I found it impossible not to respond to J.K. Rowling’s announcement last year that Dumbledore was gay.
Author J.K. Rowling’s announcement that Dumbledore is gay unleashed a firestorm of criticism from some young fans- and a show of solidarity from lesbian, gay, bi-sexual and transgender fictional characters. At a press conference held yesterday, Dumbledore, with life partner Hagrid by his side, wiped a tear from his rheumy eye as he acknowledged his closeted compadres, many of whom came out- literally! to join him. “At first, I was stunned that Ms. Rowling outed me on national television,” he told those assembled. “But now, I’m grateful. We no longer have to live a lie.”
Frodo Baggins held hands with a giggling Sam Gangee, who he introduced as his “best friend with benefits.” “Oh, come on,” he told those in attendance. “Like you didn’t know?”
Nancy Drew, with her chum, Bess Marvin, in tow, had a few choice words for the press. “That whole thing with Ned Nickerson,” she said. “well, it was just a sham I cooked up to spare my father embarrassment. Bess and I have been “sleuthing” in the backseat of my sporty blue roadster for decades.”
Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer approached the podium and embraced passionately, to enthusiastic applause. When asked about Injun Joe, Tom said, “He didn’t die in that cave. The truth is, he left small-town, small-minded Missouri for the Big Apple, where he later became one of the original members of The Village People.” And what of Jim, the muscular runaway slave? “Tom and I weren’t exclusive back then,” Huck explained. “After our commitment ceremony on Maui last year, all that has changed.”
Batman and Robin made an appearance. “Big surprise there,” said one sarcastic attendee. Some other notable couples: Peanuts’ Peppermint Patty and Scooby Doo’s Velma, as well as Melville’s Captain Ahab and Forester’s Horatio Hornblower. (“The name certainly fits!” Ahab observed, with a wry grin.) Appearing solo was Han Solo, or Hanna Solo, as she now likes to be called. “I know, Princess Leia, those hair muffs, honestly, what was I even thinking?” she said. “I knew I was in trouble when I started finding her less hot than Chewbacca.”
The only negative note was struck by the presence of a grubby, threadbare Pat the Bunny. “When I think of all those little kids being encouraged to touch him…” someone in the audience was overheard to say, “well, that’s just wrong.”
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Heard On Air
A CBS Radio news anchor announced yesterday that Michael Jackson shares the exact same problem as hundreds of thousands of his fellow Americans: the looming foreclosure of his Neverland Ranch. I think this is sad. I also think it is surprising. I had no idea that so many Americans have Neverland Ranches.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Opinion
I showed yesterday’s post to my husband, Sam. He said he found the ending “a little mean.”
“Yeah, but funny, right?” I asked.
“I thought it was kind of harsh, telling a little girl to get the fuck out of the car.”
“That’s precisely what makes it funny,” I said.
Am I missing something? Seriously, what’s funnier than a narrator with a reasonable, self-deprecating tone suddenly tapping into a mother lode of irrational rage? I found myself getting increasingly annoyed when Sam said, “It’s just my opinion. I’m sure some people would find it hilarious.”
You know what? Sam is right. It not like he’s God or some kind of reading expert. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, no matter how completely stupid or wrong it is. And if the opinion of a tax lawyer who is shorter than the national average is going to bother me, then maybe I’m in the wrong business.
Thanks, honey.
“Yeah, but funny, right?” I asked.
“I thought it was kind of harsh, telling a little girl to get the fuck out of the car.”
“That’s precisely what makes it funny,” I said.
Am I missing something? Seriously, what’s funnier than a narrator with a reasonable, self-deprecating tone suddenly tapping into a mother lode of irrational rage? I found myself getting increasingly annoyed when Sam said, “It’s just my opinion. I’m sure some people would find it hilarious.”
You know what? Sam is right. It not like he’s God or some kind of reading expert. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, no matter how completely stupid or wrong it is. And if the opinion of a tax lawyer who is shorter than the national average is going to bother me, then maybe I’m in the wrong business.
Thanks, honey.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Middle School Drop Off
This morning I drove my son to school. The drop-off line is long, and operates by tacit protocol, or what I like to call stop, drop, and roll. Today I found myself behind some guy who not only stops his car, he gets out, runs to the passenger side, opens the door for his daughter, pops the trunk, takes out one of those backpacks on wheels, places it on the sidewalk, carefully extends the handle, shuts the trunk, rolls the backpack over to his daughter, hands her a bottled water and lunch bag, closes her door, gives her a kiss, waves at her retreating back as she walks away, then, finally, meanders back behind the wheel.
Maybe there’s a happy medium between this and my drop-off method in which I never actually stop the car (though, in my defense, I do slow down). But hey, it’s called a drop-off line, not a protracted public display of slavish devotion line, right? Dad may think that his excessive fawning is in his little darling’s best interest, but she’s in for a shock. Better she should find that out now, before she hits high school. On the way home, I thought about what I’d tell her if I could. I would say, Honey, no matter what your father would have you believe, you are not a princess. You’re a seventh grader with silly pink hat, an overbite, and a moderate to severe case of muffin-top. Now, have a great day, and get the fuck out of the car.
