Miss Rixie Recommends... (3rd Annual Book Review Part II)

1. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling
Weeks after I finished reading it, I cannot stop thinking about it. This is one of those rare books that, when reminiscing about it, I remember the emotions I felt while reading it more specifically than the actual events in the book. What a rare gift to be able to conjure up such powerful emotions in a reader, but Rowling has done just that, and in doing so, Harry joins the likes of Atticus Finch and Jay Gatsby and Anne Shirley.

2. Molly Moon's Incredible Book of Hypnosis by Georgia Bying
While only halfway done with this book, I couldn't resist putting it on the list. There's no other word for it--not only is Molly's book incredible, she's incredible. What a fun heroine!

3. Sing a Song of Tuna Fish by Esme Raji Codell
She never disappoints...

4. Eleven on Top by Janet Evanovich
Hilarious as ever. Evanovich keeps cranking out the Stephanie Plum adventures and, amazingly, they keep living up to their reputation. Miss Rixie recommends reading this one while lying on the beach if at all possible.

5. The Princess Diaries VI by Meg Cabot
This woman is talented!! Read anything by Cabot and you won't be disappointed. I'm convinced she's actually six women posing as one because she cranks out so many books in a year and updates her blog all the time. If only I were one-tenth as productive. Sigh...

Next up on Miss Rixie's reading list:
Dancing in the Dark by Mary Jane Clark
1-800-Where-R-U series by Meg Cabot
Molly Moon Stops the World by Georgia Bying
Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer
Diary of a Fairy Godmother by Esme Raji Codell

Aesthetic Overload

My room is beautiful. I have five rows of desks, each row five deep. My desk is at the front, to the left of where you stand when walking in. I still have my desktop covered in magazine pictures, postcards, notes from students, etc. that make me smile and feel creatively tingly whenever I look at it. The front of my desk, where the students can see is covered in three posters. They say things like “Those who don’t dream, don’t dare” and the like. They’re colorful and brighten up the place. Around my desk I’ve hung little Christmas lights covered in these pastel boxes that I got in college and Natalie and I hung around our lofts. They’re the perfect size. On my computer desk which is next to my regular teacher desk, I’ve put an array of pictures: me, Kim, and Ashley in front of firefighter Herky our senior year; one of Nat and me (it’s actually at a bar, but you can’t tell); one of Kim, Ash, Ro and me on my twenty-first birthday (I’m holding the book [it’s a sex book, but you can’t tell], the picture frame they had engraved for me, and the camera they gave me as presents); and one of Brennan holding Darcy the first day I got her. I look stupid in the one of me and Natty so I’m going to change it, I just never remember. I also have Iowa pom-poms floating leisurely over the corner (I went all out on the Hawkeye—I was going to say merchandise, but propaganda might be a better word.)

Behind my desk our my three file cabinets. This corner was always an area of contention for me last year. It was ugly and plain and the posters were hung crooked. Now I have a beautiful poster of a bookshelf with four shelves. On the top shelf it says “Literary Genres.” On the following three shelves it says things like “Fables,” “Fiction,” “Nonfiction,” and “Drama” with pictures of books and the like. Next to that are two posters—one of Mark Twain and one of Maya Angelou, both hung neatly at an angle. (Never again will I try to hang anything straight!) On my file cabinet I have a lovely license plate that says Iowa Hawkeyes, my 2004 Graduate Beanie Baby, and my IHSSA speech mug that I won last year. On another cabinet, I have little dolls of Mark Twain, Edgar Allan Poe, and Shakespeare (Wills looks really scary, but they’re so fun!) courtesy of my mother. Also courtesy of her are the little finger magnetic puppets I have of Willa Cather (or is it Virginia Woolf? I think it’s Virginia), Shakespeare and Twain again, and Jane Austen. On the last file cabinet I have my hot pink flowery bucket filled with antibacterial handsoap, Bath & Body scented wipes, and lotion. It’s my own personal feel-good, smell-good spa corner.

On the bulletin board directly next to the corner and my computer is my “Ready, Set, Read!” board leftover from last year. It’s covered in bookmarks and I have to say, it’s still one of my favorite bulletin boards. Next to that, on the chalkboard square that’s partially covered by my computer monitor so basically rendered unusable are the 12 “Get Caught Reading” posters I got for $5. I mounted most on construction paper so they look especially beautiful. Around that I strung the Hawkeye lights I got at Iowa Book & Supply, aka Book n Crook, for $20. Whatever, they are worth every penny.

In the back of the room, near the door that leads into Kelli’s room, I covered the first of two bulletin boards with all the pictures of Agatha Christie I made color copies of (and ha laminated) for $25 at Staples. TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS!!! RIP-OFF!! But it looks beautiful—I have to make sure I take a picture. I have an oversized sheet of notebook paper thanks to The Learning Post that I wrote the poem from And Then There Were None on last year. It has to be visible to all the kids because we talk about it every day before and while reading. Surrounding that is a list of every Agatha Christie book she ever wrote (but don’t be picturing a grocery list, it’s really cute with pictures of books drawn on and stuff). Below that are pictures of books made into movies, Christie as a young woman, Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, and Christie in possible various disguises after her disappearance. I also found 20 different pictures of covers of And Then there Were None on google and printed it on pretty paper and cut with fun scrapbook scissors. Way fun!!

Next to that bulletin board is the another, oversized board that I did last summer as well. It’s my “Oh, the Places You’ll Go” board with pictures of covers of books like The Princess Bride, Holes, Wicked, and The Shawshank Redemption, to name a few. Next to that, I made tags on the computer that tell the places you’ll go, like Florin, Camp Greenlake, Oz, and jail. Also one of my favorites.

Above the chalkboards and bulletin boards on that side of the room, I have five other posters that are all very colorful and say things like, “You look at something and say ‘Why?’ I look at something at say, ‘Why not?’” or something along the lines of that. There’s also my Martin Luther King, Jr. banner and a cool drawing of Stratford-on-Avon someone donated to me and I had laminated. It’s done on scroll-like paper and makes me feel Renaissance-y when I look at it or touch it.

In the back corner of the room, opposite my desk and file cabinets, is my big poster of Mark Twain (which I had laminated and now looks beautiful) with one of my favorite quotes that something to the effect of he was sorry to hear himself named as one of the great writers because they have a habit of dying off. “Chaucer’s gone, Shakespeare’s dead, and I’m not feeling too well myself.” Next to that is another poster, but I can’t actually remember what it is right now. Then there’s the Communications 12 bulletin board which I have my white board we have to use for lesson plans stapled to. My table is there too with close to 250 textbooks piled on and the AR computer which I have done nothing about yet.

Then there’s my closet—pretty much the same as last year. I added Kelli’s “Here is your brain, here is your brain on books” signs and my “Books are the carrier of civilization” sign to the Shakespeare and language posters I have there. Next to my closet is the door to the hallway. I have my favorite poster of all time hanging on the door. It’s a Lord of the Rings poster with a picture of those horses that chase Liv Tyler and rolling across the bottom in flaming words, it says, “Moving words create moving pictures.” How appropriate! Below that is the reading strategy poster—right where no one will ever look at it. Oh well, I could tape it to my forehead and I’m pretty sure no one would read it. Hell, *I* barely I wanted to read it, and I read the nutritional label on cereal boxes at breakfast just so I have something to read.

Kelli donated a “don’t censor yourself” posters with pictures of banned or controversial books (including The Giver) and I hung it next to the poster I have with the word “Read” on it in many different languages including sign language. Actually, come to think of it, that might be my favorite poster.

That’s next to the bulletin board of “Before it was a movie…” where I put pictures of book covers right next to the movie poster it was turned into. For example, there are pictures of the book and movie of Master & Commander and The Princess Bride. My favorites though are: the picture of Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? next to The Odyssey, and the picture of Emma next to Clueless, and 10 Things I Hate about You next to The Taming of the Shrew.

