I shouldn’t like Bobbi French. I mean, the woman is living the life I want and I should be crazy jealous. Let’s examine the evidence against her.
1. She’s tall. (She refers to herself as a giraffe.) 2. She’s thin. (Don’t listen to her about this. She’s thin.) 3. Her silver hair is even more gorgeous than mine ;-D AND AND! she has the bone structure to wear her hair cropped a la Jamie Curtis. Who, I might add, Bobbie resembles. 4. She’s smart. As in, she’s a doctor smart. 5. She’s living in France with a gorgeous husband who cooks and rubs her feet. And there are no surly teenagers or cats weighing her down.
Need I go on?
But here’s the thing. Because she’s so damned funny and intelligent and witty and kind and interesting and humane and because she’s from Newfoundland (it matters, y’all), I am forced to overlook all those superficial reasons for not liking her. I adore Bobbi French. And as if I needed another reason to adore her, there’s this postwhich will give you some context for the video below.
Now get out there and spread this message around. This has to stop now. My kids are going to hear about this tonight when they get home and every day after. I’m going to be a cd stuck on repeat, a record with a needle stuck, a gramophone….well, you get the idea. It’s not enough for me to remind them that bullying is wrong and will not be tolerated, but they also need to spread the word among their friends and they need to shame and shun anyone who still thinks bullying is okay.
But I’ll be honest with you, adults are a big part of the problem. The high school where Sophie will attend won’t even allow a Gay/Straight Alliance to form. That’s an adult problem, not a bullying problem.
I’m pledging here and now to call this bullshit out wherever I see it. I hope you will, too.
I shouldn’t like Bobbi French. I mean, the woman is living the life I want and I should be crazy jealous. Let’s examine the evidence against her.
1. She’s tall. (She refers to herself as a giraffe.)
2. She’s thin. (Don’t listen to her about this. She’s thin.)
3. Her silver hair is even more gorgeous than mine ;-D AND AND! she has the bone structure to wear her hair cropped a la Jamie Curtis. Who, I might add, Bobbie resembles.
4. She’s smart. As in, she’s a doctor smart.
5. She’s living in France with a gorgeous husband who cooks and rubs her feet. And there are no surly teenagers or cats weighing her down.
Need I go on?
But here’s the thing. Because she’s so damned funny and intelligent and witty and kind and interesting and humane and because she’s from Newfoundland (it matters, y’all), I am forced to overlook all those superficial reasons for not liking her. I adore Bobbi French. And as if I needed another reason to adore her, there’s this postwhich will give you some context for the video below.
Now get out there and spread this message around. This has to stop now. My kids are going to hear about this tonight when they get home and every day after. I’m going to be a cd stuck on repeat, a record with a needle stuck, a gramophone….well, you get the idea. It’s not enough for me to remind them that bullying is wrong and will not be tolerated, but they also need to spread the word among their friends and they need to shame and shun anyone who still thinks bullying is okay.
But I’ll be honest with you, adults are a big part of the problem. The high school where Sophie will attend won’t even allow a Gay/Straight Alliance to form. That’s an adult problem, not a bullying problem.
I’m pledging here and now to call this bullshit out wherever I see it. I hope you will, too.
Yesterday I tweeted that I was breaking up with TV because I can’t take the bad news anymore. Why, in the span of twenty minutes, I was subjected to the news that Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed had ordered the rousting of Occupy Atlanta, I ground my teeth while I listened to Senator Pat Toomey (R – PA) try to explain how Supply Side Economics would solve our problems by bringing down prices (which would be awesome if he means everything will be free because that’s the only way people without jobs will be able to become consumers again), and then Arne Duncan came on the air to talk about how we need longer school days and more extracurricular activities for kids because all the activities the working classes can no longer afford to enroll their kids in aren’t nearly enough.
At the end of that I was no longer grinding my teeth, I was stomping to the basement in search of ammunition.
The internet isn’t much better, except for a few places that serve as doors into other worlds.
In a fit of pique, I hit my Tweetdeck with a hammer and threw eggs at the television. The cats were pleased. Their eyes gleamed as they lined up for a taste of that chirping Twitter bird and a couple of them went after the raw eggs. Not all of these cats are of the discerning taste variety. We have a couple with rather indiscriminate palates. If I don’t keep the trash well sorted and the toilet lids shut, they think they’re at a saloon with a buffet.
