Lodown

Moving on...

2008-07-16T16:08:00.004-05:00

As with everything else in my life, my blogging will from now until further notice be all about Millie. Please check out my new blog dedicated to my little one, or stay tuned...I may someday regain some sense of self and return.

Many thanks,

Alex

What a difference a few months make

2007-07-12T15:16:00.000-05:00

I saw Lucas this week and she inspired me to update my blog. The past few months are a blur of joy and excitement and fear and love and total amazement. Oh yeah, and a little physical pain as well. Ok...a lot.

After a rather yucky pregnancy, we welcomed our little girl, Emily "Millie" Hope, on May 31st. She is six weeks old today and getting bigger right in front of my eyes.

Finding the time to blog has been impossible. Heck, finding the time to shower has been nearly impossible. It is amazing how this tiny creature can take up your every minute. They say newborns sleep a lot. LIES! All lies.

I would love to promise that I will now rejoin blogland, but that would also be a lie. So I wish everyone here the very best. I hear we have a couple of success stories on the writing front. Congrats Captain, David, and Dan H. You make me proud. I will check in when I can, and I promise not to bore everyone with "oh my gosh, look what Millie did today!" stories. But if you are interested in photos and updates, feel free to check out our web site.

Peace to all.

"Artist" Statement

2007-03-10T09:09:00.000-06:00

Calling all fellow thesis-ers,

Now that I am putting the finishing touches on my thesis, I am faced with the next hurdle: the Artist Statement.

What in God's green earth did you write about for that many pages? I cannot possibly fill 8-30 pages with "I have been writing ever since I can remember..."

When oh when will this ever end?

Blogger issues

2007-03-04T15:34:00.000-06:00

FYI, I have been reading everyone's blogs and have a lot to say about each post, but Blogger has not let me respond for a few weeks now. Big mean stupid Blogger.

Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

2007-02-21T16:48:00.000-06:00

I know I've been MIA and I have no excuses. So there.

Just wanted to say that today is my 40th birthday. Last night a friend said, "enjoy the last few hours of your 30's" and it hit me like a ton of bricks. A new decade. Shit.

This is the first birthday I truly wanted to spend in bed with the covers over my head. But I didn't. I went to my prenatal yoga class and then to lunch with my family. We went to Yum! in St. Louis Park. Go there. Have the egg salad sandwich. You'll thank me.

Then I took the dog for a walk to my favorite coffee shop, stopping several times along the way to take phone calls from friends. I have the best friends in the world. They don't think it's so awful that I'm old now. I love them so.

Tonight my husband has even offered to go see a chick movie with me. Now that's love. This weekend he is taking me to Bluefin Bay for some R&R. I cannot wait. I assume it is the last vacation I'll get for the next 5-1o years.

Birthdays are good. It's good to be alive. I am going to say that over and over until I believe it.

Happy day to all.

Longing

2007-01-13T12:58:00.000-06:00

Last night my husband and I went to Emily’s Lebanese Deli on University Avenue. I had been thinking about a large plate of hummus for a while, and Emily’s came highly recommended. It turned out to be a disappointment, just as all other Middle Eastern restaurants have been.

So I am throwing in the towel. I just don’t think that as a native Israeli I can be pleased. I don’t mean to be snooty about it. It’s just that it feels like I have tried every hummus and falafel sandwich in the five state area and it’s just not the same. I suppose it makes sense. If we get scientific about it, the water is different, which would make the wheat different, which would make the pita bread different…you get the point. Back home, a plate of hummus is served on shallow dishes and dotted with olive oil and paprika. Sometimes, it’s even garnished with an olive. It is also never as garlicky as the hummus served here. It has a much stronger tahini taste, and is served with fat, piping hot pitas. Sigh. I have been to restaurants where there are actual photos of this dish on the walls, yet when it arrives, it is in little bowls and has a slight resemblance to chunky pudding. This makes me very sad.

Big sigh.

Whew!

2007-01-10T11:02:00.000-06:00

So The Holidays* are finally over. It has taken me this long to recover from a long weekend at the in-laws. I love my in-laws. They are the kindest, most generous people on the planet (well, most of them are anyway) and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. But…

There are too darn many of them, frankly. In a four-bedroom house, there were 13 adults and 12 children for three days. Then, on the last night, two more adults were added. Friends of my sister-in-law’s had come for the big 50th anniversary party held in honor of my husband's parents. Now granted, they drove from Minneapolis and Chicago, and I certainly wouldn’t have expected them to turn around and drive home, but still. It would never have occurred to me to assume I could stay in a house already filled to the brink. I would have made reservations at a hotel or other arrangements. To my husband’s family, it’s the more the merrier. To me, it’s rude.

But that’s just me. I have one brother, and if you throw in his wife and in-laws, there are at the most six of us for any given holiday get-together. We all live here, so said get-togethers rarely last more than three hours. So to be thrown into the chaos of a large family for a long weekend takes a lot out of me. It would have been better if I could have had a drink, or three.

Yes, there are lovely moments. Watching the little kids open their gifts and downing several dozen cookies in one sitting, for example. But man, do I need a vacation.

*Also, why do we refer to these particular holidays as The Holidays? As a Valentine’s Day fan, I find that slightly offensive.

Ok. Thanks for listening.

It is best to give

2006-12-14T17:39:00.000-06:00

Let’s face it folks. As much as we may complain about our crazy lives and our need for more time and money (and less Bush), we are all very fortunate in most every way. During this season of gluttony and rabid commercialism, wouldn’t it be nice to avoid the chaos of the mall while at the same time sharing a tiny bit of all that the universe has bestowed upon us? It’s just a thought.

If you are so inclined, here are some worthy organizations that could use our help. Of course, this is just a fraction of all the ways we can reach out and embody the true meaning of the holiday season.

Ok, I’ll get off my soapbox now.

Teach a man to fish…
Heifer.org

I love elephants. They are so gentle, and they remember their loved ones forever, unlike some people I know.
The Elephant Sanctuary

Kids begging for a pony? Here’s the next best thing.
Long Meadow Rescue Ranch

Sensing a theme here? Yes, my heart belongs to the animals. Their love is unconditional, and they rarely start wars over religious differences.
Humane Society of America

Or, act locally:
Animal Humane Society of Minnesota

But I do care about people. I really do.

Support people, animals, and the environment:
Rainforest Alliance

Stand up for the little ones:
Child Help

Give the gift of books:
First Book

Or, pick a cause that speaks to your individual concerns at justgive.org

Ho Ho Ho

I wish I was in Tijuana, eating barbequed iguana

2006-12-01T18:13:00.000-06:00

I have the travel bug. Really, I always have the travel bug, but it seems to be worse today. Maybe it’s because it is December 1st today. It’s cold but without a fluffy blanket of fresh snow or sparkly icecicles dripping from trees to brighten the day. If it’s going to be cold, I want it to be pretty. Otherwise, I will need a vacation soon.

And no, Wisconsin Dells does not count.

For a long time I had no desire to travel. By the age of 13 I had lived in three countries, and was ready to stay put. I didn’t equate traveling with taking a much-needed break from the norm, I equated it with packing up everything I owned (again) and leaving my friends behind. Traveling meant learning a new language and being the weird new foreign kid. I refused to even own a suitcase for years.

Now I have such a long list of places I want to visit that I could never fit them all into this lifetime. Here are a few examples:

- Italy
- Southern France, particularly a tiny town called Eze.
- New England in the fall
- Spain
- Napa Valley
- Greece
- Prague
- Ireland
- Amelia Island, Florida
- Little Palm Island, Florida
- Fuji
- Galapagos Islands
- San Francisco in the summer

At this point, it looks like the closest I’ll get to any of those is Vegas for the Beatles Cirque du Soleil show in February. Which sounds awesome, but it’s no Tuscany at springtime.

Help please

2006-11-29T15:34:00.000-06:00

- If you had a big birthday coming up, what would you ask for?

- What is your favorite charity/cause and why?

- If you could go anywhere on earth, where would it be?

Awhhh

2006-11-27T09:51:00.000-06:00

For a lovely story about a man and his mouse, visit David's blog. You'll feel warm and fuzzy all day. Or grossed out a little, it's a toss-up.

Holidays

2006-11-26T12:55:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving is over and the shopping season has began. We have nine, count 'em, nine children to buy for. No, wait, ten. I forgot the godchild. This does not include the adults we buy for or any of my family. If my husband's family keeps reproducing at this rate, we will need to take out a second mortgage next Christmas. But it is fun to shop for others, wrap the presents in big ribbons, and see their little faces when they open that Dora the Explorer movie they asked for.

We (and by we, I mean, my husband) put up our new tree. It is fake and came with its own lights and pine cones. Say what you will about the tradition and natural beauty of real trees, this tree rocks. It is our first tree even though we've been together four years. And now our house feels like a home.

After two funerals in one week, I am thankful for good health, family and friends, and watermelon. Don't ask.

A cloudy day

2006-11-15T15:56:00.000-06:00

I went to a funeral today. A wonderful man, an amazing, spiritual, kind-hearted man died Saturday morning. He was 53 years old. His wife could not wake him up, and then he was gone. He leaves behind two young daughters and a church full of stunned friends and colleagues. I don’t get it. I can’t wrap my head around it.

Life is not fair. The world is full of horrible, mean-spirited, small people who seem to live forever. Several names come immediately to mind. Why him? I don’t get it.

After the funeral, I went to Victor’s on 38th and Grand for a Cuban breakfast. I sat by myself in a booth because my brother was out raking leaves and could not join me. I actually enjoy eating alone. When I was younger, I was sure everyone was looking at me and wondering why I didn’t have any friends. But now I am close to 40, and I love alone time of any kind. I love to shop alone, eat alone, even go to a movie or two. During the day, when the theater is empty. I love that.

I will be 40 in February. I am 13 years younger than this man, this lovely spirit of a man that died. I don’t get how a heart just stops. I just don’t get it.

Sigh

2006-10-23T12:59:00.000-05:00

Thesis not going well. More later.

One year down...

2006-10-14T13:07:00.000-05:00

Last weekend my husband and I celebrated one whole year of marital bliss. Saturday was a beautiful Minnesota October day, just like our wedding day, so we took the dog out to breakfast (ok, he had to stay in the car) at Coffee News Café. After a long relaxing breakfast surrounded by a bunch of bohemian Macalester college students, and one group of women loudly discussing the evil that is Tim Pawlenty, we went to a little park on the river banks. It was stunning. Across the river was the Minneapolis neighborhood where my husband used to live before I converted him. The trees wove a dense curtain of bright orange and gold, it was breathtaking. Nearby, a crew was setting up for a wedding. I am always so happy for the couple when I see a wedding on a gorgeous fall day.

On our wedding day, I decided at the last minute that 50 degrees would be too chilly for the guests and we moved the wedding inside. It turned out fine, the room was beautiful and romantic, and later that night our guests did seem to enjoy the patio.

They say that your wedding day goes by in a blur, but I remember every second. My friends Anna and Therese spent the night, and in the morning our friend Marnie (who took the lovely photos on our site) brought over coffee. It was a wonderfully relaxing way to start the day. The ceremony itself was approximately 8 minutes, exactly how we wanted it. We stood under a Huppa that my mother made, and our friend John sang Crazy Love.

One of the highlights of the reception was the signature cocktails, Mojitos and Cosmos representing our wedding colors, for which our friend Brett stayed up and squeezed 846,700,192 limes. People still talk about those cosmos. I got one sip before having to put my glass down to hug someone, but that’s how it goes. The kids took over the dance floor, so months of picking out just the right mix of Prince, old Michael Jackson, and Frank Sinatra was not as appreciated as I had hoped, but now we have great mixed tapes for our children’s bar mitzvahs.

It was perfection, start to finish. Our friends and family worked hard to make it so. This past year has been no less. It has also been very busy, which might explain why after a full year we still do not have our professional photos up on our site. But like Rand says, what is time? I've been too busy smelling the roses to worry about stuff like that.

Thank you all for indulging me on this little trip down memory lane.

Oh yeah, and Lit 6 tonight! Rock on!

Whew

2006-09-28T15:59:00.000-05:00

Survived the weekend, mostly with the help of three and a half hours at the spa. We stayed at a beautiful cabin that is a part of the mega resort Wilderness Waterpark. It really is a great place for families, and fall is a great time to go because it is quiet. I don't think I could have tolerated it if there were thousands of screaming children and long lines for each ride. A cabin full of kids just about put me over the edge as it was. Now I am back in my quiet home office, with the dog and Food Network. Sigh.

As far as my thesis goes, I have lost any interest in it. That's bad. I am tweaking it, playing with word choices and sentence structure. But I can't seem to care about the characters anymore. It's like having a friend who talks about the same things over and over when you see them. I've heard what these people have to say already. And I've stopped caring. This is really not good.

My action plan is to spend a few days reading good short stories and books with the hope of being inspired. I just finished Drown. Any suggestions?

