Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Liv loves The Wizard of Oz. She loves it to the point of obsession. When she first discovered the movie, somewhere around the time she was three, she put it in constant rotation. She cried and carried on when anyone wanted to watch anything else. I told her about how back in my day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, we only got to watch it once a year. Her reaction clearly demonstrated that she felt that this was tantamount to abuse.

She had the movie. She had the soundtrack. And she had the ruby slippers. Oh boy, did she have the ruby slippers. She had ruby slippers through at least three size changes. I think she may have worn her ruby slippers to bed.

She didn't stop there, either. My mom made her a (spot on!) Dorothy dress for Halloween one year. She wanted to wear it every day. When I told her she couldn't wear it EVERY day, because I had to WASH it sometimes, tantrums of epic proportions ensued. Memaw to the rescue. She didn't make her another full on costume, but she made her two little blue gingham jumpers. So now my daughter could dress like Dorothy every day. And did. When the weather got cold, making it necessary to cover her bare legs, more tantrums occurred. "Dorothy does not wear tights! Dorothy wears blue socks!" I told her she could wear blue socks over her tights, but that wasn't authentic enough. I finally found some flesh colored tights in toddler sizes and she reluctantly acquiesced. She still shot me the stink eye when she had to put them on, but at least her little legs were covered.

She yelled at me one day for having been so thoughtless as to name her Olivia, when clearly she should have been named Dorothy. She asked if there was anything we could do to change it and make it right.

She had a blue gingham comforter and my sister painted a mural of The Emerald City on her wall. Above her bed we wrote, "There's no place like home." We had the playbill from the local Childrens' Theater Company's production of The Wizard of Oz framed. She had the Barbie's and the Madame Alexander's as well as every other toy available. She had music boxes and snow globes and figurines. If this makes her sound spoiled, rest assured, she was not. She was just so obsessed - she really had little else. It made her pretty easy to buy gifts for, because she absolutely did not mind duplicates.

Once she became old enough to read - she'd ditched the costumes by this point, but the room decor remained - she started obtaining copies of the book. She had several - picture books and abridged versions and unabridged versions and pop-up books and annotated versions. Tom read an original version to us as a family between Harry Potter books one year. Do you know I'd never actually read it before that? Once she learned that the ruby slippers were really supposed to be silver - well - let's just say there was a minor crisis of faith and leave it at that.

Somewhere in that time period Tom and I read Wicked. We didn't exactly become obsessed (Giving your suburban home a steampunk makeover isn't unusual, right? Right?), but we did squeeeee every time Gregory Maguire released a new book. When the musical came out, there were large displays in Barnes and Noble (a frequent haunt of cool folks like us) and Liv was immediately intrigued. "This is about The Wizard of Oz?" Tom and I explained the basic premise, and she was in. We bought her the soundtrack and it got heavy rotation. The show, however, was a little out of our financial reach.

It toured once and we had to miss it. That was a rough month.

Liv became old enough to read Wicked. And she did. Several times. She informed me that the name Elphaba (the Wicked Witch, if you've been living under a rock and didn't know) came from L. Frank Baum's initials. Try to pronounce LFB and see what you get. I hadn't known that. If you hadn't known it either, you learned it from Liv, not me.

I loved watching her grow - watching her follow her own yellow brick road, if you'll indulge me. From the little girl in the ruby slippers to the young lady discussing the politics of Wicked; watching her go from black and white to vivid color to muted hues.

Last night? We finally took her to see Wicked. It was a good show. Changes were made from the book (which I read once and Tom read twice and Liv read countless times) but we all agreed that they worked. The music and showmanship were amazing. Far better than that, though, was the look I saw on my daughter's face every time I glanced her way. It was like the culmination of a lifelong dream for her. My baby girl was experiencing pure, uncut joy.

Maybe I should've let her buy three T-shirts instead of just one. I'm going to have to wash it SOME time.

Guilty Pleasures

We've all got them.

Maybe your day isn't complete until you've watched Kathie Lee and Hoda.

Maybe when no one is around you sing Barry Manilow hits from the seventies and weep a little bit when you get to the part about it all being very nice but not very good.

Maybe you can't wait for the next Danielle Steel project to hit the bookshelves.

(Two lies and a truth in the above, regarding the guilty pleasures attributed to yours truly, by the way. I don't think you'll have to tax your powers of deduction too hard to figure it out.)

It became apparent this morning that I actually have quite a few - maybe more than my share. I was reading the paper over the breakfast table when I said aloud, "We ought to go to this!"

"To what, Momma(kin)?"

"There's a book signing today."

"What's the book?"

"It's a rockumentary (if you will)."

"About who?"

"Who's my number one guilty pleasure?"

"Kid Rock?"

"No."

"Beastie Boys?"

"No."

"Lady Gaga?"

"Crap. I have a lot of guilty pleasures, don't I?"

"Yep. Is it about show tunes?"

"No. What does that say about me? That I have so many guilty pleasures?"

"That you harbor too much guilt?"

Mouths of babes.

"Yeah.... I don't wanna play this game anymore. It's about Poison."

