Speeding Tickets

"Ma'am, do you know you're doing 75mph in a 55?"

Oh my gosh!  Are you kidding me?  How embarrassing...how awful...how absolutely freaking IMPOSSIBLE...it's probably best that I didn't get to the last one until the following day when I was driving the same route again.  The spot where I was pulled over is just past the top of the hill and, while the Tangerine Dream may look sporty, it's a bit of a gutless wonder.  No kidding.  The only way to drive the hilly highway between my house and the freeway is in fourth gear (sometimes third).  This particular hill is a fourth gear hill.  There is no possible way my car could make it up the hill in a wide open fifth gear, which means the officer was either lying or clocked a different car and pulled me over instead because I looked like the guilty party.

(Side story:  I have a new coccyx cushion in the driver's seat that is really just a thick piece of foam.  It's so thick I have to duck to see my MPH.  When the officer pulled out, I did the knee jerk remove your foot from the gas pedal and double checked my speed -- which had already dropped to 50mph in those few milliseconds.  By the time he was behind me, I was driving too slow and panicking because I couldn't remember the actual speed limit on the road.  Welcome to my awesome, crazy life.)

So, now, I have to decide to just pay the ticket that clocks me at 9 miles over the speed limit (thanks for the "reduction" officer) because it is the same price from 1-10 miles over the limit.  OR, go in and explain to a judge that there is NO WAY my car was going more than 61mph at that point in the highway because the RPMs of my engine after that would have been freaking me out and calling attention to my need to shift gears (another something I didn't do.)  So, your honor, it turns out there's no way I was speeding as much as the officer alleges though it is entirely probable that I was driving over the limit between 0-6.

Wasabi

By show of hands -- does anyone ever eat the entire serving sized packet of wasabi that comes with grocery store sushi?  Really?  I think wasabi is one of the most deceptive condiments on the planet.  This stuff is kickin' trash and takin' names! Our local Target had a pretty, pre-made California roll and I thought...why not?  Grocery store sushi will NEVER be Tona's (our favorite Japanese grill and sushi bar), but this one I would rate as fair for the price ($3).

The little green package of Fujisan Wasabi has been packed with an extra punch -- yellow No. 5 and blue No. 1...don't forget the sorbitol!  I wondered about the thin, paste-like consistency, but stirred it in to the soy sauce as usual, broke the chopsticks, and dipped the base of a imitation crab filled roll.

HOLY NOSE CLEARING CAPACITY, BATMAN!!

A Little Bah-HUMBUG!

The Christmas season seems to begin earlier and earlier every year.  There's Christmas in July now (for the shopping, not the celebrating).  This year, decorations could be seen in stores before the skeletons of Halloween had been shoved back into the closet.  I don't know if this happens around the nation or not, but we have a radio station that began playing Christmas music on NOVEMBER FIRST. 

?!?!?!

Maybe it's because that happens to be my birthday, but the first six recognizable notes sounded in my head like fingernails on a chalkboard!!  Let's just say I've never deleted a radio station from my "favorites" so fast in my life.

The irony in this story came when I shared this experience at work and found that several people there thought I was just a mean old grinch all the way around (they were already harking to the bells, apparently).  I guess none of us celebrate the holidays the same way.  Our tree never goes up before the 15th of December.  We don't do Santa (which makes us "unbelievers" -- weirdness!) We keep every Christmas, Hanukkah, and end-of-the-year card that ever comes to our home for stringing up around the walls and remembering all of our friends.  We still go out caroling every year.  We don't open presents on Christmas Eve.  We collect Nativity scenes (and were despondent over the loss of several last year from moving plastic barrels around.)  The lights on our house still remind us of a Charlie Brown sort of Christmas.  We have an advent sort of book that we celebrate with every year with a scripture, a song, and a story -- keeping us focused on the Christ part of the mass of things to do (though, we have yet to do this in a quotidian (HA!) manner.  And every year, we talk about waiting to give gifts on January 6th, (thinking we'd give better gifts if we hit the after holiday sales), but the we never make it and the little ones are always fine with whatever humble things we were able to offer mixed in with the splendid generosity that seems to sparkle through the cracks this time of year.

So, BAH-HUMBUG on your early Christmas music, your electronic Marquee guilt trip countdowns, your commercials and advertising, and Black Friday chaos!  We do Christmas our own way around here.  And it never fails to bring a little bit of joy to our world.

Theraflu

Okay...sometimes, all of the cold remedies in the world really don't work and a traveling co-worker brings home some infectious monstrosity that whips your immune system day after day.  Then, it's all about the Theraflu, baby.  Nasty business, but it gets in there and at least takes the pain away long enough to sleep (which is where I'm going now).  Good night world!

Little Dorrit (2008)

This adaptation of Charles Dickens novel was filmed as a mini-series because that's the only possible way to fit all of the richness of characters, plot twists, and surprises in.  There are 4 CD's with 4 episodes each...but, don't you worry, this is a time investment worth making!

The cast was incredible, the dialogue quotable, and I was delighted to see some actual ACTING (did you know that some actors actually have some skill in the craft and are not just type casted for the part?)  Andy Serkis is just plain terrifying as the murderer Rigaud and Russell Tovey will break your heart wide open as John Chivery even if you've never experienced unrequited love for yourself.

There are some silly over-the-top characatures, but Dickens was a master at using these for their entertainment value and to keep his reader's interest as he weaved an intricate plot together.  My hat is off to Andrew Davies for the adaptation.  This one is going on my list of books to read!

Horrible Bosses (2011)

So, some movie trailer making magician cut this movie into looking like a modern comedy worth watching...and we tried.

My husband, who has the energy and passion to watch films, finished it.  I, however, who have energy and passion for REAL life and REAL laughter, could not.  At some point in the movie (I think I made it about 40 minutes, but only because I was eating and watching at the same time -- bad habit from childhood), I shut it off.  Literally.  I'd had enough and I shut the computer down we were watching it on.

Here's what I have to say about this:

Dear Hollywood Mult-millionaires,

The working people of America are NOT stupid.  Stupidity is NOT what keeps us in our jobs every day.  We work to earn money to pay for the moments when we are not working.  Period.  Some of us are lucky enough to have jobs that we loved.  All of us deal with office politics.  All of us roll our eyes at our bosses once in while. Some of have horrible bosses.  Those of us who do, are intelligent enough to use the legal methods and safeguards in place and we don't need Hollywood to tell us that the worker bees of America are the real idiots here.  Making a movie that demeans the working class by stating on film that we're too stupid to make phone calls, do research, or be decent to others is NOT okay.  This movie didn't even have ONE good laugh in it.  The racist bar scene was painful.  The live porn at work scene was ludicrous.  Do you people even LIVE in the real world?  Do you know that there are working class citizens that laugh everyday and don't need to be stupid to do so? Do you realize that America is learning to vote with its paycheck and if you keep making movies like this, we will no longer spend money to OCCUPY your movie theatres? 

Who's the stupid one now?

Sincerely,
One of America's Employed

Dear Ms. Aniston,

Please. Please. PLEASE, stop reading the tabloids.  You are your own kind of beautiful.  And, no matter what a make-up artist/movie director/production con artist says, you will NEVER be Angeline Jolie Brand of sexy.  You have to find your own.  Darkening, lengthening, and "banging" your hair, tanning your skin, wearing more eyeliner, and busting out with the push up bra/booty padding is NOT going to make you Jolie Brand sexy.  It just won't.  Hers is in the eyes.  And yours just don't sell it.

Your friend,
Another girl born in the year of the Rabbit, just like Angie

Dear Husband,

Darling, I do not have heart beats to waste on cinematic filth like this.  In the future, use your "pre-screening" time to just kill it before I get there.  Seriously, I would rather have been fighting with you about something important and hoping for makeup sex afterward.

Lovingly,
Your ovulating wife

'Nuff said.  If I have time for a movie today, it'll definately be Independent or BBC.

Great Place for a Pimple

I have really sensitive skin...It's so sensitive, that any time I accidentally touch my face a pimple will break out there by morning.  Ugh.  You can imagine how often I try to not get bored at work and touch my face.  My poor husband is faced with the bob-and-weave wife every time he goes in for a sweet smooch on the forehead or cheek because I know where that will lead!

