I have 14 minutes before I have to start getting ready for work. Work at the hated out-of-home job where I WONT BE MUCH LONGER!!! my application for individual health insurance got approved. it's expensive, but actually not as much, for the three of us, as i'm paying already through work for just the daughter and I. So.
I just wanted to pop in to say some things, because I've been wanting to. But we've been so busy moving to the new house, and changing things in the new house that there's been little time for blogging about writing. and there's been little time for writing. little, but not none.
I just went and checked in the last few posts I've made and holy cow! off topic much!? but that's okay. because everything that is writing is on topic.
I must have mentioned it, because I remember typing the words "I'm naming them in the same way as the big stories" The little stories. the pre-stories. the "It begins for all of them when they're children" stories.
Most of those are done. I have dropped one from my list of stories to-do, deciding it didn't really fit with what I was doing. I have yet to finish Edonith's story, The Healer; i'm not yet sure what is going to happen there. I've gotten as far as describing his home world, which I've never done before, and begun a bit about his mother, but then I got stuck.
I'm also stuck with Carrie and Daniel, The Dreamers, though I know exactly what I want to happen. I just haven't found the doorway into it yet. i'm not worried.
Late in the writing-of-children-stories game I decided I wanted something from Milah's point of view. surprisingly it didn't end up so. She's in it, sure, but it's from Boss' point of view. The Seer looks at Milah by the person who knew her best before all the crazy shit happened that my stories revolve around, though he's reflecting after the crazy shit, but in a time before all the children come together to save the day.
I look back further into my blog posts and no, I don't see it. I don't see any mention of what i'm doing right now. Shoot. where do I think I wrote that down?
Anyhow. what i'm doing. I'm writing these short little stories. flash fiction, I suppose they could be called. They're focused on my main characters as youngsters. Daniel and Carrie, The Dreamers. Anka and Prin, The Orphans. Nesris and Nasinair (perhaps my favorite one, and the first one I finished) The Royals. Loki and his brothers, The Pack. Edonith and... his mother?, The Healer. And finally Milah and Yemar and Boss, The Seer.
it introduces them all as kids, before they meet. it solidifies their personalities and the relationships that were the formation of who they are later. The stories I want to use as sort of teasers not only to get people interested in the bigger overall epic, but also as something to keep me motivated while i'm outside of the stories myself, working on other real-life (and therefore less important) stuff. I want to post them on Author's Den. but also, I want to not post them on Author's Den. I want somewhere new, where I don't have a whole batch of old stuff... stuff from high school even, lingering around. I don't know.
and I also want to eventually compile them into one batch and Smash them. But I have so much to Smash!!
A few weeks ago the husband bought "me" a tablet for "my birthday" which isn't even for another 8 days. he just wanted a tablet. I use it the least of the three of us. But I did use it to completely revise and input edits into Letters from the Desert. And it was amazing. it's a little small, wish he would've gotten a bigger sized screen; my fingers are so big I mistype sometimes. but it was such quick and uncumbersome work to fill in revisions instead of having the laptop and my notebook. Really. Wonderful.
I'm out of time, but it seems like there's a lot to say.
Hopefully all this work-from-home full-time thing works out. because still, some of my time will be devoted to writing. I hope. I hope.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
Errors and Flaws in Mid-World.
I have another post i need to write, but i have the idea that the work of it is not yet finished so i guess that post can wait, though it's already been waiting long and long.
So, now for something completely different.
I recently finished reading Stephen King's Dark Tower epic. Again. I have read it so often that i lost count of the actual number at seven. And that was years and how many rereads ago? It's not the only book i've read over and over (or plan to continue to read over in the course of my life). Bill Watson's A Dog Called Kitty was perhaps the first. Mary Brown's The Unlikely Ones and Meredith Anne Pierce's Darkangel Trilogy still make me cry every time. A Prayer For Owen Meany and Pride and Prejudice. Another enormous-pile-of-books epic made up of Robin Hobb's Farseer, Liveship Traders, and Tawny Man trilogies (i'm not a fan of the dragon books that follow, say sorry). But still, i think that Roland Deschain of Gilead will bring me back most often.
