Book Details, Considerations on Death, and the Tenth Doctor

I'm almost ready to release World in Shadow. So, yeah. Give a little cheer. And then read the book when it comes out.

And I want to buy this and hang it above my writing desk . . . for inspiration. It's the best fan art I've seen of the Tenth (and best) Doctor. It's for sale at Society Six.

Curse you, David Tennant, for ever leaving Dr. Who! Curse you!

And here's a little note for Blogger. I hate the new interface. It's exactly like the shitty new Gmail interface, which sucks. I loathe, absolutely loathe having to hit a bunch of hard returns so that my face isn't aimed at the bottom of my computer screen when I've filled a page with text. Who's with me? Everyone? Right. I knew it.

Yes, it's extremely annoying. I'm this close [] to switching my entire online life away from anything related to Google. I get it, I get it. Minimalism is in. It's so blinking awesome to strip everything down to the smallest, cleanest unit. Right. Yeah. Sure.

But sometimes minimalism doesn't work.

That's how I feel about it.

Wait a minute, let me look at the Tenth Doctor again and I'll feel better. Have to scroll my stupid window up, first. Ah. There we go. All better.

I'll be putting an excerpt from World in Shadow up soon. Have to decide on which excerpt. I'll make sure to try and pick a very tantalizing bit so everyone can see that they really need/want to read it.

Anyway, I know I've been MIA a lot lately, but things have been going on. My dad's in the hospital and he could go any day now. I mean, well, he's been close to going for quite a while. Which actually makes it harder to determine when he really might go. But somehow, even though I haven't been spending every waking minute at his bedside, just the knowledge that I SHOULD be there stresses me out and squeezes every last drop of life energy from me.

Also, there's that addiction I have to card games* on my iPhone. A very unholy, unwise habit. It renders me useless if I let it. I need to find a support group or something. My husband's trying not to pass judgment every time he catches me playing or soliciting someone's phone as a verifiable device, so I can have multiple accounts going, for all the free cards and referral cards and whatnot.

I make myself sick. Sick.

But using my family's phones to register? That was his idea. So, it's kind of his fault, if you think about it. Heh.

So yeah. My dying father. Et cetera. Makes me wonder how many people get a bad prognosis, and are knocking on heaven's door, and decide, even though there are crazy procedures that might prolong their life, choose to just go with end of life care and die. Not to be Debbie downer, here, but my dad has been in a bad way for quite some time. It's rough to see him like that. And when given the choice, he picks some procedure that might give him a little more time, despite being bed-ridden, unable to move, and generally miserable most of the time.

He even has a living will that at one time, evidently, said "do not intubate" and "do not rescusitate" and still, when he's in the emergency room, I guess the doctors ask him if he wants to be intubated and he says yes.

And maybe the difference from person to person is the difference between a life full of regret and a life full of happiness. Aside from the general, run of the mill fear of death. You know? What's beyond this mortal existence? Is there life after death? Or will I just cease to exist?

Right now I'm pretty convinced there's life after death. Who knows how I'll feel when I'm staring death in the face?

But that's why I've decided, once I reach a certain age, to just start living crazy. I'll be jumping out of planes at seventy. Climbing dangerous cliffs, ooh, and cliff-diving, and boating up the Amazon or Congo, and all that. Fairly certain that I'll take up para-sailing at some point. And I'll go out in small-engine planes any chance I get. There will most likely be general space flight at that point, so count me in, even though I've always said no way. No way will I go out in space.

When I'm ready to die, I'll do it.



*Incidentally, I'm nearing the end of my rope because Rage of Bahamut has "temporarily" suspended trading and in-game gifting, which renders the game pointless, boring, and dull. They're supposedly going to make an "announcement at the end of the week. But that sounds grim, doesn't it? I have no hope that things will ever be back to normal.

Parent-hazing (Sick Baby) and a Bit of Sap to Go With That

I'm a real parent now.

I've passed another initiation rite.

Last night my son woke up at midnight because he threw up in his crib. Then he threw up for several hours every twenty minutes or so. He was finally able to fall asleep in my arms and then just wake up to vomit into a blanket as he cried.

So it turned out that Stoker and I only got about two hours of sleep. Like idiots we've been going to bed around midnight. You see the problem?

Anyway, Stoker called the experience parent-hazing and I think it fits. I mean, it's not just the no-sleep thing. It's the holy-hell-my-son-is-in-serious-pain-and-I-can't-stop-it. And that is really hard. Even though we know that most likely, this isn't too serious. It's just real pain. It's just the "WTF is this vomiting nonsense? It's unnatural," he seems to think. You know what I'm talking about. It's one of those human things and it's weird and no one likes it.

Hearing him cry every time it began and while it was happening was kind of hard. I don't want to sound like a wimp, but you get pretty attuned to your child and when they hurt, you tend to hurt, if not a bit more because you want to protect them from that.

He seemed to feel better this morning, and was even playing despite the terrible diarrhea that set in around six-thirty am. And then I fed him some solids, and then he vomited all over me, the couch, himself, and the living room, around four-thirty (as you can tell from this description, it was crazy projectile vomit). So the solids were a dumb idea.

Let me just say that I really admire and feel for the parents of children who suffer more than what my son is going through. You really get taught a lesson by the universe, or life, or mother-nature or whoever, just when you think you have a handle on things.

So, I ought to go to bed right now, because I just heard my son cry and I have a feeling that it will be a long, hard night again. I'm glad I don't have to face this stuff alone. Last night his dad was the real hero. I'm incredibly thankful for both of them.

Corbet gets a stubbly kiss from dad during a Sunday drive up Provo Canyon. 

Notice the grocery bag in a tree to round out the shot. Nature is beautiful!

Corbet likes everything dad likes and wants to do everything with dad. 

Dad feels the same way! 

A Note from Alexander the Great's Mother. Kidding. It's Just Me. Nicole.

Attention everyone: I have an announcement to make. My son, Corbet, has officially learned how to point and say, "Ah." Sure, when someone ELSE'S kid does it, it's just yeah, you know? Oh. Huh. Cute.

But when MY son does it, he's demonstrating his superior intellect. He's not even a year old yet. The boy understands POINTING. He might as well be writing out complex equations that calculate the wind-speed velocity of the slope of a rocket ship. I have no idea if that's a thing, but it sounds intense.

Anyway, when he does it, I melt and laugh and give him a big fat smooch.

 Corbet on his first swing as a big kid. Well, big-GER than when he was a newborn in a swing. That's his dad's hand. 

Beautiful hand. And the boy is beautiful too, if I do say so myself. And I do.

So that's fun. It makes up for the three or four interruptions of my good nights' rest. Which isn't a good nights' rest at all, unless I were to go to sleep at ten. I don't, so every night's sort of hellish. I SHOULD, but I don't. When else am I supposed to read if not in bed, before falling to sleep? There's no time the rest of the day.

Corbet is also walking like a brand new colt. His legs are a bit wobbly, and he falls a lot, but he's actually learning to stand in the middle of the room. Any new walker understands how difficult this is—free-standing, you know. Instead of crawling to a stationary object, he's realized he can make his legs straight with his hands on the floor and then sort of rise up.

It's pretty amazing when you see it.

Additionally, he's been attempting to run. He usually falls, but that doesn't seem to stop him from trying again. Lately he's taken to walking to my Simple Human garbage can (that made me throw up when I was pregnant!), opening it, and taking trash out.

That's pretty awesome. The best is when it's got cat vomit in it (my orange cat seems to have a weak stomach and throws up once a day at least) and Corbet pulls the paper towel out with the cat vomit in it.

 Orange cat with a weak stomach. Also works as a window security system.

Ok, so that only happened once and then we learned our lesson. Cat vomit goes in the OUTSIDE garbage can. Plus it stinks something delicious.

Something delicious. To describe a bad smell. I like it.

It's adorable and I know it doesn't bode well for the future, but I can't help but laugh when Corbet heads to the garbage can and I say, "Cor-BET," where my voice goes up on the last syllable, like "Oh no you DOOON'T." He laughs and squeals and runs for the corner where the garbage can hides. And I run after him. He laughs like crazy. 

I laugh too, of course. How can I resist? It's hilarious to me that he's learned there are forbidden things that he'll get in trouble for. Sometimes he shakes his head and turns away, like he really knows how to mind. I wonder how long THAT will last.

