The Shower Curtain Theory

I love those moments when I discover how something that I have relegated to the periphery of my life can make such a difference once acknowledged.

Example: shower curtain.

Who knew that by changing a shower curtain, you can completely alter the atmosphere of a bathroom? I removed the cute, flowery curtain in our upstairs bathroom (been there for 7 years) and replaced it with a deep scarlet one. It's gorgeous. The bathroom now has a grown-up, sophisticated feel (break out some candles and the bubble bath).

It's amazing, the difference that that new curtain has made.

This has happened before. It happened when I started listening to Great Standards like Sinatra and Holliday and realized what I had been missing by setting the radio dial to only the alternative rock station. It happened when I cut my long hair to about an inch all over and dyed it red. It happened when I ate hot Inchun soup, and it became one of my favorite foods. It happened when I realized that I didn't have to wear baggy sweatshirts all of the time; I could put on a form-fitting tee-shirt or a camisole and feel good. Feel pretty.

It makes me think of all of the other things that I take for granted: the unused spices in my cupboard, the unread books on my shelf (To Kill A Mockingbird sat, unread, on my nightstand for two years before my mother convinced me to read it--what lost time!), the dark dive downtown that probably serves the best home cooked food if only I would push through the door and give it a chance.

The Shower Curtain Theory makes me imagine the possibility in everything, to refuse to underestimate potential. It makes me want to put my hand to new things, like rearrange some furniture, or read a genre that I would normally avoid.

Change can be good, thanks to The Shower Curtain.

Getting It Right

I feel like I'm getting it right today.

After gulping several cups of coffee, I reread a chapter of Julia Cameron (The Artist's Way--one of my favorite books), then came downstairs and listened to the Great Standards channel while James "read" me a story.

Next, I formatted a short story I had written several months ago so that I can submit it to The Baltimore Review's Short Fiction contest this afternoon.

Right now, I'm taking a break to look up ideas for decorating serving trays (I want to make some sort of personal shrine out of these and give it as a gift, but I realize they aren't for everyone and I'm trying to figure out how to do this in a practical--if serving tray shrines can be practical--way).

No one told me there would be days like these. Being productive feels good.

Later, while James is napping, I'm going to make Christmas cards (a yearly tradition which has become a huge pain in the ass) and read more Julia and cook some potato-leek soup (recipe courtesy the Williams-Sonoma "Potato" Cookbook I borrowed from the library the day before Thanksgiving).

And finally, after the envelope with the story has been deposited at the post office and while the soup is simmering and the children are chasing each other through our holiday decorated house, I'm going to light an Evergreen scented candle and play The Sims2.

Just because I feel like it.

A Man Of Impeccable Taste

My child
favors a slice of bread
slathered with butter;
he has
no appreciation
for what it's made of.

all that it is

is warmth
and crumbly goodness;
a soft treat that
tastes right.

My child's palate
does not yet
enjoy onions
or peppers;
raw
or sauteed in butter.
It probably will
one day,
but not yet.

His palate doesn't
appreciate
fresh cilantro, grated lemon zest
or sea salt;
There is no inquiry
between bites:
was that oregano
or basil?
Might I suggest
a pinch more.

My child's tastes
will grow,
as he does,
fancy dinners, pungent cheeses,
crisp vegetables;
yet I hope
that he will always
savor
simplicity,
feel
contentment
with the basics,

an appreciation for
a mixture of
flour, yeast, and baking soda

little hands clutching
a slab of thick bread,

then reaching
for a glass of cold milk.

The Silent, Unconverted Type

The day after Thanksgiving, my mother and I woke up at an ungodly 5:45 am so that we could be at a local, privately owned, craft store when it opened at 6:00. I'd received an email from the place earlier in the week, touting all of the incredible specials and deals that they were going to be offering to the "early birds."

Picture me, with my faux fur Russian hat, husband's oversized work gloves, pretty red pea-coat, and snowman patterned pajama bottoms, jingling the little bell of this local establishment as I pushed through the plate glass doors. Picture the women behind the counter, a small flock of them, staring at me, then subtly (ha) elbowing each other and smirking as they uttered a forced, united: Good morning! Imagine, the continued stares and whispers of these women as I attempted to locate and enjoy Black Friday deals.

What the hell.

