On hearing of the untimely death of a colleague on Valentine's Day; or, losing love

Last night, over drinks I learned a former colleague of mine had died on Valentine's Day. My heart just ached for his widow; it is always hard to lose someone, but to lose someone on a day that celebrates love, that seems impossibly cruel. He kissed her goodbye and headed out for a pre-dawn hike, promising to make it home for an early Valentine's brunch, instead, out walking alone, he had a heart attack on the hiking trail and he never made it home. She knew something was wrong when he missed brunch, because he had never been a man to keep her waiting. 

She is just as heartbroken as you would imagine she should be. I am not sure how you recover from that. As, my friends and I were talking about how you recover from such a loss, I thought about a boy I hadn't thought of for years. 

The first boy I ever kissed was killed in a motorcycle accident before he was old enough to be considered a man. I was 12 when we kissed and 15 when he died. He a mere year and a half older. Twelve seems too young for kissing, and 15 far too young for mourning. But, at twelve my body was older than I was, with new breasts and a budding sexuality that was too new for me to know how to control it. Even at that early age it was obvious that childhood was in my rearview mirror. 

Then, I had little knowledge of the fragility of hearts, and I knew even less about the danger of getting soaked by rain, and nothing of the unavoidable connection between hearts and pain. Innocence and ignorance are the alibis of children, but even now, all these years later, with a thorough knowledge of kissing in the rain, and after living in this body for nearly three more decades, I may still be too young to understand how to mourn. 

I do not remember everything from the day of that kiss, but I do know that it was raining, and I was wet. There is something about the rain, it is a siren song for sensuality. I have not ever been able to resist the seduction of the rain. Perhaps, it is because of this first rainy day so long ago. At my junior high, on rainy days, when it was impossible to play outside, my school offered alternate indoor activities for recesses. There was an inherently awkward dance in the gym, several classrooms with board games, and of course, there was always a darkened classroom showing movies. Without meaning to they were enacting an allegory of love, or at least lust: dances, games, and darkness.

My ultra conservative christian, but well-meaning, parents did not allow me to attend dances: those thrown together at the last minute because of the rain, or those organized by well-meaning adults hoping to usher us (well-chaperoned) into the world of grown up romance. The dances being forbidden, I usually found other things to do. If my parents knew what would happen that day, they'd probably have let me dance.

On that rainy day, he and I were running from classroom to classroom sampling each activity in a restless swirl of unnamed energy. There was no reason to be outside exposed to the rain. The way to and fro was sheltered; there were enough hallways, awnings, and coverings so that a careful child could navigate the sea of classrooms without feeling a drop. But, we chose to walk in the rain without care. But we were not interested in careful, not that day, we alternated between childhood and something older, at times running and recklessly splashing, and then strolling staid and controlled hand-in-hand, exchanging coy glances. 

When we ducked into the darkened classroom showing a movie about wolves and he led me to a sheltered seat in the back of the room, I did not know of his intention. In the flickering darkness, his childish caresses felt more grown up than I was. Now, I know that the difference of 12 and 13 and half in the world of sexual awakening is vast. But then, all I really knew was that all my previous experience with sham "truth or dared" kisses exchanged during pre-adolescent games were but counterfeit kisses, a chaste pressing of lips that was simply a game played by a girl in her mother's shoes. In that classroom, wet from the rain, we kissed with a passion beyond our years. Tapping into something ancient and primal. Our hearts pounding from the danger of being caught, from each other's clumsy touches, and something more.  After that day in the rain, everything was different, I was different.

Years later, on a day too sunny to make death seem real, when I heard that he had died, I felt a sadness that I could not begin to understand. I remember thinking even then, that it should be raining, even if only so that I could have something to blame for my tears. By then, it had been over a year since he had moved away. I had heard whispers of rumors about his becoming a bit of troubled kid, drugs, petty theft and maybe more, enough that I was even grateful that he had moved away, so that I did not have to see his decline. I didn't know enough then, I don't know enough now, and I don't that I will ever know how to feel about this loss, but I do know that I have always felt like I lost something important. 

         

Drowning; or, when farewells are actually goodbye

It was while walking home, running our conversation over in my mind, yet again that I felt my heart break. It was a slow realization as your words washed over me. There was something I could not put my finger on. Something off about your goodbye. I replayed it, like a child who cannot stop thrusting her tongue into the socket of a newly lost tooth: surprised the tooth is gone, fascinated by the empty socket, and secretly enjoying the little stab of pain. As I walked, the day grew darker and darker and it began to rain. I stared up into the gray sky and let the light rain sprinkle onto my face.  I was pleased by the sudden darkening sky and the deluge of winter rains in the middle of what had been a string of lovely days.  I always like it when the weather matches how I feel; this rain made me feel that I was not alone. Even though, I knew that I had never been more so.

I once watched a PBS documentary about rain in which they cataloged the types of rain. I don't remember any names, or even if they had them, but I remember they ranked the types of rain according to their "levels of danger" and their "ability for destruction." They had a graph to measure these things. It was a quantification of destruction from water. It struck me as odd. The narrator, I think it may have been Tim Robbins, said that when you think of destruction your first instinct is to think of the hard pounding rains, the kind with huge drops, that comes in too hard, too black, and too dark, quickly soaking everything, tearing fragile flowers and leaves in a fury. He said that you might think that sort of rain is the most dangerous kind: But you would be wrong. That rain kicks up a fuss but passes quickly and only tears up the ground a bit. It makes a big impression, but aside from some stirred up dirt and crushed flowers it doesn't do much damage, it is the proverbial loud bark with very little bite.

Oh no, the narrator said, the kind of rain that kills you is the steady mist. Deceptive small drops that just keep coming. The kind of rain that lulls you into thinking that you do not need an umbrella or windshield wipers. The kind that makes you think that it is going to stop any second now, and yet never does. The misty rain that comes and comes until it has slowly soaked everything through. It does not feel dangerous. These misty drops. There is no reason to protect yourself or to seek shelter; but, without knowing or realizing it, is has seeped inside you, into your cracks and nooks destroying you from the inside. This rain lasts for far too long, leaving everything damp and moldy. Filling and soaking until finally it cracks the ground, roads, sidewalks, and people. It is this rain that fills the ground until it cannot hold one more drop, not one more, and then finally we look around surprised as the water rises and backs up and seeps from an overly saturated earth to overfill us; the world a flood of puddles, streams, rivers-- water surfeiting the earth, until dams cannot hold, and the water surges to the surface drowning everything in its path.

It was precisely this kind of rain that fell as I walked home. As I walked, I thought about the danger of a light rain and of other things. The most dangerous kind of rain settled softly on my hair slowly soaking through to my scalp and running slightly down into my damp face drowning any tears before I could know they were there. A murder of crows flew overhead; their dark forms momentarily blocking out the gray and shielding me from the rain. I stopped and let them fly over me as I stood still listening to the dark flapping of their collective wings like the sound of the shuffling of a deck of cards, a roulette wheel, the disordered hands of time. After the initial flock had passed over me and I could again see the sky, I stood still my heart pounding in rhythm with their wings, watching the few stragglers flying after, trickling in groups of five, and then three, and then alone. 

Crows are omens of bad luck: Julius Caesar, Cassandra, and so on, beware the Ides of March, Wallace Stevens... oh, but his are blackbirds and I don't remember if they have the same literary symbolic value as crows. I know that it is crows that are harbingers, prescient warnings of destruction, of Death.  And these, above me, were crows. I found the literary symbolism of the startling of crows on a day dark enough to match my mood while walking in the world's most dangerous rain to be a bit much.  But I am trained to make metaphors of everything, and so it was, that I stood there thinking of Wallace Stevens and equipage with a small smile. Still able to revel in the literary setting even as I felt my heart dying in my chest. Even as I knew these signs were for me. I watched the last of them go, staring until they were black specks, and finally nothing, until even the sounds of the last wing's flap was finally absorbed into the grayness of day and the rain, my mind was filled with images of portent and omens, and I remembered the way your farewell sounded like a goodbye, and your suddenly awkward wave, and the way your back looked as you walked away and I turned to run after you. I ran for about a hundred steps and then stopped. Gasping to breathe, to catch hold of my breath, anything, and finding only air, I thought, oh it's too late, it was always too late.

It's a Nerd World; or, Leaving the Door Open

Last night, or maybe yesterday afternoon, I was talking with a friend of mine and as is so often the case these days I was talking about Doctor Who and how I have noticed that it is a "Nerd's World" right now. I confessed that I had once written an essay called "I Hate Space" and then I had to find it, because well, memory is my thing. I had a bit of an existential crises last year when I fell so hard for Doctor Who. I had always placed what I called "Space Fiction" (not its real name, sorry) Science Fiction and Fantasy in a "yeah, not for me" pile. For the most part, it was true. I genuinely did not enjoy my forays into those genres. I remember half-jokingly saying that I don't even know who I am anymore. But people change. I can't say that now I am ready to join a colony on Nerd World, but for once I have left the door open a bit. Anyway, I found the essay and reprinted it below.

