our thin-sliced Italian meats, the remaining Mormons sitting at the table across from us looked downright flummoxed, uncertain which of us was in greater need of their prophetic pamphlets.
When we got home, and removed our sandwiches from their styrafoam containers, I half wondered what I'd find between the two slabs of bread. Eyes closed and molars gnashing crazily, I crammed a half of my sandwich into my gullet as quickly as I could.
Maybe he was just having a bad day. Maybe we were insensitive, gouging him with the deadly Groupon-and-debit-card combo. Maybe the sandwich was delicious. I'll never know, though, because the encounter had left too bad a taste in my mouth to enjoy it.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Love Me, Tender. . .
We must be going for bonus points, because Mark and I went to church this morning, just 24 short hours after Christmas. And I'm glad we did. Not that there's anything wrong with Christmas Eve services. They are beautiful and lively and, because they are stacked one atop the other, they never run long.
But, between you and me, the biggie services (read, Christmas and Easter) also lack the intimacy of a post Christmas-Day service, where people either are especially devout, too cold to complete their morning walk, or, as was our case, hankering for something more basic than the frou-frou glam and glitter of a Christmas-Eve service.
After skimming the service's schedule, I knew we'd done the right thing when I saw the title of today's sermon--"After the Ecstacy, The Laundry." It's the title of a book written by a Buddhist Zen master who interviewed a hundred people, all of whom had experienced some significant spiritual event. He wondered what they did after that big moment. What he discovered was oddly comforting. They drank and quibbled, divorced and spoke poorly to their teenaged children. Essentially, they lived their very human, utterly imperfect lives.
I don't think it's schadenfreude to feel the quiet joy I felt upon hearing that a Zen master isn't always the nicest person. Mostly, I just like to know that I've got some company down here in the muddy recesses.
And, while I can't quite wrap my mind around a God sent to earth as a baby--and have no interest whatsoever in imagining the birth itself, thank you!--I am intrigued and comforted by the concept of leaving the limo at home. God could have come in a great rush of wings and fire, with 110 cornets close at hand. But, if the stories are to be believed, he came in the form of the most needy, helpless thing there is--a baby.
Apparently, God needs some tending to and that rather appeals to me. The need to be tended--and the willingness to tend to others--are no small potatoes. It takes confidence to hand over the reins, just as it takes confidence to grab them and start stearing.
If a tendency is what we lean towards, then my goal for 2011 is to lean towards the good, and to lean on others so that they might tend to me. I believe that, the more I am tended to, the more apt I will be to tend in return.
But, between you and me, the biggie services (read, Christmas and Easter) also lack the intimacy of a post Christmas-Day service, where people either are especially devout, too cold to complete their morning walk, or, as was our case, hankering for something more basic than the frou-frou glam and glitter of a Christmas-Eve service.
After skimming the service's schedule, I knew we'd done the right thing when I saw the title of today's sermon--"After the Ecstacy, The Laundry." It's the title of a book written by a Buddhist Zen master who interviewed a hundred people, all of whom had experienced some significant spiritual event. He wondered what they did after that big moment. What he discovered was oddly comforting. They drank and quibbled, divorced and spoke poorly to their teenaged children. Essentially, they lived their very human, utterly imperfect lives.
I don't think it's schadenfreude to feel the quiet joy I felt upon hearing that a Zen master isn't always the nicest person. Mostly, I just like to know that I've got some company down here in the muddy recesses.
And, while I can't quite wrap my mind around a God sent to earth as a baby--and have no interest whatsoever in imagining the birth itself, thank you!--I am intrigued and comforted by the concept of leaving the limo at home. God could have come in a great rush of wings and fire, with 110 cornets close at hand. But, if the stories are to be believed, he came in the form of the most needy, helpless thing there is--a baby.
Apparently, God needs some tending to and that rather appeals to me. The need to be tended--and the willingness to tend to others--are no small potatoes. It takes confidence to hand over the reins, just as it takes confidence to grab them and start stearing.
If a tendency is what we lean towards, then my goal for 2011 is to lean towards the good, and to lean on others so that they might tend to me. I believe that, the more I am tended to, the more apt I will be to tend in return.
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Midwestern Fairy Tale
Once upon a time, in a cute, little Midwestern town, a girl named, um, Jan Waglin lived a simple and happy life.
Jan was a bit of a tomboy, much to her fancy mother's chagrin. And yet, her mother--some say she looked just like Doris Day--mostly put up with her daughter's foray into all things boyish. This was probably especially hard to do, for you see, Jan's mother was a fashion artist for a fancy local clothing store, where she got 40 percent off all the clothing! Do you know how many fancy-pants girls would kill for that kind of discount?!
Alas, the best her mom could do was to yank Jan by the ear once a year--usually just before school started--and buy her one snappy, new, color-coordinated outfit for the year. These outfits mostly sat undisturbed in Jan's closet, carefully guarded by the myriad Wacky Pack stickers that peppered the sliding doors of that same closet.
