So I'm perusing Writers' Almanac and see that today marks my favorite playwright's birthday.
Cool. Missed an opportunity to bake a cake, but oh well.
And then I read a bit more about Mr. Wilder and come to the conclusion that he had a bit of a wild side to him. I am fascinated with his story.
Imagine: You feel a little bored with your life. You're 65 years old, haven't published anything, really, in twenty years, and you decide to take a drive ... from Connecticut to the Southwest. You run out of gas, or your car breaks down, and you stop in some podunk town to get fuel or a new heat pump, and instead of rolling out of town afterwards, you decide to stay. You rent a room with a sink and a toilet nearby and then you plunk down to a typewriter during the day and some meanderings with the locals in the evening.
And after a year and a half, you are finished writing a book, which is then published and goes on to win the National Book Award.
And here I sit, in my kitchen in Kansas City, all filled with self loathing that I am already 46 and haven't published a novel, and can't just pick up and drive to Albuquerque where I know no one to set up shop with my laptop and a case of Diet Coke. I'm thinkin' my husband would care if I left for 18 months; the children, although they're grown, wouldn't quite understand their mama-abandonment (Mom did WHAT?!); I am having a mole removed on May 3. Besides, my personal courage needs some encouraging; gas is nearly four dollars a gallon; I don't know how to change a flat tire (what if I have a flat tire?!?!?!); I can't see well at dark to drive safely; I could be raped by savage locals who have a "thang" for middle-aged women strolling into town with just a laptop and a case of Diet coke. Et cetera.
Sigh.
Wish I had a slice of cake right about now.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
So much, so much, so much ...
So much has happened these last six weeks. March certainly came in like a lion.
My husband had a brush with a heart attack. A scary-ass emergency room visit and an overnight stay. A treadmill stress test; an echocardiogram. No heart attack. We don't know why he had chest pain that snaked down his left arm and left him weak, shaky.
A week later, our daughter (age 26) slipped on the driveway at 4:15 a.m., attempting to leave for her opening barista shift ~ and broke her wrist, having fallen on a slippery driveway, courtesy of the only snowfall we had this winter.
Two weeks later, back to the emergency room. Arm-in-cast daughter, doubled over with abdominal pain. A dysfunctional gallbladder to blame. Emergency surgery to yank out the tiny troublesome organ.
My mom died. On Sunday, March 25, 2012, shortly before 1 p.m., she took her last breath. Her artificial heart valve stopped its tick-tick-tick-tick. Although she had been ill for years, her death at Kansas City Hospice House shocked me. I had thought I would be ready when it finally happened. Figured I would feel a sense of relief. Thought I would softly cry and kiss her tenderly on the forehead and tell her goodbye like they do in Hallmark made-for-TV movies.
No, none of the above. Instead, I lost my shit. Threw my body onto hers and heaved anguished cries. I felt strangely detached from my own body. What came out of me was visceral and uncontrolled. I'm so stupid, I'm so stupid, I'm so stupid I sobbed ~ no, wailed ~ not giving a single care to the other people in the room ~ my sister Kelly, the chaplain, a hospice nurse, Kelly's fiance. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. Mama. Mama. Mama. Oh my God, I'm so stupid, so stupid, so stupid.
So stupid for thinking it would be easy. I shook my head back and forth, rapidly, clenched my eyes shut, hoping that when I opened them that Mom would still be breathing, her valve softly ticking.
Watching Mom die was even worse than watching my father bleed to death back in '07, and I certainly never in a thousand million years would have thought my mother's death would affect me more deeply.
I didn't want to leave her body. I lingered, asked for scissors to cut some of her hair, wanted to crawl into the bed with her, spoon her, scratch her back, sniff her hair, hold her until she became completely cold. I took a picture of her in death using my iPhone.
I look at that picture every day. It does not frighten me; it does not comfort me.
It is.
They made me leave.