Maybe forever. Maybe he'll be a perfect saint, unlike his mom and dad. One can hope!

Right now he's in this phase—Stoker keeps saying everything's a phase—where he wants me to hold him ALL the time. It's a bit inconvenient, but I try to enjoy it, knowing that at some point he'll never want to cuddle, he'll only want to play and be as far from me as possible.

That happens, right?

Being a mom is pretty great. I can't wait to teach him how to take over the world. I've got my lesson plans all laid out and soon, I'll begin guiding him toward world-domination. He'll be a great ruler. It's going to be awesome.

Pregnant Women Are Smug and Single People Are the Smuggest of All

It's time I tackled the huge chasms between those who are single, married, pregnant, or with kids already.

I know. It's a monumental task, but I need to do it.

See, I just stumbled across this gem:




And it's funny. Quite. I laughed. I said, "Holy shiz, I said all that crap when I was pregnant." And I felt a little sheepish about that.

But let's just start right away. I was pregnant. I almost don't even care to go into it because it's so obvious, I mean it was _ _ _ _ ing hard. That's right. The only thing harder than BEING WITH CHILD for nine months was actually HAVING the child.

Have I told you yet? I had a birth-plan. I was going all natural and that went quite well until the moment I got to the hospital and everything went south. Not to say I hold a grudge (against the hospital or Murphy [who sabotaged my plan the minute I made the plan] or the midwives who suggested after hours and hours of not progressing and double-contractions, that I have a C-section). I don't. Everything worked out in the end.

Let me just say that the reason I said any of the cliche things was merely because I felt like a moron the majority of the time. For me, anyway, when it became apparent that I was pregnant, I felt foolish and silly. And even though it may seem smug to say, "I don't care, as long as it's healthy," well hell. That's really what you're thinking. The other option, saying something like, "A boy, dammit, and if it's not, I will seriously be pissed," you'd just sound like a spoiled child, especially in light of all the people you most likely know who are going through fertility treatments.

You're pregnant. You're grateful to be pregnant. But you're also scared to death that you're going to mess something up, either nutritionally or genetically, that will cause permanent damage to the baby. Smug or not. That's how it was, for me. 

So the song, it's funny. I laughed. And I agree with them when they say, "Like I don't even care, I was just asking to be nice," or whatever about the smug reply that they've picked a name, but they're not telling. Hilarious.

I did that. Partly because the name I wanted to use was so universally reviled by my mom and siblings that after they successfully browbeat me into not using it, I was simply tired of having to tell people and experience the odd insecurity and vulnerability of sharing the hopeful name of my future child. Weird, eh?

But after I experienced some people NOT telling me (people related to me, not mere strangers) the name of their future kid (while I was also picking a name out and sharing with said people), even though they'd picked it, I stopped holding back the information. I realized, holy crap, the ONLY reason anyone asks you what name you've picked out is to be kind and try to show them that you care. You don't do that because you're interested in crushing them with a snide comment about how "nice" the name is. Well, most people don't ask for that reason.

So, really, NOT telling someone the name you've picked out for your kid when they ask is kind of similar to slamming the door in a person's face when you've invited them over for dinner. Of course, there are probably people you'd like to shut out and slam the door in their face, and that's OK. I say do it. Also, don't tell the bastards the name you have picked out.

Right then. The little song. I like it. I'm just dissecting the issues presented in it because that's what I do. I over-analyze. And then my blood pressure sky-rockets. And then I feel better because I've internalized everything.
 
And is it possible to have a favorite commercial star? Because I love the chick with dark hair. I've seen her in some commercials and she's great. I also like the girl from the Toyota Venza commercial who says, "Whaaaaat? That's not a puppy. That's too small to be a puppy." And I love this classic line from the same commercial: "I read an article online–well, I read the majority of an article online." She's great.

ANYway. The song is fun. I have nothing against it.

But I decided to write about this subject before I saw it, when I'd just seen the title and it reminded me of Bridget Jones' Diary, the book, and how Bridget hates going to dinner with her married friends because they're all smug and she's just a singleton and Cosmo (Kosmo?) is so damn smug and says hurtful things to Bridget.

I love that book and the movie. And I was a singleton too, once. And then I got married. And then I had a kid. So I've pretty much been in all the situations where there's smugness.

Let me just say, as a person with a kid, people without kids seem smug to me now. And when I was married, almost ALL my single friends seemed smug.

What gives?

Alright, I'll tell you. I have this all figured out.

I think smugness is just a product of not being where someone else is in this crazy thing called life*. So, you're not married and you have friends who are? They'll seem smug to you, especially if you long to be married. You have five kids and have a married friend with no kids? The child-less friend will seem smug to you.

Maybe not. I don't know for sure. I do know that I have quite a few single friends who've drifted away from me, like almost immediately after I got married (and these were the only friends I invited to my wedding–we kept it small), and they all seem kind of smug to me now.

Like I'm the idiot who got married and left. And now I have a kid. Why even talk to me? I'm, like, lame, now. I don't care about going to shows and being right in the music scene and I don't dress cool any more. I can't hang out and chill and therefore, as a friend, I'm useless. Because, like, you can only have friends who are in the exact same situation as you are, otherwise, you can't even relate to them. Right?

I've no idea if they think this. It's what I think they might be thinking because it's how I feel.

So, am I the smug one? I don't feel smug. I feel like an idiot who decided to grow up because that's what I'm supposed to do (incidentally, I prefer it. I'm not saying I hate my life. Love it. LOVE). And now I'm a square. And the single friends are cool and they're always having a good time, with loads of friends surrounding them at all times, coming and going, with no one permanent to care about (spouse) or take care of (kid) but themselves and so they can drop everything at a moment's notice and fly to France or where-the-hell-ever.

If I want to go to France, I have to plan months in advance, save up, buy tickets for me and my husband, and either take my son with or try to coordinate with in-laws and siblings over who will watch him for us while we're gone. And my trip to France will cost three times as much because I can't just stay in a youth hostel, especially if I take my son.

Or couch surf or what-the-crap-ever they call it.

Does that sound smug? Crap no.

Anyway. My point is (one of them), is that it's dang funny to call married people and pregnant women smug because they're easy targets. They have something. You can always make people who have something the butt of your jokes because they're lucky and they possess something to protect them or hold onto when the crap hits the fan. You can't make fun of single people. They're single. It's just them against the world.

They're basically nude.

I was single once. It was hard. I felt nude. And vulnerable. And I wanted to be married, like badly. Because I'm a lover (even though I appear to be a fighter. It's a ruse). But I never really thought that married people were smug. Although I did get sick of hearing stuff about "when are you going to get married?" as though I was chasing suitors off right and left.

I was. Actually.

But.

My advice to everyone who thinks other people are smug is: don't think that. It's crippling. I miss my single friends pretty badly. Short of stalking them, I don't really know how to reignite the friendship. Can you do that?

I'm sure they don't miss me. The majority of them don't slow down long enough to notice. It's been hard to forge new friendships and foster them and all that because I have a husband and now a kid. So I rely on my old friends and I'm thankful for the ones who are single who still make time for me and haven't let the fact that I'm married stop them from asking me to carve out some time for them.

Hell yes, I'll carve out some time for them. I did when I was single and I will now. I love their freaking guts. And you know what else I love? Over-analyzing. At 11:20 at night. And cursing. Like a sailor. I love that too.





*Favorite stupid line of all time. I use it whenever I can.

Eleven at Night. Exhausted. Bitter. Lame Post. Do NOT Read.

Tonight Stoker and I had a chat about dreams and crap. The thing is that dreams are stupid. Well, that's sort of the conclusion I came to. And by dreams I mean aspirations or desires, not the kind that you have when you're asleep, although those are stupid crap too, nonsense and whatnot, though sometimes I sincerely believe I have the foretelling in my dreams. No kidding. And by foretelling, I mean "the foretelling," as a peasant might say back during the feudal days of yore.

So, the problem with dreams is that, if you're me, then you get hung up on them and they make you do lame things, like have fears that your life will pass you by and they'll go unfulfilled. And you'll be this selfish beast who looks back on her life and manages to have regret, though she's only in her early thirties, and despite all the accomplishments she's racked up, gets blinded by the things that she didn't do.