I felt awkward. And self conscious. And defiant. Consequently, I spent the next twenty minutes inspecting supplies, examining products, and struggling with the feeling that somehow, by not arriving impeccably made-up for a 6am sale in a strip mall, I was inadequate. Not good enough. And ultimately, unworthy. I refused to leave, but I couldn't shake off the discomfort of being in my own skin.

Which brings me to my topic--bullies--because you can just bet that if there had been only one woman behind the counter, a woman as bleary eyed and tired as I was, standing there in my snowman sleepwear, we would not have witnessed cackling or elbowing. After all, the image of a woman giggling by herself as she arranged sale flyers might have looked as nearly as silly as I did.

I hate a bully, and I hate the group mentality. I don't think that you need to have an audience to be a bully, but it certainly doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt to have a gaggle of groupies or admirers who laugh at what you say or nod their heads knowingly. The ironic thing is, the bully is looking for the same thing that they (and their cronies) are denying everyone else: validation and acceptance. They just seem to have more charisma than the rest of us do.

But really, what kind of validation and acceptance are we talking about, when it's contingent on the humiliation or subjugation of someone else? I had a college professor who collected the class's textbooks and shuffled them around, saying smugly, "I hope everyone had their names written in their books!"

HUHHH?

"By God," he then huffed, "I'll teach you people a lesson in responsiblity. See if you can find your own book!"

I still don't "get" how not having your name written in a personal textbook that was purchased, by you, for your own private use could make you irresponsible. I do "get," however, the cosmic, ego-gassed, power trip that this guy was taking during the entire exercise, and I'm tellin' ya, I feel kind of sorry for him. We all got through that class. We got to graduate.

He's stuck with his sorry self forever.

Here are the ways I generally deal with bullies:

1. I become even more defiant. Maybe I'll visit that craft shop again. Maybe I'll go mid-day. Wearing a negligee. And slippers.

2. I walk away. Because really, as shitty as they've made me feel, I am not privy to that dark, inadequate place that fuels the bully. And my worth as a person does not stem from making other people feel insignificant or unacceptable. That alone makes me feel superior.

3. I "do" something. I write a story about the experience (see "Beautiful, Like Gasoline In A Mud Puddle" on my homepage). I paint with my children. I make muffins or soup. I busy myself in my world, and ultimatly, tune out the bully's.

4. I swallow it. When no other choice seems viable, I sit and take it, reminding myself all the while of this John Morley quote: "You have not converted a man because you have silenced him." I sit and smile and nod and conjugate french verbs in my head, not hearing a damn word that the bully is saying. I vow to myself that, no matter how I've acted in the past, I will be try to be sensitive and compassionate to others. I will celebrate their snowman jammies instead of ridiculing them. I will appreciate individuality in a world of conformity. I will compliment before I insult and I will give second chances.

I may not be a confronter, but I'm not a pushover.

Let's hear it for the quietly unconverted.

Jerk

Lou and I took advantage of my parent's Thanksgiving visit by making plans to go to dinner and a comedy club to celebrate our tenth anniversary; can't pass up the free babysitting. Apparently, we are not the only ones who do this; at the comedy club, we were seated next to a couple who have been married for 17 years, and their 4 children were at home with his parents, who were also in town to celebrate the holiday (instead of chanting, "The relatives are coming," prior to a big day, married couples all across the country are chanting, "The babysitters are coming!").

Anyway, we were going to see a comedian who had appeared for a couple of seasons on The Last Comic Standing and whose name rhymes with "Ass," a fact I no longer view as coincidental. Our seats were great, because, let's face it, we were crammed into the place like sardines and there really wasn't a bad spot in the house. Also, I was prepared to be targeted because I've seen comedians do this in the past (reverse heckling?) and I figure that if you go to a comedy club, you've got to be prepared for this kind of stuff and should be a good sport about it, within reason(examples of reverse heckling that I've seen prior: a guy wearing a red and white striped sweater was seated in the audience at a club in NYC--the comedian scanned the audience and said, "Where's Waldo?" then zoomed in on the guy and said, "Ohhh, YAY, I think I found him!").

So, we were sitting there enjoying our two item minimum and watching the first two comedians, who were actually pretty good. Still, we're getting all excited for the headliner, because we think that his act is really going to tear up the place.