Maybe there’s a happy medium between this and my drop-off method in which I never actually stop the car (though, in my defense, I do slow down). But hey, it’s called a drop-off line, not a protracted public display of slavish devotion line, right? Dad may think that his excessive fawning is in his little darling’s best interest, but she’s in for a shock. Better she should find that out now, before she hits high school. On the way home, I thought about what I’d tell her if I could. I would say, Honey, no matter what your father would have you believe, you are not a princess. You’re a seventh grader with silly pink hat, an overbite, and a moderate to severe case of muffin-top. Now, have a great day, and get the fuck out of the car.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Risk
Growing up, the concept of risk was fraught with negative connotations. My parents stressed patience, hard work, and discipline. Not to disparage those traditional Calvinist ideals, but by following them, one contents oneself with merely meeting expectations, rather than daring to exceed them. Risk takers are undaunted by potential discomfort and uncertainty. And while I think it is human nature to seek an endpoint of familiar complacency, it occurs to me that the people I respect most are willing to take risks. That also explains why I admire anyone who applies for Wifeswap.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Book Group B
I belong to two book groups. Book Group A meets once a month. We drink tea and discuss a book we have read. Attendant conversations might include politics, philosophy, and travel. We have dessert, pick our next book, and we’re done. Period.
Book Group B, like Book Group A, meets once a month. We drink wine and beer and discuss a book we have read. Typically we discuss this book for anywhere from two to four minutes. There are sidebar conversations which encompass any number of random topics. We drink more. Sometimes we forget to pick our next book. Then, everyone leaves. Comma. I never feel like we are done.
The groups are very different. I love them both. This post, though, is about Book Group B, which met last night at my house. We read Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth. It’s a really cool book. I totally recommend it. Not only does it document peasant life in final days of the Ching dynasty, it delineates the oppressive fundamental inequalities between men and women. We talked about this for three minutes and 46 seconds.
This discussion organically segued into how men can be assholes. George W. Bush was offered up as proof positive. This took a good ten minutes, and gradually shifted to men in general and specifically our husbands, who may not be assholes, but are physiologically equipped with them. Farting, which I think was the dominant subject of the evening, covered a good forty-five minutes. Tales of spousal flatulence, both expelled and withheld, were shared. I would love to tell a few stories here, especially the ones involving flames and small aircraft, but, as one member, who I will refer to simply as C, says, “What happens in Book Group stays in Book Group.”
Gradually, the fart talk dissipated, and we moved on to cover burping, snoring, and rashes. I am pretty sure we were on the brink of tying our discussion to literary historical precedent (after all, I’m sure the Chinese in the waning years of imperial rule passed gas) when a nearby skunk was startled by our dog. It was as if fate stepped in and said, okay, ladies, let me offer you a little perspective.
Everyone left. I think we were all feeling grateful that husbands don’t spray. We forgot to pick a book for our next meeting, but I’m beginning to realize that for Book Group B, while the book might be the stated point, it’s tangental to the real point, which is friendship.
Book Group B, like Book Group A, meets once a month. We drink wine and beer and discuss a book we have read. Typically we discuss this book for anywhere from two to four minutes. There are sidebar conversations which encompass any number of random topics. We drink more. Sometimes we forget to pick our next book. Then, everyone leaves. Comma. I never feel like we are done.
The groups are very different. I love them both. This post, though, is about Book Group B, which met last night at my house. We read Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth. It’s a really cool book. I totally recommend it. Not only does it document peasant life in final days of the Ching dynasty, it delineates the oppressive fundamental inequalities between men and women. We talked about this for three minutes and 46 seconds.
This discussion organically segued into how men can be assholes. George W. Bush was offered up as proof positive. This took a good ten minutes, and gradually shifted to men in general and specifically our husbands, who may not be assholes, but are physiologically equipped with them. Farting, which I think was the dominant subject of the evening, covered a good forty-five minutes. Tales of spousal flatulence, both expelled and withheld, were shared. I would love to tell a few stories here, especially the ones involving flames and small aircraft, but, as one member, who I will refer to simply as C, says, “What happens in Book Group stays in Book Group.”
Gradually, the fart talk dissipated, and we moved on to cover burping, snoring, and rashes. I am pretty sure we were on the brink of tying our discussion to literary historical precedent (after all, I’m sure the Chinese in the waning years of imperial rule passed gas) when a nearby skunk was startled by our dog. It was as if fate stepped in and said, okay, ladies, let me offer you a little perspective.
Everyone left. I think we were all feeling grateful that husbands don’t spray. We forgot to pick a book for our next meeting, but I’m beginning to realize that for Book Group B, while the book might be the stated point, it’s tangental to the real point, which is friendship.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
At Last
I am a writer.
It has taken me decades to say that, and when I do, I am not yet distanced from that beat of self-doubt, waiting for my personal omniscient narrator to call me on it. In the all-too-recent past, when asked about what I do, I’d offer up parenting or adjunct “real” jobs I’ve had such as coaching and evaluating college applications. I am a writer. It sounded like wishful thinking, as in a tutu-sporting four-year old claiming to be a ballerina. Sometimes I think the reason I can now state that I am a writer publicly, with a modicum of confidence, is that I have published books to prove it. But the truth is, I have been a writer for a very long time.
