FrankenGirl

Sweet Dreams

2006-08-04T11:51:00.000-04:00

Due to other projects, I expect "FrankenGirl" to slumber through most of August. I hope to visit when possible! Love & Peace.

Super-Feminist!

2006-07-25T09:37:00.000-04:00

When Gloria Steinem wrote Revolution from Within: A Book of Self-Esteem, critics used the opportunity to deride feminism. If a feminist icon such as Steinem admitted to suffering low self-esteem, feminism must be a complete failure.

For several days now, I have felt like a complete failure.

You see, I’ve proudly claimed that women can be opinionated, loud-mouthed and forceful, and also, married. I’ve believed we don’t need to feed egos of husbands today the way my mother spoon-fed my father in the past, and I’ve held myself out as evidence.

But I no longer know what I believe.

Good God—whatever you do—don’t tell the patriarchy! Apparently, my doubt doesn’t expose the weakness of humanity, but the weakness of feminism.

“You’re ruining the reputation of feminism,” an acquaintance recently reproached my state of uncertainty and emotional vulnerability. I don’t think he realized he had just endowed me with incredible political power—much more than I can possibly claim!

Does feminism imply immunity to pain, assault, personal tragedy? Superhuman self-esteem?

Steinem reminds us that the “powers that be” have no motive to boost our confidence. Low self-esteem keeps us in place: obedient and pliable; doubting and distrusting of our own gut instincts. So, in revolt, we must strive to nurture our self-worth.

But how can we do this if we don’t acknowledge that we falter; if we pose as perfect role models for friends and family? And how can we do this without leaving ourselves open to harsh criticism? Hell, we can’t, can we?

Since my husband left, I’ve been agonizing over self-worth, wondering if my mother was right when she told me: “No one will ever love you.” I was a young teen at the time; impressionable.

In a recent conversation with a divorced man, we shared the lists we write to remind ourselves of daily functions (while our hearts are mending). I told him “Remember to Eat” was in mine. He told me “Remember to Wake” was in his.

Remember to love me.

I’ve added this to my list. Mom—she’s been wrong all along. Even if I must remind myself in writing; even if, during a dark hour, I can’t establish much more reason than challenging a false authority, I will love me.

-----

Dear Readers, I look forward to the time when I may read your essays in peace again. I miss your writing and your inspiration!
f f g d m

Who's Afraid of a Spinster?

2006-06-27T09:07:00.000-04:00

Why isn’t Spinsterhood as sexy and appealing as Bachelorhood? In a play of mine, a female character argues, “I only want what you have, G---, to live freely without being pitied for my freedom!”

My bachelor brother with his protracted disinterest in long-term relationships has been admired by my family, even envied for his lifestyle.

He travels extensively by plane and by motorcycle, embarking on weekend escapades across oceans and highways. His life overflows with energetic activities which reap a compilation of colorful photographs: tangible evidence of a life lived fully.

My playwriting, on the other hand, despite productions and positive reviews, is still seen as the hobby of a hermit, and my “activity of imagination,” invisible to the common eye, remains baffling to my family. Not at all enviable.

Is exercising the muscles of our body more highly esteemed in our society than excising the muscles of our brain? Is traveling to other countries, more desirable than traveling across the maps of our minds, hearts and souls?

And is it partly this ostensible “worldliness” of Bachelors that gives them an allure that Spinsters lack?

Or does this double-standard extend much deeper in our social psyche? Are we still swayed by the stereotypes of the Living-It-Up Bachelor and the Lonely Spinster, and if so, does this create suspicion on both sides? The commitment-phobic vs. the relationship-hungry?

But if “being alone” doesn’t translate as “lonely” for Bachelors, why should it for Spinsters?

In reality, women frequently spend many years of their lives “alone.” Women often outlive their husbands (living a productive ten, twenty or thirty years more), and yet, our society doesn’t seem comfortable with women who consciously choose to live alone; who realize we can live without a man handy at all times. We must fall into “alone” tragically, it seems, not claim it for ourselves wholeheartedly.

When we do fall into it, however, we are often reborn, finding a strength we never knew we possessed; uncovering Liberty, not the Loneliness we seem to be encouraged to fear.

f s b l

Mirrors: A Weighty Issue

2006-06-15T12:34:00.000-04:00

“The best thing about my divorce,” a good friend tells me, “is all the weight I lost.” Then she pauses a second, before adding, “But you can’t afford to lose.”

Hey, I’m not worried. I’ve a strong sweet-tooth. I can’t imagine a world without ice cream. I’ve spent significant quality time with Ben and Jerry. Just add a puff of whipped cream, and for a brief, blissful moment in this mortal realm, I believe I’m in paradise.

Sure, food hasn’t always been an easy friend.

When I was young, my mom (who was never content with my weight) added guilt to the taste of food.

“I think you’ve had enough,” she’d say, taking a cookie away from me, and for a while, as a child, eating became a clandestine act, creeping downstairs to the kitchen in the middle of the night.

But I’m an adult now. I live in my own house and buy my own groceries. I don’t have to make forbidden or furtive rendezvous with sweets in the darkest of hours.

And I’ve long stopped heeding unsolicited remarks about my weight. You see, the petite, just like the obese, are subject to commentary by strangers. Boys used to call me Strawberry Shortcake and swing me in their arms, like a doll. (Don’t worry, dear readers, I quickly learned to give a kick where it counts.) And dieting women would look me over and tell me how lucky I was.

But why should my body size be a topic for conversation (unless I initiate it)?

“You don’t need to drink diet coke,” a stocky man in the grocery store winks at me in the soda aisle.

Isn't it strange that strangers speak more about my body than I do?

Like many women, I have a love/hate relationship with mirrors. I often rush past them, hoping to avoid any unkind reflections, and lately, I’ve been so distracted I’ve had little respite for mirror-gazing. In fact, these past few weeks have been so erratic that I’ve found it hard to focus on writing, reading, and yes, even eating.

But I’m not worried. I’m fond of food. Maybe I’ve ignored it a bit lately, but food is very forgiving, and when my appetite returns, food will be there for me, ready and reliable. So I wasn’t worried. Not at all.

Then, the other day, my doctor weighed me in at 81. How could this happen? Why didn’t I notice I had lost nearly fifteen pounds and landed myself in a danger zone?

Maybe I should spend more time with my mirror. Maybe it’s time for my body* and I to become better friends.

-----

This post is dedicated to Charlie.

-----

* Edited based on an insightful comment by JLB.
f b w

P. M. Mess

2006-06-04T20:48:00.000-04:00

P. M. Mess has visited again. At the door, I told IT I wouldn’t receive IT anymore. I declared IT wasn’t welcome here. I offered no hospitable smile. I set out no bright-orange juice, no honey-colored toast. (The hour was early—just before breakfast.) And yet, into the parlor IT came, sitting without ceremony: slumping heavily, so heavily, upon my buttery-blue chair.