I hate space (3 possible reasons why)

I am not all that into space, I'm not really impressed by stargazing, eclipses, or the idea of moon landings, and colonizing Mars.  I hate Star Wars, Star Trek (TNG or otherwise), Space Camp, Shuttle launches, comets, black holes, and rockets; I even hate those little glow-in-the-dark planet/star ceiling decals.  Until I recently found out that if we didn't have a space program there wouldn't be any satellites and I wouldn't be able to watch the Yankees on TV, I was against NASA.  However, I am sad to report, this is a minority opinion. Most people actually think space is cool... okay, I don't get it.  Perhaps, these childhood rememberings of space may help to explain why. 

The space shuttle Challenger exploded on live television.  Like many American school children I was watching, in a classroom. Because Challenger had schoolteacher Christa MCauliffe on board, the first space shuttle disaster hit a lot of teachers hard. It hit my teacher, Mr. Schroeder, right in the gut.  Mr. Schroeder had applied for the opportunity to be in MCauliffe’s unfortunate shoes that day. In fact, he had made it pretty far along in the process and had even had a phone interview by a NASA official.  So, not only was my class completely shocked by what we had just seen, but then we also watched our teacher face his own mortality, and frankly, kind of lose it. I was far too young to grasp what had happened...and that day was not the first time I saw a grown man cry, but it was one of the most awkward. Let's just say that the principal taught our class for the rest of the day. 

In my elementary school, like most elementary schools, there were THOSE guys. You know the ones that were hopelessly dorky, knew everything about science and technology, wore glasses, and had gigantic crushes on Princess Leia. In my hometown, those two boys were James Turk and Jimmy McConnell. I am not completely sure that Jimmy was not the inspiration for Napoleon Dynamite, because he looked and talked just like him. So, nothing against Napoleon, but Jimmy was not my type. James, on the other hand was kinda hot.  Nerd hot, but still: hot.  One day, I had just come from one of those peer-counseling-togetherness-propaganda meetings about being nice to everyone, when my secret and oh-so-shameful attraction to James prompted me to extend myself and I offered to hang out with them. In the middle of the elementary school was a ring of tires suspended by chains attached to cement pylons.  I am not sure what the main idea of this contraption was supposed to be, but to space dorks like Jimmy and James, it became a spaceship. They played there everyday for 9 years Kindergarten through the 8th grade. So, on this day, full of democratic kindness, I sauntered over and asked them if I could play. After a very awkward pause, Jimmy says, "yeah."  I can still see that gleam in his eye as he told me that I could play "Princess Gwan." A character that I imagine that up until that moment had only been a fantasy, and that, now, to this day, in his mind she looks like me at 12. Now, I imagine that Jimmy is still a major dork, but that he has tons of money earned in the dot.com days, but that sometimes, late at night, he still jacks off to that image of his Princess Gwan. Anyway, for my part in this game, I had to stand next to the cement pole and act like I was tied up. J & J put me in a position that basically had me standing spreadeagled, with my chest jutting out, while I writhed around a bit, and, of course, every once in a while they would prompt me to cry out in distress. All the while, they flew their ship around through dangerous meteorites and other space dangers. It was so boring I thought I would shoot myself in the face. It was the first time in all my days of recesses that I couldn't wait for the bell to ring and send me back to my classroom. Jimmy and James talked space commander gibberish and mimed different space commander actions all the while ogling my junior high rack. Worst recess ever. Every day for the next two months Jimmy would send James over to ask me if I wanted to play again, but I politely declined, and said, "I needed to play basketball, ‘cause season was starting soon, and my jump shot was really rusty."

Like many children, I watched Star Wars as a child. My brother and I watched together and neither of us was particularly enthralled. But then my Aunt Katherine (yes, I am named for her) sent us a lot of Star Wars toys.  There were light sabers (really just a flashlight with a yellow plastic tube attached), space ships, and action figures. She hadn't seen the movie and she didn't really understand the idea involved, so she sent us Luke Skywalker, Obi Wan Kenobi, and Darth Vader. My brother and I both had crushes on Han Solo, and of course, I wanted to be Princess Leia, so I was not pleased.  In the end, my brother, who was a bit of a jerk, (ask me sometime about "teddy bear boxing" and "Karate in the dark") decided that he wanted to be both Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.  So that left me to be Obi Wan. Now keep in mind, I was a CHILD. And Obi Wan was old, I mean he was played by Alec Guinness for god's sake; this was no Ewan McGregor Obi Wan. So, I played, but with very little gusto, and well, I had to LOSE all the time. I didn't watch Star Wars again until I was in my early 20s when I dated a guy who turned out to be a bit of a Star Wars fanatic, and NOT a baseball fan, as he led me to believe.  I still didn't like the film--turns out me at five and me at 22 shared similar tastes in film--and when I began to make fun of it Mystery Science 3000 style, we got into a nasty fight and actually broke up.

I can't say that any of that has anything to do with my instant visceral reaction to anything spacey, but, it might. Stranger things have been proven true

The Problem of Valentine's Day; or, love is kind, love is selfish, love is cruel, but lest we forget love is fun

Recently someone asked me I "liked Valentine's Day." To be honest, I had not really thought about that question. Not really. I know the problems with Valentine's Day and why this question exists, but my own answer was not one I had really considered. I am aware that it has a controversial reputation and that the answer to that question is often personal, temporal, and completely reliant on your relationship status. In love? It's a great day. Single? It's an unwelcome reminder. Brokenhearted? It's salt in raw wounds. I understand that, but, if Valentine's Day is about love then perhaps it can--should?--rise above our circumstances?  Love should be love. Romance, something else altogether, and V-Day should offer us a chance to be better, to love better, more broadly and deeply because  it is the people that matter, not the day.

4th Grade
The day before Valentines Day we would make envelopes out of colored paper and decorate them with hearts, flowers, and tiny cupid's arrows. We would tape them to the the front of the desk and wait for them to be filled at the next day's V-Day class party. The next day kids would wander around the class stuffing their cards, candy, and notes into the envelopes. The pretty girls and the cool kids' envelopes would grow fatter and fuller, surfeiting with the tokens of adoration and almost bursting and overflowing. Other kids, the ones who were different, shy, poor, less socially adept, or considered unattractive would remain thin, a flat and empty reminder of the dearth of affection. It was a ritual of public social sorting, One year, there was a girl who didn't get any. She sat in her desk reading a book, pretending not to notice. I watched her furtively wipe away a couple of tears, and even though I was too young to really know why, I just ached for her on her behalf. The next year, I made her three cards and signed other people's names on them. Unfortunately, I know now that some people will always have more than they need, and for others love will be maddeningly precious.

High School
I really, really liked him. I was the daughter of the football coach, the sister of the school jock, and welcome at any cafeteria table. He was not. He was different, For whatever reason my family didn't like him. The only thing he did wrong, I think, was to be less tough, less cool, and less athletic than my family wanted him to be. But, I thought he was perfect. It started with stares in the hallway, and progressed to the exchange of romantic and sexually charged notes, to late night phone calls, and quick clumsy make-out sessions at lunch. When the fullback on the football team found out that Coaches' daughter was making out with a "loser" they took action. The bullying and threats begin and he was told in no uncertain terms that I was "off-limits." I was afraid enough of losing my status that I upheld the ban.  I told him that I didn't want to see him anymore and walked away. That Valentine's Day a dozen roses were delivered to me at my desk in my homeroom. There was only an unsigned note in very familiar handwriting that simply said, "There is no greater sin than turning your back on love." As I read the note, I felt a wave of guilt and remorse. But, I didn't even look at him. I told everyone I didn't know who they were from and just walked away without a second glance. I still wonder how things would have been different if I had been braver.

College
I remember that it was raining, and I remember that we got soaked. And I remember that we didn't care. We were dressed to go out and there were dinner reservations at the appropriate dark corner table of the perfect restaurant that served those drinks that I loved. We were walking downtown when we were just absolutely soaked in a torrential downpour. It was every cliche of every cheesy love story that has ever been told. And I was dizzy with it. We stopped in the rain and kissed in the middle of the sidewalk as the rain soaked our hair, our clothes. I remember licking droplets that turned to rivulets at his throat. We arrived at the restaurant completely soaked through, wet to our souls. We made it through the drinks and appetizers before he caught my eye and we got up and ran home to bed.

