"Man In The Box" -- Alice In Chains

Back at Christmastime one of the kids had asked for a pedal for their guitar. Dad ended up getting the gift. Not knowing what cords were necessary to plug such an accessory in, he slipped a little money into an envelope and taped an extra phone cord to the envelope as a physical representation of the words he had scrawled on the envelope. In the end, Dad explained that he didn't know what cords to get.

This morning Jamie woke me to tell me that a box had arrived. Normally I would roll over and go back to sleep. But not today. For the past five days we have been on the phone with The Name That Won't Be Uttered trying to get internet service--and the equipment necessary for using said service. By UPS, early this morning, we received this box. After shaking the box, Jamie pulled it open and emptied the contents onto the table.

After hearing the news of said box's arrival, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and rifled through the bevy of papers and picked up two bright-colored cords wrapped neatly with twist ties.

"What the hell is this?" It was a phone cord and an ethernet cord, but I realized this though I'd already spoken. I had a whole box of such cords myself, though they weren't wrapped up so nicely. They were more like one big tangle.

What I realized then was not only that I needed more than just a green phone cord and a yellow ethernet cord, but I also realized that everyone in the world has such a plethora of these cords that The Name That Won't Be Uttered can afford to tauntingly send us such cords by UPS.

Thanks. That made my whole day--especially the part of the instructions that showed pictures of all the other equipment I needed that wasn't in the box.

Maybe I should shove that giant tangle of cords in my cord box into another box and ship it back to The Name That Won't Be Uttered. Then they can wrap them neatly in twist ties and taunt us all with them.

Then again, maybe I'll just keep my cords.

"Love Is The Answer" -- Weezer

Happy Valentine's Day!

For those of you who may hate the holiday, for those of you who love it, and for those of you who may not even acknowledge it I bring to you the reason why none of it really matters. Forget that today's marketing propaganda idea of Valentine's Day has forever changed the real story behind this day. What we must remember is that love is the answer, as Weezer says.

Love will bring you the greatest happiness, as well as the greatest sorrow you will ever experience in life. To be loved is the most precious feeling. From childhood to adulthood and beyond we seek the love and affection of others. Some are shown it all their lives. There are those who have been craving it for theirs. To have it, gain it, discover it and endure it, love is giving the purest part of yourself over completely to another, thereby opening your heart to the possiblity of the greatest sorrow imaginable. For to lose a loved one is to lose that piece of yourself that grew with their heart in love.

For me, Valentine's Day is not just about romance, but also cherishing all those people that I love and remembering those whom I have lost.

Happy Valentine's Day.

"Sweet Dreams" -- Eurythmics

So I’ve been thinking of Halloween. This year I bought the girls outfits, but made something for myself. When recalling childhood Halloweens I remember that I was always a clown. Not like once, twice, three times. Always. So much so that Mom made me this outfit with this material that was supposed to look clownish but what looked like polka dots all over, upon closer inspection were actually tiny blue circles with red and white sailboats.  Anyway, it had these folded cuffs with yellow triangle embellishments. I wore it all the time. We had a poofy rainbow wig at one time, and sometimes I would wear Dad’s shoes. It was always a good time. And then there was the candy.

Last year I made Snow White outfits for the older girls, and Amy contributed a skunk costume for Arabella.

And still there’s the candy. For me it means waking up to the crinkling sound of candy wrappers. Way too early in the morning for candy.

Dad says it’s not unheard of to “throw that shit away.” Right. Seems like such a waste, though. He remembered finding it stashed under our beds and throwing it away.

And here we were prowling the endcaps in Target for clearance items when we stumble upon the left over Halloween candy. And people are like swarming over all this candy. Everywhere I looked carts rolled by with five or so bags of candy.

Halloween is fun and everything, but maybe we should tone down the candy.

I can’t believe I just wrote that.

Candy’s good. In a Blizzard.

That’s all I’ve got to say about that, now. 

"Can't Stop" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

As people of intelligence, do we not have the ethical obligation to intercede when viewing impending disaster? Perhaps, rather than a question of morals, then, we should consider it a question of etiquette.