I remember being in high school, stuck on the road outside of the Emerald City-like castle on the Topkea Interstate just passing out of Captain Tripps territory, now finally back in Mid-World and my heart heavy yet from Susan's death with no next book in sight. I was devouring his other works looking for those connections we (my dad and i) were just beginning to notice (for this was in the years before the internet where everything is now connected and explained with a quick query of a search engine). And then i heard the news that Stephen King had been struck by a van while out for a walk near his home. My very first thought was, "What about Roland!?"
I have seen critiquers on the internets who proclaim that King having put himself in the story to help (or hinder) Roland along is a cop-out and shoddy storytelling. I think those people are new to Roland's qust and never read the forewords and afterwords of the early edition printings. In these King himself claims he does not know where the story has come from or where it is going. He doesn't know who the girl in the window is, he doesn't think he likes Roland all that much. That he feels as if he is telling the story, not crafting it himself.
I understand that feeling. i often feel as if i have no control over what i write. maybe that is why I was not surprised and actually pleased by the turn of events that brought Gan's navel, Stephen King into the turning of the wheel of Ka. It's really the only way it made sense.
Now, there are countless websites out there (as i said before) that draw the comparisons and connetions between King's books and within the Epic itself. that's not what my list is about. My list is about the errors.
I understand that this was the work of three decades and things are bound to get through (although that doesn't explain why most of them are in book 7!!) And i'm not doing this to be mean or vindictive or anything of that sort. I just tend to notice these types of things, especially because i've read it so many times that i don't even really have to. I can just close my eyes and think about it.
My dad used to have a book of continuity flaws for Star Trek TNG that we would read before watching each episode in his VHS collection. It's fun!
So, my list of 15 plot flaws. Some of them are minor, some of them are a bit forgiveable. I was aiming to find 19 because then it would be a sign that they were meant to be there. But who knows. maybe next time i read it i will fill out the list. Hell, two or three of these 15 i found in this current reread. So here goes. *NOTE* There will be spoilers (beyond those i've already mentioned above :P)
1. When the lobstroscity bites off Roland's toe it takes a hunk of his boot and chews it up, later throws it aside. Roland continues to wear "worn down boots" for the remainder of the series. With a hole in it??
2. When he reaches the Western Sea after crossing the Mohaine Desert he turns north as he travels, searching for doors. He mentions several times that the ocean is on the right and the land is on the left. That means he's moving south.
3. When i look i can't find it, but i SWEAR the first time Eddie is introduced he is a "21-year-old heroin addict." Either way, when he introduces himself to Odetta he is 23. Following no more than 6 months in the woods following book 2 he is 25 and when he dies he's 26 (which is okay).
4. I don't believe there is a single mention of Roland's hat until it nearly flies off his head crossing the bridge into Lud. (maybe i'm wrong on this, but every time i read that part i'm startled. like what!? hat!?)
5. Somewhere around The Wastelands or Wizard and Glass Roland takes a "leftover asprin." There was no left over asprin. He took all the asprin Eddie got him from the airport. And when he went to the pharmacy in Mort's body he only got the antibiotic he needed.
6. The rose in the abandoned lot in New York is on Keystone Earth. So Jake has to have come from Keystone Earth. Since Jake follows Eddie and Henry to the house on Dutch Hill and once he's pulled through the door Eddie remembers a boy in sunglasses following him that day then Eddie too must have come from Keystone Earth. His whole argument over whether Co-op City is in Brooklyn or the Bronx is needless and nonsensical.
7. While Roland, Cuthbert and Alain are in Mejis they have carrier pigeons, but they also receive messages from their fathers back in Gilead from incoming carrier pigeons. This is not how carrier pigeons work. For their fathers to be able to send messages they would need to have ridden out to Mejis and brought back to Gilead with them pigeons that were raised and lived on the abandoned ranch where the boys stayed during their visit.
8. Susannah's legs are cut off in the subway accident above the knee, except for at the very beginning of book seven when it is below the knee.
9. At Pere's house in Calla Bryn Sturgis both Eddie and Susannah are said to have been "standing at the window" and then "walk to the bed." (slightly forgiveable; Susannah had the loan of Mia's legs for much of this book and the next. it's easy to forget).
