The Boy has been into two things lately. First is Winnie The Pooh. He watches this video of old favorites whenever he gets the chance and has an uncanny ability to not only repeat the lines verbatim, but to do so with the exact intonations used by the characters. So, he may be coloring some paper and suddenly quote Tigger sounding scared: “Is he gone yet?” Then Pooh: “Everything but the tail.” Or he might quote Christopher Robin talking to Eeyore, who has lost his tail again: “Let me nail it on for you. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt.” To which I reply in Eeyore’s whoa-is-me voice: “It never does.”
He’s also really been into understanding his body lately. We had to dash into the National Archives the other day to use the restroom (he was a champ at holding it in all through the security screening). In the ladies’ room we took turns using the toilet in one stall. He went first, then stood behind me and watched as I peed. When I was finished he said, “Men pee out of their penises, but women don’t have penises so they pee out of their butts.” I paused to consider this, and to think about what I might say to help him understand women’s anatomy better. I wasn’t embarrassed by the statement—on the contrary, I was proud that he’s so observant and interested in how things work. I just wasn’t sure how to explain things without pictures (you try!). A moment later the woman in the stall next to me gave a short laugh and said, “I’m waiting to hear what you’re going to say.”
At home I related this story to The Husband and when The Boy heard himself and this subject being talked about he became very interested and repeated his newfound wisdom to his father, “Moms don’t have penises so they have to pee out of their butts.” This time I made some pathetic attempt to try to explain that it was actually a different hole near the anus, but not the same as the anus…These things always seem easier when someone else is doing it. Suddenly The Boy’s face lit up. “I know,” he said brightly, “maybe you could buy a penis at the store!” Again, I got lost in actually considering what he’d said. I thought about the fact that I had bought penises at the store in the past, though not for the purpose of peeing… Still, this hardly seemed like the right time to quibble over details. But again, before I had time to think of a clever or appropriate response The Boy chimed in: “Here, let me nail it on. It won’t hurt.” To which I could only reply: “It never does.”
Pooh’s Penis November 28, 2007
Gobble Gobble November 26, 2007
Well, Thanksgiving is over and it’s time to get off the couch. Actually had a fantastic Thanksgiving. Very relaxed and very delicious and so warm we played outside in our shirtsleeves between chopping and slicing and stuffing and stirring. We wisely decided not to battle the traffic on I-95. Instead we supped at a new friend’s house. We made the turkey, dressing, cranberry chutneys (how do you make this plural?), and the green bean casserole. They made the bread, whipped potatoes, fall veggie mélange, gravy, and pecan pie. Everything was delicious and absolutely did NOT put me in mind of any of the Thanksgiving dinners I enjoyed as a child. Ours were not the stereotypical American family fight-fests, where someone in the family is disappointing someone else with his/her choices in life and it’s causing all sorts of tension that eventually ends in a big blowout where someone exclaims: “Now you did it, you ruined Thanksgiving!” At our house, Mom was always just happy to not be working, and the only drama came from watching my Uncle Larry eat. You see, Uncle Larry was a recluse who looked like a wild mountain man (even though there weren’t even any hills in that part of Michigan), and he had the table manners of a grizzly bear—bits of chewed up green beans, turkey, dressing, cranberries flying freely from his full mouth, sticking to candles, plates, dishes, your cheeks and eyelids…tumbling down and lodging into his overgrown beard. As long as you didn’t look right at him, you were usually okay. I guess he was grateful to have someone else cook for him, because the way he went at food, you’d think he’d eaten nothing but table legs and old boots for a year (he was like a food processor without a lid). And all the while he kept grunting, saying how delicious everything was.
But it wasn’t.
My mom was a terrible cook. This is something I didn’t know until I grew up and moved away and ate other people’s cooking; but it was no secret to her. I remember one time—when I was already grown and living in NYC–she wanted to take Uncle Larry out for “dinner” to thank him for some work he’d done on her car. They ate at some joint that served coney dogs because it was the only place he would go, saying every other restaurant in town (McDonalds, Grassio’s Pizza, The Town Tavern) was too “fancy”. Mom bit into her dripping chili-covered dog and exclaimed, “This is even worse than something I would make!”
