Just Thought You'd Like To Know...

This is my least favorite part about winter.

B is for Books

Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.
~ Groucho Marx



What am I without books? Books that have changed my life:

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
"Why?," You might ask...Well, it was the summer between 8th and 9th grade. I'd devoured The Babysitters Club series left lying around the house. My Jack Weyland collection had been read and re-read twice that summer. I was out of Seventeen magazine articles. Worst of all--nobody could take my license-less booty to the library for a few days--and my mother always told me public transportation was out. All that was left in the house was a ratty old copy of Jane Eyre left over from an older sibling's high school days. I picked it up, started reading, and I have never been the same since. It was my first "classic" (i.e. "old") novel.

My Antonia by Willa Cather
Why not. It is my favorite novel. I've already posted about it. Simply put--the woman makes my heart swell about a Nebraskan prairie I've never even seen before. And that, my friends, is good writing.

Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place by Terry Tempest Williams
It is about the landscape in which I was raised. It was one of those books that entered my life at the moment I needed it to. Sometimes that is all it takes. And her prose is exquisitely perfect.


Dream Work
and/or A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver
As a poet, Oliver is my hero. Her Handbook was my textbook for my first poetry class in college. She dared me to try it. I did and now "novice/hack job of a poet" skims that list of titles I hold.
Oh, and how could you not love something like this:

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.


The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje
Don't bother with the movie. The book is the thing.

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
One of my all time favorites. I never was a fan of sci-fi, but this was perfect for my 4th grade self.

I could go on. A true confession would reveal that every book I read changes me in one way or another. Each time I slide the bookmark from its page I am given a gift. I slip into another life, another skin for a brief time. Whether the book makes me think or simply entertains, each book I read seems to come to me at the exact moment I need it to. Every book I've read has changed my life. And isn't that the beauty of it?

Everybody's Doing It...

And so it begins. Every blogger I know well is starting these "Encyclopedia of Me" posts on their blogs. And so I have decided to start one too. Maybe I will have more time in my life dedicated to blogging if I do this? Who knows--maybe it's a half-brained idea that I will begin with the best of intentions and never complete (like that novel or the poetry collection or cleaning my house).

So on with the A's.

It took me a while to realize that not everybody had an Alice in their life. Some women go through life without many female friends, some women have a handful of girlfriends they hit the town with but never confide in or show their ugly side to. I have a best friend. And I don't mean best friend as in we have matching bracelets or two-halves of a heart charm necklaces. I don't call her my BFF. I do text message her more than I ought. But I mean best friend as in we watch out for each other. We listen when the other is talking. We laugh. We fight. We each pay the other half of the rent. We are one another's favorite movie/dinner/lunch/shopping/video night/pedicure/facial/gym/and-so-much-more date. We agree on everything (except the things we don't agree on). We are like-minded enough that we get along swimmingly and yet we celebrate our differences. I like to curl up with a good novel or poetry collection, she likes to dabble in the memoir of someone with a troubled past. I love period pieces and French cinema, she humors me and goes to some of them as long as I'll hit an Adam Sandler flick now and again with her. She has been my friend since the summer after seventh grade. I am lucky that while many singletons my age and my religion ache of loneliness, ache for companionship--I've got a built in buddy for life and I can always rely on her to be there when my day sucked, my hair sucks, or my feelings were hurt.



Other A's that matter:

Aunt. I am the proud aunt to 6 nephews and 13 nieces ranging in age from 11 months to 18 years. I try and fool myself into thinking that I simply must be their favorite aunt. Isn't the single, childless aunt always the favorite? This fantastic title gives me the chance to sometimes give advice on boys (because they actually think I know this stuff better than they do--although telling my niece that if anybody at the LDS Institute of Religion sauntered up to her proclaiming that he was divinely inspired that they belonged together she should, and I quote, "Run like hell!" I think this was a pretty good chunk of advice). At other times it has me playing red rover or singing bed-time songs. I love each one of them, near and far. I even have a name sake (her middle name is my first name--see--favorite, favorite, huh!?!).

Art. I love the arts: performing arts, visual arts, literary arts. I am intrigued by whatever it is which compels us to create--and why do some of us feel that need more than others? I appreciate that art is an expression and interpretation of what it means to be human. I love that whatever medium it might be--if it is art it is intended to connect to me in some way--even if that connection is to leave me alienated and thinking.


