Sparkling Vampires, Unite! (WARNING: This is about Twilight)

I read the first two books in the Twilight series yesterday (please note my refusal to refer to it as the Twilight "saga". SAGA? Really, people).

They exceeded my expectations in that they were actually ... readable. However, I should probably note that my expectations were very low. How low? An analogy, if you will: I was thinking that Stephanie Meyer is to literature as Miley Cyrus is to music.

Low, people. They were low.

My new analogy: Stephanie Meyer is to literature as ... um, let me think ... KE$HA is to music. Oh sure, she's not very good, but her songs are SO damn catchy that you can't stop humming them. "Woke up in the morning feeling like P Diddy -- oh DAMMIT! KE$HA, GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" Like that.

However, I do have some questions/comments/general observations and I'm just going to throw them out there:

1. Bella is the first character I've ever read about who's as clumsy as I am AND gets the guy. Of course, her guy is the undead. But whatever.

2. Here's how everyone in Forks should be able to determine who is a vampire/ werewolf: They're the ones with the interesting or old fashioned names. Mike = not a vampire. Jasper? Totally a vampire. It makes sense, really -- who ever heard of a vampire named Mike?

3. Finally, the mystery of Jacob's shirtlessness resolved for me. Every time I saw a commercial for those movies I felt sad for the exploitation of Taylor Lautner's youthful abs, and now -- it's all clear because according to Meyer: Werewolves are HOT. Literally. (also, you know, they don't like to carry their clothes with them when they transform, and it's hard to put a backpack on when you no longer have opposible thumbs. Obviously.)

4. I don't get the Team Jacob/ Team Edward goofiness. Bella CLEARLY prefers the dead guy and ONLY considers hooking up with Jacob as what she admits is an inferior and self serving way. Bella, actually, is a bit of a bitch. "I don't want a birthday party! Rescue me! Don't protect me! OMG, save me from Victoria! Now go away! Make me a vampire!" Blah blah blah. Annoying.

5. It occurs to me that the fact that Bella faints/gets exceptionally ill at the sight and smell of blood means that becoming a vampire is probably a poor lifestyle choice. No?

6. The fact that Bella is in love with a vampire, best friends with a werewolf, and goes to see a zombie movie in an effort to avoid a "romantic film" is hysterical to me ... because ... wouldn't another class of undead/ monster types actually BE a romantic film for her? ("The zombies interested me, because they were so strangely beautiful ... and I realized I didn't know any zombies ... but in Forks, anything could happen...")

7. From a cultural perspective, I don't know how I feel about the fact that the Native American tribesmen are the werewolves. That's sort of taking the "savages" moniker to new and very uncomfortable levels.

8. Charlie Swan may be the most clueless person ever. Book one: Bella tells him she hates it there and takes off to Arizona with vampires, is almost crushed by a car (but Edward saved her!), is almost killed and ends up in the hospital, and has multiple other incidents and near misses. Also, her boyfriend is there EVERY NIGHT. Book Two: Bella nearly drowns, gets lost in the woods, and takes off to Italy (but she leaves her dad a NOTE), again with vampires, but only after becoming best friends with a werewolf. Also, she gets a motorcycle. NONE of these things does Charlie see coming. I don't really see Sherrif Swan as an effective crime solver -- anyone?

9. I like how Meyer throws out the Romeo and Juliet references heavily. REALLY? You want us to compare your book to SHAKESPEARE? (Trust me. You don't want me to do that, Miss Meyer.)

10. I am distracted by the awfulness of Edward's dialogue. (and enough of the "you smell like a wet dog" comments, Meyer! We get it! They're wolves! ENOUGH!)

Halfway through book three. Will keep y'all posted.

Grace In Small Things: Sunday, December 19th

1. The cardinal that decided to grace my balcony with its presence this morning. It was lovely, though I don't believe my cat agreed that it should be there.

2. Good movies with good friends.

3. Flannel sheets (though they do make it difficult to get out of bed on a chilly morning) and petal soft socks.

4. French onion soup.

5. A new Schooner Fare album with which to sing along while I work.

Saturday Photos

Last weekend, I discovered that there's a nature trail behind my apartment building, so I went to check it out.





It was early, and the sun was just beginning to peek through the trees.

Like being inside a Robert Frost poem.

And So This Is Christmas

I don't have a Christmas tree this year. There are many reasons for this. One is that I'm allergic to real trees, so I can't have one in the house. (Well, that's not exactly true. I could have one in the house, but I couldn't touch it, so it would be a weirdly undecorated tree. I also couldn't water it, so it would be a weirdly undecorated, bone-dry tree that sheds pine needles the way angora sweaters shed fuzzies, which is to say everywhere, at all opportunities.) I can hear you thinking, but one doesn't need to get a real tree. There are all manners of artificial tree -- buy one.