Next to that is the ninth grade chalkboard with their whiteboard where lesson plans go. Above that is a new poster that has suggestions for more descriptive words on it. There’s something else there too, but I can’t remember what. Above the next chalkboard is my READ! banner, and next to that is the poster with the butterfly on it. That’s above where my history will be.

There’s there the most boring bulletin board in my room (well, not counting the communications one): the one with all the charts and stuff to keep track of how much they’re reading. Above it is a poster that says “Don’t forget to read” with a bow around a finger. It’s stupid, but too fitting to toss. On the board there’s a poster with Readers’ Rights. The right to read, to not read, to skip pages, etc. In front of that is where I’m gonna have to keep my TV. Next to it are three posters, one for high school awards, Teen award, and Children’s award. Below those posters is my white bookshelf with series and nonfiction and Miss Acton’s Recommendations on it.

That brings me to the front of the room, my favorite area. When I walk in the door and see that front wall, I just feel happy! There’s my little table (currently covered in piles of papers to be passing out the first two days to my two classes). There are two bookshelves lining the front wall filled with my own books on one shelf, dictionaries on another, Holocaust literature on a third, and then regular the regular fiction takes up the rest of it. Above the first bookshelf are all my Romeo & Juliet posters arranged at an angle and looking very lovely. I also have a poster with instructions on how to check out a book from me. I also have little labels on the bookshelves which are new and done in fun fonts. Then I have one of those spinny bookshelf things where all my mystery/horror/suspense type books are. And then we’re back at my desk and filing cabinets.

I’m sorry, but my room ROCKS!!! As Esme said, I feel bad for any teacher who’s not in here. Wait, Esme totally did not say that. Esme said she feels sorry for any kid not in here. Well, that too, but seriously, have you SEEN the science and math rooms? I would be so depressed if I were in those rooms!! I totally kick!!

Currently reading...

Spent Sunday, Monday, Tuesday re-reading the fourth and fifth Harry Potter books and Wednesday and today reading the sixth, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Only one word to describe the series and J.K. Rowling: brilliant. My emotions are still bubbling too closely under the surface to really delve in any further. Suffice to say that she is a genius and her works are brilliant on their own and the series is a masterpiece.

Viewing a Room With a View

Freddy: "Why does she always look like that?"
Lucy: "Like what?"
Freddy [imitating Charlotte]: "Charlotte Bartlett"
Lucy: "Because, Freddy, she IS Charlotte Bartlett."
Rupert Graves and Helena Bonham Carter, A Room with a View

Reverend Eager: "Remember the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism. "
Mr. Emerson: "Built by faith indeed! That simply means the workers weren't paid properly."
Patrick Godfrey and Denholm Elliot, A Room with a View


I recently found a paper I wrote as a sophomore for a European film class. The paper is over one of my favorite movies of all time, the Ivory Merchant classic A Room with a View. Here it is in all its glory--but be warned, it's looong!


A Room with a View on View

Many people expect the Ivory Merchant production masterpiece, A Room with a View, to be a stuffy period film or simply a romance. These people are missing what the film actually is; a brilliantly-adapted social commentary of British middle-class sensibilities and the effect the rigid social structure has on a young girl struggling to find her identity. The film focuses on the themes of British national identity, social structure, and the effects of these on marriage within a small group of travelers in Italy. This heritage film, like many Ivory Merchant productions, is rich in culture and landscape which illuminate the contrasts between the two nations in the film, Italy and England. In this paper, I will be closely analyzing this story of middle class romance between a young woman caught up in the world of the British social structure unable to free herself, and the young man who’s own sense of freedom is, for her, a room with a view.

The film is centered around the implications that are illuminated through the contrast of Italy and Britain. A Room with a View opens at an Italian boarding house full of English travellers, and later moves to England where the characters spend a large portion of their time reminiscing of what happened in Italy and comparing British life to Italian life. The countries serve as foils for each other. England is painted as rigid, with a strict social structure, while Italy is depicted as more relaxed with room for the intermingling of different classes. The construction of national identity for each country is seen through the narrative construction, visual elements, and the individual characters, specifically the heroine Lucy Honeychurch.

One way the narrative is constructed is through the subdivisions of the film. The film looks like literature on film because it is divided into “chapters.” Each chapter is proceded by a title telling us critical information. “Lucy as a Work of Art” tells us that her fiance does not really value her company, but rather values her as something to admire and show off. The chapter titles“Lying to George,” “Lying to Cecil,” “Lying to Mr. Emerson,” “Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and the Servants,” show us that by lying to practically every character in the film, Lucy’s also lying to herself. These “chapter” titles give us insight to the characters and their viewpoints, especially Lucy Honeychurch.

Lucy is caught between the life she wants and the life she feels she should want. The life she feels she should want is waiting at home for her in England. In England is a man, Cecil Vyse, who has proposed marriage to her more than once. Each time previous, she has refused him, but when she comes home from Italy, she accepts. Lucy has been changed by her visit to Italy; something happened to make her change her mind. It is in Italy that she first got a taste of the life she actually wants. Somewhere in Italy she fell in love with George Emerson, a young man who, according to his father and traveling companion, “has brains but is very muddled.” George is very much like Lucy except he shows the emotions he’s feeling while Lucy represses them so as not to cause a stir. George is too serious and too melancholy for his good, according to his father. Mr. Emerson seems convinced that Lucy could make George brood and worry less, and look at life with a lighter heart. While Lucy likes both Emersons, she is well aware of the audacity Mr. Emerson has to approach her with this idea when he barely knows her. The Emersons are a middle class family. The significant thing about them is that they possess no concept of social structures. In their eyes, everyone is equal. They don’t see what everyone else sees, and that is that even within the middle class, society is highly stratified. Because the Emersons are unaware of this, the people around them look down upon them, and consequently, they become socially inferior even within the middle class. Lucy recognizes that other people feel this way and it troubles her. She also understands that Mr. Emerson has raised his son to be like himself; kind, feeling, and generous, but with a bit of impropriety and lack of judgment.

Despite his impropriety, Lucy is attracted to George. When George spontaneously kisses her while a large group from the hotel are out and about, Lucy is at first swept away. It is only later when under the influence of her chaperon and cousin, Charlotte Bartlett that she realizes she should be upset over the kiss because she has been taken advantage by society’s standards. It is only because she realizes that by society’s standards, she should be upset that she gets so. She realizes while in Italy that Mr. Emerson and George do things for other people out of kindness despite what social norms are. They do not pay attention to what is proper and what is not, they simply try to help any way they can. Furthermore, Mr. Emerson cannot grasp the reason some people (such as Miss Bartlett) do not understand this and why others do not do the same thing. Despite her attraction and innate similarity to George’s character, she suppresses her romantic desire for him. Instead she accepts a marriage proposal from a man back in England who talks of equality within classes but in reality is a terrible snob. In fact, when they return to England Lucy’s fiance, Cecil Vyse, invites the Emersons to stay in a nearby cottage to teach a lesson to the landlord. Cecil does this because although the Emersons are middle-class, their lack of British sensibilities makes them decidedly lower in social rank and the landlord is well-known for his snobbery. Cecil wants the landlord to get vulgar tenants to punish him for his snobbery. Cecil tells Lucy that this landlord, Sir Harry, stands for all that is wrong with this country. The implication of what Cecil is saying is that in London Sir Harry would be kept in his place, but down here in the country, with all its freshness, he throws his gentility and his patronage around and the worst of all is that everyone, including Lucy’s mother, is taken in. The irony is Cecil sees them as vulgar and doesn’t understand that he is perpetuating the class system through his thinking, despite his act of “generosity” when he recommended the Emersons for Sir Harry’s cottage. He believes himself to be superior to them, and furthermore, doesn’t even care for them much. In fact, the only person he does like is Lucy, which I will analyze more closely later on. He also puts up with the vicar, Mr. Beebe, who was with Lucy in Italy.