A guilty pleasure two-fer, if you will. I like good music (and I like Poison). I like good literature (and I like rock tell-alls). And I am on vacation. If you can't indulge yourself with a double shot of guilty good stuff on vacation, when can you?

I've been taught not to judge a book by it's cover, but I think this cover just might be the selling point when I ask Tom to take me to the mall on what is HIS vacation, too. He makes fun of my occasional fondness for trashy books and trashy bands, but he can't deny his own fondness for trashy women. (You know - looking at them - not marrying them or dallying with them. Just so we're clear.)

Oh my God, look what the cat dragged in.

Ok, I showed you (a small portion of) mine - you show me yours! What are your guilty pleasures? Inquiring minds want to know! (You got that reference, didn't you? Aha! You read supermarket tabloids! I knew it!)

ETA: I went to the book signing and met the author, Christopher Long, who was quite gracious and charming. One of the primary photographers was there, too, and she even took a little time to talk to Lea about rock photography. Haven't read it yet, so I'll let you know. (Goodreads, ya'll!!! Join it and make me your friend, if you haven't already! Check the sidebar!)

Iggy and Patti and Me

I imagine every adopted person out there has, at one time or another, worked up a romantic fantasy about their origin. I've had a few - my strongest and most persistent theory is that I was fathered by Iggy Pop. Don't laugh. You don't know what you'd come up with if you had to invent a fantasy bio-dad. This one occurred to me because a few years ago - must've been his birthday or something - I heard his age and decided that that was just about the right age to have sired me. I liked the idea of some little groupie fan (pre-Stooges, but only by a little bit) turning up pregnant in the days before Roe v Wade and carrying to term her (unrequited) love child, giving it - me - up because she knew she could never raise me properly alone. Or maybe just because the Rolling Stones were getting together around that time and following them would be a lot easier unencumbered by a kid. Who knows? Anyway. All fantasy and conjecture, of course. Don't want Mr. Pop coming after me for slander. Ah, you see that? He even has Pop right in his name. You can SEE how a girl's thoughts might turn...

I am in the process of reading Patti Smith's autobiographical Just Kids. Ms. Smith, by the way, is such a beautiful writer that I think a new word needs to be invented for what the rest of us do, because it's just not fair to use the same word to describe this and that. Her writing exists on a completely separate plane. But I've digressed. In the opening chapters she talks about giving a baby up for adoption when she was nineteen. Do you know what a sentence like that DOES to a person who was adopted in the 60's? I love my Poppa Iggy, but Patti Smith? And with the added legitimacy of her actually having given up a child in the same era? I went positively weak in the knees. I didn't even need to work up a fantasy, she'd written it all out - and in words that read like art. I nearly wept. It was all too much.

I looked it up. Come on. You would've, too. Her child was a boy and he was born in 1965. I'm, um, a girl, and I was born in 1962. It was fun for a second or two, though.

Good news, Iggy. You're back in.

The Way I See It

I read a book once a long time ago - I have no recollection of the title or the plot, but I very clearly remember the underlying theme and how it was presented. It was about a young girl - a teenager - probably involving some sort of coming of age business. She wanted to express her perceived adulthood through her bedroom decor. She was taking home ec at school and was just learning to sew. She had purchased yards and yards of fabric with her babysitting money and had pinned it in place over bedspreads, curtains, pillows - if it could be covered with fabric, she covered it. She brought home paint swatches from the paint store and tacked those to the walls and furniture to indicate what colors she intended for them to eventually be. She cut pieces of butcher paper to fit around her lampshades and chairs, intending to cut them to size and use them for patterns so that she could eventually cover those items with fabric as well. She wanted to find a fabric that would coordinate with what she'd already bought. She knew exactly what it would look like.

She was really proud of her potential room.

The enthusiasm for redecorating was pushed aside by whatever plot the book actually had, but it didn't matter, because in her mind's eye it was already done. In her mind's eye it was a beautiful room - fully realized.

The book closed with her seeing this room - after months of fabric and paper and swatches being pinned to every surface - as it actually was. To make it what she imagined it to be would take some work. Our last image was one of her unpinning the paper and fabric and neatly folding it and putting it away. Reality. I remember wishing that it would've ended with her at the sewing machine, or with a paint brush - actually putting the work in to make this room realize it's potential. But that's not how it ended. And in retrospect, I think the author probably made the right choice.

I doubt that it would have stuck with me the way it did if she'd gone that route.

Sometimes we have to fold up our dreams and pack them away.

Every Tom, Dick and Ozzy

Warning - the following content is - well - just be warned, is all.

It's wonderful to marry and then proceed to give birth to the sort of people who enjoy the same things that you do and - better yet - who can make you laugh. I've established that my family is musical, but we are also all avid readers. We've always talked about the books we read with each other, and we particularly encourage Liv to do so because she has a lot of trouble when she is asked to summarize a book for school. "What was the book about?" generally prompts an answer that lasts twenty minutes and leaves one feeling like - without having read the book oneself - one could still probably write a pretty decent summary of the summary.

She's working on it.

So we were out to dinner last night and she had just finished a lengthy explanation of the book she'd just finished. Tom jumped on the conversation train and decided to share an anecdote from the book he'd just finished, I Am Ozzy - Ozzy Osbourne's autobiography.

