Blatant Bid for Eprops
Okay - I haven't posted a photo of myself in a long time - and I've NEVER posted one that showed more than my head and shoulders. Here for the first time .....
Quiltnmomi - With my new baby ...
yes - I am that short
Okay - The new car deserves this Highway Sign from the quiz posted on Krisinluck's site
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Basics
I've been thinking about paring down to basics, what do we really need, what's just surplus. I realized after I got to Arkansas that I had at least three outfits in my suitcase that I should have donated to Goodwill. They are clothes I love, but they just don't fit. Anybody need a forest green suede shift dress in a size 16W? I bought it in January and then proceeded to lose 20 pounds - now it doesn't fit. I don't regret the weight loss, but I hate it that I won't be wearing this dress, it's beautiful. Still, I don't need a dress that doesn't fit.
I thought I was traveling light when I came here. But I have at least four outfits that have yet to be worn. I obviously have things to learn about traveling light. Now I'm thinking that a change of underwear and a visa card and I'm set. I'm getting really tired of lugging baggage around. And I still have the two biggest trips to go.
I have to admit that none of the books I brought are extras. I've had every one of them open at least once though there are a couple I've only used for quick reference.
Do you have books that you consider absolutely indispensable? I do. And all you people out there snickering - I'm not talking about the full truckload of books I'm planning to haul across country. I want all those, but if someone pushed me off a cliff, (Okay I was going to say "if push came to shove, but that's not nearly as interesting ...) there are only a few volumes I'd reach for on the way down.
Strunk and White's Elements of Style would be one I'd want on hand. I'm convinced that anytime I try to write without frequent consultations with this little volume I'm just a bad hacking waiting to happen.
Webster's New Encyclopedic Dictionary - Jackierabbit recommended this one in such glowing terms that I had to have my own copy and I love it.
When Tim and I separated, he took the thesaurus, which was fair, it belonged to him. So I picked up a new one for my library last night, and I'm such a Geek, I've actually spent time this afternoon reading the thing. It's fabulous. Roget's 21st Century Thesaurus (In Dictionary Form). One of the coolest features of this volume is the unique concept index in the back. Who knew?
And the final volume I can't live (or at least write) without, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, by Renni Browne and Dave King.
So there you have it, a change of underwear, a visa card, and these four books. AND oh, this I really couldn't live without - my computer. I have gotten so spoiled in Arkansas with this cable modem and broadband. No more waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for pages to load. yes. Life is basically good.
Brick House Party
Does your hometown have a summer party? I'm trying to remember whether I've noticed this trend happening outside the region I grew up in. I know that Louisville has the Kentucky Derby Festival, but somehow that doesn't really count. It's just a little too polished and professional. The parties that Little Rock, Hot Springs, Hope, Tulsa, and OKC throw every year are raucous sprawling events with a lot of laughter and amateur fun. They have names like Riverfest or Watermelon Festival and shine the spotlight on local talent, interests, and products.
You may never have heard of my home town. It's just a small dot on a map, the place you exit Interstate I-30 if you're traveling to Hot Springs National Park. But you've seen the product Malvern, Arkansas is famous for. We make bricks. The Acme brick company makes more brick than any other plant in the world. We supply bricks to every state of the Union. If you are living in a brick house, that brick probably came from my backyard.
So when it became popular a couple decades ago for towns and cities to plan an annual party, Malvern had little choice. The obvious theme here is ... bricks. Ever try to build a party around a brick? There are the contests (dog that looks most like a brick) and the art (dress up a brick to resemble a famous person - I understand that this year's contestants have entered a great many sculptures of President Bush with the brick playing the part of his head.) My favorite part of the weekend is the music which is performed continually on the courthouse lawn. Just bring your lawn chair and settle back for live bluegrass, country, rock - you name it there's a band out there playing it. I have a special fondness for the down-home garage band flavor of the music at the brickfest. 23 years ago, I was in high school when the first Brickfest took place. And I had my own garage band. We called ourselves "Stardust." The strengths of our group lay in the tight harmony my sister and I could do at the drop of a downbeat, and the guitar playing of D J Horton who is still one of the more amazing instrumentalists I've ever had the privilege of performing with.
