10 Reasons I Love Being 37

1) I am a member of the largest money making/money spending demographic ergo most music played in stores, restaurants, and on radio stations is played precisely to appeal to me and others of my age. It makes me feel old, but then who doesn’t love a little Depeche Mode over a buffet dinner?

 2) The same applies to television programming and news media. For the first time in my life, I am (rather embarrassingly) content to view prime time programming.

 3) I am interested in topics that have previously seemed dull and irrelevant: stocks, elections, real estate- all good material.

 4) I am not wealthy, but I am established. I am educated with several years experience in my field. I have a job; I have mobility; I have a measure of security. I am a contributing member of my vocation.

 5) I know who I am. I like what I like and though what I like may be, at times, eccentric, it is what I like. No apologies.

 6) I am still healthy, young, and vital.

 7) I understand my limits and embrace them. My youthful insecurities have gradually been replaced with self assurance brought forth by experience. I can stand up for myself and my beliefs. I realize that my opinion and my place in existence are as substantial as anyone’s.

 8) I have four children and a husband of 10 years.

 9) I know a variety of people. Old friendships are still intact. New friendships await to be forged.

 10) Walt Whitman, William Faulkner, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and so many other of my favorite authors were most prolific in their late thirties, forties, and fifties. I now have the breadth of experience and discipline to savor their writings. Though I have always loved to read, I read with different eyes. Whitman was 37 when he penned “Song of Myself”. Welcome 37!

My Thanatopsis

My first experience with death was the passing of my great-grandmother when I was six. I still remember visiting her, prior to her death, at my great aunts' house. Withered and paralyzed in her legs, she so little resembled me or even my parents that somehow she seemed hardly human. I remember her always sitting in the back bedroom in a blue velvet chair. When she died, I had a “Wizard of Oz” inspired dream that my aunts Barbara and Maureen had dropped her off in heaven in a hot air balloon. Maureen and Barbara had round trip tickets, of course. And though it was strange that my grandma was no longer perched in her chair the next time I visited my aunts, I felt at peace. It all made sense: Grandma was old and now she was in heaven. I could live with that.

In my life, I have had little experience with real grief or real death. I mean yes, my grandma (not great) has since passed and there are other people, too, but the people I have been close to who died were within the right window of time. I had it all figured out. You see, I imagine the future with the same certainty as the past: there is a time line when a life starts and then after it goes on long enough; it is OK with me for the time line to end. Don’t get me wrong, I miss grandma, but I can’t be too upset that she died. For me, she died within the acceptable window. As I have heard said, “it was her time.” OK I can live with that.

I, like most people when faced with adversity, blame modern American society; not because we have it so bad, but perhaps because we have it so good. We have managed to isolate ourselves from our common, inevitable end in every way we can. Death is ugly; however, thanks to contemporary scientific and technological break-throughs, it has all but disappeared. Even the meat we buy comes neatly packaged in Styrofoam and wrapped in plastic. It hardly resembles a living organism other than that little smear of blood found on an absorbent pad under each chuck roast. Or consider the profits of plastic surgeons slicing away what the hands of time have worked so long to alter. The unspoken modern syllogism: aging means dying and death is ugly, therefore aging is ugly. Let’s pretend a while longer that we are immortal. Like elephants, people have even kindly found a place to die conveniently located away from the rest of us. According to recent statistics, anywhere between 75-90% of all Americans die while in hospitals or nursing homes. The dying are nothing if not considerate. Need more proof that we are in denial about our final, collective outcome? Consider the body before it is interred. Generally, the undertaker has gone to great lengths to remove all traces of death in order to create a sort of a human tromp lo’iel effect: grandma is still here. She is just asleep. Either that, or the corpse is reduced to a few handfuls of ashes that resemble nothing.

And so, the result when faced with real, untimely death, we contemporary Americans are innocents; blind-sighted and unprepared to deal with the thought of anyone close gently slipping into that good night. Perhaps I generalize too much. Perhaps I mean me.

Less than two weeks ago, there was an untimely death that took place in my own back yard. Not my husband or my children, but a dog. A coyote got over the wall and saw, not the beloved family shih tzu, Sadie, but an early morning meal. My other dog, a wizened Jack Russell terrier, sounded the alarm and my husband responded. We were all too late. Sadie was dead.

I feel childish comparing the death of a pet to that of human beings, but her absence has been a bit of a tragedy to me, starting with having to tell my children, one by one, as they awoke that Sadie was killed. My four-year-old, Scott, responded that I was wrong and went looking through all of the rooms in the house, certain that Sadie was right there; ready as always to greet him. It took only just a minute for him to realize that Sadie was gone, permanently. So my oldest three children and I wept in intermittent waves all day. We talked about Sadie and how she warmed us as she curled at the foot of our beds. We said how sad we all were that she would not greet us at the door any more with her riot of unbridled gratitude that we had, once more, returned to her. We even pulled out the pictures that Megan, had colored in her first grade class when hospice had visited the school. I found myself grateful for the coloring book titled “Life Losses” that had seemed inappropriate and macabre in the hands of my six-year-old just a week before. We cried again when we came home and my two-year-old announced, “Sadie’s not here. Only Jax. Sadie is in the box.” I cried again late that night when Scott woke up, drowsily crawled into my bed and wept silently with no affectation, for his lost friend.