I Made This: The Boy and The Cape November 20, 2007
The Boy’s favorite colors are orange, grey and white. His favorite numbers are 4-5 and (more recently) 11. During the springtime he got so into the numbers 4 and 5 that whenever anyone asked his how old he was (adults this is a BORING question that gets asked of kids constantly and only when you have nothing smarter to say), he’d say: 4-5. You can imagine how, when I was still trying to get him in free at places that were free for kids 2 and under, and the (bitch who didn’t believe me when I told her my huge kid was only 2) woman behind the desk at the pool asked him how old he was and he told her: 4-5, she looked at me as if I were a criminal. Yes, I am a grand larconist. I was trying to screw the city out of $4.50! For shame. What really sucks was that I WASN’T!
Anyway, I decided to make him an extra-special superhero cape with his favorite numbers and colors for his third birthday. If you’re ever in need of help with numbers, it’s The Great 4-5 to the rescue!
She’s Lost Control November 18, 2007
“In a room with a window in the corner I found truth.” –Joy Division
Warning: The following contains material dripping with nostalgia and is not suitable for all audiences!
Finally got to see the highly anticipated (by me) biopic Control over the weekend. This is a movie about Ian Curtis, the lead singer for the band Joy Division, which came into existence on the heels of the punk era in Manchester England in 1977, and ceased to exist when Curtis hung himself on May 18, 1980, the eve of the band’s first American tour.
He was 23.
The prospect of watching yet another “band” movie, especially one that ends with the lead singer’s untimely death (do I need to go down the list?) is about as exciting as eating nothing but peanut butter for a month. I will admit that my interest, here, was partly sentimental, and partly curiosity about a time in Manchester when all the music I would eventually end up loving in high school and college was being formed (see also 24 Hour Party People). I may be old, but I’m still too young to have known about, or listened to, Joy Division when they existed. In 1980, when Curtis killed himself, I was in 8th grade and still listening to Supertramp and ELO and thinking that Olivia Newton John singing in disco pants and roller-skates was the height of cool. It wasn’t long, though, before I became enamored with pegged pants and skinny ties and the boys who wore them.
Being a girl who ended up loving both dance and Goth music when I was a young ‘un, it makes sense that I would love both Joy Division and New Order (the remaining members of Joy Division after Curtis’ death, plus Gillian Gilbert). New Order is one of the few bands I can still listen to and enjoy from that era of my life. On a lucky day, I can pop in “Low-life” and experience a perfect Proustian moment, tumbling back in time to my freshmen year in college, when I first moved to New York.
Some of Joy Division’s songs have the same effect on me. Just the first few strums of “Love Will Tear Us Apart” is often enough to make my heart thump and my nipples hard and send me reeling back to any one of the hundreds of nights I spent out ecstatic dancing to music so loud and flashing lights so intense that my consciousness swirled away, dancing until my feet throbbed and my knees ached, then wandering—bandy-legged and exhausted–out of the club at 4 a.m., searching for breakfast at some 24-hour dive-in diner or Kiev on 2nd Avenue, only a little worried about how trashed and overdressed I looked in the dawn—you were never meant to be seen in the daylight; when you got ready last night it was for night lighting and night people, not the plaid-pants-wearing golfers at the next table, both of you staring at each other wondering the same thing—how do they do it? (Stay up so late! Get up so early!); them eating waffles and pancakes with plenty of maple syrup while you huddle over your sweet and savory pierogies, thinking there’s nothing in the world so sweet and savory as this.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the nostalgia.