Well, yes.

But.

I live in an apartment. I love my apartment. However, there's not a lot of storage. As in, I have made maximum use of every cabinet and closet and have been quite clever with the "watch as I cram 8 tons of stuff into this 6 ton space whooooo hoooo" department. Good for me. The beauty of the real tree, aside from the real tree being actually lovely and delicious smelling, is that they're ... um ... biodegradable. At the end of the season? Bye bye tree!

Artifical, hypoallergenic trees? They stay with you. Forever.

I have no place to put a tree. That doesn't stop me from thinking Christmas tree thoughts. I keep ALMOST buying one. Go to Target, wind up in the tree section, put smallish, tasteful, pre-lit tree in cart ... and then the reality fairy smacks me in the forehead and asks, in a quiet (yet determined) voice, "And where will this tree live after Christmas?"

Tree goes back on shelf and I slink away, defeated... and it is a definite slinking, because what's more Christmas-y than a tree? Not very much. So off I go without a tree, and with, frankly, not a lot of holiday spirit.

I'm struggling with Christmas this year. Usually, I am a holly jolly jingle bell elf. I like Christmas music. I love my decorations and have been collecting them for years. I wrap the gifts and I watch other people make cookies and I then eat the cookies and I melt Christmas scented candles and I am SUPER FESTIVE DAMMIT.

But without a tree ... and without my family ...

And maybe, at the end of the day, that's the deal. Without my family. I have never spent Christmas so far away from everyone. It's ... quiet. It doesn't bother me very much -- except, of course, for when it does. And when it does, I run to the store, thinking, TREE. As if the tree will be the thing that binds all of my broken holiday bits back together, as if I can depend on some wire and fake pine needles to create a sense of warmth and sentiment in my shabby, patched-up heart. It won't, of course. I don't need a tree to make me feel the holiday. I need my sister, sitting on the floor, passing out gifts. I need my dad, watching us go through our Christmas stockings while he smokes a cigarette in the doorway, drinking coffee and trying desperately to wake up. I need my mom, decorating the mantle while we sing along to the Carpenter's Christmas album.

But as we used to sing: "We greet you a friend and welcome a stranger/Let him sing and cheer him on his way"; there's been a good deal of that, too. People are welcoming and lovely. My friends -- the family I've made, the people I love -- have gone well out of their way to make me part of their families, so I won't be lonely or sad. If there's anything that makes me realize how alive and vibrant the holidays are, it is that: people are so giving this time of year. Not just with gifts and things, but giving of themselves. Their time. Their caring.

It's true, I don't have a Christmas tree, and I'm not being terribly festive this year. But for all of that, I also have to say that I have never seen the spirit of Christmas move so freely and joyfully through others. Maybe I needed to be a little apart to see and appreciate it -- and to take it in and try to incorporate that into my daily life. After all, it's more easily stored -- and more easily shared -- than any kind of Christmas tree I could buy.

(As a side note: if you are in the market for a real tree, and you live in Southern Maine/Southern New Hampshire, there's no better place for a tree than Riverside Farm. Check them out here: www.riversidefarmstand.com )

Guess Who's Back ... Back Again

Yes, it's me. (Though, in an older SNL reference, am forced to say: "I'm neither slim NOR shady. Discuss...)

I'm getting a jump start on a New Year's resolution, which is to blog every day. EVERY DAY WITH THE BLOGGING. (This makes my brain go: Whoa, that's a LOT of blogging...)

Here's what I see as the potential issues with the concept of daily blogging:

A. You might get bored. ("Is she seriously blathering on AGAIN? She needs to get a grip! Does she think we care about this nonsense?")

B. I might run out of things to write about. As such, you are STRONGLY encouraged to post blog ideas here or on Facebook. Got a question? Think something would be super amusing? Bring it, people!

At any rate, today is the first day of a big bunch o' blogs. As such, I am going to make 15 random statements, some of which may (or may not ... you're all subject to my whims! Bwah hah haaaaaaah!) make it into expanded posts later, but all of which should probably be giving you a little window into the mess that is my noggin:

1. Why is the toilet cleaner I use scented like mint? What's the deal with minty toilet water? I get the lemon scented cleaners -- because Lemon/Citrus is clearly the smell of clean -- but Mint? REALLY? Who thought of that? (Personally, I don't think mouthwash and toilets should smell the same. I'm just saying)

2. Tofu. Love it. Except ... it's squeaky. Mildly disturbing.

3. Announcing that you have no Christmas tree opens one up to a plethora of reactions. Am I Jewish? Is it a political statement? Do I hate Christmas? Weirdness.

