Blog Talk: Lifetime Television, Boone's Farm, and Wabi-Sabi

So here’s this week’s randomness:

1. I value Lifetime Television for its ability to summarize an entire movie in a title:
1. 'Crimes of Passion: She Woke Pregnant'
2. 'Cyber Seduction: His Secret Life'
3. 'My Stepson, My Lover'

With titles like those, you need not spend two hours watching the movie.  And although most people choose to veg out on a Sunday afternoon with a snack and a blanket and watch the movies anyway, Lifetime could be on to something.  For example, I am imagining how much more palatable Shakespeare might seem to high school English students if he’d had the Lifetime titling staff at his disposal. 

a.    The Blood Shall Remain on the Hands of the Killer (MacBeth)

b.    The Poison Drinkers Who Totally Made the Wrong Call (Romeo & Juliet)

c.    You Only Thought I Was Crazy But Guess What? I Win!  (Hamlet)

2. Yesterday, when doing research on my novel, I came across the term wabi-sabi, which the Japanese use to express the combination of joy and sorrow.  I think that’s pretty beautiful. Though it is not to be confused with Wasabi, an extremely hot Japanese sauce usually eaten with rice or sushi. The one and only time I ever (accidentally) ate wasabi, I did feel a moment of joy, followed by a hybrid sort of sorrowpanicpainhorror. Followed by copious amounts of water. But I think wabi-sabi is expressing an entirely different kind of joy and sorrow, and not the kind that requires immediate hydration.
3. I keep hearing about “agreements” between the US and Iran.  And all I can say is this:  Every single thing about Iran scares me.
4. I’ve started something new (and I encourage you to try it): Before I go to bed each night, I write down three things that went well for me that day.  I don’t analyze them or try to repeat them the next day, I simply acknowledge them for what they were, and for how they made me feel.  Kinda makes going to bed more relaxing, and I seem to be getting up each day feeling a little more hopeful.
5. I submitted an essay to a local arts/writing program called Bookmarks, where writers can send in work on various selected topics to be judged -- and hopefully accepted -- for a community reading.  I just found out that my piece “Recipes” was selected in the "Eat the Past" category and that I will be reading it at the Arts Center on January 6.  I submitted this particular piece for two reasons:
1. It was an excerpt from my thesis, and I cut it down from 3,467 words to the required 750, which was a fantastic writing exercise and an achievement in and of itself. I'm finding that a thesis is a lot like a bridesmaid dress -- you’d like to invest in something you’ll be able to wear more than once. And (if you're lucky and have a few tailoring skills), you hope to mix and match and hem and bedazzle and accessorize the hell out of it, to turn it into a sort of all-occasion, or perhaps multi-occasion ensemble that works for just about any event or venue.  So, three cheers for a repurposed thesis!
2. “Eat the Past” was looking for essays about the ways in which food has figured into our former selves and families to shape our current selves and identities.  I had the option of sending in a lovely piece about learning to make cookies with my mother, or taking the road less travelled and sending in piece that was painful to write, is still difficult for me to read, and that proudly refuses to end on a happy note.  So I guess I’m thankful to food for giving me the big ol’ gut that never leads me astray as long as I listen to it.
6. I turned 40 a few weeks ago, and sometimes I am overwhelmed by how sad I think I should feel about not having a biological child.  Can it possibly ok to be ok with my lack of progeny?   Society says “No.”
7. I’ve done a lot of Christmas shopping this year. I started early, and I bought really thoughtful gifts for people – things that have personal significance, one-of-a-kind things I had to order in advance and have specially made. Even so, I’m recalling the Christmases of my childhood, when I often got tee shirts and underwear folded inside a recycled Barbie box, or socks and dance tights folded inside a festive looking cookie tin. Yes, I got all the nice stuff too, but those red herring wrappings made for some bittersweet gift opening moments. I think I’ll resurrect that tradition this year. Anyone got an empty 1869 Château Lafite bottle big enough to hold 60 ounces of apple flavored Boone’s Farm?
8. We’re expecting a N’oreaster the day before Thanksgiving.  It may snow two feet. Or not at all.  But instead of fretting over whether or not I’ll be able to head North as intended, I’m doing something I never do and have often thought would result in a painful, spontaneous death: I’m playing things by ear. If it doesn’t snow – great.  I’ll pack myself and Beckett into the car and follow through with our plans.  If it snows us in, no big thing.  I’ll go serve food at the local food kitchen and then take Beckett to the nursing home to do pet visits with people who are truly confined and alone.  Either way is a win for everyone – myself included. So suck it, Mother Nature. You’ve got about as much power here as the Wicked Witch of the West sans the ruby slippers.
9. Moment of self-disclosure: I horde elastic hairbands and avoid mirrors. You see, I can’t remember the last time I had a good hair day from morning til night, a sad fact that seems truly unfair and unfortunate.   Granted, the first ten minutes after I finish styling and spraying everything into place in the perfect lighting of my bathroom leave me looking supermodel-perfect.  But by 10am, my formerly flawless coif has turned into supermodel-used-to-be.  This whole phenomenon seems a trivial thing to worry and write about, which is why I horde elastic hairbands and avoid mirrors.
10.  The world consists of two kinds of people: Those who enjoy whistling, and those who hate listening to others whistle. Don’t believe me?  Try finishing your hour long treadmill run at the gym next to the guy whose workout music consists of his own whistled versions of Broadway show tunes and all six verses of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”  On repeat.

