Burfday

Happy Birthday Mamoo!

I Dedicate This Clip to Georgia

It's 7 a.m. for Gripes' Sake!

Who told Suzanne she should wear a prom dress on the Today Show?

Garrison Keillor Cracks Me Up

Here's an excerpt from his essay on Salon this morning.

So the Republicans have decided to run against themselves. The bums have tiptoed out the back door and circled around to the front and started yelling, "Throw the bums out!" They've been running Washington like a well-oiled machine to the point of inviting lobbyists into the back rooms to write the legislation, and now they are anti-establishment reformers dedicated to delivering us from themselves. And Mayor Giuliani is an advocate for small-town America. Bravo.

They are coming out for Small Efficient Government the very week that the feds are taking over Fannie and Freddie, those old cash cows, and in the course of a weekend 20 or 50 (or pick a number) billion go floating out the Treasury door. Hello? Do you see us out here? We are not fruit flies, we are voters, we can read and write, we didn't just fall off the coal truck.

It is a bold move on the Republicans' part -- forget about the past, it's only history, so write a new narrative and be who you want to be -- and if they succeed, I think I might declare myself a 24-year-old virgin named Lance and see what that might lead to. Paste a new face on my Facebook page, maybe become the Dauphin Louie the Thirty-Second, the rightful heir to the Throne of France, put on silk tights and pantaloons and a plumed hat and go on the sawdust circuit and sell souvenir hankies imprinted with the royal fleur-de-lis. They will cure neuralgia and gout and restore marital vigor...

Cheesy Taco Hamburger Helper

In case you wondered what we ended up having last night.

I Can Answer That

When Biggy got home this afternoon:

Biggy: What's the plan for this evening?

TR: You and I are going to the Y to work out?

Biggy: When?

TR: I dunno. Now?

Biggy: What's for dinner?

TR: Either you can grill chicken breasts or I can make Hamburger Helper. It's up to you.

Biggy: Let me ask you a hypothetical question.

TR: Shoot.

Biggy: Let's say a man gets his wife cooking lessons for Christmas. Would that be a nice gift, or would it be considered an insult?

On Politics and Metaphor

I've been a fan of George Lakoff since I came across some of his articles while researching the power of storytelling and metaphor for a class a few years ago. Thanks to Jeneva at Busily Seeking...Continual Change, I just saw this piece on Tikkun. I'm pasting it here to save you all the trouble of clicking a link. Also, it keeps you on my blog longer, which inflates my stats and hence my ego.

Here 'tis:

George Lakoff argues that the Republican choice of Palin makes total sense if you truly understand the strategy of the Republicans in this election.


The Palin Choice
The Reality of the Political Mind
by George Lakoff

This election matters because of realities-the realities of global warming, the economy, the Middle East, nuclear proliferation, civil liberties, species extinction, poverty here and around the world, and on and on. Such realities are what make this election so very crucial, and how to deal with them is the substance of the Democratic platform .

Election campaigns matter because who gets elected can change reality. But election campaigns are primarily about the realities of voters' minds, which depend on how the candidates and the external realities are cognitively framed. They can be framed honestly or deceptively, effectively or clumsily. And they are always framed from the perspective of a worldview.

The Obama campaign has learned this. The Republicans have long known it, and the choice of Sarah Palin as their Vice-Presidential candidate reflects their expert understanding of the political mind and political marketing. Democrats who simply belittle the Palin choice are courting disaster. It must be t aken with the utmost seriousness.

The Democratic responses so far reflect external realities: she is inexperienced, knowing little or nothing about foreign policy or national issues; she is really an anti-feminist, wanting the government to enter women's lives to block abortion, but not wanting the government to guarantee equal pay for equal work, or provide adequate child health coverage, or child care, or early childhood education; she shills for the oil and gas industry on drilling; she denies the scientific truths of global warming and evolution; she misuses her political authority; she opposes sex education and her daughter is pregnant; and, rather than being a maverick, she is on the whole a radical right-wing ideologue.

All true, so far as we can tell.

But such truths may nonetheless be largely irrelevant to this campaign. That is the lesson Democrats must learn. They must learn the reality of the political mind.

The Obama campaign has done this very well so far. The convention events and speeches were orchestrated both to cast light on external realities, traditional political themes, and to focus on values at once classically American and progressive: empathy, responsibility both for oneself and others, and aspiration to make things better both for oneself and the world. Obama did all this masterfully in his nomination speech, while replying to, and undercutting, the main Republican attacks.

But the Palin nomination changes the game. The initial response has been to try to keep the focus on external realities, the "issues," and differences on the issues. But the Palin nomination is not basically about external realities and what Democrats call "issues," but about the symbolic mechanisms of the political mind-the worldviews, frames, metaphors, cultural narratives, and stereotypes. The Republicans can't win on realities. Her job is to speak the language of conservatism, activate the conservative view of the world, and use the advantages that conservatives have in dominating political discourse.

Our national political dialogue is fundamentally metaphorical, with family values at the center of our discourse. There is a reason why Obama and Biden spoke so much about the family, the nurturant family, with caring fathers and the family values that Obama put front and center in his Father's day speech: empathy, responsibility and aspiration. Obama's reference in the nomination speech to "The American Family" was hardly accidental, nor were the references to the Obama and Biden families as living and fulfilling the American Dream. Real nurturance requires strength and toughness, which Obama displayed in body language and voice in his responses to McCain. The strength of the Obama campaign has been the seamless marriage of reality and symbolic thought.

