Where Is Your "There?"

I write the way my husband says that his grandfather drove--intense acceleration to a decent clip, then coast, coast, coast . . . until it's time to tromp on the gas again.

This driving analogy is fitting, I think, so I'll take it further. I use no maps but rely on intuition. I frequently make wrong turns. Some streets stretch on forever, lined with houses that all look the same--brick ranchers, split levels, or aluminum sided, cape cods. Other streets are crooked and quirky--a church converted into a home, a lawn decorated with a garden of whirl-a-gigs, hot pink shutters, a stained glass window on a front door.

I am a person who doesn't stop for bathroom breaks during a trip. I want to keep driving, straight through. I usually arrive exhausted but grateful. I arrive with sleepy eyes and too many suitcases and the contentment of knowing that I've made it safely and don't need to get behind the wheel again . . . at least until tomorrow.

I write on icy windows or dusty fenders before the trip: Edinboro or Bust. I write on the pages of my journal: I Will Get There or Bust. The problem is that most of the time, I have no idea where I'm going. I don't know where "there" is.

How do you create? Do you accelerate and lurch, or is it a smooth trip on a straight highway? Are you the steady trucker or the NASCAR driver? Do you wear your seatbelt? Do you wear a uniform? Do you enjoy the trip or are you too anxious to get there?

How fast do you travel? Where is your "there?"

Fabrice

The Summer I was nineteen was one of those toes on warm sand, nothing-to-worry-about-except-my-hair times. Living in the moment against a Bon Jovi soundtrack, all the while, tooling around town with my friend J in her daddy's car.

But we weren't alone. Because that particular Summer, J's family decided to host a French exchange student, Fabrice. Before he arrived, J and I harbored daydreams that he would be what we needed him to be: sexy, brooding, experienced. Once he came, however, we realized that this boy--this sixteen year old who wanted nothing more than to visit Niagara Falls and wore the daily uniform of a purple velour jogging suit--had the power to destroy all of our unfounded fantasies. So we did what we did best: we disregarded him.

Two days before Fabrice was scheduled to fly home, after he had spent an entire Summer, sitting in a booth at the local donut shop, listening to J and I talk about fraternity boys and concerts, Fabrice was offered his Golden Ticket. J's mother decided that she (and J and I) needed to fulfill Fabrice's one and only dream: the trip to Niagara Falls. So that day, an hour after the decision was arrived at, we embarked in a whirlwind of mercis.

Picture the dynamics, if you will. There were three of us in the first car: J, me, and Fabrice. Of course, we ignored him, because that was what we did. My mother and J's mother were in another car behind us. Throughout the entire two hour trip, J and I puckered our lips at male drivers on Interstate 90, fixed our makeup in the visor and rearview mirrors, and belted out Cher songs at the top of our lungs.

Fabrice, in the backseat, said nothing.

If the trip to the Falls took considerably less time than it was supposed to, the trip around the Falls averaged about thirty minutes. No photo ops. for Fabrice in front of those grand torrents of cascading water, no fine mist settling on his side-swept hair. No yellow, plastic, garbage bag rainslicker or rides with other, similarly clad tourists on a boat. Daylight was fading, the crowds were dissipating, and we needed to get back to PA, fast.

But Fabrice wanted souvenirs, so, while we waited impatiently, he meandered from vendor to vendor, searching for treasures. He fingered silver spoons, their handles shaped like Maple leaves. He inspected sculptures in the form of Eskimos and Narwhal Whales. He shook snow globes, creating small blizzards around the miniature replicas of the CN Tower inside. Finally, his eyes began to dance, and he lifted up the item that so delighted him: a velvet painting depicting the Falls in their bold majesty, embellished with glitter, and golden ropes and tassels.

We screamed with laughter. This was nearly as entertaining as the previous week's trip to Chi-Chi's, when we told the hostess that it was Fabrice's birthday and a crew of bored servers advanced on him, clapping and united in song, thrusting an oversized sombrero onto his head.

Fabrice stared at his feet over our amusement re: his tapestry, but he bought it, anyway. And about ten more. To give to his family as gifts.

Fabrice was the one laughing an hour later, when Canadian/US custom's officials refused to allow us back onto US soil. We had apparently, swept away in the spontaneity of the trip, forgotten all about relevant paperork (y'know: identification and whatnot), including Fabrice's passport.

"Where were you born?" the custom's officer demanded.

"Erie, PA," J said.
"Sydney, Australia," I said, "But my dad is a US citizen."
"Ehhhdd--innn-bohhhhr-ohhhhhh," Fabrice said, in the thickest French accent I had ever heard.

"Pull over," the officer yelled.

We talked our way out of it, but it took about an hour. No good cop/bad cop interrogations. Simply, discreet discussions between a herd of custom's officers, a few hushed phone calls. It was a decade prior to 9/11, so border patrol functioned a bit more loosely. It was also probably very apparent to the custom's folks that we were complete idiots incapable of posing any sort of national threat. What kind of lunatios buy velvet tapestries?

Fifteen year later, I think of Fabrice and I just feel happy.

He is probably a billionaire. He has probably visited exotic places the world over. He has probably bought velvet tapestries from many locales. They probably adorn the walls of his 50 room mansion.

I hope so.

Last I'd heard, J lived in the same town where we grew up. I've been struggling for 15 years to learn two languages. I've only recently started to acquire an art collection.

It seems to me that no matter how you look at it, Fabrice is ahead of the game, velvet tapestries, velour jogging suit, and all.

The Artist Will Be Available For Questions During The Reception

The house is coming down with art, and I'm not complaining. Here are some of the masterpieces (and I mean that) that we have acquired:

"Fatha' Hines"
Collage Art by Colleen Kingston Latimer

"A Lancashire Village"
Print of original by L.S. Lowry

Untitled
Painting by Lou Hamilton

Untitled
Painting by Mac Hamilton

What art do you own that you treasure?

Inspire Me Thursday, a Day Late: Self Portrait

When Melanie and Misty wrote that we shouldn't run from a Self Portrait task, I'll admit I scoffed. I mean, really. Why would we run?

Then, I started the assignment.

Apparently, Melanie and Misty are more insightful than I am.

This is an exercise in putting oneself out there. It was fun, but it was a bit painful. As I wrote, I kept thinking: Who are YOU to be thinking this about yourself? And then I kept thinking: Who are YOU to tell yourself that you can't think those things about yourself?

Do you see what I mean? The loopy, getting no-where, rat on wheel mindset I've got going here?

And then, I was like, whoa, girl, reel yourself in; you're divulging too much. At that point, I felt like I had to inspect and judge every word.

