The Good Samaritan

"Excuse me!", an older, bordering-on-filthy, woman yelled at me this morning on my way to work. As if she had been hollering at me all day and was finally able to break my sound barrier.
I gave her a smile and the ol' 'may I help you' raised eyebrows, "Yes?"
"Do you have change for a dollar?", she shouted more than asked.
I said, "I'm sorry, I don't have any cash on me."
"Well, f--- you!", she spat!
"F--- me?" I asked. "You don't have change for a dollar, either, and I'm not mad at you!"
Geez!
And while we're at it. I'm sorry that I don't know the directions to where you're going right off the top of my head. It's a small miracle I even know how to get to where I'm going! And I certainly do apologize, Homeless Hungry Person, that my doggy bag doesn't contain the exact food you were craving, but - what's that saying? - beggars can't be choosers?!
I really should try to be more accommodating to all the people out there who so desperately seem to need my assistance.
I'll work on that!

Happy Birthday, Princess!!

Our adorable middle girl, Wednesday, turned eight over the holiday weekend! She played with her sisters in the yard, and her Golden cousins, Jake and Amy, spent the whole weekend with us! They all had a lot of fun!! Wednesday wanted to go to the park with us on Monday for a Memorial Day picnic with friends, but she chickened out at the last minute and stayed home. Maybe next year.......

I Have Fallen

I wish I were one
to read poetry at dinner
Sip wine and smile
at interesting strangers

I wish I were one
to set the mood
with amber and candles
a language less crude

I wish I were one
whose eyes would twinkle
with crooked smiles
and foreheads wrinkled

Instead I have fallen
red, yellow, orange
Like trees in mourning
for summers past
I am changing

I wish I were one
to court my reflection
And call it a dance
in the moon's sweet protection

I wish I were one
to contemplate flowers
Compare them to lovers
lost over these hours

Instead I have fallen

Island of Lost Girls by Jennifer McMahon

I was tricked! Duped by some book review writer chick in People magazine who told me this was a good book and I believed her!
Idiot!
It wasn't even until after I had read the stupid thing that I noticed the rave reviews listed on the back cover were actually for the author's first book, not this one!
Moron!
I found the book trite and predictable. There were no unexpected twists and turns, no shocking revelations. I had it all figured out loooonnnnnnnggggggg before the last chapter and honestly had to force myself to finish it.
Dammit!
Maybe I really do need Oprah to choose my books for me!

grayson ... by Lynne Cox

I would love to convince you that there is a bit of cleverness involved in my book-choosing process, but I already let the cat out of the bag when I wrote about Middlesex, so you know that the whole process is, for me, purely aesthetic. I chose “grayson” because I have a nephew named Grayson. That's it. Nothing clever about that a’tall.
That being said, however, “grayson” is an enchanting recount of the morning seventeen-year-old Lynne spent helping a baby whale find his mother. On a surface level, this is a delightful adventure and up-close glimpse into a world most of us will never have the pleasure of experiencing. And if you dive just a bit deeper, it is a story of love and the potency of positive thinking. Positive Energy. It is proof of making a connection beyond our limited vocabularies and lets us believe, once and for all, in interspecies communication and the power of love!
This is a quick little read you can share with your whole family. I couldn’t help but think of my sister-in-law, Lise’, and her son Grayson while reading this, and how she would love to share this book with each of her precious little ones. It is a story of mothers and children, of humans and animals, of strength and support.
“grayson” is as refreshing and intoxicating as the sea itself!
Dive in!

