Peter Menzel

It is foggy here, in my mind: a glasses, homemade socks, and book wearing kind of day. I'm taking Mac to the dentist, and I will tuck several books into my purse; the book queue lengthens daily, like a line at the grocery store before a clipper.

My "outfit" of choice for home consists of cocoa striped socks and Peter Menzel's "Material World," a book which is too big for reception area perusing. I first learned about it while visiting Jill's Notebook about a month ago.

Through stunning photography and words, Menzel tells a thousand stories. He is a relayer of cultural details, an enlightener. To create this book, Menzel traveled the world, taking pictures of families from numerous countries, in front of their house or shelter, surrounded by all of their possessions. Menzel's pictures repeatedly stamp an impression of the various societal conditions, affluence, and values that exist across the Earth, from walls repaired with dung in Ethiopia to a rancher in Texas, brimming with duplicate items and knick knacks. What can I say as I look around my own house, cluttered with books and electronics and plastic toys and shiny appliances. That I am lucky? It sounds so trite. That my future goals involve the purchase of a Calphalon non-stick pan, while other people are praying for an education? I hang my head.

The first step is acknowledgement.

Mac is enamored with this book. Every night, we talk about a region and the family that lives there. Last night, he and his dad discussed a German family. After Mac went to bed, I read about Mongolia.

I was surprised that only one family from the United States was depicted. The American family in the book is middle class, a representative, I suppose, of the "norm." I would've respected attention given to poorer American people, too--a homeless family, a single parent family--that is an American reality, too. The wealthier would have had a place, also--McMansions and luxury cars, walk-in closets stuffed with clothes, like bolts of material wedged alongside of each other at a fabric shop.

As for me, there is the gift of having free time to explore this book, a house to complain about and remodel. Lamenting a slow internet connection or the fact that the town rarely puts on a decent art show.

Pheeehh. These are not the things that matter.

Some people don't worry about "balance" in their lives because they have more pressing concerns: enough work, enough food, sickness, access to medicine, access to education. Basics. Not anything close to Maslow's vision of self actualization because everyday is a struggle to solidify the bottom levels of the pyramid: the safety, the shelter and the food. But there are similarities between global families, too: a love and a concern for our children, a desire for good health, freedom at some level (however one might choose to define it).

This book has made me reexamine the things that I take for granted, not that my arm chair reflection helps anyone who is in a less fortunate situation. I have redefined my heroes as the people who take time out of their lives to volunteer, here or abroad.

This book is a good one. I'm glad that my library carried it, although a paperback version is available through Amazon. I'm also looking forward to reading another of Menzel's books, "Hungry Planet: What the World Eats," soon.

My First and Last Political Rant

Hmmm.

Oprah singlehandedly made James Frey accountable for putting his own spin on his own experiences, but no one has ever made "W" accountable for all of the lies that he told, the same "untruths" that have led to an ongoing situation that has ripped apart families, killed or injured thousands, and appears to be pretty damn unresolvable.

What kind of message are we sending here? Better be spot-on accurate in the entertainment industry, but we'll give you some leeway when it comes to international affairs.

I'm speechless.

I Forgot Tanya

Add Tanya to the list of tagged people (I can't remember if she's done something like this or not).

What the hell. Tag everyone. The more the merrier.

Ten "Interesting" Things From Your Friend with "No Common Since"

I was tagged by Kat for the Ten Interesting Things game. This list was harder to complile than I thought it would be.

Here goes:

1. I have many irrational fears. While I "get" that they are irrational, I am unable to conquer any of them. Here's a short list: furnaces running (and in my mind, exploding) at night, asteroids hitting the Earth and knocking it out of its gravitaional pull, gas leaks, deep lake or ocean water (see also Myfanwy), stadiums collapsing because of the excessive cheering of fans.)

2. Despite fears of noise induced venue collapse, I have seen a number of concerts in concrete arenas, including The Rolling Stones (3x), David Bowie, Rush, Prince, and Genesis.

3. I drank Coke throughout both of my pregnancies (it settled my stomach :), much to the dismay of my co-workers, a legion of elementary educators. My "team," however, the special ed. teachers, were incredibly supportive of my drink choice (probably thankful it wasn't alcoholic) and provided a "bucket" of chilled Cokes for me at my baby shower, just like a bucket of champagne. I wept.

4. A stranger chastised me at Borders one night when I pregnant for ordering/drinking a hot chocolate. I nearly (not kidding) threw it in the man's face.

5. I have never thrown a drink in anyone's face, although, when I was seventeen, I did throw a milkshake at the dashboard of my boyfriend's car. This was prompted by his vivid recountment of an erotic dream that he had had involving one of my friends.

6. I now rarely drink Coke. Within a month of quitting, I lost 10 pounds.

7. I met my husband in a seedy nightclub, and we moved in together a mere three months later, to a seedy apartment in West Virginia that was about the size of my current bathroom. We were married at the courthouse a couple of months after that, with the baliff and the secretary as our witnesses.

8. On the initial drive to West Virginia to secure aforementioned apartment, I was concerned to see a crooked farm house with chickens in the yard and a sign nailed to the front porch, "Qwilts for Sale." Now, I find this a little charming.

9. I worked in elementary schools as a speech-language pathologist for seven years. I truly loved it. One of my favorite moments occurred while working with a little girl who had grammatical and vocabulary issues. I asked her to use several different words in sentences. For the word "since," she fabricated this jewel: "I ain't got no common since." I wanted to squeeze her little shoulder and say, "Honey, I feel the same way."

10. I can't stand gender biasing, so when our first son was born, I bought him a lot of stuff that was marketed for girls. Knowing nothing else, he played with those toys and celebrated them. Last year at our yard sale, an elderly neighbor lady shook a Polly Pocket at me accusingly and barked: "You seem to have an awful lotta girl toys." Not wanting to get into a "parenting philosophy" discussion with her (because I knew I would lose), I kept my mouth shut. Lou jumped in and said that they were from my job.

Now, I tag RitaPita, Wenda, Nance, Baylor, and Robert, because I don't think they have ever done a post like this and might be willing to play. I HOPE they're willing to play!

Margaret Means "Purl"

When I was a child, my mother taught me to knit. I remember her showing me how to hold the needles, and I remember the little saying that she used to remind me of the steps: "In the little bunny hole, 'round the big tree, out the little bunny hole, and off comes she!"

