Holly Goes Lightly

HGL HAS MOVED!!!

2014-02-19T11:04:00.000-05:00

It's true. I've moved over to Wordpress. The whole thing has been a real pain in the butt. My posts aren't formatted correctly, the pictures didn't move over right: it's a work in process.

Still, you can find NEW POSTS over at www.hgoeslightly.com. If you receive posts via e-mail, I will hopefully transition you safely to the new site. However, just to be safe, the best way to receive new posts is to sign up over at the Wordpress site. There's a nice, neat little box to put your email address in.

I cannot count on Facebook anymore! Only 10% of people who "liked" my Facebook page actually see what I've posted there, because Facebook is mean and arbitrary. So please subscribe!

This site will remain up for a while, though Google really hates when two sites have the same content. Suck it up, Google. Suck. It. Up.

See you at Wordpress. Unless I change my mind and come back here out of frustration.

Love,
Holly

A Year of Books in 2013: Part 2

2014-01-21T17:18:00.000-05:00

This is part 2 of my 2013 Year in Books Review. Part 1, which is fascinating and has been nominated for several blog awards, can be found here.

The following is based upon a survey that I stole from the internet.

How many books read in 2013? 51

Fiction/Non-Fiction ratio? 1 non-fiction, 2 memoirs, 48 works of fiction.

Male/female authors? 17/34

Favorite book read? Harriet the Spy. It was actually an audio book. The kids and I started listening to books in the car, and it was life-changing. We would drive somewhere, and they would be quiet. Silent. And if someone would start to speak, he or she would receive a mighty shush.

I never read Harriet the Spy as a child. It was entertaining, funny, vivid, heartbreaking, and honest. Caleb liked it so much I bought him the sequel and companion book, and he’s currently halfway through the sequel.

Caleb is in the middle of at least four books: Harry Potter (the fourth one), Ender’s Game, The Long Secret (Harriet the Spy), and some baseball book. It drives me crazy. I just want him to finish a book, and then start the next. He’s doing it all wrong.

Least favorite? Breed by Chase Novak. It was recommended by Stephen King. I also read Under the Dome by Stephen King. Neither was any good. I am losing faith in Stephen King.

Oldest book read? The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton, 1937

Newest: I think The Goldfinch, October 2013

Longest book title? The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton; Beyond the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo

Shortest title? Feed by M.T. Anderson

How many re-reads? Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Most books read by one author this year: Susan Beth Pfeffer. I binged and read all four books in her young adult series in three days.

Any in translation? I started The Infatuations by Javier Marias, but I got bored so I quit. Because you can do that.

And how many of this year’s books were from the library? 21. I think my overdue fees probably equal the amount of money I would have spent on books had I purchased instead of borrowing them.

Book You Were Excited About & Thought You Were Going To Love More But Didn’t? The Infatuations by Javier Marias, The Woman Upstairs by Claire Messud, Paris was the Place by Susan Conley

Most surprising (in a good way!) book of 2013? The Silent Land by Graham Joyce

Book you read in 2013 that you recommended to people most in 2013? Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell, Night Film by Marisha Pessl

Most humorous? May We Be Forgiven by A.M. Homes

Best series you discovered in 2013? I don’t generally read series, but I will (shamefully) admit to reading a young adult series by Susan Beth Pfeffer about what happens when an asteroid knocks the moon out of orbit. It was scientifically preposterous, but I think she laced the prose with crack because I had to see how the thing ended.

Favorite new author(s) you discovered in 2013? Rainbow Rowell, Leah Stewart, Graham Joyce

Most thrilling, unputdownable book in 2013? Night Film by Marisha Pessl

Book You Read In 2013 That You Are Most Likely To Re-Read Next Year? Fangirl. I’ve already read it three times. It’s short and enjoyable.

Most memorable character in 2013? Will Traynor in Me Before You, Levi in Fangirl, David Schickler in The Dark Path, Harriet in Harriet the Spy, Rose Baker in The Other Typist

Most beautifully written book read in 2013? The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman

Book that had the greatest impact on you in 2013? Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy, Black and Blue by Anna Quindlen

Book you can’t believe you waited UNTIL 2013 to finally read? Harriet the Spy

Shortest and Longest Book You Read In 2013? Night by Elie Wiesel and Under the Dome by Stephen King

Genre You Read The Most From in 2013? Literary Fiction

Best 2013 debut you read? The Other Typist by Suzanne Rindell

Book That Was The Most Fun To Read in 2013? Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell, Night Film by Marisha Pessl

Book That Made You Cry in 2013? Me Before You by Jo Jo Moyes, The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt, The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman

One Book You Didn’t Get To In 2013 But Will Be Your Number 1 Priority in 2014? Middlemarch by George Eliot

Tuesdays with Grandma

2014-01-16T11:29:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, I was feeling pretty perky for a Tuesday, so I decided to use that energy for something good. I went to visit Grandma.

Grandma lives in a senior retirement community. It kind of reminds me of a cruise ship. She has a lovely, clean apartment, and access to the following: 2 beauty parlors, a cinema with recliners, a quaint café, two gorgeous dining rooms, a little store to buy milk and other sundries, an exercise room, an art studio, and a library. Oh, and a bar.

“Have to have the bar!” Grandma says sarcastically.

At the community, there are movies played and various cultural excursions offered daily. They provide transportation to church, to the grocery store, and to the mall. They offer diversions like Bingo and Po-ke-no, a game that requires a lot of pennies. (Grandma is always flush with change. If she’s had a good night at Bingo, she’ll pay for my lunch when I come to visit.)

They play Lawrence Welk in the community room every evening at 7:00.

Here are some events planned JUST TODAY: Pet therapy with Diane! A Chair Exercise class! Guest Speaker Mike the Getaway Guy in the Meeting Room! Band practice at 7:00! Beth’s Classical Music Program at 3:00!

I get excited looking at all of these events.

“Grandma. Want me to come watch The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance with you? I’d like to sit in those comfy chairs.”

“A movie? I’ve gone to four movies since I’ve been here. I walked right out of the last one. I couldn’t hear a thing.”

Grandma is overwhelmed by the calendar.

“These city people always have to go go go. They can’t just sit and be still. When I tell them it used to take me 40 minutes to get to the mall, they just can’t believe it. City people just expect everything to come easy to them. They have to be entertained all the time. “

“So that’s a no to Poetry with Mary Lou on Saturday? “

“Poetry with who?”

Yesterday, I met her at her apartment. We always walk to the café, which is about three to four corridors away. That’s how you measure distance there, in corridors.

“Just leave your purse here,” Grandma commands.

I place my purse on the floor and deftly pull out my cell phone and slip it into my pocket.

“Can’t you be without that thing for even an hour?” Grandma says.

I’ve been caught. We go through this every time I come to visit, which used to be weekly but is now more sporadic. Some days, I’m just not perky enough.

“I have to take it with me. The kids’ school expects to be able to reach me if there’s a problem.”

“And what did your mother do when you kids were in school? Stay by the phone all day? “

“It’s different now. This is just the way it is.”

Grandma throws her hands up in the air.

“All this technology has to stop someday. Don’t you think? I mean, how much further can they go? There has to be an end.”

“I firmly believe that computerized robots will take over the world within 20 years, rendering the human race obsolete,” I say.

“Well, I’ll be dead by then.”

We walk rather quickly to the café. Grandma has a new hot pink walker. The nice thing about these walkers, I have to say, is that if one gets tired, there’s a seat built right into the thing. You just have to turn the walker around and plunk down. Very convenient.

The café is bright and clean, and has an eclectic staff, which Grandma always comments upon.

“Look at that boys hair. Have you ever seen something like that?” I have to admit the boy’s hair, which is shaved on one side of the head and long and wavy on the other side, is unusual. The long side is constantly falling into his eye. He kind of looks like a cocker spaniel with only one ear.

The food is good. I eat a grilled cheese sandwich with a pickle. Grandma always gets a chicken sandwich on a roll. We each drink a diet Pepsi.

There is a large, two-sided faux fireplace in the café where a man has pulled up his walker, which he sat upon, slumped over, asleep.

“That man was here at 10:00 when I was out for my walk this morning,” says Grandma.

“Aww, he’s like a puppy. Curled up by the fire.”

“I don’t understand why they can’t sleep in their own rooms.”

It does seem to be a common issue at retirement communities. There are scores of elderly men and women who choose to doze off in the most public of places. You walk into the main lobby, and there are three of them, drooling and dreaming.

We walk to one of the other lobbies so Grandma can show me the damage that occurred when the pipes froze last week during the Polar Vortex. I have to duck under a tarp.

“How tall are you, anyway?” Grandma, who did not have to duck, asks.

“I’m 5’5”. “

“I was 5’4” once.”

Back at her apartment, we settle in chairs and I get the scoop. Avis back in Schroon Lake is still blind and living on her own. Virginia is adjusting well to life in her nursing home. There’s a new person who moved in down the hall. They come, they go. Mostly they go because they die.

“I felt very overwhelmed at Christmas,” Grandma says.

“Where there too many people? Were the kids too crazy?”

“No, I mean the presents. I’ve NEVER seen so many presents. Kids these days just have so much stuff. We got one present at Christmas. One year, I got a suitcase because I was going on a class trip to Washington D.C. Your grandfather never got any presents.”

This is the part that gets wearisome. It’s the same every week. I want to tell Grandma that I’ve read Tom Brokaw’s book: I know all about the plights of the greatest generation. (Full disclosure: I have not actually read Tom Brokaw’s book.)

The trick is to smile and nod, and eventually the lecturing stops and she delves into some story from the past. This week, it was about her father and the store he ran, the store that my grandfather took over when he and my grandma were married.

Grandma is turning 90 this month. She’s lived through two world wars, a depression, the introduction of the washer and dryer, the dishwasher, the microwave, the television, vaccines, Beatlemania, space shuttles, the computer, and (alas) the cell phone. She’s lost her husband, her brothers, her parents, her newborn son, her 7-year old sister, and most of her friends.

I’m cutting Grandma some slack. But, since she disdains computers, I know it’s safe to blog about her.

She makes for excellent blog fodder.

A Year in Books 2013: Part I

2014-01-07T20:13:00.001-05:00

Prologue

There is no brownie mix in my house. I know, because I just tore my pantry apart looking for one. In fact, the time I spent desperately searching for a brownie mix could have been spent making brownies from scratch. I searched every deep, dark crevice of the pantry. I found a mix for lemon bars,a Funfetti cake mix, two opened bags of chocolate chips, more elbow noodles than I will ever need, a dead moth, two Hot Wheels cars, and a lip gloss I'd been looking for. Eventually I gave up, and now here I am, curled up on the couch writing this post, not enjoying the aroma of fresh brownies baking in the oven.

I was so sure I had a brownie mix.

Rogue Cheerio

My Other Dyson

Yesterday, while I was vacuuming, I came across a rogue Cheerio. I went back and forth over it for a good minute before it eventually broke into pieces and was taken by my mighty Dyson. I could have picked up that Cheerio and put it in the garbage at least eight times in that same period of time, but that would have meant letting the Cheerio win. I don't let smug Cheerios win. Hearing that sorry excuse for a circle break apart and get sucked into oblivion might have been the most satisfying part of my day.

