During the age of Thriller, I was in sixth grade, a tall girl with an especially unfortunate perm and the old-school kind of retainer with the layer of plastic molded across the roof of your mouth that collected saliva and forced you to slurp every few minutes. It should be no surprise that I could consider a man wearing one glittery glove cool.
My sisters and I wore out two Thriller albums. My neighbor taught me how to moonwalk, helpfully pointing out that it was easier to do if you placed a coffee table between you and your intended audience. My aunt videotaped the Thriller video and I watched it every time I went over her house.
At my middle school, there was an eighth grader who dressed like Michael Jackson, down to the glove and the jacket. The day we got our yearbooks, the school must have let everyone congregate in the cafeteria for a while to sign them. The MJ-guy had a crowd around him. One girl I was friends with got up the nerve to ask him to sign her yearbook and a small group of us rode her tails over to where he was. This was the closest, I knew, that I'd ever get to an autograph from Michael Jackson. He signed my book. Later, I was mildly disappointed to see that he signed his real name—José—in a teenage-boy scrawl, not the famous signature with the sparkler at the end.
Yesterday, as I was checking my email after dinner, I saw that the actual Michael Jackson died. Since the age of Thriller, my feelings about him have become more muddy, but suddenly I remembered José. I wondered what he might be thinking. His feelings might be just as muddy as my own, but it was lovely to remember a time when there was celebrity so big and so unsullied that a little of it could be lent to make a suburban middle school cafeteria a measure more glittery.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Anti-Foodies
lactose-intolerant
wheat-disdainful
peanut- and treenut-contemptuous
lycopenally close-minded
MSG-scornful
tannin-scoffing
shellfish-derisive
wheat-disdainful
peanut- and treenut-contemptuous
lycopenally close-minded
MSG-scornful
tannin-scoffing
shellfish-derisive
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Good Times
Brandon and I went to the David Byrne concert last night, and holy hell, I haven't had that much fun in a long time. It's sticky and hot here in Virginia these days, and I was getting ready for a get-sweaty-and-don't-care kind of evening (a close relative of throw-your-hands-in-the-air-and-wave-them-like-you-just-don't-care kind of evening), but it started pouring right before the concert, cooled down, and if there's anything better than hearing the fabulous voice of Mr. Byrne and dancing with your fella while getting your Stevie Nicks on, what with the wind and flowy sundress and mussed hair, I don't know what it is.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
For Your Pleasure
There's not much going on with me. I learned a new way to brush my teeth so as to prevent gum recession. Okay, we're caught up now.
--I recently learned of Awkward Family Photos from my pal Lee's Facebook page, and I love.
--This collaboration between The Blackout Project and the UVA Jazz Ensemble is very good.
--Perhaps you will have some use for this:
--I recently learned of Awkward Family Photos from my pal Lee's Facebook page, and I love.
--This collaboration between The Blackout Project and the UVA Jazz Ensemble is very good.
--Perhaps you will have some use for this:
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Bookety Book Books
I was going to write something like “So I’ve been up to my eyeballs in book stuff,” but then I thought, well, of course I am. That’s how I do. Anyhoo, that’s part of why I’ve been gone for so long: I’m writing the long book review for the summer issue of Brain, Child and my head and all of my typing ability has gone into that.
In other book news, Caleb is reading Jack London’s Call of the Wild at school. The Call of the Wild does not excite him. I originally thought, Oh, Jack London—all things considered in the canon, he’s not such a toughie. But, it turns out, he kind of is. We sat down to read together to catch up on the book, and this is the sort of sentence we got: “Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller’s riding whip; but the completeness of his decivilization was now evidenced by his ability to flee from the defence of moral consideration and so save his hide.” And... enter Sandman.
Also, London is an out-of-fashionie. The main characters are dogs, so there’s very little dialogue and not much internal signposts of how a character is feeling. I emailed his teacher about the book—she’s given optional assignments before and I wondered if this might be one of them—but in the end, am I going to waste her time by entering into a debate about when kids should be exposed to The Canon of English Language Literature? And what parts of the canon? Nope.
I’m conflicted myself. On the one hand, you’re not going to think of reading as fun—and you’re not going to be a lifelong reader—if you learn that it’s something to be suffered though. And you’ll be suspicious of books and your own judgment in books if you’re also told that this thing you’re suffering through is considered one of the best our country has to offer. Score one for the Wii.
On the other hand, I totally get the argument that the next generation can’t be all slang and Captain Underpants. Brandon and I just finished the Up series of movies (and by the way—awesome! It’s a series of films about a group of English people. They started interviewing them when the kids where seven, and they go back every seven years), and it’s startling how articulate all the children were in 1964.
