All Rileyed Up

Over the weekend, I attended Meet the Authors, a luncheon put on by the local friends of the library group. When I showed up, the woman in charge of seating looked at me and Sis-In-Law and said, “Are you the students?”

“No. We’re just looking for the unreserved seating.”

She led the way and Sis-In-Law and I giggled over being mistaken for “students.” Two of the speakers were college professors and I figured they had a couple of their students in attendance. Ah, I must look pretty young, right?

When the luncheon started, the introduction speaker got up, made a push for everyone to join the friends of the library organization (and if you’re already a member, consider upgrading your membership!) and then announced two special guests. He asked two kids to stand up. They were two local high school students who wrote essays on why they would like to attend the luncheon and on the merit of said essays, were given free tickets.

You know what this means, right?

It means that the woman thought I was a high school student.

HIGH SCHOOL.

Like, ohmigod, like, wow.

As an additional, side note: yesterday, when I was buying a bottle of champagne, the woman asked for my ID and then said very loudly, “1977! You look like you could be in high school!”

I’ve come to the conclusion that think these people must not spend time around actual high school students.

That being said, I will ride these comments out for all they’re worth. I look eighteen… I look eighteen… I am youthful… yes, indeed…

Ahem. Back to the luncheon.

Minus the unimpressive dessert (I don’t know what it was supposed to be, but it was a disc of jellied lemon-colored food entity laid atop flavorless cool whip-type substance), the luncheon went well.

The award for most interesting quote goes to Amy Wilentz. I was immediately drawn to Wilentz when I saw she wrote The Rainy Season: Haiti Since Duvalier. If you have never heard of Papa Doc or Baby Doc Duvalier or the Tonton Macoutes, consider yourself lucky. I bought the book and she was available to sign it before the luncheon, so I struck up a brief conversation with her about writing fiction vs. nonfiction (she does both) and how she got interested in Haitian history. She was, in short, cool. During her speech, she talked about her interview with Benazir Bhutto, one of the final interviews with Bhutto before her assassination (read it here). And again, I thought, wow, she has lived some life. But nothing made me think that more than this: her grandfather was the lead prosecutor in the Lindbergh baby trial. “My grandfather sent someone to the electric chair,” she said, and followed it up with (paraphrased) “it’s a strange thing to grow up with.” This remark left me speechless. A number of people in the audience laughed, and I don’t know, but somehow the thought didn’t really hit my funny bone.

Another speaker was Gina Nahai, an Iranian Jew who wrote Cry of the Peacock, the first Western language book in 3,000 years to discuss Iranian Jews. She talked of how her fiction stories are all real, based on her own family’s lives, and what a wild family she has, based on the descriptions of the books (I bought two of them). Among other things, she said her family revolves around tradition and curses—children pay for the crimes of their ancestors generations later. This reminded me of Wilentz’ electric chair remark, and I wondered what she was thinking when Nahai said that.

The other speaker was a mystery writer, T. Jefferson Parker. He was, by far, the least serious speaker, candid and approachable and in good humor. He talked about how he read Catch 22 in high school and it was a wonderful thing, and if his writing could give 1/100th the amount of pleasure to someone else that Catch 22 gave him, then he would consider himself a success. I like to say things like that too.

Before I did any writing outside of my journal, I often said that I just wanted to write something that made other people smile, even if only for a moment. I get that from this blog (unless you are among the people who do not like this blog, in which case, why have you read this far?).

Then I said, if I could just publish some thing, one thing, in a print publication, then I would be happy. Then I published a short story.

Then I said, if I could just write a novel—no worrying about publishing it or anything else—just to actually write a novel from beginning to end, then I would be satisfied. And then I finished my novel.

Now, I’m saying, if I could just find an agent and publish my book, then I would be happy…

Does this mean that I am good at setting a goal and achieving it and then setting a new goal based on the prior achievement, or does this mean that I can never be pleased?

Oh well. At least I still have my youth.

The pinata, the pinata, I JUST CAN’T WAIT!

(For other pix, go to the Wordless Wednesday site)

Sometimes I think that if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I’d choose the corn. Not that I wouldn’t love to have a final roll in the hay—I am a man yet, and some things never die—but the thought of those sweet kernels bursting between my teeth sure sets my mouth to watering. It’s fantasy, I know that. Neither will happen. I just like to weigh the options, as though I were standing in front of Solomon: a final roll in the hay or an ear of corn. What a wonderful dilemma. Sometimes I substitute an apple for the corn.

The above paragraph is taken from chapter one of Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. The book is quirky and funny, demented and tragic. Such is the circus life, I guess.