The point is that I'm stubborn. And so last year, when I told myself I was going to read at least four different books by C.S. Lewis, I was doomed before I even started. Because I don't like people telling me what to do. Even if it's myself.

I did not read any C.S. Lewis in 2013, and I don't really want to talk about it. I did read other books, though. 51 in total, though I have included two kids chapter books and several young adult novels in my list.

Stats:

Books by male authors: 17
Books by female authors: 34
Pages read: 18,071

The Books; Part I

This year, I'm going to focus on four books. I had no intention of reading four novels concerned with the aggressive integration of consumerism and public sharing in society, but it happened. These weren't even my favorite books, but they all fit together. In fact, when looking back at all the books I read, it was eerie how well these four fit together. If you read these books in a certain order, you can put together a bleak timeline of the future.

Part I of the year in books 2013 starts with with Mr Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore, by Robin Sloane. The novel has a more cheerful tone than the others; Robin Sloane is a self-professed techie, and so are the characters in his book. I thought the novel was a little bogged down with technological detail, but the prose flows nicely and is full of humor.

The protagonist, Clay, has taken a job at a bookstore that is open 24 hours. He soon discovers that books in a sealed-off section of the store hold a secret code, and he resolves to break it. Never mind that a cult-like group of individuals has been trying to break the code for over 500 years! He has a computer, and techno-savvy friends. A childhood friend who became a millionaire by designing life-like boobs for video games funds his quest, and a girlfriend who works for Google makes it her mission to crack the code, using her bountiful technological resources. (When she's not helping Clay, the girlfriend is on a mission to document "old knowledge" so that everyone can have access to all information ever collected in the whole entire history of the world. This is the exact plot of the next book I am going to talk about!) If you don't know what Google is capable of, you should probably not read this book. I'm currently looking into ways to live "off the grid." Unless "off the grid" is not near a Wegmans. If that is the case, then I'll embrace the grid.

Robin Sloan embraces new technology while paying homage to classic literature. Clay carries his "ironic" first-generation Kindle around with him, but also loves those old-fashioned bound books with actual paper. There's a lot of talk, in at least in three of these novels, about the smell of books. I pulled open my new copy of Mr Penumbra's 24-hour Bookstore and took a long whiff and smelled... not a whole lot. Maybe it was too new. I think I'll store it in the basement for a couple of years, and then it will smell more authentic. The book DOES have a glow-in-the-dark cover, however. It's good for you to know this before you put it on your night stand so you don't wake up screaming in the wee hours of the morning, carrying on about aliens coming to get you. Apparently, this kind of behavior can be "unnerving" to your significant other.

We segue into Dave Eggers' novel The Circle, which is the name of a futuristic social networking site. The Circle is Twitter and Google and Facebook and Instagram and everything else out there all rolled up into one huge powerful corporate entity. Mae is our vapid and naive young protagonist who, through a college friend, lands a plum position at the world's largest Internet company. The Circle's campus is probably modeled on Google's campus. It is shiny and modern and clean and a little bit creepy. The author hits us over the head with Orwellian themes: The Circle's motto is "SECRETS ARE LIES, SHARING IS CARING, PRIVACY IS THEFT." Employees at The Circle are encouraged to go "transparent." Transparency means sharing your entire life online through the TruYou technology of The Circle. Every time The Circle comes up with a new piece of technology that makes the world that much smaller, and therefore, that much more transparent, the community celebrates.

Holly: So this is how liberty dies. With thunderous applause.
John: Wow, that's a great quote. Who said that? Thomas Paine?
Holly: Queen Padme in the third Star Wars movie. Right as the emperor was taking over.
John: I've got nothing.

The Circle is my first Dave Eggers novel, and honestly, I thought a book by the author of a novel entitled "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" would blow me away with its profundities and deft prose. I was not blown away; the writing is simple and the characters one-dimensional, but the plot carried me along.

We journey into the more distant future. Everything goes to crap in Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story. America is in a deep depression, losing a war with Venezuela, practically owned by China, and worst of all, Staten Island has become the hip place to be in New York City. Staten Island. Citizens of this cheerless America have become excessively shallow, materialistic, and obsessed with youth. They are also nearly illiterate. Books are no longer read, but scanned for pertinent information. (Lenny Abramov, our rather pathetic protagonist, is much maligned for having "smelly" books in his apartments.) Texting is the dominant form of communication: actual talking to one another is termed "verballing."

Lenny works for an Indefinite Life Extension company, selling extended life spans to the exceedingly wealthy. Lenny, on the other hand, is in his late thirties, balding, and is very much in love with Eunice, a Korean girl 15 years his junior. He has decided he wants to live forever, but cannot get his hands on the very technology he sells. (The love story is essentially a retelling of Graham Greene's The Quiet American.) The one thing he has going for him is his stellar credit score, which is easily shared with others via his apparat. An apparat is an advanced piece of technology worn around the neck that constantly streams information to other apparat's, so that at any given moment, a person can view any and all information ever recorded about you.

Super Sad True Love Story is pure satire, but although described as a "tragicomedy," I didn't smile throughout the entire thing. Not once.

We journey even farther into the future and come to the bleakest of the four books, the young adult novel Feed, by M.T. Anderson. Let's cut right to the chase: in this story, the Internet is IN YOUR HEAD! Which means that you can instant message and shop with your brain. Any time you want. And if you thought today's teenage lingo is hard to keep up with, it's much, much worse in the future. Also, teens party on the moon. Really.

In Feed, the world is dying. Corporations own everything, even public schools. Pollution has taken its toll: the sky is manufactured, and natural air is no longer safe to breathe. People are developing horrific lesions on their skin, but rather than concern themselves with the decaying of their bodies, the commercial powers-that-be turn the sores into fashion statements. The sores are a ham-fisted metaphor for a world that is decaying, not just physically, but socially. Here we have a world completely consumed by commercialism, propelled by technology, where everyone is online, all the time. But what happens if a hacker shuts down your feed?

There's also a love story, but based on everything I have learned in these tales, love does not thrive in the future.

Reading these novels has made me slightly apprehensive about my complicity in the death of culture, but quite frankly, I'm more concerned about that giant volcano under Yellowstone. These authors hold a very grim outlook of the future. It's almost like they're trying to warn us of something. They are very afraid someone is going to take away their books, or at the very least, won't let them smell their books any longer. However, these same authors would hate it if Apple came up with an app that makes you iPad smell like an old book.

I'm going to go now. I've just come up with a great idea for an app for Google.

Part II of "The Books" is coming shortly.

For further enjoyment:

Why Do We Like Dystopian Novels?

Ring of Power

That's a person named Eunice... In honor of Eunice from Super Sad True Love Story, here is a clip from the classic comedy "What's Up Doc," starring Barbara Streisand, Ryan O'Neal, and the incomparable Madeline Kahn.

2013: A Poor Quality Photographic Retrospective

2014-01-03T18:59:00.000-05:00

I asked for a camera for my birthday. Initially, I wanted a nice point-and-shoot camera, because I thought a DSLR was out of our price range and too difficult to learn to use. Also, owning a DSLR comes with other expectations. I would feel pressured to learn Photoshop (the real kind, not Elements), and join Instagram and learn how to make digital watermarks for my online pictures. However, my goal for 2014 is to win the Seneca Park Zoo annual photo contest. To optimize my chances, I decided upon a DSLR Canon EOS Digital Rebel. Thankfully, it has an "AUTO" button, and joining Instragram is apparently not a prerequisite for ownership. So, better pictures will be taken in 2014. Also, tomorrow I'm off to the zoo to capture the snowy owl in the snow.

Pictures in 2013 were taken mainly on my iPhone 4. They are of poor quality. Nevertheless, here's a selection of photographs that capture the goings on of the Jennings family in 2013:

Daniel helped us bring in 2013! (This is Daniel, right before he nodded off while sitting up, and right before I dove to rescue our friend's carpet from his sparking cider.)

This is Ella's reaction to the tree coming down on January 2.

Caleb turns 10. That's two whole hands.

Grandma eats some pizza.

The family that reads together stays together. Also, this is the start of Ella's I'm going to wear a winter hat inside all the time phase.

Argh. Dog. Wet. Cold. Ick.

Ella turns 6!

So does Dan! And that's the best picture I got of him on his birthday.

Cold winter nights are spent playing Battleship.

Ella takes up residence on the stair landing.

Ella keeps warm by growing a mustache.

Caleb plays the piano at his school's ice cream social.

Easter! The sun may be in their eyes. I don't know.

We take cousin Macklyn and aunt Mary to the Strong Museum of Play for their very first visit.

I find this picture of John in a box. Hee hee.

So I watch my nephew for an afternoon and this is what he does.

Spring arrives!

We hang out in a lot of parks while Caleb has baseball practice.

We participate in "Crazy Hair Day" at school.

More hanging out at parks.

Sometimes, dirt is found.

Caleb. Baseball. Life.

At the piano recital.

Ella reads a book to her class.

Ella has a dance recital. This was her mood that day. She sat down in the middle of her second dance. Right on the stage. Then she walked off.

Caleb gets awarded for being a generally smart and decent individual.

Ben turns 8.

Summer arrives. Water balloon fights commence.

We go to Letchworth with the cousins. Holly gets chastised by a park ranger for reasons she won't even write in her blog. It's the first time Holly has been very, very sad inside Letchworth Park.

This toad takes up residence on the front porch for at least a week.

We get a zoo membership.

We go slip-and-sliding.

John wears this suit. In public.

We go geocaching.

We take over our friends' pool, military style.

We go to a church picnic.

We go on vacation.

Holly breaks this $400 paddle board.

This is the one that Holly didn't break.

We go hiking.

We find a way to take Ella to sporting events.

I cut Caleb's hair a little too short right before school starts.

We spend quality time with aunt Joyce.

Ella and Holly take a road trip. Look how super excited Ella is about it!

We go to the Philadelphia zoo.

We participate in the ancient ritual of trick-or-treating.

We commence the holiday season by torturing the dog.

We take the boys to see "A Christmas Carol."

There is an ice storm.

I say goodbye to the Grand Caravan. It was time.

I am happy happy happy about it.

My friend Janet gets a new puppy and I love it and pet it and squeeze it and call it George.

I receive a new camera for my birthday, and my husband proceeds to take about 100 pictures of the dog.

John tries to teach his friend how to saber open a champagne bottle and they spend New Year's evening in the emergency room.

Happy New Years!

I Spent $100 So My Kid Would Believe in Santa Claus

2013-12-21T11:31:00.001-05:00

This past week, I have spent an inordinate amount of time in lines, and have been pleasantly surprised by my fellow humans' chipper attitude this Christmas season. People have looked at me and said, "Oh honey, you only have one thing. You go before me!" What trickery is this? I thought. No trickery! People were just being merry and bright.

At one store, I went through the relatively short line to discover I had forgotten to purchase batteries. So I bravely went back in, fetched the AAs, and got back into the same line. As I was checking out, the cashier asked me,

"Would you like to donate to Foodlink today?"

"Oh, I was just in line. Remember? I already donated."

She stared at me blankly.

"So, no then?" she said. I sighed.