Grad School
I had the kind of broken heart that makes everything hurt. He had hollowed me out and taken everything. It was such a thorough killing that he had left me with barely a shell to curl up in. He was a vampire dressed in professor's clothes and he completely devoured me. My dad drove two hours to pick me up on Valentine's Day and take me to dinner. I was so distraught I was wearing old jeans and an unwashed sweater. He took me to dinner. It wasn't fancy, I think it was a burger place. He bought me a drink and handed me a card, some flowers, and a box of chocolates. I cried the whole time. He just kept telling me that I would get better, things would get better. Every Valentine's since then, my dad has given me a small box of chocolates. I don't have the heart to tell him that I don't like them, because I love them so much.

Today
There is a joy in meeting someone new. There is this contagion of possibility. Will this be a new friend? A new lover? Something permanent? Something just for today? The exchange of identities. the discovery of layer after layer of someone. It does not have to lead somewhere. It doesn't have to be anything. Because, sometimes it's just fun. Because, sometimes Valentine's Day is just fun, fun, fun.

An Open Letter to Didi Gregorious; or, Just Play

Dear Sir Didi Gregorius,

I hear you are going to be playing shortstop for the New York Yankees in 2015. Wow, that must be exciting. You probably know a little about the guy who played there before you. Derek Jeter was pretty beloved around here. I imagine that as you gear up for Spring Training a lot of people are going to give you advice for how to replace Jeter. Some of it will be good, some bad, some terrible; hopefully, you will know better than to worry about replacing Jeter and instead focus on being a good shortstop. Playing shortstop at Yankee Stadium is going to difficult enough without constantly worrying about What Would Jeter Do (WWJD). But, filtering through the noise can be a challenging task, so let me, as a long-time fan of The Jeter and The Yankees do my best to help you out.

Some people are going to tell you to "be like" Jeter. Jeter was the Captain and team leader. He was the one everyone turned to, so it would be nice to be that guy. But, this is not good advice. There was only one Jeter. He was able to be affable and yet aloof, charming yet distant, he was a master of seizing the moment, and the fans and teammates adored him. Those are all good things, and it would be easy to want to try to do that, too. But, you don't have to start practicing jump throws or fist pumps to play shortstop for the New York Yankees. You don't have to hit clutch homeruns or somehow be positioned exactly in the right place at the right time to save errant throws and playoff dreams. You don't even have to dive into the stands to catch foul balls, although personally, I do enjoy that kind of hustle. Instead focus on fielding the ball and making good clean throws to first. In the words of Jeter, "don't bounce it, they'll boo ya." It's simple, play hard, play well. And if you want to date super models and Miss Universes, well that's a personal decision, but certainly not a job requirement.

There will be some who will tell you that the shoes you are stepping into are too big and that you need to grow larger feet. You need to be bigger and better than you are in order to compete with the still warm ghost of the oh-so recently retired icon. But, really, that is unfair. The only shoes you need are your own, and from what I hear your shoes are actually pretty cool ones. That you are an artist, and a Knight, and a shortstop with a pretty good glove and a lot of potential. So, when you step out onto Yankee Stadium to stand in the space where Jeter once stood, remember the fans said goodby to Jeter (a number of times, actually), and Jeter said goodbye to us. He even said goodbye to the ground where your own Sir Didi Gregorius-sized shoes will stand. So, get out there and be you. Be hard working. Be diligent and strong. Be better than Brendan Ryan and Stephen Drew, but, most of all be as good as you can be.

Sincerely,

A Yankee Fan

What advice would you give Didi Gregorius? What advice would you tell him to listen to? Or to ignore?

Take Me Out to the Ballgame; or, because baseball is fun, dammit

A couple of years ago, I was talking to a friend about baseball and he was talking about how he stopped watching because his team wasn't very good. I said, "I'd rather watch the Yankees lose, than not watch them at all." To which he said that I must be a pretty big Yankees' fan. And yes, that is true; but more than that I am a baseball fan. It is a great, great game and it is fun. Fun to watch: win or lose. There is something inherently fun about the challenge of baseball. It is, no matter what else it can become, a game. And the fun is in the playing.

I was reminded of that conversation yesterday, as I watched my beloved New York Yankees lose yet another game. My Yankees are mired in a bit of a slump. Coming off of a mediocre year in which they missed the playoffs for only the second time in 20 years they are hovering at .500 which means that they are losing as often as they win. As a team, the play is anything but sparkling, they are making errors (actual, and mental), their relief pitching is giving away runs, and their bats seem to have nothing but holes in them. And the toughest to take is that my hero, the iconic Derek Jeter--who is playing in his final year (SOB)--is batting .260 and well, just isn't the player he used to be, most of the time. It can be a little painful to watch.

Now, before, I sound like a spoiled Yankees' fan with no ability to reflect on my own experiences, I know, the Yankees don't lose a lot of games. I know that as a fan I have little to complain about. Historically, I am a fan of the most successful team in MLB history with a record 27 World Series championships, the latest one in 2010. In the last 20 years the Yankees have only missed the playoffs twice (in 2006 and last year in 2013). Even, right now, when they are playing terrible, they are still a play-off contender. Some would say this makes me spoiled, and maybe it does, but I would say that it makes me unaccustomed to dealing with mediocrity. So, watching them lose is, well, not a common thing. I know that for other fans of other teams this discussion may feel like salt in a wound. Oh poor Yankees haven't won a World Series in 4 whole years... and they would be right. Oh poor Yankees are still in the playoff hunt. Oh poor Yankees with all their all-stars. But. But. If you are used to success then any failure is that much harder to deal with.

As I write this, I am watching the Yankees play the Kansas City Royals. Literally, just seconds ago the Yankees had the bases loaded with two outs and Derek Jeter was batting. I stopped writing to watch. I found myself holding my breath and praying--perhaps a bit more fervently than I am comfortable with--to the baseball gods that MY Derek Jeter--the iconic Jeter. The lifetime .316 Jeter. The one who is guaranteed admittance into the hall of fame. The one who is number 8 all-time in hits. Captain Clutch with a flair for the dramatic.--would make an appearance. I held my breath hoping... but, no. Instead, in a moment reminiscent of Mighty Casey, he struck out.  And it is painful. It actually physically hurt a little. (There may have been something in my eye for a second). That. That is new for me. So. Would I rather watch that, than nothing?

Yesterday the Dodgers lost, too. I have some family members who are fans of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Right now they are miserable. Their dreaded rivals the San Francisco Giants have won two World Series Championships in the past four years and they are currently the best team in baseball. The Dodgers. Well, they aren't. They are in second or third place and if the playoffs were today they would be a Wild Card team. Compared to some fan-bases another spoiled team. But, my brother does nothing but moan. He literally curses and bemoans these terrible, terrible Dodgers. Yesterday, after they lost in a walk-off the Colorado Rockies he said he had HAD it. He wasn't going to watch again until September.

My best friend is a Cubs fan. It is something that I have to acknowledge that I do not really understand. I don't have any idea what it is like to watch a baseball team that has not won a World Series in my entire life, in nearly three of my entire lifetimes combined. I can't conceive of what it like to watch a team that is mathematically eliminated from the playoffs for whole chunks of the baseball season. I can't even *get* it. But, what I do get is that it is painful for her. She sometimes can't watch. Doesn't watch. For a while, her husband wouldn't let her watch the Cubs pitch. He said his team couldn't lose when they were batting.

The thing is though, Jeter is up first in the next inning, and I will be watching. My brother will watch the Dodgers, today. My best friend will watch the Cubs (even when they pitch). We will all watch; because it's fun. Because, even when this game breaks our hearts, it is beautiful, and that is fun, dammit.

Waffling; or, Is it a food? Or a state of mind?

I kind of, sort of, follow a food blog called Food Riot on the facebook. They are a sister blog to another one I follow called Book Riot. Yesterday's post about what I am reading was because of a comment on a Book Riot post in which they referenced their "50 Book Challenge" (sorry, I tried to find a to link it, and couldn't, or well, didn't feel like trying that hard... maybe later). Anyway, it isn't books I want to talk about today, it's food. Specifically, waffles. Ish.

Food Riot ran a post about this new thing called "waffling." This is a thing. A thing where you make desserts (and I assume you could do savories as well) in your waffle iron. First, I have to say, I was not a fan of waffles for a long, long time. I prefer protein for breakfast rather than carbs, and if I had to make a carby breakfast, I'd rather make pancakes because there is, well, less fuss. All that equipment! I am not a kitchen gadget person. I love to cook, and until recently (when I found myself cooking for 6 people who do not like anything remotely foodie) I considered myself a little bit of gourmet. I changed my mind about waffles, and waffle makers when I found these whole grain waffles. They really are the best. Seriously. THE BEST. I eat them with cottage cheese and fruit and maybe a little jam, if I am spoiling myself. So, once I discovered the perfect waffle, I was much more open to the idea. And, I sort of *get* the waffle iron in a new way.

