read before opening

The Santa thing is a hard one. We ask our children to believe what we tell them: eat your carrots they are good for you,  listen to your teachers, brush your teeth. What we tell them is part protection, part prevention, and one part sales pitch. The sales pitch is the one tool parents pull out most often: okay Jimmy, if you don't (fill in the blank) or if you do (fill in the blank) this is what will happen. It is do what I want and I'll either give you what you want (if you stop screeching you can watch Sponge Bob) or if you do what I don't want you to do, you better watch out. Even good ol' Santa, the kind-hearted and generous spirit of giving, evidently holds the sales pitch guillotine over their innocent heads, or so the song tells us: you better watch out you better not cry you better not pout. It is good for kids to behave, to be respectful, to take care of their bodies, to learn to get along, to give their parents and everybody else within earshot a break and not scream and shout. And I think it is good for children to have something big and amazing to dream and wonder about, to hope for, and to believe that there is this mysterious and unseen entity out there who cares for them. In our home we answered the "if Santa loves everybody then why do some kids get nothing and other kids get a lot of somethings and isn't it weird how poor kids seem to get nothing and rich kids who already have everything, get so much more" question by explaining that everyone gets exactly what they need. Non-believers, of course, sometimes get nothing. Sometimes they are surprised and get that tiny spark of a dream glowing in their hearts awakened. Wealthy children get lots and lots of stuff, sort of a dudley Dursley-esque Christmas, with more than they can possibly use or play with, or enjoy. The reason is that when people get too much that is exactly what they need as well. The want hole in them is tremendously big and needs constant filling, and the lesson clearly needs to be constantly shown to them; a friend of mine said to her 8 year-old, who followed a trail of gifts down the long winding staircase,  that she just wanted her to feel a sense of abundance on her birthday. The sad thing is that a feeling of abundance has little to do with seventeen new miniature outfits and custom carry-on luggage for the American Girl doll, under the tree or spilling down the stairs, or wielded like the big Whack-A-Mole hammer over a child's head: be good and abundance will follow. If there is a want hole, the only way to fill it is to close it, easier said than done obviously, and of course, nobody wants a dollop of anti-capitalism on Christmas Eve served up with the soy-nog.  That said, the folks who gets the mostest usually wants the mostest, and we should pity them. When you are happy, truly happy with whatever you have, that is the greatest gift of all. It is, truly, a rare and wonderful thing. Which is why so few of us have it.

the very life of life

Look to this day,

For it is life,

The very life of life

In all its brief course lie all

The realities and truths of existence.

The joy of growth

The splendor of action,

The glory of power.

For yesterday is but a memory

And tomorrow is only a vision.

But today well lived

Makes every yesterday a memory of happiness

And every tomorrow a vision of Hope.

Look well, therefore, to this day.

(this is a Sanscrit poem learned by my son this fall in his fifth grade class)

the perfect gift for that special someone who has everything: holiday gift guide part two

If that special someone is say, an in-law, we all know the real reason behind any gift, so let's just cut to the chase: it can be that charming $11,000 watch in the 2011 December issue of Garden and Gun, but let's face it folks, it's not going to make a difference. Either you and hubby are in the will or you're out, and like the pathetically depleted splendor of the Cracker Jack prize in the boxes these days, by the time you get to it through all the sticky and not enough of the good stuff, there is no counting on it being what you thought it would be. Not to gun for Andy Rooney's old job, but no more miniature baseball charms or thumb-sized puzzle, but a pathetic piece of paper with a question about someone famous on it, which the lucky recipient must then fold in a lame origami-ish way to reveal the answer. Don't the CJ people know that nobody wants to work for what is supposed to be free anymore? Not in a world where people leave entire estates to little Pucci the pomeranian.

But then, maybe the whole idea behind gifts is the problem. Trans-fats and corn-plumped feedlot beef ground into flat grey patties aside, I am not keen on my child getting a toy just because he said Happy Meal. So maybe somebody at Cracker Jack is onto the right thing: make the little devils work for the prize, which is no prize at all once the paper is folded, sort of doubly sadistic all in one nicely nostalgic box (oh, this could be a segue into health insurance, but alas, another day). Which is why most people buy Cracker Jacks these days, because the packages evoke some sweet childhood memory; it is clearly not for the stale popcorn. We see them in the store and with one dull plop into the cart hope to pass a few quaint, not just those-were-the-days, but those were my childhood days, feelings to our beloved, and a nice dollop of what we value. Not bad for a buck ninety-nine for three.