I read this book for my book club and tonight is the meeting. I skimmed over the suggested discussion questions at the end of the book and in one of them, Ms. Gruen says she incorporated Jacob’s story from the Bible. Yikes! I did not see that coming. In fact, I was a total lidiot (my own made up word: literary idiot, the reader who JUST DIDN’T GET IT), saying to myself, well, his name is Jacob I can see that connection. But what else?

After giving it more thought, I have come up with these:

There’s the woman Jacob loves, Marlena. You could make the argument that Uncle Al is a sort of Laban, extracting unpaid work from Jacob, although there’s no promise of anyone’s hand in marriage. Also, what does that make August?

Jacob’s ladder. In Water for Elephants, the ladder is important to life on a circus train (as well as bootleg liquor, hey hey). The ladders enable one to jump atop train cars and move from one to another, which happens from time to time when you’re on a train as often as these fine folks. Maybe the circus people are like the angels ascending and descending the ladder.

If Jacob’s Ladder is to signify the Jewish exiles, then you might say the ladder of a circus train is symbolic of the exiles of the circus performers, like Kinko/Walter, who has nowhere else to go because his mother sold him. And really, one might consider the whole circus an exile, given the multiple occasions on which they are run out of town.

Jacob’s Ladder leads from earth to heaven, and since the circus train ladder leads from inside the stock cars to atop them, maybe that means both heaven and earth are the circus train? For these circus performer, life takes place, essentially, on the train. The train only stopped to put on the show, so when they were off the train, they were working to set up, put on, and take down the show. So earth is the insides of the stock cars, these people’s homes and livelihoods. Heaven is looking upon the train from atop the roof, like when Jacob Jankowski ascends the ladder:

I climb to the roof. He moves over and when I sit down next to him he claps a hand on my shoulder. “Turn around. I want you to see something.”
He points down the length of the train. It stretches behind us like a giant snake, the linked cars jiggling and bending as it rounds a curve.
“It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it, Jacob?” says August.

In the case of the circus performers, I tend to think that heaven could well be the view of the train from above, because it is a home and employment during the Depression when both were scarce.

Camel. Well, the name alone works with the stretching muscle. There were camels in the Bible, right? Camel also has the problem of having done something bad that he hasn’t forgiven himself for, and though we never do find out if Camel’s family forgave him, we know they were willing to take him back. All that forgiveness talks seemed to have “Biblical imagery” written all over it.

I think the best parallel to Biblical Jacob comes when Jacob Jankowski realizes that it is up to him to protect the circus animals from the treatment they receive under Uncle Al and August:
I am their shepherd, their protector. And it’s more than a duty. It’s a covenant with my father. While I realize that Jacob is referring to his biological father, I think it’s safe to assume this sentence is meant to carry more meaning than just that.

We’ll see how it goes tonight at the book club meeting. In case I’m totally amiss with my interpretation, I’m bringing a copy of one of the books of circus photos that inspired Sara Gruen to write the book. “Wild, Weird, and Wonderful: The American Circus as Seen by F.W. Glasier.” I had to drive to not-my-usual library to check it out. Extra effort like that should count for something, right?

All I know is, parallel to Biblical Jacob? If she says so.

Good read? Definitely.

Today is a lovely early-spring day, the kind of weather that is both warm and cool. I can stand barefoot on cold cement while the sun shines on my face and feel a little of both temperatures. The kids rode their bikes while I pruned the rosebushes and trimmed some plants hanging over the back wall. I took a deep breath expecting soil and roses in the breeze but instead smelled what can only be described as dirty dog.

Bitches, represent!

The Notorious F.O.X. has been notoriously stinky for about two weeks now. The dogs used to get baths all the time, courtesy of pet groomers. I started using a mobile groomer a year ago when it became clear that bringing two dogs who don’t like other dogs to a groomer, along with two kids who move in opposite directions, is about as easy as it is for me to graciously lose a game of Monopoly. The mobile pet groomer is not cheap, and their baths fell into the not-so-often category. Meaning, they only get baths when I start accusing Husband of farting only to discover that one of the dogs has crawled under the table.

In an effort to cut unnecessary spending, I decided to wash the dog myself. I can’t bathe her outside because the drainage in the backyard, like my ability to lose graciously at Monopoly, leaves much to be desired. So I decided on the master bathroom, which is a spacious, walk-in shower (whoever lived here before me was either physically disabled or elderly, because the shower is capable of accommodating such needs).