Perhaps this is a result of turning 40 and really accepting that my youth is over. It’s not that I miss it so, it’s just that sometimes it’s fun to remember. Especially now that age and time and a crowding effect in my brain have winnowed away the hurtin’ and left only what feels shiny and good. I tell you all of this, not just in the interest of full disclosure—so you will know why I liked this film, but because Control feels like it was made ONLY for those of us who know, and care about Joy Division and Curtis. My fear is that it gives very little, or nothing, to orient and interest the uninitiated. If you don’t know the band members are seeing the Sex Pistols (or even who the Sex Pistols are!) play a gig at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester on July 20, 1976, and that this show will have a huge and lasting influence on the Manchester music scene—nay, the world’s music scene–including igniting the spark that would eventually become Joy Division, you might think you’re just watching some young folks having a lovely time at a music show. And if you don’t know anything about Tony Wilson, or his groundbreaking TV program “Granada Reports”, then you might think when Joy Division plays there, they’re just on the local telly, no big deal. Basically, if you don’t know that Manchester in the late 1970’s, early 1980’s was to music what Paris in the 1920’s was to art and literature…well, maybe it’s time you do. I’m just not sure this movie will be much help. But for those of us who want to take a trip in the way-back machine for a peek into the makings of a certain kind of music that defined our youth and even the way we lived, there is a pleasure here.
In many ways Control is a typical story about an artist who burns intensely, then flames out young. But what I liked best was this film’s refusal to glorify Curtis’ suffering. Perhaps this is because the movie is based on the book, “Touching From a Distance” by Deborah Curtis, Ian’s widow, who was also one of the film’s producers. Here, Curtis’s depression and epilepsy are not romanticized, nor did I feel, at the end of all of this, that his suffering and death were, after all, worthwhile because we (the people who lived on) got to keep his art (Joy Division’s music). For sure the music remains fantastic. But I’m glad this movie isn’t making the case that the end justifies the means. We used to make the joke back in college, when The Smiths were at the height of their popularity, that Morrissey’s doctor wanted to give him anti-depressants, but his agent wouldn’t allow it because it would have killed his music. Nobody wanted a happy Morrissey. I’m all for valuing art, of course, but when someone dies, are we really just supposed to gaze and say…ah art.
That being said, this is a visually lovely film. Director Anton Corbijn, who took the original photos of the band in black and white, does a fantastic job of making the bleached-out black and whiteness of this film come off, not as an affectation, but as an extension of his earlier project. Not only does it suit the bleak industrial-ness of Macclefield and Manchester of the 1970’s, but it suits the music and the very essence of the Joy Division story.
And perhaps this is why I kept coming up with metaphors from astronomy whenever I tried thinking or writing about this movie. First, there is Curtis’ weird draw, which is not exactly charismatic, but more like a slow gravitational pull. Add his deep-bass vocals, the darkness of the music and lyrics, and his depression and eventual suicide, and suddenly I’m thinking about black holes (a region of space in which the gravitational field is so powerful that nothing can escape after having fallen past the event horizon) and dark matter. And what about this: “Star formation is the process by which dense parts of molecular clouds collapse into a ball of plasma to form a star. According to current theories of star formation, cores of molecular clouds (regions of especially high density) become gravitationally unstable, fragment, and begin to collapse.” If that’s not an apt synopsis of this film, and Curtis’ life, I don’t know what is.
Of course, Sam Riley is freakishly good as Curtis. For well over an hour I believed Curtis wasn’t really dead (Was it cloning? Cryogenics? I didn’t care.). He’d come back to make a movie about Macclefield in the 1970’s and to play music with some young lads who looked kind of like his old chums. Though I will admit to owning an overly-developed ability to suspend disbelief (which is probably why I can’t deal with on-screen violence), this only made it all the more tragic for me when Curtis killed himself—AGAIN!