"He was talking about Jack's birth and their decision to have him circumcised. Sharon is half Jewish or something, I don't know - Ozzy sort of writes like he talks. Anyway - he talked about the fact that he himself had several brothers who were not circumcised, but that he was. He asked his mother about it and she shrugged and said it was what was in fashion at the time."

I took a nice long sip of my margarita as he continued.

"So Ozzy said, 'Wait? Because it was in FASHION you cut off the end of my DICK?'"

I forced myself to swallow that mouthful of margarita rather than following my natural impulse to spit. Insert your own spit/swallow joke here - I'll wait.

"Wow. I'd like to thank you for waiting till I had a mouthful of libation before saying 'dick' in front of my daughters."

Laughs all around. When the laughter died down, though, Liv said, "I didn't completely understand all of those words, though."

Ever helpful, her sister answered, "Well, a dick is another name for a boys..."

"Not THAT word!"

Not that word indeed.

You've Got Your Passion, You've Got Your Pride

After all of my job-related whining (not having a job, having a job but being overqualified for it, blah blah blah wah) a friend recommended the book How Starbucks Saved My Life: a Son of Privilege Learns to Live Like Everyone Else by Michael Gates Gil. It was far from the best book I've ever read, but it did carry exactly the message I needed to hear at this particular point in my life. That message, in the simplest terms, was: get over yourself. But that sounds so negative - and the tone of this book was actually very positive. I don't recommend it as a literary masterpiece, but it might be a nice read if you're a little down in the dumps about where life has plopped you.

And it gave me the strength I needed to make a confession: My name is Tammy, and I like my menial job.

I really do.

I like the people I work with - kids and adults alike. I like the way I am treated there. I like coming home from work and leaving the job behind. I like when a kid tells me a silly story and we laugh together. I play games - games! - on the clock.

It's fun.

But I felt obligated to be grumpy - even embarrassed - by it. Why? Aw, I don't think we need to scratch the surface too hard to figure that out. It's the education thing and the money thing. It's all external. It's not sexy or glamorous or high-falutin' or high paying. There is not a special skill set involved, so the qualifications are very minimal. I'm not saying ANYone could do it, but - oh, what the hell - yes I am. So it didn't make me feel special. Everyone wants to feel special. Even in the moments when I allowed it to make me feel happy, I still didn't allow it to make me feel good. How could one possibly feel good about oneself when one is performing a job that ANYone could do?

Y'know how?

Get over yourself.

Get over yourself, get over societal expectations, get over what you're supposed to do, get over money (ok, I'll admit, that one's proving a little harder to do) and - at the risk of being ridiculously cliche - follow your bliss.

I allowed that attitude to seep in a little yesterday - to wear it instead of just speaking it - and I had a really lovely day for it. I smiled all day long - and people smiled back.

Ah ha!

This morning I needed to run a quick errand. I needed to have something notarized. I did what anyone would do - I googled notary public along with my town. I was given three places - one of which was convenient to my errands. I first hit Kroger to use the Coinstar. (Hey - it's the day before payday - I told you money was an issue.) Next I headed to the place the internet had suggested - a FedEx/Kinko's. As I approached the information desk, the young lady greeted me with an open smile (I reflexively smiled back). I told her I needed to have something notarized and her smile faded fast as she told me they no longer offered that service. I told her their website still advertised it - being careful to do so in a manner that was informative rather than accusatory. She apologized and seemed genuinely sorry that she wouldn't be able to help me. Then she very helpfully suggested the check cashing place across the street.

Now, across the street in this instance didn't mean finding a crosswalk and waiting for the light. No, across the street meant getting in the car and a couple quick turns and through a parking lot and around a couple buildings. But still. It was across the street, not across town. I decided to follow her suggestion. Same thing happened at the check cashing place. I walked in and was greeted (from behind the bulletproof glass) with a welcoming smile. Her smile also faded as I made my request and she was unable to fulfill it. She, too, seemed genuinely sorry that she wouldn't be able to help me. She suggested I try the bank located inside - Kroger - the very spot from which I'd begun my journey.

They were able to do it for me.

My point?

These two young ladies did not have glamorous high profile jobs. I can't imagine that their jobs were very high paying. I'm pretty sure these jobs don't give them bragging rights in social situations. One of them did her job behind bulletproof glass. And yet they did them in a way that made me smile, even through my frustration. When they couldn't help, they made an attempt to help me locate someone who could. The Macy's Santa suggesting Gimbels...

Any job - ANY job - when done well - can bring happiness to others. It's almost impossible to bring happiness to others without becoming a little bit happy yourself. I'm going to try to be a little more conscious of ALL the people who - just by doing their job - make my life more convenient or just a little happier. And I'm going to celebrate them, even if it's just with a smile.

Try it with me! Let me know how it goes...

It Ain't Easy, Livin' Like a Gypsy

Especially when confined by the restraints of money and obligations and responsibilities.

Nope, it ain't easy at all.

And I am indeed a gypsy in my soul. I've mentioned this before. Once, or twice, or a hundred-million times...

I am restless.

I need to be somewhere - other.