Ok, so enough of the cryptic talk. I'm talking about writing and all that shizz. And by shizz I mean shit, a word that I haven't used on my blog for a long time because I'm trying to have class and be a cut above all the clever, ironic, and crass shizz that permeates the web, but tonight I don't care to be all that. I'm feeling down. Beat up. Tired. Exhausted. And I'm listening to that repetitive song "The Greatest" by Cat Power, which somehow seems fitting. I didn't even do it on purpose, I kid you not. I was just perusing my iTunes library, looking for something that I felt like listening to, and I didn't feel like listening to anything, and then bam, there's Cat Power, and I was like, click. Ok. Fine. "The Greatest." Yes, once I wanted to be all that. And now. Nothing.

I remember once, when I was like seventeen or something (wait, isn't there a song with lyrics about "when we were seventeen" or something? Janis Ian? Someone else?), I asked my mom what happened to her dreams. Did she achieve them? Or maybe I asked her about something else, like how come her sense of humor wasn't as awesome as mine? (No, I swear that IS not what I asked my mom, but I have no proper recollection of what it was) I just remember the answer to whatever obscure, naive, and probably rude question I asked her (that's half my problem, I ask people questions even when they're rude questions, only to realize once the words have left my mouth that WHOA, that was rude. Idiot).

So anyway, her answer was, "Because Nikki, life beats you down, you know? It's hard. It squeezes those things out of you."*

You may ask, "Those things?"

No answer for that. Probably fun. Wonder. Awe. Or something altogether different. It fit into whatever context the conversation was in, but the point is, I get it now, Mom. Beat down. Yes. That's how I feel.

In any case, Stoker and I were having this conversation. I was trying to justify why I even give a shit to keep writing (not to him, to myself, he's supportive), because it's rough right now. I have no time, somehow.

I laugh to remember now, how naive I was before Corbet was born. Oh man it's hilarious. Just after he was born, I recall telling my mom before I lost my voice (for three months, that was a bitch), that I was going to go to Starbucks with him and write as he sat, peacefully (didn't say peacefully, but that was the image in my naive little mind), in his car seat and slept or stared at the ceiling, and every now and then, I'd stop and feed him or something. But mostly I'd just be able to write. And all would be cool and perfect in my little Utopia.

Ha. Hahahahaha.

Oh Cat. How you so understand me right this minute, singing about being dumb and young and naive and stuff and thinking the world was your oyster.

I'm feeling bitter right now.

The problem is that I have no right to be bitter or full of any sort of regret. My word. I'm a spoiled individual. It's true. I have this perfect son. He turned nine months old yesterday. He has these amazing blue-green-brown eyes--that everyone mistakenly calls brown because they don't look closely, because they're not his mother, I guess--and they're so beautiful and sharp. He sees everything. And his smile is personally responsible for global warming because I'm pretty sure it melted the ice caps when he glanced northward one day. One look. That's right.

He laughs and I die. He reaches one tiny milestone and I'm aglow with the most repugnant parental pride the world has ever seen. Yes, I'm that arrogant that I think my parental pride wins out of all the other parental prides out there.

So I have him. And he lived. I thought he was going to die during my labor because I could hear his heartbeat drop to a dangerously slow pace with every contraction. And nothing went right and it was the scariest moment in my life when the midwife told me I needed a C-section, because, well, midwives. They're all au naturale, and suddenly they're recommending a C-section. But I prayed hard and he lived and I lived. And here we are.

And my voice came back. I was sure it wasn't going to. I was afraid it wouldn't. And yeah, it came back.

And I'm in Utah and it's the most beautiful desert flower in the world. And here I am.

So how can I have regrets? How can I be so ungrateful to feel upset that I don't have time to focus on this ONE dream?

I can't. That's part of why I feel so frustrated.

And Stoker said to me, tonight, something that just grounded me. That people who get their dreams just want to get a paycheck, to pay their bills. And that's true, I know. But me writing stupid stories that maybe one person might read is beyond money.

A billion people have said it, since cavemen were first dipping their fat fingers in pomegranate ink** and drawing circles and bull-horns on the cave wall, and I'm going to say it too. I have to write. (In Cavemanese: "Me have to draw bull." Stupid joke. But. Yep. Gonna leave it here.)

It's not about being read, though I would love that to happen. It's about organizing my thoughts. It's about pulling the chaotic world into my head and spitting it out into something that makes sense to me. When I write, I feel I've fended off confusion.

Not only that. I look at the world and see so much that's hideous, but among all that, there's this beauty. And I want to capture it. I have to express it in words. In stories. Stories organize matter for me. I narrow the scope of the enormous, massive, daunting universe into this small lens and focus on a small area that represents everything all at once.

And it gives me peace.

Welp.

Anyway.

I'm not saying my dreams are dead. I've just got to figure out how to have my cake and be able to eat it too. I totally can. I won't give up! Dammit. I won't! 





*Never call me Nikki, unless we're extremely good friends or you've been calling me that all my life. Or our life. Together. The life we've been living together.

**Pomegranate ink. The first ink known to humanoids.

The Spectacular Decline of All that Is Holy

So I just saw a piece on the terrible excuse for a talk-show, The View, about how any old average Joe can create porn in their homes and make a killing. I guess the segment is a teaser for another show on some network called Own, by some chick named Lucy Ling or the like. I usually never watch The View, partly because I don't relish morning talk shows, or afternoon talk shows to be fair (unless it's Ellen, but then, I always forget to tune in, don't I), and I especially loathe The View.

Frankly, as far as I've seen, there are never any views expressed on The View save complacency for the decadent ride into hell our country is taking (unless Whoopi's going on some rant wherein she displays her total lack of understanding for any serious issue, and it's never about the most pertinent points, like how the country's on a steady course for moral destruction). Honestly. To borrow a favorite phrase from the motherland across the pond, the country's going to the dogs.

The ONLY way the subject of Ms. Ling's segment is newsworthy is in fact to exhibit the total and utter lack of morals which our society possesses. Generally on this blog, I prefer to be somewhat tame in the expression of my values. You may laugh, because, well, because I'm probably always transparent and obvious. But let me just say, I usually hold back. Unfortunately, I'm a powder keg waiting for a spark and . . . . well, these days it seems there's a spark every day.  

Anyway, is it surprising that a bunch of morally loose idiots are MAKING money by selling their sexuality on a camera in their bedroom? No. This has been going on for centuries. That's why it's not newsworthy. And hello? Does anyone out there have ANY standards these days? And by standards, I don't mean that you like to save the whales, though that is good to do, it's not going to save the humans from self-destruction. Well, it is, possibly, through preserving a salvageable eco-system. But there's more going on that's rotten in the state of Denmark than just animals being targets of poachers and the like.

The problem is selfishness and the reason the moral fabric of my society matters to me is because of, as Reverend Lovejoy's wife would say, "the children."

I love the Simpsons and it's for clever satire such as Reverend Lovejoy's wife obsessing about the children that I profess such admiration. She's always there to cry out at any mob gathering, like when a bear is in Springfield and the town is trying to decide what to do, "Who will think of the children!" It's the trump card. How can you be so heartless as to not care about the children?!? They're helpless!

I know, this all boils down to parents and how involved parents are in their children's lives. Parents should monitor what their kids are doing. Parents should be alert 24/7, they should ask questions, they should do thorough research, and essentially run a police-state in their home so their kids don't bump into porn on the computer, the laptop, the PS3, the Wii, the Xbox, the Kindle Fire, the Ipad, mom or dad's smart phone, the neighbors house, or in the ditch out back*, at school, on the street, in the mall, in the grocery store, at the restaurant, at the Starbucks, or any one of the other apparently millions of places porn prevails in our world.

We definitely need to be better parents.

And we can try our best to overcome or undo any harm that might be inflicted upon our kid by him or her bumping into it at a very innocent, tender age.

But what a world we live in, where the individual always eclipses the group. And by group, I mean family. Because I certainly believe in individual rights, and I believe that censorship shouldn't be enforced by the government or any other form of big brother.

Call it a wish, or a longing, that the individual wasn't such a jerk and that they could see that they are part of a larger fabric that consists of more than just a bunch of separate units acting independently of each other. It is exactly the inability to see that all things are connected that our society has ended up here. For a society to work well and to flourish, individuals must realize that there is a social obligation for each person to behave in a way that benefits society in the long run.