So, finally, I stopped thinking and I just wrote, and here is my result. I didn't draw or paint or sculpt, at least, not in a traditional way.

________________

Like a book on a shelf: a dog-eared, flea market paperback; the leather bound classic; a coffee table art volume with a kicky, bold cover. She is ruffled pages and ruffled hair. She is a cookbook with grated cheese in the binding.

She cups words in her hand and drinks them like water. She drowns in quotes and synonyms. She uses words wrong. She uses them right. She prefers the Book Antiqua font.

She is a run-on sentence with made up verbs, too many adjectives, and a few forbidden adverbs. She is inappropriate and she is repetitive and she is a conjunction without a function. She is dangling participles, misplaced commas, and up for interpretation. Could you pass her your Cliff Notes? She would be eager to hear what they say and abide by that Theory.

She is page numbers and margins and chapters. She is candied description, a scuffed love story, a thesis without a drink to wash it down. She is a footnote, an afterthought, in a text where she wants to be the title. She does not understand that footnotes have their own place, that a footnote can be fun.

She throws snowball bursts of color--ochre, pimento, saffron, magenta, tangerine, cobalt—at the Table of Contents and the Index. She is pastel chalk sketches on the pages in between.

She is the sequel. She is the prelude. She is volumes 1 through 34. She is a private diary tucked under a mattress. She is a tell-all memoir with shocking, nude photos in the middle. She is a treasure map to some, and to others, a clue.

Feather through the pages and she sighs to you before you go to sleep at night—notice me.

Feather through my pages, she sighs. Notice me.

Poetry Thursday

Last week, Liz at Be Present, Be Here, initiated a weekly event called Poetry Thursday. I see it a celebration of poetry, written by amateurs and novices, and everyone else in between.

When I went to Liz's site this afternoon, I saw that she had instructed us to select poetry that makes us gasp. I wrote this poem before I read that, and I certainly don't think my poem will make anyone gasp. I like it okay--as usual, the words didn't scatter the way I intended them to (imagine me shuffling Scrabble tiles and getting frustrated).

It's about my Dad.
_________________

The Details that Smooth Out the Dents

It is not so much the heavy, black lunchbox
like a metal suitcase, dented, with chipped paint,
or even, what is in it--

two bologna sandwiches, multi-grain bread,
a plastic bag bursting with potato chips,
nearly a dozen oreos,
two spicy dill spears wrapped in foil,
and an apple

the folded napkin,
once in half,
then, that,
in half again

a meal as solid
and dependable
as the man who brought it.

It is not so much the heavy black lunchbox
but the rough hands that have carried it
for 35 years
to and from the Plant--
with its smokestacks and boilers
noisy locomotives,
and gritty windows, gritty air, gritty bones.

It is not so much the heavy black lunchbox
on the passenger side floor
in a truck driven by a tired, honest man,
a quiet man,
over dusty roads and icy roads
and smooth ones, too.

It is not so much
the pictures of the grandsons in the locker,
the half empty packet of cigarettes in the pocket,
the Goldwing that he shines,
the inky bruise under the nail of his left thumb,
the baggy jeans (he has no ass),
the burst of sarcasm against a palette of calm,
or even, the heavy black lunchbox.

No, it is not so much that lunchbox,
like a metal suitcase, dented, with chipped paint,
at all.

Tagged!

Kat tagged me. Yay! Here I go:

Seven things to do before I die:

1. snorkel in warm, clear, clean water (with colorful, dart-y, toothless fish)
2. see my children grow into independent adults who are pursuing things and people that make them happy
3. start running
4. accept myself
5. stop being a Control Freak
6. vacation at a grand resort in Canada--somewhere with those intense blue lakes, glaciers, mountains, and forests
7. see an opera (followed by a delicious, upscale meal, of course)

Seven Things I cannot do:

1. wink
2. make edible gnocchi
3. tolerate racist remarks
4. braid my own hair (even when it was long)
5. go anyplace without a book
6. use an idea without giving credit
7. miss Survivor

Seven things that attract me to my mate:

1. He's generous
2. He's funny, creative, and insightful
3. He's an amazing father
4. He's unconditional in his love and support
5. He's kind to people and to animals
6. He is gorgeous
7. He doesn't judge

Seven Books I love:

1. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
2. An Ornithologist's Guide to Life by Ann Hood
3. Anything by Julia Cameron
4. Anything by Joyce Maynard
5. She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb
6. The Two Mrs. Grenvilles by Dominick Dunne
7. Until the Twelfth of Never by Bella Stumbo

Seven things I say:

1. No
2. No, no, no
3. Didn't I tell you no?
4. I love you
5. What the fuck?
6. Don't you agree?
7. Are you listening to me?

Seven Movies I've loved:

1. Domestic conflict films by Woody Allen (Husbands and Wives, Hannah and Her Sisters, etc.)
2. After Hours
3. Fatal Attraction
4. Valley Girl (have gotten over this one, but used to ADORE it)
5. Napoleon Dynamite
6. This is Spinal Tap (and all other Christopher Guest vehicles)
7. Office Space

Seven People to Tag:

Here we go again:
1. Ann Marie
2. Robert (c'mon Robert, let's get in the game)
3. Lou
4. Cubicle Reverend
5. Baylor
6. Andrea
7. Painted Pear

Word Painting

I am envious, in a good way, of my friends who are able to draw and paint. I love the way an artist chooses colors to build a mood. I am in awe of the power of the placement of shadows, how subtle dashes of texture connect me to the emotions that are in the artist's head. I delight in both a crowded canvas and a deserted one. There is power in the simple, and in the complex, and in all that fall between.

I realize that writing is not much different. Words like splatters, carefully placed; detail balanced against the "big picture;" repetitive brushstrokes, creating depth.

Wednesdays are my word painting day (New Year's resolution to do "writing exercises" to jump start creativity). There is a book with that title, "Word Painting" (by Rebecca McClanahan), which I've never read but will have to add to my Amazon list. If anyone has explored it, let me know what you think.

P.S. Ritapita recently wrote a moving and beautiful word portrait of a woman she knows. You can read it here (Scroll through February archives to February 10--I couldn't figure out how to link to it directly. Oh, but read her other stuff, too. It's all good!).

______________

Grocery Store:

This visit is a blur, a streak of red apples, a burst of pale yellow melons, rows of Star-Kist tuna turning into an expressway of blue and silver lines.