About once a year, Jan would get down with her "girl" self and wear something nice to school. Usually a dress. Until 8th grade, when Jan's annual dress choice--a snazzy, retina-burning yellow number with short sleeves and a slender belt--proved to be a lousy outfit to bowl in. Especially at Madsen's, where the balls leech their long-held dyes and the grease of a thousand strangers onto the closest cloth available. Jan spent the rest of that day trying to hide the black smears of her ten-pound ball, and threatening anyone who started to snicker with a dutch rub like no other.
Jan liked life very much, thank you. And she liked walking that silly gender fence, regularly dipping her feet into activities and attitudes usually reserved for boys. She liked running footraces against her fastest classmates. She loved all the hoops surrounding the coveted Presidential Physical Fitness Award, except for the chin-ups, which were especially hard for a girl of her stature. She liked building forts with her friends and farting, just for the heck of it.
As she got older, Jan started to realize that one of the reasons life was so nice was that she was surrounded by nice people. Patient and forgiving people who seemed to endure her constant testing and pushing and joking with an attitude usually reserved for saints and astronauts.
In return, Jan did her best to entertain people. She would say stupid things just to get a laugh out of someone. She liked whoopie cushions and wasn't afraid to use them. And she really loved getting stupid gifts. People seemed to know that, because, after awhile, she had quite a collection of stupid and worthless things. These things made her very happy. And those gifts seemed to make the other people happy, too.
One night, as Jan was figuring out how to spend her 16th birthday, she realized that maybe life was good, in part, because she was a willing recipient of good things. It was a pretty serious thought for a goofball to have, but she was not averse to trying new things. Even if they were serious.
And so, that night, Jan decided that joy was hers to take just as it was hers to give to others. No lightning bolts accompanied this thought. No booming voice of a father-figure God drenched her ears. No, this was a quiet epiphany. But she paid attention anyway.
For her 16th birthday, Jan's dad dressed up as a waiter, while her mom put on a fancy apron--probably one she bought at that store Jan visited annually--and they transformed Jan's bedroom into a restaurant, complete with candles and music. She had a few friends over before the school basketball game and they ate dinner in Jan's room, her father periodically checking in on them, a tray in hand with bubbly apple juice in fluted glasses sitting atop it.
It was, Jan supposes, a silly way to spend a birthday. And yet, everyone had a very hard time wiping the smiles off their faces. She figures they were glad to be there.
Just like she was.
Jan was a bit of a tomboy, much to her fancy mother's chagrin. And yet, her mother--some say she looked just like Doris Day--mostly put up with her daughter's foray into all things boyish. This was probably especially hard to do, for you see, Jan's mother was a fashion artist for a fancy local clothing store, where she got 40 percent off all the clothing! Do you know how many fancy-pants girls would kill for that kind of discount?!
Alas, the best her mom could do was to yank Jan by the ear once a year--usually just before school started--and buy her one snappy, new, color-coordinated outfit for the year. These outfits mostly sat undisturbed in Jan's closet, carefully guarded by the myriad Wacky Pack stickers that peppered the sliding doors of that same closet.
About once a year, Jan would get down with her "girl" self and wear something nice to school. Usually a dress. Until 8th grade, when Jan's annual dress choice--a snazzy, retina-burning yellow number with short sleeves and a slender belt--proved to be a lousy outfit to bowl in. Especially at Madsen's, where the balls leech their long-held dyes and the grease of a thousand strangers onto the closest cloth available. Jan spent the rest of that day trying to hide the black smears of her ten-pound ball, and threatening anyone who started to snicker with a dutch rub like no other.
Jan liked life very much, thank you. And she liked walking that silly gender fence, regularly dipping her feet into activities and attitudes usually reserved for boys. She liked running footraces against her fastest classmates. She loved all the hoops surrounding the coveted Presidential Physical Fitness Award, except for the chin-ups, which were especially hard for a girl of her stature. She liked building forts with her friends and farting, just for the heck of it.
As she got older, Jan started to realize that one of the reasons life was so nice was that she was surrounded by nice people. Patient and forgiving people who seemed to endure her constant testing and pushing and joking with an attitude usually reserved for saints and astronauts.
In return, Jan did her best to entertain people. She would say stupid things just to get a laugh out of someone. She liked whoopie cushions and wasn't afraid to use them. And she really loved getting stupid gifts. People seemed to know that, because, after awhile, she had quite a collection of stupid and worthless things. These things made her very happy. And those gifts seemed to make the other people happy, too.
One night, as Jan was figuring out how to spend her 16th birthday, she realized that maybe life was good, in part, because she was a willing recipient of good things. It was a pretty serious thought for a goofball to have, but she was not averse to trying new things. Even if they were serious.
And so, that night, Jan decided that joy was hers to take just as it was hers to give to others. No lightning bolts accompanied this thought. No booming voice of a father-figure God drenched her ears. No, this was a quiet epiphany. But she paid attention anyway.