But what do we pass on to that dear someone who has, not just everything, but everything everything? If Dickens were here to re-write the whole Scrooge saga he would have fodder a'plenty. Please, I am so not thinking an Adam Sandler version, nor even a (supposedly) edgier Jason Issacs' Lucius Malfoy morped into the big meanie, but a true Dickensian remake. He could begin with the editors of any magazine that lists in its current December issue's gift guide the latest must-crave (oh, I mean, must-give) which is clearly not just out of range for the majority of said periodical's readership (see above: $11,000 watch) but in the current economy (see: jobless rate, number of longtime unemployed no longer receiving money to live on, et al) just in plain poor taste. Presumably those behind the gist (artisan grits and homebrew-as-the-new-brew, and good god, you foodies should know by now that true homebrew is shine, not some nifty IPA you concocted from the hops your wife grew to shade the urban chicken coop) of Garden and Gun should know enough to uphold the gentile manners espoused by a magazine of the south. I can say this because I am an ex-pat southerner. I have had the dubious pleasure of being served the most wonderous and tiny biscuits by a most wonderful and hard-working cook, to whom my ex-in-laws referred to as one of their suh-vents. Did I ever tell you about the time the gardener, Mule, was fired because he asked aforementioned in-laws for a raise? From $3.25 an hour (well, he had worked for them since before then-hubby was born, so maybe 30 years). And the nerve! He wanted,  we were told, over neat gin and tonics and some of those amazing cheese wafers, to buy a radio. A radio! Now why on earth would old Mule need a radio!  Ya'll up there in yankeeville you can just wait, your turn is coming because I'm heading for the big O next. That would be you Ms. Winfrey: enough with the O list of bedazzled goodies. Do your readers need yet another reason to take on a second shift, in addition to the need to feed their children and put a Hormel on the Christmas table. Remember, second mortgages are so 2007.

And now to the question at hand: why are we even wondering, or told we should be wondering, just what to get for that special someone who has everything? The answer (see photo above) seems perfectly clear. Give them my handy-dandy shopping list. On said shopping list, have neatly written in your bestest handwriting these words: god bless us everyone. Highlight the word everyone.  Give that shopping list to every special someone you know, especially all of us who really, when you stop to think about it,  do already have everything.

Shopping List and Instructions for What to Give That Special Someone You Have Never Met But Who Clearly Needs Something

Handwarmer packets.
A pair of socks. Those with drawerfulls might not know this, but when you are living on little or no money there is no money for socks even from the thrift store. Not to be holier than thou, but I would be happy to show you one of my socks that I wore every day the past two years. Or was that a stretchy knit open-toed footless sandal?
Maybe some candy because it is Christmas and even when you are down and out the smallest kind thought goes a long way.
A granola bar or two. Crackers. Tuna in packets.
Kleenex or wipes.
Toothbrush and toothpaste.
Whatever else you might imagine a person living on the streets might be able to use, or would enjoy.
Put this stuff in a gift bag. Have the gift bags in your car and hand them out when you see someone asking for money. And don't forget to say Merry Christmas.

holiday gift guide 2011

Oh I know, nobody likes too many pesky facts, especially on a Monday, and Cyber Monday at that, and after a national holiday dedicated to stuffing the ye olde shopping cart as soon as we can all shove off from stuffing the ye olde gullet. So I promise to make this short, no guarantee on the sweet. Did you know that 16.2 million children in this country experienced food insecurity this year (and don't you just love the nicely anesthetized lingo for plain old (and highly likely not rare hand-collected Madagascar vanilla-beaned) hunger? Food insecurity is not when your youngest squawks for more tater tots. Food insecurity is not when you open the pantry and there are only three boxes of cereal, not the customary six, and so off to Costco you must go. Food insecurity is not wondering if offering up one's first-born might be the way to get that coveted reservation at French Laundry, or the disappointment when the pancetta package is empty. And while I'm on the subject, 23% of children are homeless in this country, and 770,000 of those homeless children are enrolled in school. And go to school hungry, or tired from being afraid to sleep in the back of the family car. Please imagine leaning over the backseat to tuck your child in, if you have one, or maybe your pet pug, and kissing them goodnight, in the morning helping them get dressed for school in the restroom at the Chevron down the street.

