The theme for this year's Girls' Weekend hat contest was "Pimp My Tiara". I bought a pre-pimped Hello Kitty tiara. It looked pretty impressive in the store, but when it was my turn to stand up from my seat and show my tiara to the women gathered around banquet tables full of mismatched tea pots, saucers, tea cups, and cookies, I felt so outclassed I gazed shyly downward and clasped my hands in front of me.
"Don't worry," my step mom said, "we were all virgins at one point or another." My stepmother was positively regal in her pimped tiara made of foam and covered in costume jewelry. Battery operated lights flashed off and on, glinting off of her wig made of silver pompoms. Each hat was more ridiculous than the previous. When it is the Time of the Donning of the Hats each woman goes into a separate room and puts on her hat. Then we all gather together, laughing, pointing, and shooting pictures as each new person comes in.
The awards distributed were hard earned. My sister, who comes every year in the simplest hat won the award for "Victim of Circumstance: These are not my people; we share no blood." My sister-in-law was awarded "Best Insult to Organic Matter" for her costume, which included a fake gold tooth, glow in the dark sticks, and an enormous hat. Her award was a clock set into organic matter that appeared to once have been inside of a cow's stomach. I knew it was fake and still couldn't bring myself to touch it.
My step-mother puts weeks of time and energy into this annual "Girls' Weekend." She brings together her sister, nieces, daughters, and friends for the annual tea party and bonnet contest, followed by a sleepover and a weekend of yoga classes, hikes, jewelry making, massages, pedicures, and fantastic food. My dad hangs around in the background as the chef. This year, he woke us up with the smell of fresh baked chocolate and pecan scones, and a batch of sour cream orange muffins. The amount of work has paid off in that no one misses it. One woman drove from Louisiana, others came from all over the state of Utah, and one flew in from Portland. New mommies are able to hand off their babies and get a break without worrying. The conversation flows from breast feeding to co-ed soccer, to divorce horror stories, to love stories, to travel stories, to family legends- without pausing.
This year, I, along with two other women, attended for the first time. This made us "virgins" and so we were initiated into what has become known as The Sisterhood of the Traveling Armadillo. (Another story for another day). The three newbies were seated side by side. Chrissy (my stepmom) handed us each a compact mirror and a lipstick. "First, the initiates need to freshen up a bit. Think creatively. This is not a time where you need to stay within the lines." We made ourselves up with festive, enormous red lips. Upon finishing, we were each handed a flowered scepter to represent our newly regal membership. We were also covered in jewelry. One new initiate was given rubber chicken earrings, which should indicate the type of jewelry we were covered in. "Now," said Chrissy, "since you are all regal goddesses, I am giving you a fertility goddes."
"Oh, please no!" I exclaimed, "That is exactly what I don't need!"
She handed out a stone fertility goddess to the other two. When she got to me, she reached into her bag and pulled out a cupie doll. "Phew!" I said.
"Now you other two. You be careful. Those goddesses really work."
"How do we make them work?"
"You just rub them all around your little boobies. Trust me. It'll work."
"What do I do with mine?" I asked, waving the cupie doll.
"You just put that in your car and sing primary (religious children) songs. It will keep you safe. It's your anti-fertility goddess."
I guess it works by scaring all the boys away.
"Last, but not least, all of us have had our ups and downs in love. For some of us, we've had ups and downs and then more ups and downs again," she said, winking at her twice divorced sister. "Some of us are just fine staying down!" her sister called back. "This next token is to help you remember that sometimes a heart that is broken, or one with holes in it, can take in more love, and can let the light shine through." She handed us each a heart carved from bamboo corral, which naturally has holes running through it. "And this time, really last of all now, here is a bag to keep all your treats in. Welcome to the Sisterhood of the Traveling Armadillo!"
The room errupted into applause. Now it was time for the annual reading of silly exerpts such as "20 Creative Uses for a Bra" while we nibbled on lemon cakes topped with boysenberries, almond scones, brownies, and sipped our herbal tea. The evening waned away and we kept talking. I eventually went off to find my sleeping bag; I wanted to make sure I had enough energy for the coming yoga class, hike, and additional silliness. I drifted off to sleep to the sounds of occasional bursts of laughter and the ongoing rumble of chatter.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
My New Love
My new love is Julio Diaz who recorded the following story on the NPR story corp. The link to listen is at the top of the page. I highly recommend listening rather than reading the text. It is only 3 minutes.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=89164759
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=89164759
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Pilates
I fell in love with pilates in Israel. I hadn't loved any physical activity in this way since I played water polo in high school. I started it, not to get in shape, but because I was desperate for new friends and a nice American woman with a degree in Public Health told me she had signed up for the class and I should take it with her.