Which brings me to another reason there's so much crap being created and sold online and elsewhere: society is too big. How can one person make a difference in a huge world teeming with scores and scores of people? Exactly. That's why it's so easy to fool ourselves into believing that what we do, these tiny infractions against a moral code (such as the Ten Commandments, because, come on, what other code is out there?), even make a difference to any one but us. We think, "Oh, no one else is being harmed by this decision to video myself doing this and then broadcasting it live to those willing to pay to see it, right?"

When the things you're doing in public or even in secret are not being subjected to the scrutiny of your village or family, then there IS less of a reason to behave in a way often dubbed decent by those around you. And since there are fewer families, and cities are so large, and well, the ways to do things in secret (while somehow simultaneously being public) are abounding, then we have a problem.

So, I think everything I've said can be expressed in the following equation:

No Censorship + Individual With No Concern for Society as a Whole + Internet - Small Villages - Family = A Problem

Let me end with an illustration of how all that once delineated the boundaries of decency has frayed and unraveled to a frightening degree. Part of the segment by Lucy Ling and the fabulous porn-made-at-home story featured a 50-year-old woman who makes interactive videos with her clients. Her husband produces the live-web-cam events and Ms. Ling described how a large portion of this woman's "clientele" is "men" between the ages of 19 and 25. And what is their most common request?

That they can call the 50-year-old woman "mommy."



*Truly. If you're going to dump your porn collection, please don't throw it in a ditch. Or the gutter. You think it just "goes away" when you do that? No. It inevitably falls into the hands of children**. Yes, children. You're not the center of the universe and that ditch is most likely frequented by children pretending they're the Swiss Family Robinson or something like that.

**This is based on anecdotal evidence. While I never stumbled across porn in the ditch myself, as a child, I've heard several accounts from others who did.

Gemini, Sagittarius Rising Is a Very Good Sign

Corbet was born in June. I like to think of how I'll tell him about it when he's older. I'll tell him in the kind of voice you imagine a wizard would tell a creation story in a fantasy book. Kind of whispery (and not because of my paralyzed vocal cord) and mystical sounding: "You were born in a sultry land with firebugs at dusk and overgrown vines clinging to abandoned bridge pylons that span wide rivers and deep grottoes." That's how Nashville is, kind of. You get to places where you think civilization has vanished even though you're in the middle of a city. Sometimes you just can't tell.

This is how he looked a day after he was born.

I had an urgent (different from emergency, apparently) C-section–the most natural birthing method–so his head and face are rather perfect. I loved having a C-section. It feels like a baby is being ripped out of your abdomen. Kidding. I mean, it does feel like that. I'm just kidding about loving it.

I'm glad he's alive, really, since it seemed like he was never going to come out any other way and from my perspective, it was touch and go for a minute there. I've probably mentioned this a thousand times already, but the cord was around his neck twice and he was posterior. And stuck. He wouldn't move. Anyway, some umbilical cords are long enough to jump rope with, and some are so short it's as though nature is saying, "This baby will never be able to leave the womb, bwah ha ha ha ha!" I think that's the way Corbet's umbilical cord was.

Stoker was also born with a nuchal cord only his was around his neck FOUR TIMES. They pulled him out (the natural way) and the doctors and nurses did double dutch jump-rope before cutting the cord.

Not really. I actually hate it when people joke about birth and stuff, and here I am doing just that. I couldn't resist. And I'm only allowing myself to joke about it because I had a near-death experience myself while giving birth. So I'm allowed.

OK. It wasn't near-death exactly. It just felt that way after laboring for like seventeen hours sans medication, then having the double contraction crap and being stuck at seven for four or five hours, then having the nitrous oxide (which didn't help), then being told I ought to have an epidural after all (and hearing Corbet's heart rate drop to almost nothing every time I had a contraction), then being told I ought to have a C-section, etc. Yeah, it was insane. And I was confused quite often. I'd hear bits and pieces from the midwife and the nurses and that contributed to the air of danger.

So anyway, no one wants to hear about that, I'm sure. 

Surprisingly, my cat was bigger than Corbet. She's kind of hefty and even though Corbet was a large newborn (8 lbs 8 oz), the cat managed to be larger than him:

Bastet, my first-born cat with Corbet, my first-born son.

Bastet really loved having a mini-human to hang around with. She often thinks he's playing games with her and cuddling with her. Rather adorable. Cats rule. And babies too.

This is how Corbet looked a few weeks after he was born:

 

The author's son contemplating the nature of birth and life and other weighty topics.

In his mind, he was composing his first novel. It's sure to be a Pulitzer prize winner. This is actually his most pensive shot, he's usually extremely happy. He wakes up from naps and grins like he's just won the lottery. In fact, his been a smiler from day one. This was taken just a few hours after he was born:

Some people would say, "Oh, he just had gas." But no. He didn't. I was there. No gas. He has gas all the time now and there's definitely a difference between a baby with gas or a baby who's pooping, and a baby who's smiling. I never thought I'd be so comfortable saying "pooping" on my blog, but there it is. I guess that's what having a baby does to you. Suddenly everything is feeding, sleeping, burping, and pooping. The essential elements of life.

So he's a pretty handsome lad, if I do say so myself. And he makes me happy. I never thought I could love something as much as I love him. And I'm a lover. So that's saying a lot.

Corbet swaddling and nesting in a bouncy chair shaped like a frog. Less than a week old.

A few weeks after he was born, I started writing a blog post about how I had Meatloaf's song "I'd Do Anything for Love" in my head all the time because I kept thinking about how much I love Corbet. I thought I'd go through hell for him (lines from the song, "I'd run right into hell and back"). Birth is sort of like that, you know: hell. Even though my labor went alright until I got stuck and everything went haywire. And it makes sense to me now that it's not easy (so you work harder to keep your investment safe and healthy...), despite how I had planned to have a really perfect labor experience, with the hypnosis and all. I wanted to be the woman saying it was beautiful and not painful and all that. It was all that, at least, until it turned hellish and I thought we were all going to die.

So I was writing about Meatloaf's song and talking about how much I love Meatloaf, both the food and the singer, and how Celebrity Apprentice was awesome last season because of Meatloaf and now his song makes sense because he's a really really passionate guy, given to tearing up easily or losing his temper at Gary Busey (who sort of deserves it, let's be honest). And then I didn't post it. But the point of it was that I was overwhelmed with how everything changed once Corbet was born. Suddenly I knew I WOULD do anything for him because of how much I love him.

But I won't do that.

"That," according to Meatloaf, is cheating. It's a different sort of love that calls for a promise like that, though, in all fairness to Corbet, I won't cheat on his dad. Because that would be bad of me, and I love his dad. And we make cute babies, or so I've been told (all my friends insist).

See, this is Corbet at three months:

Families, Lies, and Cicadas...What?

I feel as though I've stumbled on a a kernel of wisdom and that it's my duty to share it. It's not much, really, only that the great lie I bought into earlier in my life is really just that: a lie.

I guess there might be caveats, and I'll get to them in a minute, but the lie is this: your job is to grow up, get your degree (or your professional training or whatever it is), and move away from home, to strike out on your own and become rich or successful....far away from mom and dad.

For some people maybe this formula works. I guess, if you have a family you can hardly stand or you really think your career is you, that YOU, are not made up of a long line of ancestors who sacrificed their all to bring you into the world (I don't know, maybe they sucked or something), and you really don't NEED familial support. Maybe it works. Maybe the thing I'm calling a lie or a fallacy is your truth.

But I tend to think that universally, humans require each other. And the each other we have been designed into, is a family unit. So we're lucky in that sense—that automatically if all goes well, we're born into a network that's interested in our survival and willing to make sacrifices on our behalf. We grow up and are bonded to them not just through blood, but through the recognition that no one else on this earth cares more about us than our family.

Of course, I do speak of the best case scenario. There are people who truly do have families that struggle, that can't get it right, that are not enlightened enough to recognize the value of these things. Hopefully that will change, for them.

Mainly I'm talking about myself, anyway, because I'm tired of living far away from my family. It was fun at first and I learned a lot about myself and it made my relationship with Stoker really strong. I wouldn't trade that for anything.

But we've been gone for a while now, and our siblings have had kids and their kids are growing up fast and reaching milestones in their lives and the rest of our family will gather for things and be together and make the next generation of our family feel loved and supported—which is so important, I believe—and I'm not there.