For her 16th birthday, Jan's dad dressed up as a waiter, while her mom put on a fancy apron--probably one she bought at that store Jan visited annually--and they transformed Jan's bedroom into a restaurant, complete with candles and music. She had a few friends over before the school basketball game and they ate dinner in Jan's room, her father periodically checking in on them, a tray in hand with bubbly apple juice in fluted glasses sitting atop it.
It was, Jan supposes, a silly way to spend a birthday. And yet, everyone had a very hard time wiping the smiles off their faces. She figures they were glad to be there.
Just like she was.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Starkweather's 12-Bar Blues
I usually like a little soundtrack music as I make my way to school each morning. Often, I choose the soundtrack, but, one day last week, I let the college-aged DJ at KRNU choose my theme song.
When I tuned in, the song was halfway through. It was a raw, acoustic, bluesy number, the singer's rough-hewn voice telling his story with a mix of bemusement and conviction. The topic? Charlie Starkweather's bloody rampage. This, I know, is not a new topic. Bruce Springsteen dedicated an entire album to it. But, for some reason, it was as though I was hearing about it for the first time.
My reaction to hearing this story put to music was a pretty visceral one. Basically, I felt...invaded.
Midwesterners are a funny bunch. We get that we aren't flashy or on top of things, like our coastal cousins, and, in a way, we rather like that reputation. Known more for our produce than our personalities, we generally are content to exist just under the radar. But, when Hollywood takes rare notice of us, even if that notice is rooted in tragedy or stereotypes, we sit a little taller in our movie-house seats, turning our heads and smiling as we share a moment with strangers.
I didn't much care for this radio moment, though, and was glad I wasn't among strangers. Instead, I started to think about our culture's love affair with our country's wild, violent characters--and "characters" are what we turn them into. I thought that this singer, who most likely had never been to Lincoln or had never driven by a house that Starkweather had rampaged, could afford to make light of something he knew nothing about, precisely because he wasn't there to live it.
I wasn't there to live it, either. But the detritus and third-person memories make it a part of my community, regardless. And so, by the third verse, I started to resent the singer, angry that he would retell a story that wasn't his to tell in the first place. Baffled by the spit and shine he applied to two, young, violent teens who had a taste for blood.
As someone who teaches journalism, listening to this song reminded me that, when we retell stories, we must do so with kid gloves. We need to pursue with both vigor and honesty the truest line of that story. And we need to leave the spit and shine at home on the shelf if we are to honor the people who have lived this story, firsthand.
It was a heady lesson, packaged in 12-bar blues.
When I tuned in, the song was halfway through. It was a raw, acoustic, bluesy number, the singer's rough-hewn voice telling his story with a mix of bemusement and conviction. The topic? Charlie Starkweather's bloody rampage. This, I know, is not a new topic. Bruce Springsteen dedicated an entire album to it. But, for some reason, it was as though I was hearing about it for the first time.
My reaction to hearing this story put to music was a pretty visceral one. Basically, I felt...invaded.
Midwesterners are a funny bunch. We get that we aren't flashy or on top of things, like our coastal cousins, and, in a way, we rather like that reputation. Known more for our produce than our personalities, we generally are content to exist just under the radar. But, when Hollywood takes rare notice of us, even if that notice is rooted in tragedy or stereotypes, we sit a little taller in our movie-house seats, turning our heads and smiling as we share a moment with strangers.
I didn't much care for this radio moment, though, and was glad I wasn't among strangers. Instead, I started to think about our culture's love affair with our country's wild, violent characters--and "characters" are what we turn them into. I thought that this singer, who most likely had never been to Lincoln or had never driven by a house that Starkweather had rampaged, could afford to make light of something he knew nothing about, precisely because he wasn't there to live it.
I wasn't there to live it, either. But the detritus and third-person memories make it a part of my community, regardless. And so, by the third verse, I started to resent the singer, angry that he would retell a story that wasn't his to tell in the first place. Baffled by the spit and shine he applied to two, young, violent teens who had a taste for blood.
As someone who teaches journalism, listening to this song reminded me that, when we retell stories, we must do so with kid gloves. We need to pursue with both vigor and honesty the truest line of that story. And we need to leave the spit and shine at home on the shelf if we are to honor the people who have lived this story, firsthand.
It was a heady lesson, packaged in 12-bar blues.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
A Love Letter to Those Who Put Up With Me
It's good to pay attention. And, sometimes, it's nice to be awakened.
A line from a quirky little film stuck with me last night. In "Martian Boy," John Cusack, playing a sci-fi writer, marvels about our ability to find each other and make a connection--with absolutely no expectations in return--as a way of anchoring ourselves in this incomprehensibly massive universe.
And so, I think of all my anchors today, those glorious, human, imperfect, forgiving people who keep me solid. And filled up. And very much alive, even when my toes go numb beneath sheets not yet warmed.
I really am pretty much the luckiest person I know. What I lack in fashion I make up for in friends. Where I lack in abilities, I am held up by family. Good people, everywhere I look.
And maybe--finally--in a season too often filled with cheesy songs and discounted merchandise, I'm feeling just the slightest bit blessed. Aware of my surroundings again. And this flood of love pours over me, pooling my eyes as I type this.
