tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64195590141870178702024-03-05T09:57:12.256-08:00Jennifer Niesslein's Internet PresenceJenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.comBlogger272125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-41968223010197375492013-08-14T11:43:00.002-07:002013-08-14T11:43:50.426-07:00New Project!Long time, huh?
I have a new project in the works. It's a web magazine called <a href="http://fullgrownpeople.com/about/">Full Grown People</a>, and I have as high of hopes for it as I did for <i>Brain, Child</i>. Check it out, pretty please?<br />
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It launches after Labor Day, and there's a handy dandy newsletter sign-up on the right.<br />
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XO, yo.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-34429274629989760342009-06-26T10:46:00.000-07:002009-06-26T11:09:24.654-07:00One Glove, Two DegreesDuring 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-23076160729173635012009-06-15T11:39:00.000-07:002009-06-15T11:45:18.236-07:00Anti-Foodieslactose-intolerant<br /><br />wheat-disdainful<br /><br />peanut- and treenut-contemptuous<br /><br />lycopenally close-minded<br /><br />MSG-scornful<br /><br />tannin-scoffing<br /><br />shellfish-derisiveJenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-76545650576549839312009-06-11T13:53:00.001-07:002009-06-11T14:02:03.978-07:00Good TimesBrandon 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.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_qEGxl5Yrg8&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_qEGxl5Yrg8&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-6983314128396989332009-05-24T11:54:00.000-07:002009-05-24T12:26:31.669-07:00For Your PleasureThere'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.<br /><br />--I recently learned of <a href="http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/">Awkward Family Photos</a> from my pal Lee's Facebook page, and I love.<br /><br />--This collaboration between The Blackout Project and the UVA Jazz Ensemble is very good.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FeD711PCEKE&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FeD711PCEKE&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />--Perhaps you will have some use for this:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.gifbin.com"><img src="http://img220.imageshack.us/img220/7013/gifbinhatersgonnahate.gif" alt="funny animated gif"></a>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-32211264856651135312009-04-30T06:03:00.000-07:002009-04-30T06:20:48.319-07:00Bookety Book BooksI 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 <a href="http://www.brainchildmag.com/">Brain, Child</a> and my head and all of my typing ability has gone into that.<br /><br />In other book news, Caleb is reading Jack London’s <i>Call of the Wild</i> at school.<i> The Call of the Wild</i> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />On the other hand, I totally get the argument that the next generation can’t be all slang and <i>Captain Underpants</i>. Brandon and I just finished <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Up_series">the Up series</a> 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. <br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Why-Dont-Students-Like-School/dp/0470279303/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1241096908&sr=8-1">Why Don’t Students Like School?</a> has gotten some <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB124079001063757515.html">mahvelous reviews</a>. I imagine some light will be shed on this issue. Some moral consideration, if you will. <br /><br />And speaking of friends with books—go ahead: admire that segue—I read Jessica Handler’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Invisible-Sisters-Handler-Jessica/dp/1586486489/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1241097000&sr=1-1">Invisible Sisters</a>, 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 <a href="http://www.jessicahandler.com/">doing readings</a> now. If you’re in the south, you’re in luck.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-40339342337332024142009-04-14T05:21:00.001-07:002009-04-14T05:35:02.187-07:00When 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.<br /><br />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 <i>bons mots</i>! 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.<br /><br />Speaking of The Family Circus? I cannot get enough of <a href="http://www.losanjealous.com/nfc/">this</a>.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-65874458166672308232009-04-06T16:18:00.000-07:002009-04-06T16:28:25.351-07:00Some Rain Must FallLong time, no blog, huh?