One blue-sky Sunday, during a drive in the country, we tried to teach Litte Rat to rhyme.
Listen to this, said dad. Cat. Bat. Hat. Flat. Do you hear that?
Fat Matt, said Little Rat.
I'll hit you with a bat! answered Matt.
That's right but don't fight, said Mom
Great! said Kate.
Can you rhyme like this? If you're name is Andy, you can eat candy.
If you're like Dad, then you drive bad, said Meg.
If you're like Meg, you must want a broken leg, said Dad.
No problem, said Little Rat. He thinks for a minute.
If you're not going to rhyme, don't waste our time, said Matt.
Ok. Ok. Ok. I've got it, Little Rat paused, then scratched his head and finally said If you want to be a warm guy, you've got to sit in a warm seat.
27 July 2006
26 July 2006
you choose
My father says that you always have a choice in front of you, no matter how bleak, how straight-ahead on the long hard road, the situation seems.
I think about this during the grind of the days.
Even after she turns around, I smile. I don't call her names in my head as I dig my way out of the piles of work.
There is always a choice.
I think about this when Crazy A is at his worst, insane and wild-eyed, threatening and fuming and running away.
You can give in and sink, or you can hold to hope and rise on the sure tide of its promise.
I think about this on the way home from the store, after an awkward run-in, when he can't (or won't) force his eyes to meet mine. You were wrong about him...an irredeemable jerk, I start to think.
And then I remember that I don't have to think of him at all. It's up to me.
I think about this during the grind of the days.
Even after she turns around, I smile. I don't call her names in my head as I dig my way out of the piles of work.
There is always a choice.
I think about this when Crazy A is at his worst, insane and wild-eyed, threatening and fuming and running away.
You can give in and sink, or you can hold to hope and rise on the sure tide of its promise.
I think about this on the way home from the store, after an awkward run-in, when he can't (or won't) force his eyes to meet mine. You were wrong about him...an irredeemable jerk, I start to think.
And then I remember that I don't have to think of him at all. It's up to me.
25 July 2006
warts and all.
DURING the course of our long, tortured relationship Nick gave me only two things of any real or sentimental value: an economy pack of Dr. Scholl's Plantar Warts Remover and a copy of The Story and Its Writer: an Introduction to Short Fiction. If you take a slack, indirect view of things, the warts, a grainy cluster of them on the ball of my left foot, were a gift of sorts, too. These days I try not to place too much credit on those broad shoulders of his, though.
Emily Alderson's parties tended to be hot and over- crowded. All the red plastic dixie cups would disappear in the first hour, leaving an odd assortment of coffee mugs without handles and Pyrex measuring cups for people to fill with cheap beer and even cheaper wine. There was always a lot of talk about Foucault and Derrida, lots of bad hummus and bowls of blue corn chip crumbs. At Emily's birthday party I told a man named Jacques that my favorite book was To Kill a Mockingbird; he practically patted my head and said he found it a "quaint narrative -- tolerable if you go for that sort of thing."
If you stayed at one of these parties long enough, you would hear Emily describe herself as "someone who likes to color outside the lines" at least 3 or 4 times. As far as I could tell, this simply meant that she liked to wear gauzy skirts that were forever getting caught in the chain of her bike and, that said bike was forever being stolen because she either forgot to lock it or took some communitarian stand against locking it, I'm not sure which. Sometimes she would set out HI MY NAME is__________ nametags and lead the way to hip literary irony by scrawling Sylvia or Simone on it and then slapping it across the front of her thrift store blouse. I always wanted, but thankfully could never summon the snotty pettiness necessary, to point out that Simone de Beauvoir wouldn't be caught dead at a party with such cheap booze and bad posturing. How ironic Emily, don't you think?!
I was leaning against going until Ellen showed up with my birthday present, a month and a half late. Lately, a new urge to forge ahead into more adult terrain had exerted itself. A year and 3 months out of college, heading into my second year of teaching English to 9th graders at a well-respected charter school, I wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to parties at the group homes of college acquaintances, but I was getting closer by the day. Ellen, however, was interested in Jake, the wry, handsome graduate assistant for the Masters Program she and Emily were enrolled in. She knew he would be there and knew good and well, as she handed me the box wrapped in orange tissue paper, that my company could be purchased fairly cheaply. The polka dot dress fit like a dream and she knew just the party for me to wear it to.