My children are in school. My husband has a career. I even have a couple jobs now myself. We have friends here, a house; all the makings of a home. Home is good, right? Home is what we strive for. So why am I so restless?

Perhaps it's as simple as us not having any vacations planned this year.

Perhaps it's because I've lived here longer than I've lived anywhere. I've lived here almost as many years as I lived in my childhood home. After I left that home, I never lasted more than three years in one location. Sometimes it was just a move to a new apartment, but always there was a move, a change, a shift. And always there was travel. When there was no money for an actual vacation there were friends who had migrated to different places, and I was never adverse to crashing on a sofa.

My house has the feel of something unfinished. It's like I've never actually settled in here and made it my own. I don't completely want to. The world is my home; this place I live now is just a house. I have no energy for it. I have no love for it. I wish I did. I give it just about nothing and it gives me just about the same in return. I envy people with beautiful homes - homes that reflect who they are. I have a house. God, I hope my house doesn't reflect who I am. I think I'm afraid that if I actually loved a place I lived, I'd never want to leave it.

And I always want to leave.

I don't want to leave my husband or kids - I don't want anyone, least of all them to think that. Billy Joel said it better than I ever could in his 1973 song, You're My Home:

Well I never had a place that I could call my very own, but that's alright my love 'cause you're my home.

He even refers to "the crazy gypsy in my soul" in that song. Oh, Billy, you know me better than I know myself. Well, Billy Joel circa the mid-seventies/early eighties knew me better than I knew myself. Then he married that Uptown Girl and we were no longer really on the same track anymore. I think he went changin' to try to please her, I don't know. And look how THAT turned out.

But I've digressed.

Yes, my family is my home, and I want them around me, but I want them around me somewhere - other.

I am so over - here.

I just finished reading The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner. In this book, he visits ten countries in search of geographical bliss. One of the many conclusions he came to - and one that really resonated with me - was that there is no one perfect place to live, although there might be a perfect place for any given individual to live. Some people and places click - they fit. Some people fit in different places at different times. I believe that is me. When I think of the places I'm happiest, I'm almost certain I wouldn't be happy there if I stayed a decade or so. Maybe I use places up, I don't know.

I do know that I am restless.

I laughed right out loud when Mr. Weiner stated:

As any poet (or blogger) knows, misery expressed is misery reduced.

Indeed. And I am not miserable. Now that the sun is back and I'm on a more positive job track, I'm downright content, if not full-on happy.

No, I am not miserable.

But I am restless.

Perhaps restlessness expressed is restlessness reduced.

I'll let you know.

A Thought Provoking Post of Staggering Insight

So I'm reading this book. And I'm not loving it. I'm almost done, but am still toying with the idea of abandonment. I started working out my 'Goodreads' review:

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is neither. Perhaps it's my age, but I just don't find anything entertaining about listening to a twenty-something expound upon the virtues and vices of the lint in his own bellybutton ad infinitum. While I do understand that the title is meant to be tongue in cheek, the whole work felt - to me - completely self-indulgent and

And then I stopped. And I deleted my review. Because it occurred to me that that's exactly what I do on my blog. Holy shit, I'm doing it RIGHT NOW!!! How could I condemn him for doing EXACTLY what I do? As a matter of fact - if I had found this author on a blog rather than at Barnes & Noble, I would probably adore him. He's a good writer. I like his style. It's - it's very similar to MY style - what's not to like? (See? I can be tongue in cheek, too. It's not so hard.) He's self-deprecating and low-key funny and he sometimes takes a meta approach. I should be singing his praises instead of deriding him for his indulgences.

So why am I not?

I wonder if it's because I DID find his heartbreaking work at Barnes & Noble instead of online - complete with a badge proclaiming it to be a Pulitzer Prize Finalist and a #1 National Bestseller? Surely the good folks at Pulitzer know a little more about genius - staggering or otherwise - than I do. Someone read his writing and said, 'We'd like to publish this.' And then other someones read it and said, 'We'd like to honor this.' And then lots of someones bought it and - whether they liked it or not - they made it into a bestseller. How does this HAPPEN?!? Is it because he doesn't overcapitalize or triple punctuate?!? It IS, isn't it?!?

I had the same reaction at the end of Julie and Julia. Tom looked at me and said, "That was cute," and I just shook my head - how did that HAPPEN? How did her blog turn into a book deal? How did her blog even become so successful? She didn't spend hours every day promoting it or visiting other blogs begging for hits or joining blogging communities [or, I suppose, to be fair, if she DID we didn't SEE it... (Crap. An ellipsis and double parenthesis. No wonder I can't catch my break... Shit. Another ellipsis. Somebody stop me... I am dot dot dotting my way right out of being discovered...)]

Jealousy ain't pretty, is it?

I'm going to finish reading my book. I'll try looking at the rest of it without my Emerald City Glasses, even though it is the month for the wearin' o' the green. Wearin' green and being green are two very different things. And we all know which one isn't easy.

The Great Gray Beast

Ok, I think I've showed amazing restraint. We are thirty hours into February as I write this and I have not once quoted Clive Barker. Yet.