Now before you get those new Pink panties in a wad I have an admission: when we had no money for food I dreamed of being able to walk into a grocery store and buy anything I wanted. And let me say  that I was not dreaming of more pintos. I dreamed of reaching out and taking hold and dropping into my shopping cart and not even having to look at a price. I wanted to consume with the best of them, and by gosh, like any American worth my Maldon salt, if I worked hard and hubby worked hard, well why not. So let's just say that my joy at being given that first generous and hunger-staving sack of pintos at the food bank slowly supersized into dreams of Cowgirl Creamery chevre. And when we re-entered the data of re-employed I actually caught myself throwing out half a bag of baby lettuce because, get this, it seemed wilted. And it reminded me of an earlier time, when I had money and if I needed something I could get it. Shoes, underwear, socks, tires for the Saab, a box of glucosamine treats for the pooch, a shirt that would hang in my closet with the tag on it for a year before I remembered I had it, simply because I had the money which meant I simply could; and it meant, by virtue of this is just how we do things here, that I could buy something I might not need just because I just might thinks I wants it, that it would somehow shine a light on whatever recess of my soul needed illumination, whatever empty hole I had that needed filling. Oh those darn holes, those sad places we think will mean we are better or cuter or have arrived or belong to The Club or are down with that, or as cool as, if we stuff them with stuff.

Holiday gift guide rule number 1: consider that which thou covets. And don't go getting all clingy and me wants it so me's gonna haves it, because this holiday season, Gollum, down there in his slimey cave whispering to himself and thinking only about his bling, is the new Scrooge. And despite what the salesgirl at Barney's, the white-smattered faux-snowed windows at Gucci, the It's Christmastime in the city, tells you, nobody looks good decked out in Gollum. Less bling, more truth, and to all a good night.

the hiatus: or, what I did on my summer vacation

It is not my habit to comment on my photos but it is my habit that they are usually a springboard for my writing. Sometimes I have an inkling and then I dig around and find one that seems to suit the thought and off I go. It does seem a bit like cheating: the writing comes easy this way. Not that I write about the photo but that it illuminates something lurking in my mind, and once I see it the words seem to rise and waver out of nowhere, and all I have to do is chase after them. It can be said that this is a gift and if you know anyone who writes or endeavors to write or even is paid a lot of money to write, they will tell you that writing in and of itself is a dreadful, tedious, and excruciating process, a self-crucifixtion, an autopsy where you wield the scalpel (on a good day) and on a bad, the chain saw, and on your very self. It can be like this: you stand there with many people pushing you forward, one of them maybe your beloved, or maybe that nice English teacher you had in the seventh grade or maybe Mr. You Need to Pay the Rent Right Now. As the writer you are both the executioner and the only person in the word who holds the key to redemption in their itty bitty hands.

This photo I am calling Crazy Quilt Stitched with Razor Wire. No wait, maybe it should be Room With a View. It is what I did on my summer vacation from writing, when the noose was no less loose (oh hell has it been that long) yet I had nothing to say. No wait, I always have something to say, many somethings and variations on even all that. Correction: sometime in July I think, without really putting much thought into it I just said I wasn't going to say and see how that worked for me. An option to the platform is of course solitary confinement. Did I say an option? Really, if you are meant to write or really, if you are meant to pick beans or skate across a luminous glaze of ice in front of ten thousand people or meant to pat the baby on her back or be the one to walk the walk or whatever it is your purpose in life is, and you don't; well. As far as that story goes I am ready for the next chapter.

I took the above photo when I was, as I mentioned, on hiatus, having cleaved myself from spilling my guts onto the page because it seemed no use. Shouting down from the scaffolding, across an empty canyon, into an empty room and onto the calm before the storm of an empty page is my life's purpose but nowhere in the fine print does it say I am admonished from and prohibited therefore from earning a living thereof and from. The photo was my room with a view, while on a trip for a family wedding. That the rest of the wedding party was doing the mojitos with freshly plucked mint in the poolside cabana down the road at the luxury spa was not lost on me. The El Rancho Motel, within spitting distance from it's sister bar and the nightly buzz of police search helicopters, was not what I had in mind.

Or was it. Because here I am and like the little girlie in the cute hood and the basket full of goodies, the big bad wolf was just full of hot air (oh wait that was the pig story) but anyway, what I mean to say is that good god, you leap and then the words are like tiny links in a chain, or so you think until the flock takes flight and there you are: seeing something beyond, and past the wire and fencing, which of course would be a something you never knew.

