I've noticed lately that people who have a tendency to weigh-in on political blogs/stories/etc. are those with the strongest opinions. And maybe sometimes crazy. (Plantboy found one the other day slamming the "comunist public eduacatoin" system. Spelling from the original.) Reasoned discussions are getting harder to come by, though I dearly love them. I feel like throwing in the towel entirely when a friend, an actual friend, basically announced to the world on my Facebook page that people who didn't see Romney as the one to save us from ourselves just hadn't prayed enough about it. Okay, that is maybe a little bit dramatic . . . but any implication that my spirituality is in question because I'm an Obama supporter is just really not okay. And I wish members of the Church would just STOP IT. And I also am sorry to those Romney supporters out there if I have made you to feel that wasn't okay. I am sorry if my criticisms at times have crossed over from problems with him as a candidate or his positions into problems with members of his voting bloc. Members of the Church need to STOP THAT too.
And along with things we are stopping, how about dropping some of that gloom-and-doom last days stuff we hear in Sunday school in exchange for optimism, hope and joy. Contrary to whatever some people think, I don't come to Church to feel worse about my neighbors or terrified about raising my children. And I think most of my neighbors are pretty good folks . . . and I have no idea what (or if any) religion they are. We focus so much on what is OUT THERE, but the scriptures tell us the Church was never destroyed by what was out there, only by what was inside.
Just yesterday we were riding our bikes and rode through pile of crunchy leaves and I felt unbelievably happy to be alive at this time, in this place, with these kids and with that sound. Whenever we talk about getting back to the "good old days" let's at least be realistic about what life looked like then. Few opportunities for women. No voting rights. No community diversity. Uncertain air and water and food supplies. Education for some, but no for all. Work from sun up to sun down just to feed your family. No laws to protect women from male piggishness; which, let's face it, has been a part of humanity since the discovery of sex. Sanctioned segregation. Again, if we are to talk about some fictional return to Mayberry, let's remind ourselves that it really is fiction.
I've also noticed that mom-blogs with the most hits and responses are those that tend toward pictures of cute new mommies throughout pregnancy, book reviews, recipes, fashion tips and decorating ideas. Don't get me wrong; I like these blogs too. But I hope we aren't losing our chance to say something important because there are things easier to think about than hard things. Conversely, I hope I don't lose my chance to enjoy life because my head is always filled with the hard things.
On these musings I'm going to close by saying that I'm not going to post anything political here or on Facebook until the election. You know my views and for the most part I know yours. TamathyC said that we don't post to convince (how often does THAT happen), but to know we aren't alone. You have taught me to know that I'm not alone. That there is place for me in the culture of my choice. It is just that the opposition voices are getting too loud, and sometimes too personal. I just think I can't stand up as a target anymore. Of course, I'm still happy to have a private and reasonable conversation with any one of you. You know where to find me.
Showing posts with label Prosy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prosy. Show all posts
Monday, September 24, 2012
Monday, August 01, 2011
Little Women
I love how the girls in Little Women patiently submit to their lots in life with zest, enthusiasm and obedience. Trials stemming from rebelliousness are temporary and soon ended with a kind word from "Marmee."
There should be a personality test for women in which you are identified as a Meg (bustling, domestic, motherly, likes nice things but is willing to sacrifice, proper, musical); a Jo (rebellious, rough, tomboy, restless, literary, unconventional); a Beth (charitable to a fault, kind always, still, faithful, also musical) or an Amy (elegant, tactful, artistic, the center of her social circle).
I've always most identified with Jo, though in some ways the above description isn't necessarily self-fitting. On a recent reading, Jo's main character trait that stands out to me is her restlessness. What suspends belief is that when she is married and more or less settled with her old professor and a houseful of boys is that all restlessness ends for her: maybe the houseful of boys was enough movement for her. Or not. Alcott herself was pretty much Jo, though she never married. The last chapter of her novel reads like her own castle in the air that isn't really grounded in reality. I can almost see Alcott in the garrett of smallish home, writing her prose and pining away for a man who would never come. Her father was a great friend to Thoreau: perhaps he was her ideal man in the way the professor was to Jo.
I am very restless this week. As we plan our annual pilgrimage to Utah, during which Plantboy and Jedi Knight are going to take an awesome canoeing trip, I cannot help but think that women spend a lot of time standing still while men get to move. And I am still having trouble learning to be still. I know that some of it is situational--my kids are still quite young--but it doesn't change things a whole lot. And we train them from a very young age to think this way: our girls go to Girl's Camp for long afternoons of crafts, a few water games, lots of cooking lessons and touchy-feely self-esteem boosting type activities. The teenage boys? They left this morning for a 50 mile backpack trip this week. In my mind it should be pretty clear which type of activity is more character-building, and yet we persist in defining kids almost wholly by their sex.
Oh, I am so restless. Graduate school this summer was very easy as I took an introduction class. Maybe as the challenges arise in the fall I won't feel like my spirit is trying to crawl out of my skin.
There should be a personality test for women in which you are identified as a Meg (bustling, domestic, motherly, likes nice things but is willing to sacrifice, proper, musical); a Jo (rebellious, rough, tomboy, restless, literary, unconventional); a Beth (charitable to a fault, kind always, still, faithful, also musical) or an Amy (elegant, tactful, artistic, the center of her social circle).
I've always most identified with Jo, though in some ways the above description isn't necessarily self-fitting. On a recent reading, Jo's main character trait that stands out to me is her restlessness. What suspends belief is that when she is married and more or less settled with her old professor and a houseful of boys is that all restlessness ends for her: maybe the houseful of boys was enough movement for her. Or not. Alcott herself was pretty much Jo, though she never married. The last chapter of her novel reads like her own castle in the air that isn't really grounded in reality. I can almost see Alcott in the garrett of smallish home, writing her prose and pining away for a man who would never come. Her father was a great friend to Thoreau: perhaps he was her ideal man in the way the professor was to Jo.