The great gray beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive. Here he was, buried in the belly of that smothering month, wondering if he would ever find his way out through the cold coils that lay between here and Easter.

He didn't think much of his chances. More than likely he'd become so bored as the hours crawled by that one day he'd simply forget to breathe.

Ok. Now I've done it. Now it's February. This passage opens Clive Barker's 1992 book, The Thief of Always. It is actually a children's book, but it holds a great deal of adult appeal, as so many children's books do. Besides, in 1992 I was still firmly entrenched in my Clive Barker period, and if he wrote it, I was going to read it.

This particular passage resonated with me and, from what I've been reading, I am far from alone. It doesn't feel like February until I've quoted it to someone. Not that 'feeling like February' is such a good thing, I suppose. But February it is.

I held the great gray beast at bay for a couple hours yesterday. I hadn't meant to. There were errands that needed to be done, but there was also laundry and that pesky couch whose ability to remain on the floor couldn't always be trusted to gravity alone. I can assure you, I did NOT want to do those errands. It was warm and cozy here in my cave. But Liv had some books on hold at the library and they weren't going to hold them any longer. I sighed. It had to be done. But I didn't have to be happy about it.

I got dressed, but I didn't feel cute (laundry day - which was being blown off - remember?). I ran my errands - library, groceries, drop things off, pick things up - you know - a typical errand day. I was doing it with all the enthusiasm it merited (which was, you know, none). I drove through McDonald's for my lunch (oh, like you don't eat drive through on errand day) and when I opened my window, it was surprisingly not cold. To say it was warm would be an exaggeration, but it was not cold. Relatively. I left the window down till I picked up speed. It felt good - fresh.

A little sunshine, a little fresh air, and I felt the first stirrings of a smile. Of course the beast isn't done. I know that. It's just resting a bit. But that little taste of what was to come was enough to see me through the day.

Suck it, beast.

Happy February.

Just a Little Patience

Isn't it funny how we all long for things and then when we get them, they're not what we expected them to be at all? Towards the end of summer I was longing for just a little time to myself. Just a little time to myself with no obligations seemed too much to even dream of. I'd be willing to bet a few of you are reading that wistfully right now and thinking, "If only...." Well that's what I've got now. I've got all the time in the world. Every moment is "me time".

And I am bored out of my skull.

Apparently I'm not great company for myself.

I took a ton of books out of the library and even bought a couple in anticipation of an extended convalescence. There was a week there where I read voraciously, but now I can't seem to concentrate on even the simplest of plots. I can't stay on track for an hour long TV show, for Pete's sake. I have been knitting, but only small projects. I have no patience. A project I couldn't finish in a day or two would yield nothing but frustration. People try to visit with me, but I bring nothing to the table. Try having a conversation and having nothing to contribute. It's not fun. Especially when concentration is an issue. My conversations are more like lectures that I zone in and out of. I feel myself doing it, and I'm fully aware of how impolite it is, but I just don't seem to have any control.

Tom wants me to rest and heal.

I know I need to do this.

But I am so bored with myself.

Late last week and early this weekend I incorporated a few outings and some light housework. And now I'm in pain. I hadn't been in pain before, I'd just been tired and bored (and a little sore). Now I'm tired, bored, sore AND hurting.

So I'm back to taking it slow. Can anyone suggest a nice anthology of short stories? I bet I could get through a short story or two...

Baby steps baby steps.

No wonder babies cry so much...

Read to Me

When Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (or Philosopher's Stone, depending on your geography) came out - on video - we watched it with the girls. Before that they had shown no interest in the franchise. After that dementors couldn't keep us away. We acquired all of the books that had been released at that time, but since they were above the girls reading level, Tom read them aloud to us chapter by chapter.

Did he do voices and accents?

What do you think?

I sat on the loveseat, knitting. Lea curled up with Tom on the couch, watching the process of reading the words she couldn't quite make out independently yet. Liv either sat at the other end of the couch or laid on her belly on the floor.

We were all utterly enchanted. Under a spell, you might even say, if you were the sort of person prone to saying things like that.

He would finish the chapter and say, "Tomorrow's chapter is titled _____". Then he would raise his eyebrows and close the book with a great flourish amid pleas from the three of us for just one more chapter pleeeeeeeease! If the next chapter was on the shorter side, or if the evening was on the earlier side, sometimes we managed to get him to acquiesce. Usually, though, one chapter was it. We were left longing for the next installment the way I imagine kids in the early days of movies longed for the next installment of their weekly cliff-hangers.

When Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was released in the theater, we went to a matinee on opening weekend.

When Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was released in the book stores, we thought the girls were old enough to stay up for a midnight release. We got to the bookstore around ten. There were elaborate costumes and lots of games and activities. My mom had recently made both of them cloaks that were really lovely. They were having a lot of fun until they weren't. By the time they weren't, however, it was very close to midnight and Tom and I decided we'd made it this far, we weren't going home now. As soon as they started queuing people up Tom got in line and I took the girls to the car, where they promptly fell asleep, clutching their wands.

What a sober, tired little witch!

After that we hit every midnight release of a book or a movie. There was something special about not only being among the first to experience it, but also about sharing that experience with other fans.