Less than two weeks have passed and the kids have moved on. They can mention Sadie without tears and remember her happily. I no longer hear in thin, pleading voices, “Mom, I miss, Sadie.” My eight year old has even mentioned that it is kind of nice not worrying that the dog will chew her toys if she leaves them on the floor.

I still miss Sadie, but I don’t tell my children. I am glad they can live with that. Even so, with Halloween approaching my daughters are, for the first time, afraid of the plastic skulls and funereal decor. For the first time they want to know if I think ghosts are real. I approach the question mythologically, logically, theologically trying to vanquish their fears. For all of my efforts, Megan won’t brush her teeth in the bathroom by herself. In the end, Sadie’s untimely death has left none of us unscathed. My children are now left to contemplate how drastically ones life can change, even while asleep.

As for me, I wonder that I still grieve the passing of my pet, more so perhaps than that of some people. But, Sadie threw off my timeline. She was young; Jax was old. Jax would die and there would still be many good years with Sadie and she would sleep at the foot of Scott’s bed and be there, waiting to jump all over me at the door. And so, the inevitable truth that I have come to recognize as I look at the downhill side of my thirties: that between my husband of ten years and our four children, I have a lot invested in the certainty of my life and that fixed timeline of my future, that now seems less indelible than I once thought. I understand it is not death that I fear. It is grief.

Dear Banksy,

I think you should send me a piece of original art. Here is why: after my recent viewing of your film, "Exit Through the Gift Shop" I have gained an abiding appreciation for your work as well as for the entire street art movement. I love the subversive irony associated with what you do. Additionally, your work encompasses all that I understand about contemporary art: that it is as much process as outcome.

You see, I have long appreciated visual art. One of my most vivid memories is stumbling upon Dali’s “The Last Supper” at the National Gallery where I stood transfixed for several minutes staring up from the middle of a stair case- immobilized by the proximity of myself to great art. I had seen prints, but was unprepared to process and internalize the beauty of the original. Art has moved me similarly since and I have longed to surround myself with it.

Regrettably, I have no real propensity for creating original art work, however, I am satisfied that I know how and what to enjoy: I know what speaks to me. It brought me joy, for instance, to see with what skill you sculpted shapes from paper with an X-acto blade and with what delft movement you could fold and unfold a giant stencil: an artist’s hands in action are as much art as the work itself.

And so, my proposal: please send art. One tiny piece would suffice- a stencil on the back of a 3x5 card, or a rendering of a rat small enough to fit on a postage stamp. Here is why I think you should: I know that you are paid grand commissions by the affluent of the world. I am glad they recognize your talent and sponsor your craft. However, I believe we can both see the irony in this. I read that Christina Aguilera owns an original. Surely, you and she both understand that she represents all you despise. Her work is cheap and will expire with the generation that exalted her. Therein lies the irony and the sting of compromise that all artists must tolerate when faced with patronage.

And so, Master of Irony through Juxtaposition, I would think you could see that I am the ideal consumer for your work. I am only a stay-at-home mother of four who teaches on-line high school English. I have literary aspirations, but never hope to be wealthy enough to collect art. I don’t really long for wealth, but I find it deply aggravating that the only people who can afford art work are often the cheap, celebrity sell-outs who want to possess it only for status and then buy and sell the way they would an estate or an automobile.

If you decide to send me a piece, I promise not to sell or charge admission. I will hang it on my wall, or set it on my mantle piece, or display it in my yard. I will admire the craft of it. To me it will develop and evolve in meaning as my own life evolves. I will consider, daily, the skill with which it has been crafted. Really, what greater commission could any artist hope for? So if you ever want to tag a blank stucco wall in a remote town in Arizona, I have just the one for you. Your work may not be viewed by more than the seasonal visitors or a rogue coyote, but it will mark the residence of an appreciative art connoisseur. Also, I promise not to let the dogs out into the yard while you are working.

Yours,
Marie

P.S. How do you feel about the London Bridge?

Collaboration!

I am fortunate to come from a family with members possessed of various and significant talents. I could ennumerate the accomplishments of my six siblings, but then I would risk bragging while simultaneously making apparent my own lack of skill. The wonderful perk of being a member of such a family is that, someone is bound to be talented in an area where I lack. If nothing else, I am skilled at employing my siblings' gifts to compensate where my own fall short. My sisters, generous by nature, are at particular risk to be roped into my latest scheme. So my message to you, dear family, is; if ever you need a paper proofread or the insertion of a snide, sideways remark, I am your woman. I owe you, big time.


The above is a collaboration between me and my graphic design artist sister, Laura Barlow. It is true to my life. Many thanks to Laura for helping me laugh at a time when all I wanted to do was pound my head on the nearest wall.

Mother Colors

Rumor has it that I have given up on my blog altogether. OK that's just me being optomistic. No one is actually talking about this blog at all. Anyhow, I have written a few odd things that I am going to indulge myself by sharing with you here.

The following is a satirical piece I wrote and actually submitted to one of my favorite magazines Brain, Child. I was solidly rejected, however, those who can get published. Those who can't self publish. OK so I'm not Erma Bombeck, but here it is:

What’s Your Mother Color?