The class was taught in a private home; where there should have been a living room, there was large, nearly empty room with mats, balls, large bands, and so forth. It was apparent the apartment was an unusual one when I arrived at the door. Photographs of the residents cut into the shape of hearts and decorated with crepe flowers were taped to the door and a fairy hung from the knocker. "What sort of new age crap have I gotten myself into?" I thought as I knocked hesitantly at the door. My teacher answered and I was immediately disarmed by the auburn spiral curls of hair piled on top of her head. She looked like a Victorian porcelain doll in sweat pants and a tank top. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. I was still a little worried about what I had gotten myself into, but her smile was so welcoming that I wasn't too worried.
Only four students fit into the living room along with the teacher. The teacher, Idit, was an actress in her non-pilates life. She used this to the best advantage in her teaching. "Re-e-a-c-h," she would command and I would reach as though her voice were causing my muscles to stretch themselves. Since the class was taught in a combination of Hebrew and English, my Hebrew improved remarkably. Sometimes though, she would speak in English. Occasionally a translation would fail her and she would ask us to point our fingers (toes) or stretch our hands (arms). She would tell us to "tighten our stomach muscles like griddles (girdles) to support our back". With all these griddles, I thought about pancakes during every class.
She would wander around the class touching lightly, a shoulder here, a spine curve there. At the end of the hour, tired and pleased, we would curl into child's pose and she would move around and massage any tension out of our backs and necks. Then, we would lay down as she dimmed the lights, covered us with blankets, and started a meditation in Hebrew. Since I didn't understand the Hebrew at first, I had the benefit of falling asleep every week, soothed by the sound of her voice. I would wake up and stretch and we would move to her table for herbal tea and organic cookies. We would chat about our week, our teacher's upcoming performance, life in Israel. I would walk out into the dark Tel Aviv night and float home through the bustling streets.
At first I couldn't conceive of spending money to go twice a week to the class, and then, I couldn't conceive of not going twice a week. My body changed and muscles I didn't even know existed showed up in my stomach, arms, and back. When I started listing pros and cons of leaving Israel, losing my pilates class was right near the top of the list. When I left, my pilates class took me out to brunch for a formal send off.
Since coming back, I haven't done much pilates because not much can compare to this experience. I thought about becoming an instructor so I could provide other people with a similar experience. But, it seemed, I was just not the kind of person to do something like that. I was sure the cost, the time, and my physical status would all be barriers. But then, along came Fabulous by 30 and I thought, with all the amazing things everyone else is doing, I could at least look into it. I signed up yesterday and I feel like a new world is opening.
I told my boss about it and she immediately said, "You should teach us here. And weight bearing exercises in particular. These are hugely important as women age, and I don't know what to do." My co-workers are also thrilled. When I certify, I have my first gig, teaching an intro mat class in my office. It is the first component of what we are now calling "The Wellness Program". My second gig is going to be the Fabulous by 30 crowd. I can't wait.
The class was taught in a private home; where there should have been a living room, there was large, nearly empty room with mats, balls, large bands, and so forth. It was apparent the apartment was an unusual one when I arrived at the door. Photographs of the residents cut into the shape of hearts and decorated with crepe flowers were taped to the door and a fairy hung from the knocker. "What sort of new age crap have I gotten myself into?" I thought as I knocked hesitantly at the door. My teacher answered and I was immediately disarmed by the auburn spiral curls of hair piled on top of her head. She looked like a Victorian porcelain doll in sweat pants and a tank top. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. I was still a little worried about what I had gotten myself into, but her smile was so welcoming that I wasn't too worried.
Only four students fit into the living room along with the teacher. The teacher, Idit, was an actress in her non-pilates life. She used this to the best advantage in her teaching. "Re-e-a-c-h," she would command and I would reach as though her voice were causing my muscles to stretch themselves. Since the class was taught in a combination of Hebrew and English, my Hebrew improved remarkably. Sometimes though, she would speak in English. Occasionally a translation would fail her and she would ask us to point our fingers (toes) or stretch our hands (arms). She would tell us to "tighten our stomach muscles like griddles (girdles) to support our back". With all these griddles, I thought about pancakes during every class.
She would wander around the class touching lightly, a shoulder here, a spine curve there. At the end of the hour, tired and pleased, we would curl into child's pose and she would move around and massage any tension out of our backs and necks. Then, we would lay down as she dimmed the lights, covered us with blankets, and started a meditation in Hebrew. Since I didn't understand the Hebrew at first, I had the benefit of falling asleep every week, soothed by the sound of her voice. I would wake up and stretch and we would move to her table for herbal tea and organic cookies. We would chat about our week, our teacher's upcoming performance, life in Israel. I would walk out into the dark Tel Aviv night and float home through the bustling streets.