10. In the beginning of Ted Brautigan's recording he says, "...looking for the writer? The one who created me after a fashion?" speaking of Stephen King and Roland and Eddie's search for him. Later the tet "decides" for themselves that King must have written Ted. (it was a four hour recording, slightly forgiveable). Also, Ted mentions having lifted information from Trampas' mind about how the singer of Gan's song has quit singing and needs to die, yet does not connect that to his knowledge of King and his creation and importance to all of them.
11. Roland watching Teds tape fixedly. Three paragraphs of narrative (and not Ted's summarized story) later he "had been cleaning his guns."
12. In The Whitelands Roland is teaching Susannah to skin and tan hides. granted it's a new, quick brain slurry method but much of this she should already know from their post-beach-doors pre-shardik-attack time. "...learned more about making hide garments than she ever would have believed."
13. In Bill's plow Susannah plays "Hey Jude." She doesn't know who the Beatles are but by 1964 (the year she was drawn) they had become international stars (though Hey Jude was 1970 so she shouldn't know that song in particular). Also, "Roland seems to know... words he knew were different." This has already been discussed when the tet was whole and he was telling his story of Tull; a comparisson of the different worlds they've come from and the overlaps.
14. When Patrick draws Susannah's picture and she compliments him he smiles; a poor choice of words that she "could have eaten that smile up," considering what Dandelo did to Patrick.
15. At the Tower the Crimson King is throwing sneetches. "unless he can throw more than 12 at a time..." Roland thinks he will be safe. Wrong. Six. Roland has only one gun (Susannah took the other through the door with her) and only one hand to shoot with anyhow.
There. That's the end. But it's not. Cuz Ka's a wheel and i'll be back.
That may be my longest post ever.
So, now for something completely different.
I recently finished reading Stephen King's Dark Tower epic. Again. I have read it so often that i lost count of the actual number at seven. And that was years and how many rereads ago? It's not the only book i've read over and over (or plan to continue to read over in the course of my life). Bill Watson's A Dog Called Kitty was perhaps the first. Mary Brown's The Unlikely Ones and Meredith Anne Pierce's Darkangel Trilogy still make me cry every time. A Prayer For Owen Meany and Pride and Prejudice. Another enormous-pile-of-books epic made up of Robin Hobb's Farseer, Liveship Traders, and Tawny Man trilogies (i'm not a fan of the dragon books that follow, say sorry). But still, i think that Roland Deschain of Gilead will bring me back most often.
I remember being in high school, stuck on the road outside of the Emerald City-like castle on the Topkea Interstate just passing out of Captain Tripps territory, now finally back in Mid-World and my heart heavy yet from Susan's death with no next book in sight. I was devouring his other works looking for those connections we (my dad and i) were just beginning to notice (for this was in the years before the internet where everything is now connected and explained with a quick query of a search engine). And then i heard the news that Stephen King had been struck by a van while out for a walk near his home. My very first thought was, "What about Roland!?"
I have seen critiquers on the internets who proclaim that King having put himself in the story to help (or hinder) Roland along is a cop-out and shoddy storytelling. I think those people are new to Roland's qust and never read the forewords and afterwords of the early edition printings. In these King himself claims he does not know where the story has come from or where it is going. He doesn't know who the girl in the window is, he doesn't think he likes Roland all that much. That he feels as if he is telling the story, not crafting it himself.
I understand that feeling. i often feel as if i have no control over what i write. maybe that is why I was not surprised and actually pleased by the turn of events that brought Gan's navel, Stephen King into the turning of the wheel of Ka. It's really the only way it made sense.
Now, there are countless websites out there (as i said before) that draw the comparisons and connetions between King's books and within the Epic itself. that's not what my list is about. My list is about the errors.
I understand that this was the work of three decades and things are bound to get through (although that doesn't explain why most of them are in book 7!!) And i'm not doing this to be mean or vindictive or anything of that sort. I just tend to notice these types of things, especially because i've read it so many times that i don't even really have to. I can just close my eyes and think about it.
My dad used to have a book of continuity flaws for Star Trek TNG that we would read before watching each episode in his VHS collection. It's fun!