“What do you want with me?” I asked, but IT didn’t answer. IT’s a surly guest, at best, so I decided not to provoke IT further. Does one press Jack the Ripper at his intentions? I think not! Best not to know the gritty details.

I did proffer a few words of chit-chat - I can’t help myself! I’m too well-bred to allow for extended gaps of silence between such intimate strangers, but I don’t think IT listened at all. I think IT knew my prattle was only a pretense; the wrappings of civility to conceal the severe indignity of my situation.

In ITs presence, the morning light fled from the room, as if the sun couldn’t bear to shed one single ray upon my rude guest, which seemed immensely inspired by the dark. I reached for something — a light switch, I think — but IT rose from the chair, and beneath ITs shadow, I shrank in size, diminishing swiftly, as if I was a mere speck of dust in what should have been my own space; my safe harbor; my sweet sanctuary.

Yes, dear readers, I’m constantly changing the locks to my doors, but each and every month, IT unbolts me.

f p p

What Monsters Sleep Under Your Bed?

2006-05-30T06:01:00.000-04:00

Recently, I asked an acquaintance what monsters sleep under his bed, and as one of his fears, he replied: "I don't ever want to instill fear in someone else."

His answer not only reminded me that oppression oppresses the oppressor, it also felt fascinatingly foreign to me. As a petite woman, I can't recall being acutely afraid of inspiring much fear.

At an early age, girls are often trained that we are prey. We need only open a volume of fairy tales to see how frequently we are victimized. Just in case we aren’t frightened by Little Red Riding Hood, the Charles Perrault version offers us a "moral" at the end, telling "young lasses," particularly those who are "pretty, courteous and well-bred" that they “do very wrong to listen to strangers." And seemingly "gentle wolves," he warns us, may turn out to be the most dangerous.

I’d like to think it’s possible to deduce from this "moral" that it’s providential to be old, ugly, loud-mouthed and rude, but clearly that’s not the message here. We are instructed to trust no one and go nowhere.

Eventually, we may grow annoyed that these "wolves" dictate whom we speak to; our comings and goings. We may resent that this moral burdens us with avoiding such indiscernible wolves instead of shaming and blaming the wolves themselves for their wolfish behavior. And we may even wish to bare our teeth and growl to keep any wolves at bay, which would imply - instilling fear in another.

So do I, as a feminist, desire women to be seen as a formidable force? Do I fear that abandoning anger means abandoning justice (since anger can be a catalyst for positive change).

Still, I know women are capable of waging a tyranny of fear, albeit on a smaller scale than men (who still claim the political and global arena), in households and workplaces. I’ve often interpreted such fearsome behavior as a manifestation of helplessness rather than power, but is it less reprehensible?

"I don't ever want to instill fear in someone else."

This answer intrigued and surprised me. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself. I would have considered instilling fear a luxury of the powerful.

But how can I discount the power of women so absolutely? And wouldn’t I desire to use whatever power I possess to instill peace, not fear, inside this fragile world?

And I can’t help but wish that Our President had "this monster" sleeping under his bed.

f f f f

The State of the Undies

2006-05-22T06:02:00.000-04:00

After the dissolution of a relationship, it’s quite natural to reflect upon the condition of one’s undies. In fact, I’m beginning to suspect that if I had truly taken stock of the state of my undergarments, I might have foreseen what was about to come undone.

My underwear has been growing obsolete, nearly antique, and more to the point, I’ve prided myself on my un-trendy nature, seeing this as a sign that I’m not seduced by consumerism, among other things, to wear the latest lace-infested frilly thrill.

However, the other day, I found myself venturing into “Intimates” deep inside a department store. I quickly got lost among the stealthy under-wire and powerful push-ups, and only after a grueling expedition did I uncover the tiny rack of “natural” brassieres, which came in white and white.

Along my journey, I did don a few brawny bras. Since I was surrounded by their padded power, I feared a backlash if I ignored them entirely. But in the dressing room, I wondered:

If a man were to clasp me to his chest, holding me close, he could hardly compliment me on my bosom. No, he would be forced to utter: “What a magnificent bra you have! Who manufactured it?” Or if he didn’t know any better, he might inquire: “Are you wearing a bullet-proof vest?”

As you can see, Dear Readers, my mind has been preoccupied by questions of such import and magnitude these past days I’ve been away from you.

Please know that I’ve nothing against “pretty panties” (several cheered and amused me with their utter frivolity), but I’d like the freedom to choose comfort over crowd-pleasing cup-lets.

Are my Freedoms more important to me than Intimacies? Growing up, I witnessed an unbalanced marriage in which one held the key while the other sang like a caged bird, and in current events, I’ve watched Cindy Sheehan’s husband file for divorce after she started her “unseemly” protests against the war.

So will I (can I) conceal my unruly opinions, political power and artistic passions behind embroidery and lace?

In the end, I hope all of us take a stand, speak our minds, and cry out our truth, even when our truth is not cute and comes in only one color. Even at the risk of sending our underwear into sheer disrepair.
f d u b

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

2006-05-08T05:45:00.000-04:00

Compelled by curiosity (and foolhardiness), I placed a free profile on a personals site.

Yes, dear readers, I hear your outcry! It’s far too soon to track down true love! This is the moment to spread my wings and soar without a suitcase full of compromise and connubial commitments! Still, I couldn’t resist testing the webby waters of Internet, uh, Love?

I went searching for a photo of myself, but too many included my spousal-departus… until I recalled these iMac images.

All of these were outright rejected, however, by my new relationship consultant (aka my bachelor brother) who insists that no one wants to court a cartoon, particularly a creepy-looking one.

But whenever I contemplate photos of myself, I wonder: “Is this me?” and I never seem to find an image that resembles “who” I am. In the end, I resorted to a recent, but rather theatrical photo (which feels no more like me than the cartoons!), and within moments, I attracted every tank-topped, tattooed biker within 50 miles, asking: “Wanna go for a ride?”

And then there was the 60ish man who wanted to retire with me to Hungary. And the 40ish man who asked (without any preliminaries) if I was gonna be free tomorrow. Free for what?! Perhaps he meant, “Will I be free from jail?” (Answer: yes). Perhaps he meant, “Will I be free from societal pressures?” (Answer: I'm working on it). But when I wrote back that I was free for cyber-communication only (nothing non-virtual just yet), he was no longer free for me.

One of the most striking comments I received came from a long-haired hippie (standing next to his sweetheart-I mean, motorcycle). In respect to my photo, he asked: “Why do you look so sad?”