Have you ever wondered what your mommy style is? With this simple quiz, you can determine the color that fits your unique parenting profile. Circle one for each item.
1. When describing my children to my friends, the word one would most often hear me say would be
a. “cute”
b. “genius”
c. “brats”
d. “gin and tonic”

2. The meal most likely to be served at my house would be:
a. vegetarian stir fry with organic tofu and bok choy served on a bed of brown rice.
b. a tasty, original casserole pulled together from last night’s meat loaf and Tuesday’s mashed potatoes.
c. only the touch of a button away. I have the number for the nearest pizza joint programmed on speed dial.
d. mostly comprised of condiments.

3. My underwear drawer contains:
a. hot lingerie for alone-time with daddy.
b. hot lingerie with maternity panels and nursing accessible cups for “alone-time” with daddy.
c. only items marketed as “control top”.
d. nothing. I usually get my panties direct from the dryer.

4. The reading material I provide for my children is:
a. the “Wall-Street Journal.” After all, you can never start them too soon.
b. Harry Potter or The Chronicles of Narnia. Nothing feeds young minds like fantasy books in a series.
c. the closed captioning option during “Dora the Explorer”: entertaining and literarily bilingual!
d. the back of the cereal box. Whose first words weren’t “free toy inside” and “high fructose corn syrup?”

5. The contents of my vacuum dust bag are usually:
a. non-existent. I promptly empty my vacuum after each use.
b. pony beads, silly bands, and crayon pieces.
c. cheese puffs mingled with dirt and pet hair.
d. non-existent. Let’s hear it for free-range dust bunnies!

6. My greatest consideration when planning a family vacation is
a. its potential to be simultaneously entertaining and educational.
b. maximizing family togetherness (i.e. small tents, single bed hotel rooms, compact cars).
c. affordability.
d. the availability of convenience stores between “point A” and “point B.”


7. My favorite disciplinary threats
a. are seldom employed. I rarely have to resort to them with my little darlings.
b. often lead to the confiscation of one or more video game consoles.
c. usually result in me turning the car around and/or pulling over.
d. involve hypothetical clones of the offending child.

8. My biggest fear as a mother is that:
a. phenylketonurics are, in fact, carcinogenic.
b. that my mother’s curse will come true and I will have a child exactly like myself.
c. that some children never will potty train.
d.
that my grandmother’s curse on my mother has come true and that my mother did have a child exactly like herself.


9. When seeking parenting advice, my best resource is:
a. the experts. I study up on what published psychologists and doctors have said.
b. people I know. I like to consult my friends and family first.
c. my mystical eight-ball. It always gives me a clear and immediate answer.
d. Oprah.


10. I usually cope with day-to-day stress by:
a. taking time out to relax and enjoy the company of my children.
b. exercising or doing yoga, especially focusing on deep breathing techniques.
c. smiling. It’s amazing how perfectly natural I look even while gritting my teeth.
d. gin and tonic.


Scoring: For each “A” answer score yourself 2,000 points. For every “B” answer score yourself with 500 points. For every “C” answer give yourself 100 points. For every “D” answer give yourself 2 points.


20,000-12,000 points: Your color is magenta.
Buoyant and sparkly, you are the mom everyone wants to be. Someday there will be a bronze statue erected in your honor. Not even the pigeons will dare poop on your likeness. You go, girl!

11,999-4,000 points: Your color is burgundy.
Intelligent and efficient, you can pull off anything. Your neighbors come to you for your sound advice. No one ever needs to know that you caught your son lapping rain water off the back patio during his “puppy” stage. You deserve a pat on the back for all you do. You go, girl!

3,999-300 points: Your color is vermillion.
Eclectic and energetic, you are a mother with a talent for flexibility. You know how to survive all conditions. So what if your kid had lasts night’s leftover carpet popcorn for a snack? Whether they’re admitting it or not, everyone else’s did too. You go, girl!

299-20 points: Your color is puce.
(Who has the time to add up the points for these stupid quizzes anyway?) Savvy and fun, your unique parenting style sets you apart from the rest of the crowd. Besides, your kids aren’t mismatched. They wear different colored socks on purpose and they pull it off, too. Your children are generally happy and so are you. Gin and tonic! You go, girl!

This I Believe

I believe in quitting. I believe in the power of throwing in the towel and saying, “enough is enough. I’m done.” I believe that walking away can pay just as high a wage as persistence.

I have always chuckled to myself at the bumper sticker that glibly states “Rehab is for quitters.” I enjoy the play on the connotations of the word “quit.” But as every addict knows, quitting ultimately requires personal conviction and courage. The same is true for the pathologically persistent.

I didn’t realize that I was pathologically persistent or that I was even a persistent person at all until my battle to breastfeed a baby who came into this world seemingly unequipped with even the most basic of human survival instincts: the child didn't know how to suck. Sometimes, I would work with her for hours at a time to achieve a good feeding. 14 months later, my daughter was a chubby, newly weaned toddler and I had bragging rights: my baby had been exclusively breastfed. Yes, persistence did pay off. I had something to show for the sleepless nights, the soreness, the sobbing baby. In the end, the battle was fought and won and all had come round right. I, the triumphant mother.