Finally, The Ass comes out, and immediately, I'm turned off; he reminded me of a mix between Simon Cowell (who I actually love), Rodney Dangerfield (who I loved when I was twelve), and The Three Stooges (who I HATE).

Now, maybe I should've mentioned this earlier, but I love good comedians. Eddie Murphy is one of my favorites, and even when everyone else was bitching about the misogynistic undertones of Raw, I was like: he's sort of making some valid points here, and what the hell, it's funny . . . I also love Robin Williams, whose act is usually fairly sexual but not mean-spirited or insulting (love his political commentary, too).

Anyway, during the whole show, a couple of tables down from us, there was a couple who was out celebrating the guy's birthday--they were all dressed up and there was a bottle of champagne on the table. The girl had obviously had a few drinks, but she wasn't loud or obnoxious; she just seemed comfortable. Maybe too comfortable, but drunk-comfortable, and what the hell, who am I to judge . . I've certainly been there myself.

The Ass begins his act by bitching about people who talk during movies. This was kind of funny, but not the side-splitting humor that the man seems to believe that he produces. Drunk Girl calls out, at the end of this first joke, a remark about it being her boyfriend's birthday, and The Ass goes ballistic. He stares her down like she's an idiot, then turns to the audience and says something along the lines of, "Y'would've thought she would've got it with the 'talking during the movies' bit, but apparently not . . YOU DUMB BITCH." Then, he looks at her boyfriend and says, "Stick a dick in her mouth, wouldya?"

Now again, let me just reiterate. I enjoy comedy. I like to laugh. I even like laughing at myself and issues that are important to me. I think that comedy can be a powerful tool and make you realize things about yourself, like how you're a judgemental tightass or a closet racist. I don't mind stereotypical humor (y'know, the 'women shopping-guys with remotes-crazy in-laws' bits) because I think that it's the way we can all relate on some level that makes that stuff funny.

HOWEVER, how, attacking a girl who was just being silly and calling out a remark about her boyfriend's birthday, is funny, I'll never know. Personally, I think that her call-out made The Ass mess up his next joke and he was pissy about that and felt like he was floundering so he just needed to humiliate someone.

For comparision's sake, let me just tell you how the middle comedian handled audience call-outs. When a girl screamed out a response to one of his jokes, he said, "I didn't realize this was a town hall. What are we gonna be doin' next? Raffling a swing set?" That was funny. It wasn't cutting or cruel or over the top. He addressed the reverse heckling, but didn't do it in a way that was insulting.

Update on Drunk Girl: she got all teary-eyed, put her head on her boyfriend's shoulder, then threw up all over herself halfway through the show. The boyfriend immediately ushered her out, which is what he should've done after The Ass attacked her in the beginning. Oh, and for the people who think that the girl should've managed to get herself to the restroom to vomit? That would've been tough because everytime anyone stood up to go anywhere, The Ass put a fucking mark on their head (i.e. a guy went to the bathroom and several comments about genital herpes immediately ensued).

I've seen comedians perform in many venues. To me, the funny ones are the ones who can laugh at themselves and who work with the audience. The Ass must have felt that even he took it too far, because later in the show, he said, "Maybe I shouldn't have said that. That was mean."

A little late.

Oh, and as a closing, The Ass led us all in a rendition of "Sweet Caroline."

Like I said to Lou on the train home, if I'd wanted singing, I'd have gone to karoke.

What's The Point, Anyway?

I'm laying on the couch with a blanket when I realize how good it would feel to be reading a book. To get caught up in someone else's story. To have hundreds of pages of potential, stretching in front of me.

I'm laying on the couch, but I reach for my computer when I could be daydreaming. Of course, the TV is on. It is loud and obnoxious. The lights are bright, and the room is cold.

I am not creating coziness. I am not creating peace.

I am creating frenzied, ego-feeding ambition, which is the equivalent of the buzz of an overhead light. It's annoying. And unsatisfying. And as worthwhile as worrying.

Pointless.

I want pointless that is self-indulgent. The pointless painting of toe nails. The pointless candles around the bathtub. Pointless lingerie that's just going to end up on the bedroom floor. The pointless escape of a "trashy" book. The pointless playing of The Sims2: Nightlife, even though the house needs cleaning.

Especially because the house needs cleaning.