The Republican strength has been mostly symbolic. The McCain campaign is well aware of how Reagan and W won-running on character: values, communicatio n, (apparent) authenticity, trust, and identity - not issues and policies. That is how campaigns work, and symbolism is central.

Conservative family values are strict and apply via metaphorical thought to the nation: good vs. evil, authority, the use of force, toughness and discipline, individual (versus social) responsibility, and tough love. Hence, social programs are immoral because they violate discipline and individual responsibility. Guns and the military show force and discipline. Man is above nature; hence no serious environmentalism. The market is the ultimate financial authority, requiring market discipline. In foreign policy, strength is use of the force. In fundamentalist religion, the Bible is the ultimate authority; hence no gay marriage. Such values are at the heart of radical conservatism. This is how John McCain was raised and how he plans to govern. And it is what he shares with Sarah Palin.

Palin is the mom in the strict father family, upholding conservative values. Palin is tough: she shoots, skins, and eats caribou. She is disciplined: raising five kids with a major career. She lives her values: she has a Downs-syndrome baby that she refused to abort. She has the image of the ideal conservative mom: pretty, perky, feminine, Bible-toting, and fitting into the ideal conservative family. And she fits the stereotype of America as small-town America. It is Reagan's morning-in-America image. Where Obama thought of capturing the West, she is running for Sweetheart of the West.

And Palin, a member of Feminists For Life, is at the heart of the conservative feminist movement, which Ronee Schreiber has written about in her recent book, Righting Feminism. It is a powerful and growing movement that Democrats have barely paid attention to.
At the same time, Palin is masterful at the Republican game of taking the Democrats' language and reframing it-putting conservative frames to progressive words: Reform, prosperity, peace. She is also masterful at using the progressive narratives: she's from the working class, working her way up from hockey mom and the PTA to Mayor, Governor, and VP candidate. Her husband is a union member. She can say to the conservative populists that she is one of them-all the things that Obama and Biden have been saying. Bottom-up, not top-down.

Yes, the McCain-Palin ticket is weak on the major realities. But it is strong on the symbolic dimension of politics that Republicans are so good at marketing. Just arguing the realities, the issues, the hard truths should be enough in times this bad, but the political mind and its response to symbolism cannot be ignored. The initial Democratic response to Palin - the response based on realities alone - indicates that many Democrats have not learned the lessons of the Reagan and Bush years.

They have not learned the nature of conservative populism. A great many working-class folks are what I call "bi-conceptual," that is, they are split between conservative and progressive modes of thought. Conservative on patriotism and certain social and family issues, which they have been led to see as "moral", progressive in loving the land, living in communities of care, and practical kitchen table issues like mortgages, health care, wages, retirement, and so on.
Conservative theorists won them over in two ways: Inventing and promulgating the idea of "liberal elite" and focusing campaigns on social and family issues. They have been doing this for many years and have changed a lot of brains through repetition. Palin will appeal strongly to conservative populists, attacking Obama and Biden as pointy-headed, tax-and-spend, latte liberals. The tactic is to divert attention from difficult realities to powerful symbolism.

What Democrats have shied away from is a frontal attack on radical conservatism itself as an un-American and harmful ideology. I think Obama is right when he says that America is based on people caring about each other and working together for a better future-empathy, responsibility (both personal and social), and aspiration. These lead to a concept of government based on protection (environmental, consumer, worker, health care, and retirement protection) and empowerment (through infrastructure, public education, the banking system, the stock market, and the courts). Nobody can achieve the American Dream or live an American lifestyle without protection and empowerment by the government.20The alternative, as Obama said in his nomination speech, is being on your own, with no one caring for anybody else, with force as a first resort in foreign affairs, with threatened civil liberties and a right-wing government making your most important decisions for you. That is not what American democracy has ever been about.

What is at stake in this election are our ideals and our view of the future, as well as current realities. The Palin choice brings both front and center. Democrats, being Democrats, will mostly talk about the realities nonstop without paying attention to the dimensions of values and symbolism. Democrats, in addition, need to call an extremist an extremist: to shine a light on the shared anti-democratic ideology of McCain and Palin, the same ideology shared by Bush and Cheney. They share values antithetical to our democracy. That needs to be said loud and clear, if not by the Obama campaign itself, then by the rest of us who share democratic American values.

Our job is to bring external realities together with the reality of the political mind. Don't ignore the cognitive dimension. It is through cultural narratives, metaphors, and frames that we understand and express our ideals.

George Lakoff is the author of The Political Mind: Why You Can't Understand 20th Century Politics With an 18th Century Brain

A Real Masterpiece

An ad in today's AJC

Fall Season Begins

Lola moved up to 10-and-Under slow pitch softball this season. In this age bracket, the girls actually pitch--no more coach-pitching.

So it goes like this: First, the pitcher rolls the ball around in her glove until she can get it just the way she likes it in her hand. Next, she puts one foot behind the other, leans back and adjusts her knees until she achieves a perfect keep-on-truckin' stance. After that, she holds her arm out, closes one eye, and aims the ball. Finally, she takes a step forward while swinging her arm backward then forward, and releases the ball.