I am very restless this week. As we plan our annual pilgrimage to Utah, during which Plantboy and Jedi Knight are going to take an awesome canoeing trip, I cannot help but think that women spend a lot of time standing still while men get to move. And I am still having trouble learning to be still. I know that some of it is situational--my kids are still quite young--but it doesn't change things a whole lot. And we train them from a very young age to think this way: our girls go to Girl's Camp for long afternoons of crafts, a few water games, lots of cooking lessons and touchy-feely self-esteem boosting type activities. The teenage boys? They left this morning for a 50 mile backpack trip this week. In my mind it should be pretty clear which type of activity is more character-building, and yet we persist in defining kids almost wholly by their sex.
Oh, I am so restless. Graduate school this summer was very easy as I took an introduction class. Maybe as the challenges arise in the fall I won't feel like my spirit is trying to crawl out of my skin.
Monday, September 06, 2010
Mirror of Erised
In the book Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Harry is wandering through his boarding school/castle one night and stumbles across a very curious mirror. Instead of seeing just himself in the mirror, he sees himself surrounded by relatives, with his mother and father at the forefront. For those ten or so remaining people in the world who haven't seen the movie or read the book, this is very strange because Harry's parents died just a few months after his first birthday. The only home he has ever known is that of his mother's sister, a woman who is vicious and shallow and cares nothing for Harry or his freakish magical nature.
Harry quickly wakes his best friend from their dorm so that he might show Ron his parents. Ron, however, the youngest of six boys whose greatest fears involve failure and wondering if his mother only had him because she craved a daughter, sees something else entirely. He sees himself as a Hogwarts Head Boy and leading the Gryffindor Quidditch team to the House Cup. For you American Muggles out there, that is the equivalent of being student body president and the captain of the football team when they take state. Ron hopefully asks if the mirror shows the future, but Harry reminds him that his parents are dead.
The boys realize that the mirror doesn't actually show what you are or might become, but what you want the most. Ron thinks the mirror is cool, but Harry gets a bit obsessed with it. He goes back several times until the school's headmaster finds him gazing at it late one night. He explains a little bit about the Mirror of Erised, and how it shows nothing more or less than the deepest wish of your heart. A perfectly contented man would see only himself. He tells Harry that men have wasted away their lives in front of the mirror, longing for an illusion. He also explains that the mirror will be moved, and he implores Harry not to go looking for it.
And in typical JK Rowling fashion, where a name is never just random, Erised is a palindrome of Desire. In the movie version, they went so far as to create an engraving across the top, which is just more information about the mirror printed backwards. It is a rather tender and pathetic scene, film-wise, the 11 year-old Daniel Radcliffe is adorable and the mother in every woman wants to adopt Harry at that moment.
As I was watching it the other day (I had my Young Women here for a sleepover--they had an HP marathon to get ready for The Deathly Hallows and watched all SIX of them in a row), I wondered what I might see in the Mirror of Erised.
I'm almost embarrassed to say my first thought.
NO, it was not for me to be in a room filled with really fine, milky European chocolate. Sheesh. How shallow do you think I am?
Okay, pretty shallow. I saw myself standing at a podium in a roomful of librarians while I accepted the Newbery Medal with a speech that was witty, self-deprecating and perfectly charming. I was wearing a really great outfit.
But then the picture changed and I saw myself tenderly cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in pink.
A third picture came on the heels of that--the Jedi grown into handsome men in the image of their father, dressed as missionaries.
Other pictures followed that of a more sacred and eternal nature.
Still, isn't it clear that I moved from self outward, rather than the other way around? Or skipping the self bit entirely? The last several days I have been cognizant of the thought that my actions aren't always reflective of my deepest desires. Even the selfish ones.
I'll be home a lot over the next couple of weeks. School has started again and I'm going to make a concentrated effort to potty train the Youngling. Nearly nine years of changing diapers may come to an end in just two weeks. No doubt there are many of you out there who did your time for far longer. I salute you. A single child might use upwards of 10,000 diapers and pull-ups before being fully trained. Do the math. Or don't, it might just make you cry.
Anyway, during my couple of weeks of being at home time, I am giving myself a break from Internet technology, as much as is practical. It will be a good time for me to figure out the things that I want the most, and then spend my time accordingly.
Harry quickly wakes his best friend from their dorm so that he might show Ron his parents. Ron, however, the youngest of six boys whose greatest fears involve failure and wondering if his mother only had him because she craved a daughter, sees something else entirely. He sees himself as a Hogwarts Head Boy and leading the Gryffindor Quidditch team to the House Cup. For you American Muggles out there, that is the equivalent of being student body president and the captain of the football team when they take state. Ron hopefully asks if the mirror shows the future, but Harry reminds him that his parents are dead.
The boys realize that the mirror doesn't actually show what you are or might become, but what you want the most. Ron thinks the mirror is cool, but Harry gets a bit obsessed with it. He goes back several times until the school's headmaster finds him gazing at it late one night. He explains a little bit about the Mirror of Erised, and how it shows nothing more or less than the deepest wish of your heart. A perfectly contented man would see only himself. He tells Harry that men have wasted away their lives in front of the mirror, longing for an illusion. He also explains that the mirror will be moved, and he implores Harry not to go looking for it.
And in typical JK Rowling fashion, where a name is never just random, Erised is a palindrome of Desire. In the movie version, they went so far as to create an engraving across the top, which is just more information about the mirror printed backwards. It is a rather tender and pathetic scene, film-wise, the 11 year-old Daniel Radcliffe is adorable and the mother in every woman wants to adopt Harry at that moment.
As I was watching it the other day (I had my Young Women here for a sleepover--they had an HP marathon to get ready for The Deathly Hallows and watched all SIX of them in a row), I wondered what I might see in the Mirror of Erised.
I'm almost embarrassed to say my first thought.
NO, it was not for me to be in a room filled with really fine, milky European chocolate. Sheesh. How shallow do you think I am?
Okay, pretty shallow. I saw myself standing at a podium in a roomful of librarians while I accepted the Newbery Medal with a speech that was witty, self-deprecating and perfectly charming. I was wearing a really great outfit.
But then the picture changed and I saw myself tenderly cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in pink.
A third picture came on the heels of that--the Jedi grown into handsome men in the image of their father, dressed as missionaries.
Other pictures followed that of a more sacred and eternal nature.
Still, isn't it clear that I moved from self outward, rather than the other way around? Or skipping the self bit entirely? The last several days I have been cognizant of the thought that my actions aren't always reflective of my deepest desires. Even the selfish ones.