Because I was sad, I realized, and after that, I pulled down my profile, ending (temporarily, at least) my premature excursion into the realm of online match-making.

I cannot say I learned much from my brief foray into this brave new world, but upon reading several profiles of men-seeking-women, I found age requirements / discrepancies disturbing. So many men above the age of 40 are only interested in meeting women below the age of 35. Chauvinist much?

And while some profiles seemed heartfelt, others were full of - shall we say? - downright absurdities.

“Everybody tells me I’m really handsome.” Gee, that’s handy info, especially with your photo right in front of me. At least, I know your modesty won’t blind me.
“My friends all say I’m a nice guy.” Hmm, would they really be your friends if they said you were a jerk?
“I only want normal girls.” Excuse me, Sir, but could you describe “normal” for me?
“I want a girl who’s both sexy and professional.” At the same time? Like, er, a prostitute?
“I want a girl who knows exactly who she is.” Okay, I get the idea here, but if this guy believes he knows exactly who he is, I think he’s in for a big surprise someday.

And all too predictably, too many men have photos with their cars! Well, next time I need to buy a car, I know exactly where to go.

However, I do admit that describing oneself (for romantic purposes) isn’t easy. When asked what I was seeking in a man, I found myself writing…

“Someone who enjoys questioning themselves as well as the world around them, and who shares a desire to communicate openly and honestly ... (Hmm, I don't suppose anyone requests cads or con-artists, do they?)”

Yes, go ahead, laugh at me. I laughed at myself!

f o s p

Hunger for Home

2006-05-01T02:26:00.000-04:00

As a teen, I couldn't wait to escape this thing called home.

"Shape up or ship out," I heard more than once back then, but I hadn't finished building my boat. I had no sails yet. I had only a flimsy raft that wouldn't stay afloat in the unpredictable currents of the world.

When I left, at last, home changed meaning for me. My circle of friends became my home, and this home was a much stronger fortress than any sheetrock or cement foundations; a much cozier hearth than any woodstove or fireplace.

This home was not stagnant, but always evolving. Many of us embarked on journeys (adventures, careers, love), and our home shifted in shape: a triangle; hexagon; octagon; and sometimes, it even elongated to the point of breaking; losing touch.

When this friendly home seemed to grow tenuous, transient, too intangible, I was struck by an unexpected hunger for home. The very sort of home I once longed to escape. The shelter of a roof, the shield of a wall, the sturdiness of a wooden floor beneath my feet. I started to crave a sweet abode, knowing all the while that such an enchanted cottage is only an illusion of familiarity, consistency, permanence.

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in," says the Wolf in the Three Little Pigs, and whether this "wolf" is an earthquake, a hurricane, or a torrent of human emotions, it can create a fracture in our ostensibly solid house.

“Home is where the heart is,” according to philosopher Pliny.

If so, our heart is the stronghold we often seek elsewhere. If so, our heart is the place we must strengthen, furnish, cherish. If so, our heart must direct any disrespectful guests to the door, since this heart is our one and only true home.

I'm heading now, after a turbulent voyage, to be at home with my heart.

f h b

Marry Me?

2006-04-24T17:07:00.000-04:00

My life has taken an unexpected and dramatic turn. Wolfboy is leaving on a jet plane (or a compact car, if you like). The news—a shock to me—is still reverberating in mind, body, spirit. So I warn any courageous readers: I write today with no objectivity since I’ve had less than a week to contemplate my new singleton status.

In fact, Marsha Norman (playwright of ‘Night Mother) has advised writers not to put before an audience a personal and calamitous event which we are currently undergoing. And Common Sense most likely agrees with her, cautioning us that we need time to ponder and process any associated thoughts.

I’m ignoring the wisdom of Marsha Norman. I’m turning away from the sense of Common Sense. And putting forth a few random lessons I’ve learned recently.

Not All Marriage Proposals Are Created Equally

A few days ago, after my marriage became a mirage, I started chatting on the phone with an ex-boyfriend whom I haven’t seen in years. Our first two conversations cheerfully diverted me from the unpleasantness of my current circumstance.

However, on our third call, he asked if I would ever marry again, and when I joked that I had already proposed to three random men on the street, he asked simply: “Will you marry me?”

Clearly, this was a joke! I laughed! But then he insisted - repeatedly and dogmatically - that he was utterly serious. Apparently, a mentor of his had counseled him that now was the right time for him to marry (and hey, why not?).

I don’t think I’ll be calling this ex again. (But this was a good reminder that exes are often exes for a reason.)

DMV Employees Double as Marriage Counselors

During this frightful week of mine, I had to visit the DMV to renew my driver’s license, and as one of my pieces of identification, I offered my marriage license. Of course, I made no mention of my marital debacle, but the lanky young man behind the counter shook his head woefully at me.

“You didn’t take your husband’s name when you married,” he noted with dismay.

“This is a new century,” I smiled placidly.

“On, no, no, this is no good,” he claimed, “Why don’t I stick his name on your new license for you?”

I nearly laughed at the timing. “No, thanks. We’re artists. Our names are our calling cards.”

“Oh, no, no, men don’t like it when women don’t take their names,” he insisted in an all-too-earnest manner, “It hurts their masculinity.”

I might have said – if this is the case, the damage has already been done. But I found his absurd concern over my husband’s masculinity rather funny.

So I teased, “I think my husband should take my name, actually, because mine comes with an interesting genealogy. Also, it’s much easier to pronounce. Everybody botches up his name.”

The poor boy gave up after that.

Imagination vs. Reality

As I faced a new and uncertain future, I wondered (and worried) over where I would live once this house is sold. Thus, when I noticed a ridiculously cheap listing of a “single-family residence” in a lovely town nearby, I called up the realtor.

“I’m dying of curiosity!” I told her, “What’s wrong with it?”

She proceeded to tell me there was nothing “wrong” at all. In fact, it’s cute, clean and set in a lovely wooded area--and it's mobile!

“You mean, it’s a trailer park?”

“Oh, no! It doesn’t feel like one at all,” she exclaimed, “Once you’re inside, you’ll completely forget it's mobile! You’ll believe it’s a real home.”

Hmmm? I wonder if my imagination is quite THAT good? (Although... it's possible I've imagined a marriage. My dog, on the other hand, has just confirmed that he is real - ;)

d r

Please disregard the post (go directly to the comments)

2006-04-18T19:48:00.000-04:00

"So, does Frankengirl imply that you are half-girl and half mad scientist or that you are a real fan of Al Franken?" Who?

Dear Readers & Sweet Visitors

I set out to post some of your most insightful and delightful comments, but the task proved too much for me. I found myself pondering an unbearably long list of profundities. So instead, I decided to compile a few comments thematically.