The ball then rolls over the plate or lands three feet in front of it, whereupon it is retrieved by the catcher, who throws it back to the pitcher, who misses it.

The short stop and third baseman chase the runaway ball and then each kindly waits for the other to pick it up. One finally steps to the task and throws the ball to the pitcher, who catches it 50% of the time on this second toss.

The pitching ritual begins again, and so it goes until the batter walks. Every fifth batter or so, there is some deviation to the routine as someone who's in a hurry to get to Chic-fil-A swings at everything and strikes out.

The game lasts for an hour, during which time only three innings are played.

Friday Nostalgia

Or we could call it "Friday Family Values."

Same School, Same Dog

New office.

Priceless

Where's The Application?

Last night, Lo and I were watching Super Nanny, an episode where the family had twin six-year-old boys and a five-year-old girl who pitched epic fits at the dinner table and couldn't wipe their own asses. As appalled as Jo was, Lo was fascinated.

Lo: How old was I when I started wiping myself?

TR: Too old. Four, I think. You could skate and ride a bike.

Lo: Wow. How long do you think that kid will sit at the table not eating her carrots? Just eat 'em already.

TR: You're one to talk. Look--she's starting to nod off. That's right; send her straight to bed.

(Cutting to commercial, they flash the website and call to apply for the show)

TR: Ooh, I'm SO gonna sign us up. See if she can straighten you out.

Lo: Whatever. I would just behave while she's here. You'll look like the one with the problem.

TR: I don't think you could do it.

Lo: Be glad you don't have fourthlets.

TR: Huh?

Lo: What's it called when you have four babies?

TR: Quadruplets.

Lo: How about twelve?

TR: Suicide.

Stella After My Own Heart

When I was a kid, I'd hide (hoard) my cookies or pop-tarts or whatever until my sister was finished with hers, and then I'd brag about still having mine, eating slowly in front of her. I was such a bitch.

Oh, that's Biggy's nice white dress shirt, by the way. If only he could remember what the hamper is for.

Too Tired to Blog

so you'll have to settle for this tonight:

Because I Don't Want ANYONE to Miss This

Lunch Spot

From today's spectacular 3-hour hike.

Room With a View

So a two-and-a-half hour bus ride from the Denver airport landed us at the Beaver Creek Resort. Biggy and I will be renting mountain bikes and taking to the hills. This is OK. BUT all the stress has given me a fever blister. Add it up:

>Hair the color of your grandpa's army boots.

>No warm clothes, because when they said to pack jeans, I just packed what I always wear for jeans occasions--sun dresses.

>An extra head growing on my lip.

I'll keep you posted.

SuperSecret

So I haven't posted about this, because it's somewhat traumatic for me. I'm sitting at the airport right now, waiting with about a hundred of Biggy's coworkers plus their SO's or guests, to catch a flight to Denver (why?), a destination we just found out this morning after boarding the charter buses (on which Jello shots were consumed, but not by me) to the airport. We were informed about this shindig back in December but not told where we were going. Guesses ran the gamut from Atlantis to Dollywood, but no one pegged it. We were given t-shirts, suitcases, and a packing list.

Does this sound like fun to you? Then you are not me.

To make this even better (Rupert, you will love this), I colored my hair last night, and it looks like a used shoe polish. So picture it--me, in a bad-hair ponytail, wearing a bad logo t-shirt and a name tag, waiting to fly somewhere that is NOT the beach.

Good times.

Stay tuned.

Kathy, I'll call you.

Friday Nostalgia

Because Biggy didn't get Jon Stewart's "Guess Who's Coming to Denver" reference:

Sweet Nothings

Here is the conversation Biggy and I had in regard to two school events scheduled on the same day:

Biggy: Would you rather go to Jack's Open House or Lola's Target Orientation?

TR: Well, at Jack's, I'd have to change classrooms every five minutes, which means a lot of walking the halls, so I'd just as soon go to Lola's and sit in the trailer.

Biggy: That's fine. I'll go to Jack's then. Anyway, it will be good for Lola's teacher to know she actually has a mother.

(Beat)

Biggy: If you want, I can draw you a map to the classroom.

My New Bumper Sticker

Inspired by the Today Show.

Happy 21st

Sadie Blue.

The Bert Show Blows in a Storm

Because of the monsoon here in Marietta, I had to take JackMan to school today. (When he drives his big boy car, he has to park about 3/4 a mile away at a friend's house.) On the way, I had the radio turned to Q100, as always in the morning.

TR: Wow, they really crack themselves up, don't they?

Jack: Do you listen to the Bert Show just so you can hate on 'em?

TR: Yeah.

(beat)

(beat)

TR: Do you hear that cackle?! Doesn't Melissa's laugh make you want to pull all your hair out?

Jack: Pretty much.

TR: It's like biting into aluminum foil.

(beat)

TR: Let's count the grammatical mistakes. Last week, she said the drinking age was RISEN instead of RAISED. Like Jesus.

Pot Roast

Biggy: Why did you cook it in a bag?

TR: It had all the seasonings and stuff.

Biggy: So it was a kit?

Voicemail from Georgia

Mom!