For a week, we sat, side by side, in front of the fireplace, our needles clacking. Restless with five year old confidence, I announced that I was going to make a scarf, maybe five of them (this same child who used to go outside and try to "clean" the dirt road). My mother murmured, "Umm hmmm" as I knit away, one stitch building onto another, then into rows, like a small backyard garden. "Look at how much I've done!" I would boast, and my mother would examine it and nod, deigning it "good work."

Eventually, though, the yarn tangled and stitches slipped. I couldn't cast on. I couldn't bind off. The needles, draped in several inches of yarn, fell to the wayside, eventually discarded into a plastic IGA bag and crammed into the back of my closet.

As I moved onto other pursuits throughout the years (sketching floorplans, playing Orphans with the neighbor kids, typing "menus" on an old Smith Corona, curling my hair), my mother continued to knit, needles clicking steadfast, a strand of yarn wound around her index finger.

She still knits. I accompany her to knitting stores that possess whimsical names like "Knit and Purl" or "A Stitch in Time," and we shuffle along narrow aisles stuffed with fine gauge yarns and bulky weaves, aran blends, lamb's wool, soft cashmere, and little bundles of embroidery floss. There are different needles, too, some with smooth balls fit over their ends, some made of bamboo or rosewood, some shaped like circles. We just browse; my mother often massages the skeins of yarn and says that they're too expensive. She usually glances back through the window as we walk away.

My mother takes orders for her knitting; she whipped out an aran scarf for Lou for Christmas, and she has made me two purses, two scarves, several dish clothes, and a chunky cardigan in the past year. She made the cardigan while she was in Northern Ireland, visiting my grandmother. Mary, a knitter herself, smoothed the pattern over the kitchen table and announced that it was wrong. She insisted that my mother tear out endless rows of stitches and redo them, the right way. Recently, my mother told me that Mary was once asked to sit in the front window of a dusty, yarn shop in Ballymena, knitting, to draw business. Although a daily wage was involved, Mary spat at the offer. Knitting wasn't a vocation. It was just something that she did. Mary also scoffed at terms like "master knitter" or "artist." Who needed labels when she had a pair of stockings to darn?

My mother's hands have short nails. Her fingers bend slightly more each day; they will soon be crooked. When she visits us, she presides at my kitchen table, waving a knitting needle while she talks the way she used to wave her cigarette.

The last few times I talked to my mom, she was on a Sock Making Rampage. "Hold on," she said, "Let me just count this row." Another time when we spoke, she sounded depressed. I said, "What's wrong?' And she sighed, "Oh, nothing . . . well, it's just that I can't seem to get this heel quite right. Do you think I should rip it out and start again?"

Her passion for her knitting is comforting to me, somehow. It is as constant as her visits, as predictable as the turkey noodle soup she makes the day after Thanksgiving. It is a rhythm in her life, and this is a time when I rejoice in the rhythms of the people who I love.

I think that the next time she visits, I will ask her to teach me again.

And maybe this time, I will finish a scarf.

A Slow Cooker of Words

My reading tastes have changed during the past year.

I used to read for the story. I relished the twists and turns of plot, the actions that characters took in order to answer questions in their lives, to explore identity and relationships, to mend rips.

Now, I read to be soothed by the language, to be carried away. To feel the power of words, relentless like the wind today, or to ride a raft on a lazy river of a sentence. I like authors like Cristina Garcia, Sandra Cisneros, and Julia Alvarez, who sprinkle Spanish terms like "carne asada" or "mangos deliciosos" onto each page like cilantro into a salsa. The lyrical melody of those words, so rich but so light, an even flow; the story, for me, becomes nearly irrelevant.

But I don't mean to imply that those writers don't tell stories. Their works are bursting with conflict and resolution, or whatever it is that people consider to be "plot." Characters are complex, with weathered hands, manic thoughts, the need to be accepted--situations are untenable and filled with tension, walking a balance beam towards possible resolution . . . or not. The possibilities are as bottomless as a vat of cabbage soup prepared especially for a month long fast.

I'm glad that my love of language has led me to authors whom I wouldn't have enjoyed in the past. Works that heal like a cool compress, herb infused chicken broth, and an afternoon in bed--slow and steady. Not a quick medicinal fix, but a cure that lingers. Passages that provide a "fix" at obscure times: when rummaging past pens in the glove box for a map, listening to the dog across the street bark at shadows, or in the middle of the night, while walking off the "Jimmy Legs."

A coiled rope of words, twisting into an easy circle, that heals the soul.

I no longer rush. I am able to take my time to savor a stew of imagery, a stuffed pepper exploding with adjectives and metaphors and strong verbs.

Tonight, I am reading Tawni O 'Dells' "Coal Run." I will treat each word as a delicacy. It will lay softly on my lips before I swallow it up. It will be my lobster-mashed potato feast.

First Impressions

I do not present well.

I have just returned home from a validation meeting at my child's school. The preschool program is being reviewed by the county (and eventually, the state) and there must be a parent representative on the team. I was selected as the parent representative. Despite that honor, I did not present well.

I am a blurter. I am a wearer of wrinkled skirts and heavy eye liner. I am cognizant of those things and defiant in them. I am a fidgeter. I use the word "real" as an adjective, as in "real good job." When I reach into my purse, change, receipts, lipstick, and books tumble out.

I do not present well.

I walk into rooms and trip on carpets. I shock myself on light switches. I speak quickly and I inadvertently and regulary dribble coffee down my chin.

I'm sure that I don't need to convince you: I do not present well.

On the other hand, if given time (as in a couple of weeks), people will generally warm to me. They will be surprised to realize that I am not dumb. They will be surprised to learn that beyond the nervous hand wringing and dysfluent jokes, I have a decent sense of humor. That I am genuine in compliments and a hard worker.

This is my struggle in new jobs and social situations.

I did well at the meeting today. I offered opinions that were well taken. I managed to navigate into a chair in the conference room without bruising my own knee (or anyone else's). I even opened a can of soda without having it explode tiny, fizzy pellets all over the table. No one noticed my ungroomed eyebrows (screaming for a wax) or the smell of my husband's deodorant (I ran out of mine).

Underneath, though, I still had that nagging self-doubt.

I just don't present well.

This is my problem. It is something that I need to come to terms with. It is something that I need to accept and embrace, feeling strong enough in who I am underneath the scuffed shoes and a holey stockings. Maybe it is a mechanism that serves to weed out all of the surface folks, the ones looking to latch onto the prettiest friend or the most astute co-worker.