The same persistence was what got me through college with a Bachelor of Arts degree and a teaching certificate, despite my insecurities and throbbing self doubt. Persistence is the reason I currently have a career that allows me to stay at home with my family.

However, this same persistence is the reason I stayed in a six year relationship with a guy who didn’t really want me. It is the reason that I have stuck through bad jobs and have sometimes remained friends with people who were not really friends at all: as if all of my self worth relied on enduring through this one excrutiating act.

My relationship for instance: I knew it was just all me who was wrong. It couldn’t be him or even worse, us. It must be me. Well, I’m proactive and honest; I could fix me. And so I tried. He seemed to like witty women. I would crack more jokes! He liked beautiful girls. I could primp. He said he liked charismatic girls. Hmmm. Where could I get charisma? I felt like a gambler continuously feeding coins into a slot machine: one more quarter and I would hit the jackpot. One more act of forgiveness on my part and he would love me. Eventually, this thing had to pay off. The stakes were too high to let go (or so I told myself with every subsequent heartbreak.)

Flash forward 3 years: one brief conversation, a few intermittent tears, a couple of Indigo Girls songs later and I felt light. I was totally unattached and it felt great. Where was the expected dread and suffering that I had been so afraid of? I was afraid to feel good?

So, I affirm the wisdom and the dignity of Chief Joseph’s words spoken at the end of that hundred day march now known as the Trail of Tears. “I will fight no more forever.” And for me and others who are, likewise, pathologically persistent a new serenity prayer:

God grant me the serenity to persist when my efforts will be appropriately rewarded;
the courage to quit when it is time to cut my loses
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Amen

Social Awareness

Sometimes it happens: a situation or a person calls me to sudden clarity and I realize that the "daily grind" I swear off and swear about and swear by is an altered state of reality. I am guilty of being obtuse. I am dutiful and hardworking. I worry that one misstep on my part can cause the whole of my personally constructed universe to fall apart. (Can you see it now, that solar system model made out of paper Mache falling off its wire hanger? Landing on the floor, all of its interplanetary strings a tangled disaster. Saturn's rings broken off. No biggie, nothing a little Elmer's glue can't fix.) But sometimes I can look beyond and realize that there are others out there and I, unsuspecting denizen of Planet Where-Ever, never saw them there. (Maybe being "spacey" isn't such a bad thing.)



Like many busy moms, I sometimes like to unwind by getting a pedicure. One Saturday morning I was looking forward to the relaxation and hour away from my kids this would afford me. As always, I have my iPhone nearby with its ready array of novels loaded to the Kindle app. I begin to read a novel set during an insurgence in Sri Lanka. Where is Sri Lanka? I can't even recall. I read about brutal war time deaths half a world away.



I pause from my reading a moment to glance at my manicurist. I notice that she is a slight woman, but her hands are strong as she massages lotion into my heels and the balls of my feet. The thought occurs to me that if ever I am to be a good writer, I will have to do what Ondatjee, Kingsolver, and Fadiman have already done. I must step outside of my natural, childish shyness and talk to strangers. I have to be aware that they exist. I have to become an interested, therefore interesting, person. A senseless resistant insecurity warns me that I am stepping onto unfamiliar territory, but a stronger force tells me that it is time to grow up.



"Where are you from?" I ask this middle-aged woman who is now tearing at my cuticles with clippers.



She looks up a bit startled, but with a pleasant smile.



"Vietnam." Her accent is thick.



"How long have you lived in Lake Havasu?"



"One year."



"Do you like it here?"



"Yes. I come here with my daughter." She gestures to the girl with the blunt cut bangs and perfect almond eyes crouched in front of the spa chair next to mine. "She is 20."



"She is very beautiful," I reply.



"And that is my brother." She gestures to the man across the salon who is filing a woman's nails. "He's been here nine year. I come here to work for him."



She continues to talk softly in broken English. It is hard to hear over the top of the classic rock station promo truck parked outside. I think she is describing her work day. I understand "5:00 AM exercise" and "9:30 Come to shop." Other than that her words are lost somewhere between my poor audio processing skills (I said I was obtuse) and "Dust in the Wind." She looks satisfied and proud.



As she paints my toenails a vibrant red, I try to imagine this woman leaving her home and traveling to a world every bit as foreign to her as Vietnam is to me. I think of what her first shy days at work must have been like, hunched over working scrupulously at a new trade, trying to pick up a new language. I imagine her avoiding conversations with cutomers- so difficult to understand or to reply in a different tongue. That is as far as I can try to fill in the blanks. And I am struck to think that this woman, crouched at my feet, finishing my nails with a careful filigree has done something much more courageous than will ever be required me.

Spring Cleaning and "Hurley"

Where, may you ask have I been? I have been teaching and mothering and that is about my whole life. I decided I needed to post again because spammers are making more money off of my blog than I am. Also, I am currently teaching a high school creative writing class (which I dearly love). I wrote a short short story for them and so I actually have something to post. Here is my short story.