I was a writer when I started writing surreptitious notes in middle school. My notes were much more enthralling to me than balanced equations or the Industrial Revolution. My note-writing tone was snide and cryptic. Everything a meek thirteen-year old bookworm might suppress in an academic environment was expunged onto notebook paper, artfully-folded and passed under the desktop veil of secrecy to my friends. The student Laura may have been quiet and sedulous, but the note writer LK was fearless. Those covert missives were me, set free.
In college, as an English major, whatever time was not spent reading about writers was spent writing about what writers wrote. Oddly, I enjoyed it. I found loved the process of writing so much that the simple act of stringing words together was enough. I was one of those incredibly annoying people who wrote more than the assignment called for. This irritated not only my peers but my professors. “Chose an adjective,” was an oft-expressed red-inked notation. But with so many great ones out there, this edict was not only challenging, it was impossible. How could I limit/circumscribe/restrain myself?
My first job out of college did not involve writing. For that reason, and several others, it just about killed me. I did write letters, though, and as prosaic as that might sound, my letters sustained me. I ached to write to my family and my friends about my life, often right in the midst of living it. I suspect my letters were hyperbolic, but writing them was both cathartic and grounding. I got up in the morning and dutifully did what I got paid to do, but I lived in the contemplation and execution of the letters I wrote. In fact, my love of writing influenced the way I lived my life, since I was willing to do some wildly uncharacteristic things because I figured they would make good copy. Embellishment of reality as a writing method now has a name, creative non-fiction, and that’s what I wrote. To me, it wasn’t a deliberate genre, but a scrolling narrative of my existence, amplified.
When I was asked to write my first book, I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Like a farm-team player getting called up to the major leagues, I felt like I impressed someone at practice but in an actual game, I was in over my head to the point of paralysis. I struggled to write a coherent sentence. As much of a show-off as I was writing for loved ones, I wilted, writing for a paying audience. Thankfully, I adjusted, and now, I am seldom daunted by assignments.
The first time I felt like I wasn’t just some yammering imposter of a writer was not when I was sitting behind a table signing books at my first book-signing (during which all I could think was, why would anyone want me to deface a perfectly nice book with my signature?) or when I was walking past a bookstore and saw one of my books prominently displayed in the window with a bright yellow 20% discount sticker slapped on its cover. No, it was when I got a rejection e-mail from The New Yorker saying that my essay wasn’t quite right for them, but urging me to keep trying. My immediate reaction was to wonder why on earth would I need some editor to encourage me to keep writing? Of course I’ll keep writing. I’m a writer.
Being a professional writer is a job, like any other. I park my butt in front of my computer and get to work every single day. Some of what I write is stuff I’m hired to write, which requires discipline and occasional teeth gritting. There’s also my own writing, unassigned and inextricably connected to who I am and to how I see the world. Both types of writing have a common methodology –words- and a common purpose -to communicate, but one thing they don’t share is a common genesis. And, while it’s great to be employed, it pales in comparison to being inspired.
It has taken me decades to say that, and when I do, I am not yet distanced from that beat of self-doubt, waiting for my personal omniscient narrator to call me on it. In the all-too-recent past, when asked about what I do, I’d offer up parenting or adjunct “real” jobs I’ve had such as coaching and evaluating college applications. I am a writer. It sounded like wishful thinking, as in a tutu-sporting four-year old claiming to be a ballerina. Sometimes I think the reason I can now state that I am a writer publicly, with a modicum of confidence, is that I have published books to prove it. But the truth is, I have been a writer for a very long time.
I was a writer when I started writing surreptitious notes in middle school. My notes were much more enthralling to me than balanced equations or the Industrial Revolution. My note-writing tone was snide and cryptic. Everything a meek thirteen-year old bookworm might suppress in an academic environment was expunged onto notebook paper, artfully-folded and passed under the desktop veil of secrecy to my friends. The student Laura may have been quiet and sedulous, but the note writer LK was fearless. Those covert missives were me, set free.
In college, as an English major, whatever time was not spent reading about writers was spent writing about what writers wrote. Oddly, I enjoyed it. I found loved the process of writing so much that the simple act of stringing words together was enough. I was one of those incredibly annoying people who wrote more than the assignment called for. This irritated not only my peers but my professors. “Chose an adjective,” was an oft-expressed red-inked notation. But with so many great ones out there, this edict was not only challenging, it was impossible. How could I limit/circumscribe/restrain myself?
My first job out of college did not involve writing. For that reason, and several others, it just about killed me. I did write letters, though, and as prosaic as that might sound, my letters sustained me. I ached to write to my family and my friends about my life, often right in the midst of living it. I suspect my letters were hyperbolic, but writing them was both cathartic and grounding. I got up in the morning and dutifully did what I got paid to do, but I lived in the contemplation and execution of the letters I wrote. In fact, my love of writing influenced the way I lived my life, since I was willing to do some wildly uncharacteristic things because I figured they would make good copy. Embellishment of reality as a writing method now has a name, creative non-fiction, and that’s what I wrote. To me, it wasn’t a deliberate genre, but a scrolling narrative of my existence, amplified.