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://practicallyperfectbook.blogspot.com/2007/07/simon.html">Simon</a> has bone cancer and isn’t long for this world.<br /><br />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.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-59161403482624363652009-03-20T05:37:00.000-07:002009-03-20T05:38:57.078-07:00Joining the ClubA couple days ago, Caleb came in from playing outside in the neighborhood and told me that he had a new club.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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). <br /><br />I can’t imagine doing something like this as a kid. Mind <i>reading</i>, maybe. Mental <i>control</i>, sure. But mental defense? Rah, rah, evolution!Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-14390205010476675052009-03-16T16:40:00.000-07:002009-03-16T16:52:24.029-07:00An Immodest ProposalBILLY MAYS HERE! I'D LIKE TO TAKE YOUR HAND IN MARRIAGE!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.floatingbanana.com/artbackwash/billymays2.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 399px; height: 553px;" src="http://www.floatingbanana.com/artbackwash/billymays2.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />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!<br /><br />YOU WON'T FIND A BETTER OFFER ANYWHERE, AND I DON'T CARE WHAT KIND OF MATCHES YOU FOUND ON EHARMONY!<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-25219666571831313062009-03-09T12:27:00.000-07:002009-03-09T13:13:56.282-07:00I'm Still HereJust mildly anxious.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Also, I saw this ecard (from <a href="http://www.someecards.com/">someecards.com</a>) 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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcnkiHmxVueI4hV2pIaZk4FUj9u9g0QChkwJRNqkHKVwmBNgj-6MthKFcUkjx1CNuOWmGZ34E9RjFDv_AJwUJgrD5Df9DNVsS3BAue9pEgsww5f4zAWRwzfik8kNEfiMgZJZxmnDA1CSG-/s1600-h/sym_33.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcnkiHmxVueI4hV2pIaZk4FUj9u9g0QChkwJRNqkHKVwmBNgj-6MthKFcUkjx1CNuOWmGZ34E9RjFDv_AJwUJgrD5Df9DNVsS3BAue9pEgsww5f4zAWRwzfik8kNEfiMgZJZxmnDA1CSG-/s400/sym_33.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311283313812239122" /></a>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-87970868785316760562009-02-11T05:20:00.000-08:002009-02-11T07:24:50.380-08:00Back when I used blankets, I would think, <i> What asshole is calling me now?</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjcyfWQPa-g0StOnqTMFLtzFMi1lfR3-FpUv6jzJ3QydsP7DbOTZ6Jm8TNnTMUD8AoN9Xqr0gqOPv63H6F4s8RWhv9zAkrJE7L58wfeAGQrZ9m09vgne2SW8XQNx0vOkhT6QoM6YBH5jH3/s1600-h/100_0252.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjcyfWQPa-g0StOnqTMFLtzFMi1lfR3-FpUv6jzJ3QydsP7DbOTZ6Jm8TNnTMUD8AoN9Xqr0gqOPv63H6F4s8RWhv9zAkrJE7L58wfeAGQrZ9m09vgne2SW8XQNx0vOkhT6QoM6YBH5jH3/s320/100_0252.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301529819567491970" /></a><br /><br />But, as of yesterday, I have found it in myself to use phone manners:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaGKhCXPIIurjknW6zEsCETPeLmXqhkBgpdUe7qBVGLfsZyYTkr56OnOI-Gn3PKgRbGD0d1WcH-sD6XbHVtSU3NPdDgqjuJE8cjSKUDXGOfGLKo_hqB3sDtnUWofCPhLWUXAkSMS5s5VT/s1600-h/100_0250.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaGKhCXPIIurjknW6zEsCETPeLmXqhkBgpdUe7qBVGLfsZyYTkr56OnOI-Gn3PKgRbGD0d1WcH-sD6XbHVtSU3NPdDgqjuJE8cjSKUDXGOfGLKo_hqB3sDtnUWofCPhLWUXAkSMS5s5VT/s320/100_0250.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301530353682128626" /></a><br /><br />That's the good news.<br /><br />I'm still adjusting to my son's becoming a wizard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1nEcDMBmZz-f3jvwz6yfSAOaNwz1ItboufkjB8Q1RF_m-1tP62V3sYIw0sHkIHRXiihijDY06tucCwuWD5f3DIzsdzAzGy3Eqo5x5J1M2BMp0cSWEh_TBjCzWDAYosgt1oCeVC9XbexoT/s1600-h/100_0244.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1nEcDMBmZz-f3jvwz6yfSAOaNwz1ItboufkjB8Q1RF_m-1tP62V3sYIw0sHkIHRXiihijDY06tucCwuWD5f3DIzsdzAzGy3Eqo5x5J1M2BMp0cSWEh_TBjCzWDAYosgt1oCeVC9XbexoT/s320/100_0244.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301531347408584130" /></a><br /><br />And my husband's casting of spells.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZnQ4FXYwKWQUVy9TDSsRL47VdnaM5gZz3TktFE0XvNi9QJ3x7pfjq4X_w4tomHPtDTnXkwpJ9xLcHesYZHEn0DBiqfkw7-YTyURiQ6zthua6Vx2jY__fYyDFG2vLnDHlQN-LQsQtunWsj/s1600-h/100_0248.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZnQ4FXYwKWQUVy9TDSsRL47VdnaM5gZz3TktFE0XvNi9QJ3x7pfjq4X_w4tomHPtDTnXkwpJ9xLcHesYZHEn0DBiqfkw7-YTyURiQ6zthua6Vx2jY__fYyDFG2vLnDHlQN-LQsQtunWsj/s320/100_0248.