The contrast of Lucy’s relationship with George in Italy versus her relationship with Cecil in England shows two separate national identities. George is clearly an embodiment of what Italy is supposed to represent in this film. The brooding George is able to let go of his worries when he is in the out of doors of Italy. At such moments, he abandons his broodings and is able to simply feel. At one point, amidst the breathtaking landscape, he yells his creed, “Beauty, joy, love!” This is a powerful moment because while the other characters are gossiping of what is happening back in England, the sound of George’s voice yelling his creed because of all that he sees in Italy, is heard throughout. Moments later, the sight of Lucy against the backdrop of Italian landscape sweeps him away, and this is when he kisses her. He had been standing amidst a field of wildflowers and is overcome by his emotions so he passionately releases it to Lucy. The implication of this is that it was the free-spiritedness that Italy inspires that motivated George to do this.

By contrast, Cecil is a representation of England or at least English sensibilities. Cecil is a prudish bore, more interested in ideas than experiences. He says of himself, “Some people are better suited for books,” than actions. He speaks of noble causes like the equality of classes and democracy, but as Lucy tells him, he doesn’t know what the words mean. Cecil is the exact opposite of George. The one time he chooses to show Lucy emotion, it is as completely opposite of George’s expression of emotion as possible. Cecil asks to kiss her while they are standing near a pond in a small woods. He is all done up with his hair neatly combed and his pince-nez in place. He is in sharp contrast to the natural setting around him. The actual kiss is awkward and embarrassing for both the characters and the audience as Lucy is more forward than Cecil, expecting greater things from her previous experience. Afterwards, Cecil comments she always seems uncomfortable with him outside and Lucy responds that he’s right. When she thinks of him, she always pictures him within a room. The implication of this is that George’s sense of freedom is like a room with a view. George has physical responsibilities but he is idealogically free because of his views. Cecil however, is boxed in. He has ideas of freedom but would actually be quite uncomfortable if there was no class structure. Cecil spends much of his time thinking about the class structure and how it is wrong and what he needs to do about it. He is so focused on the issue, he never actually does anything about it because he spends the rest of his time passing judgments on others. George on the other hand, never thinks of it at all. It is not an issue to him. Everyone is equal in his eyes. Lucy is caught in the middle of these two views. When Cecil tells her that even Mrs. Honeychurch is taken in by Sir Harry and his snobbery, Lucy can’t help but wonder if it really matters. Cecil’s mind is closed off like a room while George is open-minded like a room, but one with an inspiring view. As Cecil and Lucy leave the small pond, Lucy has flashbacks to the scene in the great outdoors of Italy when George kissed her. As she’s reflecting, she comments to Cecil that every person they met in Italy was extraordinary. Cecil could not know that this was the most intimate conversation that the two had ever and would ever share.

Besides the narrative and landscape, the construction of Italy comes through visual elements such as the landmarks around Florence. The film’s most significant landmark in Italy becomes a loggia in the middle of a Piazza. As Lucy is sight-seeing among familiar Italian monuments, a brawl erupts among several Italian men near the Loggia. One of the men becomes seriously injured. The fight attracts many others, and a camera shot from above shows Italian flocking to the injured man straining for a closer glimpse, like sharks are attracted to blood. The man dies and the scene turns absolutely chaotic; the police arrive and handcuff the assaulter while others cart the dead body away. Before this happens, Lucy catches a glimpse of blood pouring from the man’s mouth and faints. George happens to be nearby, catches her and carries her away from the Loggia. Later, when she expresses embarrassment over her release of emotions though fainting, George tells her he nearly fainted himself. These statements contradict what most Italians in the scene were shown doing. They wanted to get closer and be a part of the action while the English wanted to get away. Lucy summarizes this by saying, “Italians can be so lovable and so kind, yet so violent.” This comment is said as if it was true only of Italians, and furthermore, that is was true of all Italians. The implications of this scene are that while England is clearly very civilized, Italy is chaotic and uncivil.

In this way Italy is depicted as more primitive. The people are a part of nature; they feel it. They release their passions and emotions while the British hold them in. The British are too caught up in what is “proper” to truly feel life. At one point Mr. Emerson calls Lucy a “poor girl” because he recognizes she has the ability to truly enjoy life, yet she doesn’t because she is too busy making niceties and being British, the way Britishness is constructed in the film. She responds indignantly, “Poor girl? I think I’m a very fortunate girl.” The implications of this scene are very clear. She is traveling in Italy, yet rarely does she allow herself to feel Italy; it is easier for her to repress her true feelings so she doesn’t step out of line or shock anyone.

One of the first shots we see of England is a garden party celebrating Lucy’s engagement to Cecil. Cecil is disturbed by all the fuss and comments that “it’s barbaric.” His description of an engagement party as barbaric contrasts completely with the actual barbaric fight scene by the Loggia. Italy becomes even more primitive while enhancing the intensity of the British class system and the accepted ways to behave.

What makes Lucy Honeychurch the heroine is her inner struggle with the accepted ways to behave. Her struggle between these two ways of life is resolved when she accepts her self-identity and responsibility to make her own decisions. While in Italy, the reverend Mr. Beebe, after hearing Lucy play Beethoven on the piano tells her that he has a pet theory about her. Her piano playing is passionate and emotional while she’s living her life as Charlotte Bartlett and the rest of proper British society think it should be lived, sensibily and quietly. The piano, however, is the one place where her true passion can be showed. Mr. Beebe’s theory is that one day music and life will mingle. It is only after playing Beethoven that the viewers can feel they see the real Lucy. In fact, Mrs. Honeychurch prefers for Lucy not to play Beethoven because it makes her peevish. We see this several times throughout the film; it is Beethoven that she has been playing when she decides to go for a walk by herself and finds herself at the Loggia. Had she not gotten herself riled up by playing, she never would have there to see the fight. As a musician it is acceptable for her to express her passion. One day, Mr. Beebe feels, she won’t need the Beethoven to release her, she will be able to find it in life.

Mr. Emerson sees this quality in Lucy also, as does another guest Eleanor Lavish. Miss Lavish is a romance novelist and tells Miss Bartlett that Lucy would be the ideal heroine because of her innate passion. The interesting part, according to Miss Lavish, is that Lucy has yet to meet the someone who will open her up. Charlotte is upset with this idea and spends much of her time restraining Lucy. She puts barriers between Lucy and George, afraid George will influence her to forget her “Britishness.” Charlotte works her own influence over Lucy, convincing Lucy that she is merely one of his “exploits.” Lucy is embarrassed that she was taken advantage of this way and sees that this “courtship” is improper according to British sensibilities. Therefore, she accepts Cecil’s marriage proposal. However, despite Charlotte’s attempts, George still seems to have the same effect on Lucy that Beethoven does, and slowly Mr. Beebe’s theory begins to come true. Lucy does her best to squelch her instincts and act “properly” but she becomes riled up every time he is near her. The audience feels a strong connection to George because he is able to pull the real Lucy out of the world of British sensibilities.

Part of Lucy’s struggle to find her own self-identity is that she tries to embrace both the primitivism and restrain it. She comments that as a little girl she enjoyed swimming in a nearby pond and her brother Freddy is constantly attacking her and wrestling her to the ground, which she seems to enjoy. This type of behavior, from Cecil’s point-of-view, would be all right for a child, even a girl. But as Lucy grows into a woman, she must succumb to British sensibilities. Lucy knows that this is what is expected from her so she lies to everyone around her and continues to say she loves Cecil. She perpetuates her own constraint. Even after she has admitted to herself that she loves George, she will not admit it to him she cannot shake her British sensibilities.