The late August air held tight to the heat and smog of the day, refusing to loosen its grip even though the sun was already rounding the far curve of the Atlantic, nudging people awake in London. Emily's windows were open and Ellen immediately spotted Jake as we climbed the front steps. The door was locked for some strange reason and when Emily finally opened it she tried to gather us both up into some awkward, sisters-in-arms embrace.
"Girls! I am so glad you made it. Tess! Love the dress. Oh listen to me! What a poet!" she trilled. Behind her the party was in full swing.
"Great skirt, Emily. Is it new?" Ellen asked and I managed to keep a straight face. Ellen isn't mean or smug, in fact she's extraordinarily kind. She notices and remembers quirks and details and reads people like childrens books--her brain moving just a little faster than everyone else's, spinning and storing, gathering and retrieving information. She is both exceedingly polite and terribly impish.
Inside we found the usual assortment of people and the new faces of friends of friends and people who randomly received the Evite. Jake saw Ellen while we rummaged through the cupboard searching for cups and he made a charmingly obvious bee-line for her. She introduced me, he asked some above par small talk questions and seemed genuinely smart and terrific, which really, given Ellen's finicky preference and her ability to detect affectation miles away, wasn't all that surprisng. Soon enough, though,they were laughing a chummy, private laugh--the sort that makes you happy for your friend and irritated that you have to go the rest of the evening alone.
Before Emily's party, my path crossed with Nick's only a few times. Those brief encounters featured short, non-conversations, of little value for extended analysis with Ellen. That night he was wearing his ratty old green Oakland A's baseball cap. He was the only person in the room wearing a hat, and under its brim he seemed both jocular and brainy. At that party, in this city, the combination seemed a rare, valuable find--as delicious as french fries and ice cream. I ate it up.
to be continued...
Emily Alderson's parties tended to be hot and over- crowded. All the red plastic dixie cups would disappear in the first hour, leaving an odd assortment of coffee mugs without handles and Pyrex measuring cups for people to fill with cheap beer and even cheaper wine. There was always a lot of talk about Foucault and Derrida, lots of bad hummus and bowls of blue corn chip crumbs. At Emily's birthday party I told a man named Jacques that my favorite book was To Kill a Mockingbird; he practically patted my head and said he found it a "quaint narrative -- tolerable if you go for that sort of thing."
If you stayed at one of these parties long enough, you would hear Emily describe herself as "someone who likes to color outside the lines" at least 3 or 4 times. As far as I could tell, this simply meant that she liked to wear gauzy skirts that were forever getting caught in the chain of her bike and, that said bike was forever being stolen because she either forgot to lock it or took some communitarian stand against locking it, I'm not sure which. Sometimes she would set out HI MY NAME is__________ nametags and lead the way to hip literary irony by scrawling Sylvia or Simone on it and then slapping it across the front of her thrift store blouse. I always wanted, but thankfully could never summon the snotty pettiness necessary, to point out that Simone de Beauvoir wouldn't be caught dead at a party with such cheap booze and bad posturing. How ironic Emily, don't you think?!
I was leaning against going until Ellen showed up with my birthday present, a month and a half late. Lately, a new urge to forge ahead into more adult terrain had exerted itself. A year and 3 months out of college, heading into my second year of teaching English to 9th graders at a well-respected charter school, I wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to parties at the group homes of college acquaintances, but I was getting closer by the day. Ellen, however, was interested in Jake, the wry, handsome graduate assistant for the Masters Program she and Emily were enrolled in. She knew he would be there and knew good and well, as she handed me the box wrapped in orange tissue paper, that my company could be purchased fairly cheaply. The polka dot dress fit like a dream and she knew just the party for me to wear it to.
The late August air held tight to the heat and smog of the day, refusing to loosen its grip even though the sun was already rounding the far curve of the Atlantic, nudging people awake in London. Emily's windows were open and Ellen immediately spotted Jake as we climbed the front steps. The door was locked for some strange reason and when Emily finally opened it she tried to gather us both up into some awkward, sisters-in-arms embrace.
"Girls! I am so glad you made it. Tess! Love the dress. Oh listen to me! What a poet!" she trilled. Behind her the party was in full swing.
"Great skirt, Emily. Is it new?" Ellen asked and I managed to keep a straight face. Ellen isn't mean or smug, in fact she's extraordinarily kind. She notices and remembers quirks and details and reads people like childrens books--her brain moving just a little faster than everyone else's, spinning and storing, gathering and retrieving information. She is both exceedingly polite and terribly impish.