When I was asked to write my first book, I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Like a farm-team player getting called up to the major leagues, I felt like I impressed someone at practice but in an actual game, I was in over my head to the point of paralysis. I struggled to write a coherent sentence. As much of a show-off as I was writing for loved ones, I wilted, writing for a paying audience. Thankfully, I adjusted, and now, I am seldom daunted by assignments.
The first time I felt like I wasn’t just some yammering imposter of a writer was not when I was sitting behind a table signing books at my first book-signing (during which all I could think was, why would anyone want me to deface a perfectly nice book with my signature?) or when I was walking past a bookstore and saw one of my books prominently displayed in the window with a bright yellow 20% discount sticker slapped on its cover. No, it was when I got a rejection e-mail from The New Yorker saying that my essay wasn’t quite right for them, but urging me to keep trying. My immediate reaction was to wonder why on earth would I need some editor to encourage me to keep writing? Of course I’ll keep writing. I’m a writer.
Being a professional writer is a job, like any other. I park my butt in front of my computer and get to work every single day. Some of what I write is stuff I’m hired to write, which requires discipline and occasional teeth gritting. There’s also my own writing, unassigned and inextricably connected to who I am and to how I see the world. Both types of writing have a common methodology –words- and a common purpose -to communicate, but one thing they don’t share is a common genesis. And, while it’s great to be employed, it pales in comparison to being inspired.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Airstream
Okay, this is the beginning of my novel in progress. It's a young adult novel, about a teenage girl with a bi-polar mother who discovers an abandoned Airstream trailer in the woods near her house. This is as much as I'm posting. I'm already up to chapter seven. It's the best thing in the world when the story just emerges organically.
Airstream
A novel in progress
Six schools in four years. You would think that by now I’d be used to it, but you never get used to starting over. It’s true that history repeats itself, but never quite exactly.
We moved to Unity, New Hampshire when my mother decided she’d had it up to here with Vermont. She couldn’t take one more second of it, not one, so she packed up and we took off in the middle of the night. Before that, she quit the states of Massachusetts, New York, Virginia, and Delaware. Actually, I was born in California, and we’ve lived in South Dakota, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, Nebraska, Tennessee, and Michigan. Mom says we’re peripatetic. She’s really smart and loves to throw around big words, most of which I’m curious enough to look up. Peripatetic means roaming, wandering. When things aren’t going so well I think we’re more like peripathetic, but most of the time being a nomad suits me just fine. There’s a line in my mom’s favorite poem: “We learn by going where we have to go.” I think that sums up her position- largely unfixed.
Unity isn’t as bad as some of the places we’ve lived in. It’s a small town, with a church on the green and town hall and a grange and a general store. “Archetypical quaint New England town,” was what my mom said, as we drove through in our crappy old Saturn wagon with the plastic rooftop carrier that we got at a yard sale four moves back in Virginia. “This is a good place, I can feel it in my bones.” She says this every time we move. Every time, I’m happy to believe her, but here’s one thing I’ve learned in my 14 years on this earth: belief gets more fragile every time it gets shaken.
So far I have survived Stevens High School. It’s only been one day, but I liked my English teacher, Ms. Roeper. She’s hippie-ish and young, like in her twenties. We’re reading Romeo and Juliet, one of my favorite plays of all time. I read it last year. The kids at school seem pretty standard. It’s the usual assortment of popular kids, jocks, geeky kids, losers, and juvenile delinquents. Personally, I’m none of the above. I’m a floater. That means I’m unattached and can move freely between the groups. Generally, I avoid the popular kids, because they have a tendency to be mean, but the other groups welcome us floaters. We’re nonjudgmental and potentially interesting.
The high school is around a mile from the house we’re renting. It’s a small place, within walking distance of the center of town. We’re near a laundromat and a convenience store, which works for us. Every time we uproot ourselves we find ourselves in a house with some degree of weirdness-idiosyncrasies, mom calls them, and this place was no exception. The owner or whoever rented this place before us must have had a thing about mustard yellow. Every room except for the bathroom is painted that color. The bathroom is Pepto-Bismol pink, which is probably the only color more hideous than mustard yellow. Hot water comes out of the cold water tap and vice versa. The door doesn’t open unless you pull it up, jiggle it, then twist the knob really hard to the left. The front bedroom – which is, incidentally, mine- is unheated, so I have to leave my door wide open to get any warm air in there at all. The breezeway smells like cat pee. But guess what? It’s only $350 bucks a month, and my mom got a job stocking shelves at the CVS in Claremont, right down the street from Stevens, and she also gets a ten percent discount. There’s a television and a dish. My favorite thing is the kitchen set which mom says is from the fifties. There’s a red enamel table with this teakettle design in the middle and four chrome and vinyl chairs. It’s pretty sweet.
Airstream
A novel in progress
Six schools in four years. You would think that by now I’d be used to it, but you never get used to starting over. It’s true that history repeats itself, but never quite exactly.
We moved to Unity, New Hampshire when my mother decided she’d had it up to here with Vermont. She couldn’t take one more second of it, not one, so she packed up and we took off in the middle of the night. Before that, she quit the states of Massachusetts, New York, Virginia, and Delaware. Actually, I was born in California, and we’ve lived in South Dakota, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, Nebraska, Tennessee, and Michigan. Mom says we’re peripatetic. She’s really smart and loves to throw around big words, most of which I’m curious enough to look up. Peripatetic means roaming, wandering. When things aren’t going so well I think we’re more like peripathetic, but most of the time being a nomad suits me just fine. There’s a line in my mom’s favorite poem: “We learn by going where we have to go.” I think that sums up her position- largely unfixed.