But Joy Division’s complete and utter lack of stage presence (with the exception of Curtis) cannot go without a mention. Though Curtis’ (and Riley as Curtis) dark pull first mesmerizes, then slowly sucks all the light out of the room (and we love it!), the rest of the band is inert and nearly invisible. Okay, okay, I will admit to glancing occasionally at bassist Peter Hook, but only because he was played by Joe Anderson (oh, sweet mother!), who played Max in one of my favorite movies this year, “Across the Universe” (see future review). Other than that, no matter how excited I got about watching some of Joy Division’s famous performances re-enacted on-screen, and no matter how great the music sounded, I found myself gazing only at Curtis. You might think this was the filmmaker’s intention, to not draw attention away from Curtis; this is his story after all. But I don’t think so. I had the curious pleasure(?) of seeing New Order live in Chicago in 1984. And though you know I love their music, this was the worst show I’d ever seen. And still is! The band spent the entire time, their backs to the audience, apparently performing for the drummer. These guys invented shoe-gazing (And I wasn’t on enough drugs then to appreciate that sort of thing.). No, the band’s on-stage lethargy in this film is spot on. If you don’t believe me, check this out.
As much as I like the music, I can only stare at a hand strumming a guitar for so long. The worst part is, when Curtis finally begins his crazy ecstatic St. Vitus’ dance, the fucking idiot pointing the camera flips us back to the guitar strumming HAND (especially in “She’s Lost Control”). There’s not a whole lot of movement here, so why turn away from what little show there is?
Luckily, Corbijn doesn’t make this mistake in Control. He lets the camera linger on Curtis II in a way we wish the assholes filming the real Curtis back in the 70’s would have (those lips!). In Control, we’re allowed to wallow in the sleepy-eyed “transmission” Curtis is sending back from the far away dark star of his inspiration.
Though I know the band took their name from the prostitution wing of a Nazi concentration camp in the 1965 novel The House of Dolls, it’s impossible not to find it deliciously ironic. No one will ever accuse Joy Division of making what we used to call “yippie-skippie” music.
Listen to the silence, let it ring on. Eyes, dark grey lenses frightened of the sun. We would have a fine time living in the night, Left to blind destruction, Waiting for our sight.
And we would go on as though nothing was wrong. And hide from these days we remained all alone. Staying in the same place, just staying out the time. Touching from a distance, Further all the time.
With lyrics like that, you shouldn’t go to this movie expecting a quick pick-me-up. Still, as with listening to Joy Division’s music, there is enjoyment to be had. I suggest you sit back, let your eyes adjust to the darkness, then…
“Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, to the radio.”
What’s for Dinner November 13, 2007
Inspired by Diane Rehm’s pre-Halloween show on “the scariest novel ever written” I am reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula, which I have never read before. I did read the beginning once, back in grad school for a lecture on the uncanny, and was impressed by just how scary it was—raising the hairs on the back of my neck. So I picked it up and started reading, determined to see it through to the end. Now I don’t know how many of you (dear readers) have read this book, but it IS really really scary. And I have to say that things are not looking good. In fact, I’m not sure, but I think someone—or someTHING—is sucking the blood right out of these people! Can you imagine!
I do not recommend you read this book alone at night and then sleep with the door open, not even just a crack.
Another book I read fairly recently and highly recommend is Bill Buford’s second book, HEAT: An Amateur’s Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany.. I couldn’t get enough of it. And it is much less scary (except when you think hard about the wisdom of ordering fish on Monday, or being the last jerk wanting food at a restaurant when the kitchen staff is ready to go). Although it starts out being about the famous New York chef Mario Batali, it ends up a book about Buford’s obsession with food and cooking.
Bill Buford was the founder and ediotr of Granta magazine, which turned into one of the best and most influential literary small presses. At the time he was working on Granta, he was an American ex-pat living in London. While there, he also wrote his fantastic first book, Among the Thugs, about soccer hooligans (which I also highly recommend). About fifteen years ago (?) he moved to New York City and became the fiction editor for The New Yorker. I haven’t always loved his choice in fiction. At The New Yorker and at Granta he seemed to bend over backwards to publish “world” literature. And while I admire his ambition to expand readers’ ideas about what good stories are, sometimes I felt he forfeited quality for exoticism. But that’s another story.
Heat came about because Buford wanted someone to write an article on Mario Batali, and then decided to do it himself. Buford got so caught up in doing research for the article that the next thing he knew he had quit his job at The New Yorker and was working in Batali’s kitchen full time, learning to cook. If you read the book you’ll see why. He goes way beyond obsessed. And the product of this obsession is a fantastic adventure story that will make your mouth water and leave you with the realization that you have never really eaten a decent meal in your life.