Yes, when I was growing up, my siblings bugged the crap out of me. We fought and got irritated with each other, but sometimes we got along. That was pretty rare, I'm sure. The only thing I wanted was to get out on my own and not feel them breathing down my neck, telling me what to do (somehow, in my family, I fell into the role of being the One Who Needed to Be Bossed Around the Most...seriously. I got no respect, and I'm not even the youngest!).

But now that we're adults, they're the people I love the most out of everyone in the world, and I admire them the most and best of all, and even with how stupid and annoying I am (from time to time, on rare occasions), they still love me and want to be around me.

Problem is, now we all live in different states and I live the furthest away.

BUT, maybe I'd never appreciate my family as much as I do without having been (essentially) living in exile out here in this jungle. Right now I can hear the 13-year cicadas (Magicicada, Brood XIX) going crazy in the trees through the closed windows and WITH the air conditioner running, and I'm dying to be back in the arid desert of Utah. Yes, yes, it was voluntary that I came here and so it's unfair of me to call it exile. However, I've been trying to get back out there for years now (one way or another).

Also, I have to say that I appreciate the climate of Utah much better now than I ever did before. I found out, living here, that I have the desert and mountains in me and I'm out of place in a humid subtropical region.

I'll feel out of place until I can be back out there permanently, where my internal geography matches up with my surroundings. Some people move away and love it better than what they left behind. Others of us move away and feel homesick.

In any case. The big lie is that family holds you back. That every kid should grow up and strike out on their own, far away from home. The only thing that does is make you feel disconnected. What connects us to the human family is the family we're given at birth. If you have a crappy family, of course, that sucks, but you can build your own. That's the beauty of it—we're all given the power to create. Individuals with unhappy, dysfunctional families can build their own. Hopefully one that's not unhappy and dysfunctional.....

Family remembers who you are. And is it really necessary to leave that behind to succeed in the world? If so, I don't like that kind of success.

And so, without further ado, here are some pictures of the cicadas outside making an electrical mating sound almost as loud as a jet engine. I kid you not. And if the pictures aren't very good, take it up with my Motorola Droid :). It's his fault.

Empty exoskeletons on the underside of leaves. These are on the crepe myrtle in my yard.

The discarded exoskeletons surrounding the same crepe myrtle. 

Close-up of one of the exoskeletons.

An adult cicada of the Magicicada genus.

My neighbor just started mowing his lawn. Guess who's louder? That's right. Cicadas: 1, Mower: 0.

In case you're wondering, I'm pretty sure there are NO cicadas in Utah. Hmmmm. Welp. Maybe there are and I simply never noticed them before.

The "Weaker Sex" Could Never Pull This Off

There are some subjects begging to be written about. I've got some gripes with real estate, in general, but more specifically, the whole agent issue, which I think is a racket. I know, every business is sort of a racket. Anyway, that's a topic I want to dissect further. I also want to dissect the pointless nature of higher education in the U.S. It's pointless because it's totally socialized, yet . . . not. I'll have to go into that further later.

For now, what's really bothering me is how hard it is to be pregnant. I haven't written much about it here, saving my real gripes for Facebook statuses, you know, plaguing my "friends" with my complaints. Don't worry, they love it. It's why they hang out with me, on Facebook, because they enjoy my witty insights and biting retorts.

If you've never been pregnant, you have no way to imagine how rough it is. If you're a man, you're even more in the dark about it. But if you're a man with a wife who's done it, you know better than a single woman who's never done it. That's the hierarchy I've worked out. It goes further, but there's no need to go into all the intricacies of how I judge others who've never been pregnant.

The Venus of Willendorf really captures how it feels to be pregnant. Huge breasts. Huge belly. Huge thighs. In a word, huge.

I'm sure it will pay off in the end and after all, it was my choice. I'm not bemoaning the fact that this just happened without my consent. That'd be sheer stupidity. I'm sure there are people in that boat and my heart goes out to them, but that's not my boat. I'm in the boat of utter shock at how this is completely unlike anything I could have imagined. That is to say, really really hard. And as I understand it, it doesn't get easier.

Stoker keeps saying things like, "You're a miracle." I reply with, "What do you mean?" Because sometimes I'm not sure. I think, "Is he talking about how cool I am? Or something else?" I think he's talking about how I'm carrying his baby, but I don't know for sure, so I ask for clarification. Sometimes, I admit, I just want him to explain himself so that I can hear more about how awesome I am. I do that often, actually.

Like if I say something that I think is funny and he begins to laugh, I'll ask, "What's so funny?" The other day he said, "Another joke I just thought of." He knew what I was going for and out-maneuvered me. Truthfully, sometimes it shocks me that he ever thinks I'm funny. That's his job, right? And he does keep me laughing, but I really don't expect to get that kind of response from him.

In any case, I don't feel like a miracle. Any woman could do this. But his acknowledgment that I'm doing something difficult helps. Somewhat. Some days I want to give up. I wish I could, you know, stay at home in my pajamas and sleep this part away. Maybe it would go faster. Yes, yes. That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. Right? But it would be nice. Kind of.

I keep thinking, one day at a time. One day at a time. One day at a time. Over and over again, so I don't get ahead of myself and then become despondent when I realize that I have seven weeks left or what have you.

When I was a kid, my mom had my youngest sister (my protege, Cassi), and so I remember, if only vaguely, her being pregnant with Cassi and how she seemed to just take it in stride. It didn't seem difficult or uncomfortable. I remember when Cassi was born—it was the last day of school and my dad came to tell me. My due date is around Cassi's birthday, though I doubt that will work out perfectly (though it would be cool and I'm sure she thinks it would be fitting, also). But I confess, I'm a little mad that my mom didn't warn me better how ridiculously difficult this would be. That's her job, right?

But no. She let me walk blindly into this. In fact, she pushed me. Shoved me toward it, as though I'd find fulfillment in it. Her punishment is, of course, listening to me complain. There are some days when I'm full of beneficence and I pontificate on the calling of women and how I'll be a more amazing woman for having done this sort of thing, and how I'm learning patience and how I'm doing what I was made to do and blah blah blah.

The walrus does better in water than on land. I know how he feels. 

And some days I share that stuff with my mom, but usually I'm saying things like, "I can't breathe. I get heartburn just thinking about food. I can't sleep. Coughing is sheer torture. I know it's good for the baby to move, but my liver feels like pate. I can't move. I was ready to have the baby months ago."

And then I explain to whoever will listen, my desire to be one of those adorable pregnant women you see walking around in cute skirts and comfy tops that look perfectly natural, and who smile and appear to be the very picture of joyful motherhood. You've seen them. They're angels. And I hate them. While, admittedly, loving them for being so content and decent, rather than grim-faced grouches with thunderclouds following them around, like me. That's what I look like. Give me a black cloak and scythe and I could be the pregnant grim reaper.

Another Nicole. She does pregnant WAAAAAAY better than I do. I could never pull off this look. But a girl can wish.

There are days when I feel really strong. They probably correlate to the days when I get enough sleep, and those are the days when I want to apologize to Stoker for being grumpy or for behaving as though this is a difficult task. I feel magnanimous and big-hearted and want to tell him that it's not that hard and baby, I'm sorry for being grouchy last night . . . I'm sure I don't say baby like that, but it's funny to write it here as though I'm a real cad normally and that apologies come naturally to me because I'm so terrible all the time.

Well, I probably have been. Understanding my hormonal cycles when there are none is rough. I tried to explain this to Stoker but I think he kind of thinks that I'm moody constantly, even when I'm not pregnant. Maybe I am. But at least it corresponds to a calendar. The moodiness of men is unpredictable. Like me. Right now. Ha!

I think I just described what is normally understood to be bipolar disorder. So pregnancy has turned me into a bipolar monster. But don't worry. I'm dealing with it just fine. No, I don't need medication. I just need more sleep, understanding, and an Italian cream soda (raspberry or blackberry) and maybe some pancakes. Or French toast. I could really go for some French toast right now. Also, I could really do with one of those chairs the fat people use in Wall-E. That'd be fantastic.

More Reasons to Cancel Your Facebook Account

Perhaps the best part of Facebook is the fact that you can gawk at the apparent traffic accidents of your friends and family's lives as they crash and burn. And, not only that, they essentially televise it for the entertainment of all their connections in some kind of proud display of their total awesomeness . . . so, that's even more heartening to think about.