Growing up, my mom used to get pimples in the weirdest places -- in her ear or on her bum, for example.  I always thought Gosh I hope that doesn't happen to me!  I always thought I was safe.  I had great skin compared to other friends as a teenager (Great skin = no more than three pimples at once usually found on the chin or forehead.)  So, now that I'm in my mid-thirties STILL getting pimples, it really shouldn't surprise me that I have the genetics to get them in weird places...

Like, in my nose.  I don't even know what to say about it except a good, loud WHAT THE CUSS?! I haven't had a cold, there's been no tissue blowing, snot dripping or nose picking.  Yet, here I am, with a painful, red abscess of a pimple on the right side where I can't do anything to treat it or relieve the swelling or anything.  I just get to deal.  And TRY not to touch it and make it worse.

Ugh.  Oh well...I guess it can compliment the skin-colored mole growing on the left side of my nariz for All Hallow's Eve.

The Symbology of Symbols

Yesterday, I was informed that my "house cleansing" was a very Wiccan thing to do.  Apparently, I even grabbed the "right" color of candle to do it with.

First, I will say that symbols only become such to someone who has attached a meaning to it.  This works for everything from burning incense to obscene hand gestures.

Secondly, if you are reading this, you should know that my religious beliefs are what are commonly known in the media as "Mormon".  This means I am a seeker of all truth and light in all places and forms that I may find it.  The fact that I intuitively knew a truth that has been handed down and given another name does not surprise me because I have done this before.

Lastly, I have observed that there are as many interpretations of truth as there are degrees of glory. This is why agency is a such a powerful gift and judgement such a waste of our time.  "Choose you this day whom ye will serve, but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."

Cleaning to the Corners

It's autumn time and this post could be about cobwebs, but it isn't.  Lately, I have felt myself struggling to make check marks on the calendar and, per the usual "mom-is-on-the-back-burner," I have spent less and less time within myself spiritually.

Yesterday, I'd had enough. 

I could feel the spiritual grime...the anger, frustration, hormones, fear, uncertainty, bitterness...all of it seeping down my walls and creaping up and out from floor to ceiling.  It was 11:00 pm.  I was lying in bed.  My husband had shared a brand new skeleton from his family's closet (not his own, he'd only just been told himself) and I lost it.  I was so angry and afraid that somehow this would become a part of our story that I said some things that should never be said.  Then, while I heaved in and out for breath trying to calm down and sleep, I knew exactly what I needed to do -- the calm was instantaneous.

I walked upstairs, found a candle, lit it and walked from room to room calling on the powers of my Creator with all of my faith to clean each room to the corners, to give it purpose, light, and peace.  My prayers were powerful and personal, but, when I was done -- there was no darkness left within the walls of our home besides that which night itself brings.  Even my husband felt differently when I was done.

We underestimate who we are and what power we have over our own spheres.  Rise up priestesses.  Bring peace and power and light to your lives.  Do it physically and spiritually as one being.  Use a ritual if it helps you to feel your own strength.  Bring a candle or burn incense, move your arms to direct the energy if you do not yet know how to trust in stillness.

I have never blessed my home this way.  I know that my sphere will never be the same because I have and will continue to do so.

Extra Helpful Email

Has anyone noticed that your email accounts now give a list of other "possible friends" you might want to send said email to because they are somehow associated with the friend you ARE emailing to?  Does this bug anyone else?  My contact list is MINE.  If you want an email address for someone ASK for it. The fact that our computer's are being so ultra helpful and following our shopping and search history is bad enough.  When it comes to personal contact information BACK OFF.  Oh, wait.  Nothing is personal. Your relationships are probably a matter of national security. 

Big Brother anyone?

Out with the Old

I've decided that doing the stuff you used to have fun at hoping to rekindle the fun is a bad idea.  Especially if you're cramping out the first day of your period.  Keep moving forward, kids!  However it was in the beginning does not come back.

Hot Chocolate

One of my coworker friends brought me the gift of Starbucks cocoa in a can so tall there are probably 18 ounces in it.  Holy WOW.  Makes me wish I didn't have to skirt 10 feet around every Starbucks in the vicinity to avoid passing out or throwing up from the coffee smell...can you imagine what would happen to me if I went INSIDE?! 

Anywhoo...I just got cocoa on my nose and felt all sorts of little girl giggly inside.  I love a good rainstorm (even one that is cold enough to keep snow around its edges) and I'm learning to love the parts of my job that allow me to get to know the people here in the office.  I really love when I go home and Sam-man wakes up from his too late nap to snuggle on my lap for as long as I'll let him.  Last night, that was a long time.  I didn't even get up to finish dinner or wash dishes and there is still flea and tic powder (yes, the dog has flees) to vacuum out of the carpet. 

I promise I won't become a slob (the smell is too distracting), but for now, I'll keep the chocolate on my nose, thanks, and waif for the boss to wonder if he's hired a brown-noser.

Wings of a Dove (1997)

First, I should say this isn't intended as a movie review or a critique.  I wouldn't even recommend this period piece with an intriguing plot after it's total comtamination at the end-scene.  (Seriously, Hollywood, I don't want to watch other people having sex!  When we tell people in real life to "get a room" we extend that to our film watching and are hoping you will close the door...)

This movie made me wonder about the political movements of the world.  I wonder just how many plots have been spun by the mind of a woman whispered into the ear of her lover.  Greek literature, Shakespeare, in this case, Henry James...was even the dreaded Genghis Khan fulfilling his lover's fantasy of power -- she wanting to share the bed of a god who ruled the world instead of just a general?  There are little details of influence we will never know, but it causes me to pause and remember my own influence.  What twists and snarls can I weave in the hands of fate under blinking lashes?

The second thing was the art and the body of a woman...in this movie, the three main characters bump into each other at a museum  featuring the art of Gustav Klimt -- so much color and nakedness.  Last night, in my bacterial infested brain -- thanks cold and flu season! -- three things kept playing around.  One, Helean Bonham Carter's (Kate) bony, pointy body curled up in a fetal position on the bed.  Two, the rounded edges of a woman in the same pose depicted by Klimt.  Three, me...and my thirty pounds. 

When I was a girl, even as a young mother, I weighed in at a bony, pointy edged 120-125lbs.  It took a huge family and a broken coccyx to slow me down enough.  Staring at Kate's thin frame and desperate face, all I could think of was hunger -- the kind that aches in your belly, to the back of your heart, and whittles away at your brain.  How can love be offered from a place of desperation?  I wonder if that is why painters have told the story with curves...curved shoulders, rounded hips, swollen breasts...fullness, softness, and plentitude...as if the love would never run out.  Why is it our culture still spends so much time trying to be "skinny" and not enough time just being at peace with ourselves and our journey anyways?

Yes, cold medicine + odd movie = strange dreams. 

Identity Crisis

The tigers took first place today.  Not the football team, but the ones who work harder -- the marching band.

My oldest came home early, but only because I wouldn't "drop [her] dress off at the door" of a girl friend's house where homecoming dance preparations are working themselves up into a frenzy as I write.

I cried when I dropped her off. I tried not to.  There was a time when we shared everything with each other.  And now...I'm pretty sure the only reason I remain like a sometimes needed excessory is that she doesn't have a license.  Yet.

I always thought the transition between teenage daughter to grown up stanger would be gradual.  That, somehow, we'd completely skirt around the pitfalls of generational gappage and such.  I always thought our teenage home would be full of teenagers.  The fridge always needing to be restocked. The late night, make up, boy crush giggle fests would rock on with the speakers way up into the night. But, none of the kids even come here.  Not even my own.

And it is the first time in my life that I regret having born them.

What is the point, really, of all of this giving if, in the end, it means nothing to no one -- especially not the ones that matter most in all of the world to you?  My mom and I spent years not saying two nice words to each other, but I still let her in for every important moment of my life.  I wanted her to share it and mine can't get far enough away fast enough.

God bless you all.  I know I haven't.

WORK -- and other four letter words

Recently, I became part of the full-time workforce...underemployed if you consider the financial needs of a large family and overemployed if you ever take a glimpse at all of the things I have to do in a single day.  Now, I have to tell you, that while my paying job is far from the dream career I had planned for myself (how many of us get that?!) I am not afraid of work.  I tackle my tasks at high speed with a good attitude.  This is true for my home life as well.