By the time Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released, the girls were old enough to read on their own. They no longer wanted it parceled out chapter by chapter, so several copies were purchased. I was a little bit sad, because I'd really enjoyed having the stories read to me.

I had a student teacher once who told me I'd intimidated her. She said that in every other placement she'd ever had, when she read a story to the children, the classroom teacher had used that as an opportunity to catch up on their work. I sat down, chin in hands, and listened to the story. She said she felt like I was judging her. When I quickly explained that I just really really enjoyed being read to and that she was an excellent storyteller/reader she relaxed considerably.

I tentatively asked Tom if he would continue reading it aloud. "The girls don't want that anymore" he protested.

"This girl does."

So he did.

Sure do wish I could be there for the midnight opening of the Wizarding World of Harry Potter themed park at Universal Studios Islands of Adventure next year. (Because SURELY there will be a midnight opening!!!) But we'll be there before it's a year old, I imagine.

The girls have grown a lot since 2005.

I guess we'll be needing new cloaks.

Now a Major Motion Picture

My daughter has a T-shirt that reads: Movies - Ruining the Book Since 1920.

She gets it. I should amend that. She gets it the same way I get it.

Because every time I hear about a beloved book being turned into a movie I get excited. I am old enough to know better. Once bitten, twice shy - that's the way it's supposed to go, isn't it? But I still get excited every. single. time.

Even when it turns out well, the movie still just serves as a nice supplement to the book. My daughter is reading The Outsiders for school right now. I know she'll love the movie, but I am so grateful that she'll be seeing it only AFTER having read the book. Movies are a nice little 2 hour visit with the stories we love. Kind of like looking through a photo album is a nice little way to revisit a favorite time. It's a nice reminder. But it's not the real thing.

I can remember a time when casting Interview With the Vampire was a game played by many. I played it with strangers in bars, once a mutual love of the book was established. Everyone had their picks. NO-one picked Tom Cruise. It seemed like such a ridiculous choice. And then it went ahead and worked. Who'da thunk?

More recently I've heard people in certain circles discussing casting choices for Water for Elephants in a similar manner. I'm staying out of it. (Unless someone wants to play! Then I'm totally in!)

A few years ago I read The Memory Keeper's Daughter and really enjoyed it. I thought it would make a great movie and was pleased when I heard it was in production. Then I found out it was going to be a made for TV movie. Wellllll that's ok, I reasoned, Brian's Song was a made for TV movie... Then I heard it was going to be a Lifetime made for TV movie. My optimism wavered a little at that point. But I watched it anyway. Much to my chagrin. A couple hours of my life I'll never get back. What a pile of sentimental drivel. How did they take such a lovely book and turn it into - that? It was dreadful.

My daughter and I recently had the same experience with The Tale of Despereaux. She loved the book. I loved the book. We marked the calendar for the release date. We watched the trailers. The characters looked great. We could. not. wait. My husband and my other daughter had not read the book. We both encouraged them to. "It's great! You'll love it!" The movie came out before they had a chance. The movie was - awful. We were so disappointed. Leaving the theater the two who had not read the book were looking at us like, "Really? You loved THAT? REALLY?" Well, no, as a matter of fact, we didn't. Despite our telling them that it was almost nothing like the book, neither of them will be reading that any time soon, guarantee.

It shouldn't matter - but it does. It somehow cheapened it.

Sometimes the movie is a beautiful complement to the book. The Kite Runner is an excellent recent example of this, as is The Namesake. Neither was terribly successful, as far as movies go. For what that's worth.

Fight Club amazed me. I couldn't imagine how they were going to make that one into a movie, but they did and it worked BIG time and it accomplished what I always HOPE will be accomplished by this. Folks who aren't big on reading see the movie - interest is piqued - they pick up the book - they look for more by the same author - it's a beautiful cycle, when it works. Movies - GOOD movies - can bring a whole new crowd of people to reading. (more on my thoughts on Chuck Palahniuk's books to movies here.)

A much better example of this is the Harry Potter series. Sure, the first book was wildly popular before the first movie. But AFTER the movie? Forget about it. Kids were READING! Kids were standing in line at midnight for the next installment! Kids and a LOT of grown-ups (jumps up and down, raises hand, "oooh-oooh's" like Arnold Horschack) - because a good read is a good read. (And yes, our calendar is indeed marked for July 17. Our local theater already has it on the marquee. Do you think it's too early to inquire about tickets?)

Do you have a book to movie story? One you loved? One that broke your heart? One you're eagerly anticipating?

To Every Passion, There is a Season

I have been working like a thing possessed to finish up some knitting projects. While I am passionate about both knitting and reading all year, I tend to be a voracious knitter in the winter and a voracious reader in the summer. Not that either of those passions are seasonal, it's just how I've always approached both of them.

Knitting in the winter works for me for a couple reasons. The obvious one is, it's darn pleasant to have knitting on your lap when it's cold outside. Even if I'm working on small projects that won't fall all the way to my lap, there's something comfortable and warm about the yarn, the rhythmic clicking of the needles, the knowledge that when the work is complete it will provide warmth for me or someone I love. That's not always accurate, as I do make purses and summer items, as well, but even when it's not exactly true, that feeling prevails. Let's go for the stretch and say that if it won't warm their body, it might warm their soul. I do subscribe to the notion that there's "a kiss in every stitch" in that if I'm making something for someone, I tend to think about them pretty constantly while I'm working. I like to think they catch some of that energy when they receive something I've made.