Adolescents. I spent a few painful years in adolescence. But I'm talking about adolescent people. I am a high school teacher and my life is surrounded by their flamboyance, energy, and emotion. Most people go to work and their co-workers are all adults. I go to work and, other than meetings and passing periods, rarely see my co-workers. Instead I spend my days amongst the mood-swinging, awkward, falsified-confidence of adolescents. I cannot help but smile and approach it all with care and a good sense of humor. I cannot help but talk about "My Kids" when the topic comes up. They are enjoyable and entertaining and sometimes infuriating and frustrating. And on days they really annoy me I remember that my life could resemble The Office. Adolescents bring me joy and allow me the chance to nurture and share my love of language.

That Bling Thing

Hello. My name is "The Rookie." And I am an accesoriholic.

I used to own only one pair of earrings. One. They were simple and small wooden studs I picked up on a vacation in Oregon. I wore them with everything because my theory was that wood went with every kind of home decor--it could certainly go with my tevas/jeans/free-t-shirts-clad college wardrobe. So I went through every event in life wearing the same pair of earrings.

I don't know who introduced me to the miracle that is jewelry. Perhaps it was when my parents got the big screen tv and cable--What Not to Wear episodes still follow me into the dressing rooms of major department stores. Perhaps it was growing up and knowing that "professionalism" included my wardrobe. Perhaps it was realizing that no matter how my pant size fluctuates, my earrings always fit. Perhaps it is that deep down inside of me I have a weakness for shiny, bright things. All I know is that the words "moderation" and "jewelry" do not belong in the same sentence together. (Yes--that is a close-up of my "necklace rack" you see in the photo above).

I love chunky necklaces. I seek sleek necklaces. I adore dangles. I hope for hoops. I need beads: black, white, crimson, cobalt, lime. I search for silver. I love gold, bronze, copper...I think you get the point. But my favorite type of "hoop-lace-dangle-bead-shiny" is "hoop-lace-dangle-bead-shiny" on clearance.

So, here is to all those small, spinning racks in the department stores of our world. Here is to making an ensemble complete. Here, ladies and gentlemen, is to jewelry.

Oh, and about that one pair of wooden earrings. Well, two became one during a seemingly typical day on the job at the lumber mill during college (another story in and of itself). The left (or was it the right?) earring it fell out one day...and we all know that "needle in the haystack" cliche. I finally parted ways with the single earring a couple of months ago.



What about you? What are you simply obsessed with? Do you prefer to bedazzle your wardrobe or simplify it sans-accessories?

Spilled Popcorn

The thing about movie trailers: they're cunning and deceitful. And I am a sucker for a good movie trailer. If a movie trailer does its job right, I wish I were watching the movie behind the trailer instead of the one I just paid for. I usually nudge Alice in the ribs and tell her "We're going to go see that." She usually agrees.

So we wait a few weeks. The preview inevitably pops up on commercials or the internet again and again. By opening weekend, we are both really pumped to see the show and, hey, we have no plans for the night. A movie would be the perfect anecdote after a long work week. So we go. Popcorn in hand. Our little hearts expectant for a few hours of escapism. A while later we sulk out of the theater, disappointed. Disappointed about the mediocre hour and a half we've spent. Maybe we should have hit Barnes & Noble or Target for a while and looked at books or sweaters or something, afterall. We are disappointed about the mediocre eight bucks we've spent. We could have put that money in savings or sent it off to Darfur or AIDS research or the Perpetual Education Fund. We leave the theater with an empty sense of deflation.

And yet we keep going back. Because every once in a while the movie machine comes through for us and gives us something other than a complete dud. And, when it does throw us a complete bomber, we have to remember that there's no use crying over spilled popcorn.

Tonight Alice (the roomie) and I went to a sneak preview of Dan in Real Life, a movie we've been looking forward to for quite some time. This preview didn't set us up for disappointment. We laughed. We gasped. We were fully entertained. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night with your best friend. Why can't all movies come through for me like this one?



What about you? What's a good flick you've seen lately? Which movies do you love? Which movies do you hate? Which movies surprised you--good and bad? Which movies are out lately that I should avoid? Not miss?