Alas, I wasn’t finished. I also shot Facebook in the face because I’m so sick of the constant scroll of recycled photos with pithy sayings, the visual aids demonstrating just how fucking bad the economy is, and the links to the ever-increasing bad news.
I feel myself tumbling into the enormous chasm between the Haves and the Have Nots and wishing that we’d reach the place where violence becomes inevitable because I’m anxious to know the outcome of these dark times. I want to be through them already.
I hope you could follow that. You should see the size of the coffee cup I’m using.
Anyway, as an antidote, I’m spending more and more of my time escaping. While tugging clothes from the dryer and folding them into origami underwear swans is a great way to both stay away from the TV and to get make myself useful, I’d much rather disappear into new and different worlds – my own manuscript, books I’m reading, and especially into the labyrinth of online entertainment. Except for a few minutes of necessary relaxation to help me release my anxieties enough to get some work done, I’m actually talking about wholesome entertainment.
For example, short stories (follow the links to the story Paper Lanterns), and short filmsby new friends and then this by Nina Paley. In the Nina Paley film, my favorite parts are the cross talk between the narrators. (Click those links, people. I’m not kidding.)
Music is a must on my little island of I’m Ignoring You and You and You!. I bring with me all genres, but right now, I’m awash in jazz and the old standards and especially the old sappy love songs. A friend recently sent me the 1929 CD by Annette Hanshaw who provides the soundtrack for Sita Sings the Blues.
I had an inkling of her work when I stumbled upon some of Hanshaw’s music as I searched for a version Am I Blue to use in this post.It all fits so nicely since we seem to be enjoying economic good times just like in 1929.
Another friend and I were talking about how having certain survival skills might become necessity as things worsen. She pointed out that I might be glad I know how to grow food. I agreed, but I’d like better to be able to know how to grow trees that sprout Benjamins instead of leaves then I could start my own SuperPac. Talk about killing two legislative priorities with one big donation.
I think the thing that most irritates me about the state of the world is — you know what, no. I can’t even put my finger on the thing or even the things that most irritate me. We’re in such a mess.
Enough with the gloom. I’m going to go round up the cats. We’re working on our version of this. You know, just in case…
Yesterday I tweeted that I was breaking up with TV because I can’t take the bad news anymore. Why, in the span of twenty minutes, I was subjected to the news that Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed had ordered the rousting of Occupy Atlanta, I ground my teeth while I listened to Senator Pat Toomey (R – PA) try to explain how Supply Side Economics would solve our problems by bringing down prices (which would be awesome if he means everything will be free because that’s the only way people without jobs will be able to become consumers again), and then Arne Duncan came on the air to talk about how we need longer school days and more extracurricular activities for kids because all the activities the working classes can no longer afford to enroll their kids in aren’t nearly enough.
At the end of that I was no longer grinding my teeth, I was stomping to the basement in search of ammunition.
The internet isn’t much better, except for a few places that serve as doors into other worlds.
In a fit of pique, I hit my Tweetdeck with a hammer and threw eggs at the television. The cats were pleased. Their eyes gleamed as they lined up for a taste of that chirping Twitter bird and a couple of them went after the raw eggs. Not all of these cats are of the discerning taste variety. We have a couple with rather indiscriminate palates. If I don’t keep the trash well sorted and the toilet lids shut, they think they’re at a saloon with a buffet.
Alas, I wasn’t finished. I also shot Facebook in the face because I’m so sick of the constant scroll of recycled photos with pithy sayings, the visual aids demonstrating just how fucking bad the economy is, and the links to the ever-increasing bad news.
I feel myself tumbling into the enormous chasm between the Haves and the Have Nots and wishing that we’d reach the place where violence becomes inevitable because I’m anxious to know the outcome of these dark times. I want to be through them already.
I hope you could follow that. You should see the size of the coffee cup I’m using.
Anyway, as an antidote, I’m spending more and more of my time escaping. While tugging clothes from the dryer and folding them into origami underwear swans is a great way to both stay away from the TV and to get make myself useful, I’d much rather disappear into new and different worlds – my own manuscript, books I’m reading, and especially into the labyrinth of online entertainment. Except for a few minutes of necessary relaxation to help me release my anxieties enough to get some work done, I’m actually talking about wholesome entertainment.
For example, short stories (follow the links to the story Paper Lanterns), and short filmsby new friends and then this by Nina Paley. In the Nina Paley film, my favorite parts are the cross talk between the narrators. (Click those links, people. I’m not kidding.)