Number one: Thanks for telling me to google Harlequin babies, because now I'm gonna have nightmares for the REST OF MY LIFE!

Number two: I'm having pains in my leg that feel like restless leg syndrome mixed with a migraine mixed with a toothache, so call me back and let me know if you think it's nothing or if I'm going to die from a blood clot or something.

Waxing Nostalgic on Sunday

I came across this image of the old Cobb Center, which was all we had before the mega-mall phenomenon. I grew up shopping at its Woolworth's, which had a diner and a pet department with goldfish and parakeets. For really special occasions, we bought dresses at the anchor store, Rich's, pictured above.

When I was a teen, I worked there at a clothing store named Saul's, which sold women's and men's clothes. Saul's catered to the Polident crowd and had the biggest Sansabelt slacks selection north of the panhandle. I was one of about ten 16-19-year-olds they employed, and we were managed by a handful of housemothers in cat-eye glasses and sweater sets. Further up the totem pole was Mr. Warbell, a stern-looking middle-aged man whose dour expressions inspired us to see how much we could get away with.

We acted like a bunch of rowdy cousins, sneaking around behind the racks, sticking each other with push pins, and messing up each other's stations. We were always getting fired and rehired. We partied together, went to the beach, and dated each other until we split up to go to college. One of the boys, a beautiful blond I used to go parking with (necking only) by the lake, went to UGA like I did, but he ended up being a cheerleader and all that implies. (And I'd always thought he was scared to "do it.")

My friend Ann, whom I'd grown up with, got me the job at Saul's. She also convinced me to use her hair stylist, Mr. Lee, at the mall salon. Mr. Lee was kind enough to stay open late for us, so we'd go after work and be the only two clients in the shop. He always made us scoot forward in the chair and stood right between our legs to cut. He also had to measure an important hairstyle angle distance by placing his thumbs on our nipples.

We discussed his methodology, Ann and I, but decided he was like a doctor, so it was okay. A little less okay was the good-bye kiss he gave each of us, trying to slip us tongue. I swear, if my girls were as stupid as Ann and I were, I'd beat their meager brains out. Then I'd go kill me a pervert. Our hair looked great, though.

Happy Accident

I was Youtubing for a new diabetes meds commercial I wanted to make fun of, one where this 45/50-ish dad claims he's gonna dance at his four-year-old's wedding. (Not to imply he won't live that long, but rather to quip along the lines of how he also has a daughter from his first marriage, who's the same age as his second wife, with whom he had the four-year-old...) I never found the tv spot I was looking for, but I came across this, which makes me feel better about marriage in general:

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

Friday Nostalgia

The Carol Burnett Show, 1967-1978. My mom and I thought Lyle Waggoner was such a hunk.

Like Shooting Fish in a Barrel

Another Case in Point

When I came downstairs this morning, I found the usual collection of glasses and bowls in the sink, with the tell-tale film of protein shake and peanut butter that is Biggy's hallmark. So after I got Lo off to school and fed the dogs, guinea pigs, turtle, and hamsters, Biggy sashayed in freshly showered, trying to decide what he wanted to eat:

TR: I've come up with an analogy that might be helpful.

Biggy: Let's hear it.

TR: Your leaving your dishes in the sink, which is right next to the dishwasher, which I always unload, is the equivalent of my leaving trash on the floor by the pantry door instead of opening the door and putting it in the trashcan--because the trash is your job.

Biggy: Let me think about that one a minute.

(beat)

Biggy: That's a good analogy, but we still don't have any paper towels.

TR: Don't go off subject.

Biggy: Maybe it's more like: My leaving the dishes in the sink is like your leaving your shoes all over the closet floor instead of putting them on the shoe shelves.

TR: As an analogy, that doesn't work, because you don't have to put the shoes on the shelves in order for something else to happen. The dishes HAVE to go in the dishwasher in order to be washed. My leaving my shoes on the closet floor is the equivalent of your leaving your shoes in our bedroom floor. I put your shoes up EVERY DAY.

Biggy: (Who's been writing something on a piece of paper as we chat.) Here, read this out loud. (Turns paper around, on which is written " I AM A WEE TODD. I AM SOFA KING WEE TODD IT.")

I, of course, am too smart to fall for it.

We Can Argue About Anything

Last night, it got pretty heated over which Olympic sport looks the most ridiculous.

Biggy's opinion, trampoline:





or mine, curling.

I Still Haven't Unpacked My Suitcase

from my trip to Mass.

I Rest My Case

Nails on a Chalkboard

For me, Mama Mia was a lot like liturgical dance--appalling and slightly nauseating. So why did I like the movie so much?

Friday Nostalgia

L.A. Law, 1986-1984

A Look at the Future

When we got Timmy a couple of years ago, he was the size of a quarter:


It's been a little worrisome that he's already grown to the size of Biggy's head:


But after the news this morning...

Dog Hair

Because wrinkles aren't bad enough.

I ironed skirt and shirt, laid them out on the bed, went to take a shower:

On the Trash Can that is American Politics

Monday night Jon Stewart.

Moe, Larry, and Curly

Lola on School Lunches

TR: What did y'all have today?

Lo: Grilled cheese. I want to bring my lunch.

TR: Noooooo...

Lo: Yes. The hamburgers are flat, and the hot dogs stick to the wall.