But, here's the thing:  at my paying job, my coworkers and I are all striving together to get things done.  We understand that each of our time is interconnected and dependant on what others do.  But at home?  Well, this is the place where "work" has become a bad word.  The word "chores" is spoken like "C*%$@!" and everyone has a list of more important uses of their time.

I honestly don't recognize my daughters right now.  Before I went away for pay to keep a roof over their heads, we cooked, cleaned, and danced together daily.  They would see an overfull garbage can and take it out. Work was just something we did.  Suddenly, it's an option -- a stinky option, the one you don't want to get on your skin.  I don't get it.

I made the decision to not argue with my family about chores.  We have precious little time together as it is now.  The little girls who used to be so helpful have completely disappeared and become self-absorbed, obnoxious, and, well, not my favorite people.  My husband, meanwhile, is back to working the hours he always has and calling it enough.  He's SO tired, you know?  I mean, he IS working "full time" AND going to school "part time."  Give the guy a break right?

All I have to say is F&*% this S*%$!!!  Yep.  That's how I really feel. 

Now, I'm going to go make dinner, wash dishes, fold laundry, bake a fruit pizza for the work party tomorrow, tutor people with their math homework, sweep the floor, wash the counters, put the shoes in the closets where they belong, pick up the frontroom, vacuum the floors, organize the mail, walk the dog, and nod my head to all of the "I love yous" I hear before bedtime.

Have you ever read the Five Love Languages?  Mine is service and I'm beginning to look elsewhere.

Wounded Dog

Today, it seems as though everyone is talking about that "unspeakable" thing that happened ten years ago on the morning of today.  Even Sunday football commentators waxed poetic about remembering those who sacrificed their freedom by "relaxing while playing football."  ...I don't know if that is just obnoxious or just American... maybe it is both.

Today, my kidneys and are are locked in battle again.  It has been days and nights of constant, stabbing pain.  The knife in my back from the betrayals experienced literally coming through to me under my own skin.  I snarled at someone I love today when I didn't have any more words and it was a burden to keep speaking, to keep defining my own boundaries.  It is easier to live with this pain when it comes and goes, stabbing quickly through by back and sides.  The constant pressure is exhausting.

I could take the time to list and wax metaphorical the various battles these two ladies face -- myself and my nation -- but I don't really identify with the country of my birth as presented on the news channels and the psuedo-historical books of the world any more than I do the woman others see me as and some merciful part of my body is calling me back into sleep.

Bomb Scare Part 2

She didn't know.
She didn't know where she was or where she was going
only that her bags were heavy, the duffle
full of shoes and an extra shirt
the backpack where she kept her socks
like a makeshift set of drawers
she had to carry everywhere she walked
waiting to dress and undress and dress
again.  The last normal thing.

But they were so heavy.

The steps were shaded, white marble turned pale, violet
gray contrasting the green of the garden
across the sea of cars, buses, and semi trucks.
Sets of orange cones dotting the roadside
like upside-down creamsicles sundaes
that reminded her of being five and free
of everything but the single summer dress falling
from her shoulders, her long hair catching the sun
and her own laughter.

She forgot the bags.

Her head in the clouds, like a butterfly following
the arm of a crane, the metallic warmth
a magnet to the eyes, the antannae unaware
of the dry atmosphere, the sirens,
or the panic of feet hitting pavement,
as judgment waits for another day
to cry out "Guilty" or "False Alarm."
A concussion of water and backed up traffic
playing to the beat of a concert in the park
a flashback of her teenaged dream.

Bomb Scare at the Courthouse

Someone left a backpack alone just inside the door.  They probably wanted to see what would happen.  Did they know they would congest the traffic for three blocks in four directions for several hours?  Did they know I would flee to the north, uphill toward the capital, passing the bed and breakfast I dream of lounging in, the Capital Bldg. where I first tasted of the power of a single voice, the square house whose glass block windows make me think of what I would build if the money were in the bank, and the smiley face tennis ball as large as my car?  Did they know I would smile on the way home from the memories and the cleverness of turning north having the insider scoop from the office fireball in red reading glasses?

CRANK with a capital E

Today I drove home in the blistering August sunshine, driver's side slathered in sunscreen, for over an hour due to traffic.  I missed the closing of the bank to deposit my very first and desperately needed paycheck.  I have blisters on the backs of my heels from the flats I chose to wear today -- thanks Isaac.  And, can anyone say out-of-place-coccyx?!  Ouch.

Although the dishes were done (thanks honey) and the front room mostly clean...dinner was not even started, there were three loads of clean laundry strewn about (hooray for the "baby" learning to dress himself), the garbage can was bagless, and my bra was sticking to me with a new adhesive form of sweat-glue.

They say if you can't stand the heat, get out the kitchen.  But, being IN the kitchen was the only way I was going to eat tonight (and Steak Salad doesn't produce heat).  Dinner tasted good, but the 5 year old had a case of the shreiking giggles almost as serious as Vizzini warned you about and it took me an hour to get through folding laundry, leaving an hornery message on my mom's answering machine (that's another post), and chopping various veggies to get dinner on the table. 

Where was the fam?

Well, they chose that hour to vamoose.  Normally, it's a good idea to get out from underneath my bad moods.  But, in this case, I have to say it was the wrong answer.  I'm just not normally someone who keeps track of everything that everyone in the house does... and I don't even think I'm doing that now... I just want to know ...HOLY COW...  why people can't put their damn hands in.  Why? 

Now, I'm still cranky.  My son's bedroom smells like urine (though the toys are finally off the carpet), my daughter left her blanket (think Linus from Charlie Brown) outside, my other daughter is out of lotion for her eczema stricken feet, and my husband is awaiting sexual favors (not that he's said so in so many words, but I know his libido before today.)

My jaw is actually clenched...IF you know anything about me, you know this is almost impossible because my teeth don't come together. 

Wanna know the worst part?

I'm too bent out of shape to share my great adventure from today...not that anyone at home cared to ask. 

The Adjustment Bureau (2011)

This movie was so intriguing to me.  As a person who has been brought up to believe in both "free agency" and a "hands-on God,"  I had recognized the conflict between the two, but never quite like this...

"God made sure we couldn't get back home."  ~quote from an LDS mission president in Japan after finding the 9.0 earthquake and tsunami had destroyed their city.

"I will follow God's plan for me." ~lyrics to an LDS children's song.

"There is too much tendency to attribute to God the evils that man does of his own free will." ~Agatha Christie.

"Life is like a game of cards.  The hand you're dealt is determinism; the way you play it is free will." ~Jawaharlal Nehru

In this story, the Chairman (or Man Upstairs) has changed the plan -- David and Elise were supposed to be each other's one and only, but then, politically -- for the good of the world -- it was important that they never meet so David would still have the drive to serve his country as a Congressman, Senator, and even President while Elise would have the consolation of becoming a world famous ballerina.  Except they met...oops.  One agent fell asleep on the job and suddenly, the whole plan is offline.  David even walks in on his best friend having an "adjustment."

This whole movie is like being stalked by the mafia...the "agents" (instead of angels) are just plain scary in their Dick Tracy suits running around the city wearing their resistance-is-futile faces and making threats. 

"What about free will?" David asks.
"What about free will?  We gave you free will and you gave us the Dark Ages.  So, we put our hands back in and gave you the Enlightenment, the Renaissance, the Golden Age.  In 1910 we thought you were ready to do it again on your own, and in less than a quarter of a century you gave us World War and the Great Depression." Agent Thompson.

In the end, even the movie/screenwriter has enough of all of the heavy handedness.  Harry, David's personal agent, takes pity on him and shows him how to move through space like the agents do.  They map out a plan that will give David a chance to stop Elise from marrying the man the Adjustment Bureau has put in her path.  In the end, when the dust clears, David's determination changes the Chairman's mind.  In the end, we're all left wondering just how involved God is and how much we determine our own path while buffeted about by other people's choices...happy to know that none of us are being stalked by mafia angels.

First Day: First Impressions

Today, I worked as a temporary assistant at an undisclosed law firm.
Today, I dressed in a straight tan skirt, a blue three-quarter sleeve button up, and my seashell necklace.
Today, I wore my hair back and had makeup on.
Today, I wore my best smile ane applied my best handshake.
Today, I worked through dictation files like a madwoman and completed transcripts left and right.
Today, my husbands cell phone (borrowed in case of emergencies) went off just as I was chatting up the person I think may be the office manager.  She noticed I had a cell phone before I did and walked away.  Bewildered at the noise, I bent down and unzipped my purse just in time for the lyrics:

"I JUST HAD SE-EX!  And IT FEELS SO GOOD!!"