The implication of this story of middle-class is that even the people with the deepest of British sensibilities instilled in them, such as Charlotte, want the society and the social structure to change. Charlotte fought Lucy and George on the surface, by keeping them apart, but yet she hoped for them. She kept their connection alive by pestering Lucy about George and what happened between them in Italy. It was Charlotte who, in the end, realized the error of her ways, and cornered Lucy into talking to Mr. Emerson. Charlotte realized that only Mr. Emerson, with no sense of social hierarchy, could force Lucy to see things clearly. Mr. Emerson told her, “You’re in a muddle” and made her see that it was George was muddled her and it was George who could unmuddle her. To become unmuddled, she needed to rid herself of her societal restraints and the only way to do this was to listen to herself. In the end she realizes that George is nearly the only person around her who doesn’t want to restrain her. He wants her to have her own thoughts and feelings, and make her own decisions. Whereas Cecil wants her to be a Leonardo or some other painting, George wants her to be real.

Through Lucy’s traveling in Italy, she sees that life has more to offer than the sensibilities of middle-class Britain. She does not have an easy time fighting her own instincts to let go of these decorous customs and live like she saw Italians living, but with the help of many around her, she does. She rejects a life with Cecil where she would be an object to admire and accepts responsibility for her life by marrying George who can only offer his wish for her to keep her own identity and his sense of freedom which reminds her of a room with a view. The film shows this through the construction of narrative, visual elements, and analysis of individual characters. The effect is a masterpiece.

Miss Rixie Recommends or The 3rd Annual Book Review

1. No Place Like Home by MHC
Despite the fact that Ms. Clark had four or five children and a handful of grandchildren, she (or any other author currently writing) does not seem to understand what children are ACTUALLY LIKE (children don't pick up on things like Mommy being upset or the fact that Mommy was crying an hour ago if Mommy is doing her best to hide it. Hell, they won't pick up on it if Mommy is doing her WORST to hide it. Children don't realize Mommies experience things outside of their children). This complaint, however, is the worst one I have about No Place like Home, Mary Higgins Clark's most recent bestseller. This suspenseful novel was reminiscent of Clark's golden age--Remember Me; Loves Music, Loves to Dance; etc. Highly recommended!!

2. Dating Is Murder by Harley Jane Kozak
Last summer I recommended HJK's first novel, Dating Dead Men, and said I couldn't wait for Wollie's next adventure (despite the fact that her heroine's name is Wollie). This second novel is proving to be just as engaging and original as her first.

3. Murderers Prefer Blondes by Amanda Matetsky
One of the best and most original books I have read in years. Matetsky's heroine has much to suffer through starting with the fact that it's 1954 and she's a working woman in a man's world. Couple that with the fact that her (married) name is Paige Turner and she has to take lots of grief about it from her male co-workers without being able to stand up for herself or she'll be fired. With a beatnik best friend as a sidekick, the heroine is modern without being over-the-top, and the plot is refreshingly original. The tone is informal without being cutesy, the situations are believable without making our heroine pathetic, and most importantly of all, Matetsky doesn't have to try too hard. Beautiful! Miss Rixie also recommends: Murder is a Girl Best Friend's also by Amanda Matetsky and anything by Tamar Myers

4. Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Your brother insists everyone call him The Rooster, including his business clients. Your sister dresses up in a fat suit and makes up her face to look like a punching bag to pull one over on her father. While living in Paris, you sign up for French lessons hoping to one day be able to talk pretty. Welcome to the colorful and electric, slightly off-kilter world of David Sedaris. Miss Rixie also recommends: Dress Your Family in Curduroy and Denim, also by Sedaris. More essays about his family, including his brother The Rooster.

5. Every Boy Has One by Meg Cabot
The third and final book in Cabot's NY Tribune series, this novel is (loosely) based on Meg Cabot's own wedding experience with enough twists and unlucky happenstances to keep the reader intrigued (and laughing). Cabot has again struck gold with her originality--the novel is written through emails, telephone conversations, instant messenger, and journal entries between characters--never in dialogue, making it a fast, easy, and enjoyable read. In her last several books, Cabot has climbed to the top of Miss Rixie's list of favorite authors where she resides with greats like Mary Higgins Clark, Janet Evanovich, and Jennifer Crusie.

6. Persuading Annie by Melissa Nathan
An updated, modern version of Jane Austen's Persuasion, Persuading Annie maintains the charm of the original while adding more spunk and sparkle to the characters. Nothing will ever top Nathan's other Austen update Pride, Prejudice, and Jasmin Field, but Persuading Annie runs a close second. Miss Rixie also recommends: pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field, of course, and Nathan's original novel, The Nanny.

Boys vs. Girls: the Continuing Story

Brennan: When I was getting my hair cut yesterday, the lady told me I should use conditioner to counteract the chlorine from the pool. ... Rix?
Me: Yeah?
Brennan: What's conditioner?
Me: It's moisturizer ... for you hair. You know, lotion?
Brennan: YES, I KNOW WHAT MOISTURIZER IS NOW. SHUT UP!
Me [snickering]: I didn't say anything...

Boys versus Girls

Monday morning after teaching three hours plus of swimming lessons, my younger brother and I stagger home exhausted. We flip a coin to see who gets to shower first (he wins; I make him promise to hurry and threaten him with a torturous death as only an older sister can if he's not fast) and he hops in. A half an hour later, after I'm out and dressed, he knocks on my bedroom door.

Brennan: Rix?
Me: Yeah?
Bren: Can I come in? I need to ask you something.
Me: What's up?
Bren: There's something wrong with my skin. I've washed my face, like, eight times, but my skin feels all dry and ...
Me: Tight?
Bren: Yes! Exactly!
Me: Hold out your hand.
He obliges. I dump enough lotion in his hand to cover his entire body.
Me: Now rub on your face.
He closes his eyes and rubs as if his hands were a towel and a bucket of water had just been dumped on his head.
Me: Better?
Bren: Wow!...It feels better already. Oh my God...that's amazing! How did you know what was wrong?
Me: Well, your skin was dry because you spend three hours a day in a pool with enough chlorine to kill even the most resistant strains of bacteria and then you come home and you wash your face eight times. Write this down: water dries out your skin.
Bren: What??? That doesn't make ANY sense.
Me: Be that as it may...


Two days later as we're goofing around in the pool waiting for our next swimming lesson to start, I tell this story to another lifeguard, Chelsea, in the presence of Brennan:

Me: Isn't it amazing what a boy with two sisters can still miss out on?? I mean, the boy didn't know he needed MOISTURIZER to make his skin stop feeling DRY.
Bren: What's moisturizer?
Chelsea: It's lotion.
Bren: Oh, lotion. ... I used lotion once. On my hands. I can't remember why.
Chelsea and I watch in dumbfounded amazement as he swims away.

Boys.

7th Hell

Me: Mom, will you get me an ice cream bar?
Mom: No.

[Later]
Mom: Who was talking about the TV show 7th Heaven earlier? Now I have the theme song in my head.
Me: You know the theme song to 7th Heaven ? HA-HA!!! That's God punishing you for not getting me an ice cream bar earlier. ...Who on EARTH knows the theme song to 7th Heaven and hasn't yet committed suicide?
Mom: Well, I tape Gilmore Girls everyday and when I get home from work, I rewind the tape. 7th Heaven is on right after GG , so I'm stuck listening to it.
Me: Why, because the rewind button is the only one that works on your remote?
Mom: Well, what do *you* suggest?
Me: TBS where they are playing Seinfeld reruns at that time.
Mom: I hate Seinfeld.
Me:

[Ten minutes later]
Me: What do you mean you hate Seinfeld ? You always used to watch it.
Mom: I hate it.
Me: What are you TALKING about? You like Seinfeld.
Mom: I have a rule with myself where if I turn the TV on and Seinfeld 's on, I have to change the channel before anyone speaks.
Me: But what about Must-See-TV night that we all watched every Thursday all the time I was in high school??? You liked it then! Mom...
Mom: Nope.
Me: I swear you makes these things up just to make sure I'm still listening to you.
[She begins to read and ignore me.]