Unity isn’t as bad as some of the places we’ve lived in. It’s a small town, with a church on the green and town hall and a grange and a general store. “Archetypical quaint New England town,” was what my mom said, as we drove through in our crappy old Saturn wagon with the plastic rooftop carrier that we got at a yard sale four moves back in Virginia. “This is a good place, I can feel it in my bones.” She says this every time we move. Every time, I’m happy to believe her, but here’s one thing I’ve learned in my 14 years on this earth: belief gets more fragile every time it gets shaken.
So far I have survived Stevens High School. It’s only been one day, but I liked my English teacher, Ms. Roeper. She’s hippie-ish and young, like in her twenties. We’re reading Romeo and Juliet, one of my favorite plays of all time. I read it last year. The kids at school seem pretty standard. It’s the usual assortment of popular kids, jocks, geeky kids, losers, and juvenile delinquents. Personally, I’m none of the above. I’m a floater. That means I’m unattached and can move freely between the groups. Generally, I avoid the popular kids, because they have a tendency to be mean, but the other groups welcome us floaters. We’re nonjudgmental and potentially interesting.
The high school is around a mile from the house we’re renting. It’s a small place, within walking distance of the center of town. We’re near a laundromat and a convenience store, which works for us. Every time we uproot ourselves we find ourselves in a house with some degree of weirdness-idiosyncrasies, mom calls them, and this place was no exception. The owner or whoever rented this place before us must have had a thing about mustard yellow. Every room except for the bathroom is painted that color. The bathroom is Pepto-Bismol pink, which is probably the only color more hideous than mustard yellow. Hot water comes out of the cold water tap and vice versa. The door doesn’t open unless you pull it up, jiggle it, then twist the knob really hard to the left. The front bedroom – which is, incidentally, mine- is unheated, so I have to leave my door wide open to get any warm air in there at all. The breezeway smells like cat pee. But guess what? It’s only $350 bucks a month, and my mom got a job stocking shelves at the CVS in Claremont, right down the street from Stevens, and she also gets a ten percent discount. There’s a television and a dish. My favorite thing is the kitchen set which mom says is from the fifties. There’s a red enamel table with this teakettle design in the middle and four chrome and vinyl chairs. It’s pretty sweet.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
A Journey of a Thousand Miles
Yesterday I began a novel. This will be my second. It's exhilarating but pretty scary. I kept thinking about that ancient, massively overused proverb that a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, and I came up with this analogy: if the novel is a thousand mile journey, I'm around a half a mile into it. Not bad.
Monday, February 11, 2008
L.C.
I didn't write this- my daughter Hannah did. LC committed suicide just over two years ago. Hannah's tribute to her makes me laugh and breaks my heart at the same time.
For Louisa Caroline (LC) Wagley
December 27, 1982-October 27, 2005
During the four or five years when LC and I were really close, she did a lot of damage to my car. Some of it was completely her fault, some I can’t totally blame on her. Junior year LC, Karla, my brother Jake, and I left a school dance to drive around the area. LC thought it would be funny to drive my car around the parking lot while me and Jake ran into a store. Everything was going smoothly until she confused the gas pedal with the brake and crashed into a tree. The whole hood was crunched in and there was a huge spider web crack in the windshield. At this point I’d only known LC for a couple of months, but that was long enough to know that her impulsiveness often got her into trouble. Needless to say, I was incredibly mad at her. “Oh, my God, Hannah! Oh my God! I am so sorry!” I knew LC felt terrible, but I was angry so I didn’t say anything the whole way back to school. “Hannah, seriously, you can punch me in the face if you want to!” For some reason, she really wanted me to hit her. By the time I dropped her and Karla off she was practically begging, “Hannah, please, just punch me in the face.” As I was driving away, Jake pointed out the giant dent in the windshield from the impact of LC’s head.
Other damage to my car was more minor, or at least, less dramatic. There are dozens of cigarette burns on the inside roof from our drives around Simsbury or New Haven, and I don’t smoke. LC also had a way of making a mess: spilling coffee, leaving notebooks and magazines and clothes behind, not to mention a permanent nicotine smell that my dad was complained about. “No smoking in the car” he’d say, but how could I obey him? I felt bad ignoring his rule, but even though I wasn’t technically addicted, I needed those smoking drives as much as she did.
Our road trips and a summer driving all over Nantucket helped pile up over 200,000 miles and a mass of random clothes and garbage (mostly from LC) in my humble Toyota Camry.
But I always felt that car loved us. It had been through everything, including a few unmentioned idiotic accidents that I take complete responsibility for, and it still managed to get us all the way from New Orleans to Panama City Beach Florida (not the most happening place in mid-January) on one tank of gas. We also drove to cross country meets and tennis matches and New York City and the car never failed us. Even after a seemingly debilitating accident, the Camry always managed to get us to our ultimate destination or back to school where we should have been in the first place.
