And no, that is NOT a euphemism you perves. I mean the real, actual carpet in my house. The kind that covers the floor (and that’s not metaphorical either)! I removed the carpet from my living room today. By myself. Alone. A one-woman show. Just me (David) and the carpet (Goliath). This all started several months ago […]
“A SMALL PIECE OF TRUTH I do not carry a sickle or scythe. I only wear a hooded black robe when it’s cold. And I don’t have those skull-like facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I’ll help you out. Find […]
And no, that is NOT a euphemism you perves. I mean the real, actual carpet in my house. The kind that covers the floor (and that’s not metaphorical either)!
I removed the carpet from my living room today. By myself. Alone. A one-woman show. Just me (David) and the carpet (Goliath).
This all started several months ago when My Man and I bought tons of flooring to cover our dining room, living room, foyer, and hallway. We have inside dogs. It was necessary. They are house trained, but the little one…she has problems. So, the flooring is still sitting in our back bedroom (the room that no soul is allowed to enter for fear of his or her life) where it has been for a good long while now.
So what was our motivation to get started at this point when we have since been taking our sweet time? A P-A-R-T-Y! We are having an End-of-Summer Shindig for my coworkers as we mourn the loss of our summer vacation on July 31. Therefore we have a deadline that gives us a reason to get crack-a-lackin’. We debated for a few days whether or not to just run the carpet cleaner as we usually do for get-togethers, but we decided we needed an incentive and that we could indeed finish on time.
A few days ago, My Man gives me a demonstration on how “easy” it is going to be to pull out this carpet. With his bare hands and a box cutter (Exacto-knife for you name brand folk), he proceeds to pull out a section of carpet and cut it at the threshold of our living room and the hallway. “See! Easy!,” he said. “So now you can get started pulling it out when I’m at work.”
(Side Note: I am at home, ‘laxin’ around for the summer, not doing anything “productive” with my time since I don’t teach the kiddies again until August (see my earlier post)—hence the End-of-Summer party—so I agree to help My Man by pulling out this carpet so he can lay the flooring because it’s “so easy.”)
I have been putting this off. Nothing in me desires to remove carpet. I actually have found good and productive useful entertaining ways to spend my time otherwise (like reading trashy/mystery/non-literary novels, putting together 1000 piece puzzles, drinking margaritas by the pool, watching Food Network TV, and blogging of course). Today, I decided to be nice and lazy. I literally was going to do nothing. I slept in until 11:30. I sunned myself by the pool, drank a Coors Light, and read the latest Harry Potter “Special Collector’s Double Issue” of Entertainment Weekly. Sadly, my plans went awry when the guilt of my uselessness crept in upon me (I’m slightly Type-A, can ya tell?).
At 4:30 pm, I set my jaw and decided the carpet had to go. I am a big girl. I can do this myself. I put on my Big Girl Pants, found the box cutter, and began to work.
Little did I know that I had been fed a lie. A nasty, nasty lie.
Pulling out carpet is NOT freaking easy ladies and gentlemen. By the time I had the first section cut, my hands were tingling and I was sweating more than I do when I teach an aerobics class. I had little bits of itchy dust all over me. That really was no big deal though. I “ladied” up (instead of “manned” up—that would be awkward) and hauled my first piece-o-rug out to the driveway for the Hubster to take to the road later. Then I realized that there was a pad underneath that reeked of nastiness. I continued to remove the carpet in pieces that I thought I could handle and texted My Man to ask if he wanted me to take out the pad, too. Thirty minutes and three wide strips of carpet later…no return text. He was busy at work making the $$$.
I was curious what was underneath, so I started taking up the pad. By that point, I just wanted it out because it was disgusting. I ripped up the first piece, and to my horror, little black and red speckled dirt spots were all over the concrete slab. See the picture below? This is the partially swept up nastiness that was under the pad…
The Hubster had forgotten to tell me about this part. I pulled up those Big Girl Britches and proceeded with caution. My friend, I will not traumatize you with the treasures I found under that rug…and when you come to visit me, know that I am a good housekeeper and I do clean my house regularly. Some of that crap must have been there since 1978. I continued to pull up the carpet and the pad underneath and haul it piece by piece outside.
I found myself saying things out loud like “Let’s go bitch! Get outta my house!” and “Have you been eating too much lately? You are freaking heavy, ya fat ass!” to the carpet pieces. I don’t curse unless provoked. And I don’t talk to inanimate objects unless provoked.
I was provoked.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that I had to move all of our extremely bulky furniture BY MYSELF! See our foyer below? It’s now stacked with crap…
The only thing I couldn’t move was the piano. Believe me, I tried. More than once. But in the end, I was afraid I would get it even more out of tune than it already is, and my playing is painful enough without me messing with the piano. I would have moved it if I could. It bothered me greatly to leave just that little bit after I had conquered so much!
I have to share two more pictures just because I am so absolutely proud of myself for taking care of this mess on my own. Here they are:
I not only removed all of the carpet and the pad, I swept up the dirty dots of red and black yuck, too. No way were they going to migrate to other parts of my house. About two or three rather large carpet strips from the end, I wised up and found a pair of gloves right before my hands started to crack open. I also was self-sufficient enough to go through My Man’s toolbox to find a flathead screwdriver (yes, I do know what that is and that it’s not just some type of mixed drink) to remove the covers from the outlets in the floor so I could get to the bits of carpet underneath (I guess putting electricity in the middle of the floor was popular in the late 70s).