Really?!

Lucky for my husband that he had just traded his phone and hadn't been able to get through all of the already saved music... Lucky for me, the office manager had walked away. 

To hear the song, go search through the SNL skits. 

The Talk

As a parent, there is one talk you never want to have with your children.  I know you think I'm blogging about the birds and the bees, but, honey, I brought up the sacred subject of sex a long time ago.  I think eight years old could actually be too late in our very modern world where kindergardeners are watching porn over their parents shoulders and taking the newest method to school with them in the form of a "funny" joke.

Nope.  I'm talking about the one where you sit down and say, "Your grandfather (or insert other beloved relative) is a child molester."

The thing about having this conversation is that you are probably dealing with all sorts of mixed, negative emotions yourself...betrayal, confusion, anger, and fear are just a few of what come to my head.  On top of this, you now get to shatter your child's idea of home and family being a "safe" place.

Hopefully, you've already had the talk with them about the areas of their bodies where no one is supposed to touch.  However, many parents are still giving this talk along with other "stranger danger" warnings when only ten percent of child molesters are strangers to the children they abuse.  TEN PERCENT.  This is not a family secret worth keeping.

Here are some things you need to teach your children now: 

1. Let your children say "NO" when they don't want to be touched (this includes Grandma's kisses).
2. Allow members of your family privacy while dressing, bathing, sleeping, etc.
3. Use the proper names of private parts.
4. Be clear about okay touch and inappropriate touch.
5. Explain the difference between a secret and a surprise.
6. Practise talking before there's a problem by saying "embarrassing" words openly, honestly, and respectfully.
7. Make it clear that you will support your children when something makes them uncomfortable.
8. Create a Family Safety Plan so your children know what to do/who to talk to if they are threatened or touched by someone.

You can find more helpful resources at Stop It Now.  This form of abuse will continue to go on until we stop pretending it doesn't happen...until we become courageous as parents in arming them with the tools they need to protect themselves (or to get help before things become more than uncomfortable).  Have the talk.  Be thankful if you have no one in your family that you can name as someone who "hurts little children,"  but do not be surprised by an untold secret.

That's Distracting

There was a brand new family in church today with a cute little boy who kept turning around to flirt with one of my little girls.  Of course she leaned in closer for the attention.  I sat her back on the seat a couple of times because his mommie was asking him to turn around and be still saying, "Let's help him listen to his mommie."  But, you know, repetition in all things...

When his daddie returned from his Almighty Priesthood duties, Princess and Mr. Cutie Pie were in flirt mode again.  Just as I put my arms around her to tug her back into the bench seat, I could hear him whisper, "Will you move her back.  She's being really distracting."

Why thanks.  I hadn't noticed.

About ten seconds later, daddie was mock leading the music with a little girl sitting in front of them.  Of course this wasn't distracting.  A minute after that, he was talking to his wife about some such something that was too important to wait for after the meeting or to write down.  Nope, that was not distracting.

Later, when Princess laughed out loud with glee and gave me a high five for being able to read the 14-lettered silly word she'd carefully spelled out in all caps BEFREBOOLEFRBS backward, I just smiled and stared at the speaker knowing we weren't being distracting one bit.

My Year Without Sex (2009)

Natalie (Sacha Horler) and Ross (Matt Day) are about to experience one of those years when you wonder what else could possibly go wrong.  This Australian film takes a realistic look at one family's journey after a life changing emergency surgery.  If you ever get frustrated with American movies and all of the contrived incidences thrown in to force laughter or tears, you'll be relieved.  The children are quirky, the parents are natural rather than being stereotypical, and the storyline is filled with plenty of narrow misses that make you thankful that no other tragedy strikes during this delicate year when a single choice could have made it all that much worse. 

In this case, Natalie suffers from an aneurysm just after a pap smear (I warned you about the realism, right?)  Luckily, this means that no one wastes any precious time in getting her to surgery...but, waking up from brain surgery means dealing with a lot of things.  There is the physical scar, the bruising, the loss of memory and dexterity.  There is also the emotion -- fear, loss, guilt.  And then there are the medical bills and the job loss.  Bonus?  No sneezing, no constipation, and NO orgasms -- Doctor's orders.

At one point, Natalie asks Ross to imagine what his replacement wife would be like.  Ross doesn't answer because he thinks the question both absurd and an emotional booby trap due to his wife's current post-traumatic state.  It actually isn't an unusual question for a wife facing mortality to ask (I know.  I've asked it.)  At the close of the movie, Ross finds the perfect answer and it really makes all of the struggle worth it.

This movie is not rated, but would win an "easy" R for a cross-dresser's "f-ing" tirade mid-film...wait!  Didn't I say there were no "contrived" scenes thrown in for audience emotional response?!

A Second Job for Mom

Tonight was one of those nights that left me wondering how in the world I will return to the workplace... but, I should probably begin a couple of steps backward.  My second husband and I are raising a family under special circumstances.  We have five children -- three are from my first marriage - all teenagers - and two are ours - both preschoolers.  We also both graduated from college last spring, which means we are attempting to do the improbable -- supporting a family that takes most couples seventeen years to acquire on a single, entry level salary...

...at least, that's what we were doing.  We've learned this summer that my husband's Physics Secondary Teaching degree is already a useless thing.  He wants to teach High School, so he hasn't had enough training to be a physicist, and, due to the economy, schools need teachers certified to teach multiple subjects...for example: Physics, Geometry, Chemistry, and Astronomy while also coaching the girls' Soccer team.  Bonus?  Many of these jobs are "part-time" meaning an hourly wage and NO benefits.  My husband took one of these "jack-of-all-trades" jobs for a charter school this past year.  It was both a joy (teaching the students) and a misery (twelve hour days prepping for three subjects without any prep time at the school, plus the commute, etc.)  Now, we're looking at his trying to return to school for further accredidations while teaching (IF he has an offer) or while working a "regular job" at a limited pay that wouldn't even match our mortgage.

That's right.  We're unemployed.  We are so blessed to be okay through July, but August is certainly looking iffy on the financial front.  With all of this pressure, we've both been looking for work...for me, that would mean taking on a second job. My current employment is "unpaid".  My job title?  Mother.  This is not an easy decision.  When I was divorced...and when I thought of remarriage...I did all of the research on what these choices could mean, statistically speaking, for my daughters.  So far, they have defied every one of those negative statistics.  I chalk this up to my own passionate love for life and learning and my ability to allow them their agency and accountability while discerning the right moment for parental guidance and correction.  That ability mostly comes from being here and knowing them well...and these are three amazing and capable girls!

Networking my resume, I sent a confident sum into the Universe as well...it's an interesting number.  It would be above my husband's earnings as a part-time teacher by $600/mth, yet it would not take our family out from underneath the government's "poverty line"...and it would mean daycare for our youngest two.  Measuring the cost of a mother getting a second "paying" job is never easy.  It is more than the price of gas, clothes, child care, lunches, and dinners out when you're too tired (or too late getting home) to cook -- what happens to the home and family when there isn't an anchor in it?  This is the question I don't want to answer.  I don't want to see the danger for my daughters, their educations, their relationships to themselves and the boys who are quickly entering the scene.  I don't want to know the price for my son, our youngest child...

The bottom line is that homelessness is worse than Mom getting a job away from home.

Last night, I got a call from a Camp Leader.  My twelve year old daughter couldn't breath even after asthma treatments.  We met at the ER.  It was 2 am before she was stable enough to sleep.  She was hoping to go back to camp this morning, but cannot (her breathing is not strong enough yet).  And I wonder, what happens when I am not here to do the "behind the scenes" necessary to keep their lives stable?  To keep the celiacs fed and the asthmatics medicated, to nurture through the hormones, and nourish the flourishing imaginations?  How do working moms do doctor's appointments and life emergencies for five?

I don't know what the answer is.  We are willing to relocate for my husband -- though this is costly with a family of seven and impossible in the face of two mortgages. We are willing to work the $10/hr or less jobs while looking for other work...if only we, as "overqualified" individuals could get them. Sometimes, we're underqualified...there are people with Master's degrees hunting these jobs (but that's another post).  I learned while going through school for my Bachelor's Degree and running the undergraduate literary journal that you cannot have it all at the same time and have it all well.  Something gives.  Always.  I'm hoping it is only the housework...