TR: How would you know that?

Lo: This kid tested it out. A bad kid. He had nothing to lose.

A Good Tuesday Song

While I was at Mt. Holyoke, fellow Warren Wilson alum Catherine S introduced me to the music of Catherine Feeny.

Dear Georgia,

Biggy and Blaise are sitting on the couch, in front of the TV, bonding over women's olympic volleyball tonight. It's really heartwarming.

First Day of Third Grade

The tradition endures:


Biggy makes the pancakes.



Lola eats the pancakes.



Pose for a quick pic in the white undershirt.



To the bus.

A Comment that Became Longer than a Comment

This is my response to a comment I received on this past Friday's "Nostalgia" post. First, let me be clear: I feel great gratitude mixed with sorrow for those who serve this country.

Second, I actually appreciate and value the tradition of the yellow ribbon--the same way I understand and appreciate the impulse to hang wind chimes near a loved one's grave in a cemetery. Feeling so powerless against certain powers, we must, sometimes, express our grief, fear, or hope through gestures and objects.

But I was indeed poking fun at our ignorance of the ORIGINS of our symbols. In my previous post on the subject, I didn't go back very far into the roots of the yellow ribbon, which go well retro-beyond the 70's classic, harkening back to an old folk song of dubious subject matter. This from Wikipedia:

In the United States military, the symbol of the yellow ribbon is used in a popular marching song. The first version copyrighted was the 1917 version by George A. Norton, which he titled 'Round Her Neck She Wears a Yeller Ribbon (For Her Lover Who Is Fur, Fur Away). While he tells in the song about the love between Susie Simpkins and her soldier lover Silas Hubbard, his chorus goes:

'Round her neck she wears a yeller ribbon,
She wears it in winter and the summer so they say,
If you ask her "Why the decoration?"
She'll say "It's fur my lover who is fur, fur away.'

The lyrics were altered and the song was titled She Wore a Yellow Ribbon by Russ Morgan for the 1949 movie of the same name. This was performed by several popular musicians of the 1940s, including Mitch Miller and The Andrews Sisters. The text of the Army version approximates the following, with local variations:

Around her hair she wore a yellow ribbon
She wore it in the springtime
In the merry month of May
And if you ask her why the heck she wore it
She wore it for her soldier who was far far away

(Chorus)
Far away, far away
She wore it for her soldier
Who was far, far away

Around the block she pushed a baby carriage
She pushed it in the springtime
In the Merry month of May
And if you ask her why the heck she pushed it
She pushed it for her soldier who was far far away

(Chorus)

Behind the door her daddy kept a shotgun
He kept it in the springtime
In the merry month of May
And if you ask him why the heck he kept it
He kept it for her soldier who was far far away

(Chorus)

On the grave she laid the pretty flowers
She laid them in the springtime
In the merry month of May
And if you asked her why the heck she laid them
She laid them for her soldier who was far far away

(Chorus)

The fact that we get so far away from the origins of our symbols is funny--and poignant-- to me, because it says so much about our NEED, and how we pick and choose what we appropriate--and what for: Besides "Support Our Troops," the yellow ribbon is also used to raise awareness for bladder cancer, endometriosis, hydrocephaly, teen suicide, "Boycott Aruba," and "Free Harry Wu," among others. A comprehensive list of ribbons and their meanings says much about how desperate we are for symbols, as well as our taste for kitsch. Not to mention our ability to capitalize on all of this.

I could trace certain aspects of Christmas and Easter, whose symbols have their roots in pagan rituals, but I'll save that for another post (over the holidays!). I'll say, however, that I believe it's what's in our hearts that really matters, as we glom onto our ritual and symbology, that what we BELIEVE we are celebrating is the important thing.

Furthermore, knowing (and facing) the truth about these traditions doesn't change anything--any more than the truth about how this war started has changed the fact of our fighting it.

May all our young men return home to us safely. Let the yellow ribbons make it so.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

Yesterday, at lunch, I was telling my fellow writers about the time my cat gave birth to a two-headed kitten, which led to a discussion about how cats can have a litter of kittens who have different fathers, which led to the question of whether that occurs with humans. Turns out, twins can have different fathers, but the odds for it happening are just slightly better than for my winning a Nobel Peace Prize.

Friday Nostalgia

Just a reminder about the origins of our 'yellow ribbon' tradition here in the USA. While yellow ribbon folklore dates back to the Civil War or earlier, it was the 1973 Tony Orlando and Dawn song, which made a dramatic comeback eight years after being recorded, that is responsible for the ribbon's current ubiquitousness. When the 52 American hostages held in Iran returned home after 444 days of captivity on January 20, 1981, the song--about a convict who's served his time-- was played throughout the land as a joyous homecoming theme.

It's true, boys and girls. You gotta love this country!

What's Wrong With Me?

I'm grateful to be here. Aside from two days of rain, I've got no bloggable complaints. And the classes have been great. I mean, where else could I go for a class on nothing but interjections and how they work in poems? It made me happy.

But I'm homesick. It's true. Just call me 'Georgia.'

I'm ready to come home. A week is too long to be away. I need Biggy and the kids in slapping distance. I miss Fay's constant rebound off my shins and the end-of-week smell of the guinea pigs' cage.