Hurley


Leon “Hurley” Malone was popular in his unpopularity. He had been Hurley since the 8th grade when Jamison Potter had cornered him in social studies.
“You smell so bad, you make me want to hurl,” said Jamison, he placed his meaty palm on his stomach and made retching sounds for emphasis. “Your name should be Hurley. Ya like your name, Hurley?”
The other students laughed derisively while Ms. Shumway battled with the pull down maps bolted to the wall above the white board. So Hurley became Hurley and since I was the teacher’s aide in Mrs. Boswell’s English class and saw his name “Leon” on the roles, I think I was the only one who remembered Hurley had a given name. He was even Hurley to his teachers.
Mine and Hurley’s lockers were situated near each other down the same hall for most of high school. I was, by no means popular, but I could blend. If I watched my shoes while walking down the hall, I could generally avoid eye contact and conversations with my peers. Hurley tried, but he could never get lost in the wash of the crowd. On any given day, I could hear the treble of female voices. “Eww! Nasty! Hurley touched me. Go rub your slime on someone else.” Or the lower cadences of male voices, “Hey, Hurley. Did you forget to brush this morning?” Inevitably, this would be followed by the slam of Hurley’s slender body as it was thrown into the nearest wall.
One day, while grading papers for Mrs. Boswell, my eyes ran across an entry in Hurley’s English notebook. "I can’t write about my friends. I don’t have any." I knew it was true, but actually reading it made me feel so sorry for him. Even so, I never considered offering any camaraderie or even so much as a vague smile.
Hurley and I had one, brief personal encounter. I was just finishing up my usual lunch: a peanut butter and jam sandwich smuggled into the library, daily. I was gradually making my way through an old set of World Book Encyclopedias. I had reached “M” and was just reading up on marmosets.
I heard a sound behind me. Thinking it was the librarian, I stuffed the rest of my sandwich into my mouth. I was surprised to see Hurley standing over me. It was then that the smell hit. It was not the typical B.O. but something both sweet and rotten.
“They all say I small bad.” He said. “Even the teachers complain to my mom. I don’t smell anything. Do you think I stink?”
I forced myself to swallow the one, last dry bite. I hoped my face wasn’t as hot as it felt. The words that came to mind were, “Yes, you reek of death!” But I couldn’t make my mouth form those words. All I could do was shake my head slowly side to side. I suppose I could have tried to help him at that point, but I was too slow, too faltering.
“I thought so,” he said, relieved. “I do shower, you know,” and he walked hurriedly out the back door.
Yes, Hurley stank. Over time, even his locker seemed to emanate an odor. At first, it was subtle, almost imaginary as if all of our unkind remarks had turned into an olfactory presence that clung to the hall where Hurley deposited his books. Rumors had started; at first, they stemmed from the smell. They were whispered and giggled, and passed in notes. They started blank and meaningless as white noise. “No running water. . glandular problems.”. Gradually, they took more notable shape and ranged into the absurd. On the periphery myself, I only caught fragments, “mom and dad. . . half brother and sister.” “Family of Satanists. . .”
The stories reached a roar until Hurley was more high school folklore than real person. Hurley’s increasing absences didn’t help the situation. In Coach Openshaw’s biology class, Jamison was passing around a comic strip he had just drawn. It was called, “Hurley the Human Corpse.” It showed Hurley, in caricature, walking by a potted plant that drooped and withered in the next frame as he walked by. Next it showed, in similar sequence, a tank of dead fish. . . a cafeteria of dead students. . .
“Ha! Ha! Ha” Mr Openshaw roared, “Have you all seen this?” He displayed Jamison’s artwork to the class.
Hurley came to school less and less. Even so, the funk surrounding his locker grew as did the rumors. Eventually Hurley’s attendance dwindled until the stories and the stench were all that remained. When walking by his locker, girls would theatrically cover their noses with their hands and boys would dare each other to take a whiff.
Somebody finally decided to take action and alert the faculty. Coach Openshaw lumbered down the hall followed by Jamison who pointed in the direction of Hurley’s old locker. Mr. Openshaw tried the combination lock, but when it did not give, he forced it open, bending the latch. The locker sat there open and rank. It was empty save for a plastic sandwich bag. Coach picked up the bag which contained a moldering human thumb, black and putrid.

The Poetry of Pregnancy

When I deliver a baby, my first thought is not to count fingers and toes or to check for family resemblance. Usually, I am much more selfish than that. My first thought is, Hooray! I'm not pregnant anymore! I have heard moms talk of how they love to be pregnant; how they even feel sexier than usual, or how they feel vivacious and energetic. I wish I could claim that I handle pregnancy with as much aplomb. I can't.

I feel huge, uncomfortable, overheated, and about as attractive as an over ripe pear. Mentally, I am simultaneously out of focus and prone to obsession. I could make a list of strange obsessions I have experienced while pregnant, but it would be far too telling and inexplicable. If you are acquainted with my blog, you can probably guess a few of them.

Sometimes I get so caught up in the woes of pregnancy that I forget the wonder of it. As always, I turn to literature to remind me that life is, in fact, profound and that there is nothing more profound and meaningful than its perpetuation.

I would love to compose a poem about the pregnancy experience, but I have broken the one cardinal rule of poetry composition: to write poetry, one must read poetry. I confess that I simply haven't picked up a book of poems in quite a long time and so, I must rely on what already exists.