This is no Breakfast at Tifffany's

2006-09-21T15:44:00.000-05:00

I did not leave my meeting with my advisor in tears. I did not crawl into a corner with my thumb in my mouth. I only drank one cup of coffee. It was the size of my head, but still…

In general, it was good meeting. The only surprise was that Susan feels that the collection of stories, which are meant to function as separate short stories about two separate sets of characters, works better as two novellas. I think I hate that idea. I don’t know. I have taken the last couple of days off from thesis, trying to let the conversation sink in. Novellas? All I could think of was Hispanic telenovellas.

I know that is not an accurate connection. I know about Kafka’s and Joyce’s novellas, among many other worth-while works. I don’t know. It’s a strange feeling, thinking you are creating one thing and being told you have created something else.

I get the message though. As stand-alone short stories, several do not work yet. I can live with that. I have two months to make it work And I will, I will make it work (she said, channeling Rand.)

In the mean time, I am off to Wisconsin Dells for a long weekend with Husband’s family, which includes nine grandchildren. Nine kids and 300 water rides. For three days. Please keep me in your prayers.

Sell crap- check

2006-09-17T20:32:00.000-05:00

If you've missed me this past week, it's because I have been in my garage. Cleaning, sorting, and sign-making led to a weekend garage sale to beat all garage sales. We rocked. Like Christmas time at Rosedale, people just kept coming and buying shit. I mean, stuff. Teeny tiny microwave from husband's old apartment, gone. AC unit weighing a little more than a baby elephant, gone. Leather jacket from 1987, complete with Bon Jovi-like fringe (I kid you not), gone. Ah, the joy of cleaning house. In the process I also met many of my neighbors and got the inside scoop on the goings-on. Who died recently, who has wicked fights on their back deck, whose children required nightly police interventions. I know it all now. I am in the loop.

Now my attention has shifted from my garage to my thesis. Yeah, remember that little project? I meet with my advisor tomorrow and I am anxious/excited/ill to my stomach. She will have comments on my first draft. I will drink lots of coffee and listen to her while trying not to twitch too much. I will also try not to cry when she is done, and then I will go home and start over.

I love my advisor though. Read her book, The Grass Dancer. It's lovely.

The Joy of Pain

2006-09-07T10:31:00.000-05:00

Previously, I had posted a list of things that scare me. Rand, being the positive chap that he is, asked that I next consider listing things that inspire me. That was a great idea. Except that when I thought of it, I realized I had not felt inspired in a long time. Which is a problem, considering that I am supposed to be deep in the middle of thesis work.

This brought me back to a question I have been grappling with for years. It has been a topic of many discussions over the years, but I don’t feel any closer to an answer. So I will post it here, my dear friends, for you to ponder and possibly respond to.

Does contentment kill the creative soul? Do we need angst in our lives in order to create?

I have done my best work while under some sort of emotional stress. And deadlines don’t count. Heartbreaks seem to produce the best quality of material, but frustration and anger are close seconds.

Some personal pains are, at times, too much to bear and do not produce work until we have had time to heal a bit, steep in those emotions for a while. Like Voix’s great work on her past relationship, some fires need time to burn out before they can produce art from the ashes.

During these types of discussions, I usually present the likes of Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway and Vincent Van Gogh as evidence that true art can only flow out of a life filled with booze, women, and self-inflicted wounds to the head. These tortured souls died too soon and left for the world the fruits of their madness. What will I leave behind? A fat dog and a well-equipped kitchen.

In general, immediate torment has worked best for me. Break my heart and I will sit down and write about it in poignant detail. I will spend days in a haze of crazed typing, fueled with coffee and tears and emerge exhausted and fulfilled. But allow me to live in peace and tranquility and I will morph into a mute housewife, loving life and producing absolutely nothing of value. Which is preferred? I honestly don’t know.

Good junk

2006-09-01T18:36:00.000-05:00

Today I got a spam email from "Jesus Currie" which I thought would make a great band name.

Things that scare me

2006-08-27T19:49:00.000-05:00

- George Bush

- Jeb Bush

- The notion that we are raising a generation of girls who look up to Paris Hilton, who has done nothing to deserve her obscene amount of fame other than doing the nasty with some shmuck named Rick Solomon, who for his part is only famous for doing the same thing with Shannon Doherty, who at least at one time had a job.

- The president of Iran, and Mel Gibson.

- The possibility of losing another minute of my life to the JonBenet Ramsey case.

- Running out of coffee.

- That creepy beaver in that sleep-aid commercial. You know, the one playing checkers with Abe Lincoln? I don’t get it.

- When people ask me, so what are you going to do with your MFA?

- Myspace, facebook, and any web site that allows subscribers to accumulate huge numbers of “pretend” cyber friends, single-handedly reducing the title of Friend to a name on a list and the idea of friendship to a numbers game.

- Labor. And I mean that both in the child-birth sense of the word, and employment.

- McMansions.

- Did I mention George Bush?

- Bratz dolls, or as my husband likes to call them, Slutz.

For the love of Sedaris

2006-08-24T21:33:00.000-05:00

Today has been simply lovely. It has been raining off and on, then a major storm swept through. Although I felt sorry for fair-goers as I imagined them scurrying for cover while shielding their deep fried cheese curds under their armpits, I welcomed the sudden down pours. Our new lawn has been dying slowly because I put a stop to my husband’s excessive and expensive watering habit. The front of our house has been turning a darker shade of dirt with each passing week of continued construction on our street. And I was a little bored with summer. I needed the rain. Fall is almost here and now I feel refreshed. Other than staring out the window watching raindrops fall, here is what else I did today:

In the morning I worked on my thesis, or what my husband refers to as “my stories.” He giggles when he says this because it reminds him of when his grandmother referred to soap operas as “her stories.” I am relieved that he can so easily amuse himself. Working on my stories exhausts me. Can anyone else relate? I can do one at a time. Some days even less.

I started out the summer feeling terribly guilty and worthless because I kept reading how my fellow bloggers and classmates were churning out thousands of words each day. These are all hard working people with real jobs and full lives yet some how they managed to produce ten times what I, the part-time freelancer, could. But recently I have come to realize that we all have our individual paths. I am just walking down mine slowly, casually, while others are zooming by me in Ferraris. Or whatever fast cars they make now. I don’t know cars.

So after I could no longer look at the screen, I made myself a cup of Elite (instant coffee from Israel, it’s divine) and plopped down on my couch. I had two choices in front of me. Thich Nhat Hanh, or David Sedaris. While reveling in The Miracle of Mindfulness seemed appropriately poetic on a rainy afternoon, I stayed true to my shallow self and picked up Sedaris instead. I know I am behind the times and that this is not news to anyone here, but he makes my day. His sense of humor is just self-deprecating enough to be charming without being overly dramatic. It’s an understatement to say that his writing is flawless. I rarely laugh out loud while alone in the house with no one but the confused dog to share in my joy, but today I did. A lot. And it was good.

The maple tree in my yard is already changing colors. There are orange leaves sprinkled on the ground, and I am not sure how to feel about that.

Heads up

2006-08-22T15:27:00.000-05:00

It's (finally!) State Fair week. And just as I suspected, the construction in the area is still no where near complete. The crews seem to take great joy in putting down asphalt, only to jackhammer it back up a few days later. So if you are heading to the Fair, take the bus. Cause only one car at a time can park at my house.

I am going three days: Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday next week. I challenge any one to a Pronto Pup-off.

And this is the last State Fair post. I promise.

The big 2-7

2006-08-17T16:35:00.000-05:00

Saturday is David's birthday. Everyone should go to his blog and send him a big cyber kiss.

Chatterbox!

The End is Near

2006-08-14T16:38:00.000-05:00

I may have already mentioned that the Minnesota State Fair is right around the corner. Since I live about four blocks away, it is hard not to notice the preparations on the grounds. This year, there is an odd structure that resembles a giant white tusk. I have no idea why it is there. Maybe it just fell off a plane.

The arrival of the Great Minnesota Get Together is bitter-sweet. With it comes the end of summer, and the beginning of falling leaves and dropping temps. I have spent my summer taking walks with my dog, reading on the patio at my local coffee shop, and shopping at the Farmers Markets around St. Paul. I don't want summer to end.

On the other hand, there will be Pronto Pups. So you can see why I may be torn.

My father-in-law has a wonderful habit of sitting all the grandchildren around the kitchen table at the end of the day, dishing out big bowls of ice cream, and asking each one of them (there are 12 at last count) what their favorite part of the day was.

I am fresh out of ice cream, but I will ask you all, what has been your favorite part of the summer?

Spooky

2006-08-10T09:58:00.000-05:00

Yesterday my friend from Israel IM'ed me asking if I wanted to meet in Europe sometime before September 20th. I checked prices and the cheapest was to London. I thought, hey fun, I haven't been to London in a long time. The only time I could go was the weekend of the 8th, which would have put me back on a plane to the US on September 11th. Yes, the thought did cross my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. I am from Israel after all, we don't live in fear. Too much.

I was about to purchase my ticket when I decided I really just could not justify the expense on such a whim. What with my student loans looming on the horizon and all.

Then I saw the news. I don't mean to be dramatic, but all night all I could think of is that it is entirely possible that being cheap has once again saved my life. Just a thought.

Show of hands please

2006-08-06T12:28:00.000-05:00

Who is going to see David Sedaris in October?

Short story

2006-08-05T14:33:00.000-05:00

Ok beloved former classmates, just because we are no longer in the Program, does not mean you get to stop telling me what is wrong with my work. Here is a piece with a whole lot wrong with it. I think it started out as a good idea and somewhere in the execution went all Harlequin Romance on me.

They met in Thailand a year ago. She was traveling clear her head, he was traveling to fill an emptiness he could not name. His divorce had left him numb, he told her over tin mugs filled with thick coffee at the tiny stands that dotted the streets of Chiang Mai. Children with skin the color of raw sugar flew by on rickety bicycles while he told her about his wife Sally and the morning she sat across from him at their gray kitchen and told him she needed more than he could give. “I realized right there and then that she was right,” he carelessly wiped the table with an open palm. “I let her go. But that’s not the point.” What he had discovered, in the cold nights that followed Sally’s departure, was that he had nothing to offer anyone. Years of sitting in a cube running figures and creating flow charts had left him with nothing to say, so he sold his car and flew to Asia where he could season his soul with color and dark chili powder.

Tamar didn’t care about Sally or damp London apartments. She came to Thailand to find peace, not spice, and William was just the right shade of vanilla. His auburn whisps of hair curled around his ears and his green eyes narrowed in the harsh sunlight. His touch soothed her like milk and she felt such a calm in his presence that it was easy to flow along with his dreams of a life spent traveling together. She humored him with a touch to the arm. Let me take care of you, he told her, his accent a warm blanket. With William, her feet finally touched the ground.

They rode on tiny blue buses crowded with day workers and merchants who sat quietly, their sacks filled to the brim with copper pots and fragrant seeds. William spoke with everyone they encountered, pulling the tattered English to Thai dictionary out of his back pocket.
“Sà-wàt-dee,” he’d enunciate, bobbing his head.
Thin women selling fruit at the local markets would smile broadly and giggle to each other. “Hello,” they would respond. “You buy bananas today?”
Eyes gleaming, William would purchase arm loads of fruit which they would eat late at night in their humid hotel room with the crackle of late night Thai television in the background.

A few days after they met-William, in a thin white shirt and a huge straw hat, had helped her purchase tea at the market-they rented a car and drove to the hillsides of Mungai where they had reserved a room at a hotel that the brochure had declared “the most romantic spot in Thailand.” The winding dirt road led to a thatched roof building wrapped in a huge veranda. Dotting the ceiling, bamboo fans spread their arms like giant wings, encircling the veranda with a cool breeze. On a swing in the far corner, another couple sat drinking ginger tea. They raised their glasses in unison as William and Tamar pulled their bags up the steps.
“Hi there!” said the Americans. “Welcome to paradise,” they declared.
Tamar and William kept to themselves for the rest of their stay.

On long afternoon walks, William held Tamar’s hand as if to prevent her from falling. The ground was saturated with the cool moisture of the mountain air. She felt as if she could float away, so she let him hold her hand in spite of herself. William talked about their next adventures as if he had already booked the flights, and Tamar gathered giant amber banana leaves which she dragged behind her with her free hand. She had never gone this long without talking, she thought to her self with an inner smirk. It was lovely, she decided.

In the same rented car, they drove across Thailand to Surat Thani, which William declared with a wink was a great name for a girl. Tamar ignored him as the road wound around the bend and the ocean opened up in front of her. They had lunch in half-empty cafés and made love in the afternoons under a canopy of white gauze that kept hungry bugs away. Later, she would swing the shutter doors open and step on the balcony naked, letting the salt stick to her skin, her hair, her eyelids. Looking over her shoulder, she would smile at William spread out on the bed, shaking his head at her. At night they shared bottles of rum and William would add up his money, saying there is plenty left, they could go all around Asia if they wanted to. Or, how did she feel about Europe? They could go to Paris, or Iceland.
“It’s so green there,” he said. “The hills just go on as far as the eyes can see. But we’d have to get you a sweater.” He laughed, poking her bare belly. But in response, Tamar just kissed his neck quietly.