I simply don't present well and probably never will. Maybe that is a good thing.

"Few have strength of reason to overrule the perceptions of sense, and yet fewer have curiosity or benevolence to struggle long against the first impression: he who therefore fails to please in his salutation and address is at once rejected, and never obtains an opportunity of showing his latest excellences or essential qualities." Johnson: Rambler #166 (October 19, 1751)

Let's Go Steelers, Let's Go!

I've spent the morning perusing this site, 1154 LILL Studio. I'd stumbled upon it last Fall and LOVE the fact that you can design your own purse (pick from a variety of shapes and sizes, then select which fabrics will be used for the different parts of it). The purses are slightly pricey, so I'm struggling to get a good design (don't want to spend the money on something that looks silly; quirky is good, silly is for four year olds). If you are a lover of handbags, you've gotta check it out and design a purse of your own.

The Steelers are playing today. The dogs are attacking each other. James has spent the last ten minutes fingerpainting spaghetti sauce all over his round belly. I have three day old leeks in the refrigerator, just screaming to be chopped up for some potato-leek soup. There is a stack of library books on the kitchen counter, all overdue, and several reserved books on the shelf at C. Burr Arts, waiting to be picked up today.

The sun is shining, but the furnace is running. I'm sure that I will feel warm enough in a new brown stretch tank and the chunky rust colored cardigan my mom made me. When I get home from the library, I will make the soup and join Lou and Mac for the game. I will change into comfortable sweatpants and have a glass of wine.

Ideas and possiblility stretch out, fueled by a breakfast of potatoes and vegetarian sausage. Inspiration in the form of body art and fabric swatches. An anticipated "event," accompanied by a change of clothes.

So far, it's been a lovely day.

Thanks, Baylor

Today, I am thinking about the sights, sounds, smells, and details that remind me of certain times in my life; this, due to in large (all) part to Baylor, who wrote a lovely post about this subject on her site.

1. My breakup with my first love, when I was nineteen. The breakup that led me home, so I could rely on my parents to apply the peroxide and bandages to my slivered heart. Holing up in my childhood bedroom, the lights off, listening to The Rolling Stones, "Gimme Shelter," over and over again.

One late October afternoon, as I drove down our rutted dirt road to my job at the video store, I looked to the left and saw a clump of trees, the woods beside my parents' house. And I saw, among that forest, a tree that I used to climb. Its branches were twisted and its trunk grew wide and thin at varying heights, but it stood, stretching upward, awkward without its thick covering of leaves. And I thought: that tree was there when I was three, and it was there when I was nine, and it's there right now, even though I feel like someone is pressing down on my shoulders, and it will be there, ten year from now, and so will I.

That consistency, that optimistic certainty, was reassuring. And so will I. Knowing that that tree had lived in those woods when I had been happy. Knowing that it was there, now, when I was heartbroken. Knowing that it would, most likely, be there years from now, whatever time would bring, consoled me. Stationary predictability. I could count on that tree.

Fifteen years later, my children play in my parent's yard when we visit. That tree stands, cross armed, in the background. It is taller than it was, though still skinny, still gnarled. If I tromp across the leaves and twigs that carpet the forest and touch it's branches, they feel the same as they did when I was ten-smooth, then puckered. Damp but solid.

I like to think that maybe my children will climb that tree one day.

2. The warm, sugary smell of the donut shop, where I worked in high school. The aroma of coffee and the stained plastic mugs that the regulars thrust at us. "Rinse 'er out," they'd say, then dig into their pockets for the change to pay. I remember J, my friend, saying one morning at 6am, as we both stood behind the counter, waiting for the Saturday crowd to advance, "We are horses. We can sleep standing up," and then, she whinied. And I laughed. The radio played "I Think We're Alone Now," as the baker sprinkled flour across his workspace, then rolled out the sticky dough.

3. My classroom at the newly built school where I transferred to, smelled like plastic and air conditioning vents. It had filing cabinets and a wall of shelves. It had a clean carpeted floor that, through the course of the year, became speckled with glitter (the kind that is impossible to adequately vacuum up). I remember the rubber smell of one little's girl's wheel chair, the high pitched tinkling laughter of another child. I remember the rounded point of my pencil, rough against the pages of my plan book, as I scribbled down ideas. I remember bolting to the bathroom down the hall, newly pregnant, creating an art form out of my struggle to vomit cleanly into the toilet without splashing my clothes. I remember putting all of the details together and missing my old classroom, at the old school, with its cockroach army and scuffed cupboards and waterlogged ceiling tiles. I remember thinking that I didn't deserve the newness of the new school, or a job easier than my old one.

4. The silence of 9/11, standing on my front porch and surveying our street, usually so busy. Looking at the row of houses with their windows lit up, the dancing blue glow of televisions. My two month old baby slept inside, and I looked back inside, at him, then out to the street again. And I realized what made that mild evening so quiet. That the sky was empty, except for the stars. There were no planes rumbling their prescence like the stomach of a hungry man. No blips of light and sound in the night. The silence was suffocating.

5. The photo of the trout in our booth at McCormick and Schmick's the night Lou and I celebrated our tenth anniversary. The shadows that created the fish's rounded underbelly, the colors that became his silvery, translucent gills. Thinking, "I like this fish. I'd like to be his friend," as Lou's fork scraped the last bite of raspberry cheesecake off of his plate. Expensive wood. The mother with her three, grown-up children, reveling in their company. The taste of the salsa, a surprise, because it was mango instead of tomato.

They are not always the big moments. They are glimmers. They are jolts. They are the pictures in a yearbook that remind me of French IV, a stone fireplace that puts me back at Camp Fitch. It is the MC Hammer song that I played on my walkman on the way to Niagara Falls with my family as I nursed my first hangover. It is "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic," in the basement of the Theta Chi house. It is the magical moments after midnight, feeling joyous in front of the lights of the Christmas tree but feeling like crying, feeling greedy, knowing that this moment, too, will pass.

It is the watching of children as they dip their toes into a soapy bathtub. It is a boy's freshly shaved face as he walks toward the podium to collect his diploma. It is the hug that comes easily, right now and it is the hug, years later, that is no longer taken for granted.