Things My New Friends Don't Believe

1. That I have ten pets.

2. That my aunt once had a teacup chihuahua that smoked cigarettes.

3. That my father wore one driving glove.

4. That my grandmother broke her arm jumping on my pogo stick.

5. That my grandfather thought he was Jesus and went around dressed in robes and sandals.

6. That, to practice her acting skills, my best friend in fifth grade would sit in a bathtub full of scalding hot water and smile like it didn't hurt.

7. That my husband wears socks with flip-flops.

8. That my mother puts up more Christmas lights than Graceland.

9. That sometimes I take a bath with my dog.

10. Anything I tell them about the Clermont Lounge.

Playing Hooky

Until now, I've attended every official function of the conference--all readings, workshops, classes, and lectures. I don't want to miss anything, because I want to take advantage of this rare opportunity to learn more from people I admire.

BUT, I am, at the very moment, ditching an event. Not because it's an unworthy one, but because I never acquired the maturity to sit still and appreciate certain types of theater or performances. Interpretive dance, for instance, or poetry that's accompanied by drummers, dancers, or a chorus. Or anything at all with nudity--even partial. I'm also given to fits of giggles during weddings and funerals, occasions I cannot always simply opt out of. I don't know how that's connected, but it seems to be, so I put it. The maturity thing, I guess.

Anyway, one of the alums does characters. She dresses up like Emily Dickinson or, in today's case, Zelda Fitzgerald, and inhabits that personality for an hour or so. There's a monologue, and then she takes questions from the audience (as Zelda).

Once, I accidentally saw a woman in Marietta who does the same thing with Mary Todd Lincoln. Mary showed up at a reading, surprising everyone. It turns out, the lady was a pretty well-known historical impersonator. I hadn't even known there was such a thing. As was inevitable, I had to sneak out in the middle of her monologue, faking a coughing fit to disguise my snorts of laughter.

I can't explain why these types of things lead to paroxysms--or why they make me so uncomfortable, which is more likely the case. All I know is it's a huge risk for me to attend, and I'm not doing anyone any favors if I do.

I'm sure it was lovely.

Lesson for Today

Today, a great class given by Babo Kamel and Alex Pierce on the Glosa, a form of poetry that requires one to borrow four lines from another writer's poem. Besides learning the rules of this form, the discussion centered on the ethics of such appropriation and borrowing in general, a subject I find fascinating as it relates to all of us who create anything in this culture of media bombardment. And I don't mean to sound critical with that last statement--just making an observation. We ARE bombarded with media, for good or bad, and as so much information lodges into our subconsciousness, we're going to see more blurring of the lines between "original" work and derivative. That's why it is SO important to find our authentic voices in the midst of it all. But I do think we can borrow from one another, to the extent that we inspire one another, giving credit where credit is due. I once came across (online) a collage in which the artist had used the text of one of my poems. I was honored.

Anyway, during the class, they played this Leonard Cohen song, based on his own translation of the Frederico Garcia Lorca poem, Little Viennese Waltz. See if you can hear the differences in the Cohen lyrics.


Little Viennese Waltz


In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this close-mouthed waltz.

Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz,
of itself of death, and of brandy
that dips its tail in the sea.

I love you, I love you, I love you,
with the armchair and the book of death,
down the melancholy hallway,
in the iris's darkened garret,

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this broken-waisted waltz.

In Vienna there are four mirrors
in which your mouth and the ehcoes play.
There is a death for piano
that paints little boys blue.
There are beggars on the roof.
There are fresh garlands of tears.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz that dies in my arms.

Because I love you, I love you, my love,
in the attic where the children play,
dreaming ancient lights of Hungary
through the noise, the balmy afternoon,
seeing sheep and irises of snow
through the dark silence of your forehead

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this " I will always love you" waltz

In Vienna I will dance with you
in a costume with
a river's head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks!
I will leave my mouth between your legs,
my soul in a photographs and lilies,
and in the dark wake of your footsteps,
my love, my love, I will have to leave
violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons

Federico García Lorca

College Days

All this college talk has me thinking about my own undergrad days at UGA. This was my house on Milledge Terrace. Well, the right side of the bottom floor, with the screened porch. I'm working on an essay about the house, but I'll mention that Kathy's garage apartment was directly behind me, on the next street over, and there was a trail through the little bit of woods between us. Too bad I can't tell all the stories.

More on the conference tomorrow.

What the F*&%!

There was fried chicken for dinner, so no complaints there. But during the meal, the subject of manuscript titles came up, and I mentioned that I needed to change mine--to which someone in the group, who's read my manuscript, readily agreed and suggested, "I was thinking Princess Diaries." Ouch is all I gotta say.

Anyway, we heard some inspiring readings tonight, and now it's time for me to watch Lawrence Welk. Not really, but someone else at dinner mentioned nervous breakdowns, which reminded me of my schizowack grandmother, who always watched it on Saturday nights, 8 o'clock.

Blogging Live, From Mt. Holyoke

I feel like a monk.

In the Car With Biggy

On the way to the airport:

TR: Did you listen to the Bert Show yesterday morning?

Biggy: NO. Why?

TR: It was a "best of." I swear, they don't work more than they do. Anyway, I turned on just in time to hear a re-run of "Annie," the stupid 13-year-old they have on to give advice. What do they think it is, Radio Disney? It was boring enough the first time. Like, like, like....