That’s all.

Blog Thoughts: 11/18/13-11/24/13

 

So here’s this week’s randomness:

1.    I blame Shonda Rhimes for my Friday morning exhaustion.  #ScandalHangovers

2.    Perspective, in a nutshell:

a.    Pimple at age 14: End. Of. The. World.

b.    Pimple at age 40: Yup. Still got it.

3.    Most recent “reason to hate townhouse living”:  Next door neighbors who never say “No” to garlic.

4.    I think my dog Beckett is having some anxiety issues.  Or perhaps he is once again sublimating his rage by literally eating my home. Either way, this (below) used to be my upstairs carpet. (Note, if you are able, the plethora of chew toys, rawhide bones, and the long, blue unnamed rubber thing he has at his disposal all day.  And yet, he prefers the taste and texture that only a finely laid carpet can provide.)

5.    I've been trying like hell to fictionalize my memoir. Which was originally my MFA thesis. In general, memoirs just don't sell - not unless people already know who you are because you've either written a bunch of other stuff or achieved some kind of "celebrity" status or have managed to pull a well-timed Britney Spears in public. I don’t generally work in outlines, and I don’t generally prefer to work in outlines, but the truth is this: if how you work and how you generally prefer to work is getting you nowhere, then you may want to make a change. Unless Nowhere is the place you intend to hang your beret.

6.   
rs" could mean so many things. All of them bad, but all of them helpful in terms of publicity).

Anyway, I've been fighting the inevitable, and today -- I am choosing to embrace it. I. Am. Outlining. Chapter by chapter. Character by character. Plot point by plot point. The whole lot of it. It's not how I generally work, and not how I like to work, but the life lesson here is this: If how you generally work and how you like to work has gotten you nowehere, you may want to make a change. Unless Nowhere is the place you want to be.

Lesson learned. But just know this: I'm going in kicking and screaming and hoping to make it out alive.

My writing room wall is now covered with fresh, bare white poster board and I am armed with my index cards and highlighters and markers and post-its.

Bring it on, Left Brain.I don’t believe in using words like “Never” and “Always.”  That said, I will never be a skilled user of emoticons.  And I will always rely too heavily on the “LOL” and the “Haha” in most of my electronic communications, just to make sure people don’t mistake my sarcasm for angrybitchy.  Even when angrybitchy is precisely what I’m going for.

7.    This morning, I saw a commercial ThiThis morning I saw a commercial for a drug whose name I can’t recall, but whose main side effect is Gynecomastia, which, loosely translated, means “the development of breasts in men.”  I don’t know what this drug is used to treat or what it’s other complications are, but I would like to order a year’s supply of the C-cup formula for myself. So $20 and my collection of training bras goes to the first person who can locate this medication by name and secure me a refillable prescription.