All said, I am right proud of myself for what I accomplished today. Even through all of the grossness and frustration, I am pretty darned pleased that My Man can come home to a fresh stack of carpet in the driveway and bare floors (NOT a metaphor, people!).
<—See, I’m not making a dirty joke. I’m for real.
I also know that when something needs to be done, I can find a way to do it. This may not be rocket science or anything all that difficult like world peace, but I feel like a winner just the same. I am Woman…hear me, uh, occasionally roar.
SUPER EASY…THIS WILL LITERALLY TAKE YOU LESS THAN 15 MINUTES TO MAKE!
Ok, so this is the first recipe that I am posting because I need to get something in my “Good Eats” category before writing another book or movie review and because I am traumatized over writing my last blog post and need something to lighten the mood.
I consider myself to be like the Sandra Lee of mish-mashing recipes together. On the Food Network, she does Semi-Homemade. Well, I do Semi-Stolen. I take other people’s recipes from the internet and from television and combine them together so that I come up with stuff I like.
I promise at some point to post my mac and cheese recipe on here, but not yet! My friends and family ask for it often, but I kinda want to keep the keys to that little bit ‘o magic to myself for a while. However, I also make a super-easy dessert for which I get recipe requests all the time.
So here it is!
<— Believe me, it tastes better than this picture makes it look. Stupid crappy phone camera…
CHOCOLATE ECLAIR PIE:
Ingredients:
1 box of honey graham crackers
1 can Pillsbury Milk Chocolate frosting
8 oz. Cool Whip (FULL FAT version…yes, you can taste the difference) THAWED. Don’t leave it frozen like I did the first time I made this…bad news.
3 cups of whole milk (see FAT note in ingredient above)
1 pkg (3.4 oz. box) French Vanilla Jello pudding mix (NOT sugar-free or fat-free as noted above)
1 pkg Cheesecake Jello pudding mix (same specs as the first)
Instructions:
Enjoy! Let me know if you make it and how it turns out 
NOTE: You can actually make this pretty successfully by substituting low-fat and sugar-free versions of the pudding mix, milk, and Cool Whip. It will taste fine, just not quite as rich and creamy. However, if you are on a diet, this is an easy recipe to make low cal and still taste decent. you can also substitute banana or pistachio flavored pudding mix for a little different taste if you like to mix things up a bit!
I have recently traveled into the very heart of darkness. It sucked. My soul has forever been scarred. My viewing of The Human Centipede (a 2010 Dutch horror film written and directed by Tom Six) began as a suggestion dare by my brother (who I must say has an unusually eclectic and educated taste) to reach a different type of reader for this very blog.
For Blog’s sake, I decided that I needed to rise to this challenge. I was stupid. Don’t watch it. Ever. Unless you just feel like immersing yourself in a pile of filth-covered wretchedness and stupidity for two hours (well, not quite…it runs about 90 terrible minutes). My cousin, Andrea, asked me if I could actually be “constructively critical” about this movie. The answer is NO. I have nothing constructive to say whatsoever, except for you, dear reader, to stay far, far away from it. I can, however, be critical. So here it goes…
Here’s the basic plot: WARNING: I am about to spoil parts of the movie if you haven’t seen it, but I am really doing you a favor. Just trust me. You want to know (because we are all curious that way), but you don’t want to have to watch it for yourself. Deiter Laser plays the role of Dr. Heiter, a retired surgeon who has a house in the forests of Germany (out in the middle of nowhere—duh). He is insane (of course), as hinted at by the numerous paintings and photographs of conjoined twins and the like hanging throughout his creepy, spotlessly clean and modern home (with an operation room in the basement complete with hospital beds and IV lines). Laser is, unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on his own perverted tastes and ambitions), perfect for this part. His performance is the most believable of the cast (which wasn’t hard because I would hardly consider any of this good acting) as he delivers his lines with the care and attention of the Nazi doctor, Josef Mengele.
At the beginning of the film, Heiter has lost his beloved pet and creation, the “Three-Dog” (yes, that is exactly what it sounds like), and he wants to create a similar creature using human beings. Cue the stupid American teenage/college girls on their “European tour.” These two nitwits subsequently get stranded on a dark road…in the rain…in the middle of the night…with no cell phone signal. Such bright girls as they are, they hike through the woods until they stumble across Dr. Heiter’s house. He answers the door, asks them if they are alone (uh, hello!?!), lets them in, and offers them a drink of water. So they enter. And they drink. And he gives them rufilin…because they are stupid. Then the nightmare begins—the nightmare for the characters in the film, I mean—I myself already entered the nightmare that was this awful movie about ten minutes prior.
To make a long (and truly painful) story short, Heiter finds a “match” for the two girls (a young Japanese punk with tats and spiky hair) and proceeds to create his “human centipede” by joining them mouth to anus. I told you it was bad. The demented idea here is that he can feed segment “A” and the remnants will proceed through the bowels of “A” to segments “B” and “C.” Of course nobody wants to get trapped in this deal as “A,” “B,” or “C,” but to be segment “B” is especially bad luck.
About half of the movie takes place after Heiter has created his human centipede. We are so lucky as to get to see him try to teach his creation tricks (like fetching the newspaper) and feed the centipede out of a dog bowl. Charming, isn’t it? In some ways, this is a relief because the two girls don’t speak for the rest of the film as segments “B” and “C” for obvious reasons, if you know what I mean. Believe it or not, they are actually better actresses as part of the centipede where all they have to do is look terrified and cry through bad makeup.