He got the message. For the next few days, they walked quietly on the beach, collecting smooth glass for her mother back home.
“She keeps them in little bowls on her kitchen window sill,” she told him. “There is just something about them she loves.”
“What was once sharp and dangerous is now smooth and forgiving,” William said dramatically.

Two weeks of traveling through the deep green landscapes of Thailand and sleeping in William’s soft arms had been sufficient to cleanse her palate, so Tamar packed her backpack on a stormy July morning and told William she would be leaving after breakfast. He stood frozen in the middle of their hotel room, toothbrush in hand. As she whirled around him gathering her things from drawers and closets, William sat on the bed and watched her quietly. She had known there would be no protest, but his silence unnerved her.
“What? What do you want from me?” she demanded, stuffing colorful scarves into her bag.
Twirling the toothbrush between his fingers, William’s face began to change. The shock was gone, and he now looked at her with an accepting smile.
“You’ve tired of me, haven’t you?” It wasn’t really meant to be a question.
“William, don’t do this,” she collected her books from the end table on her side of the bed. “I just need to get home, I only planned on staying a week and I’ve been here for two as it is.”
“I don’t want to keep you with me if you’d rather go, Tamar,” he sighed. “I think I’ll skip breakfast if that’s alright with you.”

She looked over her shoulder at him as he walked into the bathroom and gently closed the door. A moment later, he emerged dressed and quietly left the room. Tamar stood in the middle of the small space. If she stretched her arms, she could almost reach both walls. She sat down on the bed, letting all the air out of her lungs in a long audible breath. Just like that, she was alone again.

On the plane back home, William’s calm smile lingered in the air like smoke. She smiled back in the dark, shaking her head. Just a month ago, she had left another lover, but it had not unfolded in the same way. Plates were thrown, their angry shouts woke the neighbors. But not with William. His hands had steadied her in Thailand, and although his face had already began to fade from her memory, the renewed strength in her had not.

Boycott Mel Gibson

2006-07-31T09:33:00.000-05:00

Mel Gibson has a right to free speech, and we have a right to respond with our dollars. That's all I'm going to say about it.

Crossing This Line Could Cost Him Deals
By Robert W. Welkos and John Horn, Times Staff Writers
July 31, 2006

Mel Gibson is rich enough to finance his own movies, including the 2004 blockbuster "The Passion of the Christ" and the upcoming release "Apocalypto." But although riches can buy a certain freedom from creative interference, no man is an island in the movie business.

Gibson, who apologized Saturday for making "despicable" remarks in what was described as an anti-Semitic tirade after a drunk driving arrest, in some ways now finds himself at the mercy of a Hollywood establishment that may or may not be inclined to extend forgiveness.

His most immediate issue is with Walt Disney Co., which is distributing "Apocalypto" and which also, through its ABC television network, has a development deal with his company to make a miniseries about the Holocaust.

Several prominent critics of "The Passion" have stepped forward to suggest that Gibson, who denied there was an anti-Semitic undercurrent in his movie about the last hours of Christ's life, has now shown his true colors.

"Mel Gibson's apology is unremorseful and insufficient," said Abraham H. Foxman, the national director of the Anti-Defamation League, who added: "His tirade finally reveals his true self and shows that his protestations during the debate over his film 'The Passion of the Christ,' that he is such a tolerant, loving person, were a sham."

Foxman called on Hollywood executives to "realize the bigot in their midst" and "distance themselves from this anti-Semite."

Rabbi Abraham Cooper, associate dean of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, urged Gibson to drop the Holocaust project, saying it would be "inappropriate."

Gibson's spokesman declined to respond.

Ordinarily, Hollywood distribution deals call for the studio to handle marketing for the movie — a potentially difficult proposition given Gibson's arrest in Malibu and the ensuing controversy about remarks he allegedly made, including: "The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world."

Meanwhile, the Holocaust project, to be adapted from a little-known 1998 memoir called "Flory: Survival in the Valley of Death," which recounts the experiences of a young Dutch Jew during World War II, is in the early stages. An ABC spokeswoman Sunday would confirm only that the project was in development and that executives would wait to see a finished script before deciding whether to go into production on the proposed miniseries. Gibson and his spokesman, Alan Nierob, have said little about the project, which is backed by Gibson's Con Artists Productions, the TV division of his Icon Productions.

"It's in development, but not very far in," an ABC spokeswoman said. "It is not at the point where you would make those determinations. There is no script."

Although many of the town's senior executives are Jewish and Hollywood has a long history of supporting Israel and Jewish causes, there was no widespread public condemnation of Gibson's comments over the weekend. Although some high-level executives privately expressed dismay at the statements attributed to Gibson after his arrest, none of those contacted would speak on the record.

As for Gibson, he was said to be huddling with his medical, legal and spiritual advisors over the weekend. Some of his friends, who asked not to be identified, said they hoped he would seek counseling for his admitted drinking problem. One source said the star had already begun rehabilitation, noting that Gibson had long been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous.

At this point, the incident's long-term effect on Gibson's career is a matter of speculation.

By the way Mel, apology not accepted.

Now I'm hungry

2006-07-30T16:31:00.000-05:00

I Just read Rand's post and it made me hungry. It got me thinking that the State Fair is fast approaching. We live four blocks from the State Fair grounds and I am beside myself with excitement. Last year, during Fair time, I was very sick and only made it to the last day, and had to sit down a lot. This year, my friend Tracy and I plan on going every day.

I should explain that my love for the State Fair is limited to its food. I am not a big fan of crowds. I don’t go on rides, especially ones that get shipped around the country and unpacked and assembled in a matter of hours. I stay away from over-grown chickens with bizarrely colored plumes of feathers, giant pigs who have recently given birth, and the general stench of the animal barns. The live music can be good, and it can also sometimes be hilariously bad. But the food, ah the food. Fry it, shove a stick in it, and I’ll eat it.

I have a list of favorites:
Proto Pups (no other corn dog will do), deep-fried Snickers bar, corn on the cob, Sweet Martha’s cookies by the bucket load. But the tops has to be Key Lime Pie on a Stick. They are sold in a tiny stand just outside the food building. Look for the green and white striped awning.

I am not sure if it’s the same brand, but just now, on the Food Network, Road Tasted had a segment on the making of these little slices of green heaven. Now I am even MORE excited about the fair. Ok, fair food.

Speaking of food, last night we had some friends over for dinner. The kids were polite and even took at least one bite of everything offered to them. I am not a mom, so I never know what to feed kids. For dessert, I made ice cream and we had “make your own sundaes” with hot fudge and two kinds of sprinkles. I had forgotten the whipping cream and cherries, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. Boone forever sealed his place in my will by exclaiming: this is just like Cold Stone Creamery! Dang I love those kids.

A friend's daughter once asked—I think she was two or three at the time—"Why can't every day be a hot fudge sundae?"

I am sensing a theme here. I think I’ll go have some of the green tea gelato I made yesterday. It’s divine.

Project Run Away

2006-07-27T13:40:00.001-05:00

I have been locked away in my little dark office, writing and revising and thinking deep thoughts. Since all my stories are based in Israel, this is an eerily appropriate time to be immersed in all of this heady stuff. But it also leaves me a little blue, so in the evenings I emerge from my room in search of some levity.

I found it in last night’s episode of Project Runway. I love that show. It’s so stupid, it’s great. In case you had something better to do on a hot Wednesday night, here is the punch line. The assignment was to design an outfit for a fictional woman and her dog. Each designer, and I use that term loosely, was given a tiny dog to use as their muse. Bradley, a sullen, introvert who seems to have last bathed in early 2005, was in a pickle. His design, you see, wasn’t working. Fast forward through a painful hour of fabric shopping, cutting, pinning, and general mayhem, and we see Bradley, an hour away from Runway Time (gasp) and he has made
nothing. Not a stitch. Nada. Not for the human model who is now standing by him wondering if she will have to walk the runway naked, nor for her little dog. Cut to Runway segment. Bradley’s model walks out in two pieces of billowy, shapeless pieces of fabric. One for a top, which looked like it was tied around her neck with a twist tie, and one for what I can only assume was a skirt. It may have all been duct taped together, I couldn’t tell.

The hoity-toity panel of judges, which for some inexplicable reason included Ivanka Trump, loved it! They gushed about his innovating point of view. They even had the size negative 4 model turn side ways to show the “flattering cut” of the “garment.” She looked like a potato sack in mid-flight. Bradley was as shocked as I was.

The judges, and the entire show, finally proved itself to be the joke that I always thought it was. But I still love it, don’t get me wrong. Now if only they would get rid of Heidi Klum. Avidasain.

Photo Series: Introduction

2006-07-25T17:26:00.000-05:00

7 a.m. Moshav Shoshana, Israel

I sit cross-legged on the woven rug. Around me are boxes filled with photographs of various sizes, black and white images with cracks running through faces. There are also leather bound albums- black paper layered with photos of children, weddings, friends- all held in place with tiny transparent corners. Notes in my mother’s careful handwriting are scribbled in silver ink next to each photo. Names, dates, places. Some are snapshots of my childhood. But others, the photos I truly treasure, are of times before my own, when my history began. Some faces look like mine; others will forever remain unnamed.

Now I am surrounded with the past, with no clear place to begin. It is a late winter morning, the kind that tricks the heart into thoughts of spring and evening walks. The low hanging clouds outside my windows, the thick smell of coals coming from the potbelly stove, my heavy eyelids, all cast the dreamy mood of early evening although the day has just begun.

My grandparents have all passed away. I am sitting on my living room floor, in our homeland, yet far away from the beginning. My family began in the countries of Eastern Europe, where my grandparents lived and loved and dreamed like all other teenagers around the world. I pull out one photo at a time, study the faces, and look for traces of my father’s eyes, my mother’s tense smile.

In my family history is not easily passed along to younger generations. My paternal grandmother diligently taught me the recipes of her childhoods- goulash and sauerkraut, brisket in dark tomato sauce, golden soups with dense dumplings. As a young child, I would watch my grandmother cook, sitting quietly in the corner of her tiny kitchen. The warm air slowly filled with the scent of rising yeast and sizzling onions. She would explain how hot the oil should be before it was ready for the small ground beef patties to be dropped in for frying. She would demonstrate her careful technique, bent over the stove like a question mark, the oil hissing in the pan. I was instructed in the art of forming the perfect matzo balls to plop into hot bowls of chicken soup, but I was not told the real stories of my grandmother’s youth, suddenly destroyed by hatred and war.

So now I am left to piece together history through these tiny black and white fragments in a cardboard box.

Photograph series: II

2006-07-19T09:20:00.000-05:00

Going for a ride with mom

My mother drove a Vespa when I was first born. We drove up and down the coast, me tucked into the sidecar, wind in my eyes and salt in my new teeth.

In this photo, we are ready to fly. I have a handkerchief around my head, tied neatly at my throat. Although it is light gray in the photo, I remember it was actually faded red, washed over and over in a small basin on the sunny side of our yard. My mother has short dark hair and a straight nose, and although I look somewhat like Ed Asner in most of the photos from this era, I will grow up to look exactly like her.

My parents met when they were in the ninth grade, which means that by the time I was 16, I was already behind schedule. My father remembers the day he saw her, wearing a crisp white shirt and a barrette in her hair. Her family had just moved to the kibbutz where my father lived- it was the first day of school. My father remembers the tree he stood under, how she turned to look in his direction, but instead, stared somewhere far in the distance. He was smitten, but it was my mother who asked him to take a moonlit walk just a few weeks later. He kissed her by the side of the pond where the kids cooled off from their fieldwork on hot summer days.

15 Minutes

2006-07-14T22:19:00.000-05:00

My hometown has been all over the news in the last few days, but it’s not the kind of fame anyone wants. I was born and raised in Nahariya, Israel, about six miles from the Israel-Lebanon border. It’s a beautiful little resort town popular with both Israelis and tourists. It is bordered by the Mediterranean Sea on the west and small agricultural communities known as Kibbutzim in every other direction.

Downtown Nahariya boasts a creek that runs through the middle of town, flanked by eucalyptus trees and outdoor cafes. Little bridges cross the creek- the Venice of the Middle East. The creek and the promenade that surrounds it end in a wide spread of beaches and beach front restaurants.

If you want to catch a glimpse of the place where I was born, just turn on CNN. Anderson Cooper has been reporting from there for a full day now. As I sat glued to my television set, the sun slowly came out behind Cooper, revealing the streetlamps and eucalyptus trees I remember so well.

Every neighborhood in Israel has community shelters- sci-fi looking structures that jut out of the ground in sharp concrete triangles. When I was young we used to have parties in these shelters. We played spin the bottle and danced. We were 11 years old. We didn’t get it. During katyusha attacks, my parents believed we would be safer at home than running through the streets to the shelter, so they would place my brother and I in the shower (the inner most room in our tiny house) and shoved pillows on all the windows. Once, when my father was out of town, my mother took us to the shelter during a bombing. We thought it was exciting. We got to be with our friends and stay up all night playing games. I cannot even imagine what my mother must have been going through at that time. I long now for the ignorance of youth.