one chinchilla w/ everything

I suppose if I were a chinchilla having everything wouldn't be such a bad thing. Large cage, plenty of dust for those pleasantly invigorating dust baths, one of those water bottles with the plastic tube hanging on the cage ever at the ready. Heck, come to think of it, a life with everything chinchilla style or no, would be spiffy. Now I don't want to complain--today being international take a look at what you've got and suck it up day--but I do wish to point out that the song I hear playing everywhere these days is We Could Have Had it All, so maybe it's not just me. Now that Harry Potter is on to his own midlife crisis with the kids off to school and Ginny looking more like her mother every day, my child asked me when our Ms. Rowling will out with another book. Not one to let a learning opportunity slip by, I posed my own question, okay, two: first, I said, are you crazy? if you had a billion dollars and three kids and a busy schedule full of red carpets, tea with the Queen (not of the royal sort or Latifah girl, but the big O) would you sit down for hours everyday staring at the screen or the notebook or your third left fingernail or your cat or the mouse and one click and to solitaire you go, and drag yourself through all the hard, tedious, and did I mention, hard, work of writing? Of writing, not a letter mind you, not a shopping list for the next spin through any store you damn well please and step on it James, but a book, a novel for crying out loud, which means many pages and all those mumbo jumbo ideas and that pile of snippets on post its, and let's not forget--oh no, let's not forget because no one else in the entire world who has heard of Hogwarts is going to, that the next one had better be good. Better than good, it would have to be, as Harry himself would say, brilliant.

I suppose when you are down here at the bottom of the heap amidst the dustlings, things aren't so bad after all.


(for a chinchilla w/everything please see craigslist)

loads and ladies

My sister and I were discussing the popularity of a certain blog the other day, how the gal made a million dollars on it last year and that, even before the book and movie deal. Is it her recipes we wondered, or the way she calls her hubby Marlboro Man, or maybe that recording of her burping, or possibly because people read it and imagine themselves in her shoes, what life would be like if they were her. And that's when I realized this whole this is my life and if I can do it so can you take has been way off course. What was I thinking? We had a good laugh imagining anyone wanting to put themselves in my shoes. First of all, what big shoes you have my dear and how 1970s of you to be wearing, how shall I say this nicely? such a stylelessly out-of-step pair. Secondly, hello, the part of the story and usually in the prologue or maybe back there on the jacket flap, where little Miss heretofore unknown and out of nowhere and no money whatsoever and re-using an old envelope that had the notice in it to send in that manuscript, nursing the one latte all day in the same cafe writing while the baby slept thus avoiding her heatless flat and now richer than the queen and with movie number seven part II, richer than the queen's god, is where it gets good. I, however, am not yet to that part of my story, despite many pages and even the chapter about the heatless home, so for now all my readers can imagine is life on the edge and how the fall and the climb seem equally daunting, if not damn near impossible. Who has time for that sort of reality? Now, if I threw in a bit of Amy Winehouse and maybe some drama and drugs, who knows.

I have done my share of reading, okay, maybe even a bit too much, all those days in school when the door said Geometry and the book I was reading said Lost Horizons. The truth is that there are really only two stories, despite the costume variations: the one where she gets burned at the stake and the whole village gathers to watch, or the one where she pulls it out of her pocket, shoots the mean guy in the knee, uses the noose that would have had her hanging to swing over the crowd and then onto the back of her trusty steed, off she rides into the sunset. In the former, despite good intentions or maybe an ill wind fanning the flames or else blowing them away and causing  the whole ordeal to drag on, no matter really, our girl Jane does not make it. We suffer with her and want to smack the onlookers, though really, them are us: vicariously wiping our forehead with a collective whew, thank god that wasn't me. We want her to get (oh! I just love a good multiple choice) a) her man, b) her man and his money, c) her own damn money or fame, or at least, out of that shoe and away from all those snot-nosed children. Only, she doesn't, and the slap in the face is to her and us both: take that, ouch, for ever thinking you could a) be, b) do, c) speak, talk, or walk the different path. The world loves a good heretic, especially when reminded how risky and in the end, don't even go there. Better to sit on one's tuffet and enjoy whatever one eats quietly while the acromantulas of the world have their way.

Maybe it's time to rethink the odd slant I've been on, the it doesn't have to be that way just because they say so take. The ending isn't pretty, and really, I'm no big fan of martyrdom. For one the clothes are a bit too Eileen Fisher meets potato famine, and it pretty much axes the chance for a sequel.

In the latter version, our girl kicks some serious ass. And she does it in her own way, maybe with a spatula and who said doughnuts have to be sweet or that chili-infused peach jam doesn't make a great pancake sauce, especially when the cakes are blue corn. Or maybe, a dipping sauce for neo hush puppies! The bottom line is that she uses the rope she's been given, which is really the choice we all have in life: to use the rope to our advantage, or to hang ourselves. Either way, we are given a bit of rope and it's up to each of us to decide what to do with it.

Now, if I could just get hubby to agree to me calling him Working Class White Man, I might be on to something.