At first I couldn't conceive of spending money to go twice a week to the class, and then, I couldn't conceive of not going twice a week. My body changed and muscles I didn't even know existed showed up in my stomach, arms, and back. When I started listing pros and cons of leaving Israel, losing my pilates class was right near the top of the list. When I left, my pilates class took me out to brunch for a formal send off.
Since coming back, I haven't done much pilates because not much can compare to this experience. I thought about becoming an instructor so I could provide other people with a similar experience. But, it seemed, I was just not the kind of person to do something like that. I was sure the cost, the time, and my physical status would all be barriers. But then, along came Fabulous by 30 and I thought, with all the amazing things everyone else is doing, I could at least look into it. I signed up yesterday and I feel like a new world is opening.
I told my boss about it and she immediately said, "You should teach us here. And weight bearing exercises in particular. These are hugely important as women age, and I don't know what to do." My co-workers are also thrilled. When I certify, I have my first gig, teaching an intro mat class in my office. It is the first component of what we are now calling "The Wellness Program". My second gig is going to be the Fabulous by 30 crowd. I can't wait.
Feeling Fabulous
We had our second meeting of Fabulous by 30. It's amazing the difference a month can make. There was no champagne and no Taco Bell. There was an incredibly fresh tossed green and strawberry salad and a little chilled white wine. Knowing that I would have to report back to the group caused me to get off my butt and make some last minute phonecalls to meet my goals of getting a credit card that pays me back for using it and to look into becoming a pilates instructor. It was the seventh hour- I was actually at Abbie's house already and delayed the start of the meeting in order to make the calls- but I did it.
I was impressed with everyone in the group. We are all either excellent liars or we did a stunningly good job of meeting our goals. And now we have a blog! I have grandiose visions of Fabulous by 30 becoming the new book club. Groups will spring up all over the country bringing people together to focus on becoming their best selves one baby step at a time. I already mentally designed the web page where you can look up the Fabulous by 30 group in your area. :) But, first things first, it was only the second meeting, and we have a ways to go. Nonetheless, I am impressed with our group's fantastic start.
I was impressed with everyone in the group. We are all either excellent liars or we did a stunningly good job of meeting our goals. And now we have a blog! I have grandiose visions of Fabulous by 30 becoming the new book club. Groups will spring up all over the country bringing people together to focus on becoming their best selves one baby step at a time. I already mentally designed the web page where you can look up the Fabulous by 30 group in your area. :) But, first things first, it was only the second meeting, and we have a ways to go. Nonetheless, I am impressed with our group's fantastic start.
Friday, March 21, 2008
I coulda been in the pictures....
One day I received the following email from Leah:
So, recently I saw some pictures of Maggie Gyllenhaal (one of my favorite actresses - World Trade Center, Happy Endings, Secretary, Mona Lisa Smile - and sister to Brokeback cowboy Jake) as the main character in a new movie called Sherrybaby. She had blond hair for the role, and it made it obvious that she looks like you! This is a complement, trust me - she is one of those actresses referred to as a thinking man's sex symbol. So let your husband know that's what you are, and I'll see you soon!
I apologize, Maggie, but I was relieved she told me it was a compliment. I was a little worried at first, but I could handle being a thinking man's sex symbol.
I told Abbie about this email and asked her what she thought. "Ha!" her husband shouted, "what did I tell you?! I told you they looked alike."
This autumn at a conference, a genteel southern woman asked me, "Has anyone told you you favor Maggie Gyllenhaal?"
I was just introduced to a friend of Vince's and he told Vince that I look like Julia Stiles and that I even have Julia Stiles hair.
So, I started thinking, "maybe I really should have been a movie star, like I wanted to be, when I was say, six years old." In fact, this summer I did a photo shoot of what I would have looked like, had I become a movie star and had the benefit of professional photographers with a talent for photoshop:
So, why didn't I become a movie star, other than because the vast, vast majority of people don't become movie stars? I did start off acting at a young age. I loved singing and dancing and putting on "performances" for whatever relative would remain captive on the couch. But there is a big difference between showing off to a patient relative and actually going out on stage and staring into the footlights and the blackness beyond and convincing that silent blackness that you are a Jet, and a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dyin' day.
The summer I was 12, I went to an intensive acting school, where we put on both an exerpt from West Side Story and a number of small one act plays as our final project. Somehow the trials and tribulations of elementary school had failed to provide me with the experience I needed to be a convincing gang member in New York. It left me even more unprepared to play a scientist in an experiment gone awry. I have no idea what our one act play was, but it had something to do with three or four people fighting over territory in a small room. Our costumes were assembled from clothes we brought from home. The director didn't like what I had brought and made me wear a long, tight skirt and a little, teeny, tiny strapless shirt that gathered into an elastic just below the bottom of my bra and then stopped. She said I would represent Africa and our play would have another level of meaning- we would all be different countries.