I'll be home a lot over the next couple of weeks. School has started again and I'm going to make a concentrated effort to potty train the Youngling. Nearly nine years of changing diapers may come to an end in just two weeks. No doubt there are many of you out there who did your time for far longer. I salute you. A single child might use upwards of 10,000 diapers and pull-ups before being fully trained. Do the math. Or don't, it might just make you cry.
Anyway, during my couple of weeks of being at home time, I am giving myself a break from Internet technology, as much as is practical. It will be a good time for me to figure out the things that I want the most, and then spend my time accordingly.
What do YOU see in the mirror? And if you only see yourself, please share with us the secret to your contentment.
Monday, June 21, 2010
I Don't Care What You Think. Except When I Do.
My dearest friend in high school had a disarming way of saying exactly what was on her mind. She didn't care a whit for what other people thought about her utter lack of subtlety. Those who loved her understood how she was and overlooked any perceived offense, those who didn't know or love her didn't merit any notice on her radar.
How I envied her.
For a while I even fancied that I was the same. Saying precisely what was on my mind was my modus operandi for ages 17 through um . . . about the time I became a missionary. It was odd really because Aussies are known for shooting straight from the hip--their brutal honesty was shocking beyond belief sometimes. (Ohmygosh! Did you notice that huge zit on your nose???!!?? Um, yeah, thanks, I did strangely enough.) I think my care about how other perceived me stemmed a lot from the fact that I was no longer just speaking for myself. I wore a black name tag that professed to the world that I represented a lot of interests: my surname made me a part of a family, the name of the Church made me an official spokesperson, but perhaps most importantly were the words JESUS CHRIST in all caps letters, overshadowing everything else on the tag. People might form opinions about Him based on their interaction with me.
And yet, Christ himself wasn't afraid of offending when real bluntness called for it.
My post-mission days never saw me completely revert to the person I was before (thank goodness for that), but I sometimes still wonder who the "real" me is--the person who blurted out whatever was on her mind, too often mistaking bitter sarcasm for wit? Or the person I was on my mission who would smile sweetly through all kinds of shocking revelations people found themselves to willing to give?
As seems to be the case with nearly everything in my life, the truth is probably some where in the middle. I know this will sound odd to some of you, as my writings here don't often shirk from controversy. (I am probably the same in person, too.) However, when the argument strays into the personal or the tone takes that perceptible drop in civility, I find my heart beating faster and my hands clammy. A slightly nauseous feeling sits in my stomach and I'm suddenly consumed with guilt for having hurt someone's feelings. Even potentially. In "real" life, I tend to keep my opinions a little closer to the chest, not wanting to wreck the potential for friendships because I was too blunt or too outspoken too soon.
Recently I read a blog, following a link from a trusted page to an interesting name, and found myself confronted with some pretty in-your-face political ideology, much of it at odds with my own thoughts. It was clear that many of the person's comment-ers and followers were like- minded, and though I might have said a good many things (my brain was so full of things to say that I could hardly form a coherent sentence), I refrained. I knew it would be useless, first of all. I also knew that what might make me feel better for a moment would probably not in the long run. I also knew I wouldn't be able to keep myself from checking back on the blog no doubt to find myself vilified and grilled. And for what?
My peace of mind would be, at least momentarily, deeply shaken. In addition, I would have stirred somebody else up to even greater anger than they already carried.
At the same time, just as with my friend from high school, I held a sort of grudging admiration for the writer of the blog. She clearly didn't give a damn who disagreed with her or if the whole world knew it.
Though the blog was anonymous. Interesting. So maybe she does care.
And, as it turns out, so do I. I care if people like me. I am concerned when I offend somebody, particularly a family member. If I am sarcastic in blog of Facebook comment, I obsess a bit about whether or not the person picked up on my tone. I care about whether or not somebody's perception of me affects their perception of the LDS Church, or Christians or my family or my husband or my children.
No doubt most of you have read that allegorical book "You Are Special" about the sweet little puppet who is made fun of by the others of his kind--their labels and criticisms sticking to him like glue. That is, these things stick to him until he meets his loving Maker in whose opinion he learns better to trust. I love that story. I love the idea that God's opinion should matter more to us than others' opinions.
But I'm just not there yet.
Please, chime in, do you care what others think of you? And I mean, PLEASE chime in: my whole point is that I do care what you think. Or don't chime in. Your silence will teach me to look to other sources for validation.
How I envied her.
For a while I even fancied that I was the same. Saying precisely what was on my mind was my modus operandi for ages 17 through um . . . about the time I became a missionary. It was odd really because Aussies are known for shooting straight from the hip--their brutal honesty was shocking beyond belief sometimes. (Ohmygosh! Did you notice that huge zit on your nose???!!?? Um, yeah, thanks, I did strangely enough.) I think my care about how other perceived me stemmed a lot from the fact that I was no longer just speaking for myself. I wore a black name tag that professed to the world that I represented a lot of interests: my surname made me a part of a family, the name of the Church made me an official spokesperson, but perhaps most importantly were the words JESUS CHRIST in all caps letters, overshadowing everything else on the tag. People might form opinions about Him based on their interaction with me.
And yet, Christ himself wasn't afraid of offending when real bluntness called for it.
My post-mission days never saw me completely revert to the person I was before (thank goodness for that), but I sometimes still wonder who the "real" me is--the person who blurted out whatever was on her mind, too often mistaking bitter sarcasm for wit? Or the person I was on my mission who would smile sweetly through all kinds of shocking revelations people found themselves to willing to give?
As seems to be the case with nearly everything in my life, the truth is probably some where in the middle. I know this will sound odd to some of you, as my writings here don't often shirk from controversy. (I am probably the same in person, too.) However, when the argument strays into the personal or the tone takes that perceptible drop in civility, I find my heart beating faster and my hands clammy. A slightly nauseous feeling sits in my stomach and I'm suddenly consumed with guilt for having hurt someone's feelings. Even potentially. In "real" life, I tend to keep my opinions a little closer to the chest, not wanting to wreck the potential for friendships because I was too blunt or too outspoken too soon.