Who am I to be so lucky? And yet, who am I to turn my back on such things?
Seems my own advent season has begun this morning. In my chilly basement, surrounded by worn carpet and fake wood paneling. No more taking for granted for me. At least not today. No, today I will take with eyes--and heart--wide open, filling myself up against a future I have not seen. Confident, as always, in the good people who surround me.
Take note. I am paying attention again.
A line from a quirky little film stuck with me last night. In "Martian Boy," John Cusack, playing a sci-fi writer, marvels about our ability to find each other and make a connection--with absolutely no expectations in return--as a way of anchoring ourselves in this incomprehensibly massive universe.
And so, I think of all my anchors today, those glorious, human, imperfect, forgiving people who keep me solid. And filled up. And very much alive, even when my toes go numb beneath sheets not yet warmed.
I really am pretty much the luckiest person I know. What I lack in fashion I make up for in friends. Where I lack in abilities, I am held up by family. Good people, everywhere I look.
And maybe--finally--in a season too often filled with cheesy songs and discounted merchandise, I'm feeling just the slightest bit blessed. Aware of my surroundings again. And this flood of love pours over me, pooling my eyes as I type this.
Who am I to be so lucky? And yet, who am I to turn my back on such things?
Seems my own advent season has begun this morning. In my chilly basement, surrounded by worn carpet and fake wood paneling. No more taking for granted for me. At least not today. No, today I will take with eyes--and heart--wide open, filling myself up against a future I have not seen. Confident, as always, in the good people who surround me.
Take note. I am paying attention again.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
I Really AM Stuck on Bandaids
For three very dark minutes this morning, I thought that life, as I know it, had come to an end. Foraging the bathroom closet for Bandaids, I found only empty box heaped upon empty box, each taunting me like a bent syringe taunts a heroin addict. Or so I imagine.
Some people drink when they’re under pressure. Okay, so I have been known to drink simply because there’s a cold one in the fridge and it would be a shame not to extend to it the warm hand of my fellowship. But anyway. . . Other people’s faces are where their stress can be seen, new, taut lines etching their way between frequently furrowed brows. Still others scream and yell and stomp their feet. Oh wait, I’m confusing stress with “Dancing with the Stars.”
Me? I wear Bandaids.
If you want to know how close I am to a Newspaper or Yearbook deadline, all you need to do is look at my thumbs. Wearing a Bandaid? Must be a deadline around the corner. Wearing two? Looks like the printing-press stars have aligned for both publications.
I’ve been wearing two Bandaids for about the last three weeks. This does not bode well for the Christmas Spirit. Or my students’ well being.
As a kid, I was a nail chewer. Not because I was stressed so much as because my mouth enjoyed a little activity between conversations. At one point, in fact, I could nary imagine a world without a mouthful of homemade half-moon shaped keratin kibbles inhabiting it. Eventually, though, my exquisitely developed palate moved beyond my taste for keratin.
And so, I became a cheek chewer. Of all my oral fascinations, this proved to be the most troublesome of habits. No one likes to talk with someone whose fist is jammed in the side of her face, incisors feverishly working the soft flesh inside. And, frankly, I can’t imagine it did much for my breath, either.
Now, though, I’ve settled into a dependable pattern of chewing my thumbs. Not sucking them, mind you. No, I’ve never been that weak of spirit. Nay, I just fiddle with the dangling participles of skin that embrace my thumbnails.
I tried other fingers but found their flavor to be a little too oaky with an unpleasant tannic finish. And so, the thumbs have it—as in my utmost attention, come deadline time.
As I type this, my decimated digits are snug in their newest garb, the dependable if a bit too noticeable Bandaid classic—the ½” sheer. True, I’ve grown partial to the ½’ Clear, but, alas, they are nowhere to be found this morning.
Sometimes, one’s will is put to the test. Looks like this is one of those times.
Some people drink when they’re under pressure. Okay, so I have been known to drink simply because there’s a cold one in the fridge and it would be a shame not to extend to it the warm hand of my fellowship. But anyway. . . Other people’s faces are where their stress can be seen, new, taut lines etching their way between frequently furrowed brows. Still others scream and yell and stomp their feet. Oh wait, I’m confusing stress with “Dancing with the Stars.”
Me? I wear Bandaids.
If you want to know how close I am to a Newspaper or Yearbook deadline, all you need to do is look at my thumbs. Wearing a Bandaid? Must be a deadline around the corner. Wearing two? Looks like the printing-press stars have aligned for both publications.
I’ve been wearing two Bandaids for about the last three weeks. This does not bode well for the Christmas Spirit. Or my students’ well being.
As a kid, I was a nail chewer. Not because I was stressed so much as because my mouth enjoyed a little activity between conversations. At one point, in fact, I could nary imagine a world without a mouthful of homemade half-moon shaped keratin kibbles inhabiting it. Eventually, though, my exquisitely developed palate moved beyond my taste for keratin.