Brake Lights

All right people, I know that none of us likes sitting in traffic.  I know that you don't like to waste time and that you only gave yourself just enough time to cover the mileage from your house to the office at optimal speed and you canNOT be late again or the boss will kill you.  I know that even at 7:30am you can feel the almost July heat breaching your car and making you sweat and that you have to be going 60mph for the 4/60 AC to be working properly and you don't want to melt before you get there, but come on...brake lights are there for a reason!

This morning, I had the opportunity to joing the morning commute to help out a friend who is experiencing car woes.  I really only braked, mid traffic, three times.  First time, EMERGENCY vehicles...the lady behind me refused to see blinkers or brake lights and made a dramatic pass on the right nearly causing a brand new accident for said fire truck and parametic to deal with.  The second, was coming up the hill behind a semi...again, the drivers darted around (this one is a little more understandable).  The third...an accident was being cleaned up in front of us, which led to lane blockage and a pretty display of neon green vested Utah policeman NOT dancing to direct the traffic.  Of course, we wouldn't know this for a little while longer, but, why not have the patience to find out instead of causing more trouble by jumping to the conclusion that the person in front of you is an idiot?

Thankfully, I made it home in one piece.  It's called defensive driving while she-bopping to the radio as loud as I deem necessary according to the song being played...

huggin' and a-kissin'!  dancin' and a'lovin'!  wearin' next to nothin' cuz it's hot as an oven!

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

The book has been adapted for a BBC mini-series

Falling in love with BBC's Gaskell movies, was the motivation behind picking up her books, and I'm so glad I did!  North and South was published seven years after Mary Barton made its appearence on the literary stage.  By this time, Gaskell's confidence in her craft had grown exponentially.  She no longer speaks directly to her imagined audience or preaches her own perspective.  Instead, she breathes life into well-rounded individuals, developing their characters through each new challenging scene.  Gaskell does not confine herself to one class of individuals and, in this book, tackles the challenges and prejudices that are rooted in place. 

In this story, Margaret Hale finds herself uprooted from her beloved southern farming village, Helston by her father and replanted in Milton, a northern factory driven town.  Everything here, from the class separation, to the local slang, to the handshake being used as a formal greeting is foreign to her.  She finds herself standing firm in all she knows with dignity and grace, but is taken for a proud and arrogant young lady.  This misunderstanding of character extends to John Thornton, the master of a local mill.  His hardness of character and business shrewdness is taken by Margaret to mean he is an unfeeling and unchristian individual.  Gaskell weaves the story of their love through the tension of a strike.  She is thus able to examine the labor practices of her day demonstrating how so much of the trouble is caused by misunderstandings on both sides.

Gaskell uses a far more balanced hand in her promotion of Christian morality within this work.  She has learned the art of allowing her characters to live out the pages of the work, growing with each scene.  This made for a far more convincing ending then she left us with seven years earlier in Mary Barton.  I truly enjoyed this book.  Though, as is true with all literature turned cinema, there are differences from the big screen and the pages.  Both the movie and the book are well done.

Anna Karenina by Tolstoy

The woman I imagined as Anna

Until watching "The Last Station," I had never been tempted to read anything from Leo Tolstoy.  I'd heard of his writings, but, generally, the titles were followed by a heavy, frustrated sigh.  It was as if everyone who had ever faced the 800 or more pages would rather have gone hungry for a year than to revisit them.  But, then, I fell in love with the portrayal of his life -- his wife asserting that any man who had read Tolstoy's works would know who he really is.
      A friend of mine loaned me her copy of "Anna Karenina" saying she was frustrated with it for beginning the story with "minor characters."  She had seen multiple movie versions of the love-triangle story between Anna, Karenin, and her lover, Vronsky.  I'm thankful I didn't have any of these ideas to get in the way of the story or Tolstoy's style of telling it.
     Tolstoy does a beautiful job of weaving different characters who have very different answers to the same question: fidelity to a spouse, to yourself, or to your country...all are important here.  The dichotomies in belief are illustrated right on down to the differences between Petersburg and Moscow.  Reading a work with so much depth and dimension left me knowing that "Anna Karenina" wasn't about the woman at all.  Not really.  It was a pleasure at times, heart breaking at others, and painfully...well, painful...especially when the local political system was discussed. I could almost feel Tolstoy wincing a little as he added this sequence, obviously feeling it necessary to present the full picture of Russia, but such an unpleasant irritation and so unlike his description of a Gentleman spending the day laboring side-by-side with Laborers, scythe in hand, I believe the manuscript was as much a telling of the author at the time he wrote it as it was a picture of Russia.
     One question I would ask Tolstoy is if his 'chapters' included whatever he wrote that day.  Each is limited to less than 4 pages, and, although densely worded, these don't always complete a scene.  Sometimes, they change perspective, showing each scene thoroughly from differing character's viewpoints...other times, the same character is still there, in the same place, with the same people.  Books written today follow a different set of "rules" for what is called a "chapter."  I have to say that I think I will adopt Tolstoy's arrangement in my own writing, at least in the first draft.  And, as for a reader who is also a busy mom, it was wonderful to be able to read a whole chapter in just a few minutes and get back to my household instead of feeling like I wasn't getting anywhere...Elephants really ought to be eaten one bite at a time!
      Would I recommend this book?  Yes.  I don't know if there are many souls left in our microwave world equipped for the patient pace necessary here...or who are willing to overlook the book's title and allow the author to tell the full story.  But, for myself, it was well worth the weeks to lock minds with Leo Tolstoy and feel Russia under my skin.

Les Miserables LIVE

I read somewhere that this is the worlds longest running musical (something like twenty-five years).  Well, twenty years after choosing to see Phantom on Broadway instead of Les Mis., I found myself sitting next to one of my favorite people in the world, staring squinty-eyed at the stage.  Minus the coccyx, weakness from current ailment, and the man's head filling the entirety of the center stage -- it was perfect.
       After watching the seamless changing of endless sets of intricate, elaborate, and large design I wondered that set design teams have yet to demand a shout-out in the play billing. Seriously people, this was a labor of love pulled off within a hairs breadth of disaster by people who knew what they were doing.  It was amazing. 
       I had never before heard Fantine's songs sung with so much angst, bitterness, and raw emotion.  She was incredible.  I cried and cried.
       When the single remaining swear word rang through the theatre (my friend tells me they censored the show more than usual), I chuckled at the nervous laughter that rippled around me.  I wondered if audiences of other cities even noticed or if it was the mostly likely majority religious group feeling embarrassed that the word was called out in a public performance like that and no one was excommunicated.
        Now that I've seen it, I know why it's been around so long.  We aren't a culture of revolutionaries anymore.  We don't, as a general rule, collectively shun someone for a stealing a loaf of bread or for mothering children out of wedlock, but we know it happened once and could again.  We know there is still the possibility of become a self-righteous Javert, favoritism among children, unrequited love, causes we feel passionate about that no one supports us on.  Victor Hugo knew people and, whoever wrote the musical adaptation knew how to break a persons heart with a song.
       Unforgettable.  Thank you, Rachel.

Insults and Apologies

The other day, my daughter and I went to a friend's house to try on formal dresses.  (I am in need of something quick and inexpensive to chaperone Prom for the high school my hubby works for.)  My friend, for some amazing reason, had about twenty dresses at her house and my daughter, came with at least twenty criticisms.  I'm not sure I can explain how hurtful that was.  I haven't allowed teasing or put downs about body shape/size/weight, etc. because I believe the body is a gift.  I always told my daughters, "you never know what you're going to get" so why decide in advance what is beautiful and what isn't?  Well, after the shock and the hurt, I was trying not to be angry.  I finally took her face in my hands, and told her to stop talking.  Later, I wrote her a note about it.  Today, I was still upset and found myself stuck in "grumpy voice" suggesting apologies.  I honestly couldn't believe my kind, thoughtful daughter was growing into a callous, arrogant woman.
     This is the note I received in return:

Mom,
I apologize for hurting your feelings.  This was not my intention. I'm actually jealous of your figure. I love your body.  I'm totally without self-confidence, and that isn't all because of my friends.  I have a totally amazing, brilliant, beautiful woman as a mother and I'm always comparing myself to you, wishing I was more like you.  I didn't realize my comparisons were received as insults.  I love you more than words can say and I am so very, very sorry that I hurt you.  I wish I felt comfortable enough to tell you this in person, but well, there you are.  I'm sorry.  I love you.