I want to do things because they are fun. Creating Boro Pokeno because we can. Laughing at Jeff Barnosky's story in McSweeney's because it's flippin' funny, not because its intelligent and literary. Watching the tragedies unfold on Little House on the Prairie reruns (don't those people ever get a break) and dabbing at my eyes with a tissue. Tickling James because he's got a contagious laugh.

Maybe I should be mopping the kitchen or dusting the fireplace.

Then again, what's the point?

They're just gonna get dirty again.

New Hat

Wearing many different hats,

a winter one--
trimmed with faux fur--
accompanied me
to the store last night
where,
at a balmy 54 degrees
I looked like something
among the jacketless
tee-shirt wearing crowd
I like to think:
my something was
prepared, exotic, original.

Never liked a baseball cap
but you can hand me a Stetson
or a beret; they leave my hair
just so.
I'll take a helmet
or maybe one of those
Tallulah Bankhead jobs

from the '30s.

Maybe I'll look cool and detached
like I'm

from the '30s.

I suppose the most important hats
I wear
would be the ones you don't see:
mother, wife, friend, writer, teacher

Can you define yourself
with a hat?
What would it look like?
Would I have
one hat
for everything that is part of me
or would I have a coat stand full
and pick the right one
for the occasion?

Today, my hat does not fit my outfit,

I really think that's too much to ask.

But maybe, tomorrow,
I will put together
that sexy, articulate, mysterious look--
a covert operative from Russia--
matching boots and coat and scarf;
frosty eye shadow slashed across sleepy eyes.

Which hat
do you
think
I should wear?

Never Fear, Proofreader Mom Here

Please don't feel concerned if you notice grammatical and/or semantic errors within my posts.

My mother, self-appointed proofreader that she is, immediately notifies me, often through use of gasping, when I've made a mistake. This message is delivered in the same arrangement and tone through which she remarked about my appearance when I was growing up (i.e. "Did you know that you have a pimple on your chin?" has become "Have you read your recent blog entry? After it was published?").

Apparently, this is all done for my own good.

Let me just say this now: For the past, present, and future, I apologize for any misuse of the English language. Do not view it as a reflection of my IQ or upbringing. Furthermore, don't worry about said errors--they've already been pointed out by the management and are in the process of being escorted off of the premises.

Or better yet, maybe I'll take this approach: Don't fix it if it ain't broke.

Hoover Dam

Have you seen Madagascar?

Because my television viewing consists of children's programming and reality shows, I have. Went and bought it blind because we figured that even if it was bad, it would still be good.

It was.

I don't think that I can watch children's shows anymore without recognizing the talent of the folks who put them together. From the people who create the story and the characters to the way the artists are able to capture quirks and gestures, I'm sold. I'm a huge fan of muppets. I squint at the way their mouths and arms move and think that the people running the operation must be incredible studies of humanity to be able to create vitality and energy from fluffy cloth. In the extra scenes of many of the Pixar movies, you can see how the movie evolved between concept and finish, and I'm often incredulous at how the artists were able to put everything together to build the world that they did.

I'm a person who still watches the old claymation Christmas specials from the '60s and thinks--I could do that. Maybe. If I had a lot of time . . But there's also panic--what if I smashed one of the little clay people and couldn't adequately repair him? I mean, I have trouble manipulating Play-Doh. Awww, Hoover Dam.

I'm guessing that it's much harder than they made it look. That's part of the beauty of art.

My favorite parts of Madagascar: when the zebra walks the street to the song "Staying Alive," the lemur "club scene," the monkey that is unable to read but is proficient in sign, and the penguin vigilantes.

And if you haven't seen Toy Story (both 1 and 2), watch them, too. The facial expression of Woody, the sheriff, is brilliant as he observes a little green alien toy get offered to and shaken by the bad-boy neighbor's dog. Woody's little hands go up to cover his mouth, which is agape in horror. He might even shriek.

By the way, if you're interested in purchasing Madagascar, there's a coupon for three dollars off in this week's People.

Preachy

I'd spent an hour writing a post this morning, when I suddenly realized how preachy it sounded.

It was all about writing and getting published and how the process is more important than the product and blah, blah, blah. It dawned on me, as I walked Mac to school, that the people who read this blog (all five of you, if I'm lucky, and I love every single one of you) don't need to be told how important it is to write, don't need to be told that you need to look for the small comforts in an artful life, don't need to be reminded that publication is not necessarily a reflection of talent . . . you know all this.