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301533514596397746" /></a><br /><br />And his calling attention to just one of my breasts:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31fv8_FptuD1SgAEaDOFNI4kluhHjE9kyFq5BGW9B4AhvYcgFte2kaH3XG1Sz0ipq3uTG3IdRtRb6Olt5FZ8qNgnrs3dMD-cEFkLKJK355FXPTwnUEGm6tXEgYHQS6tjh1IGKqoiCadow/s1600-h/100_0249.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31fv8_FptuD1SgAEaDOFNI4kluhHjE9kyFq5BGW9B4AhvYcgFte2kaH3XG1Sz0ipq3uTG3IdRtRb6Olt5FZ8qNgnrs3dMD-cEFkLKJK355FXPTwnUEGm6tXEgYHQS6tjh1IGKqoiCadow/s320/100_0249.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301560971086739554" /></a><br /><br /><br />But at least now we have our Snuggies to ward off those frosty 67-degree days like we had yesterday.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-49390019501635701642009-02-04T05:46:00.000-08:002009-02-04T05:51:20.146-08:00Miscellany--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 <a href="http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=39497882947">the panel</a>, would you? It’s on Thursday at 10:30 at the Chicago Hilton. 2) Have anything to say about the topic? I’m listening. <br /><br />--Our Snuggies have left Sparks, Nevada. Also, Brandon saw Snuggies at Bed, Bath & Beyond for $14.99 a pop. I am a sucker MC.<br /><br />--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.<br /><br />--I read <a href="http://www.believermag.com/issues/200901/?read=interview_dumm">this interview</a> 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.”<br /><br />--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 <i>The Office</i>. This is one of the best lines: “The eyes are the groin of the face.” It’s funny because it’s true.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-87615592678584460822009-01-22T14:48:00.000-08:002009-01-23T05:24:08.526-08:00Life in the Slow LaneI seem to have temporarily (let’s hope) lost my writing mojo.<br /><br />I was messaging my sister today and I mused how funny it is that we go through some things with our blinkers on. <br /><br />“Blinkers?”<br /><br />“Like the horsies,” I wrote.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />So that’s what I’ve been up to lately—moving slowly through Word docs, cooking dinner at half speed, <s>vainly</s> trying in vain to make a memorable Inauguration Day for Caleb and his crew—blinkers on, trying to find the mojo.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-65811665199596136022009-01-16T09:56:00.001-08:002009-01-16T09:56:38.432-08:00I Did ItI ordered my family Snuggies.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-10078807734023596312009-01-14T05:47:00.000-08:002009-01-14T05:48:49.877-08:00Proof of Minor Ways in Which I Am Optimistic1. 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.<br /><br />2. I keep playing Scramble even though it’s physically impossible for me to beat Erin’s score of 274.<br /><br />3. Raw oysters.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-74602420407413685882009-01-09T08:33:00.000-08:002009-01-09T08:48:16.998-08:00Getting SchooledWe 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 <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Writing-Class-Jincy-Willett/dp/0312330669/ref=pd_bbs_sr_5?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231515162&sr=8-5">The Writing Class</a> yet? Crazy good, yes?)<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LiAdTBDEjr8">Dwight Shrute</a> of the class. <br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-57988404656371618662009-01-05T19:56:00.000-08:002009-01-05T20:15:33.969-08:00More SoonWe are sick-ish, and I must work.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Thanks.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-22101924411222360992008-12-24T12:25:00.001-08:002008-12-24T12:25:48.541-08:00Happy, MerryFor my grandpap’s November birthday, I got him a pen, as seen on TV, in which you can record messages. From the commercial, I thought the gift was a little bittersweet, a good present for someone who’s experiencing “senior moments” or has had trouble with absent-mindedness. The gift giver is led to believe that, if you care, you can prevent a loved one from forgetting why he went to the grocery store. You can make it so your friend or family member doesn’t wander around a parking lot for hours, looking for the car. You can give the joy of memory, prevent the embarrassment of forgetfulness, become a human ribbon tied around a finger.<br /><br />In reality, Grandpap and Gram took it to the bowling alley and used it to punk members of their bowling league.<br /><br />Here’s to good surprises and joy and peace of mind for everybody this season. See you in 2009!Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-17092291349744887412008-12-17T09:09:00.000-08:002008-12-17T09:12:54.103-08:00Pick Up Your Pencils, Boys and GirlsThis morning, I went to Caleb’s school for a Writers’ Hot-Chocolate House (a coffee house for the under-eleven set.) A group of the kids had gone to the museum to participate in a writing contest where they penned a poem or story inspired by one of the pieces of art. The teacher ran the readings beatnik-style: The lighting was low, the writers sat on a stool, and we snapped our appeciation.<br /><br />With a few exceptions, the boys in the class seemed to focus on plot (a robot’s head was punched off, a sumo wrestler ate some art, a stone that could blow up the world was revealed). The girls? All up in character and motivation. (But WHY were you murdered?)<br /><br />Which is pretty much the gender stereotype of adult writers, too. Even setting aside the obvious spy thriller/ chick lit divide, there’s this idea out there that women writers create memorable characters and men writers create ground-breaking changes to the form. Me, I’ve mostly been of the opinion that book publishing is a weird enough creature that gender is a minor factor in whether a book is successful or not.<br /><br />And yet. I’ve been thinking about character a lot. I’m better at it than plot (I say, as I’m plotting this thing I’m writing within an inch of its life). Maybe it’s the hot chocolate talking, but after this morning, I’m just a <i>teensy</i> bit more open to the idea that if women are better at character (a big generalization, granted) and character is less valued than form (another big generalization), then women writers might have a harder row to hoe than men writers.<br /><br />Last night I was reading <a href="http://bitchmagazine.org/">Bitch magazine</a>, and there was a discussion of an article they ran on ambition. “[I]t’s harder for women to have a strong, colorful persona without appearing like a hobo,” one commenter wrote. “The range of acceptable personalities is still wider for men.” Not everyone agreed, but still.<br /><br />There is a class of literature, no matter how widely acclaimed, I won’t read. It’s the tale of the older guy who, fearing his mortality, has an affair with a younger woman. I know this story. It’s called About Half the Dads of People I Know, and there are no surprises in it. But other than that, I’m pretty much open to characters of all sorts. No matter who’s writing a book, I do like a strong character. It can compensate, in my mind, for a weaker plot in a way that a strong plot can’t compensate for a squishy character.<br /><br />Am I being such a girl for thinking this way? Or is my own bias—that I’m better at character than I am plot, that I’m a lady writer and reader, that I don’t think I have many biases against strong female personalities—showing through?<br /><br />I don’t know the answer. But this whole strong personality thing might explain some of the reviews of <i>Practically Perfect</i>. There are definitely positive ones (for which I’m very grateful), but I’m always taken off guard by the negative ones that aren’t criticisms of the book but of me. One called me an “irritating personality.” Another claimed that if she knew me in real life, she wouldn’t want to spend much time with me. (Aw, please?) And the local daily may or may not have equated me with Paris Hilton (the book review writing was unclear).<br /><br />Or maybe it doesn’t explain anything at all. I haven’t set up a Google alert for, say, A.J. Jacobs so I don’t know if his personality gets enmeshed in his reviews. <br /><br />Thoughts, questions, concerns? What do you think?Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-57268555641872634292008-12-15T05:04:00.000-08:002008-12-15T05:22:30.363-08:00Music for Your EarsGod, I love this woman's stuff:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3M-bH3YGsTo&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3M-bH3YGsTo&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />You can get the version with the f-bombs. Work your YouTube. It's the one with the rainsdrops.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kwuIIsDjgZg&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kwuIIsDjgZg&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />That's right. It's a cover of Nelly's "Hot in Herre."<br /><br />Her name is Jenny Owen Youngs, her CD is "Batten the Hatches," and the appropriate person has already been strongly advised to get it for me.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-10043804286128179022008-12-12T11:24:00.000-08:002008-12-12T11:43:00.063-08:00I Could Give a Shit How Much Oprah WeighsIf you’ve read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Practically-Perfect-Every-Misadventures-Self-Help/dp/0425221326/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1205706975&sr=1-1">Practically Perfect</a>, you know that I like Oprah, despite some of our deeper philosophical differences. <br /><br />But I really hate that her weight is in the news again. (And she put it there.) She could have framed the issue like so: <i>I’ve been sick with thyroid problems, and here’s how I started to feel healthier.