Fattitude

F-A-T. Since when have these three little letters become the other f-word? Chubby. Heavy Set. The Big One. Shamu. Call it what you like, fat is feared. And I am a fat girl. I confess. I can admit this not because denying it would be a lie nobody believes, but because it is a part of my life experience. I know it is not who I am. It does not define me. It does not stop me. It does not cause me to loathe my body or refuse myself ice cream. It is a fact. But I'm also a sister and I snort sometimes when I laugh. I'm a teacher and my hair is naturally curly. And I'm an alto and a friend and a hiking enthusiast and a writer. Not to mention that I'm religious and a size 8 shoe.

And I keep wondering why being fat is always the first focus. And why is it such a big damn deal? Are health issues a concern? Absolutely. But is every fat person in poor health?

This is what I've noticed as a fat person: assumption is instinctual. I've been told "You really don't eat that much" and that "Your energy level surprises me!" I've heard it mentioned that I hide my weight well. I've been 'comforted' with "at least your face is pretty." I've been the target of not-so-subtle hints. I've been teased. I've been rejected. And why? Because I shop in the fat girl section at all major department stores (hate to tell you, folks, but that whole "Plus Size" euphemism ain't foolin' nobody). Because it is instinctual in humans to poo-poo the uncommon or unique. Because we write children's books that say people come in all shapes, colors and sizes; but we spend the rest of the time pointing out the differences between those shapes, colors and sizes and creating a hierarchy of which color is best, which shape is most desired, and which size is acceptable. And if you don't fit that mold, people make assumptions.

And fat is cream-filled with negative assumptions. Especially for women. The check-out aisle is lined with Snickers and M&M's on one side, and 12 glossy magazines guaranteeing the secret to kicking those last 15 pounds and the other 6 promise five simple steps to flat abs. And chocolate never made anybody feel worthless. Women are under pressure to be thin. Period. The message is not embracing and we all know it.

If your body/hair/nails/skin/makeup/clothes/shoes/accessories/teeth do not look like X, you are a failure and a disgrace to womanhood, you should attach yourself to a treadmill and eat nothing but 25 points a day for the rest of your life, or end your life hiding in your parent's basement ordering takeout and eventually Dr. Phil-Oprah-Tyra might rescue you. If you are fat, somewhere it is stressed that these are your only two options. There aren't any others. You shouldn't view yourself as sexy. You shouldn't teach aerobics. You shouldn't participate in swimming because your body, stretchmarks, and cellulite are best kept hidden. You shouldn't ever, ever, ever even think about thinking about eating chocolate. You shouldn't be an athlete. You shouldn't fall in love. You shouldn't try water skiing. You shouldn't have children. You shouldn't go into Public Relations. You shouldn't wear pumps. You shouldn't bake cookies. You shouldn't wear horizontal stripes. You shouldn't join a yoga class. You shouldn't get a massage. You shouldn't be an actress. You shouldn't be fat.

Being fat means that, if you listen to everybody else, you have boundaries and limitations and until you are no longer fat, you can't do anything fun. Because you're fat.

Nobody ever really looks at the up-side of being fat. Santa is fat. Babies are fat. Grandmas are fat. And all three of these love milk and/or cookies. So what is so scary about a 26-year-old fat woman? What is her crime against society? Why do some of you squirm in her presence? And why do you live in fear of getting soft around the edges?

Walt Whitman Was Here

Those of you who know me well know that poetry is my first love. It is one of those gifts of language that leaves me aware only of my breathing. A good poem is felt in that hollow space below the heart. It is a thing known the at the moment your mouth reads that last word. Call it instinct, call it grace--a good poem is felt, not thought.

I've decided to start a new segment on my blog: Walt Whitman Was Here. Each week I will post some of my old favorites and maybe some of the new poems I come across.

Enjoy this week's poem: "At Great Pond" by Mary Oliver.
Feel free to comment on your impressions, or simply soak it in.

At Great Pond
by Mary Oliver

At Great Pond
the sun, rising,
scrapes his orange breast
on the thick pines,
and down tumble
a few orange feathers into
the dark water.
On the far shore
a white bird is standing
like a white candle ---
or a man, in the distance,
in the clasp of some meditation ---
while all around me the lilies
are breaking open again
from the black cave
of the night.
Later, I will consider
what I have seen ---
what it could signify ---
what words of adoration I might
make of it, and to do this
I will go indoors to my desk ---
I will sit in my chair ---
I will look back
into the lost morning
in which I am moving, now,
like a swimmer,
so smoothly,
so peacefully,
I am almost the lily ---
almost the bird vanishing over the water
on its sleeves of night.