The hour was late and my eyes, blurry, but soon, a theme emerged, and now, in your own words, I present the following compilation for you. Please click on Who? for the author of the original comment and read the [bracketed words] to note any edited words.*

The Case of the Badger's Arse

"I once hauled a possum out of a tree by its ass--it was dark, and when I saw something scrambling around in the tree, I thought it was my cat, who had escaped outside. When I realized what I was holding in my hands, I screamed and threw the possum away from me. It just sat on the ground and stared at me, as if to say, 'You're the one who pulled me out of a tree by my butt, lady.' Anyway, its ass was fairly rough, and I don't recommend that you grab one yourself..." Who?

"I am blonde (naturally) and can sing but am as rough as a badger's arse!" Who?

"I didn't know badgers had rough asses. That's a good piece of trivia; it opens up a whole load of inventive insulting opportunities." Who?

"In real life, I've known badgers of both genders, and seen them everywhere I've gone. Badgering people is not something I respect, but makes for some interesting novels." [manipulators / manipulating] Who?

"It seems like we have to constantly question badgers, whether in comfort or despair. Nothing can be taken for granted... because even the freedom badgers here enjoy was fought for by badgers before us..." [ourselves / women / women] Who?

"Badgers can really dazzle, to the point of blinding people of the underlying power structures" [words] Who?

"I met my first and last badger in 8th grade and left it at that. Everyone in my school loved the stereotypical badger. I never understood why girls or women like it so much because all the badgers talk about submissive women who are timid and shy and too afraid to take hold of their own lives." [read / Harlequin Romance / Romance genre / books] Who?

"Badgers are badgers, and sometimes better for not being touched, since sometimes they're misunderstood and wrongly judged.What about all the badgers inside our heads that will never be put to paper? Are they not badgers? No, they are, and very much alive too." [stories] Who?

"Everybody has badgers, but it isn't simply politeness or PC that stops them from expressing them. It can be fear of a strong badger's (or badgers') criticism, disapproval, or perhaps even punishment..." [opinions / parent's / parents'] Who?

"We suppress our opinions and feelings out of fear of being like badgers - when in actual fact, we are more like badgers than we know." [different / similar] Who?

"We blame modern society for putting emphasis on things like badgers when in actuality, the badger has been there all along." [female beauty / notion] Who?

"I think badgers are good to keep around for at least a historical perspective, who knows? Maybe you'll entertain your great grandkids with it some day..." [diaries] Who?

"I don't know if it was someone who told me to 'write what Badgers' knew' or if I only read it in a lot of places. But that was the reason I stopped writing fiction..." [I] Who?

"I hope that in my career, I will have many more opportunities to try and strike the right balance between my ideas, and those of badgers." [my editors] Who?

"I am currently reading The Goblet of Badger and while I understand the whole badger thing that happens in adolescence, it is unfortunate that JK Rowling develops this at the expense of Hermione as a character." [Fire / teen romance / she] Who?

"In the 7th grade, girls were still very 'bouncy' and chatty...Then they came back from summer vacation as badgers. How morose! It was as if their tongues were cut out of their mouths..." [8th graders] Who?

"I went to a single-sex high school (that later became co-ed)... I used to be outspoken in class...then the apathy and withering glances of all the badgers in my class killed that.” [girls] Who?

"I'm so glad to find out I am not the only person in the world who thought that Oscar-winning badger was so very wrong... It was astounding, it was horrifying - there are almost no words.” [rap song] Who?

"You done badgered up an interesting post thar, frankengirl. Raised in rural W.Va., and badger was commonly used amongst us hill folk." [brang / brang] Who?

"Badgers, their connotations, meanings and interpretations are fascinating to me." [Words] Who?

"There you've quashed all my nascent yearnings of ever becoming a badger." [published writer] Who?

I extend my "apologies" to the contributors not included here. I lacked the creativity and/or courage to badgerize your comments.

* If you would like your "comment" deleted from this post, please let me know.

b h

Her Beauty & My Bias

2006-04-17T09:18:00.000-04:00

Some years ago, I arrived late to a play reading. On stage, a man (Tom) and woman (Karen) are having the perfect picnic on the perfect day, and Tom is explaining to Karen how perfectly beautiful she is.

Here's a snippet…

Tom: No you have to understand that I—I see you clearly. I see you for what you are – the most beautiful. Not just your hair, your hands, your toes – but in the way it all moves. Just watching you... folding clothes. Just that simple act... as you take a shirt out of the drier... the care.

Karen: You watch me fold clothes?

Tom: I would pay admission to watch you fold clothes. But anything you do... the way you do it... how you sit, stand, walk.

Karen: Wait. Let me understand. Are you saying? Just the way I... (She stands)

Tom: ...stand.

Karen: And... (She sits)

Tom: ...the way you sit. It’s just so...

Karen: And if I get up and...

Tom: ...walk! Yes!

Karen: (walking around) Just...

Tom: ...like that! Yes! Like that!

Karen: Walking?

Tom: Yes!

Karen: Just me... walking is...

Tom: ... perfect. (turns to us) Like I said it was the most perfect day. The most perfect time that could ever be spent on a perfect day... watching the love of my life...

Karen: ...walking, just walking around. Does it matter what view you have of me walking?

Tom: Not really. Except when you come towards me... when you’ve been away... even for a moment... when I spot you... returning. It’s not just knowing you’re coming back, knowing the wait is over, but it’s like I get to discover again …

Karen: Like this?

Tom: Yes.

Karen: But when I turn around?

(KAREN turns, starts walking away)

Tom: That’s wonderful too. Yes, yes... when you walk away.

(KAREN exits)

Tom: ... when you’re walking away down the road... sometimes I just watch as your shape as it slowly disappears. Then I watch some more. So wonderful, so special. I’m so... privileged. Wait. Karen? KAREN??

(TOM turns to us in a panic)

Tom: I had a bad feeling. I had a terrible feeling about that day. The perfection.. It was just so perfect it had to end. (yelling after Karen) Karen?! KAREN!!! COME BACK!!!!!

-----

The play doesn't end here. Karen is subsequently accosted by a parachutist as well as a New York Times critic who wants to analyze her beauty till the end of his days, and when his relentless attention makes her cry, he says:

“Is that a tear? It is! Beautiful. One tear. And the shape of the tear. That tear will be the standard!”

When the play concluded, I had already come up with my own conclusions about the playwright. She was a Feminist.

Only her name remained a mystery. I turned to a friend, asking, "Who wrote this piece?" and soon learned that my "she" was a "he."

I had mistaken a male playwright for a feminist woman.

(The play excerpt above is reprinted here with the permission of the author.)
feminist p t

My Darling… Misogynist?