My husband has disliked Sylvia Plath since he had to read her poem, "Daddy" in a college English course. I agree that "Daddy" is a little bitter for my tastes as well, but, when I read "Metaphors," Sylvia is my friend once again:

Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,

An elephant, a ponderous house,

A melon strolling on two tendrils.

O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!

This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.

Money's new minted in this fat purse.

I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.

I've eaten a bag of green apples.

Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Ironically, sometimes it is the male poet who is able to see past the physicality of pregnancy and to take it to a more transcendent level. This by contemporary poet Bill Kloefkorn, State Poet of Nebraska is about as gorgeous a thing as has ever been written:

Covenant

Here is the story I might have heard,

More likely dreamed: the woman

after the first trimester

required by village covenant

to compose a lullaby,

to sing it daily then

to the gathering child, only

from memory and in deliberate

isolation,

the man not permitted to listen

until the infant had been delivered

and pronounced both whole and

welcome. And this ritual

I'd go to church to live with,

solace in the belief

that not so very far away

always a woman sits singing her own

creation

to that small creation breathing

as if a delicate fish inside her,

always not so far away

a confluence of word and of music

flowing somehow into the ear

of the unborn,

there to do whatever the inexplicable does

to sustain us,

my mother meanwhile who couldn't

carry a tune in a washtub

singing as she carried the washtub

outside to empty the rinsewater,

that same tub later

filled with the well-wrung

family wash, each item on the line

moving in the breeze

like a quaint crustacean,

each movement singing.

And finally this excerpt from my favorite Dylan Thomas poem.

from Fern Hill

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

Shining, it was Adam and maiden.

The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

Out of the whinnying green stable

On the fields of praise.

Perhaps it is time for me to consider something other than the centimeters and percentages of childbirth and to ponder and enjoy the small universe of my womb; to appreciate that kicking writhing creature whose creation like all great creations starts, "In the beginning. . ."

A Letter to my Dears

As you know, I am due at the end of July. I went to the doctor today and he informed me that I am at 1.5 cm and 50% effaced. (The 1.5 could be the result of 3 other deliveries or it could be that I'm actually making progress.) Whatever the case, he felt as if I might have fewer than 5 weeks. Music to my ears!

Nerd Porn

Can you guess what's wrong with this picture?

Ten Reasons to Love Neil Gaiman (a.k.a. He was aware of my existance for a brief moment)

As stated in a previous post, I have recently discovered and have become a member of Neil Gaiman fandom.  For lack of anything else to post, I am going to list my top 10 reasons for loving Neil Gaiman.   I love Gaiman:

1) Because Tori Amos references him by name on her album "Little Earthquakes." "Little Earthquakes" was one of my favorites in high school.  If you are at all familiar with the song "Tear in Your Hand," the lyrics are as follows, "If you need me, me and Neil'll be hanging out with the dream king."  I always wondered who Neil was. . .now I know.

2) Because he has a great speaking voice- more specifically his accent. I always feel a bit embarrassed when American girls swoon over British accents because it seems so silly and superficial, however, listening to Gaiman read, is definitely worth while.  Not only is he a superb writer, he is also a superb reader.  His interpretation adds dimension and significance to his work.

3) Because Gaiman is no Bradbury:  he is not a social recluse. Nor is he a technophobe.  He doesn't seem to mind that his fans want to know what he is up to so he blogs, Twitters, Goodreads, and has a website for his children and young adult fans.  I'm sure there's other ways to cyber-stalk him.  Fill me in if you know them.  As a matter of fact he randomly selected my lame question to answer on his blog today. (The last one on his post.  Yup, that's me.)

4)  For his crazy hair.

5) Because his prose floats.  Gaiman can write and write well about any subject he chooses.  If I try to read anything less than Robertson Davies after I have read a Gaiman novel, the dialogue seems flat and the plot predictable.  (Does he really mean to do this to other authors? What about us aspiring writers?  It's so unfair.)

6) For his book jackets.  

Would I usually find a man who looks like this attractive or is it just because he's Neil?  The world may never know, but I do enjoy looking at the back cover of Anansi Boys.  Apparently, I'm not alone.

7) For his leather jacket. (Click on the wardrobe to the right once you find yourself in "The Living Room.")

8) Because he is the most contemporary of authors.  Gaiman's work does not show his age.  He lives in the here and now.  Just as he is unafraid of technology, he is also unafraid to team with other contemporary artisits and writers.  He has written Blueberry Girl for Tori Amos.  He has teamed with Terry Pratchett to write Good Omens, has toured with Amanda Palmer, and the likes of Stephin Merrit have been seen lurking around his midwestern home.  Unlike Gaiman, I will show my age and mention that I didn't know who half these people were until I read his blog.

9) Because of his generosity to his fans.  Did I mention that he reads the ENTIRE Graveyard Book online?  Yes, I believe I have, but I will mention it again because I think it is phenomenal that one can listen to this year's Newbery award winner for free.  Another of my favorite Gaiman freebies is his short story "Chivalry."  There are also more freebies available.  Send me a comment as you discover them.  Did I mention he chose my question about this on his blog?