"Yes. Yes. I'll donate."

This is why we're ridiculously over Christmas budget this year. That, and the Hot Wheels Car Maker.

The Hot Wheels Car Maker is the bane of my existence. It is a machine that allows a child to create his or her own hot wheels vehicles. It looks like this:

The Hot Wheels Car Maker is exclusive to Toys R Us. Which was just a low, low move on Hot Wheels' part.

Daniel's Christmas list went as follows:

1. Hot Wheels Car Maker
2. Nintendo DS
3. Legos
4. Hot Wheels Car Maker
5. I really want a Hot Wheels Car Maker

He wrote to Santa about it and everything. That was before he made this proclamation:

"I don't believe in Santa!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, all of the presents I asked Santa for said they came from you. And also, Santa's wrapping paper is the same as YOUR wrapping paper."

This is because while I enjoy my children believing in the magic of St. Nick, I also want to take most of the credit for the gifts. It's also because I'm lazy.

Then, Daniel announced that he DID believe, and that Santa would definitely bring him the Hot Wheels Car Maker. Noah from his class told him so.

Unfortunately, I'd already made several trips to Toys R Us only to be laughed out of the store, because apparently, they ran out of the thing weeks ago. Did you know there are actually cruel people in this world who go to stores, buy up hot Christmas items, and then sell them for a premium online? Probably people like Noah from Daniel's classroom. I thought that kind of thing only happened on television shows.

The Hot Wheels Car Maker retails for 34.99 when purchased at Toys R. Us.

Yesterday, I paid 99.99 for it from a seller on Amazon. When I told the husband, he had a minor stroke and contemplated selling my hair for money. I said, not until you sell your fancy watch, buster. And he said, I'm not the one who paid 99.99 for a toy that will probably break within the first twenty four hours.

So now I'm bald.

But the Car Maker is in transit right now. Santa's reindeer will bring it on Christmas Eve.

And Daniel will believe one year more.

The Night John Outed me as an Oxfordian

2013-12-14T18:28:00.000-05:00

I'm not a conspiracy theorist.

I believe we landed on the moon. I believe that the attacks on 9/11 were committed by al Qaeda terrorists, and that the towers went down because airplanes crashed into them. I vaccinate my children. I don't believe that adding flouride to the water supply is actually a way for the government to control our minds. I believe that Elvis is dead, Paul McCartney is alive, President Barack Obama was born in the United States, and Paul from the Wonder Years is not, in fact, Marilyn Manson.

So I have this one thing. Just one thing.

I kind of sort of think that maybe William Shakespeare never wrote all those plays. And sonnets. Shocking, I know, but as a skeptic, I am in good company. Liberal Supreme Court Justice Stevens and conservative Supreme Court Justice Scalia agree on one thing: that the man from Stratford probably didn't write Shakespeare. Henry James, Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, Orson Welles, Charles Dickens, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Malcolm X, Jeremy Irons, Kenneth Branagh, and Keanu Reeves were or are dubious about the true authorship of the Bard.

Keanu Reeves, people. I don't know about you, but when I'm faced with a tough decision, I ask myself what Keanu Reeves would do.

I believe Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, is the probable author of the plays. I am an Oxfordian. There. It's out. However, it's not something I often bring up in conversation. Stratfordians (those who believe Shakespeare to be the true author) are incredibly sensitive about the issue, and write scathing articles with titles like "Only Foolish Snobs Don't Believe in William Shakespeare." It's pretty hurtful.

I'm not a expert in Shakespearean literature by any means, but I'm not completely ignorant about the subject, either. I've taken several courses on the guy, and I've written several long and boring papers with titles like "A Winter's Tale and the Pastoral," and "'O sleep!' The Somnabulent Shakespeare." I own Harold Bloom's "Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human," which I've actually flipped through on an occasion or two. I've read at least eight Shakespeare biographies. More like five, actually. Okay, two. I've read two.

The fact is, all the information we have about William Shakespeare can be neatly contained in a single paragraph. There are many pages of information about de Vere, however, and the evidence that suggests he wrote the plays is pretty compelling. (A good de Vere primer can be found here.)

Which bring me to the events of last evening at John's annual firm Christmas party. My husband is afflicted with a condition called extreme extroversion while I suffer from whatever the opposite of that is, so, as you can imagine, I find social events stressful. Not only that, but my only pair of black shoes are slightly too large for my feet, which makes mingling physically uncomfortable. I was sitting at a table, lamenting my poor choice in footwear, when John introduced me to his attorney friend and his friend's wife, an English professor. Who went to Harvard. But whatever. (Please note that she was not a Shakespeare specialist.)

After a brief introduction, John, trying to form a connection between me and the professor, chose that inopportune moment to bring up my interest in the Shakespeare authorship question. He thinks it's a topic of common interest among literature buffs (it's not) and that he would make me sound erudite by bringing it up. (It didn't.) The subject is controversial, and coming out as an Oxfordian is a decision an Oxfordian has to make for him or herself. The husband should never out his wife as an Oxfordian, especially to an academic snob.

The not so smooth transition from introductions to Shakespeare went exactly like this:

John: This is my wife, Holly. Holly, this is the professor of English! Holly believes the Earl of Oxford is really William Shakespeare!"

He might as well have said: This is my wife, Holly, and she hates impoverished children! And she kicks puppies for fun! Have at her!

English professors hate Shakespeare authorship conspiracy theorists. This particular one raised her eyebrows and said, and I quote, "Oh, you're one of those crackpots, huh?"

This is the very first time I have ever been called a crackpot. It wasn't pleasant.

I forced a grin.

"I am," I said.

"I think I did a little paper about the authorship issue in high school. I made it pretty clear that Shakespeare was Shakespeare."

"A lot of compelling evidence has come forth in the last few years regarding de Vere," I said.

"Oh really? Since 1997?" she said. I ignored her sarcasm.

"Yes," I said.

She didn't regard me for the rest of the evening, and I had good stuff to say about all of the Harry Pottery imagery in the latest Donna Tartt novel, not crackpot stuff at all.

We stayed at the party for a long time; my extreme extrovert likes to talk. A lot. I finally got him to head in the direction of the coat room.

"The crackpot is leaving the building!" I announced. Then I tripped over my too-large shoes, which really cemented my crackpot image. Then we went home.

So, now it's out there: that evening, the entire table heard my exchange with the professor and I'm sure the news is spreading. I wanted to address it before you heard it from someone else. I am an Oxfordian. I'm not ashamed. Someday I may even get the courage to walk in the Oxfordian Pride parade.

(I am not a crackpot!)

Forcing Christmas Cheer on your Children: A Holiday Tradition

2013-12-09T16:01:00.002-05:00

Those days before Christmas felt like an eternity when I was a kid. But I didn't mind. One of the best parts about the Christmas holiday was that cozy feeling I got sitting on the couch, by the tree, reading stories and poems from old Christmas treasuries.

This is a Christmas treasury with bunnies. The Christmas treasuries we had did not have bunnies on the cover.

In December, my mom brought out these oversized hardcover books which contained stories like, "A Gift for the Magi," poems from John Donne, and classic Christmas carols like "Silent Night." ("I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas" was not in any of the Christmas treasuries I beheld, which would have been a great disappointment to my daughter, Ella, who thinks this is the greatest song ever written in the history of the world.) They included some Dickens, the Christmas story from the book of Luke, and maybe a recipe or two of some kind of complicated Christmas cookie that looks pretty but probably tastes gross. The treasuries generally hearkened back to Victorian Christmases, when people actually put lit candles in their Christmas trees. On a related note, there were a lot of house fires in the 1800s during the holiday season.

Naturally, I didn't feel like my children's Christmases would be quite right without Christmas treasuries to leaf through during December. Christmas treasuries, I believe, should be an integral part of the season.

I began browsing local used book stores for Christmas collections. I started at the bookstore in my own town of Spencerport, which is a magical place that kind of looks like an episode from Hoarders. Organization at the aptly named Book Centre is secondary to massive book accumulation, so one has to commit a certain amount of time for searching through and restacking piles of books that will inevitably tumble. It's a whole long process.

I did not find a Victorian Christmas Treasury, but I did find a fascinating little book entitled "The Curious World of Christmas." Did you know that both the debonair Humphrey Bogart and the delightful Annie Lennox were born on Christmas? Or that February 2 officially marks the end of Christmas according to the Christian Calendar? (The period between Christmas and February 2 is known as "Candlemas" and it commemorates the ritual purification of Mary, evolved from an ancient Jewish belief that women were unclean after the birth of a child. They were unclean for 40 days after giving birth to a boy, and for 60 days after giving birth to a girl. I don't know what happened to women who gave birth to boy/girl twins.)

The book also included a recipe for "Stir-Fried Spicy Red Cabbage with Apples" which I will not be making, and "Drunk Christmas Cake" which I might. The recipe is as follows, and it really bears reading out loud:

Ingredients:
1 pint water
1 cup sugar
4 large eggs
2 cups dried fruit
1 tsp salt
1 cup demerara sugar
3 cups nuts
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 orange rind
1 very large bottle of whiskey

Directions:

Try the whiskey to check for good quality. Find a large bowl. Check the whisky again to make sure it hasn't gone bad in the meantime. Just to be extra sure, pour a proper glass and drink. Repeat until absolutely certain. Turn on the food processor, and beat up the butter in the large bowl. Add sugar and beat the buffer again. Check the whisky is still room temperature. Turn up the volume of the processor. Lob the five beggs into the board and chuck in the fup of cried druit. Mix on the whizzy turner thing. If the fired druit gets stuck in the professor's blades, lisdodge the gunk. Sample the whiskey to check no one has sneaked in and diluted it. Next, the salt,. Or whatever. Make sure whisky is still smooth to the tongue. Now shit the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table of lemon. Do the sugar or something. Whatever's to hand. Wash down the oven. Turn the cake tin to 450 degrees. Burn off the food professor. Drop the bowl on the floor, go to bed taking care to bring whisky bottle with you in case it falls into wrong hands. Lie down and enjoy a warm glow of satisfaction at a job well done.

I purchased the book specifically for that recipe.

I soon took my search for a more traditional, child-appropriate Christmas anthology to the internet, and ended up purchasing an treasury that was not oversized but had the requisite stories, poems, carols, and recipes included within. I put the book in a prominent location and waited for the my kids to casually pick it up and become absorbed in its magical renderings of Christmases past.

This didn't happen.

I suggested to Caleb one evening that he look through the book.

"Maybe later," he said, disinterestedly.

And then I learned that forcing your children to sit down on the couch and read from Christmas anthologies does not evoke in them the same warm and cozy feeling I had as a child. It actually evokes resentment. And sighing and eye rolling and maybe even the words, "this is stupid."

Subsequently, I threw a tantrum and said something along the lines of "FINE! I will sit here and drink cocoa and read from this book ALL BY MYSELF!" and "Trollope had good things to say about Christmas!" and "I AM NOT BEING MEAN!" And that's how it came to pass that one cold and dreary evening, I sat on the couch, miserable, reading the classic "The Bird's Christmas Carol," which is not a good story to read when one is miserable. Because it's about a dying child at Christmas.