In the note I wrote, I acknowledged that her so-called "friends" make cutting criticisms all of the time and that I hope she would find people to surround herself with who don't hurt her feelings to make themselves feel better.  I had no idea that this ever confident inspiration of a child was hurting already or comparing herself to me.  One never knows what is inside the heart and head of another.  This is why forgiveness is for ourselves. 

Love Happens (2009)

This movie was an honest look at something we don't really like to talk about in our culture -- mourning.  Burke is a psychologist turned motivational speaker who helps his patrons through the grieving process.  The sad news is, he hasn't completed his own.  But, an "accidental" booking back in his home town brings him face-to-face with the tragedy of his wife's accident.  He can longer avoid his father-in-law or his own denial as he finds himself breaking all of his own "rules" for being "A-okay."
      Eloise (Jennifer Aniston) is a local quirky florist who catches his eye as she drops her Sharpie while delivering flowers and scribbling a random long word being a painting in the hotel where Burke is staying.  She is the first woman he is prompted to ask out on a date since his wife died (3 years earlier) and she pretends to be deaf... The argument they have in the men's bathroom when he finds out is priceless.
     The thing about losing a loved one is that it still hurts years after everyone else thinks you should move on.  You're supposed to just move on, let go, and love your life again, but it isn't that easy.  There is a necessary work to be done to push beyond the anger and the fear.  Eckhart did a fantastic job walking between the roles of got it all together psychologist, distracted/despondent widower, and genuine man falling in love while weaving in all of the breakdowns and revelations necessary to that moment in life -- all in under 110 minutes.  I greatly appreciated the direction of the movie and that Jennifer Aniston was willing to play "window dressing" to allow Walter's story (one of Burke's seminar attendees) room to prompt Burke to face his own pain.
    I laughed and cried through this one.

Dehydration Station

We've gotta get these electrolytes under control, kids. 

I Do Believe in Fairies. I do. I DO!

When I first began my career in motherhood, I remember the exhaustion that came.  There was nothing so discouraging as a night of frequently interrupted sleep followed by more laundry than I had ever seen and dishes crammed so tightly into the sink, I had to fill a pitcher with water from the bathtub.  I distinctly remember holding a crying baby, tears streaming down my face, wondering where in the world my own cleaning fairy had gone.  I was certain I was as deserving as the cobbler and his shoes.

Of course, the fairy didn't come, but I gained housekeeping skill that faltered with the arrival of each new little one.  I also learned that I would rather leave the dishes in the sink for a few hours than miss out on an imagination game or story time with my little ones.  In the balance of things, I found that my children would require many skills.  One of these was clean up time, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it all of the time.

Fast forward to now...my little ones are teens and they've been joined by other little ones.  Keeping house is a daily necessity and takes hours of my time.  I've learned that keeping the house in order benefits everyone, but there is still life, pain, and sickness to take me from it.  Sometimes, my little ones lend a hand.  And sometimes...

...there are fairies...

and I am so thankful for the gifts.

My Top Ten Reasons for Hating Mother's Day

1. Mother's Day is always on the Sabbath.  This just grates on me.  Isn't this the Lord's day?  Doesn't spending a whole three hours of church meetings gushing over the best mothers ever sort of smack around the whole "Thou shalt have no other gods before me," except on Mother's Day... and Father's Day.
2. Do you have any idea how many people WANT to be mothers and can't?!  For whatever reason.  Infertility.  Lack of a partner.  Miscarriages.  This, was (obviously) not my problem.  But, I can't help having my heart break as I stand in a public place of worship to acknowledge my extreme coolness at being able to get pregnant and carry a baby to full term and think of all of the women in the room who would be better at it than I am, if only...
3. What's this?!  A whole day, for ME?  No. Not really.  This day is made for the people we've mothered and/or our husbands to make a show of gratitude.  I have a really hard time with this.  It's like only saying "I love you" on Valentine's Day.  You shouldn't need an occasion set aside by Congress to feel gratitude...and you shouldn't need to have millions of dollars of advertising for weeks at a time in your face to prompt you to do it.
4. MILLIONS of dollars of advertising.  This year, someone I know spent $90 on flowers even though their family is in the middle of a bankruptcy because he thought this is what the mother of his children would want most.
5. Breakfast in bed.  Why is this the thing to do?   It makes sense on Father's Day.  The father of my children would eat pancakes every morning if I baked them.  He also has the ability to remain comfortably in bed until well past noon on his days off.  I, on the other hand, really don't like pancakes or eggs and feel the need to rise as soon as the sun creeps through the curtains.  So, sitting there patiently, is like torture.
6. Hallmark Cards.  Who writes these things?  I am not a perfect mom.  I don't actually know any perfect moms...Well, maybe that one neighbor down the street who is always happy, raised seven kids, and has served two missions to the Islands...I want a card that says, "Mom, you're goofy and you break the dishes more often than the rest of us, but I wouldn't trade you for the world."
7. Mother's Day talks...in my church, we have these every year.  A few people touting the awesomeness of their moms.  Do you know what moms do?  We talk about our kids.  We talk about how big our bellies were, how much delivery hurt, how they painted the walls with poop that one time, how you know if your kid is lying to you, and what stories are the best to read out loud.  We are completely uncomfortable with all of this gooey, glowing spotlight business.  Turn it off.
8. Adoptive moms vs. Birth moms...today, I learned that a "thoughtful" someone has instituted the Saturday before Mother's Day to be "Birth Mom Day."  I guess this was their way of saying, see Adoptive Moms are the real moms here.  I've always thought this.  When I placed a baby for adoption 17 years ago, I spent my first Mother's Day with a stuffed mouse in my arms KNOWING that I was NOT a real mother.  I had given birth.  Period.  The woman who changed, fed, burped, laughed, and cried with him is his mother.  The thing is, we get all caught up defining what the "perfect" mom is that anyone who doesn't fit this feels left out or not good enough to be recognized. 
9. Pie instead of petunias.  Somewhere along the way a practical gift became symbolic of not recognizing the woman in your world as an individual.  That, somehow, a vacuum screamed "domestic servant."  I just disagree.  IF the mother in your world needs something to improve her everyday chores, then giving her that gift is acknowledging that being able to beautify her surrounding and having the working tools to do this IS a part of who she is.  This is the sort of gift that just keeps on giving.
10. Fathers who don't give a crap. Okay, on the flip side of all of the above, is being married to a man who does NOT feel any gratitude whatsoever toward all that you do as mother of his children and makes sure you know it by NEVER saying thank you any time throughout the year and is able to somehow ignore the millions of dollars of advertising, the talks, etc. Seriously?

Now, having said all this, I'd like to wish my mom the Happiest of Mother's Day (cuz you know I'll get it if I don't) !!

May the 4th be with you

Family Halloween pics - 2005

Nothing changes the world like Star Wars, the birth of a baby, and a light saber.

(Unless it's me, reading the prologue to each Star Wars film as my little ones sit in glowing anticipation of what is coming next...because you know we skip Episode 2 and 3 altogether.)

Kitchen Countertops

I'm one of those rare women who doesn't mind a galley for a kitchen.  I know this is strange since I am also the mother of five.  It would make more sense to have space to spread out, make room, and get cookin'.  But, I have to say, that limited counter space in the kitchen is good for my family because there are limits.  I guess I'm weird about the kitchen.  I don't know the contents of every cupboard down to the last cookie crumb because I am not the only one who goes in there.  This has its pluses and minuses. 

On the plus side: my 15, 14, and 12 year olds can all cook meals and not just macaroni and cheese.  This is fantastic news for those days when I'm too sick or not home to do it. 

On the minus side: There are times when I reach for a box of something I need and find it ... EMPTY.  grrr. 

Also, as much as my girls like to go all Food Network Chef in the kitchen, they have a difficult time with the clean up portion.  And I have yet to become one of those moms that follows behind people saying, "Rinse out your bowl.  Put the mayonnaise away. Wipe off the counter when you're finished."  Sometimes, I do this.  I've even given demonstrations on how to clean up as you go and purchased books that recommend doing the same thing.  At the end of the afternoon, there is not countertop space in my kitchen.  I love to find it though.  I am in love with clean countertops.