And so, I became a cheek chewer. Of all my oral fascinations, this proved to be the most troublesome of habits. No one likes to talk with someone whose fist is jammed in the side of her face, incisors feverishly working the soft flesh inside. And, frankly, I can’t imagine it did much for my breath, either.
Now, though, I’ve settled into a dependable pattern of chewing my thumbs. Not sucking them, mind you. No, I’ve never been that weak of spirit. Nay, I just fiddle with the dangling participles of skin that embrace my thumbnails.
I tried other fingers but found their flavor to be a little too oaky with an unpleasant tannic finish. And so, the thumbs have it—as in my utmost attention, come deadline time.
As I type this, my decimated digits are snug in their newest garb, the dependable if a bit too noticeable Bandaid classic—the ½” sheer. True, I’ve grown partial to the ½’ Clear, but, alas, they are nowhere to be found this morning.
Sometimes, one’s will is put to the test. Looks like this is one of those times.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Middle-aged Woman Seeks Old Man Winter for Possible Relationship
I think I might have Seasonal Affective Disorder, only in reverse. Shocking, I know, but, come winter, I want winter to come.
This time of year, when I scan the 10-day forecast, it's not a succession of lone, yellow orbs I'm looking for. No. I want mottled skies that spew things at me. I want clouds that add some contrast to the infernal brightness of a December sun. And some precip. Give me something that requires a shovel or, at the very least, a thick pair of gloves and the slow, steady gait of a very old turtle.
I want to know that, when I head outside, it's entirely possible that I may lose my way to the garage. And when I finally make it to the car, I want to fret, if only temporarily, that I forgot to pack a blanket and some saltines.
Come winter, I am not a shirtsleeves-and-jacket kind of gal.
That's why Saturday, in all its breath-sucking, parallel-snow-falling, bone-chilling glory was like a gift from God. Yeah, I could still go out in it, but not without a little forethought and luck. And my new, kick-ass winter coat.
Unlike those dull, pupil-piercing, cloudless December days when you wonder if there's anything to live for, a day like Saturday brings out the best in people. Stranger talks to stranger in line at the drug store, sharing tales of how they ventured out from their warm nests, all because they'd run out of toilet paper or baby aspirin. As though baby aspirin would save us now.
A day like Saturday harkens us back to our primal roots, those times when we all had hairy backs, not just that creepy guy at the swimming pool. It reminds us that, even beyond bowels and balanced checkbooks, we really do have little control of things. Rotten weather is a balloon-popping, skin-thickening, eye-opening opportunity to right ourselves in this world.
And I, for one, am in need of some righting.
This time of year, when I scan the 10-day forecast, it's not a succession of lone, yellow orbs I'm looking for. No. I want mottled skies that spew things at me. I want clouds that add some contrast to the infernal brightness of a December sun. And some precip. Give me something that requires a shovel or, at the very least, a thick pair of gloves and the slow, steady gait of a very old turtle.
I want to know that, when I head outside, it's entirely possible that I may lose my way to the garage. And when I finally make it to the car, I want to fret, if only temporarily, that I forgot to pack a blanket and some saltines.
Come winter, I am not a shirtsleeves-and-jacket kind of gal.
That's why Saturday, in all its breath-sucking, parallel-snow-falling, bone-chilling glory was like a gift from God. Yeah, I could still go out in it, but not without a little forethought and luck. And my new, kick-ass winter coat.
Unlike those dull, pupil-piercing, cloudless December days when you wonder if there's anything to live for, a day like Saturday brings out the best in people. Stranger talks to stranger in line at the drug store, sharing tales of how they ventured out from their warm nests, all because they'd run out of toilet paper or baby aspirin. As though baby aspirin would save us now.
A day like Saturday harkens us back to our primal roots, those times when we all had hairy backs, not just that creepy guy at the swimming pool. It reminds us that, even beyond bowels and balanced checkbooks, we really do have little control of things. Rotten weather is a balloon-popping, skin-thickening, eye-opening opportunity to right ourselves in this world.
And I, for one, am in need of some righting.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
An Unlikely Friendship
Got myself a new library peep recently and, I must say, I feel pretty good about it. Not because we have a lot in common, either, which is usually the reason people like to snag themselves a new peep. No, Liz is a rough, on-the-edge teenager--I'm guessing 15 or 16--who wandered into the library during lunch one day and pretty much demanded that I find her a good book.
Not just any good book, mind you. It had to be a hardcover one. And not too tall or thick, either. For Liz, then, the contents seemed to be less important than the container itself.
Apparently, she'd had some bad luck with the softbound variety and didn't want The Man (or The Woman, as the case may be) to pin blame upon her for dog-eared pages and tattered covers.
Now, I've got a list of books I've read, dating back about 16 years, in which I write down the titles, authors and genres. But, somehow, my personal database overlooks cover materials. I created this list when I found myself calling son Eric "Rasta" more than "Eric." Rasta was our most excellent family canine at the time, but "most excellent canine" does not equate "borne of thy womb" anymore than "Bo Pelini" equates "Miami football coach." And so, I decided I'd better start recording some basic information not only about my child but also about the books I'd been reading, lest I forget them.