For example, just today, in a discussion with talk2jme, it was revealed, as a humorous story that advice given to one of his friends concerning marriage was immediately taken. Knowing the friend, and a certain depth of common sense which he lacked, I was appalled at the possibility of him expediting such advice so quickly. Who had given him this advice? Shouldn’t they feel a little responsible for giving such advice if the events that have transpired since unravel in quite an unpleasant way? Or perhaps they intend to take credit for having inspired an agreeable match to take the next step in life together? What is the intention of the advisor and advisee in this conversation?

I think I shall stop giving advice. It is often requested, but hardly ever taken. Instead, I think I shall turn to Emily Post. I have always had an interest in etiquette and took the opportunity given me in the required public speaking course for undergraduates to instruct my class in etiquette. I gave a short presentation regarding everyday faux pas as well as explanations of lesser-known faux pas regarded by the different cultures within our global community.

Sounds like an exciting presentation, right? Well, I tried to substitute the dry subject matter with attention-grabbing theatrics and interesting facts. ‘Theatrics!’ you say. Actually I just pretended to answer my phone at the beginning of the speech and commented how I wasn’t busy, not at all. That’s the extent of my theatrics. I’m not sure how much of the information was absorbed by my classmates, but I gave it shot anyhow.

So now, I turn to you, my small yet faithful, audience, and ask: What would you do if asked for advice? Do you often give solicited advice only to be rebuffed? Do you often give unsolicited advice?

Maybe I can fix that. I think that I will entertain you with some Beth-style lessons in etiquette:

Etiquette on Advice: A Five Part Lesson

1: Never purposely, jokingly, give people bad advice assuming that they will have the intelligence to work through the other possibilities themselves. In doing so you may be giving people too much credit, and this could come back to bite you both in your asses.

2: Don’t give unsolicited advice. Just don’t. Stop yourself mid-sentence if you have to, turn and walk the other way, pretend to choke violently on something, or ‘accidentally’ spill something. Instant change-of-subject is necessary.

3: In the event that someone solicits your advice, don’t do it. Tell them that you will respect whatever decision that they make (if they are friends or family members), but firmly state that their decision must be their own. Refer back to lesson two, if necessary, to prevent further conversation on the subject.

4: Refrain from interfering in any conversations about advice. If you overhear someone giving bad advice, just try to ignore it. If you overhear someone about to execute a plan based on bad advice, say nothing. If you interfere, then you may be obligated to give your own opinion, which may point out how poor the decisions and advice are of those involved.

5. This one is most important: If you are in a predicament in which you must give advice just remember that the best advice is the vaguest. Advice should be like horoscopes, people just read into it what they want, coming to the decision by themselves.

Well, I said I wasn’t going to give advice anymore and here I am making a lesson on the subject. I just Can’t Stop. 

"Lyin' Eyes" -- Eagles

[otherwise titled Why I Hate Nathaniel Hawthorne]

Okay, well, maybe hate is too strong a word. I guess I don't hate Nathaniel Hawthorne. After all, I don't even know the dude. He's like totally dead. Has been for a while. Long enough so that his works have been revered and propagated throughout the world. I guess I don't exactly hate Nathaniel Hawthorne, but, rather, the fact that his works and their 'significance' have been shoved down our throats as students. Who's read The Scarlet Letter? Me. You. Your mom. Who's read Young Goodman Brown? Me. Maybe you. Possibly your mom. Who's read The House of Seven Gables? Okay, well, not me. I dropped that class like a hot freakin' potato. But that's not the point. The point is that Nathaniel Hawthorne's most propagated works, like The Scarlet Letter and Young Goodman Brown have bred the idea of symbolism. Now, now. Don't get your panties in a twist, I'm not completely dismissing the idea. But I am going to rail against it vehemently, so if you're going to get offended then stop reading now.

Why Symbolism Sucks My Ass


When I began writing my book, I nervously passed around copies of the first few chapters to my writing workshop classmates and teacher the first semester of grad school. During the class in which my text was reviewed and suggestions made, someone suggested that my use of light and dark in the descriptions within my story were great examples of symbolism.

I didn't know what to say. I try to refrain from cussing too much during class, so I took a moment to think of something other than, "Goddammit, Nathaniel Hawthorne!" to say.