So, my list of 15 plot flaws. Some of them are minor, some of them are a bit forgiveable. I was aiming to find 19 because then it would be a sign that they were meant to be there. But who knows. maybe next time i read it i will fill out the list. Hell, two or three of these 15 i found in this current reread. So here goes. *NOTE* There will be spoilers (beyond those i've already mentioned above :P)
1. When the lobstroscity bites off Roland's toe it takes a hunk of his boot and chews it up, later throws it aside. Roland continues to wear "worn down boots" for the remainder of the series. With a hole in it??
2. When he reaches the Western Sea after crossing the Mohaine Desert he turns north as he travels, searching for doors. He mentions several times that the ocean is on the right and the land is on the left. That means he's moving south.
3. When i look i can't find it, but i SWEAR the first time Eddie is introduced he is a "21-year-old heroin addict." Either way, when he introduces himself to Odetta he is 23. Following no more than 6 months in the woods following book 2 he is 25 and when he dies he's 26 (which is okay).
4. I don't believe there is a single mention of Roland's hat until it nearly flies off his head crossing the bridge into Lud. (maybe i'm wrong on this, but every time i read that part i'm startled. like what!? hat!?)
5. Somewhere around The Wastelands or Wizard and Glass Roland takes a "leftover asprin." There was no left over asprin. He took all the asprin Eddie got him from the airport. And when he went to the pharmacy in Mort's body he only got the antibiotic he needed.
6. The rose in the abandoned lot in New York is on Keystone Earth. So Jake has to have come from Keystone Earth. Since Jake follows Eddie and Henry to the house on Dutch Hill and once he's pulled through the door Eddie remembers a boy in sunglasses following him that day then Eddie too must have come from Keystone Earth. His whole argument over whether Co-op City is in Brooklyn or the Bronx is needless and nonsensical.
7. While Roland, Cuthbert and Alain are in Mejis they have carrier pigeons, but they also receive messages from their fathers back in Gilead from incoming carrier pigeons. This is not how carrier pigeons work. For their fathers to be able to send messages they would need to have ridden out to Mejis and brought back to Gilead with them pigeons that were raised and lived on the abandoned ranch where the boys stayed during their visit.
8. Susannah's legs are cut off in the subway accident above the knee, except for at the very beginning of book seven when it is below the knee.
9. At Pere's house in Calla Bryn Sturgis both Eddie and Susannah are said to have been "standing at the window" and then "walk to the bed." (slightly forgiveable; Susannah had the loan of Mia's legs for much of this book and the next. it's easy to forget).
10. In the beginning of Ted Brautigan's recording he says, "...looking for the writer? The one who created me after a fashion?" speaking of Stephen King and Roland and Eddie's search for him. Later the tet "decides" for themselves that King must have written Ted. (it was a four hour recording, slightly forgiveable). Also, Ted mentions having lifted information from Trampas' mind about how the singer of Gan's song has quit singing and needs to die, yet does not connect that to his knowledge of King and his creation and importance to all of them.
11. Roland watching Teds tape fixedly. Three paragraphs of narrative (and not Ted's summarized story) later he "had been cleaning his guns."
12. In The Whitelands Roland is teaching Susannah to skin and tan hides. granted it's a new, quick brain slurry method but much of this she should already know from their post-beach-doors pre-shardik-attack time. "...learned more about making hide garments than she ever would have believed."
13. In Bill's plow Susannah plays "Hey Jude." She doesn't know who the Beatles are but by 1964 (the year she was drawn) they had become international stars (though Hey Jude was 1970 so she shouldn't know that song in particular). Also, "Roland seems to know... words he knew were different." This has already been discussed when the tet was whole and he was telling his story of Tull; a comparisson of the different worlds they've come from and the overlaps.
14. When Patrick draws Susannah's picture and she compliments him he smiles; a poor choice of words that she "could have eaten that smile up," considering what Dandelo did to Patrick.
15. At the Tower the Crimson King is throwing sneetches. "unless he can throw more than 12 at a time..." Roland thinks he will be safe. Wrong. Six. Roland has only one gun (Susannah took the other through the door with her) and only one hand to shoot with anyhow.
There. That's the end. But it's not. Cuz Ka's a wheel and i'll be back.