The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

None of us chooses the hands we’re dealt in life. No one asks for heartache or poverty, illness or abuse. In spite of our sometimes bad decision-making, we don’t actually invite these tragedies into our lives. And while we have little choice in the matter of bad circumstances, we do have a choice in how we handle them. So we find that place inside ourselves that gives us strength. We embrace the love that is given to us and we try to return it. We find that momentary ray of sunlight in our hearts and we hang on to that for as long as we can. “The world will give you that once in a while, a brief time-out; the boxing bell rings and you go to your corner, where somebody dabs mercy on your beat-up life.”
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd is a wonderful journey into the power of love and strength and finding the truth. We follow sweet, flawed little Lily and simple, rough-around-the-edges (yet terribly endearing) Rosaleen on their ill-conceived escape from a life of pain and suffering in search of answers and a safe home. They find all of this when they knock on the door to the pink house of August Boatwright, her honey bees, and the Daughters of Mary. All of this wrapped perfectly in the most beautifully written tale I have ever read. It is filled with delicious similes, metaphors, humor and tenderness. It is a coming of age trek into the deepest places within ourselves.
While we all have a certain need to find answers to the darker questions shading our lives, we must be careful to search only for the answers we can actually deal with. Sometimes the truth is a far tougher pill to swallow than the bitterness of not knowing.
That being said, it is a journey worth taking.
Dip your feet in the water, lie back and let the sun warm your face for awhile and simply relish the moment. I know sometimes they seem few and far between, but when those moments come ... they are sweet as honey.

Crazy Train

If you know, or even suspect, that you are going crazy ... is that a good sign or a bad sign? Because I am pretty sure I am there or very, very close!
I was riding the Metro this morning, forced to watch some woman slurp her overly beefy thumb each and every time she turned the page of the newspaper she was evidently speed-reading, and trying desperately to concentrate on my book. Meanwhile, another incredibly large woman was rooting around in the seat behind me, grunting and squealing like a big ol' wild Snort Pig, kicking the back of my seat in a surprisingly rhythmic succession. I tried to hold my book close enough to my face and high enough in the air so as to block out all the picking, and tapping, and smacking, and breathing, and .... and all the stupid noises and sights that infiltrate my brain on a simple 40 minute train ride. Another woman was trying to sing loud enough to block out all the same irritants, or perhaps merely the voices in her head (really, who can be sure), and I am wondering when that little guy with the DON'T DO IT!! sandwich board parading around in the front of my brain is just going to chuck the whole futile mission!?!

Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom

I decided to reread Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. However, when I started reading it, I realized I had never actually read this book. I honestly thought I did. I know I wanted to. I only vaguely remember seeing the made-for-tv movie.
And this is actually sad because Tuesdays with Morrie is a book you should read with a highlighter handy. It is simply and humbly written about this beautiful, beautiful man by his student and friend. It’s a book you will want to read and reread and wrap up as gifts.
I am late in reviewing this book - most people read it ten years ago.
But ten years ago, I didn’t know my beautiful sister-in-law and funny friend, Linda, would be diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease). I didn’t know that this story would profoundly touch and change my life. I knew absolutely nothing about this progressive, disabling, fatal disease.
Morrie was special. He looked at life as precious and each day a gift. That is difficult to do sometimes. As I mentioned after reading A Lesson Before Dying - how could we possibly know what would go through our minds if we were in the same situation?
We can ask a friend.
We can talk to Linda and the other courageous heroes we have in our lives who wake up every day and face the unknown and put on their bravest expressions, and they smile and laugh and set their fears aside ... and they do it all for us!
We can visit our friends and touch them and hold them and we can tell them what they mean to us and how precious each and every second with them is to us.
Morrie said that a life may end, but the relationship doesn’t. I keep that in my heart.
To Linda - I love you. I tell you that when I see you and I tell you that when we email. And knowing that you know that, and knowing that you love me too, means more than anything else in my life. It always will.

The Cinema Effect: Illusion, Reality, and the Moving Image

Part 1: Dreams
"Dreams addresses film’s ability to transport viewers out of their everyday lives and into states that lie between wakefulness and sleep, sending them on journeys into the darker recesses of the imagination."
To all the people who attended this exhibit at the Hirshhorn yesterday in the hour and a half prior to closing...
the people who didn't understand the concept of "using your indoor voice", much less "your indoor IN A MUSEUM voice"....
the people who think an art gallery is the perfect place for a nap or some heavy petting....
the young adults who can't see a penis without giggling....
the not-nearly-young-enough people who think sculptures and jungle gyms are one in the same....
the people who couldn't just be quiet and contemplate the amazing, raw, graphic images and perhaps walk away a slightly better person....
to all of those people:
Shame on you!

Late Spring (Photographic Evidence That I Sometimes Leave the House!)

Late Spring (Photographic Evidence That I Sometimes Leave the House!)