The kids were antsy for a new activity, so I suggested we all pile into the shower and wash the dog (are you shuddering or amused?). Clad in a pink Barbie tutu swimsuit and red swim trunks respectively, Little No Limit and The Boy clamored into the shower. I pulled and yanked the Notorious F.O.X. in with me.

Now, many people have ideas about Chow Chows, that they’re, well, notorious. It is no lie that they can be aggressive with other dogs and they do like to dominate, but they’re quite loyal to their owners. And for being forced into a shower with the kids, I think she handled herself very well. Sure, she tried to find a way out of the shower, but overall, she remained calm. She let the kids soap her up (seriously, half a bottle of shampoo – Chow Chows = So. Much. Hair.) and rinse her off, and the kids giggled wholeheartedly whenever she shook herself of excess water and suds. The kids towel dried her while I used the blow dryer and once she was reasonably dry, I let her outside to finish off drying in the sunlight.

All in all, not so bad. As a bonus, it also forced me to clean my bathroom. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that my cleaning skills rival that of your college roommate’s unemployed parasite boyfriend, but washing a dirty dog in my shower is definite cause for clean up. I broke out the bleach and cleaned the entire thing from top to bottom and then threw the 6 towels that we used up into the washer.

The whole process took about two hours. The kids had fun and are now taking a nap. I have a clean shower. And now, I can take a deep breath and smell the sweet scent of herbal shampoo. I think I’ll avoid playing Monopoly tonight, lest I ruin my content.

Hmpf. How come I didn’t get a bath?

Because, twit, everyone knows you pee when you get nervous.

Whatever.

(this post submitted to the dog blog carnival, which you can learn about at Notes From a Country Groomer)

This post courtesy of Colloquium’s Friday Fill-In

1. Snowdrops are an indication that it’s too cold for my taste.
2. I’m going to post a funny video at the end of this message.
3. “And Your Bird Can Sing” by the Beatles is a song whose lyrics have meaning to me.
4. Just one sip and I knew, knew, kneeeeeew… oh wait, that’s just one look. Nevermind.
5. The ocean is where I’m happiest.
6. I believe that writing is a necessary part of life. (we are just talking about my life, right?)
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to watching Lost, season 3, disc 2, tomorrow my plans include discussing Lost Season 3, disc 2 and Sunday, I want to go online and check out pictures of Sawyer, Sayid, and Jack.

And now for the funny video promised in Fill-In Number Two. Proof that anything can be made dirty if you add in a *bleep*

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6AXPnH0C9UA&rel=1]

I just picked up The Boy from preschool where they had a Valentine’s Day party. We drove home and he gave me the ubiquitous construction-paper-heart-glued-on-a-doilie-with-a-picture-of-him-valentine. He ate a couple of the Skittles. Then he said, “Mommy, do you love me?”

“Yes. Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Buddy, can you tell me what love is?”

“Valentines.”

“Well, we give valentinues to show our love. Do you know what it is?”

“Friends.”

“We do love our friends. But what IS love?”

Pause.

“Um. Coffee?”

Yes, son. Love is coffee.

My work here is done.

(this post submitted to the Carnival of Family Life)

I won a big shoe from the school pooper bowl.

Could someone please explain to me what I am supposed to do with this big shoe?

If I had one for each foot, I could at least wear them but I think I’d be embarrassed to wear them because people might stare at my feet, thinking, “Wow, she has big feet.”

What we’ve been doing is pushing the kids on it. They enjoy the ride, and as a bonus, it gives the dogs’ backs a break.

I think the only person who doesn’t like the shoe is Elvis, who seems to feel that the tackiness of his presence is being overshadowed by The Big Shoe. Who knew Elvis could be so petty?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Hank Hugh. Hank Hugh is the man who makes gummi bears. He grows all fruits and nuts. He makes applesauce. He invented grits and pancakes. Sorbet? Chocolate milk? Juiceboxes? Yes. All because of Hank Hugh.

Not limited to food, Hank Hugh also makes frilly dresses with sequins that allow little girls to cavort like princesses. He is the man behind pink thermoses and lunchboxes, princess backpacks, and sweaters with kitty cats

He is the man who first came up with the idea of letting a child stand on a chair at the stove to help their mommy cook.

And the reason I know this is because every day whenever my daughter receives any of the aforementioned goodies, she looks up and says, “Hank Hugh.”

Ah, the joys of speech problems.

It’s been some time since my last and supposedly final post. I finished my novel. Well, the first draft. Amazing how much time I was able to put to writing that book when I wasn’t blogging. You would think that I’d have the sense to move on to the editing, or my next novel.

Then again, I am the same person who thinks George Orwell and Orson Welles are the same person.