The light is harsh. It is unnatural and forced, like the flaming red lipstick dashed across the lips of the woman running the deli. She grabs a slab of ham and places it on the slicer. The knife glides easily, dividing the meat into paper-thin, pink slices that are wrapped in a plastic bag, then sealed with a sticker.

There is a woman wearing a floral themed rain bonnet, inspecting primroses with her stubby fingers, fingers that I am sure are comfortable in soil, adept at separating roots. There is a younger girl in an unzipped coat; it flaps open to reveal a pale blue smock decorated with storks. She puts a wedge of gruyere into her cart, then takes it out and tosses it back into the cheese case. She pauses, then grabs it again, studies the label, her lips moving as she reads. She tosses it into the cart and sighs. Her white sneakers squeak against the floor as she wheels her purchases away.

There is the man who I race to the checkout, his face convoluted with wrinkles, like a brain. They crease harder, those wrinkles, when I beat him to it and pile my items-Ore Ida Hashbrowns, asparagus quiches, luncheon meat, frozen cavatelli, and Pepito flour Tortillas-onto the belt. His cart contains six gallons of water and two boxes of Robitussin. This is a practical, efficient man, I can tell, with orderly items, an orderly life, and a mask of control giving way to a river of worry that has cut gorges across his face.

The cashier hums along to "It's Only Rock and Roll" by the Rolling Stones, and I think we both feel that Mick is seducing us with his tongue popping, repetitive, "I like it, like it, yes, I do." There are other cashiers, too, standing by the electronic doors, gossiping about county officials as my receipt and my coupons print; when they say "county," it is a drawl like this: kee-ow-n-teee. At times, I find myself, a PA native, adopting this slighty Southern-tinged dialect, kee-ow-n-tee, and it still surprises me.

The light outside now seems unnatural; I am used to the heavily made-up, stage look of indoors. Daylight is nude lipstick on a plain girl. The trees on the outskirts of the parking lot are nothing but oddly angled trunks and skinny, awkward branches.

I pass a boy, a nearly grown up one with shaggy hair, stomping his sneakers into puddles. The water splashes the hems of his pants, and he laughs. He stomps again before he leaves the gray and enters the store that is exploding with color. The doors slide shut behind him.

BFS

Oh, the power of three little letters.

BFS or Benign Fasciculation Syndrome.

Years ago, all BFS would have meant to me was "bull fucking shit." Now, it's the greatest alternative to serious diseases, and tells me that my twitching is for no apparent reason and harmless.

Hallelujah.

Thanks for all of the supportive comments. My pockets are bursting with them and I'm just touched, really I am.

Recap: Thank God I shaved my legs. I had to wear a little paper gown and lay on a table. My neurologist came in with this mustard and brown colored machine (looking like it was manufactured in 1954); he began arranging a number of thick and thin colorful wires and a small metal disc under my legs. I peered at him and he mumbled, "Must figure out which one is the Grounding Wire." GROUNDING WIRE? WTF? FIGURE OUT? I squeezed my eyes shut, dug my fingernails into my palms (must create own pain to focus on so that I remain in control), and it began.

Tuning fork thing to knee. Pop. Tuning fork thing to ankle. Pop. Tuning fork thing to thigh. Pop. Etc. It was the most harmless experience I've ever had. A trip to the dentist is worse. The gynecologist is worse. Eyebrow waxing, I must insist, is worse. It didn't even feel like a shock or a funny bone wound. It felt like it does when the doctor checks your reflexes with the hammer. Just a a litle jump and a pop.

So, I got cocky. I thought: either this is really easy or I am one tough broad. My neurologist then said, "Okay, that's it. Now time for phase two." He held up two fingers. "I'll be back with the needle."

I sat up. "I didn't prepare myself for needles."

He said, "Phase two. Just a little needle. Nothing to it," and disappeared.

I lay there waiting on that paper covered table, the paper making a crinkling sound from my flippin' shaking, and considered the irony of this; that yes, indeed, I was about to have an EMG, just like I described in the blog earlier. Just like Lou and I joked about. Ten minutes later, my neurologist comes back in, holding a little packet with a needle. "Just a little needle. Only hurts for a second."

So, we do the EMG and it actually doesn't hurt either. Like little mosquito bites all over the body.

DIAGNOSIS: No signs of MS or ALS. No signs of pinched nerve. Mild carpal tunnel in the right hand ("no surgery--just means your a hard worker"). Benign Fasciculation Syndrome.

We then spent five minutes discussing the Bush Administration's decision to relinquish Port managment to a UAE company. My neurologist thought that this was very funny, and I kept shaking my head, wondering how I could have missed this.

I took myself to lunch at Chili's, and later, had my eyebrows waxed.

I can definitively say that the eyebrow waxing was the most unpleasant part of my day.

Channeling Woody Allen

I have an appointment with my neurologist today. I'm a bit put off that I can honestly use "my" in front of the word "neurologist, but c'est la vie.

You may recall that back in December, I initiated a series of Google searches (hahahaha) and doctor's appointments to explore some odd twitching and muscle jerking. Well, that twitching and jerking hasn't stopped, so, after extensive blood work (three times) and a consultation with the neurologist, today, I have an appointment for a nerve conduction study.

Nerve conduction study.

Yes, that's what I said.

Apparently, most people find this procedure "uncomfortable." The receptionist at my neurologist's office told me that it feels the same as it does when you hit your funny bone (on and off, but pretty much sustained, for 20-60 minutes). My twitchy friends (online) shared that it feels like it does when you scuff across a static-y carpet, then touch somethings. I did that the other day, inadvertently scuffed across the carpet and touched the remote control. The shock lasted approximately half a second and it hurt. Like hell. Sustained for 20-60 minutes? Can someone get me a morphine drip?

This experience has prompted Lou and me to discuss the various kinds of tests/procedures that we would and would not want done. A medical test hierarchy, so to speak.

"MRI or nerve conduction?" I asked Lou. "Definitely MRI," he said.

"Spinal tap or nerve conduction?" he asked me. "Nerve conduction," I said.

"Back waxing or spinal tap?" I said. He paused. "Back waxing."

"Spinal nerve surgery or brain surgery," he asked. I had a hard time with this one. A slip of the wrist in either situation, I supposed, could be costly. "Spinal nerve," I answered, "What about you?" "Definitely brain," he fired back. Reason? So that he could say that he had brain surgery (such a man!).

At the end of the discussion, I said, "The one procedure that I wouldn't mind is the thing where they hook up the little suction cups all over your body and it senses muscles or nerve activity."

Lou just stared at me, "The EMG?"

"Yeah, that's it," I said, "That seems harmless enough. "

"Cathie, those aren't just 'little suction cups.' They're like little hooks that stab into the muscle. Barbed wire hooks."