So, now that I have admitted that I have a distrust of kitchen gadgets, and that I have only recently gotten past my general distrust of the waffle-maker as a tool I can admit that "waffling" fascinates me. The selling points seem to be that using the waffle maker is 1) faster and 2) creates nooks and crannies for toppings to hide in. That sounds pretty good to me. But. The major selling point seems to be the novelty. I once read an article about ways to make toast with your kitchen appliances that just seemed nutty. And in some ways, waffling feels similar. More like a need to be new and different than any desire to create delicious food.

There is touch of that ongoing history about the ways that each generation has needed to create a distance between themselves and the one that came before it in this idea of re-claiming kitchen gadgets. It is as if in the desire to be creative and inventive we have also become a bit, well, lazy. Waffling seems like an attempt to fulfill the desire we have of making something new, but without all that work. Hey, I know, let's take something that is already good, but boring, because, hey that's how YOUR mom makes food. Look at me! I am putting perfectly good recipes into a waffle maker! This isn't your grandma's cookies! Or, her waffles! It is this desire to be different that has served well America for centuries. It is what drove people to settle here, to invent, to push boundaries, to develop a history of ingenuity. But, I worry that there might be a better way to do this than to take a brownie mix, store-bought cookie-dough, or other pre-packaged food into a kitchen gadget. It seems, just a little bit, more like a cheap thrill, than a good idea.

What do you think? Ingenious idea? Or cutting corners?

Half-done; or, a mini-break half book reading list

I am getting a two-week mini-summer break this year. I start summer school on June 9th. I have a little bit of work to do before then, but for the most part I am footloose and fancy free for once. Normally, I cram as much travel as I can into these little breaks, but this year I am taking a couple of trips to New York that are sucking the money out of me, so I need to do some staycations. The good thing is that I will have some time to read.

I used to real a lot. All the time. All. Of. The. Time. Then came school and a degree in literature, and well, I actually read less than ever. Then Grad school, and I didn't read anything that wasn't assigned. And now, as a writing instructor I pretty much read only what I needed to to teach my classes. However, this year, I found myself in situations where I would have time to read a little. The trouble is that for the most part I would be at other people's house, or travelling when I would pick up a book and read it for a while, then I'd have to leave. This resulted in several half-done reading sessions. I have a handful of books to finish. So, my first foray in the "Reading Challenge" is to finish my half-started books.

1.  The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (currently pg 274 of 509)
I started reading this on May 19th. I was at a friend's house whose husband has the worst taste in television programs. I often find myself reading a lot at her house because I can only take so much terrible tv. In the past, I have usually just grabbed for one of the Harry Potter books and read it until it was time to go and then just put it back. Because I had read them all (more than twice) it didn't bother me if I left it unfinished. But, this time I saw a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and started that instead.

I had only gotten about 30 pages in, when it was time to head into the Bay Area for a professional development workshop. I grabbed the book, completely sure that I would not read another word. Well, it was my lucky day as I ended up on a lovely little campus called Valambrosia Retreat and there were no TVs or computers in the rooms. The only entertainment available to me was to play with a handful of tame bunnies who wandered the campus, or read. I left that retreat about half finished with my book.

2. The Fault in our Stars by John Green (currently 177 of 313). **FINISHED**
I started this book on April 12th. I was on vacation in New York with some friends. My friend had bought The Fault in Our Stars at the Strand Bookstore in Manhattan. I had no intention of reading anything on that trip. My primary purpose was to watch Derek Jeter play in his farewell season. Much to my dismay he didn't play. In any of the three games I had purchased tickets to. I had flown thousands of miles and spent 100's of dollars for nothing. As each game ended and Jeter still hadn't played I was being incredibly brave. Then the final game was rained out. I needed a release and I picked the the incredibly sad and tragic John Green novel. I only read half, but the story of teens battling terminal cancer gave me the emotional outlet I needed and allowed me to put my relatively minor disappointment into perspective.

3. Beautiful Chaos by Gary Russell (currently 79 of 242 okay not quite half) **Finished**
April 30. This is a Doctor Who book. I bought it for my niece, but it seems a little old for her. I was reading it to make sure it was appropriate for her, and I got a halfway and realized that I was finishing it for myself. I don't think my niece will read it, at least not for a year or two. But. I started it, so I will finish it.

4. Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare (currently Act II) **Finish-ed**
April 22. Another one begun for my niece. She and I started reading this play together. We made it through one act before we were both distracted by other things. So, this one will be the hardest finish as I am literally reading this aloud with an 11 year old. But, we'll give it a shot!

5.  The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje (currently pg.117 of 265).
March 18. I was on a field trip to Ashland, Oregon chaperoning a high school drama trip with my best friend when I go sick. I was not able to leave my room for two days. So, I bought this book. Again, I got through about half before I went home. Once there I got even sicker (maybe the sickest ever) and I didn't pick the book up again.

On Weariness; or, Running on Empty is Still Running.

Oh today. I am two kinds of tired. Shallow and deep. Global and local. Literal and metaphorical. I am weary and worn. I am hollowed out and running on nothing. In these bleary moments where caffeine masquerades as clarity, I feel my skin tighten and it is as if something inside is pulling at me. Pushing me to do crazy things. Things that my rested brain keeps me from doing. I want to make big decisions. I want to DO things. Something. Something big and grand and terrifying. I want to take huge leaps and fall off of edges. It is almost as if I am at my most honest when I am too tired to pretend. I get loopy when I am tired. And loopy is when I am just crazy enough to jump.

But, sometimes, I am too tired to run wild and instead I have another cup of coffee to wake up just enough to be safe. Or,  distract myself with breads and circuses, or cocoon myself in sleep until I can trust myself to behave; You know, just keep calm and carry on.  But, even while napping, sometimes, I remember, dream of, braver days when I couldn't be so easily quieted. When I did recklessly leap and run and try. Now, I worry that I am too tired to be that rash again. That this time the weariness is heavier, deeper, that it has housed itself in my bones. A cancer eating my hopes and leaving me marrowless and brittle. How many rash chances do I have left in me? How many gates can I crash through and still not break? 

I hope the answer is all of them. I hope I am just weary enough to try, but not so tired that I sleep.

Doctor Who as Catharsis; or, It's the FEELS dammit

I haven't written about Doctor Who for a couple of months. Not because I haven't been watching it, and especially not because I haven't been thinking about it. I am at the end of Series 6. I might even be officially done with S6; I am not sure where the Christmas episodes fit in. The difference between where I am now, and where I was last time I wrote a blog about the good Doctor is that I have seen all the reboot Doctors. I have one more series to be caught up, but until Peter Capaldi makes his debut later this year, I am, at least for the minute up to date (sort of). So, a return to the question of "Who's your Doctor?"

For some, I guess, this answer is easy. I have heard, and read, accounts of fans knowing immediately with whom their loyalties lie. All I know is that, for me, it isn't Matt Smith. At the beginning I would have laid the blame on him for being too young, too silly, too frantic, too slick...just too much. Then I blamed the writers for not writing stories that allowed Smith access to my favorite aspect of the Doctor, the fact that he is just "Sorry, so, so sorry." But, now, I am pretty sure it isn't Matt Smith, it's me.

Doctor Who is at its best, for me, when it is sad. Not just sad, but those heart-wrenching, kleenex moments, when I want to cry out loud; I am happiest with DW when I am hiccoughing through my tears. It is catharsis to engage in a little harmless sobbing. Matt Smith, so far, hasn't really stood a chance with me. I think that accepting what I love about Eccleston and Tennant is an undercurrent of painful loss that makes them just imbued with buckets and buckets of pathos. And, as I have said well, apparently, I like to be sad. I do like humor, and as I have said, I wouldn't like Doctor Who if it isn't funny. But, I like my jokes as foils to darkness. Laughter through tears? Yes. Laughter because it is a relief to laugh after crying? Yes. Pure comedy doesn't work as well for me.

So much of what appeals to me about Doctor Who is the underpinning of the trope of loss. Everyone is so broken and I suppose in what is prolly a little too revealing of a statement, I like that. I like crying when Rose and Ten get separated. I refuse to imagine Rose happy with her fake Doctor. I see her as having been tricked into settling--a trick that you cannot convince me that she will never be appeased by. I refuse to think that even memory loss can allow Donna peace. It is clear that even the *blessing* of ignorance will never allow her bliss. And don't even get me started on Rory, that poor guy. He guarded Amy for 1000 years, and he still has to wonder if she loves the Doctor more...Anyway, the major appeal for me is that no matter how much Nine and Ten joke or smile, at the end of the day I can see that they are haunted. I can see their ghosts, and I like that.

It is only as I see these later Eleventh Doctor episodes that I am beginning to see his ghosts, and it makes sense that I am beginning to like him more.So, unless S7 is just one big Eleventh Doctor cryfest is seems that I am still back to choosing between Nine or Ten. Well, I'm still not sure. I liked Ecceleston before the DW because of his amazing Jude in the film version of Jude the Obscure. Just watch that movie without crying I dare you. I came into this show already predisposed to Christopher Eccleston's 9th Doctor. He is broken, rough, and drowning in pathos.