Biggy: You know how, when you bite into a food you hate, you don't go back for seconds--

TR: --Yeah, yeah, well, I turned it to the The Real Guys, but that was like listening to three Jeff Daulers. Idiots.

Biggy: That show is FUNNY.

TR: No, THEY think they're funny. They crack themselves up. Just like Jeff. Ugh!

Biggy: MEN think they're funny. Trust me.

TR: No, 14-year-old boys think they're funny. Not smart boys, either. The kind of boys who light their farts.

Biggy: Well, I guess I have a 14-year-old's mentality.

TR: Exactly. Hey, I ran into my old AA sponsor at Publix the other night.

Biggy: Did she have alcohol on her breath?

TR: (stares out the window.)

Biggy: What did you WANT me to say?!

TR: You didn't have to say anything! It was just nice to see her.

Biggy: Did y'all do the secret handshake?

Because Misery Loves Company

Except for the beautiful Cirque Du Soleil, which isn't really one at all, I've always hated the circus--the clowns, the freaky carnies, the smell of elephant shit. Not for me. I'd rather stay home and clean out the guinea pigs' cage.

Once, when I was visiting various churches, trying to find one I could tolerate, I went to the Unity Church in Atlanta. It was in a huge contemporary building (cedar, high ceiling, lots of exposed wood) that reminded me of my friend Josie's house when we were growing up. Everything was going okay (in spite of the slobbery old man stationed on the front steps whose job it was to hug the newcomers), until about halfway through the service, when they decided to promote their upcoming carnival. A flock of clowns descended from the balcony--my idea of Hell on earth, and I was out of there. Really, I should be safe from clowns at church.

I felt the same way tonight when I saw a unicyclist on the bike trails. I felt violated. It might as well have been a mime or a juggler.

Overheard at Portfolio Center

Student 1: I'm having a hard time deciding what to do for my environmental design project.

Student 2: How 'bout an eco-friendly strip club?

Portfolio Center Theater

Before each seminar, selected students are assigned to do the data blitz for that week--a sort of pre-game show. They can do pretty much whatever they want. We've had break dancing, mud wrestling, film noir, you name it. This time, it was a little Jewish rap.

I Heart Jon Stewart

7 Days

I'm leaving on Saturday, flying up to Mt. Holyoke College for the Warren Wilson MFA program's annual alumni conference. I've never been able to justify attending before, but I was fortunate enough to receive a scholarship this year, by the sheer good luck of my name being drawn from a hat. So it's just a little gift of poetry from the universe, much needed and much appreciated--seven days to help me remember who I am.

I'd like to share a poem by the woman that scholarship honors, Linda Dyer:

Crawfish, Crawdads, Crayfish

On the wall of the restaurant is a picture made up of nine
small pictures entitled "How to Eat Crawfish," and the
couple I sit with because I came in alone and they didn't
mind if I shared the table talk about how disgusting it is
and I write down what they say because I am lonely and
have spoken to no one all day. The poster says: "Find the
biggest crawfish, pinch the tail bite the meat...." Growing
up in Pennsylvania I would catch them-crayfish we called
them-and fold a few in my white anklet socks to take
home as pets, but from anxiety or just because it's what
they do, they would shit all over my lace-trimmed socks--
bright orange spots-so I would drop them back in the
creek, bury my socks along the way, and try to sneak into
the house unnoticed. I did it more than once, many times
in fact, each time thinking my socks would remain white
and I would have some pets to whisper to at night in the
small room where I wanted to be alone, but wasn't always.


**From her book Fictional Teeth, Ahsahta Press, 2001

One Happy Thief

I've mentioned before that Stella likes to run next door and look for Hobart's (Labradoodle neighbor) bones. Usually, she comes back with a leathery scrap of rawhide that looks like Keith Richards' cheek, but this morning, she retrieved a rare treasure:

What's the Point?

Tonight I saw a commercial for the birth control pill Seasonique. Since I have two daughters who need an exorcist once a month, I paid close attention when the girl said "only four periods a year." I heard choirs of angels singing in my head. Until her disclaimer at the end of the ad:

While you get the convenience of 4 periods a year, you’re also more likely to have bleeding or spotting between periods. This can be slight to a flow like a regular period and should decrease over time. Bleeding or spotting is a common side effect with any birth control pill, but you’re more likely to experience this with Seasonique.

For this, you get to pay extra.

Why Was I the Last to Hear About This?

Wow. Makes me sad.

True Story

Yesterday, I had to go to LaGrange to pick Jack up from band camp. After enduring the usual 45 minute thank-you love fest--chaperones and volunteers introducing and gushing their appreciation for one another while the rest of us do-nothings sweated in thousand-degree heat, we got to watch our students perform what they'd learned of their half-time show. That part was great.

It's not that I have anything against giving credit when it's due, but Cheese and Rice, we get these introductions at the mandatory meetings, where they all line up in their yellow spirit wear and go through the whole rigmarole. It was NOON! And even those hard workers being celebrated looked none-too-well for their week of 6 a.m. to midnight days, powdered eggs, and Kool-Aid. You could see their blood pressure pulsing in their swollen, sweaty faces. Someone should have sent a thank-you newsletter.