That may be my longest post ever.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Letters as Art
I’m reading this book, little by little, that my anti-mommy gave me for Christmas. It is called Between Ourselves; Letters Between Mothers and Daughters. And as I read these letters and these stories about the letters and the love of famous and unknown women alike I wonder why I am made to feel that writing letters is a bad thing.
“What’s wrong with a phone call?”
I could go on for hours on that topic! I hate the telephone. I call my dad because he lives so far away and I cannot survive without his advice. I call my husband because we live together yet I rarely get to see him.
Thousands of years we survived and flourished without the use of the telephone. There were missives carried on sweating, galloping horseback from one king to another. There were vows of love hidden in secret places, known only to those amorous enough to find them. There were entire sacks full of words transferred thousands of miles on bright, shiny-new railways, and there are those delivered by the well-known postman to someone just down the street. There was dirt and despair of war penned back to light and worried, waiting life across the sea and there are conversations of introduction and getting-to-know-you of pen pals.
Letters are beautiful things and I love them. Because they are filled with my favorite things; ink and words (which are themselves made up of letters) put on paper; scrawled or dictated, typed or etched or cut from newspaper and pasted down. Letters are eternal, yes both the good and the bad.
“What’s wrong with a phone call?”
Oh, but they’re so impersonal! A sweaty hunk of plastic crammed against my head. I can’t see your face and if there’s something more interesting right in front of me I can focus on that instead. Then, when it’s over, what’s left? Nothing, really. All the words fade and are forgotten.
Letters take time and patience to craft. They draw out the truths in revisions when you realized you’ve used the wrong words to say what you mean. They draw and expel anger away in their writing, and even if some of it falls to the page you can always come back before it’s sent and append or set it to flame and start again.
Mr. Darcy explained all and made Elizabeth finally love him with a letter. Amelie mended the broken heart of a neighbor with a well-meaning albeit forged letter lost in transit for 40 years. Fiction, yes, but even fiction is a letter from the author’s soul to the hearts of the rest of the world.
Writing, when I know saying it out loud will not suffice, does not make me a coward. It does not signify disrespect or a hit-and-run approach to communication. Writing, when a phone call could be made, simply indicates that I should have been born into a different time of simpler communication. Because words fall out of my mouth in a tumbling
disjointed way and I always get things wrong. When I put pen to paper and have the time to carefully organize my thoughts and the ability to cross out and resay what I’ve said then I appear fluent in my own language.
Letters are beautiful things.
“What’s wrong with a phone call?”
I could go on for hours on that topic! I hate the telephone. I call my dad because he lives so far away and I cannot survive without his advice. I call my husband because we live together yet I rarely get to see him.
Thousands of years we survived and flourished without the use of the telephone. There were missives carried on sweating, galloping horseback from one king to another. There were vows of love hidden in secret places, known only to those amorous enough to find them. There were entire sacks full of words transferred thousands of miles on bright, shiny-new railways, and there are those delivered by the well-known postman to someone just down the street. There was dirt and despair of war penned back to light and worried, waiting life across the sea and there are conversations of introduction and getting-to-know-you of pen pals.
Letters are beautiful things and I love them. Because they are filled with my favorite things; ink and words (which are themselves made up of letters) put on paper; scrawled or dictated, typed or etched or cut from newspaper and pasted down. Letters are eternal, yes both the good and the bad.
“What’s wrong with a phone call?”
Oh, but they’re so impersonal! A sweaty hunk of plastic crammed against my head. I can’t see your face and if there’s something more interesting right in front of me I can focus on that instead. Then, when it’s over, what’s left? Nothing, really. All the words fade and are forgotten.
Letters take time and patience to craft. They draw out the truths in revisions when you realized you’ve used the wrong words to say what you mean. They draw and expel anger away in their writing, and even if some of it falls to the page you can always come back before it’s sent and append or set it to flame and start again.
Mr. Darcy explained all and made Elizabeth finally love him with a letter. Amelie mended the broken heart of a neighbor with a well-meaning albeit forged letter lost in transit for 40 years. Fiction, yes, but even fiction is a letter from the author’s soul to the hearts of the rest of the world.
Writing, when I know saying it out loud will not suffice, does not make me a coward. It does not signify disrespect or a hit-and-run approach to communication. Writing, when a phone call could be made, simply indicates that I should have been born into a different time of simpler communication. Because words fall out of my mouth in a tumbling
disjointed way and I always get things wrong. When I put pen to paper and have the time to carefully organize my thoughts and the ability to cross out and resay what I’ve said then I appear fluent in my own language.