Throw Like a Girl

If you're like me, and I know I am, you have a short little span of attention. Throw Like a Girl is a collection of short stories by Jean Thompson.
They're good.
Read 'em.

A Lesson Before Dying by Ernest J. Gaines

I picked up A Lesson Before Dying when I had just a few pages left to read of No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy. I was feeling completely indifferent about No Country and, frankly, just couldn’t wait to be finished with it. I can see why they wanted to make a motion picture out of it, and I still wouldn’t mind seeing that, I just didn’t really enjoy reading it. I finished it feeling next to nothing, and that kindly made me sad because I usually try to take away something from everything that I read.
Then I began A Lesson Before Dying.
About 40 pages in, I thought, “Wow, this narrator, Grant, is really a jerk!” I didn’t know how I was ever going to warm up to him or really, any of the characters. I was nervous! Slowly but surely, however I began to feel compassion for Grant and Jefferson, Miss Emma and the Reverend. Even Grant’s domineering aunt worked her way into my heart.
I do not honestly look forward to crying my eyes out in public places. I suppose on some level I must not mind, though, I mean “A Lesson Before Dying”? Seriously, what did I think was going to happen? But, these were not just gratuitous tears for the obvious. A Lesson Before Dying really left me with something.
The story is set in a small Cajun community in the late 1940’s. A young black man is wrongly accused and convicted of murder and sentenced to death by the electric chair. In the trial, Jefferson’s defense lawyer calls him a hog, not a man, and therefore, should not be put to death. There would be no reason for it, but Jefferson is sentenced anyway.
Grant Wiggins is another black man and a teacher at the small plantation school. Grant’s aunt and Jefferson’s godmother convince Grant (against his strong will) to visit Jefferson and impart his wisdom and pride to him before his death. Teach him that he is a man - not a hog.
I like a book that raises questions and awareness. Not just questions like “What is the book about?”, but real Life Questions.
How do you hold your head up high when you are chained down? How do you stand up like a man when your hands are literally tied? How do you take pride in yourself when the world thinks you are less than human?
What would you think about if you knew the exact date and time of your death? If your physical options were limited, what would go on in your mind? What would you say to your loved ones? What would you write if you had a tiny pencil and penny notebook?
How would you become a hero when no one has ever, ever been a hero for you?
The truth is very simple, really, we just don’t know.
We don’t know what’s going to flash through our minds or what we will see when the time comes...
We don’t know exactly what to believe in....
We can only try to be the very best we can be and we try to make our loved ones proud of us. We don’t think about how we look to strangers or what other people think of us. We hold our heads as high as we possibly can.
We honestly have only one thing.
Pure and Simple.
We have faith.


Tell Nannan I walked.

Dolly!

Okay. I am not a Country Girl, a Downhome Gal ... certainly not a Backwoods Barbie. My mother never made a coat out of scraps for me to wear with pride while the other children laughed. I just work hard and play hard and enjoy filling my time with friends and fun.
After a long few weeks recently passed, I was really worn out! I was tired both mentally and physically and on Monday, when we went to see Dolly Parton at the Patriot Center, well ... it was just like getting a big ol’ soft hug! (Easy Aaron!)
We walked in and heard that sugary sweet familiar voice rising from a blur of sequins, and it seriously put a smile on my face that lasted 2 full hours!
Dolly doesn’t even need to sing. I like some of her songs, and definitely respect her as a brilliant song writer, but I could just listen to her tell stories all night long. She’s really very, very funny! I had to chuckle when she apologized at the end of the show if she offended anyone! Ha! Dolly? Who on earth could ever be offended by Dolly Parton?!?!
I enjoyed watching the crowd almost as much as I enjoyed watching Dolly, especially the woman in front and to the right of us who pried herself free from the gnarled old tree branch that was holding her oh so tightly to stand up and - with tears streaming down her face - lift her hands to ... Dolly? Katie Beadnell and I used to write letters and pray to Cher at night with a special shrine we built out of her brother's glow-in-the-dark gargoyle models, so I suppose it’s possible to have a religious experience with Dolly Parton. Me, I just enjoyed spending an evening with an old friend who makes me laugh and warms my heart....