"You're kidding," I said. "I don't believe you."

"Google it," he challenged. So I did. Guess what? He's right (except for the barbed wire part).

Who knew?

Maybe the nerve conduction study isn't so bad, after all. Oh, and by the way, I'm getting my eye brow(s) waxed tonight. I'll let you know which one is worse!

EDIT: As I showered, two questions occurred to me:

#1. Should I shave my legs?
#2. What book should I take?

Answers: #1. YES!!!!; #2. Devil In The White City by Erik Larson, Woman Hollering Creek by Sandra Cisneros, The Sound of Paper by Julia Cameron

Tabletop Murals And Other Interesting Art, As Appreciated During A Saturday Adventure

A whirlwind decision to take the train into the city, something I'd never done, and I was scared, scared that I wouldn't be able to navigate the complicated maze of parking ramps at the Metro Garage, scared that I wouldn't be able to figure out how to add money to a fare card, and scared that I wouldn't find the blue-orange line.

But I decided to do it anyway. Because I don't like being scared (except of that thing from The Ring). So I had a quick shower, brushed on some mascara, and grabbed my purse.

Somewhere along the line, Lou and the children decided to accompany me.

I wasn't disappointed. Maybe even slightly relieved. A practice run with a pro. I insisted that I pretend, at certain times, that they weren't there, so I could do it on my own next weekend.

We went to Eastern Market because I'd heard that there were great handbags there, made out of vintage coats by a woman named Jenae Michelle (discovered via Ali Edward's blog). It was a cold day, thanks to a forceful wind. By the time we arrived, many of the vendors were shutting down, stuffing gorgeous knitwear and funky jewelry into boxes, propping beautiful artwork against brick walls. We met a lovely man selling his drawings (he greeted Lou with the most enthusiastic, "Well, hellllooo!") and he told us that Jenae usually set up at a spot beyond a pair of green doors, outside, but not today, probably due to the weather.

An hour trip for nothing.





But it wasn't. Because James got to ride on a train for the first time, his eyes darting when we first went below ground and the view out the windows became dark. Because Mac was able to be part of an adventure, where he compiled a list of interesting sites, like tallest buildings, skateboarders, flags, and used car lots . Because I got to spend the day with my family, and I also managed to "people watch": the masses of forgettable girls in pea-coats and hats, clutching literature in their gloved hands; the man, begging, who caressed us with his low voice: Couldjasparesomethingplease; the scribble woman with the frown on her mouth and in her eyes, who looked irritated, despite her joyful outfit of fuschia slippers, apple green hat, and pumpkin colored jacket.

And Lou? Lou got McCormick and Schmick's for dinner, which translates to mango salsa over seared mahi mahi, Maryland Crab soup, and Banana Creme pie.

The room was dim but filled with frequent eruptions of zest and chatter. My children laughed and drew a bold mural on the butcher paper covering the tablecloth. The large family seated beside us grew louder with each cocktail, the young mother fidgeted, overwhelmed, upon realizing that she had a martini and a glass of wine beside her plate. The young husband grew more and more ruddy faced with each swallow of his drink, and the older man engaged the waitress in a detailed discussion about growing up on Martha's Vineyard.



We arrived home around 8, put tired children to bed, and watched "Kinsey."

It was a lovely day.

Children's Books I Have Loved

I remember sitting in a classrom, the tall windows shadowed by long, rolled blinds, and the tiled floors, hard and cold. The desks all faced the front, but there was a large square of carpet in the back of the room, where small groups of us would congregate to learn to read. We were separated into "The Dolphins," "The Tigers," and "The Whales," and I remember crying, because I was a "Whale" and I wanted to be a "Dolphin."

We would be summoned--"Whales, I need you"-- and we would scuff back, sit cross-legged in a circle, with thin, floppy covered books in our laps. Some children ruffled the pages, fanning them, while others studied the words and the pictures, followed along with sweaty pointer fingers. "Sound it out," our teacher would urge, and we would try, sounds and syllables stretching like a rubber band, then contracting back into a word. "Don't be afraid of the big words, Jimmy," the teacher would plead, and dirty, mussed hair Jimmy would stare at her with watery, confused eyes, like he had no idea what she was talking about; Jimmy was afraid of Darth Vader and getting drafted. He wasn't running from any old words.

I don't remember much about the process of learning to read, but I remember Pringles cans, wrapped in construction paper, with skinny lists tucked into them; sight words, the ones you can't sound out. I remember workbooks, and fidgety meetings on the carpet, like a primitive self help group, with members eager to throw themselves out and share their story, and others reluctant, trying to disappear under the collars of their shirts. I remember renegade staples hooked into the carpet, the hum of the heater, peaks at the elastic of your neighbor's underpants, and boring stories about kids or static electricity.

I also remember wanting to read. Wanting to know the words in books. To not need to rely on anyone for a good story. To sit on the couch with my legs tucked up under me the way my mother sat, a thick paperback wedged in her hand. The school started me on Dick and Jane, but I started myself on Dennis the Menace, a dog-eared find at my grandma's house, probably something that belonged to my dad when he was a boy. Dennis was a bad, bad kid, always tripping people and getting into the food and making messes on the floor. His dad looked frazzled, but I always thought that they loved him, his parents, which was sort of nice, especially considering how bad he was.

Book orders were the highlight of elementary school. "You can pick 3," my mother would say, and I would pore over the flimsy sheet, circling choices, then scratching them out. Given a white envelope filled with dollars and coins and instructed to give it to the teacher immediately. When the Scholastic (or Troll) box arrived at the school, we would mob the teacher like she was Erik Estrada from CHIPS. We would take our stack of books home and devour them, careful not to bend the covers or get peanut butter on the pages.

The closest that I get to "Book Order Excitement" these days is when the Amazon box arrives. It's not the same though. I have too many books, now. I don't appreciate new ones the way I did when I was in elementary school, when my collection was first starting. I still love a book, don't get me wrong, but back in the day, my books were read and reread until they were a part of me, a part of my history. Those books made me who I am now.

Deb had a fabulous post on her blog yesterday, all about children's books. I had such a great time reading her favorites (and reminiscing) that I decided to write about some of my favorites, too. I'm modifying the original questions a bit, but you get the idea.