I don't sing much these days. I'm one of the people in lawn chairs saying, "no, no, stop that" to kids running around the grass. But when I look at that stage, I see the ghosts of kids from that first brick house party. The Brickfest begins today and will have events through Sunday.
Perversion of a Good Song ...
Last week, you guys left me some fantastic comments. One of you left a comment on the Chocolate Sex blog that has had me giggling ever since. Why is it that I find the clever juxtaposition of a familiar song with new lyrics to be so funny? (Yes, I have a keen appreciation for Weird Al ... 
) Tim is especially good at this. I would be humming a tune around the house and he would sort of join in, then I'd realize that he wasn't singing the lyrics I was singing. More than one song was ruined for me because his version would be so wicked funny that I couldn't hear the original without his lyric popping into my mind.
I can't say I had no warning. It wasn't long after we were married that he was listening to the radio and a country song came on ... "Just call me lonesome, heartbroke and then some ..." It was my sister's shrieking laughter that alerted me to pay closer attention. He was singing, "Just call me handsome, well-hung and then some ..." And I'll stop there, because the rest of it just got way, way beyond the PG-13 line I try not to cross on this blog.
For thirty years, I've enjoyed Neil Diamond's Song Sung Blue. And for the past week, I've been humming that tune ... but it's Liz A's lyric that I can't get out of my mind. "Thin thong blue, creeping up my hiney. Thin thong blue, thongs are so darned tiny ..."
What kind of song makes you smile? Do you have a twisted lyric that tickles your funny bone?
I'm off to the beauty shop. There are no salons in Malvern - we have the good old-fashioned beauty shop like you saw in Steel Magnolias. My goal today is to have the split ends trimmed from my hair and I have the vague notion I'll get come kind of conditioning treatment to counter the effects of hanging around in the water park. I don't even have to speculate about what else I'll come home with, gossip flows like trouble from a couple of three year olds, naturally and with a great force of cooperative harmony the likes of which the Sesame Street people would take pride to see. So my prayer before I go is that my two ears will stay open and my two lips will stay closed.
Sleepy Summertime
I've had such a sleepy day. We've been plagued by storms for the past 36 hours or so. Which means multiple episodes of lightning, thunder, and deluge when we are forced to pretty much just lie around and do not much of anything. Can't log on to the computer, can't be outside puttering around, can't really do much in the way of housework because there are too many people underfoot. It's been a slow day.
The sun peeked through the clouds about noon so my sister and I grabbed the chance and took the kids to the waterpark for a couple hours. Fabulous decision - because of the storm this morning, almost no one else was there. We had it all to ourselves.
Tucker has had a difficult day, cried a lot, generally felt persecuted by the world. So I spent a lot of my day holding him, reading to him, and letting him know that it's going to be okay. He's tired. There's been a lot to do and we've pretty much run him ragged. It caught up.
My Mom had a moment of realization this evening, that I'm going to leave here soon. She is making her list and checking it twice to make sure I don't get out of town before finishing the jobs she had for me. I don't mind so much with helping her out. I know that she needs these chores to be done and I'm here. On the other hand, sometimes things get more than a little unreasonable. Last Friday, (which was my birthday) I came home from work to find her fretting about the condition of the floor. We were having guests on Saturday for the birthday party and she wanted her house to be in the best shape possible. So before I thought it through, I'm taking on the task of vacuuming and scrubbing. When I say scrubbing, there were spots in the traffic areas of the carpeting. And I was on my hands and knees scrubbing them. I did the first room ... Mom had two more in mind for me to scrub that evening. But I was done. No more playing CinderTerri.