Recently I read a blog, following a link from a trusted page to an interesting name, and found myself confronted with some pretty in-your-face political ideology, much of it at odds with my own thoughts. It was clear that many of the person's comment-ers and followers were like- minded, and though I might have said a good many things (my brain was so full of things to say that I could hardly form a coherent sentence), I refrained. I knew it would be useless, first of all. I also knew that what might make me feel better for a moment would probably not in the long run. I also knew I wouldn't be able to keep myself from checking back on the blog no doubt to find myself vilified and grilled. And for what?
My peace of mind would be, at least momentarily, deeply shaken. In addition, I would have stirred somebody else up to even greater anger than they already carried.
At the same time, just as with my friend from high school, I held a sort of grudging admiration for the writer of the blog. She clearly didn't give a damn who disagreed with her or if the whole world knew it.
Though the blog was anonymous. Interesting. So maybe she does care.
And, as it turns out, so do I. I care if people like me. I am concerned when I offend somebody, particularly a family member. If I am sarcastic in blog of Facebook comment, I obsess a bit about whether or not the person picked up on my tone. I care about whether or not somebody's perception of me affects their perception of the LDS Church, or Christians or my family or my husband or my children.
No doubt most of you have read that allegorical book "You Are Special" about the sweet little puppet who is made fun of by the others of his kind--their labels and criticisms sticking to him like glue. That is, these things stick to him until he meets his loving Maker in whose opinion he learns better to trust. I love that story. I love the idea that God's opinion should matter more to us than others' opinions.
But I'm just not there yet.
Please, chime in, do you care what others think of you? And I mean, PLEASE chime in: my whole point is that I do care what you think. Or don't chime in. Your silence will teach me to look to other sources for validation.
Friday, April 09, 2010
Follow Up
It seemed that some of my musings from the last post resonated with several of you. I came across a quote the very same day that summed up in a few lines exactly what I've been thinking about, and at the heart of why I started this blog in the first place. I did a lot of reading that day, and I think the quote showed up on a blog. If it was your blog, I apologize for plagiarizing the quote you plagiarized. ;)
"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin, real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. A last it dawned on me that these obstacles WERE my life. This perspective has helped me to see there is no way to happiness. Happiness IS the way. So treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one. Happiness is a journey, not a destination."
Alfred D. Sousa
"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin, real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. A last it dawned on me that these obstacles WERE my life. This perspective has helped me to see there is no way to happiness. Happiness IS the way. So treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one. Happiness is a journey, not a destination."
Alfred D. Sousa
I don't know who Alfred D. Sousa is. Brother to John Phillips, perhaps? If so, it makes sense why he was able to state the "happiness on the journey" theme so eloquently. If your brother was in the other room playing big band music on the tuba all the time, you'd have to get philosophical just to keep from blowing your brains out.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Flipping. Deseret. Book.
It is pretty much no secret that these folks are not going to be making my favorites list anytime soon, but recent events take the cake.
I live nearly two hours from the nearest Deseret Book. (Yes, Mom, you'd refer to this as "the mission field.") For one of our crafty-day projects, in October, if you recall, we made these photo album Sacrament quiet books. I wrote a little doctrinal thing about the sacrament, simplified for young kids, to match the pictures in Greg Olsen's small picture kit called "Images of the Savior." You put the words and pictures mounted into a photo album. The result is quite sweet. These cost about $8 each to make and several sisters signed up for multiples in order to give them to grandkids for Christmas.
Eighteen kits ended up being ordered. As soon as I had the money, two weeks before the Souper Saturday, I got on-line and ordered what I wanted. I put the money in my account and then I waited. And waited. And waited.
The day before I needed them, I called Deseret Book. Sorry, they are on backorder. Hmm . . . and you didn't let me know this over my email because? I mean, isn't that the POINT of having such technology? Not to worry, they assured me, they will be here in mid-November.
I passed on that information and when I had nothing by the 20th of November, and also realized they had never charged my card to begin with, I called again. Sorry they are on backorder. Again? Do you ever tell people anything? Well, she said sweetly (she is probably somebody's grandmother), I can tell you that our next shipment will be here December 14th and that we will FedEx them to you right away. OoooKaaaaaaaay. Oh, and you have until the 4th to cancel the order if you need to.
I spent a good chunk of the rest of that day calling the women who had signed up for the project to find out if they wanted me to cancel their orders and they could just get them at DB next time they were there? I could refund money? You know the drill. It was a huge headache.
Then, Saturday, I went to the temple with a friend who was getting her endowment. It was a lovely day, if a bit hectic. (Plantboy and I went together and left the kids for a few hours with a friend that moved there from our ward. It turned out to be an 8 hour round trip. And while it seems really sacrificial and righteous for the temple to be such an effort, I mostly just grumble and wish it was closer.) On a whim, we found the Deseret Book and hunted all over for the pictures.
I think the pictures are on backorder because the Portland Store is hoarding at least 250 of these things.
Very cleverly, I put 18 of these babies on my credit card. Plantboy, acting as the voice of reason for a change, said, "are you sure you can cancel the other?" Oh, yes, I assured him, I have until the fourth. But this is perfect. Everyone will now get them well in time for Christmas and I don't have to deal with it any more.
Sunday I took an hour and half to deliver them. Why so long? At every stop I was asked to do something. Each request was prefaced with, "I'm so glad you dropped by! I've been meaning to call you . . . " Monday I crashed big time. Don't even ask me how many hours I read or what kind of cheesy re-read romance novels I had my nose stuck into. (Okay, one of my selections was Twilight; and no, my opinion has NOT changed.)
Yesterday morning, I opened my e-mail to find the following cheery message from Deseret Book, "You're order: qty 18 "Images of the Savior" has been shipped!"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
How is the h*** is November 25th the equivalent of December 15??? By what stretch of the imagination is "you have until December 4th to cancel" the equivalent of them sending the cards Sunday night? When I called, the grandmotherly voice on the other end apologized about 400 times, all the while repeatedly telling me that there is no way that a representative from Deseret Book would have given me an exact shipping date and then gave me a crash course in the logistics of DB's ordering structure. She also emphasized how unreliable ordering over the Internet was and that they would be happy to take a phone order any time. Thanks for that. She did, however, graciously offer to send me a return slip. Here is how this will play: I get the order; I wait for the return labels; I repackage the order so that it doesn't say "FedEx" anymore; I drag my pre-schooler and toddler to the post office to mail the thing; I wait for the order to clear through DB and THEN I get refunded. Oh, yeah, my checking account SO needed the $80 hit four weeks before Christmas.