Toward the end of the film, the German police show up because people are missing and neighbors have heard American-tourist-girl-screaming coming from the creepy house. Go figure. The cops are stupid, too. Heiter manages to drug one of them (roofies again, really?!?) and insists that they go get a search warrant as they are violating him (ahem…irony?). They leave and return twenty minutes later with no backup. Guess what happens then? I’m not going to ruin it for you because I am sure you want to see this movie by now.
Despite the truly disgusting nature of this film, some of it was actually laughable. The Japanese guy (lucky segment “A”) continually fights the big, bad evil doctor and shouts obscenities in Japanese throughout the film while the English subtitles translate across the bottom of the screen. Kinda funny. He also delivers a Karma’s-a-bitch-inspired, pseudo-spiritual speech at the end of the movie before he takes matters into his own hands—-lame hara-kiri imitation anyone? Dr. Heiter’s manic screaming of the phrase “FEED HER” as segment “A” defecates into segment “B” is terrifyingly disgusting, yet, for some reason, I found myself laughing at the absurdity of this (maybe it was just because I was trying to psychologically protect myself). The abject stupidity of both the girls and the police was also pretty amusing. I would hope that if some pasty-pale, anorexic-looking, wormy-voiced German offered me a glass of water, I wouldn’t drink it…
Did this movie have any redeeming qualities? No. Absolutely not. It did, however, stay with me for a few days, like nausea and indigestion from an illness (no humor intended). Since viewing it, I have since seriously contemplated exactly what atrocious acts humans inflict upon one another. Making this movie was one of them. It is a crime against humanity, and Tom Six should pay. In all seriousness, the concept does bring to mind the experiments of Nazi doctors during WWII, but I would hardly say that this is a sociopolitical commentary on anything remotely intellectual or spiritual. So why does it have such an underground following?
People are sick. And then there are dummies like me who will rise to the dare. Like I heard a chef on Chopped say the other day, “It’s time to put up or shut up, and I don’t know how to be quiet.” I had to open my big mouth and say I would review it. Am I glad I watched it? NO. It was every bit as bad as it seems. I have absolutely NO desire to watch horror movies. My husband can still come up behind me and whisper “I ate his liver with fava beans and nice Chianti” and I will FREAK OUT. And Silence of the Lambs actually has some literary merit. Centipede does not. And those assholes are going to make a sequel. Even the United Kingdom said, “No way. You’re not showing that in our country!” Good for them. Protect the innocent.
Why do we love horror movies so much (and by “we” I mean the collective we, not ME personally)? What is it about being scared and disgusted out of our minds that thrills us so? I personally don’t get it, but my husband says that people like to be scared in the safety of their own controlled environments where nothing really bad is going to happen to them for an adrenalin rush with a safety net, etc. I don’t care to ever feel that. No, thank you. Not me. I’m done.
After watching this film and wanting to literally wash my eyes out with Dial to disinfect them, I have to see the spoofs done by Daniel Tosh and South Park just to take the edge off. Humor is definitely one of my coping mechanisms, and I have to thank my brother, my husband, and my cousins for making me laugh about the movie so I’m not so entirely disturbed. They have since taunted me by saying “FEED HER” in mock-scary voices, laughed about how it would make a hilariously cheesy porno film, and made several “Segment B” jokes for the last few days.
The experience has at least given me something different about which to blog. Just bet that I won’t be blogging about The Human Centipede 2: The First Sequence. I would actually like to hold on to some shred of dignity and decency, thank you very much. Surprisingly, the film has actually won a few awards in the horror film industry, but I think Roger Ebert’s review in the Sun Times sums it up the best: “I am required to award stars to movies I review. This time, I refuse to do it. The star rating system is unsuited to this film. Is the movie good? Is it bad? Does it matter? It is what it is and occupies a world where the stars don’t shine.”
For those of you who are connoisseurs of horror, it probably does deliver. However, for this good Christian girl with good southern manners, all I can say is “Bless their wicked little hearts, that’s gross!”
<—–This one is much more my speed!
“I love you. Because we’re alike. Bad lots both of us. Selfish and shrewd but able to look things in the eye and call them by their right name.”–Rhett Butler to Scarlett O’Hara, Gone with the Wind
Many of you in the world of social media are by now familiar with the so-called children’s book written by Adam Mansbach (read by Samuel L. Jackson on YouTube) aptly entitled Go the F**k to Sleep. I know that my parents, while good Christians who would never actually say these things out loud, were probably thinking them in their heads when I was a kid. The ‘rents would read me a story every night before putting me to bed, and I would always beg for more…and a glass of water…and my teddy bear…and ask a million questions. So I know they were probably thinking: Go. the. f. to. sleep.
But I didn’t. Even as I got older and could read for myself, I would hide under the covers long after bedtime with a good book and a flashlight until the small hours of the morning. I fell in love with stories. Yes, I am a self-proclaimed bookleech (so much more than just a worm—I latch on and suck them dry). Words imprinted on pages from the minds of authors I’d never met comforted me, challenged me, inspired me, and reached me when the real world just wasn’t enough.
Not only did books have this effect on me growing up, my creative life was also fed by movies (some of which I would watch over and over again as a child or young adult until the VHS would crackle. V—H—S…remember those?). I don’t know how many times I’ve heard Rhett Butler say, “Frankly, my, dear, I don’t give a damn” or Humphrey Bogart ask Sam to “play it again” as the notes of “As Time Goes By” echo throughout Casablanca.