More recently, Buford contributed a fantastic article (to The New Yorker, of course) about chocolate and the new obsession with the health qualities of dark chocolate and the recent boom in boutique chocolate and the whole cocoa industry in South America.
So, I guess between Dracula and Heat, I’ve been interested in books about fancy eating habits lately.
Monument City: The Boy and the Big One November 11, 2007
Here is The Boy in front of the biggest elevator in town. Can you tell he loves elevators?
Dinner and Just Desserts November 11, 2007
I went to a very nice dinner party last night. A new friend called with the invitation. “Please come to dinner on Saturday. No men. No kids. Just food, women, and wine.” How could I say no? I think my favorite thing about an all women dinner party–other than the fantastic and very funny conversation–was that there were TWO delicious desserts!
310 to Yuma November 8, 2007
I wanted to see this film, not just because I used to have a big ol’ crush on Russell Crowe (over it now. mostly), but because I’d heard it was very good.
For anyone who doesn’t know, 310 to Yuma is a remake of a 1957 film called…well, 310 to Yuma, which I haven’t seen, though now fully intend to. This makes it the second adaptation of Elmore Leaonard’s short story (which I haven’t read, but now fully intend to). I think this would be a great film to teach in a beginning film class, because it watches like a shoot ‘em up western, but the story runs classical and deep. It would also be handy for teachin’ because many of the themes, which are developed with nice subtlety throughout the film, get banged over our heads at the end. So, someone just beginning to lift up the curtain on suchness in movies has a chance to say, Oh yes, that’s what I thought was going on here! Chalk it up to the modern taste for heavy-handedness, and an assumption on Hollywood’s part that people are too stupid to understand or care about what troubles men’s hearts.
Still, I liked it.
When I say this film is classic–and especially classic Western, I mean there are the typical “good guys” (Christian Bale in a dusty cowboy outfit) and “bad guys” (Russelll Crowe in black leather–Mmmmm) fighting for control of the West. Will the lawless, loveless bandit and his band of merry murdering marauderers win? Or will the one-legged rancher family guy win? But why this is interesting, here, as in all the good (read: old) westerns, is that they’re also fighting for control of what America will be, and–ultimately–what humanity will be. Will there be law and order? Decency? Or will chaos reign?
More interesting still, this movie questions our assumptions about “good” and “bad”, including just how sure we are that the “good” guys are really so “good”, and the “bad” guys are really all “bad”? In other words, our lazy moralism gets thrown into question, and that’s the fun of this film.
(I couldn’t get the fucking MORE feature to work here. Sorry. Anyway: MORE).
When the film opens we see Dan Evans, a rancher who lost his leg in the Civil War, getting his barn burned down in the middle of the night. He owes people money, the railroad is coming through, the landlord wants him out! We also see Dan’s 14 year-old son, William, in turns reading about outlaws by the light of a kerosene lamp, then witnessing his father’s impotence in the face of criminal acts against the family by the light of their burning barn. Right away we know that winning the heart and mind of this boy–teetering on the cusp of manhood—will be the REAL struggle here. Can law-abiding “good” guy Dan be someone William can look up to and want to emulate? Or will William reject his father and his father’s values and follow the path of the Ben Wades of the world?
But the dark side is seductive. Not only are the clothes better, but the “bad” guys get to run around like maniacs doing whatever the hell–and whoever the hell, they want. And they’re rich! When Wade and his gang hold up a heavily armored stagecoach, killing almost everyone, and taking the money, Wade lets Dan and his boys—who are witnesses–go unharmed. William is clearly smitten (what 14 year-old boy wouldn’t be?). Wade is an extraordinary shot and a charismatic leader, and we love our killers talented and charming. Especially those who live by their own moral code. Plus, Ben Wade is respected. You might hate him, you might even want to kill him, but you respect him. And that’s something you don’t feel for one-legged Dan, who is literally a broken man and commands no respect from others (except his youngest boy), mostly because he has lost all respect for himself.