I must go bake. It will help to ease some of my anger at the universe. On the upside, I caught Tiny Fey as a pirate on Sesame Street this morning. She said that they needed to come up with some words that began with a pirate's favorite letter.
Yes, Yes, I thought it was "RRRRRRRRRRR" too.
But no, Tina argues, pirates love F-words. Well, that seems appropriate too.
Gratitude. Gratitude. Must remember to be grateful . . . .
I live nearly two hours from the nearest Deseret Book. (Yes, Mom, you'd refer to this as "the mission field.") For one of our crafty-day projects, in October, if you recall, we made these photo album Sacrament quiet books. I wrote a little doctrinal thing about the sacrament, simplified for young kids, to match the pictures in Greg Olsen's small picture kit called "Images of the Savior." You put the words and pictures mounted into a photo album. The result is quite sweet. These cost about $8 each to make and several sisters signed up for multiples in order to give them to grandkids for Christmas.
Eighteen kits ended up being ordered. As soon as I had the money, two weeks before the Souper Saturday, I got on-line and ordered what I wanted. I put the money in my account and then I waited. And waited. And waited.
The day before I needed them, I called Deseret Book. Sorry, they are on backorder. Hmm . . . and you didn't let me know this over my email because? I mean, isn't that the POINT of having such technology? Not to worry, they assured me, they will be here in mid-November.
I passed on that information and when I had nothing by the 20th of November, and also realized they had never charged my card to begin with, I called again. Sorry they are on backorder. Again? Do you ever tell people anything? Well, she said sweetly (she is probably somebody's grandmother), I can tell you that our next shipment will be here December 14th and that we will FedEx them to you right away. OoooKaaaaaaaay. Oh, and you have until the 4th to cancel the order if you need to.
I spent a good chunk of the rest of that day calling the women who had signed up for the project to find out if they wanted me to cancel their orders and they could just get them at DB next time they were there? I could refund money? You know the drill. It was a huge headache.
Then, Saturday, I went to the temple with a friend who was getting her endowment. It was a lovely day, if a bit hectic. (Plantboy and I went together and left the kids for a few hours with a friend that moved there from our ward. It turned out to be an 8 hour round trip. And while it seems really sacrificial and righteous for the temple to be such an effort, I mostly just grumble and wish it was closer.) On a whim, we found the Deseret Book and hunted all over for the pictures.
I think the pictures are on backorder because the Portland Store is hoarding at least 250 of these things.
Very cleverly, I put 18 of these babies on my credit card. Plantboy, acting as the voice of reason for a change, said, "are you sure you can cancel the other?" Oh, yes, I assured him, I have until the fourth. But this is perfect. Everyone will now get them well in time for Christmas and I don't have to deal with it any more.
Sunday I took an hour and half to deliver them. Why so long? At every stop I was asked to do something. Each request was prefaced with, "I'm so glad you dropped by! I've been meaning to call you . . . " Monday I crashed big time. Don't even ask me how many hours I read or what kind of cheesy re-read romance novels I had my nose stuck into. (Okay, one of my selections was Twilight; and no, my opinion has NOT changed.)
Yesterday morning, I opened my e-mail to find the following cheery message from Deseret Book, "You're order: qty 18 "Images of the Savior" has been shipped!"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
How is the h*** is November 25th the equivalent of December 15??? By what stretch of the imagination is "you have until December 4th to cancel" the equivalent of them sending the cards Sunday night? When I called, the grandmotherly voice on the other end apologized about 400 times, all the while repeatedly telling me that there is no way that a representative from Deseret Book would have given me an exact shipping date and then gave me a crash course in the logistics of DB's ordering structure. She also emphasized how unreliable ordering over the Internet was and that they would be happy to take a phone order any time. Thanks for that. She did, however, graciously offer to send me a return slip. Here is how this will play: I get the order; I wait for the return labels; I repackage the order so that it doesn't say "FedEx" anymore; I drag my pre-schooler and toddler to the post office to mail the thing; I wait for the order to clear through DB and THEN I get refunded. Oh, yeah, my checking account SO needed the $80 hit four weeks before Christmas.
I must go bake. It will help to ease some of my anger at the universe. On the upside, I caught Tiny Fey as a pirate on Sesame Street this morning. She said that they needed to come up with some words that began with a pirate's favorite letter.
Yes, Yes, I thought it was "RRRRRRRRRRR" too.
But no, Tina argues, pirates love F-words. Well, that seems appropriate too.
Gratitude. Gratitude. Must remember to be grateful . . . .
Friday, July 25, 2008
Batting 0 for 2
This e-mail came from Cedar Fort today. The worst part about it? I've felt strongly compelled for months to get this manuscript looked at. I had my current and very best re-write ready in late April and hung on to it for three weeks before submitting it, trying to find time to get to the post office. Would it have made a difference? I'll never know. I'm just trying to find a lesson to learn in all of this that doesn't involve giving up my dearest ambitions.
"Thank you for submitting your work, Abish: The Story of A Convert. After careful consideration, we have decided not to publish your manuscript at this time. Please be aware that we offer to publish less than ten percent of the manuscripts we review. It just so happened that we received another manuscript about the story of Abish the same week that we received yours; both were extremely well written. Unfortunately we had to choose one over the other knowing it wouldn't be profitable to publish two novels about the same person. Although we did not offer to publish your manuscript, we strongly encourage you in your endeavors to get it published. "
Meh.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Summer Solstice = Fried Brain
Okay, we have had approximately 70 hours of summertime-like weather here and I'm already on a slow burn into listlessness. I feel like all I want to do is sit in the sun, read, and pretend to get really brown and not just freckly.
I spent most of one day this week reading Goose Girl. I couldn't put it down and actually really liked it. As I finished though, I felt a bit, well, manipulated. Almost as if Shannon Hale had made a list of Ten Elements Contained, Whole Or In Part, in a Commercially Successful Young Adult Novel and then set out to ensure that her novel contained all ten elements.
1--Teenage protagonist
2--Said protagonist (usually female) starts out a bit bookish/shy/clumsy/awkward/misfit/etc.