I started yesterday with my musings about women's lives and my hope that women's literature is broader than the complicated mother/daughter relationship which has been fodder for so many excellent books. Today, I'm back thinking about that very relationship. With my Mom, I can't hear her express a desire for something to be done, without it impacting me as a command for me to do it. There is a reason that I take it this way, my Mom expects me to understand it this way. And this has created a dynamic in which I am constantly receiveing orders, but my Mom is able to say "well, I never said that YOU had to do it." Its a comfortable place for her to be. I don't like it so well. And just in case there's any question whether she means her remarks to be mere observations and conversation or actual commands, just let me be slow about getting it done ...
Well, as of last Friday, I'm 41 years old. Wouldn't you think that at my age I'd manage to break through to the place where I can be assertive with my mother? Wouldn't you think that a mature woman could say, "I can see that you'd like to have your carpet scrubbed, but I'm not going to be able to do that this evening."
The thing is that during the three weeks I've been here, my Mom and I have enjoyed each other's company as much as I think we ever have. She has talked with me, asked me questions about my life, and my thoughts, listened to my answers. I don't know when - if ever - she has been so open to relationship with me.
In transactional analysis, we learned that we all relate as either a child, a parent, or an adult. With my mother it has never been adult to adult, it's always been parent to child. Now the dynamic is changing. When I came here, she allowed me to take charge of the kitchen in hopes that I could plan menus and prepare foods that would get her blood sugar levels under control. And I've done it. But it's been an odd experience. My Mom is acting like a child. I have to be vigilant or she "snacks" on sugary foods that disrupt her blood chemistry. We are still not relating as adult to adult, but it seems we are swapping roles so that I'm the parent and she's the child. All in the course of a short summer season.
Monday Musings
Tucker is painting, his grandmother is not thrilled because she's worried that there will be paint spilled. I asked him what he's painting. "It's one of God's beautiful creatures," he says. "The only problem is I don't know whether its a bird or a human."
They came this morning and picked up my car. I only drove the car for six weeks before the accident, and now it's gone. And that's not nearly enough time to get attached to a vehicle, but I do hate that it's out of my life so quickly. Until the check arrives and I'm able to replace it, I have a rental. When I talked to them, I requested something small and modest. I got a Dodge Dakota truck. Its not the worst vehicle I could be driving, the worst would have been if they had rented me a Harley, because I have a major motorcycle fantasy. But not far behind the bike dream, is the truck dream. Just sliding UP into the seat was enough to make my little heart pound like mad. Yes, it's going to be a fun week. If everything goes well, I should have my insurance settlement in hand by Friday. Once I get it, I'll be driving a little red car ... which is not the worst thing I could be driving, because it's not a little red Italian car. 
Yesterday I wrote about the books I'm reading. I can't believe it's taken me SO long to get to The Red Tent and I'm loving it. The writing is crisp and vivid. The characters, because I'm already familiar with the Biblical account seem both familiar and exotic. To be able to write the story of a family with four wives and not have it seem bizarre is quite a feat.
Stephanie made a comment on that blog about having difficulty appreciating "women's literature" because it seems so much about the relationship between mother's and daughters and especially the sacrifices of mothers. I haven't sought out much in the "chick lit" line, but I'm hoping that it is about much more than this. The themes of women's lives in the broader sense are the same as the themes of all literature, we wrestle with God, with each other, and with ourselves. But the way that women approach the battle is different from the way that men fight. I think there are stories and myths that should and must be told from a woman's voice in order to express the rich fullness of human experience. Certainly pregnancy and birth are a part of women's lives, as are the regular waxing and waning cycles we experience driving us from dark to light, depth to height, dullness to creativity and despair to ecstasy with only the vehicle of our normal body rhythms - well, our body rhythms and chocolate ...
It's nothing new to say that female rhythm is different from male rhythms and patterns. Women's bodies live a 13 month year, in a world that follows a 12 month calendar. In some ways it's like trying to fit into an alternate reality a la the sci-fi channel's mind warping thought experiments.
Well, speaking of alternate realities, a storm is blowing in so I must log off my computer in hopes that it won't be blown up by lightning. I'll be back later to try to finish this thought.