2006-04-10T09:10:00.000-04:00

(spoiler alert for the film Rebecca)

Dear Reader,

Sometimes it sucks to be a feminist. What a killjoy!

I was strolling idly along the Internet one day when I read a comment about the movie Rebecca (based on the novel by Daphne du Maurier and directed by Alfred Hitchcock) which called the film "misogynist."

No! Tell me it ain't so! Don't break my heart like this!

Rebecca was one of my favorite films as a teen and I had a wick-ed crush on Larry (Laurence Olivier) who portrays Maxim de Winter.

But Max murders his wife and gets away with it.

Yep, that's right, and I never once blinked an eye over it. Nope. As a viewer, I'm persuaded that Max has every right to strike his adulterous wife (Rebecca). I'm convinced she deserves to die, and thus, his "death-blow," which we don’t actually witness, seems acceptable.

To "soften the blow," the film implies pretty heavily that Rebecca's "asking for it," cause she's dying of cancer, but since Max has no clue about her condition, this doesn't let him off the hook, does it? And we don't actually have Rebecca’s own word on her “death-wish” (cause, oops, she's dead).

So… is this kind of husband/wife violence acceptable in our heroes?

In truth, I still adore this movie. I'm a fan of "gothic," and the Criterion version offers some delightful goodies, such as screen tests of Vivien Leigh, Anne Baxter, Loretta Young, Margaret Sullavan, and Joan Fontaine. Larry, who was married to Vivien at the time, wanted his wife to get the lead role and championed her strongly, but Hitchcock wouldn't bend, and if you watch Vivien’s audition, it's pretty clear that Hitchcock was right. Vivien was primed for Scarlet, not our plain and unnamed narrator here.

But back to misogyny.

No! Do I really have to go back to that crummy place? Cause I've seen quite a few romantic heroes mistreat their wives. Rochester hides his crazy wife Bertha from daylight. Heathcliff abuses his silly spouse Isabella. Yet, I'm drawn to the iconic stature of these fictional men.

And since they were written in days gone by, I can certainly view them in that light.

Still I wonder...

Am I so accustomed to the "wife" being the plot device that I don't think twice about her humanity?
f m h c

So Damn Polite

2006-04-04T06:22:00.000-04:00

One afternoon, my first-semester history professor stopped mid-lecture and teased his female audience.

"You're too quiet," he rebuked us good-naturedly, "It's spooky."

He was right: we were too quiet. We were sitting in our first class at an all-women's college; we weren't used to owning the floor all on our own. Many of us had come from high schools where boys spoke out and girls wrote down. No one waved a hand wildly for attention; no one shouted out an answer to beat a fellow classmate. None of us let on that we secretly held any passionate opinions.

In my literature class, we bowed our heads and fell into giggles. Our professor, an attractive woman in her mid-forties, had just informed us why she hadn't married: she hadn't yet received a proposal from a man she could possibly imagine indulging in her bed.

While we giggled quietly, our professor smiled tolerantly: "You're so damn polite."

Politeness paves the road for you.

I don't remember my mother actually saying this, but she had grown up on rough terrain. Her older brother went to jail for creepy acts one mustn't divulge in polite society. Her younger brother used a bookie, which is not, it turns out, a cute miniature book.

When my mother "married up," she was transported from crime and poverty, but she became beholden to my father and seemed to agree with him unconditionally. If I asked for her opinion, she often appeared stumped and annoyed, as though I was trying to trick her into argument. Inside her new society, she had grown too polite for opinions. A strong one, especially, could lead to controversy.

Later, in the larger world, I would discover that people actually pay you for your opinions, but my mother held hers so close to her heart that, for years, I assumed she had none.

---

ETA: Inspired by a comment from Ultimate Writer, I’m posting results of a comparative study between girls behavior and experience in single-sex vs. coed schools. Here are a few findings:

In single-sex schools, Girls...

- Showed increase in self-esteem and self-confidence
- Were less critical of own behavior
- Held less stereotypic views of gender roles
- Showed more confidence in challenging courses
- Performed better in academics and athletics
- Showed more academic achievement in math and science
- Received a more competitive learning environment
- Showed increased interest in college

In coed schools, Girls...

- Showed more reluctance to express views and opinions
- Showed decreased risk-taking
- Were often called upon less in class
- Received less time to answer a question
- Received less assistance in class
- Classroom and curriculum was male-structured from textbooks to standardized tests

Source Link

---

Disclaimer: This post is not intended to exalt Rudeness or discount the many virtues of Politeness (or better yet, warmth and kindness) in what may often seem a cold and rude world.
f w e sss

Writing What Women Know

2006-03-28T12:02:00.000-05:00

"Write what you know."

I heard these words often as a child. And Little Women, one of the most popular novels for girls, offers me the same moral. Jo writes sensational and imaginative tales, but the Professor, whom she comes to respect and love, doesn't think such stories are worthy of her. He essentially counsels her to write what she knows, and subsequently, she publishes a successful novel about her family.

One summer, when I was a playwright-in-residence at a regional theatre, a fellow female playwright wrote a script about a man sent to prison for committing heinous crimes, and frequently, I overheard other residents express disgust that she would pick such a "disgusting" subject. (Which begs the question: would Silence of the Lambs be disgusting if a woman wrote it?)

In a college writing class, I wrote highly romantic stories which my teacher held in contempt. He wanted me to write "reality." Thus, in order to raise my grade, I crafted a silly story about a man and woman chain-smoking and breaking-up in a café. My teacher loved it. I was writing what he thought I should know.

Are women encouraged too strongly to write solely within the realm of our experience?

In a recent post, MysticGypsy writes passionately against a notion that Emily Bronte couldn't have written Wuthering Heights if she hadn't experienced romantic love. And some scholars suggest that Frankenstein was written or heavily aided by Mary Shelley's husband, as if a woman could not possibly write such a "monstrous" story alone.

Do we link a woman's personal life too intimately with her writing?

Without a doubt, Harry Potter is a smash-hit, but statistically, male writers dominate science fiction, fantasy and speculative fiction, and ever since longing for a "friendly female monster" in a previous post, I have begun to wonder...

Is this at all probable if women are directed to write what we know? And by the way, do men generally receive this same memo?
f eb w c12

Writing: On the Bench or in the Game?

2006-03-22T06:58:00.000-05:00

Preface

I've sat on both sides of the literary desk, reading and selecting as well as writing and submitting manuscripts. Both chairs offer excitement and joy as well as "compromise" at every angle. Artists as well as producers/publishers must constantly decide when to stand firm and when to bend; when to walk away and when to play. Sometimes, I see myself as a champion. Other times, I'm merely Don Quixote.

Writing for the Teen or the Team?