8.    It snowed last night. Not a lot.  I think there’s about an inch on the ground.  Even so, I hate it.  Or at least I did, until I watched Beckett frolic through it as if he’d never seen it before.  This is his third winter, but it doesn’t matter – everything with him is a new experience with a very simple message: I need to frolic more.

9.    I’ve started writing for a fantastic publication called Elephant Journal.  They posted one of my pieces yesterday and I have three more in the hopper waiting to go live. I write for the sake of writing. I am my own audience.  I have no aspirations to become a world famous novelist or a nonstop book touring, book signing phenomenon. That said, it’s nice to see my work existing outside the bowels of my own hard drive.

10. At some point in my life, I was told, or overheard, that a good way to “save” a really ripe banana was to peel and slice it, and then pop it in the freezer, where it would stop ripening and would last for a really long time.  Most people use the frozen slices in smoothies or breads. I just generally pop a few in my mouth when I want a quick bite of something sweet.  Problem is: at any given moment, my freezer is home to no less than ten ziplock baggies full of peeled banana slices. This is part of my selective hoarding condition that extends to a odd few food items (think: bananas, canisters of oatmeal, and cans of low sodium chick peas), several cleaning products, and, apparently, the multiple bottles of mouthwash taking up space on the bottom shelf of my bathroom closet.

That's all.

 

 

Miss America brings out our true colors.

I am so out of the beauty pageant loop that when I am interested enough in Miss America to Google "Miss America" something big better be happening.

For starters, I'm pissed that I just Googled "Miss America" at all, because I absolutely abhor every single thing these pageants represent. They are NOT "scholarship programs" or "enrichment opportunities" and the bottom line is, after a post-win appearance on the next day's Kelly Ripa show (target audience: no one), Miss America vanishes into obscurity until the following year, when we must all endure an interruption in our regular network programming so that yet another crop of beauties can parade around in butt glue and bra inserts in pursuit of the almighty crown. The only exceptions are the Miss Americas who end up busted on a drunken charge (a la Rima Fakih) or the ones who occasionally appear at children's hospitals or animal shelters for photo ops, even though no one remembers what their platforms were or what versions of world peace they promised to achieve (though such promises almost always involve some iteration of the phrase: "because looking better leads to doing better.")


But since everyone has been talking about the racist responses to this latest crowned beauty, I was interested in the story, and yeah, it is pretty awful. Aren't we all from "somewhere else"? My family is from Ireland and England, but neither I, nor my parents, nor their parents, nor THEIR parents ever lived in Ireland or England. It's just where we're "from." On another note, I, myself, was born in Germany. My father was stationed there in the Army, and I was born in an American Army hospital on "American soil" and am 100% American. So does where one was born impact whether one should be able to call him/herself American?


If you're going to hate on this woman - or any of these women - hate her because she makes a living, and a name for herself, by exploiting her body to win something that should be based on brains and values alone. Hate her because she is, by virtue of her "beauty queen" status, a natural role model for young girls everywhere, and she is using that power to perpetuate a patriarchal ritual that puts women on display, assembly line style, where they all look the same, with no size or shape variation, no age variations, no crooked noses or flat chests or bow legs or cellulite.

Or, better yet, wait a year, then look at what she's done with her title. See whether she is even worth hating.

Because maybe, just maybe, she'll be the first Miss America to ever actually help (not just take photographs with) sick children, or support literacy programs, or put on a pair of boots and work pants and hand out food to the poor.. Or maybe, just maybe, she will achieve world peace. And then won't all the haters feel stupid.

After all, this is the country where Casey Anthony and OJ Simpson and George Zimmerman got fair trials and, ultimately, their freedom. And they all killed people. Miss America, whoever she happens to be at any given moment, is not a public safety threat. She is merely a pastime. And sadly, this latest one is really bringing out America's true colors.

Albany, New York is Not Your Friend.

 

Last week, a report in Conde Nast Traveler Magazine declared the city of Albany, New York the "13th most unfriendly in the world and seventh most unfriendly in the country."  Apparently, Albany is unhappy, and Albany is striking back.  I get it.  No one wants to be labelled, especially when the label is negative.  And especially when the negative label fits.