So much so that when I hear a, "Mom, I feel like baking..." (an automatic response in my house to a clean kitchen countertop.)  I have learned to take a deep breath and just say no.

My One and Only (2009)

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, and I could NOT make myself watch this whole, awful movie, I will let Ms. Zellweger's face tell you about this film...I'm pretty sure she is watching her career going down the tube.

The Last Station (2009)

Eighty-year old Christopher Plummer plays a powerful role of  Russian author Leo Tolstoy with Helen Miren playing his wife Sophia and James McAvoy at Tolstoyan follower and newly appointed secretary.  This film was approved by the Tolstoya family and tells the story of the final few months of Tostoy's life, the conflict he faced between loving his family who knew him as a man and caring for his "disciples" who likened him to a prophet.

The movie begins with a quote from Tolstoy, "Everything I know, I know only because I love." After 48 years of marriage, and facing the loss of her husband to men she called conspirators, Sophia is desperately clinging to her husbands hand, begging him to remember his love for her.  Watching was heart wrenching, she was not a mad woman at all, but Tolstoy was done fighting with her, done with his life of wealth.  He wanted peace and knew no other way to find it but by leaving.

Throughout these scenes of marital strife, their secretary, Valentin, discovers love for himself.  He is stuck in the middle of trying to reconcile the two to remember their love for each other, while reconciling the reality of Tolstoy, the man with Tolstoy, the prophet. 

All of the actors do a tremendous job of being REAL throughout the film.  I think Leo Tolstoy would be pleased.

Ananda Balasana - Happy Baby Pose

Deep Breath.
Lie down on your back.
With bent knees, bring your ankles above your stomach.
Hold the bottoms of your feet with open hands.
Spread your legs (remember, babies need room for diapers).
Relax your hips.
Roll a little.
Feel the play as your body relaxes into bliss...ananda.

Another description of the happy baby pose

The past week was all sorts of stressful.  Saturday night, after writing and writing, to vent my frustrations, I found myself prompted into the Happy Baby pose while praying.  I don't know what it is about this pose.  Maybe, it is the absolute vulnerability of it.  Unless you are completely stiff in your legs, there is no strength required.  It is a gentle stretch.  On my back, rolling my legs gently as babies do, I cannot stop myself from smiling.  Is it my own baby memories?  Or memories of watching my little ones do this very thing, untaught.  I feel my heart, throat, and head open wide and all is forgotten...except the bliss of exhistence.  I am.  Ananda.

Gossip

I talk with people about people. I talk about my stuff, his stuff, and her stuff with people I trust and only because I'm trying to find the best way to help work through things.  I've been known to make ROTTEN decisions in my life, and paid for them exponentially.  So, sometimes, I just want an outside perspective.  Sometimes, I just want to vent.  Sometimes, I am enlisting help because my arms don't stretch that far or my efforts don't seem to be enough.  I don't know why, but I feel seriously responsible for putting my hands in.

The brilliant news is, others don't.  Apparently, people can talk all about me, my husband, my kids and our problems ALL day (yes.  we ARE that entertaining.) and never lift a finger.  Now, I should digress from this topic to say there are people in my life that are all-hands-on-deck. In fact, they are some of the very people that participate with me in the process of the first paragraph.  There are people that I've shoved right on in to the back of my closet, forcing them to rub shoulders with the skeletons, and know for themselves just how badly it smells in there -- who have come out smiling and loving me all the more.  But, there are the others. 

Hooray.

Have you ever justified people not getting involved in your life because they didn't know there was a good reason to?  Today, I get to face the fact that not all people function the way that I do and hope that it isn't because there is an invisible neon sign on my front lawn blaring out "Quarantine:  This home is spiritually putrid.  Enter at your own risk." 

Won't you be my neighbor?

Prince Caspian 2008

Last night, I finally saw this movie all the way through.  Now that the family home theatre is all set up, we've been having fun with movies-mom-hasn't-seen-though-we've-played-them-a-thousand times.  I must confess that I have never read the complete series by C.S. Lewis, though I have every intention to do so.  Other books keep getting in the way.  Or, the calendar does -- I started out reading with this as our family read out loud book, but lately, we rarely have everyone home.  I was delighted to find so many subtle applications of Christianity throughout the story.  I'm sure there is no way to tell this story and avoid them.  Lewis wasn't just a theologian, he believed in practical, everyday religion that changes who you are, and those lessons are definately here without being all up in your face about it.

I was not surprised to find that the WETA Workshop in New Zealand had their hands in the costume and weapons creations.  These are truly fine quality.  I was surprised again at the quality of the acting in this film.  So many "children's" movies are just cheesy and overdone (one the light and dark sides), but this one is decidedly not. I can't get over the expressiveness of Georgie Henley's (Lucy) face and have every confidence that she will be able to grow as much as the story does.

I think my favorite part of this movie, was just when the fight scene is ending...Prince Caspian refuses to take the life of his uncle in revenge for the death of his father because he does not want to become that sort of king.  It says a lot about him.  What happens next is very telling of the world -- oh, the treachery!  Was anyone else shocked when the other lord betrays the Usurper King, blaming it on the Narnians, and the General changes his loyalties to match this brand new wind?  I didn't see it coming.  Yet, it didn't surprise me. 

There were subtilties within the story that the director/writer/actors did a good job of implying without showing the details -- the many lives lost at the castle battle, for example, or the three men killed by the general as propoganda against the Narnians for troop morale. 

I was impressed with the crew names as well, seriously the most diverse crew I've ever seen.  Though it helps that the movie was filmed in places like Poland and Slovenia, with New Zealanders working costumes, and actors from the UK.  And now, I don't know how to finish this blog.  Though it was a good movie, I don't know if I'll every watch it from start to finish again.  hmmm...

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

This book was a gift from a friend of mine.  It isn't the type of book I would normally pick up on my own.  However, it is one of the best reads of my post-edumacation required list of reading phase of my life.  McCarthy uses the most stark, barren form to describe events in a world that is, I assume, post nuclear fall out.  The descriptions are cuttingly simple, as if taken straight out of the minds of a starving man, still in shock from so many losses, and desperate to survive with his son.  McCarthy writes with limited punctuation, limited conversation, and, in 256 pages, grips the reader by the throat and says, "This is real possibility for your future."

I can still see the endless mummified bodies on the road, the ash, the gray sky.  I can still hear the wheels on the shopping cart they push through snow and sand to keep their supplies close.  I can still feel the urgency to get out of the cold, where miniature, cannabalistic armies have gathered into the south, hoping for food, hoping for sunlight, hoping for sane human life to show you that all is not lost.  If all is lost, why struggle so hard to keep your son alive?

I highly recommend this book.  We live in a very comfortable world and take for granted so many gifts.

Of thee I sing...

Last night, my husband read some news before going to bed. There had been loads of facebook stati complaining about military pay, but no links to anything detailing what in the world was going on. (We don't have a television under the assumption that the news is not exactly reliable, most programming obscene, and refuse to watch the commercials.) It turns out the U.S. Government is arguing hardcore about the current budget. With a deficit like ours, one would think that if anyone's salary were to be cut, it would NOT be the military. (Doesn't anyone know that if you make a man desperate to feed his family and give him a gun... oh, wait...we're more civilized than that. We're Americans.)
       I am not even going to pretend to know all of the ins and outs of a budget for a country as large as ours or a government with their hands extended into just about everything they could be globally and right up into the bedrooms of its citizens. Honestly, the more I know, I wonder how we can possibly be using the term "capitalism" to describe our culture of socialistic entightlement any longer. And am I ready for what is coming? Absolutely not. I'm sure I'm part of the problem -- every year, all of the taxes my family pays are returned to us because we are too poor to pay them and I am thankful for the return.
        The brilliant news is, I am not the only one feeling down on my own "sweet land of liberty" that is now in the bondage of debt. We are becoming the laughing stock of the world... America in comedy... I'm sure this is the most mild that is being said. If we are quietly turning the people of the world into the typical TV personality -- complacent, no character, no patience, no strength -- there will be no reason for Heaven to help us. It would be better for us to fall.