What to do, what to do. Very soon, I’m going to start my pal Dan’s book. He’s a cognitive psychologist specializing in education, and Why Don’t Students Like School? has gotten some mahvelous reviews. I imagine some light will be shed on this issue. Some moral consideration, if you will.
And speaking of friends with books—go ahead: admire that segue—I read Jessica Handler’s Invisible Sisters, and it’s just loverley. Jessica’s two sisters died from different fatal bone-marrow disorders and her book is an unsentimental look at what loss does to a family, to a person. Jessica is probably one of the most gregarious ladies I know—and she’s doing readings now. If you’re in the south, you’re in luck.
In other book news, Caleb is reading Jack London’s Call of the Wild at school. The Call of the Wild does not excite him. I originally thought, Oh, Jack London—all things considered in the canon, he’s not such a toughie. But, it turns out, he kind of is. We sat down to read together to catch up on the book, and this is the sort of sentence we got: “Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller’s riding whip; but the completeness of his decivilization was now evidenced by his ability to flee from the defence of moral consideration and so save his hide.” And... enter Sandman.
Also, London is an out-of-fashionie. The main characters are dogs, so there’s very little dialogue and not much internal signposts of how a character is feeling. I emailed his teacher about the book—she’s given optional assignments before and I wondered if this might be one of them—but in the end, am I going to waste her time by entering into a debate about when kids should be exposed to The Canon of English Language Literature? And what parts of the canon? Nope.
I’m conflicted myself. On the one hand, you’re not going to think of reading as fun—and you’re not going to be a lifelong reader—if you learn that it’s something to be suffered though. And you’ll be suspicious of books and your own judgment in books if you’re also told that this thing you’re suffering through is considered one of the best our country has to offer. Score one for the Wii.
On the other hand, I totally get the argument that the next generation can’t be all slang and Captain Underpants. Brandon and I just finished the Up series of movies (and by the way—awesome! It’s a series of films about a group of English people. They started interviewing them when the kids where seven, and they go back every seven years), and it’s startling how articulate all the children were in 1964.
What to do, what to do. Very soon, I’m going to start my pal Dan’s book. He’s a cognitive psychologist specializing in education, and Why Don’t Students Like School? has gotten some mahvelous reviews. I imagine some light will be shed on this issue. Some moral consideration, if you will.
And speaking of friends with books—go ahead: admire that segue—I read Jessica Handler’s Invisible Sisters, and it’s just loverley. Jessica’s two sisters died from different fatal bone-marrow disorders and her book is an unsentimental look at what loss does to a family, to a person. Jessica is probably one of the most gregarious ladies I know—and she’s doing readings now. If you’re in the south, you’re in luck.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
When I was in elementary school, there came a time when some teacher had the idea that we all must bring in displays related to our hobbies. I was stumped. I liked to read, but we had all seen a pile of books before at the school library. I liked to ride my bike, but it didn't seem so much a hobby as what kids were supposed to do. I wasn't a gymnastics buff or horse lover or softball player.
I decided to just make up a hobby. I would be a cartoonist. Why, how surprised all my friends would be to discover that I had a secret life, kicking back on Sunday mornings, just me and my pens, doodling up some art, jotting down some bons mots! I started studying the Sunday cartoon section. After one weekend, I had a new "hobby," enough evidence to bring to school to pass off this secret life, and the most rudimentary ideas on how to draw Garfield and The Family Circus family.
Speaking of The Family Circus? I cannot get enough of this.
I decided to just make up a hobby. I would be a cartoonist. Why, how surprised all my friends would be to discover that I had a secret life, kicking back on Sunday mornings, just me and my pens, doodling up some art, jotting down some bons mots! I started studying the Sunday cartoon section. After one weekend, I had a new "hobby," enough evidence to bring to school to pass off this secret life, and the most rudimentary ideas on how to draw Garfield and The Family Circus family.
Speaking of The Family Circus? I cannot get enough of this.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Some Rain Must Fall
Long time, no blog, huh?
I’ve been waiting for something light-hearted and fun (or, alternately, intellectually engaging and fun) to happen so I don’t have to be the Eeyore on your blogroll, the Debbie Downer in your RSS, the black fly in your chardonnay. But it’s just not happening.
In the scheme of things, in comparison, all is extravagantly okay. We got jobs, for one. But it’s been a series of bummers, really. For example: After the surgery, my blood pressure shot up and it took a couple weeks to get it under control. The hardback of my book has been remaindered. Oprah got all Real Talk about motherhood today with guests that were neither Stephanie nor me nor anyone I know, and my grapes were ever so sour. And the worst news is that our dog Simon has bone cancer and isn’t long for this world.