I was mortified. I didn't think I looked African. I thought I looked like a mostly naked girl. A mostly naked girl who didn't know that strapless bras existed and so just tucked her straps into her shirt and hoped for the best. I was so mortified I didn't tell me parents that there was a final performance. I didn't want them to see me nearly naked on stage. During the performance, there was a moment when one of the other girls was supposed to shove me. We had practiced this shove multiple times, but during the performance, the other girl's adrenaline was pumping and she used all her force to throw me to the ground, which caused my tight skirt to end up bunched up around my hips, quite close actually to where my strapless shirt ended up. The audience gasped, whether due to the loud thump made when I fell, or to my sudden nudity, I have no idea. All I know is that that night I decided acting wasn't for me.
So, even though I may favor a movie star, there are some very good reasons why she is the one on the screen, and not me!
So, recently I saw some pictures of Maggie Gyllenhaal (one of my favorite actresses - World Trade Center, Happy Endings, Secretary, Mona Lisa Smile - and sister to Brokeback cowboy Jake) as the main character in a new movie called Sherrybaby. She had blond hair for the role, and it made it obvious that she looks like you! This is a complement, trust me - she is one of those actresses referred to as a thinking man's sex symbol. So let your husband know that's what you are, and I'll see you soon!
I apologize, Maggie, but I was relieved she told me it was a compliment. I was a little worried at first, but I could handle being a thinking man's sex symbol.
I told Abbie about this email and asked her what she thought. "Ha!" her husband shouted, "what did I tell you?! I told you they looked alike."
This autumn at a conference, a genteel southern woman asked me, "Has anyone told you you favor Maggie Gyllenhaal?"
I was just introduced to a friend of Vince's and he told Vince that I look like Julia Stiles and that I even have Julia Stiles hair.
So, I started thinking, "maybe I really should have been a movie star, like I wanted to be, when I was say, six years old." In fact, this summer I did a photo shoot of what I would have looked like, had I become a movie star and had the benefit of professional photographers with a talent for photoshop:
So, why didn't I become a movie star, other than because the vast, vast majority of people don't become movie stars? I did start off acting at a young age. I loved singing and dancing and putting on "performances" for whatever relative would remain captive on the couch. But there is a big difference between showing off to a patient relative and actually going out on stage and staring into the footlights and the blackness beyond and convincing that silent blackness that you are a Jet, and a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dyin' day.
The summer I was 12, I went to an intensive acting school, where we put on both an exerpt from West Side Story and a number of small one act plays as our final project. Somehow the trials and tribulations of elementary school had failed to provide me with the experience I needed to be a convincing gang member in New York. It left me even more unprepared to play a scientist in an experiment gone awry. I have no idea what our one act play was, but it had something to do with three or four people fighting over territory in a small room. Our costumes were assembled from clothes we brought from home. The director didn't like what I had brought and made me wear a long, tight skirt and a little, teeny, tiny strapless shirt that gathered into an elastic just below the bottom of my bra and then stopped. She said I would represent Africa and our play would have another level of meaning- we would all be different countries.
I was mortified. I didn't think I looked African. I thought I looked like a mostly naked girl. A mostly naked girl who didn't know that strapless bras existed and so just tucked her straps into her shirt and hoped for the best. I was so mortified I didn't tell me parents that there was a final performance. I didn't want them to see me nearly naked on stage. During the performance, there was a moment when one of the other girls was supposed to shove me. We had practiced this shove multiple times, but during the performance, the other girl's adrenaline was pumping and she used all her force to throw me to the ground, which caused my tight skirt to end up bunched up around my hips, quite close actually to where my strapless shirt ended up. The audience gasped, whether due to the loud thump made when I fell, or to my sudden nudity, I have no idea. All I know is that that night I decided acting wasn't for me.
So, even though I may favor a movie star, there are some very good reasons why she is the one on the screen, and not me!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Happy Anniversary
I came to work today and found my boss had sent me an e-card. I assumed it was a late birthday card, but when I opened it, the words "Happy Anniversary" danced across the screen. Huh? It turns out that I have been at my job one year as of yesterday. This has been a year of so many firsts. Some of the firsts I planned for wonderfully- like my first non-wedding anniversary that I spent mountain biking and hiking with my sisters. We spoiled ourselves with a condo with a hot tub in the mountains. Leah spoiled me with an un-wedding ring, and I found myself empowered and feeling strong. Other firsts, I didn't realize I needed to prepare for. Like my first divorced Halloween. Halloween doesn't mean much to me. I can't even remember the last time I did anything for Halloween, and yet, I found myself thinking about the Israeli children I would never have, and somehow, going home to an empty, dark house, took on a weight it hadn't had before. I found myself in tears on every major holiday this last year.