When I was younger, an editor from a major publishing house invited me to her office to discuss my unwieldy first draft of a young adult novel. Regrettably, what I remember most about our two hour meeting was how unbearably parched my mouth was and how absurdly tiny the pointy-bottomed, water-cooler cups were.

Where does one set down such a cup, anyway? And surely, such a renown publisher can afford to offer anxious writers a tad more refreshment so that our lips do not stick together as we face the authoritative opinions of a strong-minded editor.

After she analyzed my draft in crushing detail (I think she may have felt obliged to offer at least one criticism per page), she sat back comfortably, smiled at me broadly, and gave me an unexpected compliment: "You take criticism so well! That's unusual in a young writer."

If I could have spoken, I might have told her that my seemingly compliant nature was due to dire thirst. I suspect I nodded frequently during our "discussion" because words necessitated moisture.

Since I had essentially forgone speech, I made an effort to listen attentively, but listening can be a challenge in this sort of a situation. It's tempting to survey new surroundings, and consider the Editor herself and her life and how she got there and what she went home to, or just let your mind float back again to water.

My uneven and unpolished novel was about a teen girl who drifts from person to person in an outwardly aimless fashion until she finds a moment of meaning and connection. At one point, this Editor leaned forward, whispering with a wink of confidentially, "Sports is all the rave now. She ought to play a sport." And the Editor went on to name an author who was very successful at writing sporty teens.

Had I been lucky (or unlucky) enough to be drinking water at this moment, I might have choked or spit. She liked my prose well-enough, but she wanted action - well, sports - not a wayward teen lost in thought and the world; not my novel. She told me to cut my manuscript in half and call her when I finished the next draft.

I soon left the large building behind me, stepping along the streets of NYC, and walked all way uptown to the apartment of my boyfriend. Naturally, he inquired about the meeting, but between gulps of water and spurts of tears, all I could utter was: "Sports, Sports!"

I was youthful; defiant. I didn't call her back.

Later, I would wonder - If I had played sports as a girl, would I have been more of a team player?
f p w ya

Can FrankenGirl Exist?

2006-03-15T12:59:00.000-05:00

After Sven wrote a generous post relating to my pseudonym, I have reflected back on why I chose “FrankenGirl.”

I know that larger tragedies loom in this world, but I believe I'm duty-bound, as FrankenGirl, to remind us that we suffer dreadfully from a dearth of friendly female monsters.

For empathetic male "monstrosities," we need look no further than Frankenstein's unnamed monster, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Elephant Man, Cyrano de Bergerac, Beauty's Beast, among others.

These creatures are off-putting, but evoke our sympathies, and ultimately, move us with their stories. We learn that truth and beauty hide beneath their surface.

But if a young girl longs to be simultaneously Repugnant and Appealing, whom should she emulate? If she turns to Fairy tales, she may conclude that her ugliness is most likely a sign of inner evil, and she should do whatever it takes to stay away from herself.

I've witnessed a few failed attempts at creating an iconic "ugly" heroine. Sleeping Ugly, a well-intentioned story by Jane Yolen, left me disappointed: the pictured girl is far from hideous. The film, The Truth about Cats & Dogs, is a female take on the Cyrano story, but since Janeane Garofalo is cast as "Cyrano" and Uma Thurman as her friend, this story could be called: "The Tragedy of Being Attractive, but Not as Glamorous as Uma Thurman."

The real life Lucy Grealy, who suffered from cancer of the face, did stir hearts in her memoir, Autobiography of a Face, but later, when she underwent surgery after surgery to look less like an oddity, many found her growing addiction to surgery (and pain-killers) less seemly than her face. She was criticized (upon her death) for failing to give us hope that beauty didn't matter, because clearly, in her life (and world), beauty did matter.

If we turn to a few high-profile female politicians: Eleanor Roosevelt; Madeleine Albright; Janet Reno, such women are frequently mocked for their very "lack of beauty." However, at the same time, they have wielded significant power. Beautiful girls were distracted by boys—a successful woman once noted—we ugly girls had plenty of time for study.

Yet, our literature, film and media seem to continuously omit any advantages of "ugliness" in women, and we are given no renown female "monsters" with whom we may identify.
f f l f b

Brang & Our Wild World of Words

2006-03-13T10:01:00.000-05:00

Preface

This entry is inspired by a comment on a previous post from MysticGypsy, who reflected on how many of us automatically assume our words are understood in the light we intended.

Words are universal, but at the same time, we individualize them. Through experience, our words take on specific associations and special significance to us. At some point in our lives, most of us have made up words as well as altered words, creating our own unique definitions, code words, secret languages among friends (imaginary or real!). Thus, a harsh word to one might sound hilarious to another, or vice versa. And all the while, we must use these words to describe our basic daily needs as well as our innermost feelings, and hope that we are understood.

Brang is a Word: It Better Be!

I brang the book home yesterday. Hey, what’s wrong with that? It sounds perfectly reasonable to me. I rang the bell and sang the song yesterday, didn’t I?

In third grade, I got in a quarrel with my teacher, Mrs. Shepherd. She held me after class and informed me that “brang” isn’t a word, but I refused to be deceived. I knew better, you see. I knew what she couldn’t possible know. My mother always used the word “brang.”

Mrs. Shepherd explained calmly at first, but I wouldn’t cave so easily. Don’t mess with my vocabulary. No, that wasn’t what I meant, was it? Don’t mess with my loyalty.

I stuck stubbornly to my side, hardening myself against all arguments, and eventually, Mrs. Shepherd lost patience with me.

Your mom is wrong.

I despised Mrs. Shepherd for a while, but I stopped saying “brang.” And I started to suspect Mom whenever she spoke at the dinner table. I wondered what other misbegotten words might be falling from her mouth. I could no longer trust her sentence structure, her clauses, her connotations, even as they whirled about me, catching me inside their net.

You don’t want to be Mom. You want to be Right.

Mrs. Shepherd wasn’t the only one who knew better than Mom. In contrast to Mom’s lower-class background of urban poverty, Dad had been raised on a middle-class farm and enjoyed an Ivy League education. Not only did my parents represent different sexes, but also disparate classes, and when I considered my options, I wanted to be Dad.

Eventually, Mom listened to vocabulary tapes and left her Brang-days behind her, but it would be years before I realized that she had some very valuable words to teach me.

For you, Mom, I brang myself home.
f l

Bitch or Witch?

2006-03-08T14:24:00.000-05:00

As a result of censorship, men called women "witches" instead of "bitches" in the song: It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp* at the 78th Academy Awards on Sunday.

This begs the question: Is it better to be called a Witch or a Bitch by a man? So, prompted by a comment from Panacea on a previous post, I looked up a few definitions.