Aaron & Me .... or My Nephew Has a Boob Fetish

Okay, I look really ugly in this picture, but I don't think anyone was looking at my face!

The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby was my little respite between two blood-and-guts crime novels. I was embarrassed that so many people cite Gatsby as one of their favorite books of all time when I had never even read it, and only vaguely remember seeing the film as a child. I did feel a connection to Nick Carraway in that I long to be a part of the high profile party scene while being equally uncomfortable with the lack of morality involved. And I absolutely loved his character sketches and great sarcasm! While I still don’t understand how certain tales become American Classics, I enjoyed reading The Great Gatsby as a fun little story full of humor and intrigue, twists and irony.... ... ...how fleeting popularity can be.
Pull up a wicker sofa on the sun porch, mix yourself a mint julep ~ enjoy a wonderful rainy-day read!!!

For the Sins of My Father by Albert DeMeo

Admittedly, I find a strange fascination in the mob and crime scenarios often glorified on the silver screen. I am no different than millions of other rubber-neckers in that respect. I loved Donnie Brasco and Good Fellas. I have seen Reservoir Dogs no less than a hundred times, I’m sure, and I’ve sat through all of Scarface more than thrice (once in Spanish)! Who knows why we enjoy this? It must tap into some secret desire we have for a life filled with a little adrenaline, a little danger. I remember riding in a car in Germany, many years ago, flying over a hill at top speed when the driver looked at me with a maniacal grin and asked, “Do you like living on the edge?”
Well, I don’t know about all of that, however ....

Although it was rather poorly written (as if it would have received a B+ in a high school Comp class), I actually enjoyed reading For the Sins of My Father by Albert DeMeo. Maybe it was because it was true and had pictures!! It gave testament to the human side of a mob family and the mob family. We were able to see the compassion of the father and the humorous aspects of a boy hanging out with real men. Ultimately, though, it just made me sad. I feel like the author did exactly what he accuses others of doing: he glorified the mob connections and quickly swept the post traumatic stress disorder, depression, and a life falling apart under the rug. To me, that would have made a better story. And in the end - and I don’t feel at all badly for revealing this - the dog saves his life!

The Tender Bar

"I hate when people ask what a book is about. People who read for plot, people who suck out the story like the cream filling in an Oreo, should stick to comic strips and soap operas. What's it about? Every book worth a damn is about emotions and love and death and pain. It's about words. It's about a man dealing with his life. Okay?" That is my favorite bit from The Tender Bar, A Memoir by J.R. Moehringer.
So what is the book about? I knew you'd ask. Is it actually about a bar? Is it about a boy's struggle to find some male-ness in his fatherless world? Is it about an aspiring writer? Is it about triumph or tragedy? Is it about friendship and strength? Heroes and losers? Pain and pleasure? Is it about wasted opportunities or grabbing the golden ring? Is it about growing up or growing away? Is it comic or crushing? Happy or harrowing? Fortunate or fatal?
Yes, yes, yes! It is all these things! It is about making a family where one doesn't exist and it is about loving people in spite of their flaws and failures. It's about unlikely heroes and quiet successes. It is male bonding and tender intermissions.
It's about words. It's about a man dealing with his life.
Okay?

Dubya's a Chucker!