Music is a must on my little island of I’m Ignoring You and You and You!. I bring with me all genres, but right now, I’m awash in jazz and the old standards and especially the old sappy love songs. A friend recently sent me the 1929 CD by Annette Hanshaw who provides the soundtrack for Sita Sings the Blues.
I had an inkling of her work when I stumbled upon some of Hanshaw’s music as I searched for a version Am I Blue to use in this post.It all fits so nicely since we seem to be enjoying economic good times just like in 1929.
Another friend and I were talking about how having certain survival skills might become necessity as things worsen. She pointed out that I might be glad I know how to grow food. I agreed, but I’d like better to be able to know how to grow trees that sprout Benjamins instead of leaves then I could start my own SuperPac. Talk about killing two legislative priorities with one big donation.
I think the thing that most irritates me about the state of the world is — you know what, no. I can’t even put my finger on the thing or even the things that most irritate me. We’re in such a mess.
Enough with the gloom. I’m going to go round up the cats. We’re working on our version of this. You know, just in case…
I’m an incurable romantic. As such, I’m also an inveterate matchmaker. If you let me know directly or indirectly that you’re looking, my wheels are turning.
My record on matchmaking is decent. I’m no Yenta, but I do okay. The truth is, I only stick my pointy nose in when I’m confident about my ideas for the potential couple. That keeps my averages up.
One of the themes of my work in progress (WIP) is how would life be different if you’d never existed. As one of the characters in the story says, “Like It’s a Wonderful Life and you’re George Bailey but there’s no Clarence The Angel. Or Mr. Potter.”
Yes, something very much like that.
In 1998, I worked with a single, gorgeous, interesting young woman who was having a hard time meeting guys who suited her. At the same time, my husband had a colleague who I found just as interesting as my coworker. I thought they’d make a great match.
Their wedding was beautiful. It was one of the most interesting wedding I’ve ever attended because it combined elements of two different cultural traditions. If you’ve never seen a sari as a wedding dress, you don’t know what you’re missing. I’ll never forget the colors of that wedding.
So why am I thinking of that today?
Well, I saw on Facebook that their second child was born yesterday and I was reminded that our existence leaves tiny imprints more than we realize.
Is it just me being a ridiculous narcissist or have you thought about this? What would be different if you’d never existed?
This is the book I’m reading right now and the description from the author’s website:
Crippled by lupus at twenty-five, celebrated author Flannery O’Connor was forced to leave New York City and return home to Andalusia, her family farm in Milledgeville, Georgia. Years later, as Flannery is finishing a novel and tending to her menagerie of peacocks, her mother drags her to the wedding of a family friend.
Cookie Himmel embodies every facet of Southern womanhood that Flannery lacks: she is revered for her beauty and grace; she is at the helm of every ladies’ organization in town; and she has returned from her time in Manhattan with a rich fiancée, Melvin Whiteson.
Melvin has come to Milledgeville to begin a new chapter in his life, but it is not until he meets Flannery that he starts to take a good, hard look at the choices he has made. Despite the limitations of her disease, Flannery seems to be more alive than other people, and Melvin is drawn to her like a moth to a candle flame.
Melvin is not the only person in Milledgeville who starts to feel that life is passing him by. Lona Waters, the dutiful wife of a local policeman, is hired by Cookie to help create a perfect home. As Lona spends her days sewing curtains, she is given an opportunity to remember what it feels like to truly live, and she seizes it with both hands
Heartbreakingly beautiful and inescapably human, these ordinary and extraordinary people chart their own courses in life. In the aftermath of one tragic afternoon, they are all forced to look at themselves and face up to Flannery’s observation that the truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.
Some lines that I would highlight were this not a library book:
Melvin liked the idea that something he told Flannery might appear in a book. His life was a messy compilation of moments that didn’t fit together. If Flannery wove them into a narrative, they would have cohesion and significance. He would be able to read about himself and all that was inexplicable in real life would be explained.
The music that has my attention this morning.
What does one have to do with the other?
Please feel free to discuss. There are no right or wrong answers.
So Chloe, my oldest, is home for a few days on a break from school. I’m so glad to see her, but having her here means a few changes in the home dynamic.
1. Her iPhone takes up an enormous amount of broadband and thus my online activities are curtailed. This is not necessarily a bad thing. I’m getting lots done on my WIP. Thanks to the beta readers, this thing is really improving. (Thanks, betas!)