As crazy as it sounds, given our accident history, I keep thinking that somehow, if we just stayed in the Camry, I could have held onto her. I keep thinking about those days with me behind the wheel and LC riding shotgun. I am so grateful to have shared the wild adventures, and I know those memories are safe. I only regret that we never made it far enough so we could look back together and laugh at all the amazing things we dared to do.
For Louisa Caroline (LC) Wagley
December 27, 1982-October 27, 2005
During the four or five years when LC and I were really close, she did a lot of damage to my car. Some of it was completely her fault, some I can’t totally blame on her. Junior year LC, Karla, my brother Jake, and I left a school dance to drive around the area. LC thought it would be funny to drive my car around the parking lot while me and Jake ran into a store. Everything was going smoothly until she confused the gas pedal with the brake and crashed into a tree. The whole hood was crunched in and there was a huge spider web crack in the windshield. At this point I’d only known LC for a couple of months, but that was long enough to know that her impulsiveness often got her into trouble. Needless to say, I was incredibly mad at her. “Oh, my God, Hannah! Oh my God! I am so sorry!” I knew LC felt terrible, but I was angry so I didn’t say anything the whole way back to school. “Hannah, seriously, you can punch me in the face if you want to!” For some reason, she really wanted me to hit her. By the time I dropped her and Karla off she was practically begging, “Hannah, please, just punch me in the face.” As I was driving away, Jake pointed out the giant dent in the windshield from the impact of LC’s head.
Other damage to my car was more minor, or at least, less dramatic. There are dozens of cigarette burns on the inside roof from our drives around Simsbury or New Haven, and I don’t smoke. LC also had a way of making a mess: spilling coffee, leaving notebooks and magazines and clothes behind, not to mention a permanent nicotine smell that my dad was complained about. “No smoking in the car” he’d say, but how could I obey him? I felt bad ignoring his rule, but even though I wasn’t technically addicted, I needed those smoking drives as much as she did.
Our road trips and a summer driving all over Nantucket helped pile up over 200,000 miles and a mass of random clothes and garbage (mostly from LC) in my humble Toyota Camry.
But I always felt that car loved us. It had been through everything, including a few unmentioned idiotic accidents that I take complete responsibility for, and it still managed to get us all the way from New Orleans to Panama City Beach Florida (not the most happening place in mid-January) on one tank of gas. We also drove to cross country meets and tennis matches and New York City and the car never failed us. Even after a seemingly debilitating accident, the Camry always managed to get us to our ultimate destination or back to school where we should have been in the first place.
As crazy as it sounds, given our accident history, I keep thinking that somehow, if we just stayed in the Camry, I could have held onto her. I keep thinking about those days with me behind the wheel and LC riding shotgun. I am so grateful to have shared the wild adventures, and I know those memories are safe. I only regret that we never made it far enough so we could look back together and laugh at all the amazing things we dared to do.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
In Case You Were Wondering
Imagine my surprise when I dicovered the OTHER Lolliblog. Actually, it is LolliBlog, case sensitive, and she is a self-described amatuer porn star. She identifies herself as "Lolitanymphette." This seems like an appropriate name for a braid-sporting thirty-year-old with a penchant for lipstick and lollipops. I imagine our nearly identically named blog sites might cause confusion down the line. For the record, "Lolly" was my nickname growing up, and I thought lolliblog reflected my past and was linguistically evocative of polliwog, an entity in transition, so there was that whole artsy metaphor thing going on. Having said that I realize now that LolliBlog might be more embarrassed about having her site confused with mine.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Note from Flo Beasley, Registered Republican
I got this idea after Hillary Clinton called me twice yesterday.
Dear Bea,
Sorry I didn’t write sooner. Things have been pretty quiet around here since I retired. I am still collecting Beanie Babies though. There was some excitement today which is why I am writing. No sooner did I finish my Cream of Wheat this morning when the phone rang. Wouldn’t you know it was Mitt Romney. My hearing aid was whistling but I think he asked if he could count on my vote. Then he said something about driving me to the polls. Before I could give him my address he wished me a super Tuesday and that was that.
That was more than enough excitement for one day but later when I was setting down to watch my soaps the phone rang again. This time it was John McCain. He wanted my vote, too. I told him that Mitt had called earlier but he jabbered on about lowering my taxes and some surge he was having. That made me a little uncomfortable but then he said God Bless America and I said amen to that.
Anyway, I just wanted drop you a quick note before I walk over to Town Hall to vote. I just think it’s mighty peculiar that two fellows running for president would have nothing better to do on primary day than pester me so I’m voting for Ron Paul.
Your friend, Flo
Dear Bea,
Sorry I didn’t write sooner. Things have been pretty quiet around here since I retired. I am still collecting Beanie Babies though. There was some excitement today which is why I am writing. No sooner did I finish my Cream of Wheat this morning when the phone rang. Wouldn’t you know it was Mitt Romney. My hearing aid was whistling but I think he asked if he could count on my vote. Then he said something about driving me to the polls. Before I could give him my address he wished me a super Tuesday and that was that.
That was more than enough excitement for one day but later when I was setting down to watch my soaps the phone rang again. This time it was John McCain. He wanted my vote, too. I told him that Mitt had called earlier but he jabbered on about lowering my taxes and some surge he was having. That made me a little uncomfortable but then he said God Bless America and I said amen to that.