Me [Ten minutes later, unable to let this go]: I think we've lost sight of what that conversation was about. So Seinfeld is worse than 7th Heaven ?
Mom [Horrified]: NOOO!!!! [Pause] Well, yeah.
Me: [Several octaves higher than usual]: WHAT?!?
Mom: I would never actually watch 7th Heaven.
Me: And yet you know the theme song.
Mom: [Singing the theme song]: 7th heaven...

The Tonys...soon to be renamed The Norbert & Michelles OR The Idina & Tayes--Vote today!!

Rixie & Tara's List of Fabulous Moments During the 2005 Tonys:

Taye 'n' Idina

Norbert and Michelle Federer = BFF!!!!!

Sara Ramirez thanking Claritin

Norbert Leo Butz 'n' John Lithgow hugging

Hugh Jackman saying he got a "look from my wife"

Spamalot performance
Spelling Bee performance (as in"That is correct." "I KNOW.")

Norbert Leo Butz "getting the joke"
Sherie Rene Scott CRYING
"I have always breathed out of one nostril and tonight WAS NO EXCEPTIOOOOON!"
Hot guy from Spelling Bee singing to Al Sharpton
Hot guy from Piazza looking hot
HUGH JACKMAN DANCING!!!!!
Norbert and Michelle Federer = BFF!!!!!
Norbert 'n' John Lithgow hugging
Discovering that Sara Ramirez pronounces "Sara" cool and ethnic

Okay, I know those last two were repeats, but seriously, who can blame me????

I'm looking over this list and realizing that we've forgotten the two most obvious choices (and I mean, really, the whole point in watching):
1. NORBERT LEO BUTZ WINNING
2. SARA RAMIREZ WINNING ... YEAH, BABY!!


I bet you're wishing you watched it, aren't you???

I love my job. Make no mistake about it; I love my job. There are some days, though, when I could really use a break. Today is one of those days. There are so many words and phrases floating through my head ... overwhelming ... underpaid ... overworked ... underexperienced ... overlooked ... under the weather...

That last one feels the most right. But perhaps it would be closer to just say simply, 'I feel blue', and leave it at that.

I'm Still Alive...at least for now

When they told me that as a first-year teacher, I would never have any free time, I believed them.

When they told me that as a first-year teacher, the job would be my life, I believed them.

When they told me that as a first-year teacher, I would have no money, I believed them.

What I didn't understand was the extent to which these things would be true. What I didn't understand was that any free time I possessed would be wasted as I would be too exhausted to do anything but lie on the couch and stare mindlessly at the TV. What I didn't understand that any time I wasn't at school working, I was at home working. And on those rare occasions I wasn't at home working, I was at home thinking about work. Which, in most ways, is even worse.

In the twelve weeks that I've been teaching, I have enjoyed it more immensely than I ever realized I would. I'm more convinced than ever that there is nothing else for me but teaching (well, except maybe writing that best-selling novel I've been talking about. All in good time, though. All in good time). But, despite this, I've also become more convinced than ever that someone needs to invent a button to shut off my brain from time to time.

I'm watching a movie, thoroughly engrossed and entertained, and suddenly the camera cuts to an outside shot of the school--or even worse, inside a classroom--and suddenly, I'm thinking about schoolwork. Once an avid reader who read more than a book a week, I now find that most books can't hold my attention because there's always something going on at school that I must think about. Inevitably, when conversing with someone they will say, "What's new with you?" For weeks I would say things like, "Well, Johnny finally turned an assignment in, so we had a celebration fourth hour," or "Susie passed a quiz which means she actually *read* the chapter." Finally I began saying, "Nothing!" which I've now amended to, "Nothing you want to hear about. What's new with you?"

Now I try and explain the situation to my non-teacher friends. "I don't have any free time." They say soothing things like, "I'm sure that's rough." And I say, "No, no. I don't have ANY free time. ANY. Do you know what I did last week? I graded papers and watched the election. That was my life. And the week before that was even worse. Wait til you hear about it!" As I begin, my eyes begin to bug and my hands begin to flail and my friends begin backing away, or in the case of a telephone conversation, begin to make staticky noises and say things like, "What? You're breaking up! I can't hear you. I'll have to call you back." And I'm left to do things like grade papers and watch the election.

And yet, despite having no free time, no money, no sleep, and virtually no life, I find that my life, as it is, is more rewarding and more fulfilling now than I can ever remember it being. And despite everything, I'm not sure I would change a thing.

Unless, of course, that brain shut-off button comes along. Now THAT would be rewarding!

14 Ways to Wreak Havoc at a Small Town Grocery Store

by T.D.A., my talented and underappreciated sister

1. Constantly take and wear others' nametags and then insist you don't know where they are.
2. Switch generic/brand name price tags.
3. Erase all expiration dates in milk cooler.
4. Count one less item than necessary for baker (11 rolls, 5 kaisers, 7 coneys, etc.)
5. Switch money backward and forward in the register
6. Knock over egg cartons and leave to rot.
7. Open all cooler doors (and leave them).
8. Carry out for customer and return 15-20 minutes later.
9. Leave one item on each aisle floor. Exchange items periodically.
10. Pour rock salt into garbage boxes.
11. Leave all recycling bags completely full.
12. Never add up hours. Complain about being shorted on paycheck.
13. Constantly refer to Shur-fine brand as Shur-as-hell-fine.
14. Replace framed, first-earned dollar bill with a note reading, "Dave, IOU one dollar."

My Strongest Suit

In life, one has to face a huge assortment
of nauseating fads and good advice.
There's health and fitness, diet and deportment
and other pointless forms of sacrifice
Conversation? Wit? I am a doubter.
Manners? Charm? They're no way to impress.
So forget the inner me, observe the outer:
I am what I wear and how I dress.

Oh, now I believe in looking
like my time on earth is cooking
whether polka-dotted, striped, or even checked
With some glamour guaranteeing
every fiber in my being
is displayed to quite remarkable effect.
From your cradle via trousseau
to your deathbed, you're on view,
so never compromise--accept no substitute
I would rather wear a barrel than conservative apparel
For dress has always been my strongest suit.

Staying in or hitting townwards,
from the top and working downwards
I ensure that every stitch is stitched in time
Whether wig or hat or turban,whether clad boudoir or urban
Not to strut your stuff outrageously is a crime
And the few who are invitedto my wardrobe are delighted
as they wander through my things to find en route
that in negligee or formal, I am anything but normal
For dress has always been my strongest suit.

Overwear, underwear, anytime, anywhere
Overwear, underwear, anytime, anywhere
Overwear, underwear, anytime, anywhere

I am what I wear
I said anytime, anywhere
So bring me all my finest,
most audacious, my divinest
most revealing, most expensive, and to boot
Most arresting, most heart-stopping
Most free-flowing, most eye-popping
Most arresting, most heart-stopping
Most free-flowing, most eye-popping

Dress has always been my strongest suit
My strongest suit
You know that I am what I wear
Dress has always been my strongest suit

So bring me all my finest, most audacious, my divinest
most revealing, most expensive, and to boot
Most arresting, most heart-stopping
Most free-flowing, most eye-popping
Most arresting, most heart-stopping
Dress has always been my strongest suit
My strongest suit
You know that I am what I wear
Dress has always been my strongest suit.

"My Strongest Suit"
From the Broadway musical Aida

Letter to My Younger Self

 
As you get older, your character will develop, you will grow, you will adapt to the world around you, you will see things that amaze you, things that haunt you, things that scare you, and things that excite you.  Accept the setbacks, embrace the advances, and work to change the rest. 
 
You will see buildings fall and monuments rise, friendships develop and relationships fail, planes crash and dreams take flight.  Don't allow human cruelty--however large--to poison you, but do allow the gift of human kindness--however small--to change you. 
 