Even Y's birthday- when I felt thrilled and happy to be in Utah and working, driving my own car, and looking for my own place. I felt so good I bought myself champagne and flowers. "See," I said to myself. "I don't need anyone to take care of me. I can spoil myself!" I showed up at Abbie's house, where I was living at the time. After a few hours I was drunk and sobbing to Abbie in the dark backyard. That was when I decided divorce and alcohol were a poor combination. It was also a night I learned again that I desperately needed people and I was lucky enough to have a friend who would sit and listen to me cry and a boy who would pick me up and hold me and tell me that this too was a normal part of divorce sometimes. It wasn't just me.
On Valentine's day I emailed Abbie, " This is it. This is my last first. I made it through the first Christmas, the first New year's, the first everything. I never have to do any of it again." But I was wrong. As my birthday approached, I realized that this was truly the last first. For my birthday last year, I was with my Israeli family. Orna called me one day before I was leaving the country and said, "Well, this is uncomfortable, but I wanted to ask you if/how you wanted to say goodbye to everyone before you go. Do you want Oded and I to go with you to everyone's houses? Should we gather everyone together for a dinner? Please tell us what you want." I wanted to go say goodbye to everyone individually, but with finishing up my job, packing up my possessions, and the countless tiny tasks that accompany any relocation, let alone an international one, I ran out of time.
Orna solved the problem by throwing me a birthday party and inviting the immediate family, as well as aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. Here, in one room, gathered some of the people I love the most in this world. They brought gifts- a cookbook of family recipes in Yiddish and Hebrew, an article of clothing designed by an aunt, perfume from my sisters. The atmosphere was a little awkward, it's true, and Yaron broke down crying when he spoke about how much Grandpa had learned to love me before he passed away. I cried a little too, but I loved that the family was willing to say, "Look, this is a little unusual, a little uncomfortable, and yet...would we not say good-bye? Would we miss the chance for a few more hugs and a few more toasts?"
This month, on the anniversary of that party, I called my in-laws. "Unbelievable!" Oded said. "Just this afternoon Orna said, 'I need to talk to Linsey today. I'll call her when the guests leave.' Well, the guests are still here, so can we call you back?"
When they did call back I reminded Orna that it was the anniversary of my goodbye party. "Perhaps I knew that on some level," she said, "and that is why I felt I had to call. It feels like so much longer than a year that you have been gone. We miss you so much, it seems like it has already been so much longer."
I don't want it to seem longer. I want it to seem like I just barely left. That there is some element of me still walking down the boardwalk in Tel Aviv and slipping off my shoes to walk through the sand and touch the water. I want there to be some part of me sitting in cafes, working in my office, eating dinner with the family, walking in Jerusalem. At the same time, there are times when I hear a loud crash and don't jump, when I watch the news and don't feel sick, when I forget to watch the news, when an office conflict is quickly and quietly resolved, when the sight of the mountains pink with the sunset takes my breath away and I am relieved that I am living here and now and it seems like so much more than year since I moved away.
Even Y's birthday- when I felt thrilled and happy to be in Utah and working, driving my own car, and looking for my own place. I felt so good I bought myself champagne and flowers. "See," I said to myself. "I don't need anyone to take care of me. I can spoil myself!" I showed up at Abbie's house, where I was living at the time. After a few hours I was drunk and sobbing to Abbie in the dark backyard. That was when I decided divorce and alcohol were a poor combination. It was also a night I learned again that I desperately needed people and I was lucky enough to have a friend who would sit and listen to me cry and a boy who would pick me up and hold me and tell me that this too was a normal part of divorce sometimes. It wasn't just me.
On Valentine's day I emailed Abbie, " This is it. This is my last first. I made it through the first Christmas, the first New year's, the first everything. I never have to do any of it again." But I was wrong. As my birthday approached, I realized that this was truly the last first. For my birthday last year, I was with my Israeli family. Orna called me one day before I was leaving the country and said, "Well, this is uncomfortable, but I wanted to ask you if/how you wanted to say goodbye to everyone before you go. Do you want Oded and I to go with you to everyone's houses? Should we gather everyone together for a dinner? Please tell us what you want." I wanted to go say goodbye to everyone individually, but with finishing up my job, packing up my possessions, and the countless tiny tasks that accompany any relocation, let alone an international one, I ran out of time.