This only works, of course, if you have an opinion about what people ought to be doing and the choices they ought to be making. So the safest way to approach Facebook is sans opinion, and since I can't do that, the few moments I check in to Facebook, I often end up selecting "hide all posts by X."

I know. I'm such a jerk that I would want to shield myself from the torture of thinking, "Holy crap! What on EARTH are they thinking? WHY WHY WHY, FOR THE LOVE, WHY ARE THEY DOING THAT?"

Also, I'm such a judgmental toad to think that my values, ideas, and expectations are right and not totally unrealistic. These are, after all, just people being people. Right?

Sorry. But I take a different tack on that kind of stuff.

People aren't just people being people. There is good, bad, and evil (as I covered in my recent Charlie Sheen post), and when you sow good, you reap good, and so on. And no, this isn't just "the human condition" as I used to think while still in college. Yes, yes, believe me. I was one of those naive idiots who worshiped the notion that there's really something beautiful about human suffering, existence, and "the condition."

I went to movies at the art cinema in Logan, Utah and thought deep thoughts, spurred by the artistic statements being made by truly creative independent film makers. I'd go for walks late at night and stare at the glow of windows emanating from the houses lining the streets and weep to Wilco's "Sunken Treasure" (because, I mean, that's a great song. And I still think that. But I also think, "Buck up, man!" so, yes, I am probably an insensitive jerk if I can think that about such a gorgeous song) as I pondered my place in the universe*.

So, I've been there. Done that. I want you to know, because it's imperative to understand that I haven't just arrived at this location on my lifelong trajectory without having passed through my own valleys of shadow and whatnot. I've got SOME experience. I've made lots of insane choices and suffered lots of undesirable consequences.

But luckily, most of those choices were made before Facebook existed. So no one had to feel like they were right there with me, watching me being a complete moron. I mean, I'm sure my mom and dad saw some of that and it probably ripped their hearts out, and for that I'm sorry (for real). I wish I had always been such a stellar individual and had my head on straight one hundred percent of the time (or at least, seventy-five percent of the time). Heh heh.

Which is the big problem with Facebook. One of them, anyway. Right now I'm thinking about this one, where I get to log in and witness the final descent before someone's life explodes into burning wreckage. The key is that it's because of their choices, not happenstance. Happenstance is sad, but forgivable. It's not their fault.

But consequences for stupid decision-making . . . that's just frustrating. Irritating (they KNEW better, how could they do THAT?). How hard can it be to not make dumb choices? I find it devastating. Too difficult to watch. And with Facebook, if I don't defriend or cancel my account, I have to deal with it nonstop.

Isn't getting away from the destructive behavior of certain friends or family part of the relief of growing up and moving away from that person? Not that we intentionally run away, but unless we want to surround ourselves with constant pain, something's got to be done.

So hide their updates. Do it. It will set you free.

That's what I tell myself.

And really, all I want is for everyone to not be naive and realize that their choices and actions don't occur in a vacuum. We are all watching each other. We see and feel the suffering of our friends and family. We share their joys and disappointments. And sometimes it's absurdly obvious when someone is sowing manure (while thinking, I suppose, that they're planting corn). They're going to end up with a pile of crap and you know it. How can they not see it too?





*I don't mean to imply that the human condition isn't interesting and sometimes, in a way, beautiful. Because there are moments that are transforming and inspiring, and it's quite nice to see a film or read a book that catalogs this in a breathtaking way and makes you feel like the spirited individual can triumph over whatever obstacles they face. However, the dark side to the "human condition" stuff can be the notorious ripple effect. And Facebook magnifies this problem.

The Return, Bad Smells, and Other News

 I've been out for a couple months. Guess I have a problem with being faithful to my blog. I write it for myself, so I shouldn't feel too guilty when I neglect to post...but I do. Don't worry, my unfaithfulness stops with the blog.

First of all, what kept me away was generally feeling like crap. After being married for five years and putting off the inevitable as long as possible, we are going to have a baby. In June! Yep. So of course I was miserable the first few months because as many women will tell you, the first trimester is hell. It's all kind of hellish, but there are days when it's not so bad. The last thing I could do during that time was write. Sitting up was hard too. Reclining was about the only time I could manage to not want to die. But even then: I wanted to die.

I don't want to dwell on all that because it's best when forgotten. Remembering the early misery of the pregnancy makes me want to throw up again. Not that I had too much of that, but enough. Even now. Just the other day I woke up and went into the kitchen. It smelled horrifying in there. It was a siege against my sense of smell. I went to the sink. The drain? I thought, running the water and taking a cautious sniff closer than what might be considered wise.

It could have been the drain. It was hard to tell. The dish cloth? Could have been the dish cloth. The smell permeated the entire room. Finding the actual source was pure detective work. I went to the stainless steel Simple Human garbage can and lifted the lid with the foot lever.

There was no question. A sour cloud of rot engulfed my face and jerked protective tears into my eyes (otherwise my eyeballs would have shriveled like salted slugs). I began gagging immediately. I made it to the sink in time to heave there. "Stoker," I managed through the gagging. "Bleh, bleh, bleh [that's the sound of gagging], Stoker, can you come take the bleh bleh bleh, the garbage out? Please." More gagging.

He came into the kitchen and started laughing but also, he felt bad. I could tell. The sin was his. The night before he made dinner for us (like a sweetheart) and threw out some rotten beans and corn to free up some Tupperware space* and forgot to take the trash out. I think I gagged up the amoxicillin and water I took before leaving the bedroom, which I'd been prescribed for strep throat the week before. If I still have strep, I blame the beans and corn.

Anyway, I might vomit again, recounting that story. Moving on.

Two of my short stories are up for sale on Amazon.com for Kindle devices and another will be live tomorrow sometime. So that's really cool. Life Feeds and The God Machine. Stoker designed the covers (but we got the art from a stock photo site), and I have to say, the kid's a genius. The cover of the next story is my favorite by far. I can't wait for it to show up.

I never want to stop writing, you know. Even once I have kids. I'm definitely looking forward to a new phase in my life, but I don't want to forfeit these things that help me find edification of another type. I love the chance to explore ideas and character through writing stories. It gets easier as I practice and since I think that life is about illumination and understanding, it matters to me to continue, because that's where I find the most insight into the human condition.





*We don't have a garbage disposal, and right now a compost bucket in the house is a BAD BAD BAD IDEA. We had one before the pregnancy.

Dolly and Bette

Two videos for our friend Jason. His mom died last night and we're all pretty sad about it. She was a great woman and loved by many. When I was living at my parents' house near Salt Lake and dating Stoker, who lived an hour and a half away, Jason's parents let Stoker live in their basement so he could be closer to me right before we got married.

I don't know if Jason loves Beaches, but the song seems appropriate. Moms are our heroes, or at least I think they should be. My mom is my hero. Stoker's mom too. And Jason's mom. Dads are heroes too, but moms seem to really be wind beneath our wings in one of those quiet ways, you know, pushing you along, helping you to be your best, but loving you in a way no one else can or ever will.

Jason loves Dolly Parton and who can blame him? I love her too (and Stoker does also, probably, though he wouldn't admit it as readily). I am sure Jason doesn't have bittersweet memories about his mom, and I don't think she has a single bittersweet memory about Jason. Just sweet ones, because he's a great son, and I'm pretty sure his mom was one hundred percent proud of him.

I wish I could support him more, and all my family and friends, by living in Utah near them so that when moments like this occur, I might be there to share my love with them in hugs and support. The gall of bitterness really is in realizing your loved ones are suffering and you're far away. Though we can't stop the sorrow, it's something to just be there.

Family Conversations

While I was home for the funeral, I was continuously amused and amazed by the veritable treasure trove of sparkling dialog being bandied about my ever so witty family. It was like a David Sedaris sketch or something. So I wrote some of the conversations down. I hope my family doesn't bust my @$$ for posting the things they said in unguarded moments. But if they have any bones to pick, they know how to get in touch with me. Also, SOME names have been changed to protect the evil, guilty a-holes out there who may or may not be reading my blog (but who are definitely not welcome to).