Summer Reading
I haven't had as much time for reading this summer as I had hoped I might. Most of what I've picked up has been the stories I read to Tucker for his bedtimes. But I am working in a bookstore. I am allowed (encouraged) to borrow books. They want us to read because when people come into the store, they want us to be able to talk knowledgeably about the books.
I hadn't realized it until I picked up the three books I've brought home to tell you about my reading, but I've chosen books with a theme of women's culture. There are secrets kept and revealed, hidden and passed down from one generation of women to the next. Maybe it's because I'm spending these weeks in my mother's house, and going from here to the house of my cousin and peripherally to the house of my aunt. I've been thinking a lot about the particular bonds and jealousies of the women in my family. I won't describe those in this blog, maybe later.
The first book that I checked out is one that I've had on my must read list for about a year. Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran. I began reading it, and I was making notes, writing down quotes in my little notebook. Halfway through the book, I had half a notebook filled. So my brother, being an incredible human being that I don't spend nearly enough time telling how much I love him, dropped by the store and told my manager to please ring up that book I had checked out because any book that inspired so many notes, I needed to be able to keep it.
Since I didn't have to return that first one, I checked out two more. 
I have also wanted to read Anita Diamant's novelization of the story of the women from the Genesis account of Jacob, The Red Tent. The back cover says that book is a valuable achievement in modern fiction, combining rich storytelling with a new view of biblical women's society. Narrated by Dinah (dee-nah) the only daughter in a house of twelve sons who spawned the twelve tribes of Israel, the book gives a voice to the voiceless woman who has never appeared as much more than a footnote to the masculine narrative.
"...Had I been asked to speak of it, I would have begun with the story of the generation that raised me, which is the only place to begin. If you want to understand any woman, you must ask about her mother and then listen carefully. Stories about food show a strong connection. Wistful silences demonstrate unfinished business. The more a daughter knows the details of her mother's life - the stronger the daughter."
This passage from the prologue says why such a story is important to tell. In a world of history written by, for and about men, the story of women is often one that fades with time leaving daughters unconnected from their mothers. The narrator addresses this theme directly, "... you come to me, women with hands and feet as soft as a queen's, with more cooking pots than you need, so safe in childbed and so free with your tongues." From the beginning this work is more than a story, it is a bridge reconnecting the daughters of today with the mothers of history.
The third story I have on my table is one in a series of novels by Jennifer Chiaverini which have a quilting motif. In The Runaway Quilt the protagonist of the series, Sylvia, is confronted on the first page with a story told by a quilt. One of the interesting footnotes to the history of quilting, is that the ubiquitous quilt told a secret story of freedom and escape to the slaves of the ante-bellum South. The stitching patterns of the quilt formed a detailed map of escape routes and sanctuary. Sylvia is shocked and dismayed when the woman who shows her a quilt with details unmistakably pointing to Sylvia's own ancestral home. What connection could her family have had with the slaveholding past? What history may have been lost, and can it be recovered with the help of a few antique quilts?
I grew up in Southern Arkansas. My genealogical roots here go deep on both sides of my family. In the research my dad and I have pursued over the past 5 years, we have uncovered more than one story of my ancestors' connections to and repudiation of slavery. I don't know the story that Sylvia may uncover, but I know that part of my own family history includes this painful chapter and I know that it's a deceitful delusion to ignore the threads of reaction running through the lives of the descendants of those who lived it.
Women here and now, then and there, far and near. My connection to the women in these stories in both strong and tenuous in it's different aspects. But looking into their faces I see something mirrored that I want to know better in myself.
Thank you for all your kind birthday wishes. I'm still resting up and recovering from the celebration. And I'm deeply touched by the outpouring of comments and hugs and ecards and ... thank you.
Happy Birthday to Me
For most of the past ten years, I haven't had a birthday. June 18 rolled past on the calendar, but it hasn't been my day. Ten years ago today, I spent in the hospital, fighting the effects of eclampsia and due to the excessively high blood pressure I was experiencing, my doctor decided to induce labor. So although he was a little over three weeks early, by mid-afternoon, I got the best birthday present of my life, my son, Michael. It's kind of hard to top that. Since today is his birthday as well, and he is the child here, the celebration usually belongs to him.