The less obvious reason is: I like to watch TV. I know that's an unpopular thing to say. It would be better to say, "TV? We don't even keep one in the house." I wish I could say that sometimes, but I can't. There is a certain almost mystical air around those who have given it up. I hear those words and my head cocks, like they've just told me they were part wood imp or something. REally? How does one DO that?

I do watch a lot less TV now than I used to. A whole lot less, actually. But there are shows I like. I don't allow myself to love shows anymore, because my love is the kiss of death. (Arrested Development, anyone? Pushing Daisies? I mentioned Arrested Development, right? Still a little bitter about that...) I don't do Reality TV. None of it. I tried it a couple times. Someday maybe I'll tell you the Bo Bice story if you're very sweet to me, but not today. Nope, not my cup of tea.

But I digress. TV. I watch. I used to watch a lot, now I watch a little, but I watch.

And when I watch, I knit. Because to just sit there seems like such a waste of time. I think I would become horribly bored and I know for sure I'd feel guilty about being non-productive. So I knit.

But TV season is basically over! Thanks to DVR's there's no real reason for me to watch reruns. It's time to set the knitting aside and dive headfirst into that big list of books I've been compiling.

Because summer is for reading like winter is for knitting. My favorite reading spot is - um - outside. Period. I love to read in my lounge chair that was bought just for that purpose. I love to read on the deck. I love love love reading on the beach. Which is not the same as saying I like a beach read (which I'll admit, I sometimes do). I have never had any trouble reading weighty stuff as well as fluffy stuff on the beach. I love to read by the pool. I love to read under a tree. Love love love reading outside.

And with the exception of Monk and Psych (Are they coming back soon? They should be coming back soon, right?), in the summer, there's nothing on TV.

Read Any Good Books Lately?

Since I have been such a voracious reader this summer, I decided it was time to pare down the "What I've Been Reading" sidebar. Clean it out and start fresh for fall. I did not want to do so, however, without taking a moment or two to talk about the books that have kept me company this summer.

Books I Learned Something From
This summer I indulged in a lot of fun learning.

I read Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers , Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife, and Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex all by Mary Roach. I had heard Ms. Roach speak on NPR a couple years ago - when Stiff was first released. I knew then that I wanted to read her, but I just never found the opportunity. I am so glad I finally did. All three are brilliantly researched and chock full of interesting facts. They never even for a paragraph become dry, despite presenting some pretty heady scientific data, because Ms. Roach's humor and human-ness are in constant evidence. I highly recommend all of these books. Mary Roach has a gift.

I also read Quantum Wellness: A Practical and Spiritual Guide to Health and Happiness by Kathy Freston. I was less than blown away by this one. I took a few points from it, but I guess it just wasn't really my cup of tea. All the Oprah endorsements should have been a tip-off. It did provide Tom and I with a line we brushed off several times throughout Festival Season, though: "Ribs! From the backs! Of babies!" (her actual line was: "Ribs from a babies back?" p. 109)

More my speed was The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals by Michael Pollan. This book was really thought provoking. It got a little dry (for my taste) on occasion, but the payoff was worth it. I learned a lot about the food industry that I didn't know and reinforced a lot of what I did know. I wish I could tell you it completely changed the way I eat/view food. It didn't, but it has certainly made me more conscientious.

Tom recommended This is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession by Daniel J. Levitin and, while it took me a while to get through it, I would recommend it to anyone with an interest in brain development, music, or both. Mr. Levitin has a great style and he is very knowledgeable. He referenced a lot of music to make his points and I think I might have benefited from a companion CD. I learned a lot about the various effects music has on the brain and some of the findings are probably things I will utilize in my teaching. Some remarkably interesting stuff.

Biographies, Autobiographies and Memoirs

I read several biographies and autobiographies this summer and I'm not sure why. When I choose to read in this genre, it is usually because I want to know more about someone I admire (or am, at least, curious about). More often than not I'm disappointed.

Case in point: A Boy Named Shel: The Life and Times of Shel Silverstein by Lisa Rogak. Now, who doesn't love Shel Silverstein? Our author clearly liked and admired him. But he was just - not such a swell guy. I didn't want to know that. I probably shouldn't have informed you, either. Sorry.

I didn't go into Losing It: and Gaining My Life Back One Pound at a Time by Valerie Bertinelli with high expectations, and that's a good thing. I took it out of the library, though, because I thought it would be a fun little read. I'd watched her do the talk show circuit, and I was expecting a juicy summer read full of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. While all of those elements were present, they were all just mentioned. There weren't a lot of anecdotes. When she did see fit to provide an anecdote or two, in my opinion, that's when the story got interesting. Our little Barbara Cooper. Sigh.


Born Standing Up by Steve Martin was an easy little read. I'd read Mr. Martin's fiction, so I knew I enjoyed his writing style. It was fun to see a little deeper inside this "wild and crazy guy" to see what made/makes him tick. Did you know he dated the daughter of Dalton Trumbo? Well he did. He also shares a lot of wonderful photos.