I suppose, what I'd wanted to convey with that original post, is that sometimes, we lay all of our hopes onto something--an event like publication--and in doing so, give our power away. That we forget why we're doing what we're doing, whether it be sculpting forms from clay or splashing paint across a canvas. That you've got to dig down, deep, and figure out the real reasons why you are pursuing your art, and focus your energies on that.

I become so frustrated with wanting to be liked, admired, or respected. I struggle with it. And sometimes, I am strong enough to take a stand and stuff that need into the back of the closet with all of the clothes that are out of season, and say, I refuse to use my art, my passion and creativity, as a means to become popular. I write because I want to connect with someone else, convey a mood, and tell a story. Frequently, I forget that. Writing becomes about the need to have someone say that my work is good, instead of me telling myself that. It becomes about pleasing others. It becomes about doubt and insecurity and fear. It is the desperate act of giving my power away.

What I want for all of us is to be confident and kind and joyful in our own power. I want us to remember who we are and why we're here and why we're important. I want us to be Dorothy at the end of the movie, realizing that she's in charge, not the Wizard or the witch or the shoes.

In this life, I'm tellin' ya: I want to be Martha Stewart, not her Apprentice. I'm not sitting around, waiting for a holler off the porch, A+ report card, 5 star review validation.

I'm too busy writing.

Can I get a witness?

Sometimes, I Trudge When I Want To Stomp

Sometimes,
I trudge when I want to stomp.

Sometimes,
it is impossible
to walk a flight of stairs,
carry a baby gone boneless,
or make myself
a pot of coffee.

Sometimes,
I am walking in place,
which would be alright
if I had the energy
to enjoy the view.

Sometimes,
I am proud that I have planted a garden
but am ashamed
that weeds are spreading,
like sickness,
through each row.

Today,
I am trudging when I want to stomp
Today, I can't look anyone
in the face,
would rather watch my shadow
stretch across the sidewalk--
it seems to have more to give,
than I do.

Today,
with dishes in the sink and moody children and stories unwritten and a voice that fades in and out,
I am tired
and if I could,
I would fall
heavy as a wet sweatshirt,
back into bed.

Sometimes, I trudge
when I want to stomp,
feel like I am wearing cinder block shoes.

But tomorrow, maybe there will be slippers on my feet
maybe my steps light.
Tomorrow, my shadow might have trouble
keeping pace
Tomorrow, I will stomp my way
across the landscape of the day.

Groucho Pants

Apparently, I need to add something to the "I love but everyone else in the world hates" list.

Gauchos.

Or, as Lou likes to refer to them . . . Grouchos. Or Groucho Marx. Or Guapos. Or alpacas.

Love 'em. Just bought a pair. Nearly bought two.

Go figure.

Appreciating An Artful Life

This is an artful life.
It is.
Just look
at the pile
of brightly colored, plastic
Little Tykes toys,
tumbling over each other
across the carpet,
Smell the coffee
too hot to drink
in the awkward mug
that little hands
stretched into shape.
Listen to Mac say,
I like James' work,
as he studies crayon markings
on a college ruled page.
Hesitate to scrub
the mural of people
a family
off of the playroom wall--

maybe I'd like to be
big ears, long legs and a round head.

I'll bake an apple pie for you,
if you promise just to eat it,
or if you celebrate the caved in quality
of its collapseable crust,
its sugary puddles;

I'll bake for you
if you appreciate the hands
that turned on the oven.
If you appreciate
the scent of pie baking;
If you appreciate
its cinammon taste.

I'm Baaaaack!

We went to Erie this weekend. Actually, we went to Edinboro, but because I have found that most people outside of Northwestern Pennsylvania are unfamiliar with Edinboro, I am forced to use Erie as a point of reference (sometimes, I am even forced to mention Buffalo, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh, and construct a little triangle with my fingers and hands).

We went to a wedding. It was beautiful. The reception was at a place called Bruno's, and the food was delicious (served family style, what could be better?). My children, who wore matching snowflake sweaters (which my mother rolled her eyes at), ran the dance floor like Greyhounds on a racetrack. At one point, they pretended that they were cats crawling around out there. It was very generous that the new couple included children in their special event . . . let me just say that I would not have.