Last year was the exception to that rule. We were in Disney World on June 18. We invited my sister and her kids, my friend Maureen and her daughter, Kate, and had a week long birthday party. The highlight of that trip (for me) was the night of the 18th when we saw the Cirque du Soleil's La Nouba.
This year is a little different. I'll be working this afternoon. After work, I'll stop off and pick up supplies for the party we'll have tomorrow afternoon. We have enough little cousins to populate two ten year old's parties, so we've invited them all over tomorrow for a cookout. Michael has requested an ice cream cake, so that will be an interesting thing to pull off in this heat.
Tim and I talked earlier in the week, and he really hated the thought of Michael's birthday happening without him, so he's driving over this afternoon for the weekend. Michael doesn't know yet that Daddy is coming, but Michael loves surprises, so this is part of the gift.
My sister asked if I didn't resent it that Tim gets to show up and be the big deal when I'm here every day loving the boys and doing the not so glamorous parts of parenting. I don't resent it. I knew when we agreed to separate that I would be leaving Indiana so by virtue of the distance between us, Dad's visits or visits to Dad's home would be magnified by their very nature into treats. And it's right and reasonable that it should be so. He doesn't get the daily opportunity that I have, so it's good that when the boys see him, he'll be the focus of their attention.
I have received some incredible birthday gifts this year. My friends started back in March showering me with love and presents and saying "this is an early birthday." I know that part of the reason they labeled it that way is that I have an uncomfortable level of pride (I was really amused that this turned up in the quiltnmomi cocktail from that little generator) and the things they wanted to give me, I would have had a difficult time accepting as gifts "just because." So they gave me the gifts and they gave me the priceless gift of respecting my sensibilities.
I have much to be grateful for this year. And since my friends arranged to gift me in ways that I can only accept, not repay, I intend to honor their gifts by living this as the best year of my life so far.
Happy Birthday to me.
Chocolate Sex*
The first person into the bookstore last night pulled me aside to complain about the sex in John Grisham novels. It's been a couple years since I read one, I don't remember them being all that steamy. But this woman was offended, and she was telling me about it as though I were John Grisham, or his publisher, or his agent, or anyone else who might have some real input into the content of those books. That set the tone for the evening.
Everyone who came into the store was talking about sex. Every customer I assisted brought it up in the conversation in some way or another. There was the woman looking for Dr. Laura's book on the Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands who explained to me that at her age finding new sexual positions wasn't as much fun as it used to be. The couple looking for what I first thought was a religious book, (but turned out to be a sex manual written by a minister) were interesting. They must have owned a copy of it previously, or at least they'd read it because they were all about Chapter Sixing each other.
A teacher came in looking for "The Real Mother Goose," I thought that was safe until we were heading up to the register and she started telling me about her job teaching fifth graders - and the sexual sophistication of the average middle-school aged child these days. She said to me, "People today aren't like us, they wear the most god-awful get-ups! Thongs!" (I didn't think that was the time to tell her that *I* was wearing a thong.)
The final sale I rang up last night actually took place after the store was closed. Two young men lingered over their decision to the point that my co-worker was flicking off the lights in a subtle hint. Then they approached the register, and I realized I was going to have to card them. Yes, at the Hot Springs Waldenbooks, it's illegal to sell certain materials to minors and there was a question in my mind how old these guys might be. But they produced State issued ID's proving that they were 20 and 22 years old so they were allowed to purchase copies of the Kama Sutra.
By the time I got home, the whole evening had just taken on a very odd flavor. And I was hungry. So I did what any woman would do under those circumstances. I unwrapped and slowly consumed a cookies and cream chocolate bar.
*I'm blaming my strange evening on LMF who commented yesterday that she wanted to hear more about chocolate sex.
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