No Whammies

Last night I lay in bed, pondering over the week ahead when inexplicably, the Muppets entered my mind. I thought about hearing "The Rainbow Connection" for the first time, which was also the first time I saw a movie at a theater. It was just my mom and me, and I remember being overcome with emotion when those muppets sang "Someday we'll find it - the rainbow connection - the lovers, the dreamers, and me." And Yes, I thought me meant me. And it was then, sitting at the Showcase Cinemas West in a green chair which had not yet become soiled or sticky when it hit me: I, too, was a dreamer. I was four and had already found my flock. I wept with happiness at the connection between myself and Miss Piggy, that karate chopping, self-made woman muppet. Between myself and Kermit, the idealistic, ever patient frog with a story to tell. Fozzie and Gonzo and the Swedish Chef - even the two curmudgeon old men, mocking the naive optimism from their high seats in the balcony. I had something in common with all of them, and it fills me with such joy to think about it, even now.

I love those Muppets and the songs they sang. Everything Jim Henson created was a gift: Fraggle Rock and Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas are such treasures. And it was a gift to remember them last night. Good thoughts are more valuable than gold, and so for this week (in keeping with things from times gone by) I wish you Big Bucks in the form of good thoughts and absolutely No Whammies.

Better to be a Hammer than a Nail?

Sometimes all you can do is laugh. For example, last week I saw an old hearse on the road with two mattresses strapped to its roof - lending new meaning to the phrase FINAL RESTING PLACE. And now, despite the driving rain, there is a man with a chain saw in the back yard, dangling from the same limb he's attempting to remove. Gosh, it's funny stuff. Mud and giant wood chippers and a forest of branches decorating the driveway, and oh, yes, the 15 ft. hole dug by the sewer company just beneath the place where the man is sawing - which is, at least, practical - and ironic given the recent sighting of the hearse.

And to think last week I thought the worst thing that could happen was to receive six rejections in the same day - five of which chimed in before noon. Of course when you submit as often as I do, it's bound to happen. Mass rejection, that is, and eventually I pulled myself together. Baked a batch of lemon raspberry muffins and finished the story I was working on. Sent it out into the world - as if to say SEE HERE YE FORCES OF DARKNESS - I WILL NOT BE BROKEN.

And then the Great Hammer responded: CARE TO MAKE A WAGER?

Yes, over the past six months I have felt very much like a nail. As if, unbeknownst to me, some jerk has been directing every hammer wielding asshole across two continents to my doorstep. And to those folks, I'd like to say: NAILS HAVE FEELINGS, TOO. But my guess is there are many more nails than hammers out there. The people whose homes have been washed away by floods, for example. The parents whose children have been stolen and the children whose parents have been betrayed by sick bodies. Not to mention all the little whacks on the head. Stuff like accidentally bouncing a check or being honked at for hesistating two seconds after the light turns green or placing your trust in someone who does not have your best interests at heart. Perhaps the BeeGees say it best: "We're living in a world of fools, breaking us down - when they all should let us be. We belong to you and me."

Sometimes though, we nails are the self-same fool.

Which leads me to the final question: Is it better to be the hammer than the nail? Would I feel better if I started beating people about the head and shoulders? If I became as sharp-tongued as the aforementined chainsaw? Or worse, if I lost my nail-like faith in people and assumed every person I encountered was a hammer intent on carrying out my demise?

No matter how many times it happens, I am always surprised when the hit comes and yup. It hurts. But I'd still rather be the nail. Blind - but most certainly not mute.

Mama You've Been On My Mind

In honor of Mother's Day, here are some great short stories about mothers or motherly relationships:

"Homeland" (More of a grandmother story) by Barbara Kingsolver from Homeland

"Silver Water" by Amy Bloom from Come to Me

"The Child" by Ali Smith from The First Person

"An Irrevocable Diameter" (this one isn't exactly about a mother, but when she makes an appearance, it's more than memorable) & "A Subject of Childhood" by Grace Paley from The Little Disturbances of Man

"Let it Snow" (A how not to be a good mother story) by David Sedaris from Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

And if you'd like to read something by this mother, check out the new edition of Compass Rose in which my story "Pretty Face" appears...to buy a copy go to Lulu.com and type in Compass Rose Vol. XI.

I hope you spent the day drinking nice cups of tea with your mom, or with memories of your mom and that in either case you had the good sense to keep your elbows off the table and your feet out in front of you - where they belong.

Can't Comment?

Is there anyone out there who knows why some people are unable to post comments to this blog? If so, I would be over the moon if you'd click the contact tab and send me your nuggets of wisdom. Perhaps we could make a contest of it...whoever gets me the answer fastest, gets a cookie. And not one of those invisible kind that track your every cyber move. A real, honest to goodness cookie. Yum.

No time to lose...click away my pretties.

Cats and Mice

Allow me to begin by saying I like Ray LaMontagne. Or I like his music, generally speaking. I've never met him. There are a few tracks from his new album God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise that sound a good bit like Joni Mitchell impersonations, which is a little weird, but I also really like Joni Mitchell, so this is okay, too. And my problem today is not with Ray LaMontagne or his song "The Repo Man" which I heard on the radio this morning but, rather, with some of the language he's chosen. Language which, I dare say, we all are guilty of wielding. Words so deeply ingrained in our collective vocabulary that they slip from our tongues without consideration for what they might actually mean.