Even as sure as I was that Eccleston was the one for me, it didn't take long for me to fall for David Tennant's 10th Doctor hook, line, and sinker (come on, "I don't want to go" and that music from Bad Wolf Bay? I can cry right now thinking about it). As much as I like Ten,  if I am honest, I prolly like the character of "David Tennant" better than the Doctor. (Come on David Tennant, you know we'd so be friends!) I am to the point where I can't choose between Nine and Ten.

As I am on the cusp of Series 7, I know enough (spoilers) to know that the Doctor will lose Amy. And, knowing he is going to be broken again, I like him more already. With this perspective in mind, I have begun to see Eleven as being a Doctor who is frenetically (and futilely) trying to outrun his losses. Joking and running to forget his past; and with that view, I like him better. Does this make me cruel? A sadist? Maybe, but I do know the more the show makes me cry, the more I like it.

Who knows, maybe Peter Capaldi's 12th Doctor will be the saddest of all, and settle this whole debate for me.

Favorite Ninth Doctor episode: "Father's Day"
Favorite Tenth Doctor episode: "The Satan Pit" ("Doomsday" is right there)
Favorite Eleventh Doctor episode: "The Girl Who Waited"

What is your favorite episode from each of the *new* Doctors? Are you a Nine? Ten? Eleven? Or something else?

Word by Word; or A Travel Memoir

London: Shoes.

Being a mostly country girl, I was not prepared for the unyielding firmness of days spent walking the pavement of a real international city. Sure, this was not my first sidewalk, but I was shockingly unprepared for the daily pounding my feet received from walking the miles demanded by a life in London. Within weeks, foot pain was a reality. Feeling like a character in a film about overworked labor class waitresses and construction workers, I would kick off my shoes at the end of the day and rub my tired feet. I was far too young for pain like that. The shoes I had been wearing that had seemed more than comfortable when I had bought them and broke them in by wearing them for my life in Chico CA were woefully unable to bear the brunt of my 5-10 mile pavement pounding escapades through the streets of London. Finally, on a day when even my morning dose of ibuprofen could not assuage the pain in my feet, I caved in and bought a pair of fancy trainers that were by far and away the most expensive clothing purchase I had ever made. I remember putting on shoes that cost more than I could imagine spending and feeling like I was wearing clouds. It is 11 years later, and I still have those brown leather Timberland trainers. When I stepped  out onto the London sidewalk, in my new shoes, I felt like a Londoner. They are well-worn now, but still, when I travel and I know I am going to be walking a lot, those are the shoes I reach for.

Lake Havasu: Mustard.

MTV Spring Break was filmed in Lake Havasu, Arizona in spring of 1995. It was a fleshfest of twenty-somethings partying on houseboats. I watched with the singular envy only known by a sheltered small town girl. When it just happened that I was driving across country to visit my Great Aunt Katherine--yes, I am named for her-- in Indiana and when I saw the sign to Lake Havasu, I just had to detour. My excitement turned to disappointment when I realized that Lake Havasu is really a retirement community. I shuffled dejectedly through a town that obviously catered to senior citizens not college kids. Gift shops full of tote bags, rhinestone studded sweatsuits, and t-shirts about grandkids. Not what I was expecting. Always the trooper I refused to be bowed, I boarded a houseboat to go out on the lake. The houseboat captain was a self-ascribed Lothario. A somewhat attractive man in his late 50's is was pretty obvious that the senior ladies also thought he was Lothario. I, the lone dark-haired lass sitting in a sea of silver, was decidedly not as impressed. The captain flirted and the ladies just ate it up, his big joke was that when we would sail close to the other boats filled with even more silver-haired ladies--who were all gazing longingly at OUR captain--he would hold out a jar of Grey Poupon and shout, "Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?" And everyone, but me, would laugh uproariously.In the last hour of the trip I discovered that the original London Bridge had been moved to Lake Havasu. They took the bridge apart, brick-by-brick, and reassembled it over Lake Havasu. At the end of the day, that fact saved that trip for me. It just seemed so ridiculous that London Bridge had been erected in AZ. It was so out of place, and was the only part I liked. It was like me. I remember standing on that ridiculously placed bridge watching the sun go down and below me a boat skimmed the lake and a voice shouted, "Pardon me..." Finally, I just had to laugh.

Edinburgh: Wet.

My memories of Scotland are rain-soaked, really. I have only been twice, for only a handful of days each time, but it was nothing if not permeated by rain, and well, being wet. Visually, this city in memory is a mix of green and gray: The rain and the pavement, and walking so much I was drenched with sweat. The rain coming in an open hotel window to land on a bed soaking rumpled sheets and clothes discarded in passion. I am sure the sun shines in Edinburgh, and I am sure there are paths that would not force me uphill or up a set of stairs, but I don't remember any. Every journey through that city was a climb that left me breathless and slick with sweat. Tired, wet, and breathless became a default state; but, the arduous path was always worth it. Always. At the top is a castle, a view, a monument, a hotel room... a boy. Each soaking me with rain or sweat.

What about you? What is one word that you associate with a trip or a place?

Baseball Heaven: A Rebuttal; or, Maybe a Surrender

The first time I stepped out of a professional baseball stadium's cement labyrinthine underbelly and glimpsed the lush outfield grass I cried. I was about 13 and my church youth group had gone to Oakland to see the Tigers at the A's. Our seats were up so high I don't even think I could see the players' names pasted on the back of their uniforms. I don't know who won that day, I don't even remember if we stayed for the whole game, but I will never forget the way my chest constricted and how I just couldn't breathe when I saw that gorgeous field laid out before me. It was, to me, heaven.

My love of the green grass, wood bats, leather gloves, and that gorgeous red dirt is a feeling of reverent awe that never lessens and never fades. No matter how old I am, or how many games I have been to, I cry a little every time. It isn't about the stadium because it doesn't really matter where, it just matters that it is grass, chalk, dirt. Each of the (only) five stadiums I have visited it is the same. Every time I emerge from the dark into the light and there is nothing in front of me but green, and brown, and sky and I have to swallow gasps and blink back tears. I am moved every time, because it is just so beautiful.

I have a friend who has written a blog that claims that Wrigley Field is in fact "Baseball Heaven" and as I read her Ode to Wrigley I found myself wanting to argue. It could have been because she threw down the gauntlet by saying that my beloved Yankee Stadium is most definitely not Baseball Heaven, and that it isn't Fenway Park--my second favorite stadium--either, but that it is Wrigley. And I wanted to fire back. I wanted to write about how Wrigley is the aging diva of baseball; but, then I realized that I am not qualified to criticize. I haven't been to Wrigley. Or Great American Ballpark, or Busch Stadium, or Oriole Park... or any of the other 25 parks. I have only been to five. So, what do I know?

The truth is that any definition of Baseball Heaven is profoundly and distinctly personal. Every fan probably loves their stadium, at least in some way. For me, Yankee stadium was mecca. I toured it with my heart racing and a post-coital glow. Fenway Park was historic and wonderful, and I had a great time there. But, Oakland (O.com? The name changes so much, I don't even know anymore) will always have a place in my heart. It's close and I've seen some really great baseball there. And, you know, no one ever forgets their first. It is an argument that can't be won. Like comparing lovers. Who am I to say? I don't have the credentials to rank stadiums; I don't have the experience to compare and contrast. And what makes one cat purr makes another hiss.

Baseball Heaven is not a place. It that space between the infield and the grass. That moment of silent tension right before the pitch, when players spring into ready position. That silent moment when we wait to see what will happen. That space where anything can happen. It is Derek Jeter methodically kicking rocks and smoothing the infield dirt while waiting to pounce. It is a cold drink on a hot day; it is listening to fans around me discuss past games. It is Nick Swisher wooing the crowd, and the crowd flirting back. It is a cotton candy vendor winning a dance off against a drunk fan. It is the sound of a ball on a bat, the thud of a leather, and the sight of green, and brown, and sky.  That to me, is Baseball Heaven.

Doctor Who; or, That's So Funny

I would never love this show as much if it wasn't funny. So, here (hopefully without too many spoilers) are the top 5 funniest moments, for me, from S1-S4. As I was finishing this, I realized there are actually a lot I missed.

1. The Ninth Doctor is funny. It is likely what I like the most. Yes, Tenth Doctor is funny too, but Ninth is FUNNY. "Rose" I found the first episode to be really funny. There were a ton of lines in that first episode that made me laugh. In fact, it is probably what made me a fan.

You can't convince me that this comment isn't about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. 

The Doctor: [looking at at tabloid] Well, that's never gonna work he's gay and she's an alien.