Religulous (2008)

I should preface this entry by stating that this was suggested by my brother so I could understand his current views on god/religion.  What I saw and heard left me in a little bit of shock.  You see, Bill Maher's "documentary" of the "current state of world religious views" was really nothing more than an excuse to show off just how rude and intolerant someone can be when they've decided they are right and you are WRONG.  This was extra hard for me to swallow because my brother and I had been brought up in a home of religious tolerance.  We learned very young that not everyone saw the world or lived their lives in accordance to the tenants we were taught on Sunday.  Instead of condemning people for choices or seperating ourselves from people with different beliefs, we embraced the differences, found beauty in the variety, and gained good friends of many different ideas -- Hinuism, Buddhism, Islam, Juddaism, Agnosticism, Athiest...
       I had to force myself through this movie.  I could have choked on Maher's openly arrogant, insulting attitude toward the people he was "interviewing."  Even though he is a well known comedian, his position as documentarian might have encouraged him to leave the satire at home.  If he were an agnostic asking others questions about how they "know" or if they really believe Jonah literally spent three days in the belly of a big fish, he may have allowed for an open and interesting dialogue.  But, I don't think that was his purpose.  He wanted the people of America who believe in god to look ridiculous and attempted to do so by cutting them off, mocking their replies, and inserting snippets of hollywood films/news footage, etc. with written commentary.
       Throughout the film, Maher asks the question, "What if you're wrong?"  I don't know if the people he asked wouldn't entertain the idea because they were afraid it was a blasphemous idea to entertain.  I don't have that problem and would like to answer it... What if I am wrong about the "God lens" I see the world with?  What if I am wrong about the afterlife I believe in and spend my whole life attempting to better myself, my family, and my neighborhood in kindness and being a wise steward of the life I see as a gift?  What if I spend my mornings and evenings gazing at a beautiful sky and find that there was no painter as I believe there is?  Is that really so bad, Bill?  You seem to think that a life of selfish indulgence and pleasure seeking is the way to go.  But I don't value those things.  So, even if it turns out that I am wrong, I am not wasting my life in believing there is a Heavenly Father who hears and answers my prayers.  I leave you to choose for yourself how you would spend your days.  I must say though, that I don't believe the Armegeddon you fear will be avoided if everyone treated others with the disdain and disrespect you did throughout the film.  What if you're "wrong"?

A Mighty Heart (2007)

This is a movie I keep adding to the netflix queue, but have been afraid to actually see because I remember the outcome from the news and didn't want to watch a reenactment played out on screen.  It turned out the "F-bomb" was the reason for the rating and that the powers that be chose to follow Marianne Pearls tenant that a terrorists aim is to terrorize and, though they murdered her husband in a terrible way, they had not succeeded in changing her as a person or her world view.
      I can only imagine myself in this situation knowing I would be the sobbing woman on the floor from the beginning, but Marianne was a journalist.  She knew how to hunt down a story, keep the communication lines open between the policing authorities (in this case, Pakistan and CIA), she knew what the terrorists wanted and wouldn't give it to them (her fear).  Her response was so intriguing, I had to watch it through.  Was this her cultural heritage, her professional training, or her religious beliefs shining through?  Some said they felt it was fake and mechanical.  I found it inspiring.  She would not let go until there was no hope left and she didn't take out her own stress on the people who were helping her find her husband (there were a few moments of tension).  The people who knew her best understood her response.
     I cried when they told her Danny "didnt' make it".  When they told her how they knew for sure, I was sick inside with how she would ever get over that.  When she did her next interview and reminded the news reporter that 10 people had been kidnapped and killed that month in Pakistan and that 9 of them were Pakistani...that terrorists thrived in places where hope is lost, I was in awe.  Marianne knew how to seperate individuals from the masses instead of blaming everyone with a similar trait.  How different the world would be if we could all do that.
    In the end, I don't know who the title is truly for.  Daniel Pearl had a mighty heart of his own and showed it in his escape attempts, in his unapologetic declaration of his Jewish heritage and the pride in knowing there is a street in Jerusalem named for his grandfather...There is an interview where Marianne says that "forgiveness is not enough for me."  This doesn't seem to be because she wants vengeance, but because she wants a world where terrorist acts don't happen.  I think it's what she and Danny wanted in the first place -- to enable everyone to understand each other's honest perspectives, stripped of politics, so better choices could be made.
    May that day still come.

Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell

author: Elizabeth Gaskell

Mary Barton was a refreshing read after so many uninspiring books.   Mary, who is named after her mother, is a beautiful young girl growing up beneath the dense fog of an English factory town.  We are introduced to her on a Sunday walk, when everything is right with the world and pretty.  Her family is by no means wealthy (her mother has to ask her neigbors to bring their own dishes to share their evening meal), but they have sufficient for the day and each other. 
     It is a beautiful scene that, sadly, does not last.  Of course this life has more than enough trouble in it for tomorrow and their limited means of employment doesn't allow for saving against the storms.  And the storms do come.  And come.  And come.  And come some more.
     Mrs. Gaskell was the wife of a minister.  She had the priviledge of seeing poverty and plenty without being overtouched by either.  This was her first novel -- one that will break your heart -- and she may have been a little too aware of the audience she intended it for.  You see, Mrs. Gaskell apologizes and offers explanations for the choices of her desperate and starving characters.  Charles Dickens, who lived in terrible poverty, never apologizes for his characters.  But, Elizabeth Gaskell was out to change some hearts and open some eyes. 
     Reading this book, after loving the stories of Jane Austen for so long, I am baffled that Mrs. Gaskell's works are so often set aside by today's lover of historical drama.  She takes her characters through their teenaged years, self-discovery, regret, and maturity.  She rounds them out with faults, follies, and saving graces.  There is the breathlessness of the factory fire, the mystery of the murder, the tension of the courtroom.  All the while, inviting her audience in to question what they would do if they were walking in such worn and sodden shoes.
     "Mary Barton" the book, and the character by the same name, live through quite an adventure.  I didn't want to put it down. In the end, it is her own Christianity Mrs. Gaskell stumbles on.  No one in our time would believe in confessions and forgiving as portrayed here.  (Though it made me weep to hope that it was possible, even in someone elses imagination.) 

Fanaa (2006)

"It is easy to choose between right and wrong. But to choose the greater of two goods or the lesser of two evils…those are the choices of our life."

You know that Bollywood place I like to visit now and then?  Well, let's just say they've stepped up the game.  This movie held so much in it... the music, the color, the Hindi language and poetry, enough kohl to make everyone's eyes pop, love, heat, passion....oh, and helecopter chases, machine guns, sexy spy snowboarding down a hill so fast you want to cheer.   But, wait, he's the terrorist, right?
   Rehan (Aamir Khan) and Zooni (Kajol) meet in Delhi.  Zooni is blind but also the main vocalist for a special Indian Independance day production at the palace of the prince.  All of her girlfriend's are joking about meeting the prince and falling in love, but she can't keep her senses away from the intriguing tour guide (Rehan).  He warns her about himself, calls himself a devil, tells her she will die in the wake of the storm he leaves behind, etc.  But, she can't get past the budding love she feels for him.  In the end, she wins his heart. And just as they are about to be married, he dies in a terrorist explosion...
    Intermission...  Really.  The movie is so long it needs an intermission.  I think this was for two reasons: a) the length of the film and b) to help the stunned audience transition from mourning the loss of the beautiful love affair to discovering that life was, perhaps, not so rosy after all.
    Now, I'm not going to give away all of the details, because I think it would ruin the effect. But, I have to say that movies like this are my favorite to watch.  All of the emotions of life were right there and just enough philosophy, familiarity, and oddity to make me question what I believe.  That's important.  So many times, we just live without even thinking about the thoughts or reasons behind what we do.  Our government and popular culture happily villify anything or anyone outside of the "norm". 
     Tell me, are all terrorists bad?  Our own founding fathers were labeled as terrorists by King and country until they gathered enough support to make their voices heard.  Then they were patriots.  The sad news is that technology and advances in weaponry have made it so that too many people suffer all at once for someone's cause. 
     The title "Fanaa" is translated from Hindi to English as "Destroyed in love"...a beautiful sentiment referring to the death of your former self as you give your heart to another.  From Arabic, fanaa is translated as "annihilation."  Both translations fit this film.