Inside we found the usual assortment of people and the new faces of friends of friends and people who randomly received the Evite. Jake saw Ellen while we rummaged through the cupboard searching for cups and he made a charmingly obvious bee-line for her. She introduced me, he asked some above par small talk questions and seemed genuinely smart and terrific, which really, given Ellen's finicky preference and her ability to detect affectation miles away, wasn't all that surprisng. Soon enough, though,they were laughing a chummy, private laugh--the sort that makes you happy for your friend and irritated that you have to go the rest of the evening alone.
Before Emily's party, my path crossed with Nick's only a few times. Those brief encounters featured short, non-conversations, of little value for extended analysis with Ellen. That night he was wearing his ratty old green Oakland A's baseball cap. He was the only person in the room wearing a hat, and under its brim he seemed both jocular and brainy. At that party, in this city, the combination seemed a rare, valuable find--as delicious as french fries and ice cream. I ate it up.
to be continued...
14 July 2006
get real
By no stretch of any of the terms can donations to political campaigns be rightly considered "charitable giving". Please.
12 July 2006
open letter to a friend
Dear Rilla.
If there was more than a handful of sense in the world things would stack up differently with you on top. Not that you're aiming for stratospheric heights from which to gaze down your nose at those below, but you know what I mean. You always do. If the whole world is indeed a stage, people would do well to stop talking and just hand you the microphone.
Do hydrageas bloom all summer? Even when we are old--with feeble knees, grandbabies clambering to be caught up to the safety of our laps-- these blue flowers will call you (the here and now version, wearing your new blue dress) to mind. Something about their cheerful, steady grace; the way they put showy flowers to shame, lasting and lasting in the glass vase settled in the pool of sunlight on the table.
It's strange and funny how one person comes to embody a single virtue or vice, a noun, a place or a even the specific shade of a certain color in the picture dictionary of another person's mind. I could be wrong, but it seems that amidst the whirl of life 'round here, you represent calm, safety, rest to so many people. Here. We can trust you. Let us hand your our secrets, let us sit in your blue, caring calm. Thank you for this and also: I'm sorry. How well I know: even rest itself needs rest-- so where do you find it?
Rilke holds out hope to us, I think. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside. I am looking for this hillside. When I find it finally, with the old live oak tree at the top, I will send you a map (poorly drawn) and an invitation typed on my favorite old green typewriter on the best, creamiest paper I can find. Under the thick branches and the swish of leaves, we will sit and drink sweet tea and find rest from the lives we lead. Will you come?
in peace & affection,
k.
If there was more than a handful of sense in the world things would stack up differently with you on top. Not that you're aiming for stratospheric heights from which to gaze down your nose at those below, but you know what I mean. You always do. If the whole world is indeed a stage, people would do well to stop talking and just hand you the microphone.
Do hydrageas bloom all summer? Even when we are old--with feeble knees, grandbabies clambering to be caught up to the safety of our laps-- these blue flowers will call you (the here and now version, wearing your new blue dress) to mind. Something about their cheerful, steady grace; the way they put showy flowers to shame, lasting and lasting in the glass vase settled in the pool of sunlight on the table.
It's strange and funny how one person comes to embody a single virtue or vice, a noun, a place or a even the specific shade of a certain color in the picture dictionary of another person's mind. I could be wrong, but it seems that amidst the whirl of life 'round here, you represent calm, safety, rest to so many people. Here. We can trust you. Let us hand your our secrets, let us sit in your blue, caring calm. Thank you for this and also: I'm sorry. How well I know: even rest itself needs rest-- so where do you find it?
Rilke holds out hope to us, I think. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside. I am looking for this hillside. When I find it finally, with the old live oak tree at the top, I will send you a map (poorly drawn) and an invitation typed on my favorite old green typewriter on the best, creamiest paper I can find. Under the thick branches and the swish of leaves, we will sit and drink sweet tea and find rest from the lives we lead. Will you come?
in peace & affection,
k.
10 July 2006
Self-Evaluation
Please fill in the blank by choosing from the options below.
I am_____:
self-controlled
self-absorbed
self-contained
self-reliant
self-centered
self-sufficient
self-involved
self-employed
self-fulfilled
self-proclaimed
self-satisfied
self-deluding
*Note to self: for highest level of accuracy, have evaluation filled out by someone other than self.
I am_____:
self-controlled
self-absorbed
self-contained
self-reliant
self-centered
self-sufficient
self-involved
self-employed
self-fulfilled
self-proclaimed
self-satisfied
self-deluding
*Note to self: for highest level of accuracy, have evaluation filled out by someone other than self.
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