There is a lesson to be learned here! You can't force holiday cheer. It has to come in unexpected moments, like when you find that your daughter has drawn a beautiful Christmas tree with your lipstick on your bathroom door. Or when, at your kids' Christmas piano recital, you realize that your son has no intention of ever finishing a spirited rendition of "Must Be Santa," and that after the third time through, you must start clapping or else everyone is going to be there all night. Or when you take your boys to see "A Christmas Carol," and your eight-year old turns to you, confused and slightly devastated to see a future where Tiny Tim has died.

Fortunately for my kids, I hate "life lessons," and tonight they will be listening to a lively performance of Robert Louis Stevenson's "Christmas at Sea" given by yours truly.

It's in the Christmas treasury.

Our Nation is Making this Huge Mistake

2013-11-15T16:13:00.000-05:00

A year ago, we learned Ella, then age 5, had a genetic disorder called 22Q11 deletion syndrome. She had a very rough start to her educational career, but eventually she adjusted, I stopped crying all the time, and we got the support we needed (aids and special ed teachers for Ella; therapist for Holly!)

Ella’s week is divided into speech classes, OT classes, PT classes, and, of course, learning in her inclusion classroom. She also takes a dance class once a week and has started piano lessons. She reads at grade-level. Writing and expressive communication are difficult for her. Ella has trouble with abstract concepts. Math? Have you seen the way they’re teaching math now? Ella has trouble with math.

Ben (age 8) has trouble in math as well. He does not read through word problems carefully, resulting in the right answer to whatever problem he’s imagined in his head. Unfortunately, that answer rarely matches the intended answer. When he does understand the question, he often goes about solving the problem in a very unique Ben way, which is not the way he was taught in class, but at least it renders a correct answer. His teacher doesn’t freak out about it. She says Ben likes to do things his own way.

“If you look at a deaf child, their language development traditionally lags that of a typical child’s. And you had to adapt. Now, with Common Core, these kids might have to adapt to the standards. Who knows! It’s like a black-hole, and there are no specifics and it’s a huge concern for parents of special-needs kids. How in the world are you going to have common, uniform standards that will address the needs of such a varied population of students.” Clash Over Common Core

I see Ben struggle with the new and weird way they are teaching math. And I see his teacher struggle with trying to adapt to the Common Core standards while allowing her students to learn in the way that works for them. Ben has no learning disabilities. He is a bright kid: he has a expansive vocabulary, is musically gifted, is very artistic, and is very cute. Unfortunately, he has inherited his mother's complete apathy regarding the subject of math. He is struggling and comes home with low test scores. I swear, the government has found the most convoluted way to teach math skills under the pretense of insisting that kids should completely understand WHY sixteen divided by four is four. Which I understand, to an extent. Solving a math problem can be a process: giving points for correct procedure while negating points for an ultimate wrong answer seems fair. It's how I got through those pesky New York State Regents exams. However, abstract problem solving is a skill that many third graders have not yet developed. Third grade is the grade where kids are encouraged to move from concrete to abstract thinking. But the Common Core doesn't include those kids who haven't yet made the leap.

The promo material for Common Core also rubs me the wrong way. A video touts the competitive nature of education and how kids need to learn to the same level so they can go head-to-head with kids across the country and around the world. Gotta beat those whizzes in Shanghai! But kids aren't all members of Team America and they're not factory widgets—they're individuals who learn in different ways and at different paces. Common Core Leave Out Consideration for the Kids

Parents: Even if your child’s school is following Common Core, reject CCSSI’s approach. Buy a set of flash cards and drill the times tables into your child’s head over the summer, before she begins the third grade. A Critical Analysis of Common Core Math Standards

I am worried for Ben. So you can only imagine the anxiety I have for Ella.

The first grade math papers Ella and Daniel bring home are already far more advanced than the ones Caleb brought home just four years ago. Ella brings home papers that say 100% on them. These papers are always marked with the words, "with help." When she does a worksheet on her own, she might get one out of ten answers correct, and it is possible the correct answer was a fluke.

The Common Core Standards are a set-up for national standardized tests, tests that can’t evaluate complex thought, can’t avoid cultural bias, can’t measure non-verbal learning, can’t predict anything of consequence (and waste boatloads of money).

The word “standards” gets an approving nod from the public (and from most educators) because it means “performance that meets a standard.” However, the word also means “like everybody else,” and standardizing minds is what the Standards try to do. Common Core Standards fans sell the first meaning; the Standards deliver the second meaning. Standardized minds are about as far out of sync with deep-seated American values as it’s possible to get. Eight Problems with Common Core Standards

Ella has a diverse classroom. There are children with various learning disabilities, children from low-income homes, and children who are advanced learners. And yet they're all striving toward the same common standards. If they don't meet the common standard? It is likely Ella will be pushed into the second grade anyway, without having mastered first grade math. I am dreading the third grade move from concrete thinking to abstract thinking.

Yes, her IEP allows her some flexibility. But most recent books and articles about the Common Core and kids with learning disabilities discuss aligning a student's IEP with the Common Core. In an article entitled "Implementing the Common Core Standards for Students with Learning Disabilities," the author states that "the challenges lie in ensuring that students with disabilities will have the supports, services, accommodations, and modifications they need to realize the same educational benefit that all other students receive." As if there's some magical strategy that will help Ella suddenly understand math and expressive communication.

If the old adage is true—that a society can be judged by how it treats its most vulnerable citizens—then putting the common standards into practice carries the specter of a judgment about educational opportunity in the United States. A Common-Core Challenge: Learners With Special Needs

Ella's teachers are wonderful, but they are now subject to a national standard. Who are we, as parents, supposed to appeal to? Ella is floundering, and she doesn't even realize it yet. Because her genetic syndrome varies greatly from case to case, I can't know how she will perform academically in the future. Her speech has greatly improved in just a year. Will her abstract thinking improve? Will she succumb to psychological problems, like bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, as many with 22Q do? Will she ever be able to have an actual career? Get married? Become a parent? Live on her own? Because she has trouble with expressive language, I don't know how much information sinks in when she reads a book or participates in a conversation. I know that she, currently, cannot meet the standards of the Common Core at this time.

But that doesn't mean she isn't capable of doing other things really, really well. She is generous and friendly and sensitive to other people's feelings. She is creative and artistic, and loves dance and gymnastics. She has a genuine love of learning: she listens intently as the zookeeper explains why the Rochester zoo penguins don't actually swim in the water they're provided with. She loves to bake, although she takes a very Amelia Bedelia approach to it. One cup of flour = any old cup that happens to be around, thank you very much.

Now I'm not one to run around bragging about my little special snowflakes, but, dammit, my kids are special snowflakes and the government is turning each of them into ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL.

I read a good defense of government-sponsored healthcare. The individual wrote that Americans have happily partaken in government-sponsored education for decades because we believe so strongly in every child's right to an education. Why, then, don't we embrace the idea of allowing every child (and adult) access to adequate healthcare? Life, liberty and happiness, after all. There's consistency in that logic.

But Obamacare, quite frankly, is this huge disaster.

I don't have much hope for the Common Core, either.

There must be a better way.

From around the state and throughout our districts, parents and teachers are raising concerns in regard to the Common Core Standards and children with special needs. In addition to these concerns, some of the requirements of the Annual Professional Performance Review (APPR) also directly impact the ability of teachers to work with children with special needs. These children are often not working at their own grade level, and therefore should be exempted from most testing. A child’s IEP is a plan developed to help them learn outside the standardized methodology and curriculum, consistent with the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA).

In that the IDEA is based upon the rights of a child with disabilities to receive an education appropriate to their disabilities and abilities, the application of Common Core Standards is not compatible with many of the provisions of the IDEA. Common Core Fight Update

This Post Rambles or "This is Not a Good Columbus Day"

2013-10-15T14:40:00.001-04:00

My piano tuner is about to arrive. I wish he was one of those introverted, awkward piano tuners who have trouble making eye contact and prefer to get right down to business, banging out Ds incessantly only to finally move on to D#, but no. I have the most talkative piano tuner on the face of the planet. He starts talking the moment he walks in the door and will continue gabbing, even as I grab a laundry basket and make my way up the stairs. I try to hide out in my bedroom when he arrives. What should be an hour endeavor takes two hours if we chat. Also, he seems to mistakenly believe I’m an expert on Liszt. I wonder how I could have possibly given off the impression that I am an expert on anything. Before his arrival, I not only have to look up facts on Liszt, but I have to brace myself for the inevitable “You need to put a humidifier next to your piano during these dry winter months or else ALL IS LOST” speech.

Until he gets here, I am writing on the couch while watching the program Extreme RVs on the Travel Channel. The RV guys are showcasing a 1.2 million dollar RV, which has a really attractive kitchen. I expect, however, that it guzzles a lot of gas. That, and I don’t know if I would like to be stuck with my kids in even the most luxurious RV on the market during long road trips. They are getting to be a handful. I have an incident that demonstrates what I’m dealing with on a daily basis:

Yesterday was Columbus Day. (There were a lot of people who took to social media to display their discomfort with celebrating the life of a greedy genocidal megalomaniac. I see their point. On the other hand, I enjoy a national holiday. So I’m torn about it. I’m not going to say Happy Columbus Day, but I’m not going smack anyone across the face who says it to me, either.)

Yesterday was Columbus Day, and the kids were home from school, so I sent them outside to play, because you can do that, you know. You can say, “It’s a beautiful day! Go play outside!” And then you can lock the doors so they can’t get back in. Beware of children who insist they are thirsty and must come inside to get a drink. This is a ruse. First it’s a drink, then it’s “I drank my water too fast and I feel like I have to throw up,” and then it’s “I can only sit on the floor and play Forza 4 on the Xbox or else I’m gonna puke.” I speak from experience. The outside hose is just fine for thirsty elementary-school children.

Yesterday, I heard howling in the front yard. Ben burst through the front door (I must have forgotten to lock it) and said:

“Daniel is about to come in here and say that I choked him. He’s lying! I didn’t choke him!” Because I am such an astute parent, I was immediately suspicious of this claim. Daniel is just not shrewd enough to entrap his brother with a fabricated choking story.

Daniel stumbled into the house.

“Ben ch-choked me!” he blubbered.

Ella followed him inside.

“I just want a drink,” she said.

“Did you choke Daniel?” I asked Ben. Ben stared at his feet.

“I didn’t. I just told you I didn’t.”

“Look at me in the eyes.” He managed to glance in my general direction, and then stared somewhere just beyond my left ear.

“I didn’t…” he whispered.

“Ben. Did. You. Choke. Dan.” His eyes filled with tears.

“Maybe a little bit.”

“Oh, well, if it was just a little. Carry on, young soldiers!” I said.

I didn’t say that. I was perplexed, because this was my first “choking” incident. There have been plenty of “I’m lying to my mom’s face because I think she’s stupid” moments, but no “choking” moments. I thought back on my life, trying to recall a time I had choked a person just a little bit. I couldn’t think of one. Choking is really, really bad news. I sent Ben to his room.

“I knew if I told you the truth I'd get in trouble!” he yelled as he stomped up the stairs. "This is NOT A GOOD COLUMBUS DAY!"