Orna solved the problem by throwing me a birthday party and inviting the immediate family, as well as aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. Here, in one room, gathered some of the people I love the most in this world. They brought gifts- a cookbook of family recipes in Yiddish and Hebrew, an article of clothing designed by an aunt, perfume from my sisters. The atmosphere was a little awkward, it's true, and Yaron broke down crying when he spoke about how much Grandpa had learned to love me before he passed away. I cried a little too, but I loved that the family was willing to say, "Look, this is a little unusual, a little uncomfortable, and yet...would we not say good-bye? Would we miss the chance for a few more hugs and a few more toasts?"
This month, on the anniversary of that party, I called my in-laws. "Unbelievable!" Oded said. "Just this afternoon Orna said, 'I need to talk to Linsey today. I'll call her when the guests leave.' Well, the guests are still here, so can we call you back?"
When they did call back I reminded Orna that it was the anniversary of my goodbye party. "Perhaps I knew that on some level," she said, "and that is why I felt I had to call. It feels like so much longer than a year that you have been gone. We miss you so much, it seems like it has already been so much longer."
I don't want it to seem longer. I want it to seem like I just barely left. That there is some element of me still walking down the boardwalk in Tel Aviv and slipping off my shoes to walk through the sand and touch the water. I want there to be some part of me sitting in cafes, working in my office, eating dinner with the family, walking in Jerusalem. At the same time, there are times when I hear a loud crash and don't jump, when I watch the news and don't feel sick, when I forget to watch the news, when an office conflict is quickly and quietly resolved, when the sight of the mountains pink with the sunset takes my breath away and I am relieved that I am living here and now and it seems like so much more than year since I moved away.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Boys, boys, boys
My grandmother loves when I read to her. I think it started when she and I spent the summer living with my aunt in Japan. I was there to nanny the children, and she was there to baby my aunt. I spent the days when the kids were in school wandering Tokyo alone, but as a 17 year old, there wasn't much for me to do at night. This meant a lot of evenings at home with the family, and somehow, I ended up reading out loud to my grandmother. When I was in college, my grandfather was still working and would be gone a few evenings a week. I would go over to my grandmother's house and keep her company and read to her.
There were several years when I didn't live in Utah. I would make certain to spend an hour or two at my grandmother's house while I in town. Before I would leave, she'd always pull out a book of poetry, religious stories, or inspirational essays and ask me to read to her. During graduate school, I was too busy to do much besides study and work. I felt like a terrible granddaughter and family member. In order to redeem myself, I recorded myself reading out loud for my grandmother. I made the tape during study breaks, with excerpts from books I happened to have on hand. One of those books was The Best American Short Stories for 2003. (Or was it 2002?)
There was one short story in that book that I particularly love. It's format is unusual and rather than a straightforward story telling, the author, Rick Moody, writes with a rhythm that is as compelling as a song, or the sound of a train, pushing constantly forward. The phrase "Boys enter the house..." repeats like a bass line throught the story. Through this image of entering the house you watch the boys grow up, reach middle age, and develop new relationships as old ones fall apart. The final part of the story ends with their father dying and as they leave the house with him on the stretcher, they are no longer boys. I read this short story to my grandmother, but, since she is religious and the author is a little straightforward about ALL the activities boys participate in as they as they are growing up, I did a little editing. For example, sentences like this one, "Boys, trailing after their father like he is the Second Goddamned Coming of Christ Goddamned Almighty, enter the house, repair to the basement to watch baseball," received a little editing. I felt guilty for tampering with a work of art, which I find more blasphemous than a curse, but I figured, it was for grandma, a very good cause, and no one would ever know.
The next time I came home to Utah my uncle told me, "You know, Grandma and Grandpa loved that tape so much. Particularly the story about the boys. They loved it so much, they went to the library and checked out the book."
"Oh no," I said. "Did they read it?"
My uncle smirked, "Not only did they read it, Grandpa loved it so much, he read it out loud to me!"
"Oh no! All of it?"
"All of it. He got to the sentence, 'Boys enter the house, having masturbated in a variety of locales' and sort of stumbled and said, "Oh, Linsey must have edited a little here." So he skipped to the next sentence and started there, but they are still masturbating, so he sort of mumbled for a little bit and turned red until he found a safe place to start again." My uncle punctuated this sentence with a guffaw.
"Oh no! Was he mortified?"
"Not really. He still loves the story. And you know, it's actually the only time I ever heard my father say the word 'masturbate'.
"I do what I can," I said, shaking my head.
There were several years when I didn't live in Utah. I would make certain to spend an hour or two at my grandmother's house while I in town. Before I would leave, she'd always pull out a book of poetry, religious stories, or inspirational essays and ask me to read to her. During graduate school, I was too busy to do much besides study and work. I felt like a terrible granddaughter and family member. In order to redeem myself, I recorded myself reading out loud for my grandmother. I made the tape during study breaks, with excerpts from books I happened to have on hand. One of those books was The Best American Short Stories for 2003. (Or was it 2002?)
