The Notebook

(not the movie "The Notebook," although it was just on Oxygen and I happened to catch a few minutes of it and it still always makes me cry. And, I saw a preview yesterday when I went to see "Sherlock Holmes" for "Dear John," which is another Nicholas Sparks movie that seems all weepy and epic. I'll probably have to go see it with Diddy because she'll want to see it and Brother will absolutely not want to see it. Did I mention Jude Law was a stud as Dr. Watson? I digress...)

So, my thesis advisor advised me to get a notebook to carry along with me at all times in case inspiration strikes. I take her advice quite seriously and so I began the hunt for a perfect notebook. I don't want just any old notebook - if I have to carry it around everywhere I go, I want it to be chic and stylish.

Needless to say, I tossed aside yellow, black and red Five Star notebooks, even though I already owned them and they were completely blank. I suppose I could have embellished them with stickers or a Bedazzler (if I had a Bedazzler), but that seemed like a lot of work. A lot more work than scouring the aisles at Target and Hallmark and World Market and Barnes and Noble for the perfect notebook. Target could offer cheap ones; of particular interest to me were "The Office" themed ones that featured Dwight and the rest of the clan, but I didn't really want to carry Dwight's mis-shapen head around with me everywhere. World Market's weren't big enough.

Finally, yesterday, I settled on a ridiculously expensive notebook at B&N. I justified it by saying I'm a B&N member, so it was 10% off, but still, it was way too expensive. (And don't ask, because I'm not going to tell you.) What I will say, though, is that it's a beautifully modern blue and green floral pattern and I am so excited to drop it in my purse (except I bet it won't fit, my purse is kinda small and the notebook is kinda big). Our first excursion? To the post office we go!

I'm sorry, what was that you said? I should stop the Glamour Shots photo shoot and just write in the notebook already? Yeah, I thought so. Fine, but just for the record, this was one of the hardest decisions I've had to make concerning my thesis so far. You have no idea what kind of pressure I'm under. Seriously.

New Year, New Blogging

(let's just say margaritas were involved)





I'm slowly recovering from the end of the fall semester and therefore have been slow to update the blog. Fortunately, now that environmental writing has passed (and I too passed!!), I can write about things other than nature. Not that I didn't love writing about nature, it's just that I love writing about other stuff more. Here's what I've been up to since last I blogged:

Christmas:

It was cold, snowy, there were presents and breakfast casseroles and jugs of wine and fierce Scrabble matches. There was Jude Law in "The Holiday" and "Fa ra ra ra ra, ra ra ra ra" in "The Christmas Story." There were tears and margaritas and laughter and snow and shoveling and tiramisu trifles.

Lili and Grammy Graham Cracker snuggling after opening his gifts on Christmas morning.


"I wasn't supposed to put meat in the trifle!" (one of my fave Friends episodes of all-time!)

Ruben, mom's new husband, didn't understand that we don't get dressed on Christmas. He came out to open presents dressed up. Luckily, Jamie bought him perfect Christmas day pajamas and after a quick change, he blended right in with his new family.

WOF-ing with Tess and Laura:

In a tradition that has all but fallen by the wayside, Tess, Laura and myself week-of-funned the crap out of the week after Christmas. In fact, so much fun was had that it took Laura an entire day to recover. I'm still not sure she remembers the Yacht Rock party and why she bought the sailor's hat.

"Love grows with the growing recognition of perpetual brokenness."

Elder writes, "We don't remember, and love, the past because it was painless and perfect." Next to this passage in my book, I wrote, "Dude, he's so right." (Now, I'm admitting here how full disclosure may make me seem like an idiot. I don't even know who the "dude" is to whom I am referring. I think I've watched The Big Lebowski a few too many times.)

Perfection is boring. Wait, let me rephrase that. Perfection when balancing a checkbook or examining a flawless spreadsheet at work can be fulfilling and gratifying. Perfection in the grander scope of life is boring. Had "Bess" and "Millie" not experienced those crazy travel shenanigans, they would have had nothing to say about their vacations except "The water was crystal clear" and "The weather was beautiful" and "The mai tais and/or pina coladas are really strong." Some of my best memories emerge from challenging, imperfect times. I don't remember the uneventful days; I remember the days that caught me off guard, that forced me to channel my inner resources and use them wisely. Elder is a wise man indeed.