 But this is probably the funniest moment for me. And it gets funnier after you know Jackie a little.

Jackie: I'm in  my dressing gown.
The Doctor: Yes, you are.
Jackie Tyler: There's a strange man in my bedroom
The Doctor: Yes, there is.
Jackie Tyler: Well, anything could happen.
The Doctor: [shakes his head and smiles] No.

2. "Blink" I don't know if this is an episode that is thought of as funny, or maybe it is, but there are some hilarious moments.

Kathy Nightingale: What did you come here for anyway?
Sally Sparrow: I love old things. They make me feel sad.
Kathy Nightingale: What's good about sad?
Sally Sparrow: It's happy for deep people.

When Billy Shipton meets Sally and she tells him her name is "Sally Shipton" and they both just about die.

And of course this gem which probably meant there were t-shirts made before the episode even ended. 

"The angels have the phonebox. That's my favorite. I've got that on a t-shirt" 

In thinking about it, that whole episode is funny. Funnier than I even remembered.

3. "The Doctor Dances." Ninth Doctor: Sonic Screwdriver VS. Jack Harkness: Sonic Blaster conversation. Come on boys, just whip it out and have it done with.

4. "The Poison Sky." Are you my mummy? Ten has to put on a gasmask to survive a gas attack by ATMOS and quips, "Are you my mummy" in reference to "The Empty Child." The key to being funny is surprise, and I wasn't expecting that. One of the few places where I laughed hard enough that people were asking me what was so funny; and I just couldn't explain.

5. "The End of Time." The opening speech, delivered in a cowboy hat, shades, a pick feather boa to the most serious creature in the universe, an Ood. I am more than slightly disappointed not to be privy to the marriage to Queen Elizabeth especially after the way "The Shakespeare Code" ended (hmmm, some funny stuff in that one too).

Ah! Now. Sorry. There you are. So, where were we? I was summoned, wasn't I. An Ood in the snow, calling to me.  Well, I didn't exactly come straight here;  had a bit of fun y'know: traveled about, did this and that, got into trouble, you know me. It was brilliant! I saw the phosphorous carousel of the great mingelinga Stat, saved a planet from the red carnivorous mor, named a galaxy Alison, Got Married! That was mistake. Good Queen Bess. And let me tell you, her nickname is no longer... mmmm. Anyway, what do you want?

What about you? What are your funniest moments?

A Very Stuffy Analysis of Why David Tennant is So Dam Hot (SDH) as Doctor Who; or, a blog just for Donnie

I think it's the sideburns. Or maybe that crazy, sexy, hair.

The Endnotes

Doctor Who; or, you never really forget your first

If I have learnt nothing else from my foray into Doctor Who, a show with completely rabid fandom, a new experience for me, it is that people are always asking me who "MY doctor" is. Like others who are behind, that is a tough question as I have only seen two so far. But, like the Queen herself (allegedly) I think it might be the 9th Doctor. I am not always sure, and I have my moments, but in the end I think there is something about your "first."

When I decided to watch Doctor Who, I asked for advice about when to start. I wasn't sure if I needed to watch the episodes in order, or if I needed to have watched any from the 1960's. At the time, I knew that David Tennant had been incredibly popular and I knew that Matt Smith had replaced him. I didn't know about regeneration, so I wasn't clear on exactly how much the story required new casting, I just sort of assumed it was a show that couldn't keep its star. So, my interest level in starting was really, as I said before, more about curiosity about such a cultural movement than anything else. But, the answer to my question about where to start had an answer I wasn't expecting and my ears perked up when I was told that I should probably watch the Eccelston year even though some people say it "isn't as good" as the others. What? Christopher Eccelston? In truth there are prolly very few people in world who have actor crushes on Chris Eccelston, and it turns out, I am one of them.

I first saw Eccelston in the early 90's movie Shallow Grave. It was a little British film that also marked my introduction to Ewan McGregor. If you haven't see it, I do recommend it. It has been awhile since I saw it, but it is about some friends who end up with money that isn't theirs (maybe from a drug deal or something) and they face some pretty massive ethical decisions about what to do about the money. It was very low budget, very well written, and I loved it. After that, I sought out films with both Eccelston and McGregor and was not disappointed. The second film I saw was Jude. A film version of Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure with Kate Winslet. It was haunting, and sealed the deal for me as an Eccelston fan. So, when my friend mentioned Eccelston was the Doctor in the first season, I was in. All in.

It is interesting to me now that I am through the Tennant years and know just enough about Doctor Who to realize just how different the 9th Doctor is from the rest of the Doctor pantheon. From what I can tell, he is the first not to wear a suit, 9 is implied to be working class and much is made of the fact that he is from the north, and I loved the little joke about how "Lots of planets have a north." The little jokes about how he appears to be a "navvy" which was slang for a laborer or a construction worker. This idea is not one that would ever be applied to 10th Doctor who does not look like he has ever done a day's labor in his life (and I don't mean that in a bad way). The class aspect becomes doubly interesting when you hook 9 up with Rose who is also working class, someone whom Cassandra calls a "chav."

I don't know the show insider gossip. I've seen enough things that for whatever reason when Eccelston refused to return for another season the fans were outraged and never really forgave him. For a while, I thought I was going to be able to catch up on old seasons on BBCAmerica and I was DVRing them (until I realized that they are hacked into pieces and are missing as much as 10-15 minutes of show from each episode, something that will actually become a problem soon, as Netflix does not have S7, yet). At one point I had nearly 100 episodes in my DVR and not one from 2005. Not one S1, Eccelston, 9th Doctor episode. Not even "The Parting of the Ways" which was technically Tennant's debut. I don't really care about the kind of in-fighting that leads to these kinds of feuds and character's early deaths, except in the way they affect the show. I don't take sides; but, I do find it interesting that S1 is not played on TV. There is a lot of history there. I can't imagine the show without having seen S1.

I came into this experience with a predisposition to love Eccleston and I was a bit resistant of the change to 10. As I have said before I actually had to go back and re-watch S2 because it wasn't until "The Satan Pit" that I realized that I was digging on 10 and I wanted to re-watch those shows a bias towards Tennant rather than mistrust. And as my BFF predicted by the time of Tennant's regeneration into Matt Smith, I did "mourn" the loss of Tennant. I will start S5 in a couple of weeks and I might want to come back here and take it all back, although I doubt it, and I might be a Matt Smith fan... or even the next guy. Knowing me, I will probably love them all.

I have talked a little about my favorite episodes from S1 The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances. But one thing I have to add is that the real reason why I think I love those episode so much is that it seems to be the first time 9th Doctor is happy. There is not really a villain to be defeated as the nanogens were not a villain so much as a *good thing* gone wrong. The joyous shouts of "everybody lives! For once, everybody lives!" give us an insight into how hard it is to be the doctor, that he knows that happy endings are the rarest of things. I just love the joy in that moment.

It is the elements of a goofy sort of reticent urge to hope that make me love 9th Doctor. He has these moments where he is so serious and you can see just how deep he goes and then he throws on this goofy smile and sparkly little almost crazy look like he just can't care about that right now that is just heartbreaking. And he is the reason I love Rose as much as I do. She doesn't love 9 the way she loves 10, loving 10 is easy, he is charming and attractive, and even though he has all the darkness of 9 he just wears it differently. In "Father's Day" when 9 tries everything to allow Rose to keep her father KNOWING that it is destroying the world. It's beautiful. He seems to be so much more willing to give up his life for her than the others, and it isn't surprising that in the end he does. It makes sense to me that 9 regenerates into a man that Rose would love, because it just may be what 9 was thinking about when he "dies." Without 9 there is no 10, and I just wish that somehow that history was respected a bit more.

What do you think about the 9th Doctor? What is your favorite S1 episode?

Doctor Who: or, it's about time

I have begun watching the British science-fiction television series Doctor Who. It is wildly popular with my friends and, of course, worldwide. I was convinced to watch, not just because I felt I was missing out on cultural inside-jokes, but because when so many people whom I like and admire all start talking so positively and so passionately about one thing, well, that means it is probably pretty good. So, to sort of locate myself within this discussion, a little about me: I am a non sci-fi person, so the genre is not a natural fit. I started watching mid-December 2013, so 8 years after the new Doctor Who aired, and 50 after the original. I am an anglophile who was raised on Masterpiece Theatre and lived in London for 6 months in 2003, so the British aspect has appeal. So, while the potential for me to like this show was there, it was sort of unlikely.