“Mom, I’m going to play computer now, ‘kay?” Ella gave me a sweet smile.

“I’m not going outside EVER AGAIN. And I’m not playing with Ben EVER AGAIN. Can I have a drink?” said Daniel.

Sometimes it feels like all I do all day is get people drinks and extricate them from electronic devices.

After a long time out and a long discussion about the dangers of choking other people, I sent Ben back outside. Because you can do that on a sunny federal holiday when you’re not driving across the country in a luxury RV. Outside is wonderful when your kids are being a handful.

The piano tuner is here. He came to the door and immediately asked for a drink. Then he said, “Look at those RVs! Aren’t they something!” and sat on my couch.

He’s going to be here a while.

The Job Hunt

2013-09-23T17:03:00.000-04:00

This spring,I decided to go ahead and get one of those permanent-type jobs, one where you show up at an office building in nice shoes every day and don’t have to hound your employer for payment since it automatically comes bi-weekly in check form. I started the application process two weeks before school started, because I did not want to start a new job in the middle of summer. I thought getting a job two weeks after sending out resumes was a plausible outcome.

That eager optimism is gone. It took about six weeks for it to die. Job leads have fizzled, interviews have led nowhere, and flat-out rejections arrive in my inbox daily. I now have what you might call a “lack of confidence.” I stay up late at night worrying about the future and feeling very sorry for myself. Desperate for affirmation, I sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, put my face about two inches from John’s and wait for him to wake up. If he doesn’t wake up, I pinch his nose so that he can’t breathe.

“What? What?” he gasps.

“Do you think I’m smart?”

“Yes. Let me go to sleep.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?” By then he’s already dozed off, and I have to pinch his nose again.

Needless to say, we are both cranky in the morning.

I loathe job hunting. I’ll find a job advertisement and think to myself, "This suits me to a T!" only to be deterred by an arbitrary specification. Here’s an example of a promising copywriting position:

·         Must have a minimum 4 years of total, technical writing or copywriting experience with track record of increasing responsibility (I do!)
·         Ability to convince and drive receivers of communication to take action (I have four kids. Got this covered.)
·         Collaboration and team building skills (There is no “I” in teamwork.)
·         Superior English writing skills (I do not split infinitives.)
·         Writing samples required. (I have those guys!)
·         Must speak fluent Greek. (What the hell.)

How hard should it be to find a job that pays at least $40,000 for 20 hours a week? COME ON.

Sometimes, friends will give me helpful suggestions.

“Working in the lunch room is a great way to keep an eye on your kids in school!” they say.

“I almost have a master’s degree,” I want to say. But I don’t. I smile graciously and start singing, “sloppy joes, sloppy sloppy joes!” I would probably make a great lunch lady.

As I contemplate my future career in food preparation at the local elementary school, I begin ruing the day.

I rue the day I decided to get my degree in Literature and not Marketing or Communications or even Library Science! I rue the day I let my teaching certificate expire! For now I am useless. I rue the day I ignored the little voice in my head that said, “taking Greek language classes will really behoove you in the long run!”

And then, I think the craziest things:

Maybe I should have gone to law school. Maybe I should get an unpaid internship at the age of 35, like Chandler Bing on Friends. Maybe I should become a doula. Or an artisan of some kind. Or a mystery shopper. Or the person who does overnights with the Girl Scouts at the zoo. Or a bank robber. I hear there’s good money in bank robbery.

I spent this morning combing the internet for job possibilities, and then devising plans to launder the money I’m going to rob from banks. Is it suspicious to pay for a new roof with cash? Does the IRS pay attention to things like that? Is the IRS hiring?

Today, I had to get out of the house. I went to Wegmans to eat lunch by myself. I made eye contact with no one, because I was irrationally fearful that someone would blurt out what happened on the series finale of Dexter, and I had worked very hard not to look up any spoilers on the internet. Staying at home without my kids has made me weird and creepy.

At Wegmans, I grabbed a sub, a diet Pepsi, a copy of ABC Soaps, and found a small, quiet corner where I could read in peace. Robin is coming back from the dead, and ABC Soaps had the scoop. Job hunting on the internet and General Hospital-watching go together like peas and carrots. There’s no reason I can’t tweak my resume while watching Sonny descend into yet another bout of madness.

Is ABC Soaps hiring?

It's really only been six weeks. That's not very long. And I have things to do, like hounding my freelance clients for money, sticking the frozen dinner in the oven, and chasing Kiah off of Mt. Laundry.

Why don't you just fold the laundry? That way, maybe Kiah wouldn't be compelled to lay on it?

Sheesh. People are so judgy of the unemployed.

Violence in the Work Place

2013-08-01T10:27:00.000-04:00

My children cannot play together without one causing another injury during the course of, say, an hour. They’ll be sitting there, playing Legos, when one will inexplicably hurl a Lego at the other’s face. The injured party becomes shocked, betrayed, and out for revenge. Understandably. I’m fortunate to have really good friends who don’t accidentally push me down the stairs round in their hurry to get by me. My kids are not so lucky. Thankfully, children do will grow out of this compulsive behavior. Otherwise, workplace scenarios like this would be commonplace:

A corner office. Mr. Kemp, the boss, is doing something busy and important when his employee, Kurt, bursts through his door. Highly agitated, Kurt is clutching his right eye and breathing heavily.

Kemp: Kurt! What happened?

Kurt: Brad just punched me! Hard! In the face!

Kemp: Oh no. Please, sit down! Sit down. Let’s have a look.

Kurt: I don’t want to sit down! I am very, very upset!

Kemp: Naturally, naturally. What happened?

Kurt: We were just talking about the game last night. He was getting all excited and he started swinging his arms around and then he punched me in the face!

Kemp: Yes, but did he do it on purpose?

Kurt: Does it matter? He may have broken my nose. I think I’m bleeding. Am I bleeding? I need a bandaid!

Kemp walks to the door and peers out.

Kemp: Brad! Brad! I see you, Brad. Stop hiding behind your cubicle and get over here right now.

Brad walks into the office, his head hanging.

Kemp: Brad. Did you punch Kurt in the face?

Brad: I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.

Kemp: You know you have to be more careful when you’re talking to people. Use your words, not your body.

Brad: Yes sir. It won’t happen again. I’m so, so sorry Kurt.

Kemp: Well, Kurt, it sounds like it was an accident.

Kurt: Just like it was an accident when he karate-chopped Katie last week?

Kemp: As I recall, Katie said some not very nice things to Brad.

Brad: She called me a poopy head.

Kurt: But you can’t just go around kicking people! Mr. Kemp, you need to DO something!

Kemp: And what would you have me do?

Kurt: FIRE HIM!

Kemp: That seems a little drastic, Kurt. I think you should calm down. Have a seat. Let’s get some ice for your eye.

Brad: I’m really, really sorry Kurt.

Kemp: Thanks, Brad. That was a good job telling Kurt you’re sorry. It takes courage to do that. You can go back to your desk now.

Kurt: What? That’s it?

Kemp: Kurt, I’m a little disappointed in you. Brad feels very badly about the way he acted. You should have forgiven him.

Kurt: I can hardly open my eye! I should not have to tolerate this kind of violence in the workplace!

Kemp: Hey. I know what would make you feel better. (Kemp walks over to a jar on his desk.) Here. Have some Skittles.

Kurt: Skittles? Really?

Kemp: Yeah, buddy! Just for you! And I’ll tell you what. You can have Skittles after lunch, too.

Kurt: I like Skittles.

Kemp: I know you do. Feeling better?

Kurt: Yeah, I guess so.

Kemp: Think you can go back to work?

Kurt: Yeah. Yeah I think I can.

Kemp: Good. Good. Let’s give Brad some space today, okay?

Kurt: Oh, we’re going play squash after work.

Kemp: Okay. Just be careful.

Kurt: I will, boss. I will.

I am sure Ben and Caleb, especially Ben, will behave better than this when they are adults. And if not, may they have a boss who is understanding, and who stocks up on Skittles.

Minivan Days

2013-05-21T15:27:00.001-04:00

After the sonogram showed that there were two fetuses swimming like fish in my uterus, I promptly had a panic attack. I sputtered and breathed in a shallow fashion while John calmly held my hand and whispered that it would be okay. In many ways it was okay. In other ways, not so much. For example, we had to buy a minivan.

We opted for the Dodge Grand Caravan, which had “stowaway seating” and extra space in the back for double strollers, diaper bags, groceries, and apparently, Ben who “stowed away” on more than one occasion. Six years and nearly 80,000 miles later, the van has deteriorated considerably. It is rusting and has a large and unsightly indentation on the side from an unfortunate collision with a light pole. One of the side doors will not close unless the driver’s door is open. Last week, the power locks stopped working. The CD player spits out everything I feed it. A few months ago, Daniel ate raspberry jello and then threw up said raspberry jello in the backseat. Now much of the upholstery is pink, despite my scrubbing. There are other stains: dirt, coffee, ketchup, and soda stains.

The brakes need replacing and the alignment is off. Other things are on the verge of collapsing. We are hoping the thing makes it to December 20, which is the day John gets his Christmas bonus and will be purchasing me a new minivan. I’m hoping we get one with seat warmers.

The other day, John said the silliest thing:

“Maybe next time we don’t have to get a minivan. Maybe we can get a car.”

“And just how would I transport your children about town in a car?”

“Caleb could sit in the front.”

“And what about when we all go somewhere together? Weekend excursions? Family vacations? Merry jaunts across town to our favorite restaurant?”

“We could… rent,” he said.

John’s disdain for minivans has clouded his rationality.

Minivans are not cool. Not only that, but any time a friend or family member has to move a large item, they remember you have the next best thing to a truck. We have hauled couches and dryers and lawnmowers and Christmas trees. Mostly, I haul kids.

Lately, I have been hauling kids to Caleb’s baseball games. He’s on a travel team this year, so we get to visit far-off places like Webster, Fairport, and (shudder) Pittsford. On a tempestuous Friday, we drove an hour away to Newark only to be immediately sent home because of a thunder storm. They rescheduled the game for last Saturday, which means I was stuck in an enclosed space with Caleb for four hours over the course of a week.

Caleb is the most annoyingly curious child ever. I had two choices: engage Caleb in a never-ending question and answer session, or listen to the radio, which these days only plays song by Pink or Fun or Pink singing with the guy from Fun. I succumbed to a litany of questions.

“What hits the ball farther: a metal bat or a wood bat?”

“Why didn’t you play sports when you were little? Were you that bad?”

“How long would it take to die if you were sucked into a black hole?”

“How exactly would you die if you were sucked into a black hole?”

“Does our galaxy have a black hole?”

“Who do you think would win in a fight? General Zod or Gandalf?”

I try to answer these questions to the best of my ability.

“A wooden bat? Isn’t that what the pros use?”

“Yes. I was that bad.”

“This question is ridiculous. If you were far enough away to be sucked into a black hole, you’d already be dead.”

“I stand by my previous answer. But, according to my limited knowledge of black holes, you’d be crushed.”

“I don’t know if our galaxy has a black hole. I’m going to guess no.” (I was wrong.)