 

But here's the thing -- we have a saying in memoir that goes something like this (depending on which iteration you hear): "If you didn't want me to write 'bad stuff' about you, then you should have behaved better."

So for the sake of your own sanity, chill out, Albany. You're unfriendly. Big deal. I'm an absolute bitch if I don't get breakfast within an hour of my morning workout. (And let's face it, it's not as if a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea turns me into Mary Poppins.  It merely brings my bitchy to a more bearable moody that most people areound me can handle.) But getting all defensive when someone holds a mirror up to your face is super unattractive and really just makes you look like a monkey on a cupcake.
 

I recommend you just focus on responding to the increasing numbers of shootings and stabbings, and for the love of all that is holy please do something about the strange, unidentifable smell lurking in Center Square.  Don't get caught up in the business of being prom queen. Those girls usually end up with a bunch of kids and a cheating husband before age 30 anyway.  Accept that you are, for the most part, and with very few exceptions, an unwelcoming mecca of indifference and intolerance, and simply move on.  You have bigger things to worry about, like crime reduction and saved lives ... you know, the things that really matter.

 

Regards,

Hasky

 

P.S. I apologize for unintentilnally offending any former prom queens. I once shared the above prom queen opinion with a woman who had actually been a prom queen (20 years before) and who really needed me to know that not ALL former prom queens have a bunch of kids and a cheating husband. I tried to both apologize and clarify by being all "Touche, I hear you. Maybe it's just your cheating husband who has all the kids," but that only seemed to upset her more. I don't know why. Alimony versus a bunch of screaming kids? Silver linings and lemonade, folks. Silver linings and lemonade.

Reflections on the death of a child

It hurts my heart when even the death of a child can't stop us all for a moment, just a single moment, to say "How tragic. How unfair. How avoidable." And, most important of all, "I'm sorry."

There but for the grace of (whichever Deity you believe in) could go any child. I'm not naive enough to think I will ever live in a world where these tragedies don't happen. Tragedies like this will always happen. And we will always struggle to prevent them from happening, and to achieve equality, because that's what we're on this Earth for. It's what motivates us to go to school and college, to find jobs and go to work each day, to fall in love, to start families, to buy and care for our homes, to adopt pets, to make friends, to laugh and swim and pray and cry and even argue. We are wired to strive and succeed. Yet we are united in our desire for the very same thing: we all want happiness. Even though we live in a world where we all, each one of us, defines that term so differently, based on where we come from, where we are, and where we are going, we are all working toward some form of that seemingly elusive ideal.

But when our hearts and souls tell us that the best thing we can do in response to the death of a child is to lash out, to attack and offend and take pleasure in just how witty and flippant and verbally manipulative we can possibly be, then our hearts and souls become dark and empty places incapable of feeling for a grieving mother and father, or a terrified community, or a hurting world. I'm not suggesting we all go mute, or take a vow of silence, or fail to express our opinions, I'm just saying the tone and the timing of the ways in which we do this, to ourselves and to one another, are precisely how we live in a world where lives can be so casually taken every day without reflection or remorse.

I decided to go silent on all things "Zimmerman" because I don't think this national conversation is about him anymore. It is about the aftermath, about the ways in which we continue to divide like metastatic cells, attacking one another, attacking ourselves in the process, willing to endure the pain of division if it just might get our single voice heard among the masses. I don't want to be a loud voice anymore. I don't want to convince people to believe what I believe about this trial, or this child, or this child's parents. I know what I believe, even as I know I can never be completely "right" about any of this, because, like the rest of the world, I know only one-tenth of what happened in this particular case on that particular night. But still, my beliefs are un-swayable, and there is more power in that knowledge than in attacking and mocking others for refusing to let me control their way of thinking, too.

I wish for all of us a world that will someday come together over tragedies like this, instead of creating deeper chasms. I wish for all of us a world that will mourn together over the losses we share, instead of separating over our differences of opinion. I really wish for all of us a world that can respond to the death of a child, any child, under any circumstances, with a simple "How tragic. How unfair. How avoidable." And, most important of all, "I'm sorry." And finally, I wish for all of us a world where healing together becomes more important than suffering alone.