Bitch [noun]
1: a lewd or immoral woman
2: a malicious, spiteful, or domineering woman - sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse

Witch [noun]
1: one that is credited with usually malignant supernatural powers … often with the aid of a devil
2: an ugly old woman : hag
3: a seductive, alluring, bewitching woman

Pimp [noun]
1: a man who solicits clients for a prostitute

Wow! The definition of "pimp" sounds so banal and bland. It even suggests that the pimp is working as a subordinate for the prostitute - with absolutely no mention that he is engaged in an unlawful, immoral and destructive practice. (Whereas a prostitute is described far less favorably, as debasing herself for money.)

As for Bitch vs. Witch, at least "Bitch" is less ambiguous. I pretty much know where I stand. Isn't it interesting that "Witch" can indicate both an ugly old hag - as well as - an alluring seductress? Clearly, if anyone calls me a "witch," I will have to request clarification!

“Excuse me, Sir, but do you find me utterly irresistible or extremely unseemly? Or am I really a spawn of the devil? Please clarify.”

-----

* Winner of the Oscar for best original song (2006).

(The definitions above have been collected/combined from the American Heritage Dictionary and Merriam-Webster Dictionary)
f a t c o

It's Hard Out Here for a Feminist

2006-03-07T14:29:00.000-05:00

It's Hard Out Here For A Fem'nist *

You know it's hard out here for a fem'nist (you ain't knowin)
When she tryin to get some respect from the men (you ain't knowin)
For the energy and work hours spent
Because a whole of lot of misog'nists talk shit

In my eyes I done seen some crazy thangs in this world
Done seen women raped, done seen women beat
Done seen women live in poverty on the street
It's fucked up where I live, but that's just how it is

It might be new to you, but it's been like this for years
It's blood sweat and tears when it come down to this shit
I’m tryin to get justice ‘fore I leave up out this life
I’m tryin to get thangs right but it’s hard fo’ a fem'nist
But I'm prayin and I'm hopin to God I don't give up the fight

~ FrankenGirl

"Eighty percent of the women were sexually assaulted by pimps via sadistic sex; 71% of pimps use drugs to control the women; and 34% of the women received death threats from pimps personally or to their family." - from “Sex Trafficking In the United States, Coalition Against Trafficking of Women Study,” Raymond, Hughes, Gomez (3/01)

"You know what? I think it just got a little easier out here for a pimp." - Jon Stewart, Host of the 78th Academy Awards (3/06)

* It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp (Lyrics)
Oscar Winner - Best Original Song - 78th Academy Awards (3/06)

You know it's hard out here for a pimp (you ain't knowin)
When he tryin to get this money for the rent (you ain't knowin)
For the Cadillacs and gas money spent (you ain't knowin)
[1] Because a whole lot of bitches talkin shit (you ain't knowin)
[2] Will have a whole lot of bitches talkin shit (you ain't knowin)

In my eyes I done seen some crazy thangs in the streets
Gotta couple hoes workin on the changes for me
But I gotta keep my game tight like Kobe on game night
Like takin from a ho don't know no better, I know that ain't right
Done seen people killed, done seen people deal
Done seen people live in poverty with no meals
It's fucked up where I live, but that's just how it is
It might be new to you, but it's been like this for years
It's blood sweat and tears when it come down to this shit
I'm tryin to get rich 'fore I leave up out this bitch
I'm tryin to have thangs but it's hard fo' a pimp
But I'm prayin and I'm hopin to God I don't slip, yeah

[Chorus]

Man it seems like I'm duckin dodgin bullets everyday
Niggaz hatin on me cause I got, hoes on the tray
But I gotta stay paid, gotta stay above water
Couldn't keep up with my hoes, that's when shit got harder
North Memphis where I'm from, I'm 7th Street bound
Where niggaz all the time end up lost and never found
Man these girls think we prove thangs, leave a big head
They come hopin every night, they don't end up bein dead
Wait I got a snow bunny, and a black girl too
You pay the right price and they'll both do you
That's the way the game goes, gotta keep it strictly pimpin
Gotta have my hustle tight, makin change off these women, yeah

[Chorus]

f o p h

Mutiny against the Playwright

2006-02-27T15:03:00.000-05:00

I’ve been fighting with my characters all weekend.

We’ve been throwing subtext at each other wildly, and now, over-the-top speeches, curse-words, and far too many clichés have landed all over my office. What a mess!

“Don’t you dare make me pregnant!” one of my characters threatens indignantly, “You know me better than that! I wouldn’t sleep around without protection! Besides, that’s so lame, so ‘Friends,’ so desperate!”

She’s right. I am desperate. I was flowing along smoothly, but my eyes were bent so inwardly that I didn’t look up till—bam!—I hit a dam right in front of me.

“Oh, I saw that coming,” one of my smarty-pants characters smirks at me, “Any dope coulda seen that. Clear from the start.”

Jeez, you just don’t get any respect from your characters, these days.

“How long are we going wait here?” inquires another character. “I have depth, you know, and integrity,” he informs me, “I can’t possibly sit around like this, doing nothing. Let me pray, or pace, or at least, take a pee, for godsakes!”

Yeah. They all want their memorable “moment.” They all want to be “stars.” Characters can be so damn demanding.

“Got a sec?” asks another character awkwardly, “Like, what am I doing with this knife? Cause I’m supposed to be funny, right? So why’d you stick me with this knife? It’s too big for cutting celery—not that I mind cutting celery, if you need celery cut — but this isn’t a celery knife. And I don’t wanna hurt anybody, I swear, cause I’m no psycho-creep. I’m just comic relief.”

“You’re probably going to stab my baby,” says the first character wryly.

No, there’s no baby! And that knife—here, hand it over to me carefully, that’s right, nice and slow, and I’ll shut it back in the drawer. See. No knife. No baby. Nothing.
w p

Dear Wendy Wasserstein

2006-02-21T06:53:00.000-05:00

Dear Wendy,

Sorry for not writing sooner. This note is long overdue.

It's been years since I met you in the corner of that crowded bookstore where the skinny Drama section stooped between Entertainment and Art. Actually, it was more of a shelf than a full-scale section, but that's where we met. You and I. You were one of only a few female playwrights sitting there.

I didn't know girls wrote plays.

You see, in school, they taught O'Neill, Brecht, Ibsen — Oh, I know a joke about Ibsen! They say, if he’d written A Doll’s House today, that play would be no more than a one-act, cause no modern Nora would stick around with that hubby of hers for a full-length — no way! She'd slam her way out of that manuscript long before intermission.

And I think Nora's early liberation is due to you, women like you, Wendy.

When I was young and interviewed with a commercial theatre, the artistic director asked me who my favorite playwright was. Marsha Norman, I answered, cause 'Night Mother is dark, and your Heidi Chronicles is much lighter, and I wanted to be dark, cause I was young and everybody was wearing black.