Favorite Children's Books THEN:
1. Dennis the Menace comic books by Hank Ketcham
2. Peanuts comic books by Charles Schultz
2. Where The Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein--poetry written especially for a kid, complete with nose picking and potty humor; gorgeous illustrations, too
3. Little Rabbit's Loose Tooth by Lucy Bate (author) and Diane DeGroat (illus.)--a pretty, pretty book and a nice story
4. George and Martha by James Marshall--loved George and Martha; they were so emotional

Favorite Children's Books NOW:
1. Bunny Knuffles by Mr. Mo Willems--colorful illustrations of a family against black and white pictures of Mo Willems' actual Slope Park neighborhood; lovely story of what happens when Daddy loses Trixie's stuffed rabbit at the laundromat
2. Lily's Purple, Plastic Purse by Kevin Henkes--fun with Lily as she explores her inner diva after getting called out for bringing her new purse to school and insisting on sharing it (and her new jangly coins) during instruction
3. Wemberly Worried by Kevin Henkes--Wemberly is as neurotic as I am (am surprised that she does not fear furnace combustion, too); love how she overcomes some anxieties
4. Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales, written by Jon Scieszka and illustrated by Lane Smith--an unusual take on fairy tales, somewhat disturbing yet hilarious (i.e. The Ugly Duckling grows up . . . and is still ugly, with bulging eyes and a tongue that hangs out of his mouth)

Favorite Pre-Teen (The "OMG, I'm can't believe I'm reading a novel" category):
1. Freaky Friday by Mary Rodgers--so much wittier and sarcastic than any movie could be
2. Billion for Boris by Mary Rodgers--the sequel to Freaky Friday; just as good, I think. Boris fixes an old TV and can suddenly watch the next day's news on it--shenanigans and a get rich scheme ensue
3. The Wolves of Willowby Chase by Joan Aikin--gothic children's tale, with orphans, evil caretakers and an estate
4. The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin--filled with interesting characters residing in an high rise, I read this mystery again and again
5. Any chapter books written by Lois Lenski, specifically Cotton in My Sack, Shoo-Fly Girl, Strawberry Girl, or Prairie School--Lenski tackles eras and geographical regions in her beautifully written novels; the key character is usually a girl, about eight years old, who provides authentic details and a child's perspective on family life, school, and national events during the early to mid 20th century(charming illustrations, too, making them the ideal books for a child transitioning from picture books to chapter ones); I remember being on the edge of my seat while reading "Prairie School," which describes children getting snowed in at their school house during a blizzard

Let's Get This Weekend Book Party Started

Many thanks to all of the people who commented on my last post--you have no idea how much your encouragement, your insights, and your hugs meant to me! I'm feeling much better today, thankyouverymuch. It's been a "one word at a time" climb, but this morning, I am the girl on top of the cake: inspired, grounded, grateful, and enthusiastic. By the way, the cake is tiered, like boxes that get smaller and smaller, all piled on top of each other. It is chocolate-coconut flavored, with butter cream icing, and it tastes delectable.

I'm finishing "In Cold Blood" this weekend. It is an amazing book. Through skeins of detail, Capote made me feel sorry for one of the criminals, Perry. Capote depicted an angry but sensitive man, able to compartmentalize his violent actions. A killer who made each victim comfortable before he fired a gun into his or her head. A man of impeccable manners. An insecure, yet arrogant man with remarkable perception. A life wasted, along with four others (and I guess 5, if you consider the other criminal--but I really don't count him because he had a compulsion to run over dogs and I just couldn't get past that). Very emotional, but just a stunning and significant story.

I like the idea of being able to read in Spanish, so about a year ago, I bought myself the Easy Spanish Reader. This is a nice little book, although I've read it a few times and am tired, now, I tell you, of the stories about Enrique and Maria. Like Dick and Jane, they are incredibly simple people. I do not care that they are good students. I do not care about the size of their houses or their families. I do not care about their relationship with one another. I want drama. I want intrigue. I want tweedy texture. I want Dr. Phil and bowling pin explosions and spit shined windshields and stainless steel appliances. I want a momentum of words. In Spanish.

So, I took two copies of my kind of book, Sandra Cisneros' short story collection, Woman Hollering Creek, out of the library last week, one written in English and the other in Spanish. I'm going to read the English version first (have perused a couple of the stories and am insanely jealous of this woman's talent--I want to write JUST LIKE SHE DOES), then try the Spanish one. With the English copy right next to me, in case I need it for a reference (like I won't).

If this works well, maybe an untranslated reading of Don Quixote?

I'm kidding.

P.S. Read Sandra Cisneros. Her work is so good. "The House on Mango Street" is one of my favorite books. It is poignant and moving. So is "Carmelo." Oh, and we just borrowed a children's book that she wrote, "Hair/Pelitos," from the libary. It looks delightful.

It's Just Gonna Sting A Little

So, here's the thing:

I got a rejection from a magazine tonight and it hit me unusually hard, though I don't understand why. The "we'll pass" came from a journal that I particularly like (but then, all of the publications to which I submit feature work that I enjoy). The editor (I've published there before) is a generous, sensitive person who knows her craft and offers valuable feedback on the pieces that come before her. It was a nice rejection, as nice as any rejection can possibly be.

But for some reason, I'm a bit flattened by this, which surprises me because I've actually, during the past year, developed quite a healthy attitude towards the submission process (not right for one allows it to be snatched up by the magazine where it belongs; someone, somewhere is waiting for my words; Saul Bellow was rejected AFTER he won the Pulitzer). I buy myself gifts, for God's sake, contingent on the number of rejections that I actually receive. Tonight, however, the stars must not be in alignment, my hormones must be surging, or my skin must be made of tissue paper.

Tonight, I'm not feeling the "cup half full" love.

So, I'm typing this because I'm hoping that my experience, somehow, might comfort another who feels the same way. Someone who has recently felt the sting or someone who is still smarting from a sting that happened a long time ago. I'm writing about this because writing is what I do, when I'm up and when I'm down, and the more words I pound against this page, the better I feel(oops, a key just flew off the keyboard). I'm writing because although this may sting, it is "only one harvest in a man's life" (thank you, Michael Landon). I can be busy feeling sorry for myself now, because tomorrow, I will be submitting again.

I'm gonna go watch American Idol and Project Runway. Talk about rejection. At least mine wasn't televised.

Maybe I'm feeling the "cup half full" love, after all.

Sometimes, You've Got To Do A Lot Of Blinking . . .

A friend emailed me the other day to tell me that he was really impressed with my recent blog entries. He asked if I'd turned any blog entries into fiction, then inquired as to what I was working on . . .

My answer: The Blog. I'm obsessed with it.

Another friend and I were emailing about external validation, that need for praise and recogniton. Of course, I monologued about rising above it and writing for the sake of writing, but then I wondered, is that really what I'm doing? Am I writing because I feel compelled or am I writing for reactions? Or am I writing for both?