This is not how I wanted to revisit my memories of my beloved hometown. I can’t pretend to understand what is happening there, or have the answers to this ancient war. I just know that bombs are destroying streets I used to play in as a child. I know that my best friend’s parents have fled their home and are now safe with her in Tel Aviv, although her mentally handicapped uncle refused to leave and was left behind in Nahariya with a week’s supply of food and water. I know that is it 6:00 a.m. in Israel and the familiar sound of katyushas are coming from my television set and that old fear in the pit of my stomach has returned, even though I am safe in St. Paul. I know I will probably stay up tonight and watch the day unfold in Israel, wait for my friend to get on IM so I know she is safe too.

If it sounds like war, it is.

Feel the Love

2006-07-12T16:34:00.000-05:00

Just a quick note to tell my friends (who evidently read this blog but are too shy to comment) that I love them and am eternally grateful for all of the support and interest. I am one lucky girl.

Peace, love, and Girl Scouts cookies.

Photograph Series: I

2006-07-11T14:31:00.000-05:00

Dad in front of work

My father was a librarian— when he was not taking photos of his children. He worked until 2 p.m. in the afternoons, in a library on the main road leading to our tiny downtown district. We lived in a small town on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. My father’s parents escaped from Europe and built an entire country with their bare hands; roads and homes and fields from which their children were fed. They came to this desert land and named their first-born son Israel.

My father is standing in front of the brick wall of the library’s only entrance. His hands are shoved in his jean pockets; a dark curl escapes and lands on his forehead. He is tall and shiny like a 1940’s movie star. A movie star in flannel. He squints against the bright sunlight.

Barely two decades before this photo was taken, the luxury of books, of freedom and sunshine, would have seemed a distant star to my father’s father, alone in a cold room in Romania, soldiers marching on the street below.

Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink Starbucks

2006-07-10T13:05:00.000-05:00

This weekend I went for a walk around my neighborhood with a good friend who lives in a slightly more “suburbany” area. We talked about the differences between city living and sort-of suburban living, and I noticed how often I raised the “I can walk to three coffee shops” flag as a source of pride. It seems silly, but yes, I am choosing to live in the city and give up the huge house and even huger yard for the sake of my daily walks to Java Train and Como Park. There is just something about the fact that every house on our streets looks so completely different from its neighbor, or that people live so close to each other they can share gardens, that really appeals to us. I understand, sort of, the allure of Woodbury or Plymouth or even St. Michael, where a friend of mine recently built a mega McMansion. I get that small children can ride their bikes in relative safety of the cul-de-sac and that the chances of three St. Thomas students renting the house directly across the street is smaller than in my neighborhood of West Como. I also get that you can probably build a 4000 sq. ft. house in St. Michael for a fraction of the cost it would be here. And maybe, some day, I may (hand to heart, deep breath…) choose to move out a bit further from the center of it all. But for now, as I approach 40 and am considering giving this whole parenting thing a try, I could not be happier in my tiny house and my tiny yard and my tiny porch on a street that end-caps in two privately owned coffee shops. Which brings me to my next subject.

It seems that mom-and-pop coffee shops are the last of the privately held small businesses to continue to flourish. Java Train down the bend is never empty, and they have just added a beautiful patio. On the other side of us, the Coffee Grounds showcases local music. They don't do that at Starbucks.

The whole Caribou/Islam thing confuses and saddens me, because I do like their coffee but as a Jewish girl born and raised in Israel, I feel guilty every time I go there. I tried to read about the subject a bit, but I still don’t really get it and being torn just makes me anxious so I stick with what I know: shop local. Support your local (and privately owned) coffee shops, ice cream shops, and bookstores. Put your money where your heart and home is, people, and we will all be better off for it.

It is a beautiful day outside, isn’t it? I just got back from the dentist (which I hate, but not as much as Voix does) and it wasn’t so bad. I got to drive down Summit Avenue, which is just so darn lovely. I am just in love with my life. Or maybe it’s the tall Cold Press…either way. Happy day everyone.

Leah

2006-07-07T09:36:00.000-05:00

This was an exercise in Place for Sheila's class. It is only an exercise! But in some form, down the road, it may end up in my thesis. Or not.

We spend cool spring evenings in the sandy yard behind Leah’s house, smelling of dirt and strawberry gum. The cream stucco of her house serves as shelter from the ocean breeze, while tall eucalyptus trees swayed back and forth above us like a canopy. Behind us, a winding asphalt path disappears behind the neighbor’s back shed, where a long-abandoned Vespa stands ashamed on its rusty stand. We rarely wander down this path, preferring instead the comforting confines of the tiny rectangular yard, bordered by Myrtle shrubs on one side and a sandbox on the other. We never use the sandbox because the neighborhood cats often do. Besides, we tell each other, we are eight; we are too old for sandbox games.

In our sleeveless light cotton shirts that we stubbornly wear against the damp evening, we sit on the limestone wall that segregates patio from dirt yard, weaving colorful rubber bands through our fingers. Behind Leah’s house sits a two-story apartment building that blends perfectly with the other homes with its cream façade and clay-tiled roof. On the stairs leading to an upstairs apartment, a black and white cat peers at our twilight activities from its shadowy perch. I think of Leah’s mother in the kitchen. I can hear the clinking of cookie sheets; smell the warm scent of vanilla and raspberry.

As the sun sinks into the ocean two blocks away, I can barely see Leah’s freckled face just a few inches from mine. The bronze metal of her glasses catches the light from the street lamp, where bugs swirl in a frenzied dance, their dead comrades dotting the glass globe.

“I should go in,” Leah says, as the eucalyptus swoosh over our heads. “I’m cold.”
I look up at the silvery sage leaves, buying time. I wish for the longer days and warmer nights of summer as my feet swing back and forth beneath me. I kick each foot with the other, sending grains of sand trickling down to the patio sandstone floor. Leah’s teeth have been chattering for a half an hour as she bravely refused to concede defeat against the setting sun. I wish for those warmer nights so that Leah would stay out here with me a little longer. Her hair is the color of burnt honey and her skin is so pale you can see her blue blood rushing beneath it. She is quick to tire of the cold, while I could stay out in the yard all night; wait for the stars to poke through the eucalyptus leaves one by one. I sigh and jump off the ledge.

“I don’t want to catch a cold,” she apologizes. “My mom would kill me.”
Even in my eight-year-old mind I know, I sense, that these frequent colds are more problematic than her parents let on. Their eyes shine with fear every time she coughs.

As she lets the screen door gently close behind her I hear a muffled sneeze. I imagine her mother in her warm kitchen, swiveling on her heels, a gasp catching in her throat. The sound of waves lapping against rocks fills up the silence in the yard. I wrap my arms around my chest, cold skin against damp cotton. The gum has gone stale in my mouth. I spit it out in the sandbox and close the metal gate behind me.

Thesis Update

2006-07-06T17:06:00.000-05:00

Two days into it, I have two whole pages written. BUT! I have spent most of the time organizing and outlining and thinking and I believe those are all legitimate and important tasks so there. I am also trying to work on my run-on sentences, because I am told that is a problem for readers, so I hope I can break that nasty habit before the first draft is due, but don’t count on it.

Actually, I am pretty excited. Yesterday I started solidifying a plan and creating an outline, and I think it’s going to be ok. Tell me it’s all going to be ok…

Tomorrow, if I am brave, and if I remember, I will post a short story that may or may not eventually end up in the collection.

In other news: If you miss David and Herbach half as much as I do, come down to the Soap Factory on Friday. Dave and Geoff will be doing a reading along with other authors.

Friday, July 7th at 8 PM.
Outside the Soap Factory
518 2nd St. SE Minneapolis, MN

Admission is FREE.

Your Assignment

2006-07-01T10:47:00.000-05:00

I don't know what you are doing right this minute, but I strongly suggest you head over to Jason's blog and add your Songs of Shame to the list.

Then, visit Lex Ham Rand and let the world know how much you love your 'hood.

You can always stain the dock or burn the burgers later.

On My Own

2006-06-26T13:09:00.000-05:00

Last class is tomorrow night. I am feeling both exhilarated and terrified. I like structure. I like tight deadlines. But as of Wednesday morning, I am on my own with this whole thesis thing and it makes me want to crawl into the fetal position and suck my thumb until September. The two months between tomorrow and September, when my first 80 pages are due, seems like an impassable chasm, an endless stretch of rocky time as far as the eye can see. Without Sheila to hold my hand, weekly deadlines to beat me into action, and fellow students to try and impress, how will I find motivation?

True, I do have Rand and Voix, and that bitter little voice inside my head that keeps whispering about all the money I’ve already spent. But after all this time in school, I still feel decidedly uneducated. Wasn’t I supposed to know it all by now? Isn’t that why I signed on the dotted line- to perfect my craft, work out the kinks? I swear I know nothing.

Barrie Borich was right. My grammar is crap, my sentences waaaaaaaay too long, and I wouldn’t know a dangling modifier from a squinting modifier if both bit me right on the ass.

Have I complained enough? Ok, more coffee please. Gotta finish my final portfolio for class, come up with a lovely snack to share, and crack open Burroway.

2006-06-24T10:53:00.000-05:00

To Do:

Paint new upstairs walls

Paint old patio furniture

Find cushions for old patio furniture

Find cushions for new porch furniture

Watch at least 4 hours a day of HGTV

Remove horrid wallpaper in kitchen

Paint kitchen after repairing wall damage caused by crazy dog

Paint kitchen cabinets

Change kitchen cabinets’ 1987 knobs

Change 1987 doors to several rooms (would it have killed them to put in REAL wood doors?)

Watch at least 4 hours a day of Food Network

Learn to cook

Paint furniture for new upstairs

Spray paint new closet doors

Replace bathroom vanity

Replace bathroom lights, which currently blind unsuspecting guests

Stain new railing and banister

Nah, watch husband stain new railing and banister

Continue to go through crap in garage

Sell crap at garage sale

Learn to mix stronger cocktails

Write entire thesis by September

Freelance work

Lose 9 more pounds

Feed the dog

Interact with family and friends

...In that order.

When did this happen to me? I used to be cool…seriously. I used to go out, I used to dance, I used to think creatively. Then I bought a house.

There are days when I miss my apartment on Scott Terrace, tucked up in the woods like my own little tree house. If it wasn’t for the creepy, porn-watching, laundry-stealing, prone-to-inappropriate-outbursts-of-anger neighbor, it would have been a slice of heaven. Peeling paint and all.

I love my house, I love my family. But on some days, not every day, but some days, I miss being young and stupid and mortgage free. KWIM? Ok, back to thesis.

I’m on it Rand, sheesh!

Thesis Woes Part I

2006-06-21T22:43:00.000-05:00

So I’ve been in the MFA program at Hamline for approximately 100 years. Fellow students who started in the program with me have long since gone on to publish great works of fiction, teach at the Loft and elsewhere, and participate in brilliantly written radio shows. Me? I am just now getting around to my thesis.

I don’t think I’ve been doing this right. I partially blame my former advisor, who didn’t do much advising and generally didn’t seem to give a shit. “Sure, take poetry, why not?” he’d say, my file sitting unopened on his desk. “What was your name again?”

But mostly, it’s my own damn fault, as Jimmy Buffett would say. My path through this MFA program has been a bit erratic. I’ve taken semesters off because life got in the way. I’ve chosen classes that were a complete waste of time. And I didn’t find my focus until about half way through the program. That’s a lot of money wasted, and time, and energy.

But I don’t believe in regret. Except I kind of regret quoting Jimmy Buffett just now.

So ready or not, the thesis must be written. Eighty pages must be turned into Susan Power by September. Deep breath…here we go.

Good News

2006-06-17T14:43:00.000-05:00

Our friend is back at home after a couple of days of being poked and prodded. Turns out, they believe she suffered from a neurological migraine. She doesn’t remember having a headache, but evidently, these migraines can mimic signs of a stroke. Scary.

It is amazing what the body can do, and put us through. We are just so glad to have her home. Another friend and I are headed over there, armed with Sex in the City videos, chocolate malts, and Shannon Olson’s novels Welcome to My Planet and Children of God Go Bowling.

Thanks for all the good thoughts…and bathtubs full of Whiskey.

2006-06-15T09:19:00.000-05:00

Our good friend is in the hospital. She had numb hands and her speech is slurred. She is in her early 30's. They have ran a million tests on her tiny body and have ruled out major things like stroke. I am scared out of my mind and completely freaked out. Maybe by the time I even publish this everything would have resolved itself? Right?

If you pray, please pray. If you hope, wish, or have any magical powers or positive thoughts, please send those too.

When Charlotte Comes Home

2006-06-07T18:30:00.000-05:00

I am reading When Charlotte Comes Home by Maureen Millea Smith and it is beautiful and so devastating that I need time to process it before I can tell you about it.