3--Protagonist is not necessarily beautiful, but there is SOMETHING about her and at the other end of puberty (which always ends at like age 17 with these girls, what is UP with that?) the something becomes beauty which draws all to her.
4--Princesses and Princes.
5--Falls in love unwittingly with the man she is already betrothed to
6--Magical powers
7--A journey
8--Physical hardship that stretches the protagonist beyond their normal comfort zone
9--Facing impossible odds to do some terribly brave task
10--Happily ever after with said Prince/love interest
Anyway, that aside, I believe the story had a lot of heart and although it was a little formulaic and predictable, there are other cool things. I love the talking to the wind bit. I always wanted the wind to swirl around me and take my hair like that. But to be able to control it! Goddess-like. Some of her descriptions are also quite beautiful and she has a very clever way of turning a phrase. I am sure I'll read her other books too.
Confession time. I've been working on my own fantasy novel since I was about 13, or earlier. Maybe, at least in my head, ever since I heard the story of the girl-warrior, Joan of Arc. Robin McKinley and Madeline L'Engle fanned the flames of my love for the fantasy story. My novel has really taken a life of its own in many ways: I feel these characters as close to me as family members. That probably sounds strange to some of you. Anyway, I began the draft in its current form 8 years ago. The problem is that lately my most complete portion of the book feels more like a middle part to a trilogy. (That should probably go on the list above as #11.) But after I read Hale's book, I can't help but think that my novel may have a chance after all. It is the kind of thing I would have devoured when I was a young teenager.
I've done some writing lately--blogging, letters, bits and pieces of stories--but to REALLY write, I need the kind of time I don't have. When I'm really novel-ing I need stretches of two hours or more at a time. My first half hour is just a warm-up to get me back in the mode of that particular story's tone and rhythm. I used to stay up late to do it, but my a.m. papers have taken that off the table.
Maybe I just need to suspend all housework for the next year.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Officially Fed Up
Hm . . . . for a couple of weeks now I've been wanting to post the fabulous pictures from Plantboy's beautiful new vegetable and fruit garden. I have all these ideas rolling around in my head about how planting a garden is such a great example of faith, how gardens represent beauty and permanence, how much my kids love being outside, etc.
But, today, I scraped an inch of snow and ice off my car to deliver papers, was snowed on delivering papers, and didn't warm up until four hours after I'd been home. I'm waiting to get the stomach flu my men have passed around this week from being cooped up in the house, and I've done 10 loads of laundry in the last five days.
So, instead of glorying in the beauties of Mother Nature's awakening, I AM OFFICIALLY COMPLAINING ABOUT WINTER TO WHOMEVER WILL LISTEN.
That's all.
But, today, I scraped an inch of snow and ice off my car to deliver papers, was snowed on delivering papers, and didn't warm up until four hours after I'd been home. I'm waiting to get the stomach flu my men have passed around this week from being cooped up in the house, and I've done 10 loads of laundry in the last five days.
So, instead of glorying in the beauties of Mother Nature's awakening, I AM OFFICIALLY COMPLAINING ABOUT WINTER TO WHOMEVER WILL LISTEN.
That's all.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Does Anybody Have Any Chocolate?
This is supposed to be a recipe post, but it says something about the strength of the bonds formed via blogging that I've decided instead to share some news here, first, instead.
I just heard from Covenant Books . . . .
And they are NOT going to further consider my book.
The first time this happened, a couple of years ago, I wasn't really surprised. I thought my first finished novel had its strengths, but not very publishable, as there is just too much stuff in that genre. This one, however, was the right idea at the right time. I have a feeling that if this book doesn't go anywhere , then I probably don't have one in me that will ever go anywhere.
Let's just say it is a perfect finish to the mood I've had hanging around off and on for the last couple of weeks. Still, tomorrow is another day, and the writing compulsion will come again and tap at the corners of my brain until I have to answer. And, as I've told Plantboy many times, I'm not writing for money or fame or even influence. . . .I write for me. The stories and thoughts build up until I'm sure I'll begin talking to myself if I don't get them out.
I just heard from Covenant Books . . . .
And they are NOT going to further consider my book.
The first time this happened, a couple of years ago, I wasn't really surprised. I thought my first finished novel had its strengths, but not very publishable, as there is just too much stuff in that genre. This one, however, was the right idea at the right time. I have a feeling that if this book doesn't go anywhere , then I probably don't have one in me that will ever go anywhere.
Let's just say it is a perfect finish to the mood I've had hanging around off and on for the last couple of weeks. Still, tomorrow is another day, and the writing compulsion will come again and tap at the corners of my brain until I have to answer. And, as I've told Plantboy many times, I'm not writing for money or fame or even influence. . . .I write for me. The stories and thoughts build up until I'm sure I'll begin talking to myself if I don't get them out.
Monday, September 17, 2007
We Heart Visitors
My parents came to visit this weekend, and I feel just how I always feel after such a visit. Sad and prosy. I had an English teacher in high school who said, "The memories and anticipation of summer vacation are more important that the actual holiday." I've anticipated their arrival for weeks; it has motivated me to clean, unpack, paint and decorate. Settle, in other words. But as I said goodbye to my mother this morning for I don't know how many months, I just feel gray and snarly. There are mountains of laundry I've put off for four blissful days, dishes galore and goopy leftovers. There is vacuuming to be done. Instead, I just feel like I want to crawl into my covers and have a good, selfish cry.
To combat this feeling of having been left adrift 700 miles away from my family, I instead will focus on the happy memories, hoping they will sustain us until the next visit. Because, as awful as "home"sickness feels, how much worse to NOT have a family I missed!
This is my mother talking with the Honey Hippie and his wife at the local farmer's market. This place is awesome. Plantboy has been telling me about it for weeks, but we haven't gone yet. The organic produce side was incredible and the smells in the air were divine, but even more fun was the arts and crafts portion. I have such a love for silly, dangly earrings in all their forms and it was a homemade jewlery paradise. I passed on the tarot reading, however.
Plantboy took our picture while we posed under this huge, double hanging basket. The inside of my house is nearly settled, the next job will be to get going on our yard. If I can get past the snakes and spiders, gardening here will be heaven.
To combat this feeling of having been left adrift 700 miles away from my family, I instead will focus on the happy memories, hoping they will sustain us until the next visit. Because, as awful as "home"sickness feels, how much worse to NOT have a family I missed!