Letters are beautiful things.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Being A Girl
My original plan for this post headed in a different direction than we’re going today. The longer I mentally composed it, the more things occurred to me to force me to realize what it really was I wanted to say. In the beginning I wanted it to be a story of what it’s like to grow up without a female presence. in the end perhaps it’s what it’s like to grow up with a strong male presence instead. The moment it changed the most drastically was when, at our Easter family gathering my sister-cousin told me to close my eyes and then commented, “You don’t even wear makeup and you know how to put it on. I always feel like mine is the scrawling of a 4 year old.”
That’s one of those things I had to teach myself because I had no one to do it. But I realize that the other deficiencies are minor and few. but the benefit of a fatherly run household are immense. This I realized because of Barbie.
I cannot align myself with the women’s groups who throw a huge fit over the fact that Barbie sets unrealistic standards for little girls. I wonder, does she really? or is it we adults who want to be Barbie and we project our wants on our daughters? Because I never wanted to be Barbie. Did I know subconsciously even as a child that Barbie is not a real representation of a woman? I don’t know. I do know who I wanted to be. Samantha Parkington, my American Girl Doll. I wanted to be her, with her round arms, chubby hands with dimpled knuckles, her soft and squishy middle and charming back story.
I do not have unreal expectations about my body or appearance. Yes, I am currently in the middle of a weight loss event; 16 pounds down 24 to go. But this is croc weight and my goal is neither unattainable nor set in stone. If I find comfort and happiness 10 or 15 or 20 pounds from now, fine. I only want to be at a healthy weight before I start my next pregnancy and have a healthy lifestyle that means I won’t gain as much as last time. I only want to feel good and not uncomfortable, constrained in my clothes. That’s really not actually a hard thing to do; yoga pants and stretchy tank tops are my very best friends.
I think I gained this ability to accept myself as-is because I did not have an example of a woman questing for the unattainable when I was young and impressionable. instead I had my dad; long hair, tattoos, ear piercings, wearing whatever tshirt was on top of the pile; looking the way he looked and not taking shit for it. yes, I wear make up, but it’s eye shadow and mascara, when I feel like it. Yes, I like to dress nicely in bright colors and newer styles, but it’s Old Navy that’s the store eating up all of my clothing budget. And it may be headed in the wrong direction to say this, feminism-wise, but I like causing my husband to think i’m attractive. I don’t want him to think of me as the frumpy hobo who watches his kid.
In the end I hope most that this is what the croc learns from me when she’s looking for a role model in loving of self and finding of beauty in flaws and the confidence to take it all in stride. I hope her eyes land on me and not some silly piece of plastic. I can be her good example and I don’t even have to temper my own actions; watch what I do or say. this is already the way I am; who my dad raised me to be.
And so, as a mom with a daughter, I stand behind Barbie. She is a vet and a doctor, a teacher and a flight attendant, a homemaker, best friend, big sister and mom. And if you can find nothing else positive about that silly piece of plastic, she teaches hella fine motor skills; those tiny velcroed outfits are a bitch to get on and off!
That’s one of those things I had to teach myself because I had no one to do it. But I realize that the other deficiencies are minor and few. but the benefit of a fatherly run household are immense. This I realized because of Barbie.
I cannot align myself with the women’s groups who throw a huge fit over the fact that Barbie sets unrealistic standards for little girls. I wonder, does she really? or is it we adults who want to be Barbie and we project our wants on our daughters? Because I never wanted to be Barbie. Did I know subconsciously even as a child that Barbie is not a real representation of a woman? I don’t know. I do know who I wanted to be. Samantha Parkington, my American Girl Doll. I wanted to be her, with her round arms, chubby hands with dimpled knuckles, her soft and squishy middle and charming back story.
I do not have unreal expectations about my body or appearance. Yes, I am currently in the middle of a weight loss event; 16 pounds down 24 to go. But this is croc weight and my goal is neither unattainable nor set in stone. If I find comfort and happiness 10 or 15 or 20 pounds from now, fine. I only want to be at a healthy weight before I start my next pregnancy and have a healthy lifestyle that means I won’t gain as much as last time. I only want to feel good and not uncomfortable, constrained in my clothes. That’s really not actually a hard thing to do; yoga pants and stretchy tank tops are my very best friends.