"The Repo Man" is about a jilted man whose ex-'woman' just got dumped by her latest beau and has come crawling back to the one she realizes she shouldn't have left in the first place - or so the narrator would have us believe. We never get to hear the woman's side of the story. And this is not an especially original theme: Philandering women and men. And, of course, people don't listen to music because they expect to hear something new, they listen because they want to sift through the wreckage and salvage the part that fits, the piece of lyric that feels as if it's been written with them in mind. I get it because I do it, too.

But consider this lyric: "Now where is your woman while you work and you slave? As they say: While the cat's away..."

He doesn't need to finish that phrase because everyone knows what comes next. Ask yourself, though - what sicko came up with this saying in the first place? In what universe do cats and mice live as man and wife or as common law creatures, such as the case may be? No matter how charming that cat seems to be, no matter how much he/she insists that differences bring out the best in all beasts, remember: mice are the prey. And if you've ever seen a cat with a mouse in its control, you know that the cat doesn't go for the jugular. Instead, he bats the mouse around. Taunts it. Paws it back and forth and even gives it a false sense of hope by turning it loose. Setting it free just so he can have the pleasure of chasing it down again. A slow dance of torture before death.

So, dear readers, the moral of today's blog is this: 1. Think about the weird but commonplace thing you're about to say before you say it. And 2. If you find yourself married to or living with or dating a cat, while you yourself are a mouse, skip the play. Pack your mouse bag and run as fast and as far as your little legs will carry you.

Joy is a taste

Last night I watched Julie and Julia for inspiration. I've seen this movie many times, but with the birth of my own blog, I studied it with new eyes. Anyone who aspires to write can't help but be both elated and nauseauted by the scene where Amy Adams' character receives 65 phone messages from publishers/literary agents/editors begging her to work with them.

My first thought was that our phone doesn't have an answering machine. So if this blog were to suddenly go viral - say for example, if during my travels I had the good fortune to stumble upon a wise cracking infant and the foresight to video tape her shouting "Step off" to anyone who approached her chubby cheeks in the frozen foods - and if I were to post that video on this blog and the phone were to ring 65 times while I was out combing the stores for other babies, I would never know.

Seriously though, I take my hat off to the real Julie. Has anyone ever tried to read Mastering the Art of French Cooking? It's like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novel. If you want to make a raspberry Bavarian cream, you have to flip backwards to find out how to make orange Bavarian cream, and in order to make orange Bavarian cream, you have to flip back to read about how to impregnate the large sugar lumps with orange oil. It's insanity. So kudos to Julie for cracking the code.

But it's Meryl Streep's portrayal of Julia Child, her joie de vivre for life, that really makes this film sing. She luxuriates in every bite of food. Savors every sip of wine and drag from a cigarette. And it reminds me of a poem by Mary Oliver called "The Plum Trees". Here is my favorite part:

Joy is a taste before it's anything else,
and the body can lounge for hours devouring
the important moments. Listen,
the only way
to tempt happiness into your mind is by taking it
into the body first, like small
wild plums.

And no matter how many times I watch this film, I weep when Julia Child finally opens the package containing her book. Her gratitude and sense of accomplishment overwhelm me as does the song by Margaret Whiting swelling in the background: "Time after time, you'll hear me say that I'm, so lucky to be loving you."

And so, with visions of warm brie still dancing in my head, I will end with the beginning of a story (as promised). A tale of a restauranteur with a twist. Feel free to pick up where I leave off and share what your imagination feeds you.

I realized early on that no one would know if I dipped a finger in the pot of mashed potatoes. I only had to mold them back together. Neither would they know that some part of me had become part of them. And it wasn't long before there was a line of people snaking out the door for dinner service. Each one craving some missing ingredient in their lives: an eyelash or a bit of scab - a longing which instinctively led them back to me...

Remember when Vanna had to turn the letters?

On our way to the movies the other night, my daughter's friend said, "What does this do?" Strapped in behind me, I heard her take a breath and hold it as she cranked the handle. Exhaled in disbelief as the window separating her from the elements sunk into its slot. "And what about this?" Pushing the button from black to red, she discovered the origins of the lock. As if on an archeologial dig, the two of them began to search for evidence of other ancient forms of life. Might there be a $2 bill tucked into the crack of the seat? A hand written note folded into the shape of a football? And what about those blocks like giant Rubik's Cubes Vanna had to twist to solve a puzzle? I picture a landfill full of consonants. And those uppity vowels - so dear they came at a price - forced to rub shoulders with duds like X and Z for the next thousand or so years. Or instead of a landfill, maybe they were shipped to an inferior game show. One whose state-of-the-art studio got bulldozed by a runaway grocery truck. Though boxy and too tangible to be an app, their insurance company explained these letters were the best anyone could expect on such short notice.

I've been a hold-out for many years now. I admit it. I haven't joined Facebook or followed a single soul on Twitter. And until now, I've been thinking that Vanna must be so despondent. A person needs to feel productive - useful - and without needing to turn the letters, all she can do is smile and wave. Smile and wave and grimace when Pat Sajak crosses the stage to stand next to her. But driving this optionless tin can of a car, complete with string should anyone at home need to reach me through the creamed corn, I'm forced to reevaluate my position. Maybe Vanna has preempted Carpal Tunnel and in letting go of the letters, freed her mind to concentrate on more important things. Afterall, manual windows and locks were the norm when I was a kid but so was Asbestos.

And maybe if we join together, we can create something real out of this void. This week I will post the beginning of a story. A few lines to get things started. I invite you to keep it going. Share what you have written and I'll do the same.