A few years later, I needed a laugh, and there you were with all your wit, just waiting for me. Who knew feminists could have such a sense of humor? Cause feminism - that's serious stuff. But you were funny and friendly. You didn't have to be serious to make a point. You knew that long before I did.

And your name, Wendy, has turned out to be lucky for me. Wendy's the name of the woman who mentored me. And another Wendy's directed several fledgling scripts of mine. Overall, "Wendy" has been good to me.

Well, I don't want to gush on and on, cause you probably get a lot of that. I know you weren't the first female playwright to win the Pulitzer, but for me, Wendy, you were the first who made it seem accessible, not stuffy, not shut-up in some literary file, but living and laughing out loud in the world.

And that's how I'll remember you.

Thanks.
f w p p

Brits Capture Oklahoma! and other Belated News

2006-02-16T13:57:00.000-05:00

When I confess that I fancy Hugh Jackman, you look at me strangely. You say, "Huh? You and Wolverine? Nooo!"

That's when I tell you about the 1999 London Stage Revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma. Hugh plays Curly, the heterosexual cowboy. (Yep, that's right, a few of 'em are hetero.)

Now I hear you muttering: "Oklahoma is a corny musical about two shallow lovers who create chaos cause they're too silly, snotty and snooty to go on a simple date!"

I nod, because I thought so, too, after watching the 1950s American-made version with Gordon MacRae and Shirley Jones.

I hated that Curly! He was a slick stick, a bland bore, and far too fancy-pants clean to be a cowboy! (And Laurey was such a hissy-priss, and Jud, no more than a cartoon-caricature.)

But the Brit version (directed by Trevor Nunn) captures Oklahoma! better than we Americans did: the clash between farmers and cowboys: desire to grow vs. desire to graze; desire to build vs. desire to roam; a conflict over territory and lifestyle among poor Americans.

Sure, this Oklahoma! still mixes plenty of frivolity amidst the drama. Hey, it's a Musical, after all! Curly's still foolhardy and Laurey (Josefina Gabrielle) still stubborn, but when confronted with Jud, they're offered a chance to mature and they take it. (The main actors also perform the full ballet.)

Jud, played with great depth and darkness by Shuler Hensley, may be the most exciting revelation. He gives Oklahoma! something I never knew it had: a real plot.

So, thanks, Trevor, for filming this production, because I wouldn't have thought to look for Oklahoma! in London.

More Recommendations:

If you're a blogging woman and would like to join a community of blogging women, I recommend checking out www.BlogHer.org.

If you're still pondering burning a diary or two, I recommend reading Holly's journaling entry at Self-Portrait as.

If you believe Emily Dickinson was completely content to write for herself alone, I recommend watching The Belle of Amherst starring Julie Harris.

If you think Gilmore Girls is "Girls Only," I recommend viewing the last few minutes of Friday Night's Alright for Fighting (this season's 13th episode). Sure, GG's often shaky when it comes to plot (I hate the soap-opera Luke-discovers-daughter storyline! Golly, does he have a twin brother, too, longing for a reunion?!).

But at the end of Friday Night's Alright for Fighting, all focus returns to the family core, where GG is at its best. For a few minutes, innovative blocking, creative jump cuts, and documentary-style camera work all reinforce the ultra-sharp dialogue and complicated relations between three generations of family.

I leave you with a few words from Lorelai (spoken during this sequence): "Thank you! And ... SCENE."

(Enjoy your weekend.)
o g e h
f

V-Day

2006-02-14T11:34:00.000-05:00

Last night, Wolfboy adopted four children.

He did it on National TV, too, making one of those Surprise-Surprise! Grand Gestures on a talk show hosted by Stockard Channing.

Joey (Matt LeBlanc), another guest on the show, applauded Wolfboy for his syrupy-sentimental act, and the whole audience cheered and wept in an impressive display of emotion.

As you can imagine, I was mighty peeved.

First, I didn’t specially want kids that day. Second, I didn’t like the looks of these particular children. They had the bodies of babies, but huge heads with Evil grins, but Wolfboy doesn’t notice Evil like I do.

Since we had no available bedroom, Wolfboy stuck all four kids in the bathroom, which distressed me considerably, since I couldn’t brush my teeth that night or take a shower the next morning. When I cracked open the door out of curiosity, I was met by four sets of glaring, gaping eyes, and that was more than I could bear.

I asked Wolfboy to return the children, but he claimed they were nonrefundable, and when I dialed my parents for a temporary place to stay, an expressionless man with a generic gray face, lifted the phone away.

So I ran, as one does in dreams. I ran through a dim, desolate tunnel with Generic-Man chasing after me with a long, pointy needle.

It’ll ruin the publicity stunt if you abandon the children – a whisper fell into my ear - Better to die accidentally. Tragedy is good for ratings.

I woke.

Wolfboy, rising from the bed, smiled too innocently at me: “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I seethed.

Such is the power of dreams.

d

Burning Diaries

2006-02-13T07:43:00.000-05:00

Diaries are meant to be burnt.

So said my stoic grandmother. Why would you want to reread all those silly, petty feelings you had when you were ten?

I was ten or eleven or twelve when Grandma dispassionately mentioned that she had turned all her diaries into ashes. What's important to you now (every childish dream, every girlish desire), she seemed to insist, will seem foolish or frivolous in the future.

Grandma wasn't a particularly warm woman, and on this day, I found her especially hard. How can she possible think my precious daily diary will ever mean nothing to me? I don't want to grow up, ever!, if that’s the case.

I also felt cheated. Someone, at some time, had informed me that Grandma was not always an Old Woman, but I couldn't imagine her as young. I was absolutely convinced that she had been born old, ripe, white-haired. (How she came out of a womb, I never knew.)

But if Grandma had held onto her diaries, I could have read the girl she was. I might even have come to believe she once had been a child like me, but without any evidence, I couldn't see Grandma as anyone but Grandma.

Grandma has been dead now, several years, and recently, I started to see some sense in her words to me. I've even been tempted to light a flame to one of my teen diaries. But I'm torn...

Are certain periods of our lives best extinguished completely? Does that free us from an unhappy memory? Is Grandma right after all? I'm a Woman now. That Girl is gone. Should I let her rest in peace?

Or do burnt-diaries leave a hole in our life's bookcase? Or worse, a vulnerability that we might forget our history, and even recreate our own story to please ourselves (in lieu of honesty).

I haven't been closely following the saga of Frey's A Million Little Pieces, but I think, if I were ever to write a memoir, I had better keep all my diaries, because I would be sorely tempted to skip over the ugly bits.

Still...I sure would like to watch those pages burn.
F d m