The Mother Who Invariably Loses It On Her Children

As I enter Giant Eagle with my boys in tow, I have an overriding suspicion that the cashiers, butchers, florists, and bagging people have all immediately started elbowing one another and whispering, There She is . . . the Mother Who Invariably Loses It On Her Children.

It begins with cart selection. Giant Eagle offers three kinds, each with its own unique drawbacks. There is the basic metal buggy. There is the elaborate and difficult to maneuver, plastic "car shaped" cart. And there is the cart built for the families with multiple offspring, the old "two seater" where the kids face the basket instead of the person who is pushing them.

During every trip, my children go for the "car," the dirtiest of all of the options. I always find tissues, plastic spoons, and candy wrappers on the seat of the car. The steering wheel is usually sticky. I say "no" in my firmest voice (steady, steady), and guide them to the basic metal number. They shriek that they'll take the two seater; again, I must demur, knowing full well that side by side seating will eventually lead to touching, poking, and hitting. I gently lead them back to the basic metal number. To illustrate his lack of enthusiasm for my choice, James stiffens his legs and refuses to sit. I must work at bending them, as though I'm manipulating a defective Ken doll.

After wedging James into his seat and making Mac swear to hold onto the side of the cart, we begin. It is not long until a fight ensues; they would both like to drop the selections in the basket ("drop" being the operative word). This goes for produce, bags of frozen french fries, bread, Pop Tarts, and jars of spaghetti sauce. I attempt to reason: you cannot put the spaghetti sauce in the cart. It's glass. Both children scream. James hurls a shoe at me.

Because I feel rushed, we fly through the meat department. We pass another mother, the one who always seem to shop when I do, the one with the little girl who wears striped stockings and Mary Janes and walks alongside her mother's cart, maintaining her own space, eating a slice of cheese that she was given at the deli. The same deli woman frequently forgets to offer my boys cheese. It doesn't really matter; when she does, they slick it on top of their heads and pretend that it's hair.

By the end of the trip, there has been whining, cajoling, begging, and teeth gritting . . . and that's just from me. I am almost done. I can see the electric doors sliding open and closed in the distance. I say screw the garlic and peanut butter, and bolt towards the registers.

Unfortunately, I choose a self-checkout lane. Four items scanned and onto the conveyer belt, I realize that this is a critical error. Mac and James toss boxes of crackers and cereal at me. They'd like to help. James somehow squirms free of the safety belt and is standing on his seat screaming "Hey Mom. Wook. Wook!" The bagging area is full and the register refuses to scan anymore items until I've bagged some stuff. I notice that the little girl who was eating cheese is standing in the next checkout lane, sorting through her mother's coupons and reading them aloud to her. She rolls her eyes at me.

I lose it.

THAT'S IT! THIS HAS GOT TO STOP! WHAT ARE YOU . . . ANIMALS? NO SPECIAL DINNERS FOR LUNCH! I SWEAR TO GOD, WHEN WE GET HOME, YOU'RE GOING STRAIGHT TO THE NAUGHTY CORNER AND YOU'RE NOT COMING OUT ALL DAY. ALL FLIPPIN' DAY! THAT'S IT. THAT'S IT. WE'RE DONE.

I, then, notice that all of the other customers, especially the elderly ones, are staring at me and shaking their heads at my sobbing boys (only crying because they've lost their frozen TV dinners) and muttering gems like, "Oh, those poor little guys. They're just tired." These people narrow their eyes at me, their voices rife with accusation: "Little fellows must be missing their nap time."

Really. Is that the problem?

I suppose that those "poor little guys" should have considered the possibility of mid-day sleep deprivation when they woke up at 5:30 am, demanding pancakes.

There is a reason why you see women with silly grins on their faces at grocery stores at 8:00 at night. Those women have escaped. Those women are relishing the time that they have to decide whether or not they want the fast cooking barley or the regular stuff. Those women know that they will not arrive home and be in the middle of shortbread preparation and suddenly realize that their berries are moldy; they can examine their strawberries for bruises and fur at the store. Those women can pick out cereal without hearing little voices nominate the "Count Chocula" and conduct an "arms raised" vote.

At night time at the grocery store, I can pretend that I am career woman. I can pretend that I'm breezing in after the gym for a lime for my gin and tonics. I can pretend that I live in a sophisticated apartment (as opposed to a "Little Tykes" wasteland) with high ceilings and pristine floors.

I almost believe those things, too, until I glance down. The boxes of Spongebob SquarePants Macaroni and Cheese always give it away.

Happy Belated Birthday, Dr. King

Today is a different day than yesterday. It is not angry or sarcastic, although those things are as much of who I am as anything else, even envy, joy, heartbreak, worry, and passion.

Today is overcast. It is a lazy day where whirl-a-gig gardens in the front yards of homes explode with color and renounce the cold, damp, gray. It is a day where I appreciate the cerulean blue of a "bowling ball" sculpture, that I notice the skinny letters that read "Mick's Plumbing" on the side of a box truck parked at the end of a cracked, blacktop driveway. Today, the hum of the dishwasher is efficient, so that I don't need to be.

Inside, it is bright. We are making a cake, a birthday cake for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Once it cools, Mac will use a cheap plastic ketchup bottle, the kind that you find at Summer barbecues or greasy diners, to carefully ice the initials, MLK, across the top. We are making cards, too, cards alive with detail--purple, brown, orange, and blue boys and girls holding stick fingered hands, with lopsided grins and bursts of jagged hair. In Mac's pictures, the children are always smiling, and they always have big ears.

This is a day of listening to my 4 year old tell me the story of people who aren't allowed to sit where they want to on a bus, of people who are put into jail for drinking from the wrong fountain. "You've got to use your mouth, Mom," he advises me, "Not your hands," and it only takes me a second to figure out what he's talking about.

I close my eyes and I think: Stay this way, Mac. Stay myopic and simple and hurtless. But that contradicts how I feel, too. Those aren't the right words. There is the smell of the cake, rising and growing in the oven, as I also think: see, reach, jump, listen, learn. Think. Act. Make a difference, Mac. Be a difference.

We will do the best we can. We will eat cake and examine cards and talk about people and their stories. We will talk about right and wrong, about rich and poor, about people who turn the other way, about people who are too eager to fight. We will talk about good reasons and wrong reasons and all of the ones in between. That, today, right now, will have to be good enough.

"We did not hesitate to call our movement an army. But it was a special army, with no supplies but its sincerity, no uniform but its determination, no arsenal except its faith, no currency but its conscience." Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, Why We Can't Wait, 1963

Time for a Defiant List

My wee Jamesy is oppositional.