“General Zod.” (General Zod, of course, is Superman’s nemesis and fellow Kryptonian who has all of the same superpowers as Superman. Gandolf is a Middle Earth wizard, friend of hobbits, and speaker of pithy quotes. Caleb was horrified by my answer and insisted Gandolf would win. To be fair, I don’t know if General Zod’s powers would be up to par on Middle Earth. I would assume so, but it is a different planet. However, I gave this question a lot of thought and I stand by my answer.)

In the minivan, there are debates. There are burping contests and squabbles over whether we should keep the windows down or turn on the air conditioning. There are gasps followed by, “Ella DOES NOT HAVE HER SEATBELT ON!” There are rousing renditions of “This Land is Your Land” and Adele’s “Rumor Has It.” There are constructive critiques regarding my driving. (You shouldn’t speed up when you see a yellow light, mom.) There are deer sightings and ice cream store sightings and educated guesses about what type of bugs are splattered against the windshield. There is laughing and complaining and gasps followed by, “I FORGOT MY PIANO MUSIC!” There are days when I choose Pink over the cacophony. But overall, in ten years, as I am rambling about town around in my Jeep Wrangler, I think I might miss these days.

These minivan days.

Valentine Shenanigans and... Cary Grant's Kisser.

2013-02-14T15:24:00.001-05:00

Well, it's Valentine's Day again. It keeps on coming, every year. John's in town, but he says Valentine's Day doesn't start until this weekend. We are getting away. Last year, we went to Philadelphia; this year we're going to... wait for it... Syracuse! Because we have a two night free stay at a nice hotel. You know what we're going to be doing a lot of, right? Sleeping. A lot of sleeping.

Also, John's getting me a new washer/ dryer combo. The gift is actually contingent upon me selling our old washer/ dryer on Craigslist. I'll bet your chocolate and flowers didn't come with a contingency. Sheesh.

Yesterday all four of my children wrote out Valentines for their classmates.

"This is a good time to practice letter formation," one letter from a teacher said. I don't know about that. I do know that I spent a lot of time yelling "Write smaller!" and "How many different ways are there to spell Micaylah?" and "Don't put the stickers on the wall! Those go on the Valentine's!" I was feeling a little tense because earlier, unbeknownst to me, Ella had commandeered John's Kindle and ordered Shape Magazine, China Daily, and the novel Safe Haven by Nicholas Sparks. I've already thought of a way to punish her. I'm going to make her read the Nicholas Sparks novel.

I'm running out of Cary Grant kissing videos on YouTube. I may have to pick a different movie icon next year. I was thinking Jimmy Stewart, thanks to those great kisses in Rear Window and It's a Wonderful Life, but Jimmy isn't, well... you know. He's Jimmy Stewart. And then I thought Clark Gable, but I read somewhere that Vivien Leigh complained of Gable's horrible bad breath during the filming of Gone With the Wind, and that's kind of ruined Clark Gable for me. I'll think of someone.

In the meantime, here's Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint in yet another Hitchcock film, North by Northwest, which has a great soundtrack. Everyone should watch Hitchcock if only to understand more jokes on The Simpsons.

The set up: Cary Grant is suffering from a severe case of mistaken identity, and Eva Marie Saint is hiding him in her train car. They do some smooching.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Round Brush

2013-02-07T09:24:00.001-05:00

Ella likes to brush my hair, and I let her. I’d let anyone brush my hair. If a strange man approached me on the street and offered to brush my hair, I’d seriously consider it.

I’m really just writing this post as a warning. I’m full of warnings this week: warnings against Ambien, and now warnings against allowing your child to brush your hair with a round hairbrush. You probably would NEVER allow your child to brush your hair with a round hairbrush, but I, so delighted by the prospect of getting my hair brushed at all, chose to ignore the cylindrical shape. Never ignore the cylindrical shape.

Ella got the brush stuck in my hair, right near the top of my head. She was initially unconcerned.

“I get it out,” she said, as she yanked on my head. It really hurt.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it out,” I said. I spent a good ten minutes and it wouldn’t budge. This was especially a problem because Caleb’s very first band concert was in one hour. I called John.

“Are you on your way home?”

“I’m just leaving. Why?”

“Well, hurry up. I need your help. I have a round brush stuck in my hair.”

“You have a what?”

“A round brush stuck in my hair. Ella did it.”

“What?”

“A round. Brush. Stuck. In. My. Hair. What about this is so hard to understand?”

“Go to the doctor,” Ella suggested. I called my hairdresser.

“I just wanted to give you the heads up in case you have to surgically remove it,” I said.

“You have to admit this is sort of comical,” she replied. I would admit no such thing.

I headed upstairs to get my spray-in conditioner. I bumped into Caleb.

“Caleb, I have bad news. I have a brush stuck in my hair.” I showed him the back of my head. He looked very upset.

“Are you going to go to my concert like that?”

I promised him I would skip the concert if said brush would not come out of my head. He seemed relieved. I sat on my bed and slowly, one strand at a time, extricated the thing from my rather long hair. I called my hairdresser friend back. I think she was a tiny bit disappointed that I wouldn’t be getting a new short haircut.

Ella was so relieved.

We all went to the concert, where Caleb and the one other baritone rocked out to “Skip to the Lou.” It was awesome.

This story has a happy ending; however, I urge you to never allow your five-year old to brush your hair with a round brush, no matter how relaxing it feels. Your story may end terribly, like with a buzz cut. And I assure you, your ten-year old does not want you to attend his very first band concert with a buzz cut.

Little White Pill

2013-02-06T09:15:00.002-05:00

I have a rather debilitating case of insomnia. For the past few years, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time either staring at the sticky glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling or watching Love it or List It on HGTV, which is why I’m somewhat of an expert on Toronto real estate. After discussing my malady with the doctor, I was prescribed a certain sleeping pill that, for the most part, works like a charm. Twenty minutes before I want to be asleep, I simply place the pill on my tongue, flush it down the throat with water, and voila! Sleepy-go-night-night.

The other night I took my pill and continued to read a really interesting political article on the internet that expanded my views on global economics. (It was some mommy blog.) I don’t remember what happened after that. When I opened the computer the next day, it indicated that I had been watching cute puppy videos on YouTube. Who knows.

My husband says I went upstairs at a reasonable hour, dove headfirst into bed, and then did the craziest thing. I professed my undying love. To my husband. How embarrassing. Apparently, there was a lot of giggling and cuddling. At some point, I drifted off to sleep, and not surprisingly, slept like a rock.

I do not remember this, which is disconcerting. Who knows what else I’ve been doing when I thought I was sleeping? Raiding the fridge? Taking the dog for a walk? Online shopping? Professing my undying love to Timothy Olyphant on his Facebook page? If I’m capable of professing my undying love to my husband, well. Anything’s possible.

The whole incident left me completely unnerved, so this evening, I decreased the dosage by half, which is why it’s 1:00am and I’m sitting here writing this post.

I may have to give up my little white pill of happiness. I’m not cool with my giggly subconscious running things. Next step? Warm milk and a Benadryl because Ambien, well. It’s a helluva drug.

Lenny Bruce is Not Afraid, and Neither is Ella

2013-01-31T10:54:00.001-05:00

This is every conversation between me and any of Ella’s teachers:

Teacher: Hello, Mrs. Jennings! How-

Me: WAHHHHH!

It’s gotten to the point where they grab the tissue box as soon as they see me.

Yesterday, Ella threw a gigantic temper tantrum five minutes before the bus came.

“I not like my new classroom! I NOT LIKE IT!” It was a very typical tantrum, with the throwing of oneself on the ground and kicking and shrieking. A lot of shrieking. The bus came and went, and I carried Ella to the car. She buried her face into my neck and whimpered.

“You love school,” I said

“I want my old class,” she said.

We pulled into the parking lot and snaked our way through yellow busses and children eager to get to their classrooms. It is hard to walk with a five-year clinging to your leg. When we got to her room, she reluctantly showed me her new cubby. I peeled her coat off of her. Her teacher approached us.

Teacher: Hello Ella!

Ella: NO!

Teacher: Hello Mrs. Jennings!

Me: WAHHHHH!

We’re quirky.

Then, inexplicably, Ella decided all was cool and she smiled and pushed me out the door, though not before I could grab her and squeeze her while she squirmed.

“Bye mama!” She’s the only one of my kids who still calls me mama.

When the good people at the Kirch Center told me my daughter had a syndrome, I went to straight to the internet. Of course I did. Who wouldn’t? And within five minutes I found a forum of women who had chosen to abort their babies because of 22Q11.2 Syndrome.

It was at that moment that I thought, this is serious. This is not a minor obstacle. This is life-changing. And I didn’t respond with self-righteousness or arrogance or even a smidgen of confidence.

I was so afraid.

I was afraid for my daughter, for what her life would turn out to be. I was afraid I was inadequate for the task of raising her. I was afraid that I’d never be able to explain to anyone that my daughter has a rare genetic anomaly without crying.

It’s hard to live in fear. There’s this darkness I’m trying to run out from under. Ella, of course, is absolutely oblivious. She is sunshine and I’m living under a self-made shadow. It’s a rather horrible irony.

There is no solid ground when one is in a constant state of worry. The world is inconstant, tremulous, foggy. Every breath made in a state of anxiety is a breath wasted. Breath is better spent laughing with my daughter, running with my son, praying, writing.

Writing about Ella. About how this morning, the wind caught the hood of her jacket and I watched her ash-blonde hair fly out behind her. How she laughed and turned and waved at me. How those tiny legs climbed that big bus behind three older brothers who were, that day, angry that she accidentally wrecked their lego creation. How she has no… fear.

Ella is not afraid.

And if she’s not afraid, then why should I be?

"And which of you by being anxious can add a single cubit to his life's span? Matthew 6:27.

Things I'm Learning in Therapy

2013-01-23T17:25:00.000-05:00

“You don’t drink enough water, do you?” she asked.

“Oh no, definitely not,” I replied.

“I can tell by your dry lips. Also your teeth.”

“My teeth?”

“You have lines on your teeth.

“I have lines on my teeth?”

These are the things I’m learning in therapy.

I’m in therapy because apparently I have issues that can actually be fixed just by… talking a lot.

I’m also learning to handle my anxiety and my depression, which apparently are polar opposites that exacerbate one another. I’m not even kidding. I don’t know how I even get up and walk around during the day, what with the anxiety and the depression.

On the way home from my session, I accidentally cut off a car which did not, I might add, have its headlights on even though it was snowing. The driver beeped and made some inappropriate hand signals. I moved lanes to let him pass. He moved lanes, too. I got off on Buffalo Road. He did too. I got into the right lane; so did he. I decided to pull into a public place and run for help while dialing 911. I’m not even kidding. The anxiety had piqued and I was totally flipping out. TOTALLY FLIPPING OUT.

I pulled into the Home Depot. He pulled into the Home Depot. I pulled into a parking space and waited. I got out my phone. An elderly man pulled in beside me. He smiled at me, unaware that I was having a panic attack and was inwardly screaming for help.

The car that had been following pulled up to the front of the Home Depot, and a man of indeterminate age jumped out of the driver's seat. He reached into his trunk, I was certain, to get a baseball bat or an AK-47.

He didn’t.