All I can tell you is that I am not a big reader, not like the rest of you. I have a hard time reading so I don't do it as often as I should. Plus, I rarely find that book. You know, that book that sits on your shoulder like a little buzzing bird as you go about your day, that story that keeps calling to you until you can pick the book back up in the evening. This is such a book for me, so if you want to, pick it up. Be moved, be haunted, and support local authors all in one swift move.

More later...

Keep on Rockin' in the Free World

2006-06-01T14:59:00.000-05:00

A recent, and rather disturbing revelation by Blogagaard, has got me thinking. What are you all listening to these days?

We got XM radio for Christmas from my in-laws, who unfortunately live in Iowa. It makes the three plus hours drive much more tolerable when you can flip easily between a station dedicated to Frank Sinatra, salsa mui caliente, European top 80’s, and CNN. Now we’ve moved it indoors, and it’s a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

David, you know I kid. Now go put on some Beatles or Lyle Lovett or Elvis, or at least Nora Jones or something. Sheesh.

Love it!

2006-05-29T17:45:00.000-05:00

It’s hot. H-O-T hot. It’s so hot, that my refrigerator has ran out of ice so now I have to drink sort-of cool water. But I love it. I love the heat and I love how tired it makes me, because I love taking afternoon naps on my couch during a long quiet weekend.

On Friday, I sat on my dusty porch with the dog and watched families around the neighborhood pack up their trucks and SUV’s and head out of town. It occurred to me that we might be at a time in our lives when we should consider renting a cabin some weekend and inviting friends up for some good ol’ Minnesota style hanging-around-ness. I mentioned this revelation to my husband and he loved it. So there you go. One of these summer weekends, we may just pack up our own SUV and head “up North”. Why the heck not.

Also, we now own a boat. It’s a long story and I didn’t necessarily want said boat, but now it’s ours and we don’t know where to put it. It’s just a rickety old thing and I don’t want it taking up space in my back yard (which is now a huge plot of dirt because it is taking twice as long to do the landscaping as we expected, but I digress…). Any ideas?

What else? Oh yeah. I have made a decision. Starting tomorrow, no more daytime television. Since I stopped working, I have done basically nothing. Other than a lovely trip to NYC, I have laid on my couch and learned about all sorts of scrumptious dishes I will probably never cook on the Food Channel, and I have made long lists of all the places I will probably never get to visit from the Travel Channel. I can quote Dr. Phil in my sleep and I often do. I don’t know where this lazy streak came from, but I suspect is has something to do with the utter exhaustion I felt after entirely too long at a job where I was surrounded by ugliness. I took a break, maybe even sort of a deserved break, but now it’s over. Starting tomorrow, I will read and write and walk the dog.

You are all my witnesses. Seriously.

Good Bye NYC

2006-05-25T16:48:00.000-05:00

New York City was a dream, as usual. It was a different experience for me this time, because I had two friends with me who had never been there before. They were so appreciative and excited. Believe me, I haven’t gotten complacent about my times there, but it was refreshing to experience the grandeur of the place through their eyes.

We managed to fit a lot into four days. West Village for Magnolia cupcakes (which are ridiculously expensive, by the way) and a stroll by the river, Staten Island ferry for a close-up look at the Statue of Liberty, Ground Zero (where the city is still fighting over what to build there), subway rides and crazy cabs, giant cheesecakes at Stage Deli where the waitresses instantly become your meddling yet well-meaning Jewish mothers (so get a sandwich, it’s good!), Rockefeller Plaza, Dean and Deluca, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Chelsea Market, liquid chocolate at the Chocolate Bar (highly recommended), Strawberry Fields, carriage ride around Central Park, and lots and lots of walking.

My favorite time has to be laying on the grass in Central Park and listening to this amazing “street musician”, as he referred to himself. He had an amazing voice and put on a hell of a show. He stood in front of the lake, and the little hill in front of him was full of tired visitors and New Yorkers alike, singing along and yelling out requests. The weather was perfect, and occasionally people would stop by the shore of the lake on row boats to listen. Picture James Taylor singing to you and fifty of your closest friends on a sun-filled day in Central Park. It was heaven. Go to his web site and give it a listen, you'll be planning your next NYC visit in no time.

Star sightings: Out of all the famous people roaming the streets of New York, we run into Chris Carter (former Vikings player, for those of you who care about football as much- or as little- as I do). My friends are HUGE fans, we have all had season tickets together in past years and they were insane about meeting him. We also saw Kiefer Sutherland crossing the street in the West Village, but he was on his cell phone so we decided not to bother him. On the subway we saw one of the comedians from VH1’s Best Week ever making out with his girlfriend. We also took this as a sign not to attempt conversation.

I think it will be my last trip to NYC for a while, so I am glad I was able to share it with good friends. And now I am happy to be home. Muggy heat and all.

NYC

2006-05-16T09:57:00.000-05:00

Heading out to the Big Apple Friday morning. Really early Friday morning. This trip is going to be different than previous visits because two friends are coming with me. We will stay at the Dylan Hotel and eat our way through the city. Normally I stay with my friend Anna in Brooklyn. It will be fun to stay in Manhattan, but I will miss Brooklyn. If you ever visit New York, give Brooklyn a visit too, it has a lot to offer.

I am a little concerned because I have been feeling pretty crappy for the last
couple of weeks, but I am hoping that the spirit of the city will snap me out of it. There will be a lot of distance to cover, many delicacies to indulge in, and I cannot miss a beat, or a cupcake, because of a little headache. Soldier on!

On the list of activities are Magnolia Bakery, Joe’s Pizza, Pastis French Café, and Katz Deli. Seeing a pattern here? Really, it won’t all be about food. We’ll also go to the park, of course, and they may even talk me into a carriage ride (I avoid them because I feel sorry for the horses, I can’t help it). Ground Zero, Battery Park, Staten Island Ferry, Rockefeller Plaza, 5th Avenue, Chelsea Market, and of course my personal favorite, the West Village, are also on the list. With lots of breaks for street vendor hot dogs and Krispy Kremes.

I expect it to be my last trip to New York for a while, and I am especially looking forward to sharing it with my friends, who have never been there before. There truly is no city like New York City.

The most bizarre coincidence ever

2006-05-15T13:22:00.000-05:00

So last night my husband and I were pulling away from our house on our way to dinner. We were in the back of the house, and right there on the open grass behind the lilac bushes, was a purse. I grabbed it hoping there would be an ID in it. Inside there was no ID, but instead the contents made it clear that it belonged to our friend who lives a block away. No names, just items I knew belonged to her. “How strange,” we both commented. “Maybe they stopped by and this fell out of their car.” We drove over and since they were not home, we left it inside the front porch and called their cell.

Turns out, they had not stopped by and we could not figure out how her bag, which was last seen inside their house, ended up in our back alley. Upon further inspection, they realized they had been burglarized. Only cash, two credit cards, and the purse were missing, but the house had clearly been gone through.

Besides the very sad and disturbing break-in, we are all freaking out about the odds of her purse ending up in OUR backyard. If it had ended up anywhere else, no one would have been able to trace it back to them, they would not have noticed the cash missing, and the rotten bastards who did this would have racked up bills on their credit cards.

Weird ha?

Nothing to say

2006-05-13T13:39:00.000-05:00

Have you ever had this happen to you? I have nothing to say. Voix, I know you are cocking your head in an attempt to understand. “What is this ‘nothing to say’ thing you speak of?” you ask. What I mean is, I have nothing important to write about, nothing worthwhile to discuss. And I don’t just mean in the creative sense. I met two friends for dinner last night and thankfully they had fun things to share, because I was a complete bore. You find this hard to believe, I know. But trust me, I had nothing. Which brings me to my main concern, my thesis. But maybe it’s a vicious cycle. Maybe if I start typing, something will come to me. Do you think?

I think it was E.L. Doctrow that said, “Writing a novel is like driving a car in the dark. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

So I will get behind the wheel and give this thing another shot. And if all else fails, there is always the Barefoot Contessa. More on my recent obsession later.

Forgive my absence

2006-05-06T15:21:00.000-05:00

I have been a hideous monster, hiding out in my bedroom for the past week. Seems I was afflicted with a rash, or hives, possibly from the sunburn I got in Florida. It was not pretty. My eyes were swollen, my skin burned and itched. Little bumps all over my body became sprawling patches of pink in a matter of hours. My wrists were so swollen and sore, I could not raise myself into a seated position. On the plus side, for one day, my upper lip looked like Angelina Joli’s.

To top it off, the only thing Doc prescribed was Benedryl. Turns out, I’m allergic. Nausea, dizziness, migraines, and all round mayhem ensued.

Oh, and did I mention the construction zone outside my front door? Yep. Try getting some shut-eye when a bulldozer the size of a small apartment building is ripping out the street directly below your bedroom. The house shook, the dog cowered, I cried. Not exactly what I envisioned for my first week of freedom…I mean…unemployment.

Amazingly, less than a week later, I am almost back to normal. Upper lip has deflated back to original size and I can walk upright for several minutes at a time. Hooray!

It is beautiful out. Have you been out there? Go. Turn off that computer and go out into the world. Things are blooming, as my husband’s recent sneeze fest illustrates, and the sky is the sparkling blue of spring. Now, if only that huge orange Vasko dumpster wasn't in my front yard...

A day without ILLEGAL immigrants

2006-05-01T18:15:00.001-05:00

I am not a terribly political person (joke below not-withstanding) but I feel compelled to say something about today’s absurd demonstrations. Demonstrations, by the way, that took place with the help of local police, paid for by taxes payers' money.

My understanding (and if I am wrong, feel free to correct me) is that the problem is with ILLEGAL immigration, not immigrants in general. Most of the media today has suspiciously omitted the word illegal from its headlines. Watching most news programs today, you would think the protestors are fighting some bill calling for deportation of anyone who is not a natural born American. The American National Anthem sang in Spanish? I am not the most patriotic person out there, but I find that absolutely appalling. Why not change the Mexican National Anthem to English then?

My family came to this country when I was 13 years old. My father was the only one who knew some English. My mother, brother and I had to struggle to learn the language, and it’s a tough one (i before e except after the c is the least of it). I remember my dad pouring over mountains of paperwork in an attempt to first gain legal status, then a green card, then citizenship. There was a constant threat that our applications would not be accepted, that the life we were slowly building would have to be taken down like a pop up tent and shipped back half way across the world. I spent the first years here maintaining a safe distance from personal connections, lest they be suddenly taken away. It has affected every thing I do now. But we did what we had to do. We did it out of respect for our new home country. I would have not dreamt of demanding that everyone around me learn my language. We came here by choice, I needed to do the adjusting. And I feel I am better off for it.

A friend of ours recently married a woman in Thailand. It took him TWO years to get her over here, and they have a son. But he followed the rules of the law, no matter how infuriating. Not all laws are fair. Maybe it’s even true that most laws are not. But in my opinion, it’s better than not having them at all.

Yes, it has become increasingly more difficult to gain legal status. I don't doubt there needs to be some reform. But demanding amnesty is ridiculous. (Before you start writing your response, I am aware that not everyone is protesting for amnesty, I am only addressing those who do.)

I cannot help but remember back to the day I took my citizenship test. Before going into a private office for the actual test, I sat in a long row of partitioned desks, answering complicated questions like what my name was and what month we were in. I was the only person there who spoke ANY English. The other candidates all had translators (also paid for by our taxes) and never uttered a word in their adopted country's language. I'm sorry, if you can't say your name in English, how are you really going to contribute as a citizen? Citizenship is a priviledge. I worked hard for it. I paid for it. I am proud of it. I did not demand it.

There, I’ve said it. Let the hate mail begin.

A little joke fer ya'

2006-04-28T17:32:00.000-05:00

Rumsfeld is reporting to the Presidents' Cabinet. He says "3 Brazilian soldiers were killed today in Iraq."

The President says "Oh, my God" as he buries his head in his hands.
The entire Cabinet is stunned. Usually Bush shows no reaction what so ever to these reports.

Just then Bush looks up and asks "How many is a brazillion?"

Time is on my side

2006-04-28T16:10:00.000-05:00

Today is my first day of unemployment. I have been very fortunate to have a writing gig for the last two years, but I just could not talk myself into being happy there another minute. Turns out, they felt the same way. It was U-G-L-Y ugly. It didn’t have to be, but people don’t always make choices I understand. As a good friend of mine put it, last week was like an episode of Survivor. Don’t believe a word your fellow castaways say, that’s not chicken they just served you.

Putting on my Think Positive Hat, I believe this is just the kick in the butt I needed to go back to the reason why I became a freelancer to begin with. I wanted to do project based work, not get imbedded in the every day politics and bullshit inevitable in most work environments. When I decided to freelance, I wanted to do more magazine writing, and focus primarily on marketing copy. So here’s my chance!

I am relieved, excited, and peaceful for the first time in over a year. I am sure that next week I will realize that I no longer have an income and that means I can’t shop at Byerly’s anymore or fly off to New York at a moment’s notice (after this one last trip in May, I promise it’s the last one…) and I am sure I will worry myself into the fetal position then. But today, I am cozy and comfy, curled up on the couch with my Buddy. The rain outside is like a cleansing, washing away the bad taste in my mouth, readying me for the next adventure.