I say, "James?" and he says, with his chest puffed up in two year old glory, "No." I say, "James?" again, he pulls his chest up higher and shrieks, "NO!"

Today, I'd like to do some yelling of "No." I'll start here.

Things that I'm currently defiant about:

1. People who insist on "parking" their car in the middle of the street behind my house to "bullshit" with their neighbor. While I am jockeyed in position behind them, trying to get to my driveway yet unable to squeeze around their monstrosity of a vehicle, I resist the urge, really, I do, to crash my foot down on the accelerator and ram them. My time is as important as theirs. You want chit chat, you get a parking spot.

2. Chipotle, McDonald's, cookies, icecream, and beer for dinner tonight. That's what we had because I wasn't cooking. And it tasted fine. It tasted better than fine.

*Kids substituted "strawberry milk" for beer. Just needed to clarify that in case anyone assumed the worst. I mean, I myself started early, but not that early . . .

3. The receptionist who stated flatly, "Really," after hurling out the news that my blood tests were normal and hearing my refusal to sit and wait to see if the twitching, total body jerks, and tremors continue for the next few weeks. "That is not acceptable, Connie," I said. Connie got her ass into the doctor's office and got me a referral, that's what she did. Tomorrow, I call The Neurologist.

4. Tomorrow, I'm not going anywhere, so I'm not going to brush my teeth. I probably won't be kissing anyone tomorrow, either.

5. If my cat wants to sit in the bathtub, shedding nasty clumps of black fur all over the drain (and then, that fur mixing with the droplets of water that leak out of the faucet, creating a damp, hairy mess), I'm going to let him. I mean, what else does he really have to do each day? Other than lick his own ass. Or his brother's.

Your Daisy Arrangin', Soup Stirrin', Bath Takin' Amateur

In between the preparation/consumption of broccoli cheese soup and a long, hot soak in a bubble filled tub, I retreat to the oversized chair in our middle room to read.

I page through the most recent issue of
Somerset Studio, a magazine that I was drawn to because of my sister-in-law (she is a mixed media artist). While I don't gulp the articles in SS the way I might the ones in Poets & Writers, The New Yorker, or even Oprah, I do drink up the stories about artists and the pictures of their creative work.

One artist who I find particularly inspiring is
Angela Moll. She is a writer and a seamstress. She merges the beauty of words and quilting seamlessly; she creates stitched diaries vital with color, text, and enthusiasm. Examples of her work can be seen on her website.

Another artist that I am in awe of is Dan Eldon. Although he died when he was only 22 years old, he left behind a legacy of photographs and journals. His personal mission statement, "Safari As A Way Of Life," was evident in the things that he created--sketches that were alive with detail, movement and texture; haunting photographs brimming with emotion. He was a photojournalist for Time Magazine--did I mention that? All before the age of 22.

I suppose that I am left breathless, a little overwhelmed by people like Angela and Dan, who commit to their art at a higher level. That it, the art, is as much a part of them as are freckles on their back, their knobby knees, and dislike for sushi. Some people are doers and some people are dreamers. How is that distinction arrived at? Is it a passion for the task? Is a persevering spirit? Why are some people content to imagine, while others are busy working, refusing to accept boundaries?

I think of my own art, my writing, and I wonder about my level of commitment. I love to write, and I do it every day, in one form or another. But I love so many other things, also: arranging a bouquet of gerberas, stirring up a pot of soup, afternoon naps, fried rice at PF Chang's, tickling Mac's back, reading people's blogs, sequencing pictures in a scrapbook, immersing myself in a paperback and a bath.

My commitment is lacking. But maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. Maybe I was only meant to be an amateur. And maybe that's not so bad. Love is part of being an amateur. I write for love and with it and despite of it.

And as Anton Chekhov said, "If you want to work on your art, work on your life."

I am certainly doing that, with every snipped stem, dash of garlic, dog-eared paperback, "Mom" infused moment of the day.

And that's good enough for right now. It really is.

A List (Because I Have Nothing Else, Really, To Say)

In the past year, I have learned:

-that googling medical symptoms is not generally a good idea;
-to be less judgmental about some things, and
-more judgemental about others;
-that, if I take action with a goal, I am capable of achieving it;
-that boundaries are very important;
-that I lean towards shades of excrement when selecting room colors for my house;
-that I prefer small sketchbooks and colored pencils over paint and chalk;
-that I need to work on narrative;
-that my husband is the kind of person who I'd like to be;
-my children will probably be smarter than me (and in some ways, already are)
-that my mother can knit anything, and I mean anything, that I ask her to;
-that I will always prefer beer to wine;
-about Humanzee;
-to make a savory potato-leek soup;
-what a difference a new shower curtain can make;
-that I take a lot for granted;
-that if I ask Him for help, I will get it;
-that it is, indeed, possible to over-highlight short hair;
-to appreciate each day, each hour, each minute;
-to accept that there are no guarantees;
-that hotel room vacations with small children are a silly idea and more trouble than they are worth;
-that Michael Galasso's music makes me feel calm
-that I love the art of LS Lowry;
-that solar flares exist and occur quite often;
-that the book "PoemCrazy" is as soothing as Michael Galasso's music;
-that, if I live in the moment, take a Xanax and have a couple of drinks, I just might be able to board a plane and fly one day;
-that my idea of a good vacation involves a bonfire on the beach, a lobster bake, and a rambling ocean front Victorian;
-that Vince Vaughn is the king of improv.

Imaginary Lives

I make no secret that Julia Cameron is one of my favorite writers. She is die-hard in her straightforward encouragment of people to embrace their own creativity. My copies of all of her books, especially "The Artist's Way," have curled pages, bent covers and coffee stains--they are well worn because they are well read. My favorite? "The Right to Write," where I learned that anyone who writes has the prerogative to call him or herself a writer.

There are a bunch of people who are participating in an online group, Blogging The Artist's Way, led by the inspirational
Kat. Some of the folks who are doing this have posted their responses to the prompt "Imaginary Lives: If you had five other lives to lead, what would you do in each of them?" I love reading what people are saying. I love all of the people who have dreamt of being anchor people, covert operatives, gallery owners, wedding coordinators, poets, etc.

It reminds me of possibility.

So, that's my question to you, if you'd like to play along. If you could do it all over again, if anything were possible, what would you choose to be when you grew up?
You get five choices.