It's a lot to consider.

I don't think that it's bad to covet praise. To relish the toe curling feeling that accompanies a compliment. But I think it's bad to become dependent upon it. I think it's important to reflect, to look within, to know when to back off and get priorities straight. If that means wading in the bathtub with my pajama bottoms folded up, then so be it. If that means hanging off the side of the couch for a new perspective of the room, bring it. If that means heading over to One Word and participating in a 60 second timed writing, then do it.

Sometimes, you've got to do a lot of blinking to see the color in the world for what it is.

I considered shutting the blog down for a few days, but then I remembered all of the talented writers who blog but also commit to their other writing. No excuses. It seems to me that this is a choice that I am not yet making.

Tomorrow, I start a new notebook of morning pages. There is something fun about finishing an old one and beginning another. It speaks of fresh starts, grand ideas, renewed committment. It's the first step off of a plane on new soil, where, even though you are jet-lagged, you can strut through the airport with your heart racing, pretending to be a supermodel, heading to location.

I am grateful for my friends and for the dialogues that have lead me to this fresh ground, where I have reassessed, re-prioritized, and can write with renewed conviction.

I will show up at the page or at the keyboard and let things go from there. I will cram compliments into my pocket and save them for that inevitable day when fresh ones no longer come. And I will pause every once in awhile, to remember why I'm writing.

And then, I will get back to work. After all, there are billions of words, just clamoring for a spot on a page.

You Go, Myfanwy!

Please join me in offering bunches of congratulations to Myfanwy Collins, a gifted writer and wonderful person, on the acceptance of one of her stories by The Kenyon Review. This is a major accomplishment and I can't think of a more deserving writer!

Cate Does the Classics: Lesson 1-In Cold Blood

I am rapidly becoming a fan of Truman Capote.

I'm currently reading "In Cold Blood" (to be honest, have been working on this book, among others, for several weeks now). Initially, I reluctantly scuffed through that dusty, Kansas landscape and the lives of the Clutters. Maybe reluctantly because I knew what happened to them. Maybe because I couldn't stop picturing Robert Blakeley as the squat, intellectual villain.

But then, something incredible happened. I was transported. I was in the car with Perry and Dick as they drove down colorless roads in the nighttime to the Clutter Farm. I was mourning alongside Nancy's friends--her best friend, Susan, especially, who could picture Nancy dancing in the red velvet dress that she had been buried in.

I give you these passages:

"As the black Chevrolet regained the highway and hurried on across a countryside imperceptibly ascending toward the colder, cracker-dry climate of the high wheat plains, Perry closed his eyes and dozed off into a food-dazed semi-slumber, from which he woke to hear a voice reading the eleven o'clock news. He rolled down his window and bathed his face in the floood of frosty air . . . The car was going very fast. Signs, their messages ignited by the car's headlights, flared up, flew by."

Did you get that: cracker-dry. Can't you just feel that bland, thirsty setting?

Or from Susan, the 17 year old best friend of Nancy, after viewing her friend in the coffin:

"Because all I could see was the dress. I knew it so well. I helped her pick the material. It was her own design, and she sewed it herself. I remember how excited she was the first time she wore it. At a party. All I could see was Nancy's red velvet. And Nancy in it. Dancing."

Capote's attention to detail is immaculate, his research thorough. His descriptions are spot-on. His writing, of course, is fluid, the work of a man bestowed with many gifts. But it is his way of respecting the people, his subjects--the Clutters, the ones left in that small Kansas town of Holcomb, frightened and mourning, and even the criminals, Perry and Dick--that leaves me a bit breathless, a bit in awe.

And Here's Me

Worn Out With Anticipation

There are about 8 inches on the ground (maybe I exaggerate---maybe only 6). We spent yesterday monitoring the forecast, watching the Olympics, walking downtown to get Mexican food (at the lukewarm place) and nibble boxes of chocolate, and reading. It was a slippery, low-key day, not blustery, but calm. I did no writing. Maybe today.

I wore myself out with anticipation. Not much to say, so here's a little to look at:

She's Outta Control

I've got nothing.

No snow.

In fact, it feels warms outside.

And what I don't understand is how the meteorologists are flip-flopping back and forth on the forecast, blaming their hesitancy to commit to a predicted snowfall amount on tracking models. I mean, really, it's a few hours before this thing is set to hit, and they can't give us an approximation? Last night, at midnight (yes, I stay up late, tracking), some were saying that it might even miss us. All of the hoopla for nothing.

Sheeshh.

Can you tell I'm bitter?

My grandmother would say "too much time on my hands."

On a humourous note, I went to the grocery store to buy provisions at 7 pm last night. Before I left, Lou said, "Don't fight anyone for eggs." If he only knew. The leeks were gone. The broccoli was gone. The eggs were gone. What the hell. This is a snowstorm, not a reenactment of the Donner Party.

I also went to Borders for my kind of supplies. I think I'm addicted to buying books. I have more books at home than I even have time to read, and I want more? Oh, and I went to the Sport's Authority for a Steeler's sweatshirt and they had none. HUHH?

On a happy note, they moved the lukewarm Mexican restaurant (lukewarm to me, fucking awesome to everyone else) to the edge of the canal by my house. My neighborhood, once deemed "shitty," is now considered "hip." Anyway, the restaurant reopened last night and was bursting with people, drinking their margaritas on the sidewalk while they waited for tables. If the snow starts, I'm going to pack up Lou and the boys (Lou will so appreciate me saying that I'm "packing him up") and we're going to trudge on over there.

I just want to trudge in snow. Is that really so bad?

I'll keep you updated.

Bring It

Nor'Easter's a comin'! Nor'Easter's a comin'!

Alright, maybe not exactly a Nor'Easter, but as Topper Shutt on Channel 9 News reports with deep-voice seriousness, "a significant snow event."

I'm a "hike up your snow pants and clinch'em tight with a 'snow belt'" kind of girl. Grew up just South of Lake Erie, in a little town called Edinboro. When my parents purchased their house, they obviously did not realize that it had a target on its roof, a bull's eye which translates to this freaky phenomenon: It may not be snowing next door, but the airflow, temperature, and exact proximity to the lake will produce feet of white stuff just off of my parent's front porch. I kid you not. When the local meteorologists speak stats, you hear something like this: Erie-4 inches, North East-6 inches, Cambridge Springs-7 inches, Edinboro-14 inches, Cathie's parent's house-37 inches.