2. Chloe’s presence upsets the sibling dynamic resulting in all sorts of jockeying for attention. Again, this isn’t exactly a bad thing – I quite like hanging out with my kids once in a while, but there’s a shelf life to sibling rivalry and I expect to reach my limit by about 6pm tomorrow. She’s staying until Sunday. So….I’ll be chewing Xanax and washing it down with a cheap red on Saturday. Be sure to come back and read that blog post. It promises to be a dilly.
2.1. The cats aren’t sure what to do with this person who is actually interested in picking them up and carrying them around like babies. I’ve heard talk of dressing them in doll clothes and enacting scenes from Jane Austen novels. And the cats thought the fleas were nuisances.
3. I get to hear what’s going on with Chloe and her friends. I’m sure this is heavily filtered. As it should be. I can still remember the look on my own mother’s face when I tried to explain to her what a ……well, nevermind. Let’s just say her response began with “Is that legal?”
4. We get to discuss Pinterest and read recipes aloud to each other. The result? A chocolate chess pie in the oven.
5. I cook more. More specifically, I bake more. (See above.)
6. I get to experience new things. Like this:
And this:
After that honey badger video, you’d think I wouldn’t be hungry. You would be wrong. Who’s ready for some pie?
Sometimes he finishes my sentences and gets it right. Sometimes he finishes my sentences and I want to throw something at him. And I’ve been known to throw things. Fits. Unopened cans of Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup. Cellphones. The bathwater out and that damned baby, too.
“The thing that drives me crazy about this…” that was me. My line. My mistake is trying to reduce it, whatever it is, to just one thing. The thing that drives me crazy. As if.
I know, I know, on top of writing, you’re the one doing all the housework. That was him.
True, but that wasn’t what I was going to say. I may have snarled. I didn’t throw anything. “Yes, but…”
He tried again. I know the money worries me, too.
Wrong again. Well, I mean, he was right. Of course the money stuff is worrying me to no end. I swear that at least 50% of my excess body fat is due to that fucking stress hormone, but no, I was going to say something more specific about money.
“Listen to me!” Now there’s a universal cry if ever there was one. “What makes it so hard to focus sometimes is that when I had a job, I showed up, I did my job, I got paid. It was a given. Now! Now, there’s a very real possibility that I’ll do all this work – the writing, the editing, the fretting over finding an agent – all this time spent on this and there’s no guarantee that I’ll ever be paid a cent for it.”
Saying it didn’t make it better. I felt flattened, defeated, over it. Why can’t I just find a real job? A job with a paycheck? How did I go from being capable of managing an organization to being unemployable?
“There’s one sure fire way to guarantee that you don’t get paid for it,” he said quickly so I couldn’t cut in. It was my turn to finish his sentence. I must have had that look in my eye. “Don’t finish it. Don’t put it out there. Don’t try to find an agent or to publish it on your own. There’s your guaranteed failure right there.”
There’s nothing left to say. I turn back to the computer and get back to work.
Summer has some thoughts on raising children that I enthusiastically endorse. Hey, my kids have turned out just fine. What? Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.*
Thanks to those of you who’ve stuck with me through this challenge. It’s turned out to be a great writing prompt so if any of you are ever casting about for writing ideas, I highly recommend it. And thanks to Summer, Randal and Geoffrey for joining me in this endeavor. I hope you had fun with it, too.
So in case you hadn’t gathered from the photo, I want to join The Revolt. Occupy Atlanta is growing and it’s time to lend my voice. Especially before it gets cold. Yeah, I’m a weather creampuff. Why do you think I live in the South? The strong labor unions? The politically correct flags? The religious diversity? Heck, I can kill two birds with one hand-lettered and correctly spelled protest sign – I can get involved and make contact with the hippies. Man, I haven’t slept around inhung out in a tent city since we had our hemp knickers in a twist about Apartheid.
Yeah, it would be good for me to get out of my head and into the mix. I’d be safer with the threat of pepper spray and cops in need of anger-management classes.
But hey, that’s part of my charm!
Take care, be kind to each other and I’ll see you on the ramparts, y’all.
Something about this appeals to me. The negative space maybe.
I’m thinking about turbulence today. The plane hits a mean pocket of air. The car stumbles over a jagged roadway upheaval. Something comes out of nowhere and jolts your balance. Blindsided. The Surprise! that doesn’t come with shouts of happy birthday.
Do you hold on tight, white knuckle grip through it or let your body go slack until you find your balance again?
Tomorrow one last self-portrait and this project will be complete. I’ll have proven to myself that I can, in fact, finish something.
Lisa H Golden 