This blog post is a tribute to those stories (both in literature and film) that define a period of my life or shape me in some way. I am going to leave off the Bible and Shakespeare because, while they were obvious influences on me, I cannot even begin to write about them in a single post—this one is already long enough. So, pardon me while I indulge in a nostalgic moment or two… or twelve. Then, I would love it, dear reader, if you would share with me those stories that form your life. Here’s a challenge for you: Name ten or so stories that would form the “script” or narrative of your life if you could weave them all together. Briefly explain why each one is included on your list. Here’s mine in no particular order:
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell (released on screen in 1939): I didn’t just watch the movie, I read the book…several times. And the horrible sequels (I love them). I am so much of a GWTW fanatic that I have a movie poster in my den, a throw blanket with the same print, a collectors’ slide from the film, and a needlepoint picture of Scarlett in her picnic dress that my wonderful Aunt Judy stitched for me because she knows how crazy I am over this story. I am enthralled by the struggle of it all—the struggle of the South, the struggle for the land of Tara, and the struggle of Scarlett for her identity, the truth of her love, and to “never be hungry again.” She is fearless, smart, bold, and beautiful. And she knows it. As a thirteen-year-old girl, I wanted what she had—confidence, courage, and cunning. She is definitely no damsel in distress. She can “shoot straight if [she] doesn’t have to shoot too far.” I also wanted a love like Rhett Butler in my life. Even as a young teenager, I knew I wanted a man who could hold me accountable the way Rhett does Scarlett—a true match in every way (fortunately, I got what I wanted!). As the “good girl,” I always wondered what it would be like to be the bad girl and not give a damn (oh, wait…that was Rhett’s line). Scarlett and Rhett both are two of those rare characters who are so bad, yet so very good. Whenever I have a problem I just can’t deal with at the time, I just say, “Scarlett O’Hara will worry about that tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.” Even though it’s cheesy, it works. I also completely agree that a woman should be kissed often and by someone who knows how. One of my favorite parodies of this move:
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Nt0yi4wbro&feature=related]
Professor Wormbog and the Search for the Zipperump-a-Zoo by Mercer Mayer: The ultimate quest adventure with a surprise ending that taught me that just because we want something doesn’t mean we always get it. The Prof has one of every creature/”beastie” from A-Y, but no Z, hence the search for the elusive Zipperump-a-Zoo. I begged my parents to read it to me multiple times over before I went to bed at night. I used to have bad nightmares and be scared by everything, so this book with “good” monsters pre-Monsters Inc. was a comfort. Resembling the ultimate treasure hunt in images as well as text, the illustrations contain “Easter eggs” throughout so you find something new every time you read it. Cool for adults, too? Yes. It is. Don’t judge.
Casablanca (1942): Romance, intrigue, history, regret, nostalgia, love, etc. etc…and some of the most memorable lines in film history.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvE-KVCbvow]
This was the first black and white movie that really caught my attention as something special. After studying it, I went back and watched All About Eve, The Maltese Falcon, Bringing Up Baby, Citizen Kane, Dr. Strangelove, Elephant Man, A Streetcar Named Desire, Sabrina, and the list goes on. Casablanca introduced me to film as an artform beyond just Carmike and popcorn.
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein: “I am sorry,” sighed the tree. “I wish that I could give you something—— but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump.” “I don’t need very much now,” said the boy. “just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired.” “Well,” said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could, “well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.” And the boy did. And the tree was happy. The ultimate lesson about generosity and true satisfaction in life. Enough said.
Steel Magnolias (1989): This movie is one of the stories of my life because it defines everything I love about southern women and southern family dynamics. It is part of my heritage, and every good southern girl knows how to quote its lines at just the right time in any given situation. Examples? Here you go:
Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery: I’m a sucker for precocious orphans. Maybe it has something to do with the whole outcast/fringe-of-society/unwanted-and-alone thing. And what’s with name Anne/Annie and red hair trend among literary parentless children? Hmmm…food for thought. Growing up, this series (movie versions included) gave me hope for myself—-With wonderful parents and a great family, I never felt unloved for a single second, but I did feel like I didn’t quite belong in my world socially. Anne’s vibrant, but not always accepted spirit helped me get over my personal pity party. Anne’s recitation of Noyes’s “The Highway Man” in the film version inspired me to memorize poetry for the first time (although I’m terrible at it):
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83iPPrE1QQA]
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle: Here I go with the outcast female protagonist thing again…I bet a psychologist would draw some interesting conclusions about me from seeing this list. Honestly, I couldn’t remember a thing about this story other than Meg’s name. I just remember the feeling it gave me of being so completely encompassed in fantasy world created by another person’s brain. I remember reading L’Engle’s series and wanting to write, wanting to create, wanting to explore what my imagination could conjure. It was after reading this book that I composed my first real story. And, as a third grader, I thought I was the next great sci-fi novelist. Never hurts to dream, right?