Later in the movie, when William disobeys his father and joins the posse of men taking Wade to the train bound for Yuma, Wade tells Dan, “Your boy ain’t protecting you, he’s following me.” So, Dan’s job here is to keep William from slipping over to the dark side. Sound familiar? Like I said: classic.
Next, we see Wade’s gang divvying up the money and celebrating in the saloon. Wade stays late because he takes a shine to the pretty barmaid/hoochie, Emma Nelson (Vinessa Shaw). Next, they’re up in a room wrapped in a post-coital glow. Wade has a sparkly charm. So what if he’s killed a bunch of people. He’s got money, he’s good looking, and he knows how to talk to the ladies. Somehow, he’s fallen for this woman and the next thing you know he’s asking her to run away with him. “I’m not wanted in Mexico,” he tells her. And there’s a moment when he allows himself the fantasy of running away, setting up house, and settling down (who says a prostitute and an outlaw can’t make it in this hard ol’ world?).
While I was watching this scene, I wasn’t sure why it was here. Okay sure, you kill a bunch of people and steal a lot of money, that gives you a hard-on and you want to celebrate with sex. I buy that. But why linger, knowing the law is on its way? Wade stays around so long chatting this woman up, and then chatting some more with Dan Evans in the bar, that he, of course, gets caught. It’s almost like he wants to get caught. The rest of the action of the story is how a posse of men try to get Ben Wade to the train station so that he can be taken to Yuma prison. So, having him stick around in the saloon works for the plot. But does it jibe with Wade’s character? While I was watching, I didn’t quite buy it. Are we supposed to believe he’s one of those guys that gets stupid after sex? Or is his guard down for some other reason? Or is it that he just doesn’t care? For sure Russelll Crowe plays Wade with a twinkle and a grin. How much of this is just Crowe having fun playing the part of a gunslinger in a Western (yeehaw!), and how much are we supposed to take as Wade’s character being so utterly bored and detached that he no longer cares what happens to himself? Is Wade a nihilist? What’s going on here?
It turns out that it’s the family thing. You see, robbing coaches is old news. And money, well he has plenty of that. And sure he loves hanging out with his gang (read: surrogate family), but it’s just not the same as having a REAL family, with a woman. As the story continues to unfold, we see that this is what this movie is about: family. Ben Wade doesn’t have one, and–as we learn at the end–never had a good one. He was abandoned at a train station when he was eight (it all comes back to a train station). So all this violence and all this lawlessness either means that Wade is a hardcore nihilist trying to single-handedly impede manifest destiny, or it’s just what he’s found to do with himself while trying to form some human connections.
But we’re meant to believe that Wade’s longing for family, for some raison d’etre, opens the possibility of revelation and redemption.
Late in the movie, during one of those hammer-the-theme-home moments, William says what we’re all thinking, “Call em off. Call off your men.”
“Why?” Wade asks.
“Because you’re not all bad,” William proclaims.
And without even pausing, Wade says, “Yes I am.”
Who is fooling whom here? By this point in the movie, these men have been wending their way into each other’s hearts for days. And as the stakes have continued to rise, we’ve been exploring just what it takes to tip a “good” man over to the “dark” side, and whether a “bad” man can be brought back. But who’s winning whom over? Are some of Dan’s family values opening Wade’s heart? Or is Wade’s black heart (thoughtful nihilism?) corrupting what’s upright (socially conforming?) in Dan? Here, I found myself rooting for both things. I wanted Wade to redeem himself, because—like William–I believed he was capable and open to it, if only for a moment. But I was also rooting for Dan to take Wade’s money when it’s offered and let Wade go. Fuck what people think, Dan. Take the money! You deserve it. It will help your family. Besides, the people Wade stole the money from are part of the rapacious capitalism driving you and your family off your land. You’re not responsible for bringing Wade to justice. And none of this is worth dying over.
Though Christian Bale plays Dan as nearly inscrutable, I believed Dan was so angry at the powers that be, and so desperate to make something out of his life, that he was capable of stepping over the edge.