I think I gained this ability to accept myself as-is because I did not have an example of a woman questing for the unattainable when I was young and impressionable. instead I had my dad; long hair, tattoos, ear piercings, wearing whatever tshirt was on top of the pile; looking the way he looked and not taking shit for it. yes, I wear make up, but it’s eye shadow and mascara, when I feel like it. Yes, I like to dress nicely in bright colors and newer styles, but it’s Old Navy that’s the store eating up all of my clothing budget. And it may be headed in the wrong direction to say this, feminism-wise, but I like causing my husband to think i’m attractive. I don’t want him to think of me as the frumpy hobo who watches his kid.
In the end I hope most that this is what the croc learns from me when she’s looking for a role model in loving of self and finding of beauty in flaws and the confidence to take it all in stride. I hope her eyes land on me and not some silly piece of plastic. I can be her good example and I don’t even have to temper my own actions; watch what I do or say. this is already the way I am; who my dad raised me to be.
And so, as a mom with a daughter, I stand behind Barbie. She is a vet and a doctor, a teacher and a flight attendant, a homemaker, best friend, big sister and mom. And if you can find nothing else positive about that silly piece of plastic, she teaches hella fine motor skills; those tiny velcroed outfits are a bitch to get on and off!
Saturday, April 6, 2013
A Little Essay, Of Sorts
Curly hair. I've got it. I have straight-haired friends who say they wish they had my hair. and after conversations with my curly-haired contemporaries i know that really it's simply the want of what you don't have; greener grass and all that jazz.
Recently i dyed two sections of my hair a bright, gorgeous fuchsia. not long after i added some blue to the tips. pink fading through purple to blue. I feel like a My Little Pony. I did it because i wanted to. Because i never had when i was younger. Because one of my characters did and i wanted to know how the process went. Because i wanted to get out of the perpetual mom-funk of ponytails and yoga pants. When i did this i also happened to rediscover the pleasure of straightening my hair and for the last few months it has been smooth-straight as often as it has been curly; nearly obliteriating that inbetween place of i-don't-feel-like-dealing-with-curls frizzy ponytail.
I don't know if i can even express what it's like to run my fingers through my straight hair. not a single snarl, no product, no fastners required. entire days of no frizz control or touch-ups but for maybe a quick hot iron to smooth the funny waves that come from sleeping... bliss. Beyond bliss. Contentment. peacefulness.
Go to my grandparent's house and there's hardly an inch of wall space showing through the photos of children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. you'll find me over and over in my gap-toothed curly headed grinning state as a toddler here, a kindergartener there, as a bigger kid over yonder; professional photos and family snapshots. my grandpa is quick to point out the one of me in purple that at this point in time could be confused with a picture of my daughter.
I guess i shouldn't have been surprised at the reaction he had when i arrived on Palm Sunday with patches of easter egg dyed, stick-straight hair in preperation for a day spent at the craft table with the kids and not wanting to worry about what the fellas on my head were getting up to while i was busy having fun.
My husband says it too: I like it better curly.
Well, here's the thing guys, so do i. I wouldn't give up my curls for the world. they're cute and fun and bouncy and oh, a pain in the ass.
It's not the same hair as when i was a kid; not the baby ringlets. for a long time i thought i had lost the curl and only had a half-hearted wavy frizz. it wasn't until i was 16 that i rediscovered the secret of the curl and i was 21 before i mastered it; bent it to my will. They're not even curls, but a frantic waver. I once told a friend, whose curls are stronger than mine, that her hair does it obsessive compulsively while mine does it strictly as an afterthought. The only ringlets i have now are deep down at my neck where the hair is protected from the air and its frizz-inducing chaos.
What does it take to have curly hair for one day? A shower in which i may or may not shampoo. i do that only once every three or four washes. Then conditioner; a thick, strongly sweet goop. Sleek and Shine by Garnier Fructis. They used to have a curly hair formula to which i was desperately devoted, but this one works even better. Then there is the air-dry, product applying marathon event. Garnier again, twice. Curl sculpting gel in the roots. A little while later when things are a bit dry wax for the tips. Then, when it's nearly all dry and framing my head like an enormous brown halo of frizz i step backwards and wet it down again to apply Dove curl mousse to everything else.