Big, big sigh.

I have a sun burn

2006-04-24T16:12:00.000-05:00

I was in Florida over the weekend, and it was hot hot hot. I was a good girl and slathered on the 45 in the morning. I waited the obligatory half hour before going in the sun. I wore a hat, I sat in the shade poolside. But I walked up and down the beach enjoying the cool breeze and comforting sun and returned with bright red feet and forearms. Now I am freaked out about skin cancer.

It’s cool here, which feels nice on my hot skin. But I have to say, I already miss waking up to a 12th floor view of the ocean.

Spring time in New York

2006-04-18T22:11:00.000-05:00

Looking for suggestions for a hotel in NY. Anyone?

I am going with two girlfriends who have never been there, so I wanted to stay somewhere nice and centrally located. I've stayed at The Muse, and we loved it, but for this visit, I think it's a little too close to Times Square. Would also like to keep it under $300 per night. Not an easy task in the Big Apple.

Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Grrrrrrr

2006-04-17T22:43:00.000-05:00

It's been a crazy day. There are explosions in Tel Aviv and buses careening off cliffs in Mexico and little girls killed for food by some psycho neighbor. I want to quit my job because I am sick of feeling like a second class citizen no matter how good my work is. And the damn dog next door barks through the night but I forgive him, it's his owner that needs to be put down. I am full of self doubt about my thesis and the little voice that says "who the hell do you think you're fooling?" keeps getting louder. I am sure this post is full of typos but I am bypassing my usual step of creating it in word first because that is just the way I feel right now. Dangerous. Edgy.

I am feeling like a tightly wound bundle of emotions and nerves and frustrations. When I sort it all out, I will display the threads here, one by one, and hope that all of you wise folks can help me.

Until we meet again. Off to bed I go in my fuzzy pink robe.

Let the festivities begin

2006-04-12T21:26:00.000-05:00

My neighborhood is looking like a war zone. The area is undergoing some massive reconstruction that promises to raise home values and add character to our streets. True, some improvement is needed. The potholes on Arlington are so deep, several neighborhood children were seen wading in them after the last storm. And I suppose a new sewer system is always a good idea. But the planning and execution of this two-year project seems a bit off.

Now, I am no expert, but it seems to me that maybe tearing up EVERY STREET in a ten-block area is not the best way to go about it. Perhaps they could have attacked the plan one, maybe two, blocks at a time? No. Our neighbor, for example, works at the Como Zoo, which is four blocks away. This morning, she could not get to work by car! I shit you not. I’ll address the logic of driving four blocks to work at a later date. That is not the point here.

Also, they are still working as I type this. It is 8:52 in the evening. So on the first few beautiful evenings of the year, when we have our windows open to catch the breezes, what we are catching instead are a whole lot of sharp beeping noises and a thin wave of dust that coats the surfaces of our furniture, the porch walls, my skin.

I keep telling myself it will all be worth it in the end, but we are two days into the second summer of the project, and already they have busted a water main (leaving us water-less right in the middle of dinner time, sending neighbors into the streets in protest. Hey, at least we met some neighbors.) and have left the few remaining open streets so full of pebbles and holes so as to render them 4 wheel drive territory.

Sigh.

The heat is on

2006-04-10T22:00:00.000-05:00

Tonight, I got a sliver in my hand. The little pains are the worst aren’t they? I was moving a wicker box and in it went, tiny and lethal. My husband attempted some minor surgery at the dinning room table, but alas, the prickly little bastard remains embedded in my palm. I cannot imagine having to pull one of those fuckers out of a child’s skin. They scream don’t they? Kids, not slivers. They cry and pull away and ask why you are hurting them, right? They scream so loud the neighbors consider calling Child Protection. At least, that’s what I did tonight. We finally had to give up, let it sit in my hand over night and soften. I am seriously thinking about taking tomorrow off.

On a more positive note, it is 73 degrees inside my house, and the heat is OFF! Windows open, breeze flowing through the rooms like a spring parade. David says there is a “freakin' gorgeous” moon out, but I can’t see it from this vantage point. I am going to trust him though, he wouldn’t kid about something as precious as the moon.

Sick in the head

2006-04-05T11:24:00.000-05:00

Last summer, I got very sick. I won’t bore you with the details, but the short version is that they found a tiny spot in my brain. Mayhem ensued. Turned out, it’s probably harmless, and it was the tests, spinal taps, and gazillion meds on my bed side table that made me sicker than any little pea in the brain could.

During the ordeal, I was too sick to worry or even give much thought to what it could all mean. It’s amazing how Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs comes into play at the oddest times. When you are trying to keep water down or muster up enough strength to pick up the remote, you don’t have enough energy or brain power left over to ponder the meaning of life, or death. This is something that I found very interesting once I got well enough to be able to think again.

I have never been sick before, not like that. I had no idea what gravely ill people go through. And I was not by any means gravely ill. But I was surprised at the lack of concern I felt for my own health. Is it because I knew in my gut I would be fine, no matter what the x-rays were showing? Or is it really because I just didn’t have the strength to worry?

My loved ones worried, more than I knew. My husband fielded many phone calls each day. It wasn’t until after it was all over that I realized what I had put everyone through. I hope I never worry anyone like that again. Looking back, I realize, that at least in my case, it was much easier to be the sick one. Mentally any way. Because while I was busy hurting, they were busy imagining the worst. And I’d rather be puking up water any day of the week.

Have you ever had one of those days…

2006-04-02T19:32:00.000-05:00

when you suddenly realize that you are living the dream? Except that it’s not really any dream you’ve ever had because you couldn’t have imagined that your life would turn out this way and you’ve certainly never done anything to deserve it? I mean, you’ve never played by the Rules or worked on making yourself emotionally available. You spent several years being the opposite of available, in fact. You did some things that were a little crazy and maybe not so nice and you found all that madness entertaining. And you piled up mistake after mistake in tall stacks on your apartment floor until you could barely squeeze your way through the front door, much less let anyone else in. And at some point, probably around the age of eight, you decided that being content was the same as being boring and you swore you would never be either.

Then, while you were busy being difficult and pained and dark, some nice guy with a quick smile wormed his way into your days and then your nights and then he just plain moved in. And it was annoying at first so you tried to explain to him that he didn’t know what he was getting himself into and that to be honest he was just too Iowa for you. But slowly, you started feeling something that was a little like a mild cold, but it turned out to be peace. And now you find your self spending this rainy Sunday curled up on the new sectional and laughing at the way the dog yawns, and to you, that is the best entertainment ever.

Let the pampering begin

2006-03-30T20:41:00.000-06:00

I am considering this weekend as the last bit of freedom before I dive head long into the empty pool that is my thesis.

I declare today Alex Day, at least in my little corner of the universe. I am going to (try really really hard to) avoid any errand-running, laundry, house cleaning, or anything else that is not luxurious or relaxing or fun or all of those things. I say that now, but you can bet your bottom dollar I will end up at Target at least once today.

For starters, I am cashing in my Valentine’s Day present and spending a couple of hours at a spa. In Dinky Town of all places. I am really looking forward to it, except for this little thing I have against people touching me. In a spa, as you might have guessed, most treatments involve some sort of touching. I don’t know where this anti-touch thing started. My parents tell me I was always like that, but that’s for another post. Either way, I am going to stop at Java Train, get the biggest hazelnut steamer they have, and go get pampered.

Then comes the much touted shoe shopping trip. Peep toe heels here I come.

Tonight, we are meeting a friend at Famous Dave’s. I haven’t seen her for a long time. Now that she is newly separated from a man who is also our friend, she is spending more time back in the fold. Aside from the obvious awkwardness and juggling that comes along with caring about both of the separated parties, we are all just very happy to hear from her again on a regular basis.

Funny how we change. In my 20’s, if a friend dropped out of touch, especially because of a boy, it would have been unforgivable. Now, I see how complicated it really all is. No one can knows the nature of a friend’s marriage, her reasons for being absent all this time, or what is in her head and heart now. I used to freely prescribe intentions to people’s actions. Now I know that sometimes we don’t even know our own motivation. Maybe they were so blissfully happy that they forgot about us. More likely, they were dealing with things that would have been made even more complicated when shared with friends. Or maybe she just missed us, sees now that giving up friends is just never a good idea, because someday, you might need them again. And the rest of us? We’ll be there, happy to raise a glass to her new life and offering to be on the other end of the line any time she needs to pick up the phone.

But enough about that. It's Me Day. Bring on the scented candles and sea salt scrubs.

In case you were wondering

2006-03-29T19:43:00.000-06:00

Shalom- hello and/or peace

Toda- Thank you

Aba- Father

Ima (ee'ma)- Mother

Ken- Yes

Lo- No

Ahava- Love

This concludes Alex's Hebrew lesson for this week.

Blue

2006-03-28T17:15:00.000-06:00

Most days, I don’t know where I’m going,

some times I don’t know where I’ve been.

There are nights I feel as small as the furthest star,

and every day you’re older than you think you are.

I just look into your blue eyes,

and it all makes sense for now.

Every once in a while,

I cry at the thought of another tomorrow,

there are times, I cry for the days I’ve lost.

I just look into your blue eyes,

and it all makes sense for now.

Swimsuit season

2006-03-27T18:23:00.000-06:00

I don't know what it is about marriage and weight gain. It's not like I am cooking any more than I ever have, heaven forbid. And the whole thing about contentment leading to extra pounds is a bunch of bologna (mmm, bologna). I am more stressed out than ever, with school and thesis and job and furniture shopping...the pounds should be dripping off me! But no. I have gotten bigger everywhere (and not in a good way) since the day we said "I do."

I thought I had four months to get back into my fighting weight. Four months, that’s do-able. I can cut out cookies after lunch and pastries with my coffee and feel somewhat presentable by the time capri weather hits. But then my husband sprung a three-day Daytona Beach weekend on me. Can you believe the nerve? In less then four weeks, I have to don a swimsuit. In public.

Sigh. Since the Jones-Blogagaard Annual Writers Run is not yet scheduled, I can’t count on that as my motivator. I must think of something else. Apparently, the horror and humiliation of wearing a two-piece in front of friends and strangers is not enough. Oh yeah, and did I mention we are going on family vacation (there are like, a 1000 people in my newly acquired family) to a WATER PARK?!

No more butter on my toast. No more toast. No more hazelnut cream in my morning decaf. But I won’t give up my Frosted Mini-wheats Strawberry Delights no matter what you say. I love those things.

I’ll be on the treadmill if you need me.

Things that make me happy

2006-03-26T21:32:00.000-06:00

I will now jump on the bandwagon driven by Cavu and Voix and will attempt to list off a few things that I love. I don’t consider myself a particularly unhappy person, but finding 12 things for this list of love and happiness was tougher than I thought.

But here is what I have come up with so far:

1. Coffee with friends. There is simply no better way to start a Sunday than with good friends over a cup of coffee (or these days, a vanilla steamer), except maybe Sunday brunch (but not at W.A. Frost, see previous post). And these are the best kinds of friends and the best kinds of conversations, where the topic can range from politics to failing health of loved ones to spiritual retreats. We can cover hairstyles and our love for hoodies with the same passion and sincerity we assign our discussions of our lovers and our mothers and our jobs. Nothing is sacred and everything is revered.

2. This country. I am no Pollyanna. I fully understand that we are currently being led by the Antichrist who is slowly attempting to rob us of our freedoms and advance his own crusade at the expense of our young men and women not to mention the entire country of Iraq (deep breath). Those facts notwithstanding, I have lived in places where the separation between the socioeconomic classes was so vast that the rich literally stepped over the rows of cardboard box houses of the poor on their way to the mall. I have lived in a country where children were taught at an early age not to kick rocks on the ground because they might be concealed bombs. So in a world where everything is relative, I have to say, I love this country.

3. Early spring. When my dog starts refusing to come in, I know spring is near. He sits on the top step of the porch, his nose high up in the air. God only knows what he might be sniffing. Rotting leaves left over from last fall, the crazy dogs down the block that are too small to have been let out for any extended periods of time during the winter but are now running circles in their yard barking at the melting snow. The longer he sits outside without giving us that seal-bark signal to come in, the closer spring is. And with it…

4. Time spent on my porch. My only rule when we were house hunting: must have porch. And we have one. A tiny, open-air, only-good-for-three-months-a-year porch. I love it so much I have a photo of it as my screen saver at work. Seriously. We have plantation style furniture on it and I sit and read while Buddy digs for dead things in the yard. It’s my own modest slice of heaven.

5. My MFA program. I have to say that I was not thrilled with it at first. In one of my first classes (Sam can attest to this) there was a lovely girl who wrote lovely crap about butterflies and boyfriends. The teacher insisted that we be kind to everyone and begin each workshop by saying at least one nice thing. I was horrified. I was not paying an insane amount of money to be nice, and I certainly did not want anyone being nice to me if the truth was that I had no business being in a writing program in the first place. I seriously re-considered my choice. I knew the odds of getting into Iowa were slim, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for THAT type of cruel honesty. So I stayed. And I am so glad I did. Sadly, just as my time at Hamline is ending, I have met people that truly inspire and humble me while at the same time making me feel like I belong to the Cool Kids Club.