There may be a time when the music is wrong and you're wearing the wrong shoes and you want to sit one out.  Dance anyway. 
 
Learn the difference between giving up and moving on.  Moving on is always okay; giving up never is. 
 
There may be times when you feel shy.  There may be times when you feel self-conscious.   There will be times when it is easy to remain silent.  Speak up anyway, and be grateful you have a voice.
 
Don't let challenges over power you.  Instead, allow them to become empowering.
 
Girls in high school, models in magazines, women in the media--these people will never be portrayed as nice.  Nice guys finish last.  Be nice anyway.
 
The adage is, times will change.  So will you.  But stop every now and then and to take stock.  Remember, there's also an adage not all change is good.  Make sure you're evolving as well. 
 
And finally, whenever you get the chance, eat dessert first.

Good Night

“I need help! I neeeeed heeeeelp!” I’d wanted my voice to reverberate down the hall, but instead I sounded like a croaking duck.

“What is wrong with you?” my mother asked from my doorway a few seconds later. I attempted to look up from where I was face down on my bed under a mass of blankets. The effort was pointless though—the room was dark, only silhouetted by a single streetlamp across the street and on the corner.

“I need help. Look at my sheet!” The yellow and blue plaid cotton sheet was twisted around my calves and ankles, providing a makeshift straitjacket for my legs. “I can’t move and I’m sooo tired!”

“Okay, I’m turning on the light so prepare yourself. This is what happens when you only get four hours of sleep and then work all day.” She untangled the sheet and tucked it expertly under my mattress at the end of the bed while I lay comatose, made inert by exhaustion and frustration. Her movements were quick suggesting years of experience.

“There you go.” As she pulled the comforter up over my shoulder, I immediately felt better even though the July weather was much too hot for comforters. I heard her begin to move out. I snuggled down under the protective cover of darkness, then began to wail.

“Wait! Waaait! Now my pajama leg is all funny, and I can’t fix it.”

She didn’t even complain as she pushed the blankets out of the way, grabbed the green and white squared fabric bunched around my knee and gave it a yank down. “That’s why I have to wear socks pulled up over my pajamas bottoms in the winter.”

I wanted to ask ‘why only in the winter?’ but she was fixing the covers around me once again and I was distracted by familiar stirrings of childhood. My eyes wouldn’t open and it was too much effort to use my vocal cords.

“Good night,” came the almost-businesslike adieu from my childhood. I half-smiled as I turned my face back into the pillow, a favored position I had long ago outgrown. The light went out, and cozy in bed with the comforter weighing just the perfect amount, I picked my head up to listen to her sandals flip-flopping all the way down the hall until they were too far away to hear. Then, satisfied, I burrowed into my pillow and snuggled deeper in the memory.

If

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master,
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same,
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start at your beginnings again,
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after hey are gone,
and so bold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
if you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds worth of distance run
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

On Faith

I remember attending church through most of my early childhood. Then, somewhere in my upper elementary school years, we stopped going so regularly. My mother blames this on my father. “I never missed church until I married your dad,” she often points out, as if this is conclusive. After all, he never missed church until he married her.

Both my parents were raised in fairly strict Catholic homes. My father’s parents were Irish-Catholic, and had the seven children to prove it. So far as anyone knows, they never missed mass. Ever. For my mother, church was more of a social event. You went, you socialized, you went home. Of course, because she went to a Catholic school, nearly all her friends were Catholic.

“Yeah,” my mom counters, “but I never even thought about missing until then.” I find this hard to believe. As a child, sitting and kneeling on the pews in your dress with your itchy tights, thinking about the glazed doughnut you were promised by your father on the condition that you are good, or at least quiet for Pete’s sake, and generally thinking of the 99 other places you’d rather be instead of in church is like a Rite of Passage. Baptism, Reconciliation, First Communion, Dreading Mass.

Regardless of our church attendance dropping off, my siblings and I still went through Confirmation. My parents got me through by insisting once I was confirmed I could stop going to catechism. For the six months it took me and the rest of my catechism class to prepare, I got myself through it by imagining what I’d do with my free Thursday nights after this was over. Oh, and playing tic-tac-toe with myself during class.

When the time came for, well, what I can only call my pop quiz with priest, I failed miserably. I thought the questions were going to be about me and my spirituality, in which case I would have passed with flying colors (although shy, I’ve always believed one of my greatest talents is coming up with crowd-pleasing, diplomatic answers in a very short amount of time. I would have wowed them had I ever decided to enter in the Miss America contest). The test, however, was over Jesus and the history of Christianity (where do they get this stuff?) “I’m not very good at geography,” I said weakly to the priest as I struggled to come up with some proper nouns. “Jerusalem? Jordan? Syria? Oh, oh, I know! The Red Sea! The Nile?”

The aspect of confirmation I enjoyed the most was picking out my saint name. I was instructed to pick a saint that I felt an affinity to, someone I felt could guide me on my way to becoming the fully-realized Catholic the church wanted me to become. My mother had chosen Saint Theresa. “How did you choose that?” “I had always loved the story about it rained roses when she died.” I was transfixed for days by that beautiful image. Was that one of the miracles that occurred after she was dead that helped her achieve sainthood? I wondered. I wonder if that counts for a miracle. If I were in charge, I would definitely count that as one of her miracles. Who doesn’t want it to rain roses? And how could anyone compete with raining roses?

In the end, I went patriotic. I chose Elizabeth Seton, the first American saint. At my confirmation, the priest didn’t read the “Seton” part, so I ended up with just Elizabeth, along with seven other girls. I was upset because although John’s mother was impressive, she was not the one I had chosen. I had felt an affinity to Elizabeth Seton, and besides, and now I had betrayed her and looked unoriginal.

Once I was confirmed, I gave myself more freedom to explore my feelings on religion and Catholicism. I was able to mesh what the Bible said and what I had been brought up to believe with my own feelings—no, I would think importantly, My Morals. What I eventually came up with was—prepare yourselves for this—the Bible was written by men, not God, and men are fallible. The Bible could be wrong, and at the very least, it’s archaic. To believe that thought hasn’t evolved in thousands of years is also archaic. (Even after my confirmation, it took years to squelch down the inner Catholic in me who wanted to cross herself and pray to God to not punish her for blaspheme.)

From this I created the Benevolent God (though the title didn’t come until later when I read it in a book. After recognizing my own personal beliefs fell under this title of Benevolent God, I felt they were validated. They had merit. My benevolent God must be the truth!) The benevolent God ignored the fact that I didn’t go to church. He ignored that I only said prayers occasionally. He overlooked these things and He loved me anyway because I was good (usually) and kind (mostly).

While in college, I took a class called Modern British Heresies. We discussed a lot of different ways to commit blasphemy and what constituted a heresy. I began thanking God nightly that I didn’t live in 18th century Britain where my benevolent God may have been considered blasphemous. Yup, good thing I lived now, in the 21st century, where I could have a clear conscience about the whole thing. … Right?

We discussed many of the differences between Catholicism and Protestantism. Although my teacher never specifically said so, I believe he was Protestant, and I devoted more time to developing a theory on why than I did on the homework I was supposed to be doing for class. “If you are a Protestant, to please your God, you have to live a long and hard life. You have to work all the time, and you have to work hard. You have to think pure, clean thoughts, and you don’t get to take lazy days. If you’re Catholic, you can do whatever you want, so long as you’re sorry at the end, and make a confession. Want to drink? Sleep around? Become a thief? Go for it! Just make sure you are absolved for your sins before you die!” We all laughed, and I considered that what he said had some real merit to it. Except for one thing.

He had not taken into consideration Catholic guilt.