"Well, I didn't intentionally try to use symbolism. Honestly, when I'm writing I just try to make it sound good. I try to get the images in my brain out onto the page," was what I said. What I wanted to say, besides the aforementioned denunciation, was, "I would never even think to do that kind of shit!"

So it got me to thinking. I'm pretty sure--and, mind you, this may be the direct result of forced-symbolism-learning practiced in our schools--that Nathaniel Hawthorne injected symbolism into every work that he produced. Light, dark, good, evil. Blah blah blah.

In freshmen English we read Lord of the Flies and were forced to explain the symbolism found within that book, and its significance. I made the teacher explain the 'symbolism' 'found' in several parts--repeatedly. I began thinking, then, before years of college and grad level theory, that maybe we were reading too much into this shit. Why can't stories just be stories? Why must we always be looking for the message within the message within the message? Why can't it just be simple? Why can't I just read The Scarlet Letter and not search for the symbolism found within the scene where Hester's daughter plays at the edge of the forest, within the shifting light and shade of the trees? Why can't I just read the damn book? Why do I have to pick it apart like a vulture on a carcass? And, for that matter, why the fuck can't the kids in Lord of the Flies just be fucking crazy and weird rather than opposing symbols of good and evil, hunter and hunted, weak and strong, et cetera? Why can't I just read things and take from them the things that mean something to me.

Well, I'll tell you why. Because if we all just did that, half the teachers in the country would be out of a job. We've gotta teach 'em something, even if it's bullshit. And before you start cluttering my comment box with threats and outraged messages, just think about this: why did Reverend Dimmesdale beat the shit out of himself for being the illegitimate father of Hester's daughter? 'Cause he's just like everybody else. Some people beat up on themselves on the inside. Some people pull their hair, some people pick their skin, some people cut themselves. We all have different ways of dealing with stress, depression, and guilt. If the story were happening today, we'd give him some anti-depressants and send him to a therapist. We'd encourage him to address his goddamn heart condition in a responsible medical manner. We'd tell Hester not to worry about her adultery, and let Pearl play with our kids.Most of us would, anyway.

But, then again, there are some of us who would claim moral superiority by quoting scripture and pointing fingers. So why all the symbols? Why pick it apart? Isn't the story good enough without dissecting it? What would Nathaniel Hawthorne say to all this? I don't really know. But I do know that reading too much into literature, art, music, personal interaction, messages, and the like will only result in confusion and irritation. But that's just me. Maybe you want to know all the symbols contained within these things. You go right ahead. But I'm going to sit over here and write my book sans symbolism and laugh at you when you try to dissect it. I'm going to finish my Master's Degree despite my terrible run-in with symbolism and theory, and when I cross that stage and flick my tassel over, I'll be thinking about how much I fucking hate Nathaniel Hawthorne.

{This one is for my sister, Hester, who doesn't give a fuck. Read it, britches!}

"Ode To My Family" -- The Cranberries

I waited nineteen years to be someone's boss. And what did that get me? The mother's curse, of course.

When we were young we used to beg Dad to listen to something other than NPR while we were in the car. He would tell us that when we were old enough to drive, and have our own cars, then we could listen to whatever the hell we wanted to. Oh how fun it was to tell Anna-Lee such! I even turned up Ellie Goulding to drown out her, "that's not fair"s. Addison tries to be sneaky sneaky about it. Tiptoeing over to the stereo to turn the volume dial down and down as I blast Red Hot Chili Peppers or Tool. It's also funny to put on Led Zeppelin and turn the volume up as loud as I can stand it. But not for the same reasons. When we were too young to understand the lyrics to The Lemon Song, Dad would be blasting the tall boys with Mom begging him to just turn it off.

"But, Mom, we like it!" we would say, staunchly defending Dad's choice of Saturday morning cleaning music.

Little did we realize that ten plus years later we would be blasting Brittany Spears and hoping that the kids wouldn't understand the lyrics.

I think we turned out awesome. Crank it up, Dad!

Sorry, Anna-Lee. One day you will be able to tell your kids that your Mom drove you bat-shit-crazy with weird music. So, when their tinny little voices can be heard in the music's pause, just laugh and say, "Now it's your turn."