It was a crazy weekend and went too quickly. Since having children, I feel like my life is on a schedule as tight as Amtrak's. We may have a few delays, but everything runs pretty much on course. If it doesn't, we end up with a few enraged customers (short businessmen named Mac and James).

Oh, and on a different note, we noticed that every so often, in the car, James would hum a little tune that was oddly familiar but unplaceable. He did this a few times while my mom was riding with us. She said, "Is he singing the song from the McDonald's commercials . . y'know, "da-da-DA-da . . I'm lovin' it'?" And indeedy, that was exactly what he was doing. Off to the side of the road, there were the Golden Arches. During the six hour drive back to Maryland, every McDonalds along the route was acknowledged through song.

Ray Kroc would have been touched.

Who The Hell Is Franklin?

Apparently, of all The Peanuts, I am most like Franklin. This means that I am one of the gang but am willing to go off and do my own thing.

Who the hell is Franklin? Why haven't I noticed him before? Because he is a non-entity? Is this not my biggest fear?

What the hell . . .

I wanted to be Lucy.

http://quizilla.com/users/anonymousnowhere/quizzes/Which%20Peanuts%20Character%20are%20You?/

The Saturday Window

We're sitting on the couch, James and I, watching Barney. This is a new love of his, one that I hope will be fleeting. I much prefer the cute, fluffy, speech and language impaired muppets from Sesame Street.

I look at my child, who greets the television every morning with an enthusiastic, "Iwanttb," and realize that he will never know what a privilege it is to have a good show, a children's program, available to him nearly twenty-four hours a day. When I was a kid, we had to wait for Saturdays, and what a buffet of mind-numbing programming that was. I remember starting the day with The Superfriends, watching (but wanting to smash) The Smurfs, and feeling a little bit frightened during Scooby-Doo. I remember Godzilla (and his asinine little relative, Godzuki). I remember relishing Fred Flintstones' baritone, and enjoying his hyperactive, kiss-ass friend, Barney. Land Of The Lost was the scariest of all shows, with its smooth, sparkly rocks, hissy Sleestaks, and the T-Rex that always crammed his snout into the cave where the Marshall family was hiding. When noon finally arrived, and with it, ABC's Wide World of Sports, it was like leaving the amusement park--you'd had a good time but wanted nothing more than to stay and take another spin.

My children will never know "The Saturday Window." They will never struggle with black and white televisions and rabbit-ear antennaes (so vivid are my memories of struggling to adjust the spokes so that I could get a faint picture of "The Three Stooges" or "Wait 'Til Your Father Gets Home" on the Canadian Channel; didn't matter if that I couldn't make out any dialogue because of static--just as long as I could see what was going on). They will never anticpate the one time of day that Sesame Street is scheduled, because, for them, it's available twelve times a day, and if it wasn't, we could always TiVo it.

Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it's like TVs and DVD players in cars. Maybe it's all about progress. All I know is that I wouldn't trade The Flintstones or The Jetsons for some of the shitty shows that my children have the privilege of viewing (i.e. SpongeBob, Teletubbies, Franklin), even if it did mean that I wouldn't have to stand in one position, clutching an antennae and listening to static, to watch them.

The Defiant List

Here's a list of things that I hate that everybody else seems to love:

1. The Catcher In The Rye
2. cold medicine
3. Sweet Potato-Pear Bisque
4. Halloween
5. candy
6. gum
7. low-rise jeans
8. neutrals
9. GWB*
10.racism**

*still stunned by how many people defend him

**Yes, yes, I know that this seems to go without saying, but you would be amazed at how many people tell racist jokes or make racist remarks to me in everyday conversation as though it's no big deal; i.e. recently, a girlfriend said, "I just got off the phone with a telemarketer, some freakin' Iranian or Indian."

Need I point out that Iran and India are two entirely different countries? Need I point out that there are a number of Middle Eastern countries where people have accents, not necessarily Iran or India? Need I point out that this is INAPPROPRIATE?

There were also several incidents this past Summer in which the phrase, "Goddamn foreigners need to go back to their own goddamn countries," was directed at me (like I might concur). I responded, "Would that include my Irish mother, who immigrated here 30 years ago?" Apparently, no, this would not include her. After all, she's white . . . and speaks English.