Also, I just wanted to point out my favorite chapter, "The Ledges," about the fire that threatened the woods and Elder's town. We've all seen Grease and American Graffiti and The Lost Boys, we know these guys that Elder is talking about, the town troublemakers. However, I was so happy to see that these were the unlikely heroes in the tale, the ones who found a better use for their "courage, imagination, and playfulness than the dead-end jobs awaiting high school dropouts in a rural area, and to which they would be drifting soon enough. . ." These scowling, snarly 20-year-olds embraced the inherent danger in dangling off the cliffs, helping to distinguish the threatening fire. They came through in the end because, whether they want to admit it or not, they were townies who appreciated the community as much as their better-intentioned neighbors.

What Elder does well in his book is highlight the sense of community that exists in his town in Vermont. It's an area rich with history and steeped in tradition that he infiltrated with his family, an area that he now calls home. While he doesn't make me want to "read the mountains of my home," I do feel the need to explore a bit more, to open my eyes more.

On a related note, Dr. Smith asked in class if there was a poem that we would like to read and follow in the same vein that Elder followed Frosts' poem, "Directive." I searched my brain, sorting through the cobwebs, and seriously the only poem I could think of that I liked enough to dissect as thoroughly as Elder was "Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out," by Shel Silverstein. Stay tuned for dumpster diving updates, friends!

Yeah, about that vegetarian thing...

I'm back on the bacon. No beef yet, I still can't get the image of the cow conveyor belt and shocker out of my mind. But bacon was on sale and I'm nothing if not a thrifty shopper. Even as I write this I realize I'm behaving in the way "the man" wants me to behave. I buy what I can afford, ethics and humanity (animality?) be damned. Crap. I want to return the bacon, but that seems ridiculous (as ridiculous as Vladek returning an open box of cereal to the grocery store in Maus). I'll just turn on the TV while I eat, and hopefully I'll be done with breakfast before I realize what I've eaten.

Get Lost

The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,

-an excerpt from Robert Frost's "Directive"

Our final reading in class is a book in which a man explores the mountains of his home in Vermont by using Frost's poem "Directive" as a guide. In Reading the Mountains of Home, John Elder is taking a literal approach to the poem, which has him exploring the wooded mountains and the wildlife inhabiting the area. His perspective is unique and his knowledge of the area expands with every hike and every new discovery. Elder is on a journey to learn more about the land on which he lives, but his journey is also incredibly personal as he writes about the loss of his father and other struggles he is forced to deal with during the year in which he journals his journey.

The above excerpt from Frost's poem resonated with me for many different reasons. It's about a literal journey, but a metaphorical one, as well. This "guide" seems to have as his goal getting me to a destination, but also getting me to open my eyes to my surroundings on my journey. By getting lost, the things I may normally take for granted will be illuminated and I'll find the unexpected beauty and stories that lie beyond the path. Once you are literally lost, you must find your way.

Someone mentioned in class that people who move around a lot and struggle to name a place "home" are lost. I am one of those people. I can't seem to make up my mind about where I want to be, where I want to plant my roots. Perhaps it's because I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up (although I'm getting closer and closer and have narrowed it down to either teacher/writer or Ben & Jerry's flavor taster). But I think I'm on my way, working toward my destination, albeit not getting there in the most practical, the fastest way from Point A to Point B is a straight line, kind of way. I like meandering, taking my time, trying with varying degrees of success different jobs and cities and friends. I am thankful for the "guide" who has at heart my getting lost, as long as I eventually find my way. Even if I'm 72 and still navigating.

Let it (maybe) snow, let it (30% chance) wintry mix, let it sleet!

With the weatherman predicting snow (at the very least, a wintry mix [barring that, at the very very least, very very cold rain]), I began to reflect upon the evolution of snow in my life.