My parents just built a new garage. It's monstrous, but very nice. I overheard my dad talking to my sister who is an interior decorator about hanging some art on the walls. My mom doesn't want him to hang anything in there lest he get out of control and the place turns into a massive cork-board of bad scribble designs done by children.

The setting is my mom's kitchen/family room area. As per usual, my mom was sitting on the couch reading while everyone else was sitting at the counter or milling about and raiding the fridge and pantry for unhealthy snacks.


Dad: “If I hang them, they’ll look good.”

Mom (lifting an eyebrow, but never taking her eyes from what she's reading): “If you hang them, they won’t. Let Kelly do it.”

Kelly (gesturing to the pear illustrations above the counter): “I hung these, they look good. I can hang anything.”

Stoker: “What are we talking about?”

Cassi: “A hanging. We’re going to lynch BLEEP.”

Kelly (sounding exasperated): “We got a long way to go to do that.”


BLEEP is a demon haunting my sister Kelly. And by demon I mean a living male who insists on making her life a living hell.


Me: “So what were you talking about hanging?”

Kelly (distractedly): "I don’t know."

Cassi: “Terry wants to hang his Audi pictures in the garage and Mom doesn’t want him to.”

Mom: "If he does it, it’ll look like a pig sty.”


Much later.

Dad (showing off some surprisingly decent vintage-looking Audi illustrations): “This is what she says will desecrate the garage.”

Kelly: "Oh, I don’t think they’ll desecrate it.”

Dad: “She says they will.”

Kelly: “They’ll look good in there.”

Me: “Let me see them. Oh, those are great. I love those. Those are great.”

Kelly: “I think they’ll actually look really good.”


A bit later. In response to a face Cassi made at me for no reason at all:


Nikki: “You look like the guy in pit of despair.”

Cassi: “Who’s the guy in the pit of despair? What’s the pit of despair?”

Kelly: “The pit of despair. The Princess Bride. I didn’t know there was anyone in there, though.”


Stoker, upon walking past the living room/dining room:

Stoker: “Holy crap.”

Nikki: “What? The mess in there?”

Cassi: “Like a tornado?”

Nikki: “The twins, they’re a tornado.”


My sister has some twins and yes, they're like two of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. Actually, I think you could say they're like a super-power, and with them, the other two horsemen become obsolete. We must not let them fall into the wrong hands!


Dani brought up one of my short stories, "Life Feeds" (I highly recommend it!!!!), that I sent to her husband to verify certain things for me.

Dani: “I need to read that.”

Me: “What?”

Dani: “The chapter you sent Jason.”

Me: “Oh, you don’t have to read that. Besides, it’s a whole story, not a chapter.”

Dani: “Oh.”

Me (realizing it was a golden opportunity): “Oh Dani, you don’t want to read that, it’s got people in it doing baaaaad things.”

Me, to Stoker (loud enough for Dani to overhear): “I’m saying that to make her want to read it, heh heh heh.”

Cassi: *Laughter* *repeats my clever reverse psychology attempt*


Well, there you are. Looking back, it was a lot more funny and clever when I was writing it down. I think maybe I was drunk on the endorphins of being around my family after not seeing them for almost a year. It was also interesting to pay attention to how they interact and how dialog works in real life. There's a lot that's not said, and all the baggage of personal and familial history. So maybe that's part of it.

I think it's also funny to have people enter a conversation they haven't been around for, like when Stoker came into the room and asked what the family was talking about and my sister Cassi ran with it and said we were talking about something we weren't talking about (hanging BLEEP). But it was hilarious! Ah well, she's always doing that—cracking clever and timely jokes.

Hmmm. Weeeeeelllllll, I guess you had to be there.

Sarah Pedersen

I was driving to work yesterday morning and saw that I had missed two phone calls. One from my sister and one from my mom. Knowing they were all camping somewhere in the Rockies (without me!), I panicked, of course.

Isn't that a universal response? When you miss a bunch of calls from your family? Yeah, of course. So I thought my dad had died. He's been sick and so it's sort of expected (not to be grim, but dying is part of life...I know, I sound like an old pro at it, but I'm not). 

Anyway, I called my mom and she said my sweet little grandma died in her sleep the night before. 

That was expected too. She was ninety-two, exactly sixty years older than me (my mom is exactly thirty years older than me . . . there's some kind of mystical connection, I know there is, like the seventh son of the seventh son . . . hush, I believe in magic).  

But still. It's weird. To know I'll never see her again in my life. When someone dies, it's then that I feel strongly that all our lives ARE a tapestry—we are threads woven through it—and when one of us goes, the whole fabric flexes and moves and we sense something has vanished. Something important. 

It's ok. My grandma was ready to go and she lived a long, good life. It feels right to let her go. It's when someone is young that it doesn't feel right.

Allow me to believe that my grandpa was there waiting for her. Let me entertain the notion that my uncle Clair—her son who died in a work accident at twenty-eight—was also there waiting for her. And my uncle Wallace, who died too soon as well.  She had a whole bevy of beloved family members waiting for her. I know she did.

She was the kind of woman you couldn't help but love. I aspire to be like her. It's weird, but I think that's what happens. When you're a kid you love people like your grandma unconditionally. And then, when you get older, you either love them that way or you realize they're kind of a jerk. 

My grandma was never a jerk. She had opinions, but she was never a jerk about them (actually, they were most usually delightful in one way or another). She laughed a lot and somehow she was able to pierce to the heart of things with her eyes or her heart or her spirit. I have loads of relatives and my grandma loved them all. At Christmas she somehow managed to think of every single person under the sun who had anything to do with her brood and she gave them a little present. 

Even the people who, through divorce or separation, were no longer legally considered "in the family." The gifts were never given with strings attached either and you could be sure they were just for you. She put thought into them. She knew you. That's how you felt getting a gift from her. And sometimes they were made with her own hands. A scarf, a hat, a quilt.

She had a way of lifting her chin to regard things that meant she was hiding something. An "I love you" or an "I can make it no matter what, I lived through the Depression and the War. Don't mess with me and put those toys away right now or else . . . ." She was Victorian. It wasn't until she began to sense herself drifting away from this world, longing more and more for the next (I think), that she let herself share her feelings. I think. 

Few things could make her cry. I knew her after she'd weathered a lot of the blows life can deal. Clair's death was one of those sorrowful things (which I didn't understand till I got older). Because it was truly horrible. No parent should have to bury their child, they say, and I agree. 

At some point in the past several years she learned to tell us that she loved us. You know it's hard for some people to say those words. And there are ways around it. "Love you." Is an easy one. It's kind of non-committal. Adding the personal pronoun makes it more personal. "I love you." And the person you're saying it to knows it. Even more powerful is adding a name at the end, "I love you, Nik." 

You can't call me Nik. :) But my grandma did. And I hate to be selfish and say that I wish she would have stayed around for my whole life, always down there in Spring City with the rope swing in the huge cottonwood and the old dusty chicken coop full of cool junk, saying goodbye or hello, waving to us as she paused on the dirt path to her house with the sunlight filtering through the towering pines onto her red-gray hair looking, for all the world, like a Raphaelic angel. If Raphael had painted grandparents. 

I hate to be selfish, but I do wish that. Because I'm selfish.

But life is full of goodbyes. Isn't it? That's what it really is. So get all your love in while you have the chance. That's what my grandma would say. And she did say that to me on a number of occasions, I'm sure, because I've often been the spoiled brat. I aspire to be less of a brat. I want to be like her. 

Desire counts for something, doesn't it? 

:)

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Family Visits: Good or Evil?

I can't decide if I prefer people visiting me in Nashville, or if I prefer to be left alone, an exile in this southern jungle of furious heat and humidity. Hmmmmm.

When they visit, they being my family—most of whom live in the desert oasis Utah—when they visit I am reminded of everything I left behind to come here. The ties between us are renewed and I feel again the strength of the familial bond. I remember part of who I am, the part that fits in an extended family structure. Me, the middle sister. Me, the wife of Stoker. Me, the niece. Me, the daughter. Me, the daughter-in-law. Me, the sister-in-law. It's complex.

Then they leave and I'm left with one family identity, wife. Which is good. Sometimes that's all I have energy for, heh heh. Stoker and I are best friends, too, so there's also that, which doesn't mean I'm only a wife.