Oh, and I've got to add. My bus driver lodged a pail full of ashes beside the gearshift of the bus, so if the roads got too icy (and this truly frightens me), she could slide the bus to a stop, climb out with the bucket, sprinkle ashes over the wheels of the bus and the ground, then move us on out again. No thought of radioing the school district and saying "I just can't drive in this shit!"

So, living in MD, I miss the snow, but am able to celebrate it when it happens here because, unlike NW PA (where everyone rallies in their big trucks and warms their hands in the cold, early AMs on plastic mugs steaming with coffee), the state of Maryland (and DC and NE Virginia) virtually SHUTS DOWN at the slightest threat of snow. That translates to no driving, no working, and no responsibility. That means play time.

Which prompts me to reminisce, on the cusp of this pseudo-blizzard, about my top 5 winter moments:

1. 21 years old, Blizzard of '93, and getting snowed in (over 3 feet) at Knight's Movie Store because, God forbid we might close the place early so that the employees (me and a 16 year old) could get home--MUST keep videos available to truck driving public. The only other establishment in town open that night? John's Wildwood Pizza. Spent TWO nights at the Movie Store (no showers, no tooth brushing, no fresh underpants, no nothin').

2. Yearly snow party at Edinboro Hotel Bar, which breaks down to this: First snow=25 cent jumbo drafts. A wonderful, wonderful tradition. Crowds attend. Don't know the name of the mastermind who brainstormed the event but I can imagine the thought process behind it, "First inclement weather of the season . . . slippery roads . . . out of practice drivers . . . yes, must provide CHEAP ALCOHOL!" Hell, I celebrated the First Snow there many a year (and afterward, went tumbling over mountains of plowed snow and created snow angels in parking lots). To be honest, I'm surprised that no one has ever died participating in this tradition. But, if you're ever in Edinboro during their first snow, it is a must attend event.

3. That one moment, upon moving to WV, when I realized that the mere threat of snow closes school. Imagine my surprise upon seeing all of the portable radios in classrooms come December, to monitor the forecast. Imagine my surprise when the school dismissed early because a flurry was predicted. Imagine my surprise when NOT A DROP of precipitation fell to the ground. Imagine my surprise when everyone justified the decision as "better safe than sorry." Imagine my surprise upon discovering that the school district didn't include make-up days for snow (i.e. "We missed 82 days for snow and there's only 175 days in the school year? Well, at least we got in a good 93 days.") No wonder there are WV jokes.

4. First Winter in WV (1995-96), Blizzard hits and truly immobilizes town for 5 days. 3 feet=disaster for these people. No Coke at house because all stores closed. No school for 2 weeks. I was a newlywed--what did I care about being snowed in? In fact, I welcomed it.

5. I was 17. My mom was driving me home from an event. Our dirt road was a sheet of dirty ice. I cautioned her to slow down. She spat, "I know this road like the back of my hand." Rapid flicking of her wrist to show both sides of her hand accompanied this remark. Within seconds, the car veered off the road and into the ditch. We walked the rest of the way to the house.

Today, I'm heading to the grocery store with legions of other panicked folk. We will buy our necessities, just in case. Just in case what, I don't know, but just in case.

I visualize myself in a warm house tomorrow, potato-leek soup simmering on the stove, book queue in front of me, children glued to the window and licking the glass. No errands to run.

Unless it misses us. Which is a possibility.

And then, I'll be so disappointed.

I'll just have to pretend.

Bring it.

"Lou, You've Gotta Read This"

This is who I am . . .

I am the kind of writer who reads with envy. The kind where another writer's sharp passage and pretzel twist of words leave me scratchy, itching to grab a felt tip and scribble my own story, a better one.

I can't leave it alone.

I buy the literary magazines, ones with shiny covers, ones wrapped in glorious artwork. Some that are compact and can be wedged into a purse; others that are large, like a child's library book. Devour is the only word I can think of, yet the poetry and stories are not nearly as satisfying as a soup--I'm too busy thinking about the seasonings that I would've added, or resenting that another cook thought of them first.

I am a jealous writer, which is a fault, and I have rationalized that by insisting that it keeps me driven, keeps me producing, keeps me trying to do better.

As soon as I pull new issues of literary magazines out of the bag, I flip to the back of them and study credentials. I see that Brooke has an MFA from a Prestigious Program. I see that Owen was published by Tin House. I see that Seymour is a fifteen year old wunderkind, living on a burrow farm in New Mexico where he is homeschooled, and although "brilliant story" is his first published piece, he has been nominated for a Pushcart and recently secured an agent.

But here is the little slice of irony I discovered recently: I am NOT jealous while reading blogs. And the reason that that is funny is that the writing in blogs is frequently brilliant, often as good as what is offered by literary journals or appears in the daily columns in a newspaper. It is entertaining and crisp, sometimes accompanied by talented artwork; it propels me to a "feel good, think deep, reach far" sermon, where I am on the edge of my pew, calling for a witness. "Lou," I yell, "You've gotta read this. It's so damn good."

And then, there's this: The accomplishments of my "blogger" friends are things that I celebrate. Maybe it's the personal touch, my feeling that I "know" these people, while the short bios at the ends of literary magazines are as bland as an apartment painted in egg shell and carpeted in beige.

The blogging world is a community of spirit. It is a Church of Origami, where quick hands fold out complicated creations that I "ooohhh" and "ahhhh" over without thinking of myself. It is a space where humility rests under a down blanket, where I can enjoy another's birthday without planning my own party.

This blogging world has been a gift, in more ways than one. Meeting people generous enough to share their lives, their creations, their beliefs, like a group of townfolk tossing stones and vegetables into a cauldron of water.

Creating a succulent, wordy stew and passing around warm simile bread.

Now, that's my kind of meal.

Cate Does the Classics

Did you hear about the new "Garden of Eden"? A little beryl patch of forest in mountainous Indonesia that was recently stumbled upon by scientists, where it is believed that no humans have ever ventured before? New species of birds, of rhododendrons, of trees and frogs? Animals that approach, with the same confidence as humans. I can imagine the color, the density, and the crispness of the foliage. The Snap as branches and leaves are stepped upon; the flutter or the buzz of wings, depending upon the size of their owner. I can imagine the excitement of the researchers, realizing their discovery, pulling out tweezers and jars and magnifying glasses. What to touch? What to take? What soundtrack was playing inside their heads? Who gets dibs on naming the new findings; did they call "shotgun?"