Last night we went to the new Nationals Stadium for the season opener. The Nats beat the Atlanta Braves in the bottom of the ninth and life is good!
The new stadium is absolutely gorgeous and the hoopla for the opening night was nothing short of spectacular! I snapped a great picture of our groovy mayor, Adrian Fenty, on the red carpet before we joined the oh-so-friendly folks in the holding queue. After our cavity search and delousing, we received our commemorative hand towels (aka beer koozies) and lanyards. We moved into the stadium and my mouth dropped as it did the first time I saw Times Square. There were restaurants, bars, food stands, beer stands, music .... it was a real dance potty (I like to say “party” as a Bostonian)!
Following some preliminary cocktails with friends, we found our seats right under the colossal video screen, and sat down to enjoy the fanfare!
After the National Guards and the Color Guards and the National Anthem and the Fighter Planes and the Fireworks ....
and when you’d almost bet you could hear yourself sweat ...
he walked in ...
okay, The Voices in My Head made me do that, it wasn’t nearly that dramatic, but George Bush did jump out of his fancy little golf cart and trot to the pitchers mound to throw out the first ball. I clicked a quick picture of him jogging out to the mound and while my camera gave me a couple of seconds to decide whether or not I liked the shot, he was trotting back! What?! Well, waddya know? Ever-lovin’ George W. Bush is a chucker! Who knew?!
So I studied the photo I did take and here’s what I think happened: Now, granted, the picture strongly resembles the grainy Bigfoot sighting snapshots you see sometimes and I was sitting in such a position that I couldn’t reasonably see the opening to anyone’s trousers (not for lack of trying, wink wink, nudge nudge), but I am pretty sure the president’s fly was down! So, as he’s jogging out there and he feels a little extra coolness in front, he’s thinking, “I’m just going to get out there, chuck the ball at the guy with the big hand, run back to my kick ass buggy, slam the barn door shut and get me a hot dog! You want a hot dog?” This followed by that nervous Muttley giggle he has, and we’re out!
I’m sorry, George Bush is funny! He cracks me up all the time! No wonder his daughter is always falling off her barstool! You know what my daddy said this morning? Ha ha ha ha ... splat!

Wait...
What?
Oh yeah, baseball! It was really, truly awesome! I can honestly see myself spending much more time with the boys of summer this season! What about you? You want a hot dog?!

All You Can Eat ... Meat!

Thursday night was a birthday celebration for our friend, B. A “B” Day Party, if you will! His girlfriend, Amanda, chose an interesting restaurant in Falls Church called Malibu Grill. (I do not blame Amanda at all for choosing this place ... how could she ever know what was to come?)
The concept or theme of this joint is: All You Can Eat Meat. Yes, you heard me correctly, as much Meat on a Stick as you can comfortably (or not so comfortably) pack into your tender tummy! I am not joking!
Sadly, no one took our drink orders or explained the process to us or held our hands through this cannibalistic journey, so we were left to blindly feed on Mystery Meat. Each table has a little wooden peg in the middle. One side is green for go and the other side is red for give me a freaking break I can’t possibly eat any more meat. When your peg is green, a little guy called a “gaucho” (their word, not mine) comes to your table with some charred somethings on a skewer which you are evidently supposed to gnaw off and enjoy as a meal. He steps up to the end of the table and says, “lambmonkeysquirrel?”
No poker face for me, I said, “WHAT?!” in sheer horror.
He took that as a no.
In fairness, I did eat something I am going to pretend was chicken and it wasn’t half bad. The rest of it reminded me of a story I heard when I was in the Air Force.
I was eating lunch one day with a couple of friends who both happened to be from Texas. One guy was telling us about a time when he and a buddy starting getting curious about what an Armadillo might taste like. Now, I’ve heard that an Armadillo is actually rather easy to catch, but they chose more of a hands-free approach and simply set up camp on the shoulder and waited for some fresh road kill. The “hunt” completed, they grilled it up over an open fire (or under the hood of their El Camino, more likely) and ate it!!!
And THAT, my friends, is what I suspect the gaucho was bringing to my table!
I don’t know what else to say!
Ummmm, Happy “B” Day?!

Angelica

I just finished a little chick flick of a book called Angelica by Arthur Phillips. It wasn't bad, it wasn't awesome. I certainly didn't hold it up high while riding the train, but I didn't honestly hate it. I suppose sometimes a gal just needs to read a girly book. I mean, it wasn't a romance novel or anything! But it also wasn't something I would be proud to say, "Hey! I am totally reading Angelica right now!"
It's part ghost story, part psychological ... not exactly thriller ... intrigue? The author, Arthur, told the same story from several perspectives, and I guess that is what I liked most about it. When reading the "other side of the story", I wanted to go back and reread the first side of the story. I'm sure it's never a bad idea to try to see things from another angle.
Hmmmmm.
Sorry, Mr. Phillips, I guess I can't really recommend this book to others. If a body ever spends the night at my house and can't sleep, they may feel free to peruse my bookshelves, it'll be there somewhere.....

Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad!

When a girl turns thirteen (or 91 if you believe all that "dog year" hooey), she should reasonably expect that her dad will start listening to her. She is nearly an adult, she has a fresh perspective, new ideas, OPINIONS, for crying out loud!!!
whew....