10) Because of his absolute versatility.  Gaiman is the first author whose works I can read one after another and never get bored or tired of his style.  His books are so entirely different from each other, the only prediction I can make upon opening a new volume is that it will be interesting, intelligent, and well-written.  Beyond that, I can't even tell you if I will love it.  I may notlike it at all, but I can appreciate the level of skill put into each piece.  A word of advice:  do not write Gaiman off if you don't love him at your first reading.  Put it down and try something else. One work does not indicate the merits of another.

Also, along the lines of versatility.  Gaiman has written (successfully) picture books, graphic novels, short stories, poetry, novels, screen plays, and a number of journalistic pieces.  Pretty impressive.

Pilgrimage

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droughte of March hath perced to the roote And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendered is they flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne, And smale fowles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open eye- (So priketh hem Nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. . .                                      Geoffery Chaucer- The Canterbury Tales Like Chaucer's pilgrims of old, my family and I harkened to the call of spring and took some time off to travel.  Chaucer is right; spring is a great time to leave home and see the countryside. Unfortunately, I did not have the pleasure of traveling with the loquacious Wife of Bath, the jolly cook, or the creative nun's priest, but like Chaucer's pilgrims, there was good company and a lot of  great stoytelling.  The pilgrimage is as archetypical to religion as the snake and the tree, the flood, or the apocalypse.  The Buddists travel to Kapilavastu to see the Buddah's birthplace.  Jews and Christians alike travel to Israel to see where prophets strode.  Many still travel to Greece to make their winding way to Delphi.  Unlike the pilgrims of old or the steadfast Tibetan monks, my family and I boarded a plane.  The location was not particularly exotic: it was no Thebes, Lhasa, or Jerusalem.  In fact, it is a little known place except to members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons.)  We spent our spring break in Missouri and Illinois to visit sites only as ancient as the 1840's. Like Chaucer's pilgrims who travled to visit the resting place of the martyr Sir Thomas a' Becket, we travled to sites related to the founding prophet of our religion and martyr, Joseph Smith.  We saw the jail in Liberty, Missouri where Smith and seven of his follwers were held captive for five brutal winter months and where Smith received some of his most hopeful revelation that has now been canonized in modern scripture.  We traveled to (and spent most of our time in) Nauvoo, Illinois built on the banks of the Mississippi River by early Mormon settlers: a testament to their faith and work ethic.  There, we saw the homes and tombs of the martyred prophet and his brother, Hyrum Smith.  One brisk morning, we traveled to Carthage, Illinois to visit the Carthage Jail (ironically a much more hospitable place than Liberty) where Joseph and Hyrum Smith were shot and killed by an senseless mob (the door still bears the bullet holes from that day.) Perhaps my family and I did not have to walk to Mecca and suffer en route (does a turbulent flight count?),  but the purpose of our pilgrimage was much the same for us as it has been for pilgrims throughout time:  to make it real; to explore and examine and reaffirm the roots of our belief. During my time in Illinois, I was able to walk where my ancestors once walked and to see that my life, like theirs, is only one part of a greater work.

Penelope at the Loom

Today she will entwine red

the color of sunrise.

She pulls over and through vertical

Threads- packed hard down with the 

Shuttle leaving tight neat knots.

This is how she always spends her days

She thinks of her husband gone twenty years

Their infant son now a man.  How bitterly

Those hours spent arranged in colored weave

that shows no time, like the shore

licked nightly clean by tide.  She craves

Odysseus to float to her front door

heralded by seagull cries- a piece of driftwood

dropped, joyously, at her feet.

A freshness in the air and she recalls last night's 

buffet of rain that crushed out suitors' revels-

left olive leaves strewn over hard packed ground.

All summer gone in those leaves

all sundrench all dew.  Gaia giving

then destroying

what took eternity to grow.

Her days weave nights and nights unravel days

The tight weft of hours built up and loosed

Ceaselessly storing moments like coins.

Dawn's rosy finger streak the dark

Light has streaked her hair

By the rythm of some loom.

Oh, Spare Me! (A VBAC post)

I’ve always prided myself on being a bit of a skeptic.  It’s not that I don’t believe in the supernatural, for instance. It’s just that I don’t think ghosts or aliens have much personal interaction with the inhabitants of planet earth.  I approach social causes in a similar frame of mind.  It seems to me that the greatest interest of most charities happens to be the kind accumulating in my bank account and how to get me to proffer it up for their “good causes.”  Before I sound, completely selfish and curmudgeonly, it’s not that I don’t support social causes and charities; it’s just that I want to know that my money is actually being used for good and is not just contributing to some administrator’s BMW fund.

Of course, I’m not anti-woman or anti-minority, but I do feel as if worthy causes get exploited to pull at the heartstrings of a sympathetic, gullible public.  The inverse is also true; sometimes causes I feel most strongly about seem to slip by with very little notice. 

I also submit that nothing stirs the ethical pot like reproductive issues.  For instance, consider the years of controversy over abortion, and, more recently, the hotly-debated topics of stem-cell research and cloning.  Why else the fascination with Octomom: hubbub over a woman with a lot of kids, and the public eager to stand as ethical judge? (Not that I support or sympathize, it’s just that there are bigger fish to fry.)