My husband had a brush with a heart attack. A scary-ass emergency room visit and an overnight stay. A treadmill stress test; an echocardiogram. No heart attack. We don't know why he had chest pain that snaked down his left arm and left him weak, shaky.
A week later, our daughter (age 26) slipped on the driveway at 4:15 a.m., attempting to leave for her opening barista shift ~ and broke her wrist, having fallen on a slippery driveway, courtesy of the only snowfall we had this winter.
Two weeks later, back to the emergency room. Arm-in-cast daughter, doubled over with abdominal pain. A dysfunctional gallbladder to blame. Emergency surgery to yank out the tiny troublesome organ.
My mom died. On Sunday, March 25, 2012, shortly before 1 p.m., she took her last breath. Her artificial heart valve stopped its tick-tick-tick-tick. Although she had been ill for years, her death at Kansas City Hospice House shocked me. I had thought I would be ready when it finally happened. Figured I would feel a sense of relief. Thought I would softly cry and kiss her tenderly on the forehead and tell her goodbye like they do in Hallmark made-for-TV movies.
No, none of the above. Instead, I lost my shit. Threw my body onto hers and heaved anguished cries. I felt strangely detached from my own body. What came out of me was visceral and uncontrolled. I'm so stupid, I'm so stupid, I'm so stupid I sobbed ~ no, wailed ~ not giving a single care to the other people in the room ~ my sister Kelly, the chaplain, a hospice nurse, Kelly's fiance. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. Mama. Mama. Mama. Oh my God, I'm so stupid, so stupid, so stupid.
So stupid for thinking it would be easy. I shook my head back and forth, rapidly, clenched my eyes shut, hoping that when I opened them that Mom would still be breathing, her valve softly ticking.
Watching Mom die was even worse than watching my father bleed to death back in '07, and I certainly never in a thousand million years would have thought my mother's death would affect me more deeply.
I didn't want to leave her body. I lingered, asked for scissors to cut some of her hair, wanted to crawl into the bed with her, spoon her, scratch her back, sniff her hair, hold her until she became completely cold. I took a picture of her in death using my iPhone.
I look at that picture every day. It does not frighten me; it does not comfort me.
It is.
They made me leave.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
FiftyFifty Reading Challenge - Book #3 - Middlesex
I had to abandon the YA title, "The House of the Scorpion," by Nancy Farmer. I had gotten to page 60 but wasn't digging any part of that book. Ugh. Hate to give up on a book, but time is too precious, right? I want, really want, to like YA books, but they're not working for me.
So I turned to my bookshelf, filled with titles and titles and titles, most of which I have read, but many of which I have not: books purchased On Sale or when Borders was shutting down, or for their cover designs that attracted me like a moth to light. Yes, I do judge a book by its cover.
Searched through my fiction section. Found "Middlesex," by Jeffrey Eugenides. A sticker on the top right of the book: Oprah's Book Club. Translation: I'll probably like it.
I started reading. Paragraph one begins:
"I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974."
Now that's quite a hook, ain't it?
So I turned to my bookshelf, filled with titles and titles and titles, most of which I have read, but many of which I have not: books purchased On Sale or when Borders was shutting down, or for their cover designs that attracted me like a moth to light. Yes, I do judge a book by its cover.
Searched through my fiction section. Found "Middlesex," by Jeffrey Eugenides. A sticker on the top right of the book: Oprah's Book Club. Translation: I'll probably like it.
I started reading. Paragraph one begins:
"I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974."
Now that's quite a hook, ain't it?
FiftyFifty.Me -Movies 3 & 4
What's not to love in a movie about baseball, featuring America's honey Brad Pitt?
Moneyball was a homerun in my eyes. I know, I know, stupid, cliched pun. But still ... . Loved it, loved it, loved it. Pitt's portrayal of Billy Beane was fun to watch, what with the ever present khaki-pants-sports-polo uniform and tobacco-chewing spit cup. Just a well acted, feel-good movie. Jonah Hill was amazing, too. (Watched Sunday, Feb. 19, with HAS.)