6. Speaking of butterflies and boyfriends, my husband, Tony is at the top of the things-that-make-me-happy list. I got lucky, and I know it. He is kind and generous and we have amazing Sunday afternoon conversations that last way past dinnertime. He knows every stupid mistake I have ever made and loves me anyway. He makes me laugh and he loves my dog. He makes up songs about him and carries him upstairs to bed when his arthritis (Buddy’s, not Tony’s) acts up. I could go on, but then I might get kicked out of the Cool Kids Club.

7. New York, where my friend Anna lives. I miss it in my bones. I love the food and the freedom and the craziness. I love the used bookstore in West Village and I love the cupcakes at Magnolia across the street even more. I love Joes’ Pizza on Carmine where I sit and eat greasy cheese slices while I wait for Anna to get off work so we can take the subway together to her ultra cool apartment in Brooklyn. And Serendipity, where the eight dollar frozen hot chocolate is totally worth the two hour wait because John Cuzack sat there in the movie with the same name. There is nothing I do not love about the city that never sleeps, probably because I don’t have to live there and everything is glorious and romantic when I visit. I love the Muse Hotel and I love that night we spent there, Anna and her sister and Tony and me all sitting together on the bed eating Chinese take-out and watching the last episode of Sex and the City and feeling oh so hip with the rush of Time Square on the street below.

There is more. Music and my family and bad reality shows. But that’s enough happiness for now. Tomorrow I may list the things I love about Lit 6, or maybe I’ll talk some more about my dog.

Ulysses for Dummies

2006-03-23T22:51:00.000-06:00

I am not sure if anyone has ever read James Joyce for pleasure. Reading work such as Ulysses seems to be something people are either forced to do for school, or something they take on as some sort of sadistic mental challenge.

Tonight, I went to a “Ulysses in 60 Minutes” presentation at St. Kate’s. It wasn’t what I expected. I assumed the talk would be given in one of the auditoriums, the seats filled with literary types in thick scarves and turtlenecks. Instead, the presentation was in a tiny classroom that the 12 attendees filled to capacity. The speaker, Patrick O’Donnell, is originally from Dublin and currently teaches at Normandale. He is a Joyce scholar and has written several plays based on Joyce and his work. His wife introduced him, although I am not sure why, and his three red-headed daughters attended as well (ages 1 to 5). When I wasn’t distracted by Lily O’Donnell moving chairs around and drawing puppies on the whiteboard, or little Anya’s high pitched protests coming in from the hall, where she was being shushed by her mother, the presentation was actually pretty interesting.

O’Donnell contends that in order to understand Joyce’s admittedly “frustrating” book, one should take the time to become acquainted with the author’s biography. Once we understand the writer, O’Donnell promised, Ulysses “opens right up.” Not sure about that, but it was interesting non-the-less to hear about Joyce’s childhood, education, and subsequent weaving of his life story into the epic that is Ulysses.

In Ulysses, Joyce takes on the “urban man of no importance” and attempts to show the “filth in beauty.” As a young man, Joyce rebelled against Yeates’ pastoral landscapes of Ireland as a mythical beauty. Ulysses is also a comedy, O’Donnell pointed out. That peaked my interest, just a little.

There was a lot more, we covered a surprisingly vast amount of information in 60 minutes.

In conclusion, you might ask if I plan on attacking Ulysses on my next beach vacation. Nah, I think I’ll stick with Anne Lamott and the latest Best American Short Stories. But at least I have some idea on what Ulysses is sort of supposed to maybe represent. So the next time you hear me drop a Ulysses reference at a cocktail party, please humor me. Nudge me gently, wink, then go get me another gin and tonic.

Required Reading

2006-03-22T20:23:00.000-06:00

side-car.blogspot.com

One point I'd like to add to SideCar's post, and then we can put this whole blogging-as-trivial-babble thing to bed.

Blogging has been a little like speed dating for me. I know what Captain does first thing in the morning, and what weapon he might choose to put me out of my misery with if I cry outside his window after midnight. I share in Blogagaard's most embarrassing/thrilling Tobias Wolff moments. I walk along with Voix on her journey, painful and joyful and utterly naked right there on the screen. People I have never met respond to me, ME, with insightful messages of encouragement when I threaten to never write again. Those same strangers also freely share self-deprecating information on who their favorite Duran Duran member is- now that's naked! I may not know what they all do for a living, or even what they look like sometimes, but I know more important things than that. And to me, that seems the opposite of shallow babbling.

The beginning

2006-03-22T20:02:00.000-06:00

Ayala quietly shut the door to her mother’s room and slid down the hallway to the kitchen. She put the copper kettle on and boiled water. She carefully poured the hot water into her mother’s coffee pot and let it seep through the dark coffee grounds. She let the aroma wash over her, and for a moment, all felt as usual with her world. When she opened her eyes and looked out the kitchen window, she could swear she heard her brother’s decrepit motorcycle purr outside their small house. She pushed back a new flood of tears, arranged the tray with several steaming cups of coffee and brought it out to her father on the patio.

The palm trees stood tall in the still morning hours, the sun already heating up the concrete patio floor. Her father was surrounded by a group of men, some of whom she knew to be important members of the village council. She placed the metal tray in front of her father and closed the door behind her as she went back into the coolness of the house. Her father and his friends had been out on the patio all morning, the temperatures rising now as the noon hour closed in. Soon they would come in for shelter from the heat. She knew she was not welcome in their discussion, nor did she have anything to contribute. She went into her mother’s dark room and lay next to her as she slept, the first few moments of peace since the knock on the door last night.

Can do!

2006-03-21T07:39:00.000-06:00

I met with my advisor yesterday. I love my advisor. She is a quiet soul and knows her stuff. Her wild curls and signature velvet skirts make her look like a woods fairy, a nympth, sweet yet powerful. My advisor sat next to me at the imposing oak table in the Graduates office and asked me a question. In a voice so gentle it could sedate a criminal, she asked me a mundane question she has asked many insecure MFA students before me. "Are you ready for your thesis?" And before I could think, that crazed, ignorant girl that sometimes resides in my head spoke for me: "I will be!" She said confidentially. "Great, just make sure you have 80 pages by September." "Can do!" Ok, Crazed Ignorant Girl didn't actually say "Can do!" She may be crazy, but she is no kiss-ass. Either way, somehow, my lovely advisor got the impression that I know what I am doing. That I have this brilliant idea for a collection of short stories based on ONE, count 'em, ONE 6 page short story I already have. Let me see, I think that leaves...oh yeah, that's right, 74 pages to go. All of you real writers out there are saying, it's not about the page count Alex, it's about pouring out what you have to say. True. But please check post titled Filling up the pages for more information about that.

So, goodbye long summer walks. Goodbye lazy evenings drinking ice coffee on the porch. Goodbye Sunday brunches on some shady patio. I will be at home, in the dark, pouring out something onto 80 pages.

The wait is over

2006-03-20T23:36:00.000-06:00

Just picked up my brand new Jeep Liberty Limited. Because nothing says "Alex" like a vehicle with unlimited towing capacity.

Tricks of the trade

2006-03-19T09:54:00.000-06:00

I need help.

My best ideas come to me in the shower, or during meetings, or rush hour traffic, where I don’t keep my tiny notebook. Often times my husband is not around to take dictation and my dog can’t spell worth shit.

I am sure this is common, but I hear these stories in my head, and just as soon as I do, they are gone. I think I can remember them, I try all sorts of memorizations techniques. I trace key words on the wet shower curtain, or I say them over and over again in my head. My friend gave me a little tape recorder so I wouldn’t get into accidents fishing for my notebook while driving down 94, but then I bring the recorder into my house, and forget to bring it back to the car. Or the batteries die. I don’t do well with machines. Pen-and-paper rarely fails me.

So, how do you protect your thoughts when they creep up during inopportune times? How do you make sure they at least last long enough to get to the laptop?

Let is snow let it snow let it snow

2006-03-17T09:21:00.000-06:00

In light of some recent anti-snow sentiments, I feel moved to defend my adopted state. Where I come from, we didn’t have snow. We didn’t have freezing rain and iced-over highways. We didn’t have 60 below wind-chill or coats so big the gender of the wearer became undecipherable. We didn’t spin out of control or get stuck in two feet of snow on our way to Rainbow. We couldn’t see our breath in front of our faces or feel our snot begin to freeze waaaay up in our sinuses. But you know what we did have? Terrorists.

It’s true, the snow starts to lose its appeal some time after oh, January 1st. I mean, it’s lovely around the holidays and all, with tiny white Christmas lights peeking out from under a fresh coating. It tops the pine shrubs like soft mounds of sour cream, casting dove gray shadows on the white ground below. And the first snowfall is always a thrill, bringing out the child in everyone. We sit at newly frosted windows and peer out at the slowly drifting flakes, huge and full like cotton balls. In early winter, I even forgive the cold when I see the trees down my street, bent heavy with sparkling layers.

But I concede, after a while, there is only so much of the white stuff that I can take. Come March, it’s time for rising temperatures and swimsuit shopping, not two snow days in one week. But at least no one is trying to blow up the Super America down the street. So I guess I don’t mind the snow so much.

Bryant Park

2006-03-14T21:46:00.000-06:00

Ok, so maybe it was my fault. Maybe I made too much of a fuss over reading out loud in class. Maybe I was just being a bit too Cute about the whole thing, leading Teacher to pass me over. The thing is, I had finally gotten my nerve up after hearing how kind and thoughtful everyone was being to the other readers. I was just beginning to see that maybe going through such a torturous exercise as reading out loud in front of friends and strangers might be beneficial to me. And then, nothing. We get back from break and move on flawlessly to the next assignment. No "So Alex, are you ready to read?" Nothing. Queue close up of balloon deflating. Whooosh.

So here it is. Who needs face-to-face humiliation when we have blogland. For those of you who would rather be kept in suspense until next class, stop reading now.

Bryant Park
Joe leans forward on his elbows, his corduroy cap casting a murky shadow across his face. On the small concrete table in front of him lies a weathered chessboard, painted black and white squares on the cold stone. It is a game he plays every morning with his neighbors. Sometimes, in the winter months, they meet at Sylvia’s diner on 40th street, between 6th and 7th. Sylvia makes them pancakes and mushroom omelets, keeps their brown coffee mugs filled with Folgers. But when the days get longer, and the sun starts streaking the tops of the high-rises, the daily game moves to Bryant Park.

The base of the table is strangely ornate, a stout Roman column bolted firmly to the ground. Joe dons his spring jacket, although the trees in the park have yet to sprout a hint of their tiny green buds that normally usher in warmer days. Joe wears his loose tan jacket with pride, the name of his former employer stitched on the right side of his chest. Joe worked for Cobalt Builders for 35 years, and tells stories of his days building homes for New York wealthiest to anyone who will listen. But today it is Lenny across the board from him. Lenny has already heard all of Joe’s stories. Tales of days spent pouring concrete into large holes dug into the soft ground of upstate New York, or tearing down walls in lofts in Soho, creating even larger residences for celebrities. Joe didn’t care much about the fame or affluence of the people who eventually occupied the spaces he created. He loved the process of building. He loved the process of process itself. One brick on top of another. Slow and careful, a home comes into being.

Lenny sits across from Joe, his arms crossed behind his head. He leans back, the front legs of his metal chair propping up from the ground, creating a small space where he fits his booted feet. He tucks his chin into his chest, studying the board as his partner contemplates his next move. This is a game of patience, of quiet strategy. This is a game played over hours and days and weeks in this sunny corner of Bryant Park, New York City traffic buzzing by on 42nd street.

Lenny’s coffee cup sits dangerously close to the edge of the table. The blue and red Greek letters on it indicate that it is from a bodega across the street, not the Starbucks on the corner where all the kids go. Lenny has been getting his coffee from George at the 42nd street bodega for 22 years. On Fridays, he buys his wife flowers from George, tulips in the spring, white tea roses in winter. George is there every single day, except Sundays, when he goes to church and his daughter in law sells the tourists subway maps and Altoids from their tiny store. His daughter in-law is Muslim, George whispered to Lenny once. Who could have guessed, his son marrying a Muslim. But she is family now, George had said with a quick shrug, and a good worker too. Never leaves the bodega without replenishing the Tic-Tac display or sweeping the leaves back out on the street.

Lenny’s green scarf is tucked into a quilted jacket, worn down to threads on the elbows. The condition of his coat embarrasses his wife, since she is perfectly capable of sewing patches on to get it through another season. But Lenny doesn’t worry about these details. Lenny is a big picture guy. Lenny can listen to the songs of the first birds of summer, note the child on the sidewalk, stooping down to pick a maple leaf from a puddle, and still focus on his opponent’s next move.