I still forget the titles and characters' names of most of the books I read--usually within hours of closing the books once and for all,--all too often resorting to such vague descriptions as "It's a big, colorful cover and inside are all these, like, really interesting people who are doing amazing things. I think. Or maybe the cover is kind of dark and depressing. . . " But I've got my backup band, nonetheless.
It wasn't a whole lot of help with Liz, though, since I couldn't recall if they were softbound or hardbound. And so, we roamed the shelves a bit, my list in hand, in case a title came up that sounded vaguely familiar to me. Within a few minutes, I found a book I thought she'd love. It was about an African-American teenaged couple in New York who found out they were going to be parents. And how the dad eventually became the sole parent in his child's life. Gritty, raw, and starring a compassionate male character, I figured I'd found a winner for Liz. Oh, and it was hardbound, too.
"Oh, yeah. That's a great book. It's the last book I've read," she said, "when I was in jail last year," she added.
On so many levels, I am a lacking librarian. I'm a slow reader, I can't seem to remember book titles, I have never had a sexual dream about John Dewey, . . . In short, Liz may very well have been a victim of time and circumstance. Had she only wandered into the library a half hour later, after Roxi was back from lunch, she would have been swimming in wonderful options, each a literary haute couture, designed and written exclusively for her. And in hardback!
But she muddled her way through with me, giving me patient, if not encouraging feedback, until we finally settled on a title.
Imagine my surprise and delight when she wandered back into the library just a few days later, book in hand, and a hungry look in her eyes.
"I need another."
Oh, Lord. I'd failed her.
"I loved it. Give me another."
And so, our precarious literary friendship blossomed. Every few days, she returns to the library, each time, slightly more emboldened to ween herself from my recommendations and wander the shelves herself. I miss making suggestions, but I'm thrilled she's found herself a set of operational--and apparently, pretty successful--book-finding skills. She even told me that her mom was reading the books she was bringing home.
And so, I wrote her mom a little letter. Told her about Liz's new-found appetite for books, her new-found ability to eat them up like a thirsty animal laps up water. Mentioned that Liz has even been able to check out a few hardcover books, returning them in admirable shape.
Liz appreciated the note, one not written by a probation officer or school administrator, but rather by a mediocre librarian who just happened to be lucky enough to be at the desk when her daughter wandered in, hungry for a good read.
Not just any good book, mind you. It had to be a hardcover one. And not too tall or thick, either. For Liz, then, the contents seemed to be less important than the container itself.
Apparently, she'd had some bad luck with the softbound variety and didn't want The Man (or The Woman, as the case may be) to pin blame upon her for dog-eared pages and tattered covers.
Now, I've got a list of books I've read, dating back about 16 years, in which I write down the titles, authors and genres. But, somehow, my personal database overlooks cover materials. I created this list when I found myself calling son Eric "Rasta" more than "Eric." Rasta was our most excellent family canine at the time, but "most excellent canine" does not equate "borne of thy womb" anymore than "Bo Pelini" equates "Miami football coach." And so, I decided I'd better start recording some basic information not only about my child but also about the books I'd been reading, lest I forget them.
I still forget the titles and characters' names of most of the books I read--usually within hours of closing the books once and for all,--all too often resorting to such vague descriptions as "It's a big, colorful cover and inside are all these, like, really interesting people who are doing amazing things. I think. Or maybe the cover is kind of dark and depressing. . . " But I've got my backup band, nonetheless.
It wasn't a whole lot of help with Liz, though, since I couldn't recall if they were softbound or hardbound. And so, we roamed the shelves a bit, my list in hand, in case a title came up that sounded vaguely familiar to me. Within a few minutes, I found a book I thought she'd love. It was about an African-American teenaged couple in New York who found out they were going to be parents. And how the dad eventually became the sole parent in his child's life. Gritty, raw, and starring a compassionate male character, I figured I'd found a winner for Liz. Oh, and it was hardbound, too.
"Oh, yeah. That's a great book. It's the last book I've read," she said, "when I was in jail last year," she added.
On so many levels, I am a lacking librarian. I'm a slow reader, I can't seem to remember book titles, I have never had a sexual dream about John Dewey, . . . In short, Liz may very well have been a victim of time and circumstance. Had she only wandered into the library a half hour later, after Roxi was back from lunch, she would have been swimming in wonderful options, each a literary haute couture, designed and written exclusively for her. And in hardback!
But she muddled her way through with me, giving me patient, if not encouraging feedback, until we finally settled on a title.
Imagine my surprise and delight when she wandered back into the library just a few days later, book in hand, and a hungry look in her eyes.
"I need another."
Oh, Lord. I'd failed her.
"I loved it. Give me another."
And so, our precarious literary friendship blossomed. Every few days, she returns to the library, each time, slightly more emboldened to ween herself from my recommendations and wander the shelves herself. I miss making suggestions, but I'm thrilled she's found herself a set of operational--and apparently, pretty successful--book-finding skills. She even told me that her mom was reading the books she was bringing home.