A Pina Colada Mea Culpa

So I can be an enormous asshat sometimes. And here’s today’s reason #3,415 why:

When I came home a bit ago after agility training with Beckett and running errands (and getting stuck in roadwork traffic for about an hour) in 90 degree heat, I noticed that there were people moving into the recently-vacated apartment across from my back door. (I live in a flipping “townhouse community” so that one person’s living room faces another person’s backyard, which faces another person’s front balcony, etc. It’s all very Melrose Place without the pool or the love triangles or the hot looking people.)

Anyway, back to the reason why I’m a total asshat. My first reaction to all the noise and banging was: Fabulous. There goes the peace and quiet. Because aside from a few smokers and the occasional loud stereo, it’s usually super quiet around here, and I love it that way.

But then, I checked my initial reaction, because … hello? These people are MOVING. They are lugging and unpacking and lifting all their Earthly belongings in the very same oppressively sweltering, 90-degree heat that I just bitched about when I had to endure it while sitting in my air conditioned car. When did I become such an old woman? When did I become so self-involved that people who can’t move into a new home in complete silence somehow give me reason to complain? Am I going to turn into that nasty lady who slaps at kids with her broom on Halloween when they come to her door looking for candy?

Hell no!

I refuse to earn the reputation of being an asshat. If someone wants to call me an asshat, it will be because he/she likes the word and enjoys throwing it around as much as I do. NOT because the term applies, and NOT because the very essence of asshattedness fits me as perfectly as my favorite fitted running shorts. No sir. No ma’am. No asshats here, thank you very much.

 So, after some reflection and a sort of “I will not go gentle into that good, bitter night” determination, I just did what any self-centered person who prefers, instead, to be self-respecting would do – I walked Beckett over to the new tenants and introduced myself and asked if they needed any help. I also said they should probably meet Beckett now, since they were about to become his latest obsession through our sliding glass door, whether they liked it or not. That got quite a laugh. Most Beckettisms do. I only wish they were jokes but no ... they're pretty much my reality.  The last people who lived in the apartment had a little dog who inspired Beckett to chew a hole in the screen part of my "screened-in door" in an attempt to break free and go play.  I did the repairs on that myself, but, truth be told, it remains "the door formerly known as screened-in."

Anyway, as far as today's new tenants were concerned, they had things covered.  There were tons of trucks and people milling about, and everything seemed to be running pretty smoothly. Still, they thanked me and my 5’2”, 103 pound self for offering to lug, tote, push, pull, and do stuff, even as they probably wondered whether I could fold socks without falling over. It didn’t seem like the right time to randomly announce that I am training for another Healthplex bench press competition – since the goal of the visit was less self-focus, more other-focus.

And now we’re back home, the Schnoodle and I, and we’re even more grateful for our AC and our quiet day. (Well, I am. Beckett does just kind of expect these things now). And now I’m thinking about how it wasn’t even a year ago that I moved here, by myself, save for the few large items I paid some moving guys to deal with. So I still recall, very vividly, what a bear it is to move, to make that transition physically, mentally, financially. To not yet know which of your belongings goes where, and to be dealing with everything in the heat of summer while trying to beat the impending rain storms threatening to bear down again today. The least I could do for these people is show compassion, kindness, and a little understanding. The most I could do is what I am doing right now: in the absence of helping with the physical labor part of things, I’m making a batch of frozen pina colada “bites” (they’re alcohol free but oh so perfect for hot summer days) and I’ll bring them over in a bit just to say “Welcome” and “Let the asshat in Apartment 3 know if you need anything.”

Til next time,
Hasky

And, should you find yourself in need of a similar form of edible penance, I give to you the frozen pina colada bites recipe.  Modify as you wish for vegan or vegetatian preferences, food sensitivities, etc.  Then enjoy.