</i> But, noooo. It’s all about <i>40 pounds more, 200 hundred total, two years, embarrassment, can’t stand seeing myself in pictures</i>. If there’s anything I’m not interested in, it’s math-shame milkshake.<br /><br />I know. Even Oprah admits that she’s a food addict, and I believe I’ve watched enough <i>Celebrity Rehab</i> to know that sometimes it’s not her but her addiction talking. But I do feel compelled to put out some karmic balance here:<br /><br />Weight is not a moral issue. <br /><br />Barbara said it really well <a href="http://barbaracardatkinson.blogspot.com/2008/11/just-another-fat-gal.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Dodai on Jezebel said it well <a href="http://jezebel.com/5107415/oprahs-embarrassed-about-her-weight-im-pissed-off">here</a>.<br /><br />Rubens said it well <a href="http://www.abcgallery.com/R/rubens/rubens88.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Weight is influenced by many things, including genes, metabolism, diet, exercise, how one deals with stress, shifting priorities in one’s life, age, and the ratio of satin monstrosities to regular clothes Lane Bryant is peddling. With apologies to Dr. King, it’s the content of your character, and not the junk in your trunk that I’m judging. Well, that, and if you're willing to play Scrabble with me on Facebook.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-40775153446613909732008-12-10T13:11:00.000-08:002008-12-10T13:14:14.372-08:00The New KidI was the first grandchild on both sides of my family, and for years, I had a whole slew of childless aunts and uncles. This can cut both ways—you can either be the annoying kid who won’t shut up, or you could be showered with attention from people who have not yet experienced the 24/7 of, say, playing with dolls or listening to your litany of facts gleaned from the World Book Encyclopedia.<br /><br />My Aunt Kathy was (and is) an awesome aunt. Tall and blonde and leggy, she’d turn heads when we walked down to the store a few blocks away. She lived in Florida, which seemed incredibly glamorous to me. She was the perfect mix of fun and silly and cool. I’m saying as if all this stopped at one point. It didn’t, but it felt like it did.<br /><br />She had a baby.<br /><br />By then, I had two sisters. On some level, I must have known what was to come. In those days, in my family at least, mothers alone bore much of the responsibility of the raising of the kids. I must have sensed that Kelli’s arrival didn’t mean anything good for me. While it’s true that love is endless, time is not. However cute my first cousin was, with the little ringlets and all, she was cutting into some good Aunt Kathy time. I was six or seven when Aunt Kathy and I were sitting on the porch swing sometime post-baby, and I suggested that my mom watch Kelli so that she could “take a break from the kid.” (And presumably hang out with the mature lower-elementary school crowd: me.) “Why would I want to take a break from her?” my aunt said, smiling, love-drunk with her baby. “I love her!” God knows what World Book fact I said in response.<br /><br />I’d almost forgotten this whole episode, but this past weekend, Krissy came to visit with her three-month-old son. And I have to say, Caleb was acting a little, um, off.<br /><br />“Why is Nick crying?” Caleb asked. “Is he hungry again?” And in anticipation of our driving together to Richmond, an hour away, he said more than once: “I really HOPE Nick doesn’t CRY in the car the WHOLE WAY THERE.” Caleb brought ear plugs.<br /><br />I mean, Caleb was nice to Nick for the most part, but however I diced it, I could still see that this was a loss for him. Last time Krissy was here, she cuddled with him on their side of a booth at a restaurant and taught him how to extract the meat from crab legs. This time, she was functioning one-handed and went to bed early.<br /><br />There really isn’t anything to say to Caleb at this point. He has his feelings and I have to respect that. But it gets better, I want him to know: These days, I love Kelli, too. We spent the Friday after Thanksgiving this year at her house where she hosted the whole extended family, and I got to know her sons. She’s a terrific woman. These aunt-stealers, they turn into allies, into extra repositories for your memories, into pals.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Confidential to H., C., and J.: Get well soon! Sending mad love!Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-91843603519865741202008-12-04T06:07:00.000-08:002008-12-04T06:08:06.916-08:00Under PressureYesterday afternoon, I picked Caleb up from chorus practice and the school book fair and took him to run an errand with me. We went to a local kids’ clothing store to get a Christmas present for Nicholas, my nephew who will be here with his mama today. <br /><br />Caleb stuck with me, his nose in a book. I’ve been to this store a million times before, and I generally like the women who work there. This time, the woman who owns it was working, and she did something to cause me to generally dislike her.<br /><br />Not once, not twice, but three times, she asked Caleb if he’d seen certain merchandise. He was clearly reading and not interested in shopping, so he didn’t start begging for it, but still: Girlfriend was trying to upsell to my child.<br /><br />We are unapologetic TV watchers, so from the time he could talk, we’ve taught him that THE COMMERCIALS don’t make decisions about what you buy, YOU do. We talk about the quality of products, if they’re worth the cash, yadda yadda.<br /><br />Yesterday, I didn’t quite know what to say. I probably should have pointed out that I’m the one with the credit card, not the ten-year-old boy, or something. I at least should have said something to Caleb so he could recognize what she was trying to do. I guess it just took me too long to put a name to what was happening, and by then we were in the car on the way home. <br /><br />What would you have done? Me, I’m just going to not go back. That, and post this on my blog.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419559014187017870.post-50049274665140558522008-12-02T06:16:00.000-08:002008-12-02T06:17:49.442-08:00MatureEvery time I think about sitting down and writing about Thanksgiving, I get a little overwhelmed. It was really great, and I worry that I’ll leave some detail out. So let’s just say that it was super groovy—I got to hang with both the Niesslein ladies and our extended family—and dinner was delish. And now, as is my way: on to more unpleasant things.<br /><br />The first night we were there, Brandon ran up to Giant and bought some beer. The fridge was full of Thanksgiving things so we put the beer on the front porch to keep cold. We all were in and out of the house, having cigarettes, grabbing another beer, taking Mom’s dog out. We were singing some karaoke and having a good old time.<br /><br />Until someone stole the beer right off the porch.<br /><br />I try to be generous of spirit. I try to be forgiving. I try to turn the other cheek, take the high road, wonder what Jesus would do. A lot of time I succeed, but there is a deep vein in me that is decidedly un-Jesuslike. This streak is more like the ancient gods, getting their undies in a bundle over petty things, smiting indiscriminately, flinging lightning.<br /><br />I threw on my coat and shoes and ran out into the street to look for the perpetrators. My head was thrumming with adrenaline. I stomped around in the darkness, peering down the bike paths for a figure that had a Stella Artois-shaped box on his person. My hands were shaking. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I caught the thief, but he would be sorry. (Because there’s nothing more intimidating than a chubby thirtysomething in a puffy jacket.)<br /><br />Brandon had followed me out, not to assist in my quest but to make sure I was safe. When I finally realized that the beer was gone for good, I came back in. I hatched a plan that I would put something <i>really gross</i> in the empty beer bottles and I’d then leave those on the porch. Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Sweet vengeance!<br /><br />These sorts of plans are not new to me. When I was fifteen, I dated a man who was twenty. I figured he was immature for his age, I was mature, it was okey doke. He’d take me to Friendly’s for ice cream, or to the movies. One night, though, I sat in the living room for far too long, ready to go, dressed up, make-up on, waiting for him to show up at the door. He never came. That weekend, I bought a few containers of chicken livers; they come in a small vat of blood. I asked my friend to drive me to where he lived and I poured the blood over one of his belongings, and I never spoke to him again.<br /><br />This weekend, I didn’t even collect the empty bottles for the plan for vengeance. After my adrenaline ebbed away, I realized that it just wasn’t worth the effort. I guess you could make the case that all that has happened from when I was fifteen to now is that I just got lazier. I like to think, though, that I’ve matured. <br /><br />Also, I couldn’t figure out how to get the bottle caps back on.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01100997854087554603noreply@blogger.com5