Here are mine:
1. food critic
2. singer (like Gwen Stefani, equipped with head-set microphone thing; love that)
3. event caterer (where you get to put together cool theme parties, with theme menus)
4. architect of custom homes and luxury hotels
5. reporter for The Weather Channel

Now, it's your turn.
What are the lives that you would choose to lead?

Cel-e-brate Good Times, Come On

After having ridden the wave of rejection for the past five months, I've got a story live at Pindeldyboz. You can read it
here.

Love, love, love those folks at Pindeldyboz. Just love'em.

(P.S. I'm still on the rejection wave; that story was accepted last Summer. Don't think for a second I'm getting cocky on you.)

Going For a Ride with Danny Gregory

I have just started reading Danny Gregory's book, The Creative License, and I am so happy.

I almost didn't buy this book. It looks like it is written more for artists than for writers.

I am glad that I finally broke down and did.

Danny Gregory is a silly heart. He is fun. He compares creating to driving--he says, "What if creating were approached the same way? What if everyone was entitled to get a creative license?" He takes pleasure in the little things, like the collection of pens that he uses to fabricate his drawings. His creations are playful and eccentric and amusing. I could look at them for hours.

It stands to reason. This is a man who used to costume his wife, drive her to locations, and film movies, for God's sake. For fun.

This is someone I need to listen to.

I am glad that I bought this book because I think that it will help me notice details. I would like to see the world the way visual artists do (i.e. Ldahl) because I think that it will help bring my writing alive.

After all, it's all about observation, isn't it?

"The day is coming when a single carrot, freshly observed, will set off a revolution." ~Paul Cezanne

I am going to do the assignments and start drawing things. And I'm not going to erase (his rules). And I'm not going to judge.

I'm going to concentrate, lean toward the page, and build with lines and shadows instead of words. Hopefully, that will make my ability to "build with words" better. I'm going to draw with the same spirit that a four year old does--anticipation, excitement, and pride.

I'm going to pinch myself over and over and remind myself that creativity is not a race. It's a slow cruise. It's not a job. It's a way of noticing things and engaging them.

I've gotta say: I'm looking forward to this "head out the window, scribble-scrabble, 100 mile per hour" ride (of course, I'll have to remember to bring my wind bonnet--once we arrive, I want my hair to look nice).

Trailer Trash

I deplore the word "trailer trash," but I respect that it exists because I do not fear words, neither the good nor the ugly. I fear the people from whose mouths the ugly words come.

I grew up in a trailer. Actually, it was worse than a trailer. It was hybrid trailer, the result of a liasion between a shack and a trailer. A ridged metal monstrosity sided in black. With garbage bags over the windows in the winter time to keep the warm air in. With well water that ran out after the second person showered. With windows that rolled out instead of rose up.

What I would have given for windows that rose up.

I didn't harbor intense shame over this in my early years, probably because the countryside where I lived was dotted in trailers, hybrid trailers, double wides, modular homes, and rambling farmhouses. None were any better than the others. As country kids, we weren't expected to spend much time in the house, anyway. We were encouraged to crunch through the woods, climb trees, and wade in creeks. The house was for homework, baths, meals and bed.

I always noticed houses but never coveted anyone else's, until I hit middle school. It seemed that everything that I possessed, from my hair to mind to my home, was inferior. Amy lived in a split level. I wanted to live in a split level. Laurie lived in a rancher. I wanted to live in a rancher.

Homes became important. Foyers were interesting. Basement rec rooms were amazing. Half baths were practical. "I like your plantation shutters," I would say to a girlfriend; in the spirit of the "haves" taking things for granted, she would answer: "What are plantation shutters?" My childhood best friend's mother even sent me "before" and "after" pictures of her home when she remodeled it, knowing how much I appreciated a good house.

In French class in tenth grade, we had to describe our houses. People who rode my bus were also in my french class, so I couldn't take liberties with the outside (though just how does one say, "It is a small trailer sided with black, recycled cardboard" with a smile on the face, in French) but I could sure as hell create a designer's dream inside--jacuzzi bath, cream colored carpet, double fridge, laundry chute. You think I was going to be honest about the wood paneling? (in retrospect, though--did anyone even pay attention?).

People throw out "trailer trash" like it is the ultimate insult . But I have learned that "trailer trash" has nothing to do with the house where you live. It is a mentality. And I've known far more people who live in lovely, sided homes with double garages and windows that slide up and paved driveways and half baths that fit the criteria for "trailer trash" more than I (or the people who live in the countryside near my parents) ever will.

It is, to me, a mindset of genuine laziness, of working the system, of disinterest and neglect in their children. It is a a "me, me, me" attitude. It is a deficit of conscience or morality. It transcends houses and geographic location and income levels and background.

I've met a lot of people whom I could describe as "trailer trash," and more often than not, they live in lovely homes. They are often racist, do not value education, falsely claim to have a disability that precludes them from working, and allow their children to raise themselves. They are first to extoll the virtures of family and friendship, yet, in reality, the only people that they care about are themselves. They are inappropriate, yet feel entitled to be that way because this is their world, goddamnit it, and "if you don't like it, you can go back to whatever country you came from."

Someone I love used the word "trailer trash" the other day to describe a person with whom she was angry. I paused and said, "Do you realize that I grew up in a trailer?" and she said, "I don't mean you. You're not like that." Then, she corrected herself: "You're not like most people who grew up in a trailer."

Is that so? I thought. And then I thought, yes, yes, I am. We were poor, hardworking, loving, fair, honest, and respectful,just like most of the families who lived nearby. If that makes us "trailer trash," then I'm glad to be part of the club.

Say it to me again. Call me Trailer Trash. I'm starting to like it.

(Though I still think it's ridiculous to attach the word "trailer" to it. Why not just be "trash" and call it a day?)

P.S. The picture above is of my parent's house, a few years ago. This was after the new roof, the wood siding, and my mother's own "from the heart" landscaping. It is a lovely house. I could say that it is now warm, cozy, and lovely, but it was always that way, even prior to the "renovations." It was a wonderful place to have grown up.

Too Much Time On Her Hands

I made my grandma a packet of homemade, miscellaneous greeting cards for Christmas this year; little notes that she could send out to her cronies, if the mood struck. Her response, as reported by my mother, after I pressed for reaction:

"Cathie obviously has a lot of free time on her hands."

HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

This from a woman who macramed for years like she was weaving a rope to scale Kilimanjaro. The very same woman who bequeathed to me a ceramic Christmas tree that she had handpainted, and a doll wearing a voluminous crocheted (granny again!) hoop skirt. This maker of doilies and quilts and dollhouse linens. Not to mention gingerbread houses (that we weren't allowed to eat), photo albums, and fudge.

Now, I'm not silly enough to expect that everyone is going to love the gifts that I give them. And homemade gifts are particularly difficult. I know that I have been the recipient of many an afghan or handcrafted tree ornament, where my reaction was less than ecstatic. I realize that just because I enjoy making something, it's not going to necessarily be anyone else's cup of tea. They are not going to clutch it and shout: This is just what I always wanted.

Bringing me to this point--

Last month, I made the item of which I am most proud. It is meaningful and special and quirky and different. It is entirely for me. It is----ta dah----a personal shrine.

I'm poking fun of myself a bit, but I'm also dead serious. I made this shrine because I wanted a place in my already cluttered house where I could "retreat": to pray, read, write, etc. Because I don't have an entire room that could be designated for such purposes, I went with a serving tray shrine.



I think it turned out pretty well.

Here's what I did: I painted a wood tray from AC Moore ($3) brown. I slapped down a couple of sheets of patterned paper (vintage buckaroos), some favorite pictures (me, people I love), quotes, and an inspirational postercard that my mother sent me the last time she was in Ireland ("Irish writers," and you will note, there is not one female mentioned, so I took it upon myself to type out my own name and paste it onto it). I bought ribbons and funky yarn and tied them around the handles. I even strung two tiny charms on the yarn--a silver picture frame with a shot of me, six years old and on "me daddy's knee," and a silver bead noting the one thing I need constant reminding of: "be yourself."

Waa-laa. Personal shrine.

Of course, I'm a bit embarrassed to be sharing this. Nothing screams "narcissism" like "personal shrine." But I love it. I really do. I stack my notebook and my "book queue" on it. It sits on the ottoman that goes with our oversized chair, right in front of the window.

The place where I sit and read and write and contemplate and pray. And where I thank God every day that I've got a bit too much time on my hands.

(P.S. Granny really does like the cards. She's just one of those ladies who has got to knock you down before she compliments you. Gotta keep you in your place, y'know.)

Lucky for the Privilege

It's been an easy week, which is surprising since there was the return to work and school. James and I embrace our routine again. We read. We stack blocks. He knocks them down. We watch Sesame Street. I take to the computer and phone and he screeches my name: Mom. Mooooom. Mom.

We share a snack. We pile cheese on Triscuits. He arranges them in rows, delighted. He counts them. He watches me balance the cheese on my cracker as I bring it to my mouth, then does the same. He is my equal, for a moment. He admires my independence, my ideas. I admire his freedom and spirit. He is a study in energy and movement and noise. When he is still enough for me to examine his eyelashes or stroke his fine hair, I am in awe of this person who will someday be a man.

My child will have leg hair. He will shave. He will run from my attention.

But right now, he's mine.

Lou and I struggle for an evening routine, now that Survivor and The Apprentice are over. We sit side by side, on the couch, clicking at our computers. We read. I make him tickle my back. Last night, we "met" for our weekly Project Runway date; I showered and put on makeup for this, it's such a big deal. Our tastes, as indicated by our comments, are dissimilar. I look at him and think: "Who are you?" and then I think: "I'm glad to know you."

(If you watch PR, my favorite dress was Andrae's. Lou liked Nick's.)

I am reading "The Four Agreements" and "Cowboys are my Weakness" and "Almost Paradise: The East Hampton Murder of Ted Ammon" and "PoemCrazy." I am rereading "All is Vanity." I have books for all occasions: books to read when I am celebrating words, books to read while I am eating eggs and Morningstar Farms sausage and potatoes for breakfast, books to read while I'm drinking a beer, books to read in the tub or on the toilet.

There is a right book for every moment. I am a switcher-betweener, a lover of passages, a re-reader who sinks into a favored book like an exhausted person would sink into a heavy, down comforter.

In my book queue, there are these books: "Interpreter of Maladies," "Saving Fish From Drowning," "Everyone Worth Knowing," "Looking for Mr. Goodbar," "Carmelo," "Leaving a Trace," and "The Book of Salt."

I've ordered the Winter issue of "The Strange Fruit," a literary magazine that I love. I can't wait for it to arrive.

I'm still thinking about the miners and their families. I'm thinking about the people in Pakistan who are still homeless, in the Winter, from the earthquake. I'm thinking about the quiet tragedies that happen everyday, the grandmother who is hit by a car, the brother who had a heart attack, the baby with leukemia.

While I scrub the dishes, I try to be in that moment. I feel the hot water and I rub the sponge across the coated plates with a steady, yet gentle pressure. I smell the dish soap. I watch tiny bubbles rise up from the water, like a brigade of hot air balloons in preplanned launch.

I am lucky to be here, scrubbing the dishes, reading my books, and loving my family.

I am lucky.

Mining Tragedy

I don't usually write about the whole current event scene, but I just need to mention the devastating mining tragedy in West Virginia. I can't get past it. I can't get past how those families must be feeling, to go from hopeful to grateful to hopeless. I can't fathom how hard the waiting must have been.

MSNBC has thorough coverage of the events, including an article that states that the Sago mine was cited by federal inspectors 273 times in the past 2 years for safety violations.

What the fuck? 273 times?

I'm speechless.

Those hard working people. Doing the best that they could for their families. Biding time until retirement.

It makes you grateful for this moment; it's the only thing that you really have.

Book Smarts

I am not, in the traditional sense, well read.

This is surprising, considering that I have a decent educational background (during which "required reading" provides even the most non-bookish people a few notches for their literary belts).

This is surprising because I am an insatiable reader, a lover of pamphlets and novellas and triologies and labels.

This is surprising because I breathe to write, and who better to learn from but the recognized Masters?

I see lists like the one compiled by those folks at Time Magazine* and I feel a combination of excitement (so many books!) and trepidation. I scan the list for familiar titles, and though I recognize most of them, I've usually read less than half. And for some reason, this makes me feel inadequate.

You see, I'm intimidated by those books. My experiences, with many of them, the classics, have not always been good. Written post-mortems usually followed their consumption; long essays in response to a profound question, culminating in a letter grade, not only assigned for the interpretation and the narrative, but also for the penmanship.