And so, I wrote her mom a little letter. Told her about Liz's new-found appetite for books, her new-found ability to eat them up like a thirsty animal laps up water. Mentioned that Liz has even been able to check out a few hardcover books, returning them in admirable shape.
Liz appreciated the note, one not written by a probation officer or school administrator, but rather by a mediocre librarian who just happened to be lucky enough to be at the desk when her daughter wandered in, hungry for a good read.
Monday, December 6, 2010
My Name is Mud
My name's mud.
But don't take my word for it (and, really, why would you, after what I've just revealed?). No, just ask the nice folks at Netflix.
After the month I've had with them, they're now filing me under "Digital Morons," right there next to George W. Bush, who still can't get over how those scanners work at the grocery-store checkout line.
Yeah, you could say I've had a bad month with my Netflix membership. And, while some may argue that breaking one DVD and misplacing two others isn't, like, cancer or anything, well, you just might think differently after learning just what DVDs I ruined. Or lost. Or, like, whatever it is that I did to them.
Because I'm a Holt (and because I have a husband whose favorite shirt says "Out of the Loop and Loving It!"), we've just discovered "The Sopranos." Yeah, THAT "Sopranos," the hit TV series that wrapped up nine seasons of success . . . in 2007.
Thanks to the most excellent Lincoln City Libraries (the same that recently was featured in the Journal-Star), we began nursing ourselves on the first season, disc by demented disc, in three-week increments, as the circulation desk would allow. Not surprisingly, though, just as we found ourselves hooked on Tony, we also discovered the seedier side to loving a mafia series.
Turns out an awful lot of the libraries' "Sopranos" discs have gone missing. What? You lookin' at ME?!
So we turned to Netflix to feed our need to keep up with the Sopranos. Things went well through the second half of Season One--I even learned some of the characters' names and memorized the opening song--but then, they went wildly downhill after that.
Season Two's first disc arrived without fanfare. Or a horse's head. Getting it to play in our DVD player proved to be another thing, though. Especially when I jammed it in there, just above our copy of The Simpsons, Season 196. Seems DVDs, unlike rabbits, don't appreciate being stacked one upon the other.
By the time I wrenched the Sopranos from the mighty grip of the machine, a small, uh, crack seemed to have magically appeared in the DVD. Of course, I tried to snap it back together, but to no avail. (SPOILER ALERT!) Seems I'd knocked off Tony before the opening credits of the second season could even roll.
Netflix was surprisingly okay with my admission, sending me another copy of the Season Two disc before I could say "FUGGEDABOUTIT!"
We watched all three episodes, Tony magically brought back to life, and then...well, frankly, I don't know what happened next. But our next Netflix DVD just never seemed to arrive.
A few weeks later, I finally checked my Netflix account, only to see that they thought we still had the replacement disc. Which we didn't. Heh, heh, heh.
I managed to swallow my pride and register for a concealed-weapons permit all in the same afternoon, contacting Netflix once again to say "Dadgum you people! I sent that DVD WEEKS ago!"
Again, they took it well. Even sent our next one. (We took a break from "The Sopranos" at this point, for reasons which should be obvious). Anyway, they actually sent us the next DVD in our cue. Which I've heard is really, really good.
Only I don't know what I did with it. I figure, it's either at the dump or in the sorting room at our local recycling plant.
And me? Well, I'm going back to the library. Sticking with books for awhile.
But don't take my word for it (and, really, why would you, after what I've just revealed?). No, just ask the nice folks at Netflix.
After the month I've had with them, they're now filing me under "Digital Morons," right there next to George W. Bush, who still can't get over how those scanners work at the grocery-store checkout line.
Yeah, you could say I've had a bad month with my Netflix membership. And, while some may argue that breaking one DVD and misplacing two others isn't, like, cancer or anything, well, you just might think differently after learning just what DVDs I ruined. Or lost. Or, like, whatever it is that I did to them.
Because I'm a Holt (and because I have a husband whose favorite shirt says "Out of the Loop and Loving It!"), we've just discovered "The Sopranos." Yeah, THAT "Sopranos," the hit TV series that wrapped up nine seasons of success . . . in 2007.
Thanks to the most excellent Lincoln City Libraries (the same that recently was featured in the Journal-Star), we began nursing ourselves on the first season, disc by demented disc, in three-week increments, as the circulation desk would allow. Not surprisingly, though, just as we found ourselves hooked on Tony, we also discovered the seedier side to loving a mafia series.
Turns out an awful lot of the libraries' "Sopranos" discs have gone missing. What? You lookin' at ME?!
So we turned to Netflix to feed our need to keep up with the Sopranos. Things went well through the second half of Season One--I even learned some of the characters' names and memorized the opening song--but then, they went wildly downhill after that.
Season Two's first disc arrived without fanfare. Or a horse's head. Getting it to play in our DVD player proved to be another thing, though. Especially when I jammed it in there, just above our copy of The Simpsons, Season 196. Seems DVDs, unlike rabbits, don't appreciate being stacked one upon the other.