Joe and Lenny play chess together on Tuesday mornings. Other days, it might be Sam that challenges Joe to a quick game before his Monday morning AA meeting, or Sid, who brings his grandson every once is awhile when his daughter gets called in for the day shift at the hospital. But today it is Lenny, with his green scarf and deteriorating coat. The men sit across from each other as the early sunlight carves white streaks through the maple trees, and pigeons peck at dead leaves on the ground.

Two young businessmen sit on a bench next to Joe and Lenny. Their identical suits and red ties exude an air of authority, even as rogue curls give away their youth. One holds a paper and the other a Starbucks cup. They do not notice the chess game behind them, their hands animated in zealous conversation. The future of New York and the passing of time, side by side in Bryant Park, Tuesday morning in early Spring.

My family in the snow storm

2006-03-13T14:44:00.000-06:00

Take me to your masseuse

2006-03-13T14:37:00.000-06:00

When I am home during the week, I watch the Travel Channel. You would think I would be tired of traveling, having lived in three continents by the time I was 15. And for a while, that was true. But now I love to see new things, breath non-Minnesota air.

A commercial on the Travel Channel implores, be a traveler, not a tourist. What type of traveler are you? Do you prefer undiscovered places where accommodations amount to a tarp over your head and a hole in the ground? Or do you sign up for an organized tour the minute you step off the plane, lunch and beverages included? Do you refuse to go to Paris because it’s a tourist Mecca, or is it on top of your list precisely for that reason?

Me, I am somewhere in the middle. Not a tourist, not an adventurous traveler, I am a VACATIONER. My idea of “roughing it” is not having a mint on my pillow when I return to my room after a day at the pool/beach/spa/shopping trip to the quaint little village down the road. I look forward as much to a beautifully appointed hotel as I am to sight seeing and steeping myself in the local culture. When I am comfortable, that is when I can relax and enjoy venturing out, museum hopping, sight seeing, canoeing…ok, no, never canoeing.

That is why I love, love, love, Sam Brown. She is the host of Passport to Europe and Great Hotels on the travel channel, and she focuses on all the right things. Yes, she goes skiing with a professional instructor in Switzerland, and she tours factories where they make ancient bells in Austria. She even hang-glides in Hawaii and pets wild birds in the Florida Keys. She eats everything her hosts put in front of her, dares to drink local wines, and risks life and limb in pursuit of exotic delicacies so we don’t have to. She is brave, that Sam Brown.

But Sam Brown mostly cares about three things: How is the shopping? How is the spa? And how is the bathroom? That’s my girl.

Sam Brown is the reason why I dragged my brand new husband down to the other end of the Las Vegas strip on our honeymoon in search of the Burger Bar, where they have (brace yourself) a dessert burger. Glazed donut, chocolate fudge for the meat, fruit roll-up for the cheese, and strawberry sauce in lieu of ketchup. I mean, come on, that’s adventure!

So maybe I have gotten spoiled in my old age. Or maybe I focus too much on food, which might explain those pesky pounds that have crept up on me in the last few years. But I don’t mind. I like comfort, I like pretty. I like balconies with ocean views and I like good water pressure. That trek up Peruvian mountains, my own tent on my back and freeze-dried goat meat for dinner, will have to wait for the next life-time.

Oh it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

2006-03-12T21:59:00.000-06:00

What a weekend. Visions of shiny new cars, cans of cheap beer, and the Lit 6 roommates dance in my head. It was a weekend so full of ingenuous creativity that I feel so…do I dare say it? Hip. I feel so hip I may have to go to Target tomorrow and get a black turtleneck. I buy everything at Target lately. Have you seen their new furniture lines? Seriously, it’s great stuff. But I digress. So…creativity. Yes. Mind you, none of said creativity was mine. I did absolutely no writing whatsoever this weekend. But I listened to great writing, and I think that counts.

Really, the shows were great.

Saturday night we went to the Lit 6 show and it rocked. It was hilarious, quirky (but in a good way), clever (also, in a good way) and above all, thoroughly entertaining. It was particularly great to see Sam, looking so svelte I barely recognized him. Seeing him brought back many memories from my first few steps in grad school. But that’s for another day.

Tonight I ventured out to see Dan Hendrickson’s one-man show at Acadia Café in Minneapolis. Also funny and thoughtful. AND, he quotes Journey. There can never be too much usage of Journey lyrics in theater as far as I’m concerned.

Oh, also, my husband and I went to the car show and checked out some possible options for me. I would love to make Leonardo DiCaprio happy by getting a hybrid, because it’s good for the planet, plus I think he’s dreamy, but I am a poor writer. So it will probably be a Saturn. Still, I am psyched to get a new car. I love new things. I live for change. Three years max. I am the best candidate for a leasing program because I tire of everything quickly. Just ask my ex-husbands.

Tune in tomorrow to learn which car I chose. This is important stuff people.

Filling up the pages

2006-03-11T09:50:00.000-06:00

I woke up this morning thinking: I have nothing to say. What will I write about in my blog? Voix says to write every day. And I want to be a good little blogger and take her advice. Have you read her blog? You should. Anyway…

So I have nothing to say today, and as you can see, I had nothing to say yesterday. But I realized a wonderful thing shortly after inhaling my morning coffee. Talking about the fact that you have nothing to say is still saying something. If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice, according to Rush.

So here is what is on my mind today:

How am I supposed to set my creative spirit free if I am obligated to fill a certain number of pages?

I (sort of) understand the need to assign a certain range of pages for class assignments. Otherwise, one person can hand in one page while another hands in 50. But…I write short stories. I have the attention span of a miniature dachshund, which is why I chose short fiction as my major. For my current class, we have been assigned 15 to 30 pages for our final piece, which is a freaking novel to me. It might as well be 100. I have struggled with the last four pages for so long now that the entire piece no longer makes any sense to me, nor do I care anymore. Sad, very sad.

I love my dog more than anything in the world, and he is getting old.

Sometimes, when I am driving in my car, I can almost imagine the day he no longer greets me with a whine when I come home (we keep him in the kitchen because he has the nasty habit of pooping in the living room if he has any freedom whatsoever). And I cry in my car. Isn’t that twisted? But it makes me so sad. (I am starting to see a theme here).

And finally, the Lit 6 show is tonight and that doesn’t make me sad at all. I plan on leaving my house around noon to make sure I get in. Since there are only five of you currently reading my blog, and you will all be there tonight, I won’t push it too hard. But if you have stumbled upon this blog by chance, and you don’t live in Israel, come on down.

That’s it for now. Over and out.

Hold me closer Tony Danza

2006-03-09T12:06:00.000-06:00

I was driving home from work last night singing to the radio, and misheard a simple lyric. It made me smirk. So I thought I would post some lyrics I have frequently misheard. There are many more, but I can't think of them right now. The first one is an entry by my little friend Sophie.

Actual lyric: Save big money at Mendard’s
What Sophie heard: There’s a big bunny in the yard

Actual lyric: Whenever I’m alone with you,
You make me feel like I am free again.
What I heard on my way home from work: Whenever I’m alone with you,
You make me feel like I am three again. (The Cure)

Actual lyric: Searching for my shaker of salt
What I still sing outloud: Searching for my long lost chickersaw (Jimmy Buffet)

Also by Jimmy Buffet: Stepped on a pop top
What I thought it was: Stepped on a tart pop

Actual lyric: Another Saturday night
And I ain't got nobody.
I've got some money
'Cause I just got paid.
What I like better: Another Saturday night
And I ain't got nobody.
I've got some money
'Cause I just got laid. (Cat Stevens)

Woes of a working writer

2006-03-08T16:37:00.000-06:00

I write for a living. It's a little like washing dishes at your favorite restaurant- it kills the fantasy. I know I am lucky and that the percentage of writers making a living from their craft is ridiculously low blah blah blah...but wait. Here is what you don't understand. I write about medical devices. Can you think of anything more boring? Not only is it incredibly dry stuff, I also get to feel stupid on a daily basis because I don't have the slightest understanding of what it is I am writing about. Here is what I mean (this is mild, I am not supposed to repeat the real meaty stuff):

"He remembered observing that the DC value of the impedance he was working on back in the late 1980s..."

To top it off, I also get to write about the work of the devil:

"The animal feasibility trials took awhile..."

This morning I woke up with just one wish in my heart: to stay home with Buddy and blog (and work on my weekly assignment, in case Ed is reading this). Is that too much to ask? Do I really need those new Coach shoes? Evidentially I do. If it weren’t for Captain and his war on squirrels, and Sidecar's inexplicable love of melted faux cheese, I would not get through the day. Thanks guys. Now, back to implantable hearts.

Good question

2006-03-06T17:52:00.000-06:00

When I was setting up this blog, I told my husband I wanted lots of photos on it. He joked, "what kind of writer are you anyway? All you want is pictures." He may have been kidding, but he hit on a question I think all writers often ask themselves: "Am I really a 'writer,' anyway?" Of course, it doesn't help when people find out you are a writer and ask, "what kind of writing do you do?" I know how much musicians love the "what kind of music do you play" question. How do you answer these questions when you question yourself as a genuine writer/musician/photographer/artist on a daily basis?

What type of writer am I? Sometimes, I am a lazy writer. I work hard at avoidance techniques. To pay the bills, I am a journalist, reporting on scientific medical developments that are so boring it makes me want to cry. Every once in a while (but not in years) I am a prolific writer, sitting at my laptop for hours pouring out writing that leaves me both exhilarated and exhausted. On a really good day, I am a writer who produces something that looks sort of like poetry, or lyrics, and it doesn't matter what it is because it's mine. Much of the time, I am an insecure, self-doubting writer who wishes she was dark and hip and full of stories that just had to be told. But the truth is, often times, I am just a girl with nothing to say.

So, what kind of writer are you?

W.A. Frost, friends, and the Oscars

2006-03-05T18:27:00.000-06:00

As I sit and watch the pre-Oscars show, I have to admit I have never watched the actual Oscars. Is that shallow? I'm only in it for the dresses. I am watching the ABC coverage and I have to say it is tolerable. At least no one is gropping Scarlette Johansson's breasts. Which is just never a good thing.

Today I took time out from homework and other cruelties to have brunch with our friends. The six of us live within a five block area but don't get to see each other nearly enough. There is no better way to start a snowy Sunday than brunch with good friends. The conversation always flows. Movies, politics, and lots of food talk. We are all different in the best ways possible, but can agree on one thing: the more desserts included in a buffet, the better.

Speaking of brunch, one piece of advice: skip W.A. Frost. We made reservations last week for their fabulous buffet. Got there, ordered our coffee, settled in, then went to hit the buffet line. Except, no buffet! They decided to "try something new" by only offering entrees. No joke. Except they neglected to say so on their web site. For his part, the poor kid that waited on us offered his apologies in a well memorized speech and comped our coffee. Off we went to Dixies, which not only had a buffet, but it included, get this: A CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN! Happy Sunday indeed.

Definitions of Love

2006-03-04T12:20:00.000-06:00

I
Alone: adv.
1. With no other.

Our lives are not intertwined,
I can go for seconds without thinking of you.
I spend hours alone,
with the scent of your skin on mine.
And I don’t miss any part of you
when you’re gone,
except for the part of me
you take with you.

II
Foreign: adj.
1. Not characteristic.

Moments that to others seem mundane,
breakfast
TV
holding hands against a sudden gust of wind.
To us these moments are orchids,
strong when well tended,
mysterious and foreign,
perched on suburban windowsills.

III
Storm: n.
1. Any strong disturbance.

You leave quietly in the middle of the night.
I think I can still hear you breathe
but it’s the rain against the slanted roof.
You call and say I’m coming back,
And you do,
you come back.

IV
Question: n.
1. A difficult matter; a problem: a question of ethics.
2. Doubt

You ask me questions and I make up the answers,
you know that I do but you ask anyway.
I catch your eye in the rearview mirror
and it’s my turn to ask the questions:
When did you become
a stranger to yourself?

V
Daughter: n.
1. One’s female child: the daughter looked just like her mother.

You teach her new things every day,
you are her hero, she, your muse.
She looks like an angel in flames.
I wouldn’t be able to leave her
either.

VI
One: adj.
1. Being a single entity.
2. United. Being in unity.

Last night I dreamt that we walked
down by the river
where it opens up into a plump crescent
before it bends and disappears.
You said look at the stars.
But I wonder where you are
tonight.

VII
Broken: n.
1. Fractured.
2. Violated, as a vow.

We had been apart for so long
I can barely remember the color of your eyes
except for that moment
when they turned black
and you said it’s you.
Storms have brewed and broken
and subsided
while you were gone.

VIII
Need: n.
1. Lack of something required.
Necessity; obligation: There is no need for you to go.

You ask when I will leave you again
and I say maybe today.
You smile but I see the gray clouds
return to your blue eyes.

IX
Love: n.
1. Strong affections
2. In tennis, a score of zero.

Testing

2006-03-03T13:27:00.000-06:00

This is my first post as a blogger. If this test is conducted at any other time, please find the nearest shelter. And don't forget your dog.