Did the scientists feel the sticky invisibility of spider webs? Did they shudder when they saw interstates of insects commuting on fern leaves? Were their eyes bright and dancing as they stood, watching the animals move closer, or did they cry, thinking of all of the creatures that inhabit the rest of the world, the ones who eye us warily and bolt away, like unwelcome visitors on their own planet, like a flu bug, like something incapable of feeling, something that doesn't count.

That such a place exists. Or, as the pessimist in me exudes a deep sigh, existed.

-----
The Cubicle Reverend shared an interesting post the other day, discussing 5 characters from books with whom he felt a connection.

My list would include:
1. Ann Grenville from The Two Mrs. Grenvilles by Dominick Dunne--she was that mixture of arrogance and insecurity that I think many of us possess--at least, I possess. She relinquished all values to become part of a group that didn't want her. She convinced herself that she was an integral part of the Club, and was devastated when she realized the truth. Complex, mean person. I always think of her as cockroach, scrambling to feed herself when everyone else wants to stomp on her.

2. Scout from To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee--who wouldn't feel a kinship with Scout? She is wise beyond her years, inquisitive, and most importantly, a reader. She shouts defiantly, cries with indignation, and loves with reckless, unanalyzed frenzy. She is the part of me of whom I am most proud, the person I would like to draw on my tombstone (stick figure, holding a book).

3. Fiona Range from Fiona Range by Mary McGarry Morris--this chick is a misfit. She is socially inept. She tries too hard and she gets wounded too easily. She is misunderstood and complex and driven. She is the type of woman you cringe over. I often cringe over myself.

4. Harriet from Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh--Thanks, Michelle, for comparing me to Harriet a couple of months ago. LOVE it! Have shoved that comment into my pocket and carried it around for weeks now. A nosey, nosey girl who is constantly observing and writing. Spends much more time examining others than they spend examining her. Gets caught and pouts. Another arrogant, socially inept person, but sort of delightful and charming.

5. Olivia from Olivia by Ian Falconer--Maybe it's more that I WANT to be Olivia. I'm a bit bossy and aggressive. A girl on my bus once described me as "rowdy." I was hurt at the time, but now take it as a compliment. I'd like to be responsible for shaking things up a bit.

-----
Finally, the classics that I plan to read during the next month or two. I suppose I should give myself a deadline. I suppose I should've read these books years ago. I was one of those people who rebelled during assigned readings in schools--I read on my flippin' own time; I needed no guidance! I found it pointless to spend hours discussing what the author might have meant by a passage. I resented trying to figure out what "grecian urns" stood for. During lectures, I completed a signifcant portion of a romance novel about vampires at a nightclub in the margins of my Accelerated English notebook.

Ahem.

Now, it's time for the "Cate Goes Back to High School and Does the Classics" Reading Program (like Debbie Does Dallas?). Reading for a different perspective, reading for an innovative or antiquated use of language, reading for pleasure. And I make no promises to myself: if I get bored, I'm scrapping the book. Life is too short to read something that is unappealing. But I'm also gettting that just because it's a classic, that doesn't mean that it will be stuffy and dry.

I should note that I have been absolutely inspired by Busy in all of this. Although I am a reader, I've never made a list of books I've read or want to read. I constantly check Busy's site to read her lists and reviews of books; she is an astute mind and a driven, gifted writer. One of these days, I'll be scribbling the name of her book on my TBR list!

"Cate Goes Back to High School and Does the Classics" Reading Program:

1. Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos (translated version, of course)
2. The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
3. Vanity Fair by William Thackeray
4. A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf
5. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (heard much about this; the idea of an intellectual who takes himself too seriously appeals to me)
6. Ann Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

You may have noticed that most of these have been made into movies. That could be why I'm choosing them, although I've only seen one of the films, Dangerous Liasions, which I loved. I think it's the idea that several of them tackle classism: my toes curl over that "poor, rich person" stuff where the individual is constricted by the beliefs of society.

And maybe, after reading A Room of One's Own, I will be able finally separate the connection I have created in my mind between Elizabeth Taylor and Virginia Woolf.

I mean, really.

Test

Test!!!!

Souper Sunday

Today is all about chocolate cupcakes that are drowning in black or yellow icing and sprinkles. It is about a wind that asserts itself by bending trees. It is about puzzle pieces strewn across the floor, leftover barley soup in the refrigerator, and an Amazon wishlist that won't stop growing.

Today is about 8 glasses of water, a couple of beers, the lassoing of a Terrible Towel. It is about magnesium supplements, and sliced tomato on toast. It is about embracing growth: learning to read in Spanish, choosing 5 classics to consume, and assuming new Yoga positions.

Today, I've decided that my favorite true crime books are these: Until the Twelfth of Never by Bella Stumbo, Fatal Vision by Joe McGinnis, Our Guys by Bernard Lefkowitz, and Small Sacrifices by Ann Rule. I've been slowly plowing through "In Cold Blood," and though I want to like it, I'm a little bored. Should I admit that? That I'm a little bored by Truman Capote? Oh, but it's true, at least for me.

Today is about my definition of good literature probably being different than yours, and that's okay, too. I'm open to your recommendations and I hope that you might be open to mine.

Today is about ballet on a ball field, choreographed moves, the song of grunts and "oompphs" against an orchestra of cheers. Today is about Mick, my skinny, wrangly Mick, pacing and thrusting and grabbing on a stage, while fireworks explode behind him:

If you start me up
If you start me up I'll never stop
I've been running hot
You got me ticking gonna blow my top

Today is about emotion: nostalgia, anticipation, excitement, joy, passion, envy, pride, disappointment. It is about wanting to turn away and look out the window instead of watching players, slump-backed on a bench, their huge hands over their eyes as the final few seconds tick away.

The wind sometimes asserts itself better than people do.

Today is about two little boys, covered in icing and crumbs, chasing each other around a room, pretending to be "Steelers." Two little boys cheering when their dad does, even though they don't understand what they're yelling for. Two little boys who might one day be football players or dancers or welders or clowns. Today, Mac asked Lou if there were any job openings at his office; I can see four year old Mac, newly hired in a rumpled suit, tie hanging to his knees, shuffling into the building while swinging a briefcase (filled with K'nex, no less).

Today, I have a lot to be grateful for, but the best part is being smart enough to recognize that.

These Socks Were Made For Walkin'

Handknit socks, courtesy Maggie, my mom. She's visiting this week and hasn't stopped knitting. She's obsessed, and I'm jealous. If I put half that energy into writing . . .

Last night, we introduced her to Project Runway, and she's hooked. Tonight, we watch Survivor (makes me think of Grease 2, when the Adrian Zmed character announces all dramatically, "Tonight . . . we bowl.").