And here is the film’s success. Neither Ben Wade, nor Dan Evans are set in stone. Both are capable of a moral shift.
Of course, Dan has obviously considered taking the money, but there are two main reasons he can’t. First, how would he explain it? It’s a lot of money for him to suddenly have, and you can’t just show up at the bank with a load of unexplained money. Plus, everyone knows he’s been with Wade. They’d know where he got it. Second, and more importantly, what about his family? William would know what he’d done and would never respect him. His wife would figure it out and ditto. Nope. He’s not in this for the money, he’s in it for his family, and so that he can live and die the kind of man he’s always thought of himself as, the kind of man he wants his wife to see, and William to be. Because if a man doesn’t have a family, what’s he got to live and die for? What keeps him from being an animal? Nothing.
And there you have Ben Wade.
Okay, so when I left the theater, I felt myself chafing at what felt like a conservative, “family values” moral assertion. But on second thought, I’m sick and tired of valuing family being the exclusive property of the Right. I love my family. And as someone prone to sliding into the rabbit-thought-hole of melancholy (and even nihilism) myself from time to time, I actually appreciated this simple reminder that I do have a way out. For sure having a husband and child has helped me know which way is up when the path gets dark and confusing. For sure on days when my reasons for getting out of bed in the morning seem far-off and foggy, I remember that I’m here to make the world a better place for everyone, and especially for my son. And for sure when I start to think the world is a terrible horrible place with no rhyme or reason, I gaze into my son’s shining face and see the whole light of the universe.
And sometimes that’s enough.
Which just goes to show that you can make a great entertaining movie and plumb the depths of men’s (and women’s) hearts, all at the same time.
Keys November 7, 2007
Yesterday I locked my keys in the car at the Aquatic Center. I didn’t realize this until I came out–freshly showered, with wet hair–and tried to open the car door. There were the keys in the ignition, mocking me. “Hello!” they seemed to say. “We’ve been waiting for you.” My purse was also locked in the car (with my cell phone), so I went back into the Aquatic Center and called AAA. It was going on 11:00. My plan had been to drive back home, pick up my husband (who was at the dentist getting a crown) and take him to the Metro, swing by to pick up my sister, then whisk her off to an appointment (I still had to Mapquest the directions) we had at noon. None of that was going to happen, of course. AAA said they’d have someone out to help me by 12:15.
So I was forced to sit and wait.
It was a blustery autumn day, not warm, but not cold. I sat down on a bench outside the Aquatic Center. I had no cell phone, no notebook, no magazine or book–and no child needing me. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I had nothing to work on or do. I stretched out on the bench, propping my feet up on the arm, and turned my face up to the sky. The sun was shining bright overhead. I closed my eyes and allowed the warmth to soak into my skin, enjoying the orange glow on the inside of my eyelids. There was a breeze blowing all around me, shaking the leaves on the trees, and stirring the dead ones that had fallen to the ground. I thought about all the things I was supposed to be doing, all the things that wouldn’t get done now that all I could do was sit and wait. I considered being stressed out about it. But I felt too good. I decided, instead, to just relax and enjoy this wonderful moment on a beautiful day.
When the AAA truck pulled into the parking lot, just twenty minutes later or so, I was almost sorry to see it.
I never would have “scheduled” in half an hour to just sit and think and feel the sun on my face. But I’m glad that when this time was forcibly carved out for me, I was able to use it so wisely.
Spooky November 1, 2007
Here we have The Boy, three years old, dressed as a blood sucking bat. And what’s that in the background? Why that’s his very first Jack-o-lantern. Or, should I say, Cheney-O-Lantern. The Boy and his Dad carved their very first pumpkin together over the weekend and in order to make it look very very spooky, Dad used Dick Cheney as the model for the bone chilling face (note the smarmy crooked grin). I think you all can see why the kids were scared to death to trick or treat at our house last night (cue blood curdling scream). Or maybe it was because we placed a loaded shot gun next to our Cheney-O, in case he felt inclined to do a little huntin’. Happy Halloween.