Cancer sucks. I hate cancer. Cancer killed my dad in 2007; it's killing my aunt and my uncle. Given my hatred for the disease, and my at-times strange sense of humor, it is no wonder that I sat down to watch "50/50," a movie about a young man who has, as Seth Grogan's character states, "Level 4 back cancer." I LOVED this movie, all parts of it, including the silly and the sad. My favorite line, spoken by Grogan's character as he applies a healing ointment to his friend's fresh scar: "Man, this is some SAW shit." Just funny. Finding the humor in the serious and sad and tragic appeals to me. Definitely a five-star movie. (Watched Monday, Feb. 20, with Elizabeth.)
Moneyball was a homerun in my eyes. I know, I know, stupid, cliched pun. But still ... . Loved it, loved it, loved it. Pitt's portrayal of Billy Beane was fun to watch, what with the ever present khaki-pants-sports-polo uniform and tobacco-chewing spit cup. Just a well acted, feel-good movie. Jonah Hill was amazing, too. (Watched Sunday, Feb. 19, with HAS.)
Cancer sucks. I hate cancer. Cancer killed my dad in 2007; it's killing my aunt and my uncle. Given my hatred for the disease, and my at-times strange sense of humor, it is no wonder that I sat down to watch "50/50," a movie about a young man who has, as Seth Grogan's character states, "Level 4 back cancer." I LOVED this movie, all parts of it, including the silly and the sad. My favorite line, spoken by Grogan's character as he applies a healing ointment to his friend's fresh scar: "Man, this is some SAW shit." Just funny. Finding the humor in the serious and sad and tragic appeals to me. Definitely a five-star movie. (Watched Monday, Feb. 20, with Elizabeth.)
FiftyFifty.Me Book #2 and Movie #2 - "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas"
First I watched the movie, on a chilly sort of day. HAS was home for Presidents' Day, and I had a 99-cent movie, titled The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.
The movie opens with three little boys playing in the streets of a populated city, circa 1940. They're pretending to be airplanes, their arms outstretched, voices buzzing. As a lover of All Things Children, I was hooked.
The movie is, simply, extraordinary. From the opening to the ending, I and HAS watched, riveted.
So sad, the ending. Didn't see it coming. I hadn't yet read the book.
After the movie, I got the book from my bookshelf, noted my handwritten inscription: Kathleen Stander, Scholastic Book Fair, 2007. Read the book jacket: "The story of The Boy in the Striped Pajamas is very difficult to describe. Usually we give some clues about the book on the jacket, but in this case we think that would spoil the reading of the book. We think it is important that you start to read without knowing what it is about.
If you do start to read this book, you will go on a journey with a nine-year-old boy called Bruno. (Though this isn't a book for nine-year-olds.) And sooner or later you will arrive with Bruno at a fence.
Fences like this exist all over the world. We hope you never have to encounter such a fence."
I started the book Monday afternoon, post movie viewing. Finished Tuesday morning.
Book is a quick, but unforgettable, read. Five stars.
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
A Fable by John Boyne
Copyright 2006
Published by David Fickling Books
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Summary: Bored and lonely after his family moves from Berlin to a place called "Out-With" in 1942, Bruno, the son of a Nazi officer, befriends a boy in striped pajamas who lives behind a wire fence.
The movie opens with three little boys playing in the streets of a populated city, circa 1940. They're pretending to be airplanes, their arms outstretched, voices buzzing. As a lover of All Things Children, I was hooked.
The movie is, simply, extraordinary. From the opening to the ending, I and HAS watched, riveted.
So sad, the ending. Didn't see it coming. I hadn't yet read the book.
After the movie, I got the book from my bookshelf, noted my handwritten inscription: Kathleen Stander, Scholastic Book Fair, 2007. Read the book jacket: "The story of The Boy in the Striped Pajamas is very difficult to describe. Usually we give some clues about the book on the jacket, but in this case we think that would spoil the reading of the book. We think it is important that you start to read without knowing what it is about.