He pulled out a large Home Depot bag and trotted into the store, probably to return some pipes or something.

WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

My nerves were shot. I ripped out of the parking lot and drove straight to Tim Hortons, because one needs a donut when one’s anxiety is completely out of control.

I got home about fifteen minutes before the kids' bus and used the time to try out some breathing exercises (also learned in therapy), and then ate a white cream-filled donut. I have to say, the white cream-filled donut worked better than the breathing exercises. Caleb walked in the door with an incredulous look on his face.

“Walruses aren’t German, are they?” he asked.

“What?”

“Are donkeys actually Japanese?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Connor said… oh never mind.”

A moment later, my therapist called with a reminder for me to do something, and asked how I was doing.

“I was stalked on the way home. But then I wasn’t. I imagined the whole thing,” I said.

She paused for several seconds.

“Do we need to schedule another session this week?”

Ay, it’s been a very weird day.

Sore Loser

2013-01-14T13:26:00.000-05:00

Married, over 13 years, and I’d never played Monopoly with my husband. Now that we’ve spent an evening doing just that, I can tell you this:

My husband is a total a-hole when it comes to Monopoly.

Caleb received the game for his birthday, which was on Sunday. Caleb was the car, John was the battleship and I, of course, was the top hat. Because I look good in hats.

John greedily took Park Place and Boardwalk, was spiteful when I got a hold of Marvin Gardens, and had a look of utter glee in his eyes when I landed on his two-housed Indiana Avenue. Also, he tried to trade Caleb one utility card for Connecticut Avenue, which would have given him a monopoly.

I quickly put a stop to that.

The protective instinct is strong in mothers, even during games of Monopoly. What I don’t understand is why Caleb, despite my allowing him to pay half in rent when he landed on Pennsylvania Avenue, still hooted when his father tried to financially bankrupt me. After I stopped yet another shady deal between John and Caleb, I looked Caleb squarely in the eye:

“Say you don’t appreciate that, Caleb.”

“I don’t appreciate that, Caleb!” was his response. He and John howled together. I felt dumb.

It should come as no surprise to you that I lost. In the end, I had a house on Baltic and two “get out of jail free” cards. We didn’t exactly finish the game as the board was destroyed by an encroaching Australian Shepherd. As far as we can tell, Caleb, thanks to landing on the Free Parking spot several times, came in at a close second, and John, thanks to his shrewd business sense and lack of pity, won.

Toward the end, I considered Monopoly divorce just to get half of John's Monopoly cash and real estate. Unfortunately, there are no “Monopoly divorce” guidelines. They should probably add that in the next edition. I bet fewer boards would be thrown across living rooms.

(I get a little emotional during board games, which is why we don’t play Scrabble any more.)

Here is a fuzzy picture of fuzzy Kiah before she went all Napoleon Bonaparte on our board game:

Muddy Days are Hard on Dog Owners

2013-01-12T12:01:00.000-05:00

60 degrees today, and the backyard is filled with melting snow and mud and, well, dog excrement. It’s disgusting. On days like this, one actually has to actually (gasp) walk the furry ball of kinetic energy or risk total destruction of one’s home.

You’d think the lack of the front right long might slow even an Australian Shepherd down, but alas, when she’s running, you can’t even tell she’s missing a limb. Case in point: the other week Daniel let Kiah out the front door. She took off like a bat out of hell, and within seconds, was completely out of sight. I thought that was it. She was gone. It was over.

“She’s gone,” I told John.

“Well, that’s it then. It’s over.”

We're a worst-case scenario kind of a couple.

The kids sobbed and moaned. We all piled into the van and drove slowly around the neighborhood calling her name and waving beef jerky in the air. Ten minutes later, we pulled into our driveway and found Kiah sitting in the middle of it, staring at us imploringly: Why did you guys leave? How could you do that? How was I supposed to get into the house? You know I can’t live without my toilet water and the kids’ favorite stuffed animals.

The thing with having a three-legged dog is, every time you venture out in public with her, someone assumes you adopted her three-legged furry self from a shelter.

“Wow. Good for you,” they say before you can explain. “More people should adopt special-needs dogs.”

And I pause.

“Yes, well, we just couldn’t resist her,” I say. And for a brief moment, I feel really proud of myself for rescuing a special-needs dog.

Except I didn’t. But explaining the whole convoluted story of how we lost Kiah, thought her for dead, and then got her back minus a leg is exhausting. And retelling it makes me feel like a truly rotten dog owner, though I know in my heart the story of how her leg came to be no more is nobody’s fault.

The kids opened the van door and Kiah hopped into it, ready for a road trip. There was great rejoicing in the land. Then we put her safely back into the house and debated whether or not to give her the beef jerky, because we didn’t want to reward her running-away behavior. That is exactly the kind of behavior the dog obedience class was supposed to get rid of.

I want my money back.

Today, I don't feel like dragging the kids out for a walk so I put her into the backyard to go to the bathroom, and she curls up in a puddle of mud, sticks her nose in it, perks up because she hears something in the distance, and runs frantically to the fence and begins barking like a maniac. When she runs, she is fluid, beautiful, a soft streak of black and white fur. The mud flies off of her like rain.

I’ve never wanted it to snow so bad.

The Meeting

2013-01-09T17:14:00.001-05:00

Today was Ella’s big CSE meeting. John and I walked into a conference room where eight people were seated around a table, ready to discuss Ella. There would’ve been nine, but the principal couldn’t make it. The school psychologist, counselor, special education teacher, physical therapy specialist, speech pathologist, the CSE meeting chair, Ella’s current teacher, and her future teacher had all convened to decide Ella’s future, and ultimately it was decided that Ella will begin transitioning into the inclusion classroom, where the special education teacher works with a general education teacher.

Halfway through the meeting I started crying. It was very unprofessional of me. Someone handed me a box of tissues and I proceeded to blow snot into half of them.

“I feel like such a boob!” I said. I said that. In public.

“Noooo!” said eight people all at once. They gazed upon me sympathetically.

I am such a boob.

I am overwhelmed, grateful, and thankful- which sounds the same as grateful but the sentiment bears repeating- for these people. For these people who pour their hearts and souls into their work. I would throw a parade for them if I could. With fireworks. And free ice cream. And maybe some hot air balloon rides.

Ella’s teacher cried, too.

“I didn’t want her to go,” she said.

It’s unbelievable how much progress Ella has made in school. She has gone from a complete looney-bird to a real live kindergartner who just happens to need some extra help.

I lobbied hard to keep my twins together, and in the end they’re going to be split up anyway. Such is life. I didn’t ask if they would move Daniel with her. I felt that might be going a little too far. I mean, there’s being a boob and then there’s being a major boob.

All in all, a successful meeting. Afterward, John and I faced the fact that we can never, ever move lest we lose the incredible support our school district has given us.

“I thought the meeting went really well,” I said. We sat in silence for a moment. I sniffled.

Life went on.

The Year in Books: 2012

2013-01-02T08:55:00.000-05:00

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green: A YA book for adults. The Fault in Our Stars is a quirky love story about teens with cancer in love. Hazel is terminal; her lungs have been ravaged by her illness and will only last her a while more. She walks around with an oxygen tank. Hazel is depressed, for obvious reasons, and her mother forces her to join a cancer support group for teens where she meets and falls madly in love with Augustus, an amputee in remission. The smaltzy love story with the “Love Story” ending is saved by its witty dialogue and original characters. The dry, sardonic humor captures its dark undertones: this is a book about dying. But it’s also really, really funny. So long as you don’t dwell on the fact that you’ve never heard such quick, intelligent, droll conversation coming out of the mouths of anyone under 18, it’s a great read.

The Breakdown: I read 40 books. 30 by women, 10 by men.

This was a mind-candy year for reading. Many of the books aren’t worth mentioning, and some I’m a little embarrassed I read. (Something Borrowed by Emily Griffin, anyone?) And (I’m so ashamed) no classics... but for what it's worth, here's what I DID read (the good, the okay, and the ugly):

Snowleg by Nicholas Shakespeare: I bought this book solely based on its cover, which is a perfectly acceptable reason for choosing a novel, and am glad I stuck through the rather slow beginning. Snowleg is a quiet mystery about Peter Hithersay, who learns his true father is not the man he grew up calling Dad. He makes a journey to East Germany to track down his birth father and meets a girl and falls madly in love. Things end badly, partly because she is a citizen of communist East Germany, and partly because Peter makes a terrible choice. Years later, the Berlin wall falls. Peter only knows the girl’s nickname- Snowleg. As Snowleg’s identity slowly unravels, I couldn’t wait to see if Peter and she would be reunited. A really lovely novel.

Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail byCheryl Strayed: I will admit that I did not realize there was a Pacific Crest Trail until I read this book. I knew of the Appalachian Trail, of course, duh, but a trail that runs from California up through Washington? Who would walk that? THERE’S NO WATER ON THAT TRAIL! But Cheryl Strayed walks almost all of it, and who knew walking could be so fascinating. Toenails fall off, strange characters are met, packages don’t arrive at their destinations: I was very nervous for her though obviously she made it out all right and wrote this bestselling memoir. Strayed’s long hike was preceded by her mother’s death and subsequent divorce from her husband. Strayed is terribly flawed, but I think she would be the first to admit that. The long hike was a cathartic experience, and you have to give anyone credit for sticking with it. Especially when they hiked alone. In the desert. With very very little funding. A fun read that will make you want to get outdoors.

(Because I was on a read-about-hiking-long-trails kick, I also read the memoir AWOL on the Appalachian Trail by David Miller. This was less introspective and more of a straightforward story about hiking the AT. I loved it. And it was self-published!)

Amy Inspired by Bethany Pierce: I heard Ms. Pierce read an excerpt of her novel, Amy Inspired, at the Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing. Then I bought her book. And when I got home I read it. And I really, really liked it. Christian fiction has always been more miss than hit with me: if it’s not a saccharine love story it’s a gag-worthy morality tale. This was a novel with real people. In fact, the most popular review on Amazon is a 2-star that complains the story is too “edgy.” Because the bible was so tame, with all the adultery and spilling of guts. Amy has boyfriend troubles, is a struggling writer, and has a dying mother. I could very much relate to her, minus the boyfriend troubles and the dying mother. Seriously- she was a likable character, the novel pulled you right along and the writing was quite lovely. An enjoyable tale about a girl with faith.

State of Wonder by Ann Patchett: Marina’s colleague has gone to the Amazon to check on the research of their pharmaceutical company’s researcher, and Marina’s former mentor, Dr. Senger. After receiving a rather alarming and terse report that the colleague has died, Marina descends into the jungle to find out what happened to him. Part fantasy and part suspense, Patchett plops you in the middle of the sticky jungle for a while and you find you can’t leave- at least not until Marina does.

Apparently medical personnel hate this book because it is highly inaccurate. I found the plot fantastical, almost magical surrealism. It fit the setting and the plot and quite frankly I didn’t care that the characters chose a c-section over an external version for a delivery. I understand that inaccuracies can drive professionals crazy: the rest of us didn’t notice and certainly aren’t going to look to the novel as a resource on obstetrics. (Chill out, medical personnel!)