There was one short story in that book that I particularly love. It's format is unusual and rather than a straightforward story telling, the author, Rick Moody, writes with a rhythm that is as compelling as a song, or the sound of a train, pushing constantly forward. The phrase "Boys enter the house..." repeats like a bass line throught the story. Through this image of entering the house you watch the boys grow up, reach middle age, and develop new relationships as old ones fall apart. The final part of the story ends with their father dying and as they leave the house with him on the stretcher, they are no longer boys. I read this short story to my grandmother, but, since she is religious and the author is a little straightforward about ALL the activities boys participate in as they as they are growing up, I did a little editing. For example, sentences like this one, "Boys, trailing after their father like he is the Second Goddamned Coming of Christ Goddamned Almighty, enter the house, repair to the basement to watch baseball," received a little editing. I felt guilty for tampering with a work of art, which I find more blasphemous than a curse, but I figured, it was for grandma, a very good cause, and no one would ever know.
The next time I came home to Utah my uncle told me, "You know, Grandma and Grandpa loved that tape so much. Particularly the story about the boys. They loved it so much, they went to the library and checked out the book."
"Oh no," I said. "Did they read it?"
My uncle smirked, "Not only did they read it, Grandpa loved it so much, he read it out loud to me!"
"Oh no! All of it?"
"All of it. He got to the sentence, 'Boys enter the house, having masturbated in a variety of locales' and sort of stumbled and said, "Oh, Linsey must have edited a little here." So he skipped to the next sentence and started there, but they are still masturbating, so he sort of mumbled for a little bit and turned red until he found a safe place to start again." My uncle punctuated this sentence with a guffaw.
"Oh no! Was he mortified?"
"Not really. He still loves the story. And you know, it's actually the only time I ever heard my father say the word 'masturbate'.
"I do what I can," I said, shaking my head.
Monday, March 10, 2008
NASCAR!!
I told Vince that I was going to have a wine and cheese party for my birthday. I had forgotten that he wasn't a drinker until I said it out loud. "Hmmm. Or maybe not," I added. "I wanted to do a poker tournament, so everyone would be moving around and have something to talk about and a way to interact."
"How about a NASCAR party?" he asked. I laughed and that settled it.
"What do we do for a NASCAR party?" I asked.
"We can race remote control cars around a track. We'll have brackets and give a trophy to the winner."
After this initial conversation, it spiraled out of control. We spent days looking for the right remote control cars to race. I sent out a NASCAR appropriate evite. The next morning, my uncle called. "I love the idea!" he said. "And I know just what to make. You need to deep fry some twinkies! It sounds disgusting and it is actually pretty terrible, but they taste great. It is quintessential fair food. Perfect for a NASCAR party."
When Lesha saw the evite she demanded, "You have to make people come in NASCAR attire! And I bet Ty will grow a mustache for it." In fact, we had two people grow mustaches. One of them was my little brother, and I have to admit, if I didn't know him, that mustache would probably make me cross the street if I saw him coming toward me.
Fortunately, recipes for deep fried twinkies are readily available on line. And they are a snap to make, just make sure you happen to have an enormous deep fryer on hand, which fortunately, some of our friends did!
Vince went to the thrift store and picked our trophies to give away. On one of excursions to Target we found a toy that I would never imagined a use for, besides a NASCAR party, but that was so ridiculous, I knew I had to have it. It is a plastic, battery-operated log. On the log are plastic bottles and soup can. There is a bright orange gun with an infrared beam and when you shoot the gun and hit the bottles the log shoots them off so it appears as though you shot off the bottle. RIDICULOUS. And so much fun. I felt like Annie Oakley in the living room.
Lesha showed up with a race car cake, complete with a black sugar race track. My other siblings "wrapped" my gift in a Styrofoam cooler with the words "Get 'er done" on it. In it the packed a 40 of Bud light, oil, an oil funnel, some toilet paper, a chocolate bar, and a Cars Birthday card. And because they know me well, they tucked a gift certificate to an independent bookstore into the card.
In short, the only thing that kept it from feeling like the birthday of a 9 year-old was that no one received gift bags, and there was quite a lot of beer consumed. I always hated the saying, "It's never too late for a second childhood", but I guess it is true after all!
"How about a NASCAR party?" he asked. I laughed and that settled it.
"What do we do for a NASCAR party?" I asked.
"We can race remote control cars around a track. We'll have brackets and give a trophy to the winner."
After this initial conversation, it spiraled out of control. We spent days looking for the right remote control cars to race. I sent out a NASCAR appropriate evite. The next morning, my uncle called. "I love the idea!" he said. "And I know just what to make. You need to deep fry some twinkies! It sounds disgusting and it is actually pretty terrible, but they taste great. It is quintessential fair food. Perfect for a NASCAR party."