The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkein: I was walking with Frodo through Lothlorien listening to the songs of the elves and fighting the forces of Sauron long before Peter Jackson ever made it cool. And, yes, LOTR is cool. We true connoisseurs aren’t weird like those Trekkies. I do, however, have to give Jackson his props. I am such a huge fan of these novels that I was actually surprised at how much I loved the films…Viggo Mortenson’s gorgeous mug might have had something to do with that… 😉 Jackson and crew made the right choices for what to include and what to cut. They also translated what I saw in my head from the page to the screen and actually improved upon my imagination. I can’t say that for H. Potter after the second film (although I think they started to redeem themselves later in the series). Christian allegory, incredible character and world building, sacred truths built into fiction, excitement and adventure, beauty and poetry, romance and war, life and death. What more could a nerdy girl ask for? Here is why this series is a story of my life in a nutshell: “All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost; From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renewed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king.” Tolkein = Genius. The scene from the film where Gandalf speaks with Pippin about death is one of my favorites. It shows death in a completely different light (like the J.M. Barrie line spoken by Peter Pan “To die would be an awfully big adventure.”)
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUvp7X_yrPo]
Les Miserables, The Musical: Warning: I use the words “ever” and “every” a lot in this explanation, and I am incredibly sappy about it….so here I go. My apologies to my fellow English teachers, but forget the epically lengthy Hugo version. Eponine’s “On My Own” is my favorite Broadway song ever (I am a sucker for the rejected lover and unrequited love), and this entire soundtrack is, beyond all explanation, my favorite ever.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuS1cCnG8xc]
I played the soundtrack to the musical repeatedly throughout my high school and college years while my friends listened to Mariah Carey, Britney Spears, and The Backstreet Boys (my friends had especially lame musical tastes…but I was the one listening to Broadway, so what can I say?). To me, this is true artistry: To capture every single aspect of human emotion in a single work. For history’s sake, for love’s sake, for revolution and romance and redemption, for true spirituality….Ahhhhhh. I’m tearing up just sitting here typing this as I listen to the YouTube version playing the background. I can’t write any more about it. That is all.
The Neverending Story (1984), The Goonies (1985), and Flight of the Navigator (1986): Eighties movies that championed the underdog in strange worlds always provided a great means of escape for me, not into realms of the impossible, but into places of possibility and promise. Take, for instance, Sean Astin’s line as Mikey in The Goonies: “Don’t you realize? The next time you see sky, it’ll be over another town. The next time you take a test, it’ll be in some other school. Our parents, they want the best of stuff for us. But right now, they got to do what’s right for them. Because it’s their time. Their time! Up there! Down here, it’s our time. It’s our time down here. That’s all over the second we ride up Troy’s bucket.” As a kid, movies like these defined my time. Carpe diem, weird child. Carpe diem.
White Christmas (1956) with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, and Vera-Ellen: Most of my generation will tell you that A Christmas Story from 1983 (complete with leg lamp and Red Ryder BB gun) is their quintessential Christmas movie or even maybe the classic It’s a Wonderful Life, but the Christmas story (other than Luke chapter 2…especially as recited by Linus from A Charlie Brown Christmas) that will always be mine is White Christmas. My grandparents owned the VHS (and they didn’t own many), and every Christmas Eve we would go to their house. To get me to stop bugging the adults, my grandmother would put this in the VCR for me. I thought Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen were two of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I wanted to sing with a voice as rich as Rosemary’s and dance with Vera’s legs. And I wanted Bing Crosby to be my boyfriend. I cry at the end of that movie every time. With loud sniffles and short little gasps. I’m pathetic really.
The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis: I think if I had my Bible, the LOTR series, and a selection of Lewis’s work, I could survive without ever reading anything else for the rest of my life. This is my favorite by Lewis. For me, this work defines all of the soul-searching that I did in college about my faith. I took a class with Dr. Fred Richter at Georgia Southern University entitled “Faith in Fiction.” It was a seminar course with a very small, tight-knit group of people in our honors program. The first day of the class, Dr. Richter said to us, “Faith is the myth upon which you choose to bet your life.” The discussion which followed over the next semester changed who I was as a Christian and made me a stronger one. Through literature such as Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, Hesse’s Siddhartha, Lagerkvist’s The Dwarf and Barrabas, Huxley’s Brave New World, Potok’s The Chosen, Singer’s short story “Gimple the Fool,” Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters, and films such as Jesus of Montreal and Francis of Assissi I discovered greater truths about my spirituality versus my “religion.” Screwtape was the character that influenced me the most because, through those letters, I could see the face of evil and the face of God…and they were both mine. I realized that I could just as easily show either face, but it was my choice and I couldn’t wear them both at the same time. Some of my favorite quotes from those stories:
All of these stories have influenced the Story (capital “S”) of my life. I am eternally grateful that I grew up in a family that encouraged storytelling and fostered my love for a good tale. Stories, whether they be written in book or captured on film, shape us into the people that we are and connect us through the sharing of ideas, dreams, and the artistry that makes us human. Now I want to know your list. You don’t even have to necessarily honor my previous request for an explanation of each. I just really want to know about the stories that have influenced your life. So…do tell!
“A SMALL PIECE OF TRUTH I do not carry a sickle or scythe. I only wear a hooded black robe when it’s cold. And I don’t have those skull-like facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I’ll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue…”—Death, from THE BOOK THIEF
As a high school English teacher, I have a love/hate relationship with Holocaust literature. In it, we meet the world’s most notorious villains, its most oppressed victims, and its most resilient survivors. It teaches us about the depths of our own depravity and warns us against forgetting what atrocities we are capable of inflicting upon each other. It also helps us remember what it means to fight tenaciously for freedom and for life. Through these works, we see the extent of evil present in the human race, yet we also encounter the triumphs of love and the strength of the human heart.