4. I'm turning 35 in 11 days. I have big plans for this year. Biiiiiiig plans. Stay tuned.

5. I fully recognize that I need to plan a vacation ... but I also recognize that I'm bad at vacationing, because I'm very ... er, what's the word ... overscheduled. As in: I will so overschedule a vacation that it becomes like work 2.0. It's a problem. (Although, as it's currently all of 15 degrees outside, work 2.0 on a beach in Mexico? I could TOTALLY be okay with that)

6. How come the holidays make so many people act like jackasses? Merry freaking Christmas to you too. Which leads me to ...

7. ... my history of working in retail makes me boycott Black Friday shopping. While you were eating your turkey and thinking about getting up early on Friday and enjoying the sales? I was already at work, prepping for the madness. Making someone work a mandatory 13 hour shift, beginning at 10 PM ON THANKSGIVING so I could get a sweater for 20% off? I don't think so.

8. Am I the only vegetarian who feels like imitation meat products are like cheating? I love fake bacon ... but I feel like if I was a "real" vegetarian, I wouldn't even eat that. (Ah, guilt, it's how I roll...)

9. Smartcars look like roller skates.

10. Who gets to be the person who invents candle smells for, say, Yankee Candle? How do I get in on that gig? "Let's make a candle that smells exactly like the air after it rains in, like, August... you know, that smell like the earth is breathing? THAT SMELL. Let's make that." (By the way ... I would buy that. I LOVE that smell.)

11. Tipping at restaurants is not optional ... it should be 20%, and you should round up when in doubt. I'm just saying.

12. I don't understand Bluetooth or why people use it. I don't care that you can talk to anyone, anytime -- you look like a doofus.

13. I have mocked Twilight like it's my job, but I still haven't read it. Again with the guilt... I don't think I should continue to make fun of it without reading it ... so I might have to cave. (But I would like to say it again: Vampires don't sparkle in the sunlight. They burst into flame. It's not so sexy.)

14. Some people have kids. Some people have pets. (Some people have both, but that's another matter). If I tell you I have a cat and you immediately say "I hate cats"? It's sort of like I said I have a child and you've announced "I HATE children." Why would you do that?

15. Who invented nail polish? Who decided that having coloured fingernails would be such a great idea? (My mother doesn't believe a woman is fully dressed for public viewing without nail polish on.)

Let the daily blogging commence!

What We Learn

It's September 11th, 2010.

A lot of people take stock of their lives on New Year's, make resolutions and plan to live better, to be more mindful of the way they move through their days. I think it's always a good idea to set aside some time to see where you've been and where you want to go, but I don't do it on Dec 31 or Jan 1. Since 2001, I have done it on September 11th.

I can't comment on what this date means to anyone else, but for me, it's a reminder that, as Joan Didion puts it: "Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant."


*****

September 11, 2001. A Tuesday. I am standing in the principal's office, using the copy machine because the one in the teacher's room is on the fritz, again. A colleague bursts in: "Do you know what's going on?"

"Copier in the teacher's room is broken?"

"Planes just flew into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon."

I gave him the look. The "what is WRONG with you" look and said: "You know what? I know you always think you're funny, but seriously. Dude. You're NOT funny."

Another teacher came in. "He's not joking." I ran back to my room to find a newsfeed online, and there it was, in real time. Before the networks were editing out the people who were jumping from the buildings, before both towers were gone, before I had the chance to know that a friend who worked at the Pentagon was safe.

Life changes in an instant.

You'd think I would already have known that.

*****

May 1, 1997

It is the last day of classes at USM and I am dancing around the house to "Life is a Highway," singing loudly and dusting a shelf with dramatic flair. Sunlight floods the kitchen.

The phone rings. My aunt is crying on the other end and telling me that my grandfather has died.

The ordinary instant.

*****

September 11, 2010

When I was younger, I didn't understand that getting knocked on your ass by life now and again meant that you were doing it right. Even the day my grandfather died, I didn't understand it fully. At some point, though, I began to realize that suffering through loss, while not enjoyable, meant that you had dared to love enough to have the loss impact you at all. That being crushed by disappointment meant that you had the courage to have had the dream. That sorrow was the twin of hope. That getting lost can be the most exciting part of the journey.

On this date nine years ago, I realized that many of the lives that were lost were just like mine. Just people going to work and doing their thing. I also realized that a lot of the lost were living lives better than mine. They were putting themselves out there and taking chances and making a difference, in both small and large ways. It cost them. It can; maybe it should -- because otherwise, what's the point? If you wrap up your heart in cotton and tuck it safely in a drawer, who sees it as it sits there, lonely in the dark?