Worth Mentioning:

Little Bee by Christ Cleave: An unsettling story about a Nigerian refugee and the English couple she met on the beach. This book was given to me by my favorite blogger friend, Marsha of Life in A-Town. I thought , based solely on the title and the fact that the cover of the novel is orange, that this would be a whimsical tale of friendship. It is not. It’s a tale of friendship within a horror story. Cleave is an incredible writer who shifts effortlessly between the points of view of two very different women.

However, the plot felt forced in places where it didn’t need to. For instance, in the impoverished village from where Little Bee hails, there was a bible that’s pages were torn off after the forty-sixth verse of the twenty-seventh chapter of Matthew, so that the last words of their particular copy read : My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

A tad bit ham-fisted.

A Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans: In the spirit of A.J. Jacobs’ hilarious memoir, A Year of Biblical Living, Evans decides to attempt to achieve “biblical womanhood” within the confines of a year. To live as a woman biblically, Evans followed Proverbs 31 and some other verses from the bible that instruct women on how to conduct their lives. Her point was to prove that “biblical womanhood,” as it is touted among conservative Christians (and conservative Jews), is an impossible feat. The book has some amusing anecdotes, and Evans never comes across as condescending or mean. However, overall, it was not as funny as I’d hoped and was maybe even a little forgettable? (Rachel Held Evans has one of the most popular Christian living blogs on the web, so my expectations were high. But what do I know? I’m small potatoes.)

Gillian Welch: I took a turn toward the dark side of fiction and started reading Gillian Welch’s sinister crime novels: Gone Girl, which remains on the NY Times bestseller list, and also Sharp Objects and Dark Places. Gone Girl was black comedic fun: Sharp Objects and Dark Places were brooding and disturbing. But addicting. Like carbohydrates. I tore through them in a day.

Big disappointments included Anthropology of an American Girl by Hilary Thayer Hamann, which was almost unreadable, and the immensely popular Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer, which was gimmicky and manipulative and had a ridiculous plot. And he used a kid to do it. A kid! Did you like this book? Did you like the movie? I refuse to watch the movie. I miss the days when Tom Hanks did movies like The ‘Burbs. Did you see the film he did with Julia Roberts? Uck. Uck, I tell you.

Other books worth mentioning include The Newlyweds by Nell Freudenberger (takes place in Rochester!); The Lessons by Naomi Alderman (Alderman’s mentor is Margaret Atwood); The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood (this is the third time I’ve read it); The Red Tent by Anita Diamant (brings biblical times into sharp focus, however sacrilegious it may be); and The Leftovers by Tom Perrotta (an alternative “Left Behind” novel.)

Yes, it has occurred to me that I use parentheses too much.

I’ve thought about it, and in 2013 I’m going to steal my Dad’s idea and choose an “author of the year.” The author? Wait for it…

C.S. Lewis!

I’m going to start reading the Narnia books to Ben and am personally going to tackle: Mere Christianity, The Problem of Pain, The Great Divorce, and either The Screwtape Letters or The Four Loves.

I’m proud of my choice because: 1) These books are mainly non-fiction and 2) C.S. Lewis is not a female. I tend to read female authors. I don’t know why.

Your favorite books read in 2012? Books you are looking forward to reading in 2013? You loved Incredible Close and Extremely Dangerous or whatever it was called and feel like arguing with me? Please. Let me know.

Christmas Letter 2012

2012-12-31T13:27:00.000-05:00

Source: http://www.mommymoment.ca/2011/12/christmas-letter-cartoon.html

Do you like getting Christmas letters?

The Christmas cards have dwindled at our house, probably because I have not sent out Christmas cards in the past 2 years. I’m afraid friends and family think I don’t love them anymore.

I do love you.

Deeply.

I’m just unorganized.

I love Christmas cards, but man, I looove getting Christmas letters. They come in three categories: Informative and cheerful, downright obnoxious, and full of absolute horror.

Example 1: My oldest daughter Lizzy got married to a wonderful man this summer! The bridesmaids wore yellow and we were blessed with a beautiful, sunshine-filled day.

Example 2: My oldest daughter, Lizzy, graduated with honors from Harvard in the spring and then married an aspiring brain surgeon on a private beach in Hawaii in July! The bridesmaids wore Versace and our good friend, Bill Gates, gave a moving toast that brought everyone to tears.

Example 3: Well, my oldest daughter Lizzy got knocked up and decided to wed her boyfriend, who would be in med school if he could just pass the MCATS. We’re so hopeful for their future. I’m going to kill him.

My letter this year would have gone something like this,

Dear Friends and Family!

How are you? But more importantly, how have we been?

You’ve been waiting all year to hear. I know this year’s letter will not disappoint:

JOHN: John has been semi-catatonic since the demise of this year’s NHL season. He made a little moan after the election results came in, but I haven’t really talked with him since July.

HOLLY: Holly has been experimenting with yo-yo dieting! It hasn’t been as successful as you would think. She remains the primary source of transportation for her four children and is eagerly awaiting the return of The Walking Dead in a few weeks.

CALEB: Caleb took up the baritone this year. In other news, our neighbor’s house is up for sale.

BEN: Ben’s teeth remain too large for his head. Everyone notices. It’s totally embarrassing.

DANIEL: Daniel is so cute that sometimes I drag him out of bed at night just to cuddle him and weep because he’s getting older. My therapist told me this is “weird” and to “stop doing that.” I promptly fired my therapist.

ELLA: Ella had her first opthamologist appointment ever where she received sunglasses and walked down the hospital corridors screaming, “I can’t see! I can’t see!” This has become a game we play at home now.

KIAH: Kiah wants everyone to know that if anyone calls her “tri-pod” ONE MORE TIME, she will bite you. She’s serious this time. SHE WILL BITE YOU. Oh, who are we kidding. She will jump on you and wag her butt, but she will be crying on the inside.

And that’s the news from the Jennings family. We hope you have a very merry Christmas and a decent New Year.

Love,

Holly

Waffling

2012-12-27T11:19:00.003-05:00

I am continuously waffling between writing a “final blog post” and making a commitment to blog more often. I’m reticent to just end it all because… what if I decide I want to start blogging again? Would I start a new blog? What would I name it? I don’t think I can come up with something as creative as “Holly Goes Lightly” again.

Also, I don’t want to be the Brett Favre of the blogging world, in the sense that he kept coming out of retirement. Not in the sense that I am awesome at blogging like he was awesome at football. That is not what I am saying.

It’s been a rough year. Naturally, I don’t feel like blogging when things aren’t going well. Of course, there’s always that slightly optimistic feeling when one year closes and another opens, and we pump ourselves up with “2013 is going to be the BEST year ever! BOO-YA!” proclamations. As if, with Cinderella-like magic, the clock stroking midnight on New Year’s Eve will usher in a clean slate and you won’t have all the emotional and physical baggage that’s been hanging on for months any more.

Also, I’m about to turn 35. So that’s happening.

I’m a lot of fun to be around.

I’m planning a “Books read in 2012” post, and am waffling about the rest. If I decide to ditch the blog, I will do so in a lovely final post that will have an image attached, and I will thank my supporters in appropriate fashion. It will be a lot like an Oscar speech. You might cry.

In the meantime, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all that jazz. You know what? I have this funny feeling that

2013 IS GOING TO BE THE BEST YEAR EVER!!!!

BOOOOOO-YAAAA!

Iniquities

2012-11-19T21:54:00.001-05:00

I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but I think that school busses are dens of iniquity. There’s one driver and one hundred and ninety two kids. It’s not really a workable ratio.

The other day, I had the misfortune of pulling out behind a middle school bus. Three boys looked at me and started making goofy gestures. I grinned at them. Then they started making obscene gestures. It got awkward. I didn’t know where to look. Straight ahead, with a disapproving look on my face? Turned away, as if I were disinterested? Or should I pretend to be frantically searching for something on the floor? I went with the third scenario. There’s a fun-sized 3 Musketeers lolling about there somewhere. These days, all that remains of the kids’ Halloween candy are flavored tootsie rolls and Necco wafers. A rogue fun-sized 3 Musketeers bar is a hot commodity, and I’m determined to find it before Ben- who is also aware it’s down there somewhere- does.

I fretted about putting Ella on the bus. I contemplated driving the kids to school and back each day. But with gas prices the way they are and the whole “it gets really freaking cold here in Ra-cha-cha” thing, on the first day of school I put my babies onto the giant yellow tube and went back to eating my cheerios.

The bus is where Caleb learned the f-word. It’s where Ben got punched by an extremely moody eight-year old. It’s where Daniel fought off a fellow kindergartner who bragged of depantsing “everybody in the world.” (Because that’s how kindergartners talk, in gross exaggerations.)

I worried about what Ella, who is a parrot, would bring home from the bus.

I never would have guessed show tunes.

Last week, she came home singing “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile” from Annie. Complete with motions. “Who caaares what their wearing from Main Street to Saville Row…” “Ella! Where did you learn that?” I asked. Not that I wasn’t thrilled. Annie was my favorite record when I was her age. When “Tomorrow” came on? My sister and I totally lost our crap. We ran around the kitchen table singing at the top of our lungs. It’s only a DAAAAY! AAAAAWAAAAY!”

I knew Ella hadn’t learned the “Hey hobo man, hey Dapper Dan” lyrics from her prim and proper teacher; therefore, I deduced she was being taught by someone on the bus. Ben confirmed my suspicion. “It’s this third grader who hates me and Caleb and all boys, really. But she looooves Ella.”

Today, Ella came home singing, “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am by this development. She really nails the whoo whoo whoo part.

In other news, I have a single Twinkie in my pantry that I was hoping would make me rich. That’s right. I put Twinkies in my kids’ lunch boxes. Not all the time, but every once in a while, because I love when they get off the den of iniquities, run into my arms, and say, “Will you put a Twinkie in my lunch box tomorrow, too?” And I say, “No. That was special for today.” And they say, “Why do you hate us?” And I say, “I don’t hate you. I love you.” And they say, “Then, can we have Twinkies for snack right now?” And I say, “No, my loves. I ate them all.”

And I don’t even like Twinkies. I don’t know if my taste buds completely changed or if I’ve evolved beyond processed sponge cake with chemical filling. It’s possible I’ve evolved. I mean, I like foie gras- heck, I know how to SPELL foie gras- so it’s beyond me why I eat Twinkies. Because I like to irritate my children, I suppose.

Hostess chocolate cupcakes are a completely different story.

Anyway- there is one Twinkie left in the box. My plan was to sell the sucker on eBay and buy myself a pretty frock to wear this holiday season. Now it looks like the unions and the powers that be are going to negotiate a deal that will save Hostess, 18,000 jobs, and the Twinkie.

Now I don’t know what to do with my Twinkie.

It will probably sit in my pantry for the next 20 years. I’ll feed it to my granddaughter and my daughter-in-law will get pissed because doesn’t EVER feed her kids processed sponge cake with chemical filling. That’s the kind of daughter-in-law I’m going to get; I just know it. Nevertheless, I’ll send future granddaughter home with a belly full of sugar and a repertoire of show tunes. Hopefully she’ll run around the kitchen table a hundred times singing “Tomorrow” at the top of her lungs, driving her mother absolutely crazy.

One can hope.