Then, half an hour worth of styling by which i mean burying a handful of bobby pins in the madness in an effort to pin it away from my face to avoid triangle-head as well as down against my scalp to deter fly-aways.
And tomorrow? All that product and a night in bed means that i either have messy pigtail buns (the other hairstyle my husband hates) or i have to wash it and start all over.
It's exhausting. So don't fault me when i put a 3-day livable straight on it and call it done in an effort to end my suffering.
And in the near future? I'm looking to get a larger barreled curling iron so that after i spend an hour straightening out my curls i can add a bottom-only beach wave to it. Because that's my greener grass in the world of hair.
Recently i dyed two sections of my hair a bright, gorgeous fuchsia. not long after i added some blue to the tips. pink fading through purple to blue. I feel like a My Little Pony. I did it because i wanted to. Because i never had when i was younger. Because one of my characters did and i wanted to know how the process went. Because i wanted to get out of the perpetual mom-funk of ponytails and yoga pants. When i did this i also happened to rediscover the pleasure of straightening my hair and for the last few months it has been smooth-straight as often as it has been curly; nearly obliteriating that inbetween place of i-don't-feel-like-dealing-with-curls frizzy ponytail.
I don't know if i can even express what it's like to run my fingers through my straight hair. not a single snarl, no product, no fastners required. entire days of no frizz control or touch-ups but for maybe a quick hot iron to smooth the funny waves that come from sleeping... bliss. Beyond bliss. Contentment. peacefulness.
Go to my grandparent's house and there's hardly an inch of wall space showing through the photos of children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. you'll find me over and over in my gap-toothed curly headed grinning state as a toddler here, a kindergartener there, as a bigger kid over yonder; professional photos and family snapshots. my grandpa is quick to point out the one of me in purple that at this point in time could be confused with a picture of my daughter.
I guess i shouldn't have been surprised at the reaction he had when i arrived on Palm Sunday with patches of easter egg dyed, stick-straight hair in preperation for a day spent at the craft table with the kids and not wanting to worry about what the fellas on my head were getting up to while i was busy having fun.
My husband says it too: I like it better curly.
Well, here's the thing guys, so do i. I wouldn't give up my curls for the world. they're cute and fun and bouncy and oh, a pain in the ass.
It's not the same hair as when i was a kid; not the baby ringlets. for a long time i thought i had lost the curl and only had a half-hearted wavy frizz. it wasn't until i was 16 that i rediscovered the secret of the curl and i was 21 before i mastered it; bent it to my will. They're not even curls, but a frantic waver. I once told a friend, whose curls are stronger than mine, that her hair does it obsessive compulsively while mine does it strictly as an afterthought. The only ringlets i have now are deep down at my neck where the hair is protected from the air and its frizz-inducing chaos.
What does it take to have curly hair for one day? A shower in which i may or may not shampoo. i do that only once every three or four washes. Then conditioner; a thick, strongly sweet goop. Sleek and Shine by Garnier Fructis. They used to have a curly hair formula to which i was desperately devoted, but this one works even better. Then there is the air-dry, product applying marathon event. Garnier again, twice. Curl sculpting gel in the roots. A little while later when things are a bit dry wax for the tips. Then, when it's nearly all dry and framing my head like an enormous brown halo of frizz i step backwards and wet it down again to apply Dove curl mousse to everything else.
Then, half an hour worth of styling by which i mean burying a handful of bobby pins in the madness in an effort to pin it away from my face to avoid triangle-head as well as down against my scalp to deter fly-aways.
And tomorrow? All that product and a night in bed means that i either have messy pigtail buns (the other hairstyle my husband hates) or i have to wash it and start all over.
It's exhausting. So don't fault me when i put a 3-day livable straight on it and call it done in an effort to end my suffering.
And in the near future? I'm looking to get a larger barreled curling iron so that after i spend an hour straightening out my curls i can add a bottom-only beach wave to it. Because that's my greener grass in the world of hair.
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