As a student, I was introduced to this genre around the 7th grade as I tried desperately to imagine what life must have been like for Anne Frank in her annex. However, I also felt trapped by the formulaic way it was taught in the classroom. The redundancy and overwrought treatment of the material led me to a lack of appreciation for her life and her death rather than a deep sympathetic understanding. I felt much the same way about Elie Wiesel’s Night. Though I read this in college in preparation to teach it, I found the existing lesson plans and materials on the extraordinary novel to be quite ordinary. I struggled to find a way to allow the deep meaning of the work to stand alone without being suffocated by all the teachery hoopla we do to deliver it as a “unit of study.”
While these two works are the most frequently taught of their genre in schools across the country, I find that they sometimes receive slack treatment and students fail to connect with them on a genuine level. Sure, they might pay them lip service in an “Oh, wasn’t that such a terrible time!” kind of way, but rarely do today’s teenagers grasp the horror of the Holocaust (and WWII as a whole) in a way that leaves an indelible impression on their souls as it should. Instead, they find themselves relishing in virtual battle as they play Call of Duty and laughing at Alan’s line from The Hangover (“I didn’t know they gave out rings at the Holocaust”) without any thought to the real implications of that dark humor (okay, okay…I admit it. I laughed at that line. Guffawed actually. I felt kinda bad about it afterward. This proves my point that we have become an increasingly insensitive culture, not that this is the fault of the literature [Diary or Night] or that these works do not have merit). Holocaust literature, by and large, is dependent on the sensationalism of the historical narrative to carry its weight, and attempts to make it “artful” seem almost irreverent. Therefore, I often miss the beauty of the language and exciting imagery that make reading good novels so enjoyable for me. Due to my on-again-off-again love affair with works from this genre, I have stayed away from it for quite some time. That’s why I was sooo not excited about reading Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief over my Christmas break.
So why did I? It was a Christmas gift from a dear friend and colleague whose literary opinion I greatly respect. John gives the best Christmas gifts to everyone in our entire English department. One year he ordered bottles of wine from all over the world and let us choose our favorite kind; another year he brought specialty breads made by monks at some monastery that they sell as a fundraiser for mission work. So when he pulled out the Barnes and Noble bag and announced to us that his gift this past Christmas was Zusak’s book and that he wanted us all to read it in book club-fashion, I knew I had to dive in once more to the darkness that is Nazi Germany and Jewish tragedy. Ugh. I already felt the guilt of an unappreciative white girl growing up in a privileged place and time.
We decided to have the book finished by February and meet for pizza and beer at Mellow Mushroom to discuss it. Pizza, beer, and the Holocaust…yes, English teachers are nerds weird cool that way. Fortunately, I did not have to choke down negative comments about the novel with my pepperoni that night. I have to thank John (and Zusak) for turning me back to a genre with which I had long ago been disillusioned. I even liked it so much that I purchased it on my Kindle and gave the paperback to another colleague/friend of mine to enjoy as well (hence the “is a steal” part of the title of this post—the Kindle version was only $5.22 when I bought it. I spend more than that on one drink from Starbucks). If one could actually call a book about the Holocaust “enjoyable,” then this would be it.
So what makes it so good?
I know this has been a lengthy post, but I could actually go on and on about this one. If you have read it, I would love to hear your thoughts. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it. I would especially like to know if any of you who are teachers use it in the classroom and how you do it. The Book Thief was not without its faults (The first third of the story is a little slow. Give it a chance. It’s worth it.), but it is one of the best commentaries on human nature that I have encountered in a long time, not to mention just a damn good read.
**A note before I begin: I hate spoilers. I will try my best not to give anything away.**
Ahhh…the good old days. When everything was better. If only we could go back in time to the fill-in-the-decade-here. This is the contemplative, nostalgic sentiment that underscores the bittersweet (albeit comforting) romance of Woody Allen’s latest film Midnight in Paris. Judging by my past preferences, I would have never gone to see this movie as I am not typically a fan of Allen’s work (too pessimistic for me). However, something about this flick caught my eye. Perhaps it was my own romantic notion of Paris (and of France as a whole) as it is part of my heritage, near and dear to my own sentimentality. Perhaps it was the promise of a sure-to-be-witty-and-whimsical discussion of art and culture as promoted by the movie poster image of Owen Wilson strolling down a Van Gogh-inspired Starry Nighted Seine riverbank:
Perhaps it was the intrigue of what little I knew about the plot based on the previews (which fortunately did not give away all of the good parts) and the magic that happens at midnight for Gil, a struggling Hollywood screenwriter searching the streets of Paris for inspiration for his first novel though trapped in an insufferable relationship he makes himself believe is love. I’m a sucker for some magic.
Whatever it was, it worked. I paid for my outrageously expensive ticket to actually see this one in the theater instead of waiting for it to come out on DVD. And I am so glad that I did.
The basic exposition focuses on an engaged couple, Gil (played by Wilson) and Inez (Rachel McAdams–love her!…though not in this movie), who join her parents on a business trip her father must make to the City of Lights. Gil, who regrets leaving Paris earlier in his life to pursue a career in Hollywood, is completely taken with the city. Inez, on the other hand, does not share his passion for the place. Gil says: “This is unbelievable. There is no city like this in the world.” Inez responds: “You’re in love with a fantasy.” Ironically, Gil answers: “I’m in love with you.” Why “ironically” you ask? Because one of the questions Allen raises in the film is How much of love is an unrealistic fantasy? Gil’s romantic view of Paris threatens to push him further away from the woman he claims to love.