Anyway, after the performance, parents were instructed to drive back over to the dorms and wait for our kids, who were being bussed back. I got to the dorm and sat outside on a little picnic table where another mom had already sat down. Here's the conversation that ensued:

Nuther Mom: My son's a tuba; they always have to help load the equipment on the truck, so he'll be one of the last ones back.

TR: Mine's on the drumline. Same thing. I wonder why it's always the tubas and drummers?

Nuther Mom: He's always complaining that it's not fair. He says people don't do what they're supposed to, so he ends up having to pack for everyone else. I tell him life's not fair--that there are those who DO and those who DON'T DO.

TR: Yeah, I was one of the DO's when I was a kid. The sad thing is, the DON'T DO'S are usually the best schmoozers, and the schmoozers always manage to succeed. I look back on the slackers I was friends with in high school. They're making three times more money than I am... Jack's actually a pretty good schmoozer.

Nuther Mom: Really?

TR: I think so. (My cell phone rings. It's Jack telling me they've got to "load the damned truck," so it's probably going to be at least "FIVE HOURS" before he's finished.)

TR: That was my son. It's going to be another half hour at least.

(Conversation continues and includes the following topics: ADD, OCD, air conditioning, the HOPE scholarship, and potato salad. About ten minutes, and Jack shows up, looking flushed and in a hurry.)

Jack: Did you put my stuff in the car yet?

TR: No, I wasn't sure if I was allowed to take it--if you'd passed your inspection.

Jack (Looking around): C'mon! Let's get it and take it to the car. Hurry!

TR: Why are you back already?

Jack: Me and Dennis jumped in BT's parents' car and got away. His parents love us.

TR: So you didn't finish helping load?

Jack: No, that's going to take all day.

TR (to Nuther Mom) This is Jack.

Nuther Mom: I see.

TR: It was really great talking to you. We've got to go now.

Nuther Mom: Bye.




Note: It's time for the flutes and trumpets to have a turn loading the truck.

Friday Nostalgia

Speaking of 'flair'... Office Space, 1999.

Wanted: New Running Partner

About two weeks ago, Georgia told me that Blaise wanted to do a 5K race with some people he works with, so he’d elected her to train him. He’s as much of a jogger as Biggy, so I didn’t give it any mind. I just figured she’d hit the streets with him a couple of times, listen to him whine about the heat and his shin splints and how STUPID and BORING running is—like Greg does—and that would be that. George and I would go back to our lovely routine, pounding the neighborhood pavement while discussing such deep subjects as toe cleavage and laser arm-hair removal.

Like I said, that was two weeks ago, and Blaise has worked up to three miles, jogging half of that. When they’re not jogging, they’re at the Y, working out on the weight machines. And I’m stuck with two hours of Damien Rice on my Shuffle, because I’m too depressed or lazy to load new music.

How am I supposed to compete? Sure, she likes to boss me around, and no doubt she misses making me cry, but Blaise has the beautiful blond curls and the Ashton Kutcher smile. And Blaise can run with his shirt off.

So what if I bore her? So what if we once shared one body?

Snare Flair

They call it "spirit wear." Jack Man's at band camp. Second drummer from the left.

Krishna

Check out this Washington Post article on one of my former Portfolio Center students, Krishna Brown, who has her own virtual bakery, ShoeBox Oven.

Krishna one of those people who got more than her share: She can write, design, cook, run a business...I'll bet she can sing, too. It's not fair at all.

Here's One For the Freaky Fetishers

Now, I've officially heard everything. Pedicures performed by fish.

I used to have a cat that did dermabrasion.

Too Tired to Blog

Had a work dinner tonight at One Midtown Kitchen. Rough job, but someone's gotta do it.

Loved the restaurant!

Saturday Things You Might Not Know. On Sunday

Today, Biggy and I took Jack to LaGrange and dropped him off at band camp and then drove to Dausett Trails to ride our bikes. At some point during the ride, I noticed something crawling on my leg--a tick. Sick, sick, sick. I swiped it off but it landed on my other leg. I swiped it again, and it stuck to my glove. I shook and shook the glove, but it wouldn't budge, so I pulled off the glove and threw it as far away from me as I could. Then I started wondering how a tick can hop on me while I'm riding down a mountain. I mean, do they wait for you and jump out of trees? So, when I got home, I wiki'd it:

Physical contact is the only method of transportation for ticks. Ticks do not jump or fly, although they may drop from their perch and fall onto a host. Some species actively stalk the host by foot. Changes in temperature and day length are some of the factors signaling a tick to seek a host. Ticks can detect heat emitted or carbon dioxide respired from a nearby host.

Friday Nostalgia on Saturday

Perhaps I'll do 'Saturday Things You Might Not Know' on Sunday...

Lola in the Car

Lo (spotting a convertible Mustang): I really hate convertibles. What bothers me about them is the way the bottom is one color and the top is a different one...... Have you seen the Batmobile in my World Records book? The inside looks like a Batmobile. I have a Batmobile Hotwheels car. Well, it's not really the Batmobile, but it looks like it...... Remember Mamoo's old convertible? I spilled mustard on the seat once. After that, it always smelled like mustard. It never came out. It smelled sick. I can still smell it...