I know that things will look up. I’m enough an optimist to know that in a few weeks time, life will be better and a new era will have begun and I can stop looking at the ends and start looking at beginnings. But I'm also enough of a pessimist—or realist—to know that even if that is true, my dog will still be dead. And that is what’s killing me.
I’ve been waiting for something light-hearted and fun (or, alternately, intellectually engaging and fun) to happen so I don’t have to be the Eeyore on your blogroll, the Debbie Downer in your RSS, the black fly in your chardonnay. But it’s just not happening.
In the scheme of things, in comparison, all is extravagantly okay. We got jobs, for one. But it’s been a series of bummers, really. For example: After the surgery, my blood pressure shot up and it took a couple weeks to get it under control. The hardback of my book has been remaindered. Oprah got all Real Talk about motherhood today with guests that were neither Stephanie nor me nor anyone I know, and my grapes were ever so sour. And the worst news is that our dog Simon has bone cancer and isn’t long for this world.
I know that things will look up. I’m enough an optimist to know that in a few weeks time, life will be better and a new era will have begun and I can stop looking at the ends and start looking at beginnings. But I'm also enough of a pessimist—or realist—to know that even if that is true, my dog will still be dead. And that is what’s killing me.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Joining the Club
A couple days ago, Caleb came in from playing outside in the neighborhood and told me that he had a new club.
He’s a fan of clubs. Right now, he’s in two afterschool clubs and had started another two of his own here in the hood (the Danger Club and the Candy Cooking Club, which both sound like euphemisms for meth labs but that’s not something I will think about just yet).
This latest club is the Mental Defense Club. From what I can gather, they’re all learning techniques not to get upset when another child irritates them on purpose. They went down to the creek where redbud petals had fallen. “I told them to empty their minds and just look at how beautiful it is,” Caleb told me, and maybe it was the pain pills but I just wanted to burst into tears right then and there at how, at ten, he’s still okay with talking about the loveliness of petals in a creek, that he can be outwardly moved by plain old beauty, that it’s something he’d share with his peers.
They also practiced walking away when someone said something mean to them (which, admittedly, required them saying mean things to one another) and bringing, in turns, bad and good thoughts to their minds (which, admittedly, sounds not unlike events in the fouth Harry Potter book that we read not long ago).
I can’t imagine doing something like this as a kid. Mind reading, maybe. Mental control, sure. But mental defense? Rah, rah, evolution!
He’s a fan of clubs. Right now, he’s in two afterschool clubs and had started another two of his own here in the hood (the Danger Club and the Candy Cooking Club, which both sound like euphemisms for meth labs but that’s not something I will think about just yet).
This latest club is the Mental Defense Club. From what I can gather, they’re all learning techniques not to get upset when another child irritates them on purpose. They went down to the creek where redbud petals had fallen. “I told them to empty their minds and just look at how beautiful it is,” Caleb told me, and maybe it was the pain pills but I just wanted to burst into tears right then and there at how, at ten, he’s still okay with talking about the loveliness of petals in a creek, that he can be outwardly moved by plain old beauty, that it’s something he’d share with his peers.
They also practiced walking away when someone said something mean to them (which, admittedly, required them saying mean things to one another) and bringing, in turns, bad and good thoughts to their minds (which, admittedly, sounds not unlike events in the fouth Harry Potter book that we read not long ago).
I can’t imagine doing something like this as a kid. Mind reading, maybe. Mental control, sure. But mental defense? Rah, rah, evolution!
Monday, March 16, 2009
An Immodest Proposal
BILLY MAYS HERE! I'D LIKE TO TAKE YOUR HAND IN MARRIAGE!
SAY YES NOW AND I'LL NOT ONLY TAKE ON YOU AND YOUR TWO AILING CATS, BUT ALSO YOUR STUDENT LOAN AND CREDIT CARD DEBT!
YOU WON'T FIND A BETTER OFFER ANYWHERE, AND I DON'T CARE WHAT KIND OF MATCHES YOU FOUND ON EHARMONY!
MARRY ME, BILLY MAYS, RIGHT NOW AND YOU'LL NOT ONLY GET ME AND MY WILLINGNESS TO TAKE ON YOU, TWO CATS, AND YOUR DEBT--YOU'LL ALSO GET ACCESS TO MY LARGE EXTENDED FAMILY. MY GRANDMOTHER MAKES RHUBARB PIE! A VERY GOOD RHUBARB PIE THAT I HEAR WON AN AWARD BACK IN THE DAY! YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO FIND A RHUBARB PIE LIKE HERS ANYWHERE!