And I'm intimidated by the lovers of those books. Because somehow, there's a part of me that feels like I don't measure up. That I'm being judged. That I wasn't smart enough to have caught on to the global, human messages that those "chosen" books convey. I did not like "Catcher in the Rye" though I believe that I "got" it. It just didn't resonate with me. I felt, however, that Sinclair's "The Jungle" was profound, and I have never seen that book on any lists. The same with "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time." I read that one last year and it was awe-inspiring and genuine and amazing. Let me leaf through my copy of Time; nope, no sign of Mark Haddon or his book. And for that matter, where's Shel Silverstein? Or Mo Willems? Or Julia Alvarez? Or Terry McMillan?

I could not choose a favorite book or a favorite writer (maybe, if arm was twisted, I would mention "To Kill a Mockingbird"). In my crude opinion, however, Stephen King is a master of detail; he creates images that engage all of my senses--(I could see the shiny body of Christine, smell her interior, feel the cracks on her windshield). Jacqueline Susann is a master of suspenseful drama (I was dying, just dying, to know whether or not Neely O'Hara was going to get her comeuppance). And Danielle Steel (gasp--I can barely believe that I'm writing this) is a master at telling a story (though they aren't the stories that I usually want to hear)--no one else uses a run-on sentence to create a sense of breathless continuity, a repititive, "drum it into the ground" sense of simple emotion.

I believe that most authors convey something of value. Writers engage people. They impact lives in both subtle and magnificent ways. The question is: who decides which works have value or how much value or when the value gets to be acknowledged? "Cane River" by Lalita Tademy brilliantly portrayed life in the South for Les Gens de Couleurs during the time prior to and during emancipation. Who is anyone to say that that book should not be considered a classic? Does it need to percolate for a few years? Does it need to be ripped into grounds, analyzed and expanded, measured and poured? Does the honor of being an "Oprah pick" knock it out of contention?

Or Amy Tan's ability to tell stories about her mother? One of my most favorite things in "The Opposite of Fate" was where Tan wrote about how there is now a CliffsNotes booklet for "The Joy Luck Club." She gets a real kick out of this. She says that she gets calls from graduate students who have contrived theories and theses about her work--recurring themes, hidden agendas, symbolism--and that she has to tell them, Nope, sorry, that wasn't what I meant . . . I was just telling a story.

I think that literary people are just as insecure as me. They hide behind their classic picks and their ability to "discuss them" and I hide behind my defiance and refusal to particpate.

Because I might say something wrong.

Can't the love of reading bring us together? Build a bridge, for God's sake?

You like what you like. It's as simple as that.

If, being well read, means that you have consumed several of Shakespeare's plays, works by Jack Kerouac, Gertrude Stein, a few of the Brontes, and "Walden," then I suppose I could say that I have experience; I didn't enjoy them, but I have the experience. If it means that you've read scholarly articles that begin with abstracts and have key words and elaborate graphs and flow-charts, then I may fit the criteria.

But if it means someone who values words, from the ones on the back of a bag of bread to the ones in the pages of "Of Mice and Men" and all of the delectable ones in between , then I am "well read" in the grandest interpretation of the definition.

I think I'm going with theory number three. That's good enough for me.

* I realize that the Time List was for 100 All Time NOVELS; I know that Shel Silverstein and Mo Willems couldn't be contenders anyway. I just wanted to throw them in because they inspire me.

Dreaming In Prose

When I was in high school, my French teacher told us that something remarkable would happen around the time that we achieved fluency in a language: We would start dreaming in it. She said this with that wistful, happy look that masks the face when one recalls rites of passage: the purple legwarmers that they wore to middle school, the foggy windows and creak of the bucket seats the first time that they "parked," a job at a donut shop during sophomore year. In other words, even though our French teacher was talking to us, she no longer realized that we were there or that she was in her concrete walled, cold tile classroom; she was in Paris, instead, perhaps at the Arc de Triomphe, holding a conversation with a man in a tight, blue and white striped sailor shirt and a beret.

I took five years of French, a year of Spanish, and a year of German. I never achieved fluency, and am sad to say that I never dreamed in any of those languages, though I imagine those dreams to be vivid and textured: I imagine slick cobblestone alleys and crumbly buns and tiny cups of frothy coffee. I imagine bull fighters and women with lustrous black hair and fringed shawls. I imagine beer gardens and schnitzel. I imagine rolled r's, the pleasing click of the tongue, and a lyrical torrent of spoken language.

In other words, I imagine the Europe of European Vacation, which is really sort of sad, but magical enough for me.

Several years ago, I started dreaming in prose. Don't think for a minute that by sharing that, I'm in any way implying that I'm a masterful writer (I like to write and am sometimes pleased with my output, and I'll just leave it at that). But, for some reason, I started dreaming in sentences, where words spewed like lava and fell in hot embers, then ash, across a white page.

In my dreams, the words are easy. And crooked. And the connected maze of a a doodle across a sheet of paper, the kind where the pen never disconnects from the page and the design is irregular and abstract, yet interesting.

In my dreams, the words are made-up, the sentences long, then short, then long again. The syntax is awkward at times, then it's lovely, but it's always right. The words are arranged the way they are supposed to be. They fall together in stories that create chapters, chapters that create books.

There is no need to critique the work. That is not my job. My job is to write the words down, these long, windy sentences and squat, abrupt ones. My job is to not question the water moccasin that glides across the wormwood, the speckled ham that glistens on a platter on the table. My job is to immortalize them on the page.

In my dreams, there is no need to hurry. The words will always be there.

When I wake up, I do so with the same stretch of satisfaction that accompanies an afternoon spent hunched over a notebook in an oversized chair.

The satisfaction of having written.

In 2006, I have many resolutions. The most important, however, is to remember that it's not a race. That the words can flow, even when they are awkward. That the words aren't ever really wrong. They may not be publishable. They may not be insightful. But they are necessary. They are a bridge to better ones. To cleaner sentences. To sharper narratives. To work that is one step closer to being fluent.

My goals are to be a writer in the most primitive sense of the word. To hold a pen and use it across the page.

Just like when I'm dreaming in prose.

*The Jan/Feb issue of Poets and Writers has an article about a writer--can't locate my issue or remember her name--who dreamt the first chapter of her book. Now, that's what I call efficiency.