Pina Colada Bites

• 1 1/4 cups graham cracker crumbs (about 16 squares)
• 1/4 cup no-trans-fat 65% vegetable oil, spread stick or butter, melted
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• 1 quart (4 cups) vanilla no-sugar-added, reduced-fat ice cream, slightly softened
• 1 can (8 oz) crushed pineapple in juice, undrained
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 2 teaspoons coconut extract, if desired
• 1/4 cup toasted* flaked coconut, if desired

1. Heat oven to 350°F. In small bowl, mix cracker crumbs, vegetable oil spread and sugar. Press into ungreased 8-inch square glass baking dish. Bake about 10 minutes or until dry. Cool completely, about 1 hour.
2. In large bowl, beat ice cream, pineapple with juice and extracts with electric mixer on low speed just until blended. Spread in baked crust. Freeze to desired firmness.
3. Remove dessert from freezer about 5 minutes before serving. Sprinkle with coconut.

Getting there ... wherever that is.

I've been feeling better about life lately.  Or trying to.  Wanting to.  And I was wondering, today, what has caused this shift from "I enjoy negativity and all its trimmings" to "I just want to lighten up and enjoy myself."  It isn't a transition that I assume will happen quickly, or even completely, in my lifetime, but lately I notice moments - longer and longer at a stretch - where I actually feel content. Almost at peace.  And as I think about how this is happening, here's what I keep coming up with:

1 - No. More. Politics.  Period. This is particularly challenging, seeing as how my life
(at least my M-F, 8:30-6:30 life) is dictated by politics and political agendas and vote-getting decisions.  Still, I don't have to absorb any of it.  My to-do list at work is basically, unchangingly, the same, day after day, even though the content of it may change from year to year.  I need not invest my energy in nonsense.  I know how I feel and what I believe, and I'm not interested in putting forth the effort to recruit people to my way of thinking any more.  And chances are, at least when it comes to the big issues, no one will ever successfully recruit me over to the opposite side either.  So why dwell and stew and wrinkle my skin over things I can't control?

2 - My "me" time is becoming more and more sacred and more and more about me.  I refuse to be yolked to my cell phone anymore.  Not when I'm home.  Or out walking with Beckett. Or just simply being.  No more disappointment over calls that never arrive. No more obsessive checking for messages that never appear.  I'm my own company, and I'm content with that.  I've even decreased my Facebook frequency significantly, though that remains an addictive work-in-progress.  Still, I think the important thing is to seek out people who would kill to spend time with you rather than allow yourself to be sought out by people who are looking to kill time.

3 - I'm trying the honesty thing.  And lo and behold, it's working.  That's not to suggest that I was previously an untrustworthy liar or anything. But typically, when given the choice between respectfully but honestly stating my opinion or my needs or my desires and potentially putting someone else out or going against public opinion, I cave.  I sell myself out.  I pretend to like things I don't like, I pretend to want to do things I simply don't want to do.  Funny how a whole new world opens up when you ACTUALLY make the time for things you really DO enjoy, really DO want to do, because you aren't spending all your time living someone else's version of your life.

4 - I'm focused on health.  I'm trying to see my body as a collection of functioning, amazing parts that somehow manage to work together despite how badly I've abused them.  I often wonder if my very soul suffers from Stockholm Syndrome, because it has yet to abandon me even when given the chance.  I think this means that I actually have a little bit of unconditional self love going on or something. I'm working on cultivating that.  I think it's an important step toward happiness.

I guess that's all I've got for now.  Maybe there's more, but these seem to be the biggies.  And maybe it's a good thing that some stuff is coming more naturally, so that I actually have to stop and ask myself what it is I'm doing, instead of knowing, planned moment by planned moment, what I'm thinking and feeling.  I think happiness is something we all deserve, but I also think it's something we have to find for ourselves.  And I don't think there's anything wrong with pulling a chair up to that table, holding out one's plate, and asking for a huge helping of the stuff.  I don't even think there's anything wrong with asking for seconds.  And doggie bags.  And leftovers.  There's plenty to go around, enough to feed us all, and more than we could ever possibly consume in our lifetimes.  So belly up, friends.  And bon appetit.

Til next time,
Hasky