One of the aspects of this film that I enjoyed so much was Allen’s ability to transform place into character—the city of Paris almost becomes the feminine object of desire, a romantic partner in a love affair (I know there has to be a bad Paris Hilton joke in there somewhere). As an escape from his wife’s pretentious friends, Paul and Carol, who happen to be in Paris at the same time, Gil goes walking around the city at night while she goes dancing with them (well…mostly with “pedantic” Paul…ahem *cough, cough*). In true backwards-Cinderella fairytale fashion, when the clock strikes midnight, Paris transforms into a magical place for Gil, transporting him back to the 1920s—the era that, for him, represents “The Golden Age.” He soon finds himself rubbing elbows each night with a whole host of the geniuses that shaped the 20th century on the creative and artistic front.
The central questions posed by Allen here are: Is there such an era that would be the true “Golden Age”? “What is the purpose and function of nostalgia?” For Gil, the 1920s represent all that is lacking in his present—an era of great inspiration when all of the world’s greatest writers, artists, and thinkers gathered in one place and thought together, fought together, fed off of each other, and bled for their art. In his current engagement to the ever-selfish and embarrassingly critical Inez, that inspiration is gone. His fledgling book about a man who owns a “nostalgia shop” (fitting, no?) may never come to fruition. He is indeed caught in a fantasy that a time other than his own would be better. Nevermind the fact that many of the comforts and conveniences of our modern world are missing from this society. Gil desperately longs to join this world and become a part of what he sees as the best possible time in the best possible place.
Many of the real, historical people Allen portrays as characters for the film (Hemingway, Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Dali, F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Cole Porter, etc. from the 20s and Toulouse-Lautrec, Degas, and Gauguin from La Belle Epoch) are but flat, stereotyped, caricatures—clichés of the figures popular culture presents them to be. Although this degree of shallowness of character is usually undesirable in storytelling, this technique points to the genius of Woody Allen. His strategy of creating these people as mythical popular images of their time reinforces his point that our notions of the Golden Age or the good old days do not form the full story—our imaginations support the myth. To write these figures as we think of them (e.g. Hemingway as an obnoxious, drunken womanizer constantly waxing on about courage and bravery and manhood and crazy Zelda F. throwing herself in the river and spouting a slanged-out Alabama accent) instead of real people with depth and backstory supports the idea that our imaginations much prefer the pretty postcard image over the real thing (though we may tell ourselves differently).
So, what did this movie do for me? It did deliver that witty commentary on art and culture that I so crave and don’t get often enough (Note: You do have to have a mental index of who’s who in the historical literary and artistic world to keep up with the many allusions, some plot points, and some of the jokes. If your idea of high art is a stick-figure doodle and the only book you have ever read cover to cover is Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader, you may want to skip this flick). It did whisk me away into another time and another place of pure escapist joy (*see note below for further discussion). It made me think about my own sentimentality and why sometimes I over-romanticize certain aspects of life. It made me wonder.
What fell flat? Some of the expected Woody Allen political humor. And not because it wasn’t funny, but because it didn’t fit for me. As Gil, Wilson, in his nonchalant cowboy-esque cadence, delivers some snarky one-liners about the Republican party and the whole Bush-Iraq “rabbit’s hole.” Likewise, his father-in-law, John (played by Kurt Fuller), retorts with quips about Gil’s affinity for the Communist party and makes ignorant (although hilarious) statements about the Tea Party. This snide political and social tete-a-tete, while sometimes obnoxiously one-sided, is funny. However, it feels out-of-place and, for me, interrupted the flow of the film…but perhaps that was Allen’s intent. We do live in the here and now. We do face these issues. We can’t escape them entirely even if we can magically time travel at midnight in Paris. So, even though it didn’t quite jive for me, I understand its purpose. And I laughed.
This movie got me thinking about my own view of the past and the present. So, my question to you is this: Is there such a time for you? A “Golden Age” to which you wish you could go (even if just for a vacation and not to live)? Do we take our present for granted? What makes you nostalgic? Do you long for the past? Why? What do we do with the time that we are given? I would love to hear your thoughts. I would also love to hear your comments on the film if you have seen it as I by no means have presented an exhaustive review here.
One final note: I found the podcast interview with Woody Allen by Scott Foundas, David Edelstein, and Kent Jones presented by Jeff Goldsmith on “The Q & A” very enlightening. They discussed everything from the issues presented by the film, to Owen Wilson’s performance, to Allen’s filmmaking philosophy, and beyond. I highly recommend it as a companion to the movie (especially if you plan to use it in the classroom as I do). My favorite discussions are the concept that misery, pain, and the desire to transcend the mundane reality of our lives are what give us great art (very John Savage/Brave New World of them, huh?) and the debate over art as a means of escape (*see above) versus art as a means to contemplate the great unsolvable mysteries and questions of life.
Would NOT smell as sweet. Juliet had it wrong (as she did a good many things). That’s why I changed the name of this blog. Thanks to a very late night conversation with my incredible brother whom I love and adore (and I do mean that without sarcasm), I have decided to change the direction of my posts. He is much more knowledgeable than I am about social media (I still can’t figure out how Twitter works).
I really thought that I might be one of those people who can just blog about their daily lives and make it entertaining, but I’m not all that comfortable revealing or reliving the day-to-day (and I have to try really, really hard to be entertaining…and most of the time it still falls pretty flat). I also don’t want to delve too much into my professional life for ethical reasons (though as you can tell from my first post I cannot ever fully escape the fact that I am a teacher). So, I have decided that I would love to use this blog to reflect my passions and hobbies outside of my profession–good reads (books, stories, articles, etc.), good food, good art, good travel opportunities, and good entertainment (i.e. television, film, theatre, etc.).