This is my mother talking with the Honey Hippie and his wife at the local farmer's market. This place is awesome. Plantboy has been telling me about it for weeks, but we haven't gone yet. The organic produce side was incredible and the smells in the air were divine, but even more fun was the arts and crafts portion. I have such a love for silly, dangly earrings in all their forms and it was a homemade jewlery paradise. I passed on the tarot reading, however.
Plantboy took our picture while we posed under this huge, double hanging basket. The inside of my house is nearly settled, the next job will be to get going on our yard. If I can get past the snakes and spiders, gardening here will be heaven.
STM's Dad posing with Poopy Pirate and Captain Tootypants. We spent several minutes trying to get CT to smile, but he just kept looking at me with the dazed over face that said, "Too much flash."
Scallywag Plankwalker wanted to be a farmer after church on Sunday, after a discussion about where carrots come from, so I got him all dressed up. Then he decided it was more fun to shoot bad guys than to plant crops so he added the hat below and became a cowboy. An Aussie cowboy; Plantboy doesn't have a real cowboy hat. The one below is from his Indiana Jones phase.
Next time my parents come we want to spend a day at the coast and hike to the lighthouse, or maybe see the Sea Lion Caves . . . so I will look back with fondness and anticipate the future with hope and look for small happinesses from day to day.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
There Are Scarier Things Than Monsters
This blog is going to be a book review. And lengthy. That will probably put most of you off right there. But it is my blog, darn it, I guess it can be whatever I want it to be! My book club this month read "Twilight" by Stephenie Meyer. Now, just 4 days after our meeting, the sequel "New Moon" has likewise spread like wildfire among our group.
Both books are page turners, to say the least.
Meyer's plot is clever and fresh with a young protagonist--all of these things make for excellent popular reading. Or even good critical reading. She has certainly created a formula here that will no doubt carry her easily through the rest of the series; there are five books planned.
Now, here is where we move from book review to personal musing. (Again--my blog, my rules.) Maybe if I had read the sequel yesterday when it was sunny I wouldn't feel quite the way I do. Instead I read it today when it rained all and the snow has begun tonight. It is a good setting in which to read dark stories about werewolves and vampires.
Through both books I keep feeling this mild disturbance tugging at the fringes of my mind. I have been unsure about my disturbance until I neared the end of the second volume. Now, I have begun to put a finger on my trepidation and hope that by writing some of my thoughts I will get even closer to my faint distaste.
Despite the deeply romantic element in these stories (a thing that usually gets me sailing on cloud nine for days after I read such a novel), I do not find myself with a good feeling at the end of them. There is something so obsessive about the love the two protagonists share for one another that it is almost destructive. The Romeo and Juliet allegory in the second tome became almost unbearable. And while Bella, our brave and impulsive heroine, isn't so naive that she doesn't draw this comparison herself, there is a faint sense that she prefers the Romeo and Juliet story above all others, despite its idiotic and unneccessary ending. (No disrespect meant to Bill--I think he meant to point out Romeo and his Juliet for their foolishness.)
And I really hate what was done to Jacob. Since the beginning of the last book, I have loved this character. His connection with the earth and his vibrant humanity (even with his werewolf nature) have been a very bright spot in two otherwise very dark books. I think Mike's line in the second book when he tells Bella that "Girls are cruel," just about sums up a big part of this story for me. Some have complained that Bella is weak . . . well, Bella is human for sure. But she is frightening simply for the power she wields over any man who ends up remotely connected to her life.
Now, on a more personal note, another reason to find Meyer's stories somehow out of jive with what I can relate to. Many years ago I was engaged to a man I loved with everything in me. We were compatible in many ways and I was HIGHLY attracted to him. In my whole life I don't think I've met anyone with quite as much charm. I had a wedding dress and we set a date. (This week would be our ninth anniversary, actually.) I'd begun seeing photographers. And then he began dating somebody else--or did he just want to first and that was the reason we broke up? It doesn't matter at all now. Except for one thing: he left a gaping hole in me that Bella is so fond of bringing up in "New Moon." (The way she brings up having her breath taken away in the first; oh, and don't forget that she says "crap" about 20 times in the last 50 pages of the book. Not your most clever expression. Blood sucking vampires? More like holy s**t! Meyer doesn't shy away from the occassional damn or hell, which make some sense for these characters, but if the beautiful Bella pops out with "crap" one more time then I am going to start wondering what anyone can possibly see in her. But I digrees.)
Anyway, after this abrupt breakup, I did the zombie thing. My grades were impeccable that quarter. I went through the motions of every part of my life, knowing that if I for one minute gave into that aching explosion in my heart the hurt would overwhelm me until it crushed me. My friends and family spent months not daring to look me right in the eye for fear they would shatter the tremulous control I had on my life, or fear that I would start to cry and they would have to somehow find the right words to say--an impossible task. I know that I am not the only person this has happened to. Probably most everyone lives through something like this once.
Then, the healing started, even when I wasn't sure I wanted it to. Even when I knew that if he walked back into my life at any point during that time I would shatter to pieces all over again. I forgot his voice and his walk. I threw away 18 months worth of letters from him, willing the memories away. I recognized our relationship for how difficult and unhealthy it had actually been and I came to gradually accept that there might be a different path forward from the one I had expected.
And I learned the most powerful lesson of all: I was stronger than a broken heart. And while it would be a VERY long time (I even still dream about him some time) before I could let go of that last shred of memory and re-collect all the pieces of my heart, I knew that I would make it. I also came to see that what I really wanted to become was a happy, stable person all by myself. I never again wanted to depend completely on another person to fill my days with color. It is not fair to expect another person to complete every wish fulfillment; after all, I cannot do that for anyone else either.
Whew. Cathartic to get that all out. What I am saying is this--why are Bella and Edward so special that the loss of their love never heals? Why couldn't Bella have loved Jacob? Why couldn't Juliet have found a great measure of contentment as Paris' wife? At least then she would have lived! I want Isabella and Juliet and every woman to know the joy that comes from being in charge of their own lives.
Don't get me wrong--I think men are great. I love my husband dearly and we grow closer all the time. He is wonderful. But he is not a replacement for me. And any human heart can heal if we want it to be so and give it enough time. Maybe Bella is less human than Edward thinks she is . . . .