If you do start to read this book, you will go on a journey with a nine-year-old boy called Bruno. (Though this isn't a book for nine-year-olds.) And sooner or later you will arrive with Bruno at a fence.
Fences like this exist all over the world. We hope you never have to encounter such a fence."
I started the book Monday afternoon, post movie viewing. Finished Tuesday morning.
Book is a quick, but unforgettable, read. Five stars.
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
A Fable by John Boyne
Copyright 2006
Published by David Fickling Books
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Summary: Bored and lonely after his family moves from Berlin to a place called "Out-With" in 1942, Bruno, the son of a Nazi officer, befriends a boy in striped pajamas who lives behind a wire fence.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Movie #1 of FiftyFifty Challenge ...
Finally, I saw a movie in 2012. What, six weeks into the new year, and I am finally getting to a theater? Not like me at all.
The Descendants was worth my wait. Although emotionally wrenching to witness, I loved the movie for its emotional depth and realistic family dynamics.
Didn't hurt, visually, that the movie was set in America's beautiful state of Hawaii.
I give The Descendants five stars.
Perfect movie about imperfect human relationships.
The Descendants was worth my wait. Although emotionally wrenching to witness, I loved the movie for its emotional depth and realistic family dynamics.
Didn't hurt, visually, that the movie was set in America's beautiful state of Hawaii.
I give The Descendants five stars.
Perfect movie about imperfect human relationships.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Feeling wistful
Today, as I dismantled All Things Christmas, I couldn't help but feel a longing for so many things: my youth, my children's youth, my first love (not for him, but for the feelings I had in his presence), my old body (before middle-aged weight gain).
These feelings surfaced because I was on my own with the take-down boxes. The husband and son had left at daybreak for a quick run to Des Moines. Daughters were nowhere to be found (one at work? one out with friends?), and so it was me and the dogs and a flood of memories.
It didn't help that I was posting on Facebook the Top Song of my birthweek: The Rolling Stones' "(Can't Get No) Satisfaction" ... others were doing the same ... and I became infected by those postings. My ADD does not need much help to distract me from any chore or project, and next thing I knew I was watching four or five youtube videos ~ the Stones, Sonny & Cher, Herman's Hermits.
Pretty soon, I changed my FB profile, used my baby picture, which got me to thinking: Did that big-eyed little girl know what she was in for? The dysfunctional family, the screaming mother, the alcoholic father (he was more fun than Sober Mom), the bitchy sister, the flat hair, the crooked teeth, the unpleasant loss of virginity, the heartbreak from loves lost and unrequited relationships, the quick marriage, the pain of childbirth, the heartbreak of parenting.
No, it is a good thing she did not know. Or others like her.
No one would want to grow up.
These feelings surfaced because I was on my own with the take-down boxes. The husband and son had left at daybreak for a quick run to Des Moines. Daughters were nowhere to be found (one at work? one out with friends?), and so it was me and the dogs and a flood of memories.
It didn't help that I was posting on Facebook the Top Song of my birthweek: The Rolling Stones' "(Can't Get No) Satisfaction" ... others were doing the same ... and I became infected by those postings. My ADD does not need much help to distract me from any chore or project, and next thing I knew I was watching four or five youtube videos ~ the Stones, Sonny & Cher, Herman's Hermits.
Pretty soon, I changed my FB profile, used my baby picture, which got me to thinking: Did that big-eyed little girl know what she was in for? The dysfunctional family, the screaming mother, the alcoholic father (he was more fun than Sober Mom), the bitchy sister, the flat hair, the crooked teeth, the unpleasant loss of virginity, the heartbreak from loves lost and unrequited relationships, the quick marriage, the pain of childbirth, the heartbreak of parenting.
No, it is a good thing she did not know. Or others like her.
No one would want to grow up.
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