I've included Armageddon in Retrospect by Kurt Vonnegut in this section, although it might more accurately be cataloged in the "essays" section. I love Mr. Vonnegut and am enjoying working my way through his books. I still have a way to go, but I find his work to be so thought provoking that I need a little break in between each one to fully digest it before moving on to another. "Armageddon" was published posthumously and is a collection of fiction and non-fiction short stories punctuated by his deceptively simple drawings. The usual themes are presented: War, peace, love, hate. Not too deep...

Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon by Chuck Palahniuk might not really belong in this category either, but I couldn't decide where else to put it. It is a weird little travelogue of Portland Oregon and Mr. Palahniuk (who shall hereafter be referred to as Fucked Up Chuck) says it's as close to an autobiography as he's likely to get. It's an offbeat little book which includes phone numbers, directions, and even recipes.

I've saved the best memoirs for last. When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris was everything I've come to expect from arguably my favorite essayist. (hmmm - maybe this should have been listed under essays? Nah, they always feel like memoirs to me. And I'm the boss of this post.) I laughed out loud (all by myself on my deck) more than once reading this volume. But then, that is, as previously stated, exactly what I expect.



Fiction

This section is ruled by the previously mentioned "Fucked Up Chuck", the incomparable Chuck Palahniuk. Tom and I started referring to him as that after reading a couple of his books a year or two ago. His books always leave me wanting a little something to cleanse my palate when I'm done with them, so I didn't read these all in one big lump. The social statements that he makes, also, generally leave me wanting to take a little while to think before jumping immediately to the next. In no particular order this summer, I read: Choke, Invisible Monsters, Fight Club , Snuff, Survivor, and Haunted. I cannot believe Fight Club was his first novel. Wow. Survivor, another favorite of mine, was actually written before Fight Club, but published after. I really enjoyed Choke. It is being made into a movie which is looking at a late September release. I believe Tom and I will be there opening night - something we usually reserve for Harry Potter or anything Christopher Guest has had a hand in. I'll look forward to it. I'm usually disappointed when novels I like/love are made into movies, but Fight Club was awesome in both mediums, so I'll remain guardedly optimistic. Also, both the green band and red band trailers tickled me silly. Snuff wasn't my favorite, but it definitely wasn't a waste of my time. If you're new to Mr. Pahlahniuk's (I mean, fucked up Chuck's) work, I wouldn't start with it. Invisible Monsters started slowly for me, but just past the middle it became impossible for me to put down. I'd figured out one or two of the many twists, but nowhere close to all of them. I'd figured out one of the twists in Snuff, too. Tom hadn't. He ALWAYS figures things out before me, so it made me a little nervous. I'm starting to think like Chuck... It's hard to say much about any of these books because there is just so darn much going on - it works in novel form but I could picture it becoming pretty hard to follow pretty darn fast in blog form without revealing major spoilers. I won't even attempt.


Someday this Pain will be Useful to You by Peter Cameron was my obligatory YA book this summer. It was a really well done character development story. Sometimes I think I like YA books better than I like adult fiction. Does that say something about me I wouldn't want to hear? The narrator of this story is a young, affluent, gay male. These are four things that I am not, yet I found him to be very relatable. Though very different from me on a superficial level, I found a lot of common ground.

I loved The Kite Runner, so I was very anxious to read A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. These books have truly been eye-opening. It's nice to sort of cocoon ourselves and pretend events such as those presented in these books happened long ago and far away. Far away? Check. Long ago? Not so much. Highly recommend.

Tom had heard good things about The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon so when I happened upon a copy on the library bookshelf I snatched it up without a thought. I didn't really know what to expect, and I was so pleasantly surprised! What a lovely little read! This novella is written in the voice of a young autistic boy. Mr. Haddon handles it in a way that is neither pitying nor mocking. It is warm and funny and just generally lovely.

Short Stories/Essays

I read Wild Ducks Flying Backward by Tom Robbins because I thought I'd read everything he'd ever written, and was surprised to find this in a search. Turns out I do prefer my Robbins in novel form, but this was far from a disappointment. I laughed out loud a couple times and grinned like an idiot most of the way through. Let's face it, I love his style so much I'd read it if he wrote a review of breakfast cereal. So, um, yeah. I might have a little bias.

The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: And Other Small Acts of Liberation by Elizabeth Berg was the other collection of short stories I indulged in this summer. Total chic-lit, but I'm not above that from time to time. I found many of these stories almost uncomfortably easy to relate to. A few, I believe, will stick with me for awhile.

Chuck makes his way into this category, too, with Stranger Than Fiction - a collection of short stories and essays. It was a neat read for a fan of Mr. Palahniuk, because he gives us a tiny little glimpse inside and allows us to see from whence some of his ideas germinated. I'll warn the more gentle reader that this one starts off in particularly nasty graphic territory, but it calms down.

Coming Attractions

What's on tap for fall? I've been craving a little more Vonnegut, so I think I'll start there. But I am so very very very open to suggestions! What absolutely needs to go on my fall reading list?