The main factor that made me resistant to watching in the first place is that I am a non sci-fi person. I do not like Star Wars, Star Trek, or other classic sci-fi programs (and I have tried a couple of others that I have been told I would love and, well, I didn't) and the fact Doctor Who is about aliens and space travel and all of that is what kept me from watching it in the first place. So, even though people said I would like it and I should try it I did not want to be that person, again. The one who rains on the parade. I assumed that it was simply a genre thing, and I said I just didn't like things set in space. But, really, there is a sort of genre cheesiness and style that some sci-fi viewers will put up with that I just can't do. To me (and I know this is blasphemy) Star Wars and Star Trek are often not constructed well as art. And the acting and writing, well, not the level I was looking for.

So, for a second here, I am going to sound like a pretentious ass, and that's okay with me, but for only about 3 seconds, then I am far more likely to switch to fangirl gushing. There is an aspect of expectation that as a viewer who is a trained literary critic and the fact that I have academic degrees in the humanities, I value the quality of a show more than any other aspect--this means I do not suffer bad writing, I need good-to-decent acting, good dialogue, and the characters have got to be likable and developed (or developing), I want the cinematography to be lovely or at least interesting, and most of all, I want fantastic stories. I am making an assumption that many of my friends who love some of the sci-fi stuff that I don't love grew up watching those shows and may have an emotional attachment that allows them to defend some of the technical aspects that I just can't forgive (like the horrible costumes). Maybe, if I had watched more sci-fi as a child, I'd have a better understanding of how camp and cheese is a good thing. Maybe. On the other had, any time you try to figure out why someone else likes something that you don't, you just end up making weird assumptions and sound like an idiot, so enough of that. Anyway, I was more than pleasantly surprised that Doctor Who delivered beyond my wildest expectations for most of these things, and manages to make camp and cheese seem more like whimsy and charm.

I have so much to say that I think the best approach is to respond generally and then move on to specifics. I will likely write about this a lot as I am pretty interested right now (although that is what I said about Jane Austen and THAT didn't happen. Ah intentions...wait, don't get distracted! Focus). Today, let me lay out the topics that are interesting to me.

1. Context. I am sort of fascinated by the idea of coming late to such an active cultural phenomenon. As I said before. I am at least 8-years late (maybe 50 depending on the math). This means that while I am still struggling about whether I love 9th or 10th doctor more, the rest of the world is mourning the 11th and preparing to welcome the 12th. While I am just learning about the Tardis, and wondering whether or not 10th Doctor had sex with Rose, the rest of the world is wearing t-shirts about a 50th anniversary. This idea of watching a show about the relative dynamics of space and time in the *wrong* time fascinates me. I am like Harriet Jones, holding up my Doctor Who Analysis and offering insights, and the rest of the world is responding, We KNOW already.

2. Netflix Vs. Real Time (BBC America). Another aspect of how I am watching this show is one that I have been talking about with another friend who is watching on about the same pace as I am. She and I started at about the same time and while I am a bit ahead (for now). We are both "binge-watching" or what I have been told is actually called "netflixing" which is when you watch whole series of television programs in a very short amount of time. I am not sure of the exact date I started watching, but it was not more than three weeks ago. Tops. In that time I watched four seasons, and season 1 and 2 twice. That is roughly 120 hours of TV in three weeks. And while I know I could never keep that pace for long, because life, it has possibly made for a unique viewing experience. One thing my friend and I had been discussing is just how emotionally we were responding to the show and wondering if everyone felt this way when they watched or if it was unique to the binge-experience. Something, that I am not sure how we would really find out. The main question being, that if you watch without time between to distract you or to mellow out the emotional response are you, in effect, multiplying the experience by condensing it?

3.  Emotional/Personal Response. This show is killing me. I literally (and I mean this is the old-fashioned sense of the word) have to take breaks. The sheer amount of personal loss and devastation about losing characters (or about their personal plot developments) is over whelming. Areas that were particularly hard are the personal relationship between Rose and the 9th and 10th Doctor, and the one they call tentoo (which I won't say too much about because I don't think Brandi has gotten there yet). The way S4 ends. The relationship between Donna and her family. The issue raised by the character of Donna about how you can be this amazing person but just won't be *successful* in the world because your skill set doesn't translate in a career. And again, I have more to say, but I'll wait until I am sure Brandi is caught up...The other two areas that have been so emotional for me are about loneliness, the theme of regeneration and change, and the sheer amount of Carpe Diem mythology.

4.  Characters. Of course there are four sort of characters. The Doctor (for me, I've only seen two Eccelston and Tennant). The Companions, Rose, Martha, Donna, Jack, Sarah-Jane, and I guess you'd have to throw Astrid in there too. The villains, Daleks, Cybermen, Henry Saxon... and of course more, and then what I am calling The Rest Jackie, Martha's family (which I can never remember their names) Sylvia, Wilfrid, and more.  I started the show already liking Eccelston, and sort of not liking Tennant (I don't know why, something about Hamlet and all the press maybe). So, there is much to be said here.

5. Individual episodes. By far and away I like two kinds of episodes the best the "Rose/Doctor" episodes, those that focus on Rose and the doctor's relationship, and those written by Steven Moffat (which I guess means I am in luck because after S4 that is ALL of them). The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances is still my favorite, then Blink. I also find this interesting, because he never writes about Rose. I don't think he likes her as much as I do :( I also prefer episodes where they travel back in time the best, then the one's in present day, and those in the future the least (prolly my own non-sci-fiction bias). I love the ones with literary connections (Dickens, Shakespeare, etc) a lot too.

Whew this is getting lOOOOOOng. So, I'll just start listing.
The role of guns, violence, and free-will. The idea of actively participating in history and people's lives (the idea of "fixed" and "flux" points in time). Gender (can the doctor ever be female?). How much hotter Tennant is in 2009 than 2005. And it isn't perspective, he just *gets hotter*...And more, much, much more.

I will close this first discussion by saying. I am surprised by just how much I do love this show. I also know that it has to be about timing. I know I would not have liked it this much in 2005. I was reading a forum on IMDB where someone who started watching around the same time that I did started a discussion in which they asked "When does this get good?" People were giving advice like, "skip to the Tennant years" or "don't give up, it gets better." My response: For me, it got good in the first 9 seconds...so, if you are forcing yourself to watch it, then MAYBE, it will never get good, maybe you just don't like it. At least not today.

What about you? What do you think? Please... discuss!

Resolution 2014; or, more, more, more

Usually resolutions are about quitting something. Giving things up. Losing weight. Getting organized. I resolved to quit drinking diet soda every year for two decades. Ironically, it was 2013 (the one year I said I wasn't going to *do* resolutions, that I actually did it, so far). In my experience it is far more difficult to stop doing something or to quit something than it is to start or add to. So, this year, I am going only make resolutions about doing more.

1. I am going to read more. I used to read all the time. I spent my childhood reading. Somewhere along the way of earning a handful of academic degrees in English I lost my passion for reading. I have talked about this before in this blog, but things get better all the time. So. I am going to read more. First up, another read of Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero, then Ian McKewan's Atonement. After that, we'll see. Oh, and I need to read some Sherlock Holmes in there somewhere as I am teaching a class on that in the Spring. Feel free to recommend books.

2. I am going write more. I think of myself as a writer. I think I could be okay at it. At least sometimes. I know I have good ideas, but ideas are not books. Well, at least not without some work. So, I am going to write more. I am toying with the idea of taking some writing classes. But, in general, I allow my time to get eaten up by Facebook and TV (see resolution 4) when I could be writing. This resolution extends to letters, blogs, as well as other types of writing.

3.  I am going to volunteer more. It has been a while since I committed my time to help my community. I used to volunteer a lot when I was in college and it is something I'd like to do again. I am not sure exactly what I want to do yet, but it is time to start looking for opportunities.

4. I am going to watch more really great TV. Okay, I know how that sounds. But, this one is sort of a problem in that I sometimes trick myself into thinking I am too busy to watch a new documentary or great movie or Masterpiece Classic episode. So, instead of watching one really good show I will fritter my time watching hours of MLB network or playing Facebook games or even worse watching you tube videos. So, I am going to give myself permission to watch some great TV (and watch less of the crap).

5. I am going to move more. I have given up on dieting because I finally realized how awful that whole restriction thing is (only took me 30 years to get it), but I can't live another year as unhealthy as this one. So, the answer seems to me to be in movement. I used to love to walk. I would walk 8-10 miles a day. There is no reason not to. I just stopped (replaced it with Facebook I am sure--there is a theme here). I would like to take a yoga class or maybe even learn to ballroom dance. The key is movement.

6. I am going to continue to save more money. I did pretty well in 2013. Not as well as I could have, but since 2014 is all about more, I will also be more positive. I have a small tiny nest egg saved up and this year I am going to add more little eggs to that nest. The key here seems to be in value. Understanding that one good purchase is better and more satisfying that some of the profligate spending I have done in the past.

7. I am going to be more positive. Let's face it, I can be a complainer. I can look at a situation and see the dark side with little effort. So, more gratitude. More thanks. More light. More hope. More forgiveness for others and myself.