Here’s the thing with Catholic guilt: it does not matter how religious you are. It does not matter how much a part of your life Catholicism is. If Catholicism has ever entered your home, the guilt will be there forever. It’s the Energizer Bunny; it keeps going and going and going. Always. So far as I know, it affects each person differently. I mainly experience guilt over the way I treat others. Despite the fact that I am always courteous and as a rule nice, I can experience guilt for days over how I think the other person perceived me. Did he think I meant that in a mean way? Did she think I was trying to get away from her when I said I was busy? Did I hurt their feelings?

I also experience (lesser) guilt over church-related things: spacing off in Mass, not going to Mass, cheating during Lent, taking the Lord’s name in vain and then rationalizing it by saying who doesn’t? , not always feeling 100% sorry for my sins. Luckily, I don’t usually feel guilty about lying because if I did the guilt would be doubled: (1) because I lied and (2) because I’m really good at it. Long after the religious tendencies go, the guilt remains.

If Protestants are earning their way into heaven through hard labor and strong work ethic, Catholics are getting there through the guilt time they put in. If life is a roller coaster, the fluorescent-painted seats, chugging up hills in anticipation and zooming down them with exhilaration, the delicious spray of water at the bottom, the blue sky whirling by, the indistinguishable faces swirling past—this is the fun part. Standing in line before the ride with four hundred other sweating, cranky people for three hours with the heat and humidity index at 95 while around you debate the merits of admitting defeat and getting out of line versus holding your ground while convincing yourself it can’t possibly be much longer—this is the Catholic guilt that accompanies. You can’t have the ride without the line … at least if you’re Catholic. And while the ride is fun, it’s over in a blur. The line is long and the waiting is interminable. And just when you think it’s over, you turn a corner and realize you’re only half there. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.



I think back to my childhood and how I constantly asked my parents about God. “How do you know He’s there? How do you know he’s real?” And their response, “Because you have faith.” “Where do you get faith? How do you get it?” I don’t remember their responses, but I know how I will respond if my children ever ask me.

Despite my questions, how debilitating the guilt can be, the annoyance at stereotypes, and the differences between what I was brought up to believe and what I actually believe, I don’t question my faith. When I’m scared or overwhelmed, I say a Hail Mary. When I hear sirens signaling an accident or ambulance, I want to cross myself. When I lose something, I ask Saint Anthony for a minute of his time and I’m usually not disappointed.

“Where do you get faith? How do you get it?”



I was eight years old. I know I was eight because Nicole and I were good enough swimmers to go off the regular diving board, but still too scared to try the high board. I know that Nicole had said something to make me mad. I don’t remember what it was, but our friendship has always been like that. We make each other mad, we have fights, and then, if possible, we never talk about it again. We like it that way. I watched as she trotted across the cement deck of the pool from the deep end back to where our moms stood in the baby pool, cooling their feet and ankles while watching our youngest siblings. Boy, was I seething! Well, I’ll show you, I thought darkly as I watched her help herself to a juice box.

I approached the high dive. There was quite a line which, I thought, will give me time to decide what I want to do. Some loud boys got in line behind me. They were pushing and shoving and laughing at each other. I edged forward away from them. I wasn’t sure I had the guts to get out of line now.

Across the pool I could see my mom and Nicole’s mom talking and laughing. Weston and Tara were … what were they doing? Oh. Pretending to be dogs. Naturally.

“Go! Go!” someone said behind me, pushing me onto the first stair. I climbed up to the top, but it wasn’t my turn yet. The girl in front of me was waiting for the boy in front of her to get to the ladder down in the water before she went. One bounce and she was gone. I listened for her splash. Where was it, where was it, where was it? Splash!! Oy, that took an awfully long time for her to get to the water!

My heart began hammering around unsteadily in my chest. I could hear myself laboring to breathe. Remember in Romancing the Stone when Michael Douglas dives off the side of a castle? That’s what this is, I told myself. Just take three steps. Step, step, step, JUMP!! It will be so simple. Fast and easy. I took my first hesitant step onto the board, positioned between the two handrails. The board was still wobbling up and down from the last girl’s jump. I looked up as I waited for it to become more stable.

Please don't make me go, please don't make me go!

I’d lost Tara and Weston in the crowd and I couldn’t find Nicole either. My mom and her mom were still chatting. In fact, no one had noticed that I was about to embark on what I could only think of One Giant Mistake. Why wasn't my mother's intuition screaming, "WAKE UP, WAKE UP!"?? Why wasn't Nicole watching? This was supposed to be all for her anyway! ... But to honest, the only person I was mad at was myself. Mad, and scared, and nearly hysterical.

Please don't make me go, please don't make me go!

The board had stabilized. I took one timid step. Big mistake. The board began wobbling all over the place. I looked down. I was still over cement. I needed to move out so that if I accidentally fell off, I would at least land in water and have a CHANCE at surviving. One more step, and now the handrails were gone. Tears began to swim in my eyes. Ordinarily, I'm all for crying. I'm a very good crier. But right now, they were hindering my ability to see. How was I supposed to make it to the end of the board with no visibility and a board that's just rearing to buck me off? I gazed wildly around, hoping for something to save me.

Please don't make me go, please don't make me go!

Over the water, the sun was intensified and I could barely keep my eyes open. Vaguely, I heard a whistle sound. One more step out, more pausing as the board shook and vibrated. Maybe it was this unsteady because it was about to fall off. I imagined going down with the board. Better to just get to the end, jump fast, and hope it doesn’t go with me. The slower I take, the better chance there is of this thing falling off and killing me.

Time seemed to slow down and background noises faded. This feels just like a movie, I thought bordering somewhere between hysteria and numbness. More whistling, this time accompanied by shouts.

“Hey!! Hey! Get OFF the board!”

Vaguely, I became aware that the lifeguard was yelling at someone. The lifeguard … was yelling … at me. At me! “Hey! Get off the board!” She gestured largely to the kids diving off the sides, then tapped her watch. “The board’s closed now. You’ll have to wait till later to jump.”

I nodded numbly, and swiveled, grabbing onto the handrail for support as I made my way down. The boys behind me had long ago left realizing they weren’t going to get to go off the board for at least fifteen more minutes until the board opened up again. I scrambled down the stairs sucking the air in deep gulps and releasing it with sighs of relief.



Years later, I remember the walk out across that diving board like it happened ten minutes. But I don't remember the terror I felt; it lost its edge years ago. I don't remember the exact color of my relief or exactly what I did after I got down the stairs. But I do remember thinking about guardian angels.

And no matter how much someone could talk about coincidences and timing, I will never be convinced otherwise. Anyone could have been stopped from going off. But it was me. Probably the youngest and most frightened and least anxious to go. I was the one who had stopped. And as I watched my red painted toenails as they flew down those stairs, I remember raising my head and thinking, "Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God," over and over until the terror ebbed and faded into just another childhood experience, unordinary from any other.

New Look

I was getting sick of the blue and orange (I'm not really an orange kind of girl), so here's the new look.

Enjoy.

Seven Children, a Dog, and a Guitar

The night my parents sat my sister and me down in our living room and explained to us that Mommy was going to have a baby, I imagined a baby doll waiting in the garage for us. I waited patiently, and then expectantly as they explained that soon we would have a little brother or sister. Neither of us spoke, and at the time I assumed Tara was waiting with diminishing patience, as I was, for one of them to go out to the car and bring the baby in. Of course, Tara was only three at the time, and since it took her close to a year to even realize she had a brother once he arrived, it is more probable she was watching Sesame Street in her head or pretending she was a puppy. I, on the other hand, remember a distinct feeling of confusion when I realized that not only was there no doll, we wouldn’t even get the baby for months.

Talk about a let down.

The months leading up to my brother’s birth were a little more eventful, however, than I would have at first expected. Nearly every night we discussed possible names before my parents finally agreed on Holly for a girl, Brennan for a boy. I was not-so-secretly praying for a brother, not being all that impressed with the sister I already had.