THE SUPPLY OF BILLY MAYS--NOT TO MENTION A HIGH-QUALITY DIAMOND RING, HIS WILLINGNESS TO TAKE ON YOU, YOUR CATS AND YOUR DEBT, AND GRANDMA (RHUBARB PIES INCLUDED)--IS LIMITED! SAY YES NOW!
SAY YES NOW AND I'LL NOT ONLY TAKE ON YOU AND YOUR TWO AILING CATS, BUT ALSO YOUR STUDENT LOAN AND CREDIT CARD DEBT!
YOU WON'T FIND A BETTER OFFER ANYWHERE, AND I DON'T CARE WHAT KIND OF MATCHES YOU FOUND ON EHARMONY!
MARRY ME, BILLY MAYS, RIGHT NOW AND YOU'LL NOT ONLY GET ME AND MY WILLINGNESS TO TAKE ON YOU, TWO CATS, AND YOUR DEBT--YOU'LL ALSO GET ACCESS TO MY LARGE EXTENDED FAMILY. MY GRANDMOTHER MAKES RHUBARB PIE! A VERY GOOD RHUBARB PIE THAT I HEAR WON AN AWARD BACK IN THE DAY! YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO FIND A RHUBARB PIE LIKE HERS ANYWHERE!
THE SUPPLY OF BILLY MAYS--NOT TO MENTION A HIGH-QUALITY DIAMOND RING, HIS WILLINGNESS TO TAKE ON YOU, YOUR CATS AND YOUR DEBT, AND GRANDMA (RHUBARB PIES INCLUDED)--IS LIMITED! SAY YES NOW!
Monday, March 9, 2009
I'm Still Here
Just mildly anxious.
I'll be having a minor operation later this week, then I plan to be hepped up on pain meds and watch Flight of the Conchords from Netflix through Sunday.
Also, I saw this ecard (from someecards.com) and it made me think of myself. Then I smiled because I rarely think of myself but when I do, it's always with fondness. And if you're suspecting that someone broke into the Ativan already, you are correct.
I'll be having a minor operation later this week, then I plan to be hepped up on pain meds and watch Flight of the Conchords from Netflix through Sunday.
Also, I saw this ecard (from someecards.com) and it made me think of myself. Then I smiled because I rarely think of myself but when I do, it's always with fondness. And if you're suspecting that someone broke into the Ativan already, you are correct.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Back when I used blankets, I would think, What asshole is calling me now?
But, as of yesterday, I have found it in myself to use phone manners:
That's the good news.
I'm still adjusting to my son's becoming a wizard.
And my husband's casting of spells.
And his calling attention to just one of my breasts:
But at least now we have our Snuggies to ward off those frosty 67-degree days like we had yesterday.
But, as of yesterday, I have found it in myself to use phone manners:
That's the good news.
I'm still adjusting to my son's becoming a wizard.
And my husband's casting of spells.
And his calling attention to just one of my breasts:
But at least now we have our Snuggies to ward off those frosty 67-degree days like we had yesterday.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Miscellany
--Among many (too fucking many) other things, I’m working on my talk for the Association of Writing Program’s conference. I’m on a panel with many lovelies and we’ll be talking about the ethics of writing about your kids. So two things: 1) If you’re at AWP, come to the panel, would you? It’s on Thursday at 10:30 at the Chicago Hilton. 2) Have anything to say about the topic? I’m listening.
--Our Snuggies have left Sparks, Nevada. Also, Brandon saw Snuggies at Bed, Bath & Beyond for $14.99 a pop. I am a sucker MC.
--Out to lunch on Sunday, I saw two people in different parties that looked freakily alike. It was distracting and a little frustrating that neither person recognized the similarity.
--I read this interview last night with philosopher Tom Dumm about loneliness, the knowability of oneself or others, and how what he calls loneliness (or what I’d probably call independence) has political ramifications. I also like this quote in it: “Writing a book is very difficult to do, even a bad one. I try to remember that when reading someone else’s work.”
--It’s been very Pleasures of Yesteryear chez Niesslein lately. I just finished the fouth Harry Potter book, and we’re about halfway through the fourth season of The Office. This is one of the best lines: “The eyes are the groin of the face.” It’s funny because it’s true.
--Our Snuggies have left Sparks, Nevada. Also, Brandon saw Snuggies at Bed, Bath & Beyond for $14.99 a pop. I am a sucker MC.
--Out to lunch on Sunday, I saw two people in different parties that looked freakily alike. It was distracting and a little frustrating that neither person recognized the similarity.