Still, the third installment comes sometime this summer and I am sure I will read it. *Sigh* I love a romance as well as the next girl, however twisted it may be. I guess I am as exactly as human the next 17 year old girl. Which, as Desmama said of "Twilight," that it painfully points out how much of that girl never left!
Both books are page turners, to say the least.
Meyer's plot is clever and fresh with a young protagonist--all of these things make for excellent popular reading. Or even good critical reading. She has certainly created a formula here that will no doubt carry her easily through the rest of the series; there are five books planned.
Now, here is where we move from book review to personal musing. (Again--my blog, my rules.) Maybe if I had read the sequel yesterday when it was sunny I wouldn't feel quite the way I do. Instead I read it today when it rained all and the snow has begun tonight. It is a good setting in which to read dark stories about werewolves and vampires.
Through both books I keep feeling this mild disturbance tugging at the fringes of my mind. I have been unsure about my disturbance until I neared the end of the second volume. Now, I have begun to put a finger on my trepidation and hope that by writing some of my thoughts I will get even closer to my faint distaste.
Despite the deeply romantic element in these stories (a thing that usually gets me sailing on cloud nine for days after I read such a novel), I do not find myself with a good feeling at the end of them. There is something so obsessive about the love the two protagonists share for one another that it is almost destructive. The Romeo and Juliet allegory in the second tome became almost unbearable. And while Bella, our brave and impulsive heroine, isn't so naive that she doesn't draw this comparison herself, there is a faint sense that she prefers the Romeo and Juliet story above all others, despite its idiotic and unneccessary ending. (No disrespect meant to Bill--I think he meant to point out Romeo and his Juliet for their foolishness.)
And I really hate what was done to Jacob. Since the beginning of the last book, I have loved this character. His connection with the earth and his vibrant humanity (even with his werewolf nature) have been a very bright spot in two otherwise very dark books. I think Mike's line in the second book when he tells Bella that "Girls are cruel," just about sums up a big part of this story for me. Some have complained that Bella is weak . . . well, Bella is human for sure. But she is frightening simply for the power she wields over any man who ends up remotely connected to her life.
Now, on a more personal note, another reason to find Meyer's stories somehow out of jive with what I can relate to. Many years ago I was engaged to a man I loved with everything in me. We were compatible in many ways and I was HIGHLY attracted to him. In my whole life I don't think I've met anyone with quite as much charm. I had a wedding dress and we set a date. (This week would be our ninth anniversary, actually.) I'd begun seeing photographers. And then he began dating somebody else--or did he just want to first and that was the reason we broke up? It doesn't matter at all now. Except for one thing: he left a gaping hole in me that Bella is so fond of bringing up in "New Moon." (The way she brings up having her breath taken away in the first; oh, and don't forget that she says "crap" about 20 times in the last 50 pages of the book. Not your most clever expression. Blood sucking vampires? More like holy s**t! Meyer doesn't shy away from the occassional damn or hell, which make some sense for these characters, but if the beautiful Bella pops out with "crap" one more time then I am going to start wondering what anyone can possibly see in her. But I digrees.)
Anyway, after this abrupt breakup, I did the zombie thing. My grades were impeccable that quarter. I went through the motions of every part of my life, knowing that if I for one minute gave into that aching explosion in my heart the hurt would overwhelm me until it crushed me. My friends and family spent months not daring to look me right in the eye for fear they would shatter the tremulous control I had on my life, or fear that I would start to cry and they would have to somehow find the right words to say--an impossible task. I know that I am not the only person this has happened to. Probably most everyone lives through something like this once.
Then, the healing started, even when I wasn't sure I wanted it to. Even when I knew that if he walked back into my life at any point during that time I would shatter to pieces all over again. I forgot his voice and his walk. I threw away 18 months worth of letters from him, willing the memories away. I recognized our relationship for how difficult and unhealthy it had actually been and I came to gradually accept that there might be a different path forward from the one I had expected.
And I learned the most powerful lesson of all: I was stronger than a broken heart. And while it would be a VERY long time (I even still dream about him some time) before I could let go of that last shred of memory and re-collect all the pieces of my heart, I knew that I would make it. I also came to see that what I really wanted to become was a happy, stable person all by myself. I never again wanted to depend completely on another person to fill my days with color. It is not fair to expect another person to complete every wish fulfillment; after all, I cannot do that for anyone else either.
Whew. Cathartic to get that all out. What I am saying is this--why are Bella and Edward so special that the loss of their love never heals? Why couldn't Bella have loved Jacob? Why couldn't Juliet have found a great measure of contentment as Paris' wife? At least then she would have lived! I want Isabella and Juliet and every woman to know the joy that comes from being in charge of their own lives.
Don't get me wrong--I think men are great. I love my husband dearly and we grow closer all the time. He is wonderful. But he is not a replacement for me. And any human heart can heal if we want it to be so and give it enough time. Maybe Bella is less human than Edward thinks she is . . . .
Still, the third installment comes sometime this summer and I am sure I will read it. *Sigh* I love a romance as well as the next girl, however twisted it may be. I guess I am as exactly as human the next 17 year old girl. Which, as Desmama said of "Twilight," that it painfully points out how much of that girl never left!
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Anticlimax
Why does the New Year always feel like such let down? What should be a time of refreshing and renewal often is just a flurry of house cleaning from the "most wonderful time of the year." Oh, and don't forget all the bills that must be paid, hopefully before the tax return shows. In colder climes, there is the inevitable three months of winter left with no real holidays to look forward to. There are gift exchanges that just point out that those you love really don't know you as well as you had hoped. And with two kids, where do you put all the new toys!
Okay, it is a prosy, cold day in the land of the Frozen Chosen, but the promise of spring has not yet loomed bright enough to tempt me out of my mood. I am sure that will all change in about 10 minutes, after all, that is one of the best parts of being a woman. If you are grumpy, just wait for the hormone change!
Okay, it is a prosy, cold day in the land of the Frozen Chosen, but the promise of spring has not yet loomed bright enough to tempt me out of my mood. I am sure that will all change in about 10 minutes, after all, that is one of the best parts of being a woman. If you are grumpy, just wait for the hormone change!
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