Here's what I love, that everybody else seems to hate:
1. curse words
2. Donald Trump
3. cheesy dance clubs
4. sweatpants
5. deadlines
6. paperwork (I love office supplies and files)
7. vacuuming
8. Martha Stewart's Apprentice
9. Wife Swap
10. asparagus

My Take On Rejection

I've gotta explain because I think I came off whiny in the previous post.

Here's my take on rejection. I've spent a lot of time working through this and am finally satisfied with the philosophy that resulted, which I will call the "Nobody Likes You and Everybody Thinks You're a Piece of Shit Theory."

I've got about 600 books lining the shelves in the office in my basement. They range from true crime to self help to literary fiction. You want Dr. Phil's unauthorized biography? It's there. How about the Adrian Mole Diaries? Yep, them, too, both the kid and adult volumes. Or say you're interested in relating to the passive-aggressive man--I can offer you several resources to help you figure him out.

Now, if someone told me that I had to pick, out of those 600 books, 5 that are my favorite, that are simply the best there is to offer, I've gotta tell you, I'd have a helluva time. What if they told me that I could pick 10? It really wouldn't make my job any easier.

Of the original 600, are they all good books? Do they all have some sort of value? Sure they do, at least, to me, or I wouldn't have kept them for re-reading purposes (on that note, you should see my copy of "Until the Twelfth of Never: The Deadly Divorce of Dan and Betty Broderick." It's positively crusty and dog-eared.). Does the fact that I cannot select all of the books diminsh them in some way? Does the fact that I cannot make all 600 my favorite cause them to be any less valuable?

Not at all.

When I submit stories (which I do often), I try to remember the "Nobody Likes You and Everybody Thinks You're a Piece of Shit Theory." Because that's not what it's about. It has nothing to do with you. It's not even about the quality of the work (well, it can be, but I wouldn't know that unless someone writes me a little note saying something like: You've got a colobus monkey working at a video store as your main character and we're wondering if, without an opposiable thumb, he'd really be able to work the register; perhaps a rhesus monkey would be a better choice?). It's about what appeals to a certain reader, and in the submission game, that certain reader would be The Editor.

Is my stuff good? I think so. Does it fit on an Editor's "shelf?" Sometimes, if there's room. Were all of the editors at a magazine gatherered around the laptop on which my story glowed across the screen, laughing at the submission, poking fun at my sentence structure, bellowing: "Who the Hell does she think SHE is?" Possibly, but's that okay, because I'll never really know. Just as I won't know why they rejected my story. Consequently, it's really stupid to spend so much time analyzing the situation. I'd be better off spending my time writing a new story that can pull in a few more rejections next month (shooting for 500--if you can't beat'em, join'em).

What's your theory on rejection?

Heart Hurts

My heart hurts
or maybe I'm just tired.
Tired enough
to resort to cliches,
to pull covers up to my neck,
to say, what the hell,
we're going to Ruby Tuesday's for dinner.
I open email after email,
read "We're going to pass on your work . . .
thanks for sharing,"
when all that I really want to do
is share.
I send an email,
that hurts a friend.
and realize that
no response is worse than a rejection.
I realize that a hazy red sky
is no better than a lavender one.
Just different.
I can handle someone not liking my shoes
or the taste of my broccoli soup.
What I cannot handle
is the funny expression
on someone's face, when the wine is bitter
and the cake is flat.
The pushing in of the chair,
or the walking away.

Infinite Monkey Theorem

My all-time favorite quote is this one, by Robert Wilensky:

“We’ve heard that a million monkeys at a million keyboards could produce the complete works of Shakespeare; now, thanks to the Internet, we know that is not true.”

For years, I swore that I wouldn't blog. Now, I'm now one of those monkeys. Imagine me with a little bow in my hair and a cigarette in hand, hunched over my laptop.

At least I'm not a humanzee.

Come On In

Who am I going to be today?
Martha Stewart wannabe,
or the writer with a pencil wedged behind her ear?
A velour jogging suit, embellished with sequins,
("track star"),
the Sophia Dress,
jammies with feet, if only they made my size.
I would let my hair down,
but it's too short.
In my mind, it hangs to my waist;
chocolate shine,
but smelling like mangoes.
Come on in, I say, as I open the door,
the house is dirty,
but there are stacks of books on the floor,
wine and beer in the refrigerator,
and real people living here.
Come on in, I say, sweeping my long hair
behind my neck,
Come on in.