Today, as I write this, I am faced with a roomful of uncertainty. A path that I thought I was taking has suddenly veered into uncharted territory -- there are thorny brambles of difficulty in the way. I could stop here. I could retreat. Or I could grab some hedgeclippers and keep on going because I know -- I KNOW -- that the fight is the point; today I will resolve to keep going and to keep my heart open.

In the wake of 9/11, that is what I have learned: the way to honour those who are gone is to make the most of the time we have here, in every messy moment of an imperfect, but well lived life.

So long since I've blogged: A story in two parts

The problem with blogging about your life is knowing where to draw the line. It seems there should be a line, but where to draw it? Do you draw it when you believe that others might be angered? Do you draw it to protect the privacy of others even when you expose the details of your own life?

Do you sugarcoat when you should not, because you're afraid?

There's the question. And, of course, the follow up question: what do you fear?

So.

But before I say anything else, the perfect evening in Syracuse, New York (for Anne):

part one (or, gloriousness, experienced):

Once upon a time, back when I was still married (and, it turns out, clueless), my husband and I spent a lot of time in Syracuse. We had friends there, we liked going there, and there was a festival we liked to go to in the summer, so we would often travel there.

In the summer of 2005, we drove to Syracuse. I remember it clearly (driving out, singing "What it Takes" along with the radio and dancing in the car) and stayed at the Mark. One warm, glorious summer evening, we went into Armory Square and got drinks at the Blue Tusk. We sat outside, where I could see the Soundgarden (a fabulous music store) and talked. It was one of those nights where you discuss everything and nothing. It was warm and beautiful -- the sun was setting over the buildings to my back, so the street was illuminated with twilight; it was also illuminated with luminaria, as unbeknownst to me, there was some sort of Armory Square fabulousness going on. All of the stores put luminaria out, and about two blocks away from us, there was a concert involving local opera singers.

So there we were: my then husband. Me. Streets full of flickering luminaria. And then, wafting through the evening -- Verdi. A glass of Pinot Grigio (okay, maybe more than one glass). Conversation. Harmony. The lowering purple night.

I remember thinking, this may be the most perfect moment I have ever experienced.

If you had told me then that, a year later, I would be in the same seat but desperately trying to save my marriage, I would not only have called you a liar, I would have punched you as hard as I could. But that is, perhaps, a story for another day.

part two (or, why I haven't blogged in weeks):

It's hard to be diagnosed with depression and then to tell people what's wrong with you, because they often want to tell you that it's an overused diagnosis, that we as a society are overmedicated, that shit happens and you need to get over it.

So you don't say anything, and you let them wonder. Or you DO say something and then face judgement and speculation.

For the record: I was diagnosed in 2004 (I think) but I already knew that something was not right and had NEVER been right, but I was afraid to say anything because I knew that people would have things to say that I didn't necessarily want to hear. The only reason I said anything to my doctor was this: I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't get help; the fear of that was greater than the fear of what would happen if I had to tell people I had a problem.

I think it should be noted that there is a difference between depressing ("Dustin Pedroia will be on the DL for HOW long? Man that's depressing") and depressed ("I think I would like to stay here in this dark room for many many days, seriously considering how much better off everyone would be if I were not here"). If you do not deal with depression, I don't think you understand it, and it's easy to write it off or to make it a joke (a family member: "I'm glad you're crazy and not me."), but it's not funny, and it shouldn't be written off.

The doctor prescribed medication. I took it with gratitude. It helped, though it was weird. (When you know you're on meds, it makes your experiences suspect. Does this REALLY make me happy? Are things REALLY okay? Can I trust my perceptions? Could I not trust them before? DAMN, but it's a good thing this is an antianxiety drug!!!)

Then I was getting divorced -- which was hard and sucky, plus my health insurance was suddenly canceled (which, to be fair, I don't think my ex did on purpose) -- it's NOT a good idea to go off meds like, say, Lexapro, cold turkey. FYI, it can jack up your heart rhythym, and you could die. I obviously did not die, but I didn't feel well. Also, driving off a bridge on the way home from work sometimes seemed like an okay idea. (Again, I didn't. But it was only because I had a group of very concerned friends keeping very close tabs.)

I never got back on a program. Mostly I do okay. Sometimes, not so much. Lately, things have been hard for a number of reasons that I don't want to get into right now. But I have fought through them, and I will keep fighting, and I refuse to give up. (Which is what happens when you have depression AND are STUBBORN and pigheaded.)

But.

I have been inspired by Casey at Moosh in Indy (http://mooshinindy.com/) to be honest and to share what I've got going on in the hopes that maybe -- just possibly -- it will help someone else. I didn't blog because I didn't know what to say and because I was afraid. Fear? Useless. Helps no one. Honesty? Might give people hope.

I will no longer let fear keep me silent.

And? I hope to have many more perfect evenings.