By the time I wrenched the Sopranos from the mighty grip of the machine, a small, uh, crack seemed to have magically appeared in the DVD. Of course, I tried to snap it back together, but to no avail. (SPOILER ALERT!) Seems I'd knocked off Tony before the opening credits of the second season could even roll.
Netflix was surprisingly okay with my admission, sending me another copy of the Season Two disc before I could say "FUGGEDABOUTIT!"
We watched all three episodes, Tony magically brought back to life, and then...well, frankly, I don't know what happened next. But our next Netflix DVD just never seemed to arrive.
A few weeks later, I finally checked my Netflix account, only to see that they thought we still had the replacement disc. Which we didn't. Heh, heh, heh.
I managed to swallow my pride and register for a concealed-weapons permit all in the same afternoon, contacting Netflix once again to say "Dadgum you people! I sent that DVD WEEKS ago!"
Again, they took it well. Even sent our next one. (We took a break from "The Sopranos" at this point, for reasons which should be obvious). Anyway, they actually sent us the next DVD in our cue. Which I've heard is really, really good.
Only I don't know what I did with it. I figure, it's either at the dump or in the sorting room at our local recycling plant.
And me? Well, I'm going back to the library. Sticking with books for awhile.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Girl, Interrupted
I'm knee deep in my busy season right now. And I'm not talking tinsel and toys. These days, I'm plowing through piles of papers, diving into daunting deadlines, and spewing sound research statistics, all at a mind-numbing speed.
It's like that 80's Hollywood memoir, "I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can," only minus the valium.
And yet, for all the icky intensity of my recent work days, I actually get a bit cranky when someone comes along and threatens my unpleasant routine. Go figure!
Take Friday, for instance, when a group of journalists from India had the nerve to disrupt my flow. Right there, in the midst of a short, furious Newspaper deadline, they galavanted into my classroom, expecting to talk with my students and me. Right there, in the midst of our well-planned mayhem, they had the nerve to interact with these teenagers from another country, asking them why they like journalism. As if we had time to stop what we were doing to answer them!
Well, I hope they're happy! I mean, it was downright annoying to have to sing "Happy Birthday" to Jackson (17 years!) while these dark-skinned strangers in funny clothes watched us. And to think we'd have to share Jackson's cookies with these people! Really!
Really?
I walked into my Newspaper class bathed in the inky chemicals of stress, silently wondering how we could meet our deadline AND our guests...Fifty minutes later, I left feeling connected to my world again, swapping concern for contentment.
I mean, who gives a rip when our paltry rag wends its way through the printing press? This is not cancer, after all. This is not life-and-death. This is an assignment worth 100 points. An expensive and time-consuming 100-point assignment, to be sure. But it is not strangers in a strange land, reaching across languages and lands to make a connection with someone they just met.
And so, a wonderful bunch of mostly pasty-white U.S. teens sparkled for and spewed to, sought out and surprised these five Indian journalists who came across oceans and continents to find out how other people tell stories.
To tell a new story, together.
I've got my fingers crossed for all kinds of disruptions in the jam-packed week ahead. I can only hope that they'll be as magical, as life-giving and grounding as these fine folks who had the gall to disrupt my sputtering flow.
It's like that 80's Hollywood memoir, "I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can," only minus the valium.
And yet, for all the icky intensity of my recent work days, I actually get a bit cranky when someone comes along and threatens my unpleasant routine. Go figure!
Take Friday, for instance, when a group of journalists from India had the nerve to disrupt my flow. Right there, in the midst of a short, furious Newspaper deadline, they galavanted into my classroom, expecting to talk with my students and me. Right there, in the midst of our well-planned mayhem, they had the nerve to interact with these teenagers from another country, asking them why they like journalism. As if we had time to stop what we were doing to answer them!
Well, I hope they're happy! I mean, it was downright annoying to have to sing "Happy Birthday" to Jackson (17 years!) while these dark-skinned strangers in funny clothes watched us. And to think we'd have to share Jackson's cookies with these people! Really!
Really?
I walked into my Newspaper class bathed in the inky chemicals of stress, silently wondering how we could meet our deadline AND our guests...Fifty minutes later, I left feeling connected to my world again, swapping concern for contentment.
I mean, who gives a rip when our paltry rag wends its way through the printing press? This is not cancer, after all. This is not life-and-death. This is an assignment worth 100 points. An expensive and time-consuming 100-point assignment, to be sure. But it is not strangers in a strange land, reaching across languages and lands to make a connection with someone they just met.
And so, a wonderful bunch of mostly pasty-white U.S. teens sparkled for and spewed to, sought out and surprised these five Indian journalists who came across oceans and continents to find out how other people tell stories.
To tell a new story, together.
I've got my fingers crossed for all kinds of disruptions in the jam-packed week ahead. I can only hope that they'll be as magical, as life-giving and grounding as these fine folks who had the gall to disrupt my sputtering flow.
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