When Lesha saw the evite she demanded, "You have to make people come in NASCAR attire! And I bet Ty will grow a mustache for it." In fact, we had two people grow mustaches. One of them was my little brother, and I have to admit, if I didn't know him, that mustache would probably make me cross the street if I saw him coming toward me.
Fortunately, recipes for deep fried twinkies are readily available on line. And they are a snap to make, just make sure you happen to have an enormous deep fryer on hand, which fortunately, some of our friends did!
Vince went to the thrift store and picked our trophies to give away. On one of excursions to Target we found a toy that I would never imagined a use for, besides a NASCAR party, but that was so ridiculous, I knew I had to have it. It is a plastic, battery-operated log. On the log are plastic bottles and soup can. There is a bright orange gun with an infrared beam and when you shoot the gun and hit the bottles the log shoots them off so it appears as though you shot off the bottle. RIDICULOUS. And so much fun. I felt like Annie Oakley in the living room.
Lesha showed up with a race car cake, complete with a black sugar race track. My other siblings "wrapped" my gift in a Styrofoam cooler with the words "Get 'er done" on it. In it the packed a 40 of Bud light, oil, an oil funnel, some toilet paper, a chocolate bar, and a Cars Birthday card. And because they know me well, they tucked a gift certificate to an independent bookstore into the card.
In short, the only thing that kept it from feeling like the birthday of a 9 year-old was that no one received gift bags, and there was quite a lot of beer consumed. I always hated the saying, "It's never too late for a second childhood", but I guess it is true after all!
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Fabulous by Thirty
Abbie came up with a fantastic idea. We, along with several friends, are turning 29 this year- the last year of our 20s. Abbie reads a lot of online magazines and self help information and has noticed that what happens after 30 can be pretty grim, so she wants to go into it feeling and looking the best she ever has. Thus, we started the Fabulous by 30 Club. Each of the members has created their set of goals for the year and then parsed those goals into manageable bits. We will meet once a month to review whether we met our goals for the month and set goals for the coming month. My goals concern mental, financial, and physical health, as well as my career ambitions. The other members focus mostly on fitness and health.
This evening the Fabulous by Thirty Club met for the first time. We planned to meet one hour before our monthly book club. Book club usually involves a glass of wine or two, but Abbie happened to not have any wine on hand, so she popped a bottle of champagne open. I had about a glass and a half. Halfway through the evening, Abbie announced that she had bought frozen cookies from a young girl who was raising money for an international soccer competition. She HAD to buy the cookies in order to support the health of the next generation. And she would just pop a few in the oven- just in case, but we didn't HAVE to eat them. I noticed she was slurring and looking over at the champagne, I realized she had finished off the bottle. After we ate the cookies, while I typed up our goals, Abbie announced she needed Taco Bell. "It's the only thing that is going to help with my hangover tomorrow," she declared.
"Alright," I said. "I'll take you if you'll ride with me to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription."
"Woot! Woot! Taco bell!" She shouted while grabbing her coat and heading into the car.
I told my older sister about the way we kicked off our health goals tonight. "It reminds me of the physical fitness pre-tests we used to do in elementary school. I'd pretend I couldn't stretch my toes, struggle to do one pull up and could barely do 15 sit ups. Then, in the real test, I'd actually try and reach way past my toes, do 6 pull ups, and whip through the sit ups. Nothing shows progress like starting from the bottom!"
This evening the Fabulous by Thirty Club met for the first time. We planned to meet one hour before our monthly book club. Book club usually involves a glass of wine or two, but Abbie happened to not have any wine on hand, so she popped a bottle of champagne open. I had about a glass and a half. Halfway through the evening, Abbie announced that she had bought frozen cookies from a young girl who was raising money for an international soccer competition. She HAD to buy the cookies in order to support the health of the next generation. And she would just pop a few in the oven- just in case, but we didn't HAVE to eat them. I noticed she was slurring and looking over at the champagne, I realized she had finished off the bottle. After we ate the cookies, while I typed up our goals, Abbie announced she needed Taco Bell. "It's the only thing that is going to help with my hangover tomorrow," she declared.
"Alright," I said. "I'll take you if you'll ride with me to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription."
"Woot! Woot! Taco bell!" She shouted while grabbing her coat and heading into the car.
I told my older sister about the way we kicked off our health goals tonight. "It reminds me of the physical fitness pre-tests we used to do in elementary school. I'd pretend I couldn't stretch my toes, struggle to do one pull up and could barely do 15 sit ups. Then, in the real test, I'd actually try and reach way past my toes, do 6 pull ups, and whip through the sit ups. Nothing shows progress like starting from the bottom!"
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