Happy Birthday, Borderline! May all your doggy dreams come true!!!

MIDDLESEX by Jeffrey Eugenides

I read almost exclusively in public places ... the Metro, the atrium in my building, a park bench, a bar stool. Recently I have noticed that I hold my book differently depending on my location, the people around me, and how much I like the book. People do comment on my choices from time to time while others pay no attention at all. But I catch myself holding each book in such a way that perhaps some really cool person would see it and think, "Ooooooh, she's reading a classic! She must be smart!"
You've heard that you should never judge a book by the cover? Well, that's precisely how I do choose my books! I don't even like to read the excerpts on the back. I like to get into each book with no expectations, as I assume the author would want. So it was the smoky black cover of MIDDLESEX by Jeffrey Eugenides that originally attracted me to the book (I had to scrape Oprah's stamp of approval off the cover so people wouldn't think I was a total girly girl.... while I love Oprah, I don't want total strangers to think I need her to choose my reading material). I wasn't sure I wanted to read a book about one of the 39 historic counties of England, so I did take a peek at the back cover. When I read The New York Times review stating, "Part Tristram Shandy, part Ishmael, part Holden Caulfield ....", I knew Middlesex was the book for me!
It is a breathtaking, entertaining journey through three generations of a very fallible family. And The New York Times was right, Cal is a wonderfully engaging narrator!!
While the subject matter is deeply sensitive, the main ribbon running throughout the entire account is that you can't judge a book by the cover! I found myself looking at people differently. The way someone might square his shoulders, or grow her hair into her eyes. The obnoxious public prankster, the shy ragamuffin ... each may have a secret. Each may be something much greater or more tragic than what we think when we see (or ignore) them on the street.
It is a beautiful story of finding oneself, of loving one's family, of fighting for a better way. When I finished the book, I was on the train. So, with tears streaming down my cheeks, and a smile filling my ample face, I cradled Middlesex in my arms like a baby, gazing at it adoringly, "Look what I just read! Isn't it beautiful?!"

Pain

My friend
Do you hurt so much inside
Do your wings bleed
From the feathers clipped
And your soul whisper
When the wind blows through
Is your heart a hardened morsel
For a predator to spring
And your mind an endless tunnel....
Somewhere in the darkness
Do you ache to see the light
Do your hands
Chilled from the coolness
Smear the paint upon your face
And do tears moisten the cracks in your flesh
Are you lonely, friend...
Do you weep

Woman on My Wall

There's a woman on my wall
I see her when the moon drifts through the trees to my window
Her face wrinkles when the wind blows
And she changes as often as the seasons
But she's always watching over me
At night
When I need her the most

Tracy

Sitting in the morning sun with a soft breeze tingling my rested cheeks, I would never see her turned up nose and freckled face. Her clear brown eyes are still buried in a dreamless sleep. I think about life, this time in the morning, and it's almost good.
I wake her sometimes, when the morning glory is too much for me to hold alone. "Come with me!", I sing, because the world is so big and we've seen so little.
But Tracy's bed is warm, safe. Her room is dark and womb-like. So I leave and the world is mine alone. I smile at the birds, the squirrels, the deer. The wind thrills me and the sun is my lover. The earth moves ever so slightly beneath my feet, and as I laugh, I wonder why Tracy refuses to be born.

You'll Get Used to Me

You can tell me anything, you know
And I won't tell
It's just these crazy eyes
And crazy dreams
A shock of wild hair
But you'll get used to me, one day
And you'll realize
I'm a good friend
I'm your best friend

There's a shadow in the sky
Something hanging over me
You think I'm dark and moody
But it's just a look I wear
You'll get used to me

I've been seein' a lot of stars fall
Lately
Makes me wonder, I guess
What's goin' on
What you think of me
But you'll get used to it, one day
And you'll realize
I'm a good friend
I'm your best friend

You can tell me anything, you know
I've heard a lot
It's just my strange ways
And strange face
A shock of wild hair
But you'll get use to me, one day
You'll get used to me

Folks ... We've Got a Jumper!!

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a ...

TREE!!