Some of my favorite conversations with friends and family (and with my students for that matter–see! there’s that whole teaching thing again!) revolve around what we all love to do to keep ourselves busy, intellectually stimulated, gastrically satiated, and safe from the brink of boredom. I love to find out what others are reading, watching, eating, etc. because there might be something in it for me! I also relish bouncing ideas about art, culture, literature, and the like off of people who can challenge me and open my mind to new things (or just agree with me and make me feel smart!)
So, instead of a blog about whatever pops into my head at any given moment, I am going to attempt to be more purposeful here. I did say attempt. The first blog title I invented (A Wild Sanctuary) was taken from an Ellen Glasgow quote: “Preserve, within a wild sanctuary, an inaccessible valley of reveries.” Originally, this blog was going to be that “wild sanctuary” in which I preserved my reveries…whatever that means. It was late at night when I came up with that one, and I always think I am more creative than I actually am when it’s after midnight (especially if I’ve had a glass or two). I admit that it didn’t really work. Plus, if I blogged about my “reveries,” they wouldn’t really be “inaccessible” would they? I decided to actually take Glasgow’s advice and make my reveries private
With my brother’s help, I came up with “Constructively Critical” (although it was also late at night…hmmm…we shall see…). I hope this will be a better fit, as I want to examine and discuss the creative arts with a critical eye, but one that is constructive and enriching. I hope that if you follow this blog (please subscribe!!!), you will engage in the same discussion and let me know what it is you’ve been reading, watching, eating, attending, etc. I hope this will become a forum for the sharing of ideas and, as the tagline indicates, everything necessary for the creative life.
There’s something like a line of gold thread running through a man’s words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself.–John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery
My father is such an amazing, honorable, hardworking Christian man with the biggest heart I have ever known. If I even attempt to try to write a coherent blog post in paragraph form, I would cry my way through it and wake up with puffy eyes for church in the morning (and we certainly can’t have that). So, in honor of Father’s Day 2011, here are ten of my favorite memories of my father:
To quote something I read once (so I’m not completely plagiarizing): Daddy, thank you for never telling me how to live, but showing me how to live. I love you.
My AP Art History students in Capri. Taking students to Italy and Greece during the summer is hard work, but somebody's got to do it. Might as well be me :)
As a teacher who loves her job, loves her students, and loves her coworkers (yes, really), I still greatly look forward to summer vacation. Yes, it is one of the many perks of our profession and the main reason (other than Christmas Break, all of those government holidays, the fantastic pay, and the massive amounts of appreciation and at-a-boys-and-girls we get) that we teach. My goal every year is to see exactly how much laziness I can pack into one summer. I don’t even get up until afternoon most days. I don’t bother to shower. I enjoy my Starbucks lattes, eat bon bons, and watch my soaps while most of the world is being productive. True story.
If you know me at all, you know that is a lie. Though I do indeed enjoy my time off and, yes (as My Man will tell you), I do sometimes believe that ten o’clock only comes once a day during June and July, I also spend a large part of my summer reclaiming my house from domestic disaster, learning how to use the oven and the stove again, and planning all of the ways I can torture teach next year’s new crop of students. My visits to the high school may not be as frequent as the pool, but I actually (horror of horrors) go into work without pay over the summer.
Did I mention that I also work a second job? All year. I know some people (actually friends of mine) who do not consider teaching group fitness at a women’s gym to be a “real job,” but once you’ve put up with about thirty estrogen-crazy/pms-ridden/menopausal/divorced-and-pissed/frazzled mom-on-“me”-time/nothing-better-to-do-with-my-life-but-b**ch-at-you women for a few hours three or four days a week, you can’t judge. The pay is not much, but the real reason I go is so that I can get my own workout since I’m sitting around all day by the pool eating those bon bons. Oh, and drinking margaritas.
Some teachers can completely disconnect and do nothing related to their jobs all summer (I’m jealous, really), but most of us live this life all year. And just so you know, we no longer get three months; we are down to two (barely). After the staff development workshops, the college courses we are cramming in so we can finish yet another degree for which we might or might not get paid, the time we spend planning for next year and the time we spend reclaiming our sanity, those two months have evaporated.
But enough of my mild ranting. Those are not the real reasons why I wanted to write this first post (and start this blog with all of the free time I have this summer). I really wanted to write about what a strange, but sweet summer this has been so far. I sense the winds of change blowing in my direction, and this summer has been the beginning of that for me. At the end of May, I actually went through a mild depression. I think it was the first time that I had just stopped and took a breath in several months. I had forgotten what breathing felt like. We work so hard for so long sometimes that we don’t quite know how to be still. I admittedly struggled at the beginning of this summer with some personal issues (and, no, this blog is not for the airing of such affairs) and with knowing how to NOT be at work, but I hear God telling me to BE FREAKING STILL. REST. QUIT STRIVING. LET ME BE GOD FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. (My God does yell at me and use the word “freaking”…and that’s mild compared to the tactics He has to use to deal with my stubbornness sometimes.)
So I will. I will rest. And I will not feel guilty (even if My Man teases me about sleeping until noon). And I will spend time with family and friends, read as many trashy novels as I want, enjoy the salty sea air drunk with the stale breath of PBR at PCB, and eat as many bon bons as I want until August 3. Again, c’est ma vie en rose…for a while longer at least.