Anyway, I just wanted drop you a quick note before I walk over to Town Hall to vote. I just think it’s mighty peculiar that two fellows running for president would have nothing better to do on primary day than pester me so I’m voting for Ron Paul.
Your friend, Flo
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Apology to MTV
I'm not sure how many of you know the MTV show "My Super Sweet Sixteen." I'm not a fan, in fact, it's pretty awful, but it definitely lends itself to lampooning.
Dear MTV,
Let me begin by apologizing for what happened to your equipment. I’m sure that stuff isn’t cheap. I’m sorry about the cameraman and sound guy, too, but you have to understand a couple of things. First, Tiffani thought she was getting a cherry-red Mercedes convertible. I’m not sure if the miscommunication was with Lance or the dealership, but when the hardtop arrived, she was understandably disappointed. Then, your show is called My Super Sweet Sixteen, so when they saw Tiffani get behind the wheel, especially considering her state of mind, it was pretty moronic of them to try to capture it on tape. You’ll be happy to know Tiffani got her learner’s permit today, so I can only surmise that any emotional damage caused by the incident was temporary. Lance and my current husband Javier have agreed to split their medical bills, or was it funeral expenses? Whatever.
Second, I really had no way of knowing that Tiffani’s friend Savanna would flip out like that! For her to sneak back and do what she did was completely out of character. I didn’t know it was even possible to learn how to make a pipe bomb on the internet! While Tiffani’s comment (an aside, really, to a small group of friends) about Savanna’s bulimia and how it apparently isn’t working because she is still an obese pig might be perceived as insensitive, the true insensitivity was in your decision to air it. Still, I am sorry about the explosion, though from what I hear, Mr. Trump has already started to rebuild the casino. I also apologize for our sudden change of venue from Atlantic City to Montreal, but with the death threats, it just seemed prudent.
Please forgive my overreaction to the color scheme at the Montreal Royal Marquis. Apparently Canadians don’t understand the difference between hot pink and fuchsia. Needless to say, I was somewhat hormonal that day. Yes, I did hold a steak knife to that party planner’s throat, but I would never have actually hurt her, except that she kept twitching like that.
I’m sorry Jay-Z was offended that I thought he was the stripper we’d hired. But seriously, I don’t know what got into Beyonce. I mean, I explained to her that my hand was down there because I was trying to stick fifty bucks into his boxers. I mean, Jay-Z wasn’t complaining! To have her go after me like that… anyway, I was just trying to defend myself, and up until then, I had no idea what extensions even were. I can tell you this: they are certainly not worth the $5,000 she claims she paid for them. I guess I could kind of understand the two of them not wanting to perform at Tiffani’s party, but I am so grateful that they finally did. They put on a great show. Please tell them, too, that no matter what Javier said, I’ve never seen him pistol-whip anyone. I think he just heard that on Law and Order. We just needed them onstage and in position before Tiffani’s grand entrance. Cirque du Soleil swore the Siberian tiger was trained, but when you throw in the pyrotechnics…we really just had their safety in mind.
Anyway, MTV should be hearing from my lawyer soon regarding the defamation of character lawsuit (see attached document). I feel kind of bad, because you seemed like such nice people, but between my impending divorce, the expense of Savanna’s mental health facility, the reconstruction costs due Mr. Trump, and Beyonce’s weave, I owe people a lot of money, and it’s got to come from somewhere.
Sincerely,
Amanda “Foxy” Robinson
Dear MTV,
Let me begin by apologizing for what happened to your equipment. I’m sure that stuff isn’t cheap. I’m sorry about the cameraman and sound guy, too, but you have to understand a couple of things. First, Tiffani thought she was getting a cherry-red Mercedes convertible. I’m not sure if the miscommunication was with Lance or the dealership, but when the hardtop arrived, she was understandably disappointed. Then, your show is called My Super Sweet Sixteen, so when they saw Tiffani get behind the wheel, especially considering her state of mind, it was pretty moronic of them to try to capture it on tape. You’ll be happy to know Tiffani got her learner’s permit today, so I can only surmise that any emotional damage caused by the incident was temporary. Lance and my current husband Javier have agreed to split their medical bills, or was it funeral expenses? Whatever.
Second, I really had no way of knowing that Tiffani’s friend Savanna would flip out like that! For her to sneak back and do what she did was completely out of character. I didn’t know it was even possible to learn how to make a pipe bomb on the internet! While Tiffani’s comment (an aside, really, to a small group of friends) about Savanna’s bulimia and how it apparently isn’t working because she is still an obese pig might be perceived as insensitive, the true insensitivity was in your decision to air it. Still, I am sorry about the explosion, though from what I hear, Mr. Trump has already started to rebuild the casino. I also apologize for our sudden change of venue from Atlantic City to Montreal, but with the death threats, it just seemed prudent.
Please forgive my overreaction to the color scheme at the Montreal Royal Marquis. Apparently Canadians don’t understand the difference between hot pink and fuchsia. Needless to say, I was somewhat hormonal that day. Yes, I did hold a steak knife to that party planner’s throat, but I would never have actually hurt her, except that she kept twitching like that.