Wife has a lot of baggage, doesn't it? Some of it not good. There's wife the nag. Wife the servant. Wife the slave. Wife the property. Wife the chattel. Ha ha. Some of those are synonyms, so I'm cheating, but hey, it makes the point.

I think originally, like maybe when Adam and Eve were hanging out together in Eden, wife meant something decent and the term was unburdened with negative human constructs. There was no wife property. Wife meant help-meet. Friend.

Maybe that's too idyllic of a view when you come right down to it.

Anyway, the point is that I'm not against the term wife. But for some mysterious reason I feel all this pressure to defend my perspective, as though just by discussing my roles in a family and partnership I'm submitting to servitude and archaic views of relationships.

But I don't think words like wife and husband should be poisoned by post-modern constructs and ideas. There IS a lot of baggage here, in the present. There are a lot of crappy relationships and all that, which give marriage a bad name.

And love. It gets a bad name too.

I also feel like the whole attitude about in-laws, you know, like this, "Oh man, my in-laws are visiting. Ick. They're horrible, what a burden..." is awful. I like my in-laws. I stepped into marriage and was aware of most of the roles, most of the cliches, such as this one about the terrible in-laws, and was confused that I didn't feel all of them.

Maybe I'm an oddity, but I look forward to their visit. What I typically rue is their departure. Perhaps that's because sometimes I feel like I live here in exile, depending on how dramatic I'm feeling at the moment, even though I love Nashville in a number of ways (the fireflies, the small feel of the city, the people, the used bookstores...I could go on and on). I guess as time has passed I've grown to realize more and more that the portion of my life that I love the most is the time I spend with my family. The trappings of material pursuits disappear with time and age. What remains is the memories I have with the people I love.

What the heck? I must be getting old. Old and wise.

In any case, when they go back to Utah, their absence is loud and the silence in our home is powerful. I get back to my routine. Thank goodness for routines, eh?

So anyway, I still can't decide. I guess it's better to have them visit and deal with the quiet after they leave. I shouldn't be such a baby about it. I'm tough, after all. Right? Right?

"Minstrel of the Dawn" or "To the Morning"?

In reviewing my expansive CD collection, I've been coming across some old gems. Today I ripped Gord's Gold. It's imperative that you understand my musical history before you pass judgment on me for owning this album (my friends in high school ridiculed me, of course. I listened to old people music). I was raised on FM100. In Utah that's easy listening, light favorites, and love songs. (In Nashville, Lightning 100 is the cool-kid indie station. That's taken some getting used to.)

Anyway, my mom listened to stuff like Jackson Browne, Dan Fogelberg, Abba, the Carpenters, Kris Kristofferson, and stuff like that. So I listened to it. It's logical. And of course that branch of music is still pretty important to me.

So, if you want to make me die from a good heartache, wake me up Saturday morning with Dan Fogelberg's song "To the Morning," from his very first album Home Free. My mom used to do that when I was a kid. She'd play it really loud and it would pull us all from our various beds. Sometimes she would have breakfast ready.

We lived on the foothills of the mountain, so it took forever for the sun to get over the mountains. We had a window facing east and I still remember my mom standing in that window, watching the sun come up, singing the words along with Dan Fogelberg. She was pretty amazing. Need I even say that I thought she was a goddess? 

What's fantastic about all this, now, is that occasionally Stoker tries to yank on my heartstrings by waking me on a Saturday or a Sunday with that song my mom used to play. But he forgets which song it was. So several times I've woken to Gordon Lightfoot's "The Minstrel of the Dawn." A song about a musician singing in a bar. It's probably autobiographical.

"Minstrel of the Dawn" is nice, if a little jiggish in parts.  It doesn't really hold a candle to the melody and power of "To the Morning" which is about the passage of time and the inevitability of love, separation, longing, and pain. 

It's a funny mistake--playing "Minstrel of the Dawn" when you meant to play "To the Morning."  It's become one of my favorite memories involving Stoker.  You can see how he'd mix up the songs.  They both have something about the morning in their titles.  And once you've hit play, you're kind of committed even if you realize your error because the volume is turned up really loud. 

Guess you had to be there.  And know the songs.  One thing is that I think Dan Fogelberg really meant his song to be one of the first things you hear in the morning so there's a stillness in the first notes--there's a long instrumental introduction before he begins singing.  Minstrel of the Dawn doesn't really have that reverent feeling to it. It starts out with words right away, like this, "The minstrel of the dawn is here to make you laugh and bend your ear..."  Quite the jolt first thing in the morning.  

For a comparison, Dan Fogelberg sings, "Watching the sun, watching it come up over the rooftops...."  He says it in a hushed kind of voice.  Pretty fabulous.  It's one of the better ways to start your day out.   

Autumn, Grandma, and that Pensive Brooding Brought on by the Season

Where the H have I been? I'll tell you, it's been no cakewalk here. I've been deathly busy. But I don't feel like going into it, so, sorry, you'll just have to accept that I've been MIA for a while.

Let's see. A couple weeks ago I went to the Southern Festival of Books and I got a T-shirt with a dragon on it. The dragon is reading a book. So, that was cool. I can't really wear it yet, however. I have to wait until I'm not in Nashville, or at least until it's been a month. I saw someone wearing one somewhere and I felt sheepish. The shirt was $10, you can't beat that. I wear a lot of T-shirts and I haven't gotten any new ones in a while, so it was nice to find a cheap one that I didn't hate or that didn't have Hannah Montana on it.

I saw Robin Williams there, at the festival. A friend asked if I touched his butt and of course I did. No, joking. I didn't. I could have, he was that close. But it might have proven awkward. First of all, he's a human being; secondly, my life isn't a sitcom. It would be funny if it was, but you know, life is more than funny. I DID scream and tell him how much I loved Patch Adams. Joke, again. Not a funny joke and I've been using it a LOT when I relate the story. I just think it's funny to imagine me going on about Patch Adams.

But seriously, I like Robin Williams. I really do. Or at least I respect some of his work.

Autumn is here. I love autumn. My top two seasons are spring and autumn. I guess that's sort of cheating, because there's only four seasons and most people are going to say they love spring and autumn because those are the transitional seasons. Winter and summer are kind of tough because you get tired of the extreme temperatures, and they're just not as beautiful as spring and autumn. The transition promises something. Winter and summer are the equivalent of saying, "This is it. This is what I offer." And you have to just take it because there's no other option.

Who knows. There are ups and downs all year long and I guess it's sort of ridiculous to try to parcel your life into a top four or top five list. But it's kind of fun to try to categorize stuff, even though I get tired of always having opinions, and I begin to wonder what's the point? I don't know how I'm going to make it through an entire life having opinions and feelings. I've got to lighten up and learn how to be zen or something, otherwise I'm going to have a heart-attack at 35.

So, my grandma has been having a hard time. I can't go see her because she's in Utah, and when I talk to her on the phone it's only for a minute and then she wants to get off the phone. I guess I'm too real when I say to her, "I know you're trying to die, you silly old girl." Because she is. She's tired of life, I suppose, and every time something happens, like for example when she falls down and breaks her hip, she lays there and waits for the angels to come and take her away, and she's disappointed when her rescuer is instead my rail-thin cousin Ariana, picking Grams up with super human strength and carrying her inside out of the winter weather.

It's humorous and tragic, because I know it's got to suck to be 90 and to have outlived your husband and two of your kids, and most of your friends. It's got to feel lonely and irritating to have to depend on others. I'm sometimes ready to go myself, and I'm just a few months into 30. I mean, the world is a rough place. I know it's always been rough, and I guess that's why people get tired and they're ready to move on at 90. I just don't want her to go, that's all. It scares me because when she dies, I won't have her stories any longer. When I want to know what it was like in 1940, or when I want to know who my great-grandmother was and what she was like, I won't have my grandma to ask. When I want to know what it was like to live through the Depression, who will I ask?

My grandma is my link to the past and once she's gone, I won't have anyone to ask. My mom always says, of late, "'We all become forefathers by and by,' like Dan Fogelberg says." And she's right, and then it makes me want to cry. It's really mind-altering to realize that, to see your mother becoming the matriarch of your family, to watch your grandmother becoming a ghost. It's really really bitchy, sometimes, to think of this design. Life is this way to teach us things and the lessons are hard, but I guess if you let yourself learn, you become beautiful, like my grandma, and I guess that's when you're ready for the next phase of your existence. Something cool like that.