8. I am going to eat more. I have decades of disordered eating behind me that makes this resolution plenty tricky. But, I rarely eat what I actually want. I usually please other people or deny myself what I *really* want because it is expensive, or unhealthy, or whatever. This year, I am going to eat more of my favorite foods. That includes going to more farmer's markets and getting fresh organic foods. That means eating really great bread and fantastic cheese. Oh, and that means wine, and pasta, and salami... And buying the good lettuce that tastes delicious, but just doesn't *last as long.* Bon Appetite!

9. I am going to talk to my friends more. I am terrible with the phone and many of my friends live far away. So, letter, phone, text, this blog, carrier pigeons, and anything else I can think of will have to do.

10. I am going to travel more. This one is tricky because it is hard to travel and save money. But, it can't be impossible. But, in order to make 9 happen, then 10 is a must. And, this very well may be New York Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter's last year. So, I know I will have to go to a couple of games. New York? Chicago? Tampa? Funny how many of my friends live near MLB cities.

So there you go. That seems like a pretty good list of resolutions. 2014 looks pretty good to me. A year filled with reading, writing, drinking and eating, travel, great TV, and dancing. Hmmm, sounds a lot like college. Well, in the words of the doctor, Allons-y! Happy 2014!

What do you want to do *more* of this year?

Resolve; or, it's a lot like hope

The first New Year's Eve that I can really remember was when I was 8. I was with my parents at a friend's house. He was a teacher who really wanted to be a politician. He ran for State Assemblyman when I was a junior or senior in high school. He lost. On that New Year's, when I was 8, I was wearing pink pajamas with a walrus on them. We had dinner, I don't remember what, and we watched movies. My dad's friend did not treat me or my brother as children so there were no kids movies. We watched Shogun. I remember my mother trying to shield my eyes from a scene where a warrior was killed by a vat of hot tar. We didn't watch any of those NYE shows or countdowns, there were no toasts or resolutions, and by midnight I was asleep and the new year rolled by unmarked and unnoticed.

I sometimes think I slept through my childhood. As a girl with big ideas and dreams living out-of-place in a small town with a mission to crush forward thinking, I found few bright spots. NYE my junior year of high school seemed like it would be one of those bright spots. I was a part of the "Just Say No" club on campus and as part of our mission to help students avoid drugs and alcohol we sponsored a New Year's Eve party. The theme was black and white. I had taken a special trip to Redding from Hayfork an hour-and-a-half away to buy the black sweater and a white skirt and shiny white heels to copy an outfit I had seen in a magazine. I had crimped my hair and put on makeup and was far too overdressed for the modest little gathering. I remember as I dressed thinking that this was the night my life was going to start. I arrived at the house of another of my dad's friends, another teacher, only to find that most people were wearing jeans and t-shirts and few of them had bothered to wear the theme colors. My visions of this great shining party and how this was going to be a beginning of the life I imagined faded. By the end of the night I had covered myself with a borrowed flannel shirt. I don't know if I was cold or if I was covering the raiment of hope that those clothes marked. At midnight we toasted with plastic glasses and apple cider. No one made any resolutions.

It was not until I was in my 20's that I began to make New Year's Resolutions; and then, I embraced it. I can even count myself amongst those few who can claim to have kept a few. I had a very satisfying NYE. For some reason, most NYE's just fizzle. I think it is a night with too much expectation attached for success to be inevitable. It was in Tulsa, Oklahoma when I had some pretty great friends and I lived in an art deco 1920's loft apartment in the *cool* part of Tulsa. My roommate, Krista, a woman who would later tell me we could not be friends because she was pregnant and that I was so "mean" that she "didn't want [her]baby to know me" (ouch), was throwing a dinner party. In spite of how our friendship turned out that night was a stellar NYE. We had a formal dinner party. Black-tie. We toasted with expensive champagne that none of us could afford and lived like Gatsby for the night. I am sure that event cost us all our paychecks it was such a show of extravagance. We wrote out resolutions on parchment with india ink and sealed them in envelopes to be opened the next year. Of course we thought we would meet and dine every year. But, like a lot of promises made to each other by twenty somethings we never did. But, the act of making resolutions did stick. I remember writing out these promises to myself as if the ink was fulfilling each promise just by the act of writing it down. I don't remember what I resolved, but I remember thinking that this, this was what NYE was supposed to be like. I may not have ever met up with those friends again (good riddance, actually) but I have written out my NYE resolutions every year since.

All those nights seem long ago now. And, in some ways, I suppose both literally and figuratively they are. Last year I made my resolutions, wrote them on parchment, stuck them in a envelope, and then threw it away. I decided I was tired of fighting to keep them. I thought they seemed like the same promises I had been making my whole life. I decided it before I had even finished making them. Later, on flight to Las Vegas, the mecca of NYE, I told friends that I had made a decision. That I wasn't going to pursue my resolutions any more. That I wasn't going to try anymore. That I was tired and needed to rest. So, I said I wasn't going to make resolutions any more. They nodded and said nothing.

Until this week, I was sure I was still done with resolutions. With the exception of working on my finances last year, I really stopped trying to make my life better and just lived without any real focus. But then, something, I am not sure what (I think it actually may be the television series Doctor Who, but that is for another day) has forced me to realize that I can't sleep through life. That I have done enough of that for a lifetime. That in some ways while 2013 was an easy year because I didn't really challenge myself too much, it has been the hardest year of my life because I haven't really had any thing to hope for. So this year I am going to make resolutions. And I am going to keep them. Well, at least as well as anyone does, or I ever have.

Karma; or, just what the doctor ordered (and no not THAT doctor)

Sometimes there is human drama that unfolds without the help of people, and sometimes it is the fault of our own making. Yesterday, in a story of karma that will only be slightly satisfying because it involves children falling ill, and no one can ever feel anything but sad and worried when little ones are sick, a story that should have been about caring for sick kids became a lesson in humility.

My niece is three and the sweetest of charmers. Her parents (my brother and his ex-wife) divorced about two years ago and are not really on speaking terms. I won't take sides, but only to say that I am on the side of the children. One, because that is the side we should always take, and two, because between the pair of them, there are no heroes in this relationship. Anyway, this story, as I said is about her being ill. My sister brought a nasty bout of bronchitis as her "plus one" to Christmas dinner and all week most of our little band of family and friends has been suffering in varying degrees. The hardest struck, as most often is the case, are the oldest and youngest. My niece, it seems, might have been the sickest of us all.

Yesterday, she returned from her split custody with her mother back into my brother's house. She returned sick and only got sicker through the night. Finally, around 3pm or so she was sick enough for my brother to take her to the doctor. This was a pretty big decision because he has no insurance and would have to ask his ex-wife to use the insurance she has for the kids. It turned out to the right decision because they immediately sent that poor sick little girl to the emergency room because her little lungs were shutting down. As I said, my brother, her dad, does not have money, insurance, or even a job, so he had to contact the girl's mother for her insurance information. Most people would think that the important thing is to take the poor dear to the hospital no matter whose insurance foots the bill... well, not her mother.

All this to say, to sum up, if you will. That the poor sick and terrified girl who was being treated at the hospital was met by a mother who decided that it was more important to take her father to task as deadbeat (kind of true), who could not take care of the daughter and if it wasn't for her insurance the little girl might have been even sicker (kind of true); rather than to nurture the child and make sure she was okay and unafraid she began a screaming tirade in the halls of the hospital. A story that is sickening (pun intended) not only because I imagine my poor little niece was already scared, and that her screaming mother calling her father (the one trying to comfort her) names did not make it better. But, worse still, I imagine such a ruckus was discomforting for the rest of the patients as well.

To make this long story more clear. The ex-wife (and I deliberately do not call her mother because here she was clearly more busy being an ex-wife than a mother) tried to take the child. It was like a Jerry Springer episode, but sadder. Finally, my brother saw a policeman in the hallway and called him over. The doctors, nurses, patients, and the child all said that my brother was trying to take care of her but that the girl's mother was out of control and told her she had no right to take the little girl away from her dad just because she was sick. But wait. Because there is more.

Just when it seemed that the ex-wife could not have been any more sanctimonious and judgmental about my brother's parenting skills, her phone rang. It seems that the ex-wife's daughter, a new baby from a new marriage, was also sick. She was at home with a different father and he had called to say that the baby was very sick and was running really high temperature and could she meet him at the emergency room because he needed to use her insurance. In effect, he was doing the same thing with her child as my brother had done with his. The doctor actually laughed at the irony of the mother accusing her ex-husband of making the little girl sick while she also had a sick child at home, before realizing, like I said in the beginning, that however a delightful story of karma this may be, sick children are never a good thing. Even if they do teach you a very public and humiliating lesson.

Today, thank goodness, it seems that the little girls seem to be doing well. Well, as much as they can hope to be with such parenting.