I’m sorry Jay-Z was offended that I thought he was the stripper we’d hired. But seriously, I don’t know what got into Beyonce. I mean, I explained to her that my hand was down there because I was trying to stick fifty bucks into his boxers. I mean, Jay-Z wasn’t complaining! To have her go after me like that… anyway, I was just trying to defend myself, and up until then, I had no idea what extensions even were. I can tell you this: they are certainly not worth the $5,000 she claims she paid for them. I guess I could kind of understand the two of them not wanting to perform at Tiffani’s party, but I am so grateful that they finally did. They put on a great show. Please tell them, too, that no matter what Javier said, I’ve never seen him pistol-whip anyone. I think he just heard that on Law and Order. We just needed them onstage and in position before Tiffani’s grand entrance. Cirque du Soleil swore the Siberian tiger was trained, but when you throw in the pyrotechnics…we really just had their safety in mind.
Anyway, MTV should be hearing from my lawyer soon regarding the defamation of character lawsuit (see attached document). I feel kind of bad, because you seemed like such nice people, but between my impending divorce, the expense of Savanna’s mental health facility, the reconstruction costs due Mr. Trump, and Beyonce’s weave, I owe people a lot of money, and it’s got to come from somewhere.
Sincerely,
Amanda “Foxy” Robinson
Friday, February 1, 2008
Personal Campaign for Real Beauty
Back in 1848, in England, John Ruskin, renowned poet and art critic, married his next-door-neighbor, Effie Gray. Six years later, their marriage was annulled. The reason was Ruskin’s “incurable impotence.” In fact, the marriage was never even consummated. Effie, when petitioning for the annulment, told the judge that John Ruskin was repulsed by the sight of her body on their wedding night. “He imagined women were quite different to what he saw I was, and the reason he did not make me his wife was because he was disgusted with my person the first night.” This seemed curious, as Effie Ruskin was widely considered to be extraordinarily beautiful, but there was an explanation. It seems that Mr. Ruskin’s sole familiarity with women was his appreciation of classical art. Historians have theorized that he had never seen female pubic hair before, and thought Effie freakishly deformed.
You might be wondering why I’m telling you this. While it might seem absurd that Mr. Ruskin would hold Effie to the impossible, frozen standard of a marble statue, it strikes me how this is analogous to what confronts women today. Icons of feminine perfection may have shifted from statuary, but are the photographic images of women in magazines any less unrealistic? The advertisements, especially those for facial skin care and make up, have been so heavily retouched and airbrushed that they are more akin to illustrations than photographs.
These glossy images, sans pores, hair follicles, or tonal variations, perpetuate the lie of physical perfection. As a consequence, beauty products and advertisers rake in huge profits (I guess that’s the point) and women, especially young women to whom it matters most, are left both poorer and unable to reconcile what they see in the mirror with the image tantalizing them from the pages of a magazine. It’s no surprise; when you compare real to ideal, real is going to fall short. By setting up this unequal equation, advertisers open the door to a continuum that runs from mild low self esteem to abject self-loathing.
I’m not advocating an all-out rejection of the processes that make two-dimensional perfection possible. What I am advocating is full disclosure. Just a small statement in a bottom corner, acknowledging that the photographic image has been enhanced or retouched.
We exist in a dermatologic reality fraught with hair follicles and pores. While we can strive to look our best, we are human beings, and regardless of what advertisers would have you believe, no matter what you put on your face, you will never be perfect. As Ruskin found out on his wedding night, it’s skin, not marble. When we compare ourselves to Revlon girl Jessica Alba or Cover Girl Drew Barrymore, we might just as well be comparing ourselves to Jessica Rabbit or Betty Boop.
You might be wondering why I’m telling you this. While it might seem absurd that Mr. Ruskin would hold Effie to the impossible, frozen standard of a marble statue, it strikes me how this is analogous to what confronts women today. Icons of feminine perfection may have shifted from statuary, but are the photographic images of women in magazines any less unrealistic? The advertisements, especially those for facial skin care and make up, have been so heavily retouched and airbrushed that they are more akin to illustrations than photographs.
These glossy images, sans pores, hair follicles, or tonal variations, perpetuate the lie of physical perfection. As a consequence, beauty products and advertisers rake in huge profits (I guess that’s the point) and women, especially young women to whom it matters most, are left both poorer and unable to reconcile what they see in the mirror with the image tantalizing them from the pages of a magazine. It’s no surprise; when you compare real to ideal, real is going to fall short. By setting up this unequal equation, advertisers open the door to a continuum that runs from mild low self esteem to abject self-loathing.
I’m not advocating an all-out rejection of the processes that make two-dimensional perfection possible. What I am advocating is full disclosure. Just a small statement in a bottom corner, acknowledging that the photographic image has been enhanced or retouched.
We exist in a dermatologic reality fraught with hair follicles and pores. While we can strive to look our best, we are human beings, and regardless of what advertisers would have you believe, no matter what you put on your face, you will never be perfect. As Ruskin found out on his wedding night, it’s skin, not marble. When we compare ourselves to Revlon girl Jessica Alba or Cover Girl Drew Barrymore, we might just as well be comparing ourselves to Jessica Rabbit or Betty Boop.
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