--I read this interview last night with philosopher Tom Dumm about loneliness, the knowability of oneself or others, and how what he calls loneliness (or what I’d probably call independence) has political ramifications. I also like this quote in it: “Writing a book is very difficult to do, even a bad one. I try to remember that when reading someone else’s work.”
--It’s been very Pleasures of Yesteryear chez Niesslein lately. I just finished the fouth Harry Potter book, and we’re about halfway through the fourth season of The Office. This is one of the best lines: “The eyes are the groin of the face.” It’s funny because it’s true.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Life in the Slow Lane
I seem to have temporarily (let’s hope) lost my writing mojo.
I was messaging my sister today and I mused how funny it is that we go through some things with our blinkers on.
“Blinkers?”
“Like the horsies,” I wrote.
Blinders is what I meant, even though, until she called me on it, I would have sworn that horses wear blinkers. (It makes it so much easier for the old-order Mennonite traffic.)
So that’s what I’ve been up to lately—moving slowly through Word docs, cooking dinner at half speed,vainly trying in vain to make a memorable Inauguration Day for Caleb and his crew—blinkers on, trying to find the mojo.
I was messaging my sister today and I mused how funny it is that we go through some things with our blinkers on.
“Blinkers?”
“Like the horsies,” I wrote.
Blinders is what I meant, even though, until she called me on it, I would have sworn that horses wear blinkers. (It makes it so much easier for the old-order Mennonite traffic.)
So that’s what I’ve been up to lately—moving slowly through Word docs, cooking dinner at half speed,
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Proof of Minor Ways in Which I Am Optimistic
1. Part of me believes that, sometime in the future, Ann Coulter will announce that she’s been acting for years as a rogue scholar of Constitutional law, testing the limits of free speech.
2. I keep playing Scramble even though it’s physically impossible for me to beat Erin’s score of 274.
3. Raw oysters.
2. I keep playing Scramble even though it’s physically impossible for me to beat Erin’s score of 274.
3. Raw oysters.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Getting Schooled
We had a pretty groovy holiday. My big news is that I’m taking a fiction writing workshop with Jincy Willett, she who wrote some of my very favorite books. (Have you read The Writing Class yet? Crazy good, yes?)
I haven’t taken a workshop since I was but a lass, in college and then a couple years later at an ill-fated two-week stint at Warren Wilson College (from which I came home and immediately got pregnant, conveniently answering the question of what I would be doing in the near future). I’ve become significantly bossier since then, and I was worried that I’d be very bad at being a student. Sort of the Dwight Shrute of the class.
But I enjoyed myself—I’d almost forgotten what a workshop is like. This one is online and uses discussion boards and chat rooms to happen, which is a little weird because you can’t see the reaction of the person whose work you’re critiquing. (On the other hand, I suppose the writer on the other end can roll his or her eyes and flick off the screen and mock you if he or she wants to.) And did I mention the instructor is Jincy Willett?
I’m trying not to be all gushy and ass-kissy, but there was this moment when she asked us to introduce ourselves and say a little something about what we’re working on and about our favorite writers. You know who I wanted to say. But I didn’t.
I haven’t taken a workshop since I was but a lass, in college and then a couple years later at an ill-fated two-week stint at Warren Wilson College (from which I came home and immediately got pregnant, conveniently answering the question of what I would be doing in the near future). I’ve become significantly bossier since then, and I was worried that I’d be very bad at being a student. Sort of the Dwight Shrute of the class.
But I enjoyed myself—I’d almost forgotten what a workshop is like. This one is online and uses discussion boards and chat rooms to happen, which is a little weird because you can’t see the reaction of the person whose work you’re critiquing. (On the other hand, I suppose the writer on the other end can roll his or her eyes and flick off the screen and mock you if he or she wants to.) And did I mention the instructor is Jincy Willett?
I’m trying not to be all gushy and ass-kissy, but there was this moment when she asked us to introduce ourselves and say a little something about what we’re working on and about our favorite writers. You know who I wanted to say. But I didn’t.
Monday, January 5, 2009
More Soon
We are sick-ish, and I must work.
But I must also go on record as saying that if that someone permanently destroyed the master copy of that goddamned Bender Ball commercial—you know the one, with that woman who has too much saliva in her mouth, saying, "I love my abdominals. I love my belly"—I would feel better.
Thanks.
But I must also go on record as saying that if that someone permanently destroyed the master copy of that goddamned Bender Ball commercial—you know the one, with that woman who has too much saliva in her mouth, saying, "I love my abdominals. I love my belly"—I would feel better.
Thanks.
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