When the call came from the hospital, and Sandi, our baby-sitter and best friend’s mom, informed me that I had a baby brother, I congratulated God on his listening skills. A slideshow of images appears in my head every time I think of those days: the dark pink, wrinkled face of my new baby brother, only a day old as he sat on the laps of his older sisters; watching my mom make room for Tara on her hospital bed when Tara insisted she had to rest; my grandparents in the oversized hospital gowns. But what I remember mostly are the ribbons my grandparents gave Tara and me the day Brennan was born. They looked like pink and blue lace but were stretchy, and we were extraordinarily pleased with them. Our high-school baby-sitter French-braided our hair with them to celebrate, and it was understood, at least between Tara and me, that this was the real treat, and not be confused with the gift of human life. On the way home from visiting the hospital, our car broke down and my dad walked us to a nearby house where we hitched a ride the remaining four miles home. Tara and I cried like it was the end of the world. Some might argue the excitement and stress of a new baby brother, Mom away from home, and all that extended family around had worn us out, but four miles can be a long and scary distance. I was excited about having a new brother, but his birth just didn’t stack up to everything his older, worldlier sisters were going through at the time of his birth.

By the end of my kindergarten year, only a month after his birth, all that had changed. Not only was I enamored with Brennan, I wanted another one. “But Mom,” I rationalized, “we have two girls and one boy. We need another boy to even things out.” Some days I felt a sister might be good. “Mom,” I tried persuasively, “if we have another girl, then when I leave for college, you’ll still have two girls and a boy. Nothing will change.” Hardly foolproof logic, but it didn’t matter because Mom was having none of it.

I was nine years old when my mother wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform on tape. Immortalized forever in my pink and white tie-dyed, hello 1991 T-shirt and matching stretch pants is me rapping, “I love my mom and dad, and I love my baby brother. I always tell my mom she needs to have another.” So she is aware that I want another one, I remember thinking. It will happen eventually.

By the time Brennan was five, my best friend’s mom was up to her fourth child. “But Mom, Sandi has four kids. Don’t you want her new baby to have someone to play with?” “Her new baby can play with Brennan,” she’d say distractedly, while folding laundry or cleaning up spills. I’d get pouty and leave in a huff, the star in my own movie about a misunderstood, underloved girl. “All she wanted was someone to love,” I imagined my audience saying. Never mind the sister and brother she already had.

Shortly after this time, I gave up on the dream of having another sibling and moved onto my next great plan. Every Friday night, Tara and I would beg our mother to let us have a friend—any friend—over to spend the night. She had plenty of reasons why we couldn’t: the house is too small or if you have one, then I’ll have to let your sister have one. The reasons went on and on, but without question, the most irritating one was, “Girls, for crying out loud, I spend all week in a small, overheated room teaching to eighth and ninth graders. The last thing I want to do at the end of the week is come home to a houseful of other people’s children.” This seemed horrendously unfair. Why should Tara and I have to suffer because other people’s children were obnoxious?? Why should we have to suffer because our mother had chosen a career that involved children? When asked, my mother would respond as she finished making dinner, “Why don’t you become a teacher, and then you’ll know.” Well, I informed her coldly, you lose, because guess what?

“I said, GUESS WHAT?”

“All right,” she’d sigh resignedly. “What?”

“I’m never becoming a teacher. Yeah, you heard me. If the result of teaching is that you don’t want kids around, I’m never doing it.”

As any educator will understand, this seemed to brighten her spirits rather than diminish them. And the result of all our whining was that the One Per Season Rule went into effect. “You may each have one friend a season. You can choose whoever you want, whenever you want, but don’t come whining to me two weeks after you had someone, cause it’ll be your own fault you used up your season.”

The ‘whoever we wanted, whenever we wanted’ part sounded just fine, but once a season? Tara and I looked at each other and scowled. One per season? That meant only four times a year. We turned the scowls on our mother who sighed the sigh of the truly weary. “Take it or leave it.”

We took it. It’s not like it was really a step down.




The result of this was that I routinely began to live in a dream world. Whereas up to this point, I could never understand why Tara’s habit of insisting we acknowledge she was—despite all evidence to the contrary—a dog, I slowly began to understand that when life hands you a lemon, well, you just gotta get on all fours and pretend that lemons were dog food.

“My name is Leisl,” I said, “and this is my brother, Kurt. Are you here to talk to our mother, Maria? She’s down the hall playing the guitar and singing about her favorite things. Oh look, here is my sister Louisa.”

But Tara was having none of it. “I’m not playing. I’ll only play if I can be the dog.”

“Tara, the von Trapps did not have any dogs.”

“Then I can’t play. I’m a dog.”

“Unh! Why do you have to ruin everything? Just be Louisa for a little while!”

“Woof,” she said matter-of-factly before settling on the floor with her head on her paw to rest.

I sighed, torn between my desire to be the von Trapp family and the reality that, like it or not, we were already short four members. Up to this point, I kept telling myself that four members could be overlooked. After all, my mom really did enjoy singing and playing the guitar, and probably would have agreed immediately to be Maria. My father flat-out refused to even acknowledge the game, calling me Erica despite my efforts to legally change my name to Leisl Michelle von Trapp (Leisl’s middle name was never shared with the general public, therefore, I decided just to keep my own—I liked it and it was so much fun to write in cursive). Refusing to do anything fun wasn’t such a far cry from Captain von Trapp, so I figured my father passed inspection. I’d put on my mother’s dress clothes and mope around the house, pretending he had given orders that under no circumstances were we to have play clothes.

So being short four members wasn’t really a problem, because we so obviously made up for what we lacked. We were, I was convinced, the von Trapps incarnate. It was only my mother’s steady refusal to produce any more offspring and my sister’s insistence that she was a dog that was keeping the rest of the world from knowing it too.

“Woof,” Tara repeated stubbornly.

I stomped my foot impatiently. The von Trapps did not have a dog; they had guitars and fun uncles. This wouldn’t be a problem if Brennan had wanted to the dog. Brennan had never seen The Sound of Music and so was resigned to the lowly role of Kurt, who had barely any lines, and was really only there so that Freidrich wouldn’t get lonely. But Tara knew the lines and, more importantly, knew the songs. She knew exactly when to stop back and let Leisl have her solos. Tara understood that Leisl was the oldest and prettiest and therefore the most important.

Louisa was manipulative and liked to crawl into normal people’s bedrooms with whole jars of spiders in her hands. Tara was perfect for Louisa and if she couldn’t see that …

“What if Louisa is a girl who thinks she’s a dog?”

Tara chewed on that. “Can I bark whenever I want?”

“I guess.”

“Can I have a solo?”

“What do you want to sing?”

“I don’t want to sing, I want to bark.”

It was shortly after this when I began wondering exactly how old Leisl was when she ran off to the hills that were alive with the sound of music to live alone. I slipped deeper and deeper into my dream world, until …

“That girl? That girl pretending she’s a dog? No, that’s not my sister. In fact, I don’t have any sisters. Or brothers. I’m an only child.”

My favorite conversation from last week:

To take a page from the Operagirl:


My favorite conversation from last week:
[After working 2 hours on a contract at work for my father, only to find an identical one already made in a folder]
ME (nearly hysteria): WHAT'S THIS??

DAD: Oops. Guess I already had Heather make one. (To Heather) And I wasn't going to tell you, but I already had Erica make that contract you did for me just now.

ME: But I worked for TWO HOURS on that contract.

DAD: Well, I appreciate the effort.

[Heather and I exchange glances.]

HEATHER: I think we need to work on our ... (spells out "communication" using the manual alphabet)

DAD: Our what?



My favorite conversation from this week:
SWIMMING LESSONS KIDS: Erica, how old are you?

ME: How old do you think?

SLK: 46?

ME: What?

SLK: 32?

ME:

SLK: 41?

ME: I'm gonna go home and kill myself

SLK: 37?