As a kid, snow was magical. The fact that these tiny flakes of precipitation held the power to delay school for two hours, or, if we were lucky, cancel it altogether, was magical. We relished every opportunity to sled in our hill-less backyard, build short, lopsided snowmen, and throw poorly-packed snowballs at the rowdy neighbor boys. I loved coming inside after playing in the wet stuff, my mittens hardened by the snow to the point where they were no longer flexible, my cheeks numb and bright pink, the tingling in my toes and my soggy pants that had somehow gotten wet even underneath my purple snowsuit. We laid our wet clothes over the vents in the kitchen while mom made hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. We curled up next to the fireplace to warm our hands, a fireplace that would provide the only heat and light when the power went out during a particularly bad storm in junior high.

(Dad and my big sister, early 80's)

The same snow that once could do no wrong in my eyes became an enemy when I was 16 and drove a tiny Honda Civic. The snow that could do no wrong made it impossible for my tiny car to enter my driveway after the plows had cleared our street. I had to rely on the kindness of strangers to help push me into the driveway. This snow also made the trips to and from college dangerous in the winter. The treacherous conditions forced me to pull over in the middle-of-nowhere Iowa one night in January, when I was returning to Des Moines after Christmas break. I spent the night in a hotel, alone and 19, with the doors locked. I had seen one (or a dozen) too many scary movies to know that no one is safe in a hotel alone in the middle of nowhere. Snow and I were on the verge of a break-up after I changed a flat tire on my Accord in below freezing temperatures i a particularly blistery and snowy Des Moines winter. The snow had begun to lose its magic as I grew older and it inhibited my daily life. It wreaked havoc at the airport and after a 15-hour delay at Midway (and $90 later to keep myself occupied with magazines, drinks, food, more drinks...) I was done with snow. I made up my mind to move south.

Now, after having spent a year and a half in Nashville, I miss snow. The grass is always greener, right? I obsess over the weather reports at home and all the other places I live, secretly jealous that there's snow falling everywhere but where I currently reside. But I know, deep down, that once I return north, I'll hate every morning I have to scrape my car and worry about black ice and falling icicles in the city.

Here's to hoping Dan Thomas is right and there's snow later this week! (I can hope for the best of both worlds, right?)

Frosty

I was so not pleased at having to scrape the ice off my windshield at 5:30 this morning. But I went to work, and two hours later I was hauling the girls I nanny for out the door to get to school. When we emerged from the toasty house, a rush of cold air hit our faces and I bundled little Willow tighter, hoping to protect her sweet, chubby cheeks from the blustery breeze. Jewell, who is kindergarten, screamed in excitement, "This is the best day of my life!"

Ugh, seriously? "Look at the snow, Mallory! Just look at it! It's beautiful! This is the best day ever!" She then proceeded to twirl around in the frost-covered grass, arms spread wide, smile plastered across her face, eyes to the heavens, searching for more "snowflakes."

I couldn't help but smile, but then I had to herd her into the car so we wouldn't be late for school. She asked if we could build snowmen after school, and I had to gently explain to her that this wasn't snow. It was frost and it would melt by lunchtime. She cried, an overly dramatic cry, straight out of a Lifetime movie. I tried to explain to her the difference between frost and snow, why it would melt (I really thought my ice cube analogy was gold, but she didn't buy it), but the crying continued until we pulled into the drop-off line at school. She grumbled something about how her life was ruined and I sent her on her way, hoping her teacher could better explain this weather phenomenon to her.

This incident got me thinking about our first night of class when we discussed the imagination of children and how we are, as a society, slowly eliminating the wildness from our kids. She wanted desperately to play in the "snow" and I crushed her spirit. Should I have lied to her? Should I have allowed her to make a "snow" angel and dropped her off late to school? I struggled with my responsibility to her, and ultimately think I made the best decision. Certainly she'll forget about it, but I won't. Hopefully it will snow enough one day down here and I can help her build a proper snowman. That will truly be the best day of her life.