What reproductive issue, you may ask, could be more  important than a mother who has voluntarily sentenced herself to raising 8+ teenagers all at the same time ? My answer: VBAC's.  Ha!  Chances are you haven’t heard of them even as they are increasingly endangered and drawing close to extinction.  VBAC is the acronym for “Vaginal Birth after Caesarean.” (I know, bleck!  That’s why we call them VBAC’s.)

Currently, nearly one third of babies are delivered in the U.S. via Caesarean even though, according to the World Health Organization no more than 15% of babies should ever have to be delivered c-section.  The results of the overuse of this operation: increase of pre-term infants, increase in infant and maternal mortality rate, much longer maternal recovery time, baby is born drugged and groggy, mom is drugged and groggy and thus unable to give baby optimal care directly after delivery, and (my personal major gripe) c-sections often screw up the first, crucial moments when breastfeeding needs to be established.

On a more personal level, many hospitals forever sentence mothers to c-section:  my local hospital maintains the policy of once a c-section, always a c-section.  So as to avoid unnecessary abdominal surgery, I have had to resort to delivering my babies out of town in hospitals that are more willing to work with VBAC moms and now, even those hospitals are raising a wary eyebrow at my request.

So, why are healthcare professionals unwilling to let some mothers walk into their clinics and simply give birth?  They always claim the risk of placental accreta otherwise known as placental hemorrhaging.  VBAC deliveries, as all with all deliveries, present a certain risk that the placenta will rupture.  The increased risk of placental hemorrhage during a VBAC delivery: .5%.

The truth is that doctors and patients alike are attracted to the seeming ease of the c-section.  They love the idea of being able to schedule a delivery, but overlook the amount of risk involved by interfering with birth in its natural course.

Due to the increasing scarcity of VBAC friendly hospitals, with this delivery (which will be my third successful VBAC), I have been told that if I want to avoid the knife, I may have to schedule my surgery, stand-up the surgical team, allow myself to go into voluntary labor and get far enough along before I reach the hospital that the doctors will have no choice but to let me deliver the baby.

Am I intrepid enough to take on the hospital?  My pleasure!  Some causes are worth fighting for and I believe in a woman’s right to forgo unnecessary major surgery.  Of course, my definition of hell is a place where I am tied down and slashed open against my will; and where toddlers forever smear apple sauce across the kitchen floor that I am doomed to mop eternally (but that’s a different post.)

What can actually be done:

*For anyone who may read this and is interested in fighting the beast, the best approach is 

1-  Avoid ever getting a c-section.  How?  Pregnant moms should not let their obstetricians induce labor unless absolutely necessary (i.e. major risk is posed to mother or neonate.)  

2- If you are in the same boat as I am in and have already had a c-section and want to VBAC, I recommend the following:

a) Do not let your doctor discourage you or tell you that you are unable to VBAC without proving it first or presenting you with a darn good reason why you can't.

b) Link up with ICAN (International Caesarean Awareness Network).  They are a wonderful support and have a bevy of good information and studies that support VBAC's.

c) Try to find a doctor or birthing facility that will support your plan to VBAC.  This is often easier said than done.

d) Have a plan before you actually go into labor.  (Especially if you are VBACing for the first time.)

e) Talk to mothers who have VBACed.  It really does help.

  

Precisely Pregnant

* My disclaimer:  if, dear reader, the following post applies to you, please bear with me as I am somewhat of a grammar martinet. What I am suggesting is that the fault may lie more with me and less with you.  Please understand that I love you and have not judged character based on the following.  Therefore, at the risk of being less popular than I already am, I proceed.

I have never been one for euphemisms.  I like words, so I see no need to pad the actual meaning of something with a softer, less-precise substitution.  I like the power of words, therefore,  I even have a hard time with phrases like "passed away."  "Passed away"  is so vague, so transitory sounding.  At the risk of seeming insensitive, I prefer the precision of "died."  You know, the Wallace Steven's "Emporer of Ice-cream"  approach?  "Let the lamp affix its beam. . ."   What is IS and really no words can soften the blow or change the facts, so why not say it as it is?  I feel that my preference is a practical one and helps facilitate clear communication (however, I am also one who feels that the rules of proper grammar are for disambiguation and not solely to inflict torture on composition students. That's just an added bonus.)

There was once a time when the public at large felt that "pregnancy"  was too strong a term.  It was just so suggestive, so adult and thus, all of the euphemisms for pregnancy came to be. Proper women were not "pregnant," they were "PG" or "expecting" or "in a family way"  and babies were either found in the cabbage patch or delivered by the stork.  It's funny that people were ever squemish discussing what is not only natural and obvious, but also essential to the propogation of the human race. So, why the taboo?  

Thankfully, it seems we have gotten over ourselves and are no longer embarrassed to admit that humans reproduce sexually, however, the euphemisms still exist.  With the advent of political correctness, the world, post-feminist movement, still resorts to the old euphemisms with their old puritanical undertones, but has given them a new face.  Why else do modern day couples announce the forth-coming members of their families with the phrase, "we're pregnant?"  

The declaration of  "we're pregnant" baffles me.  It is impossible that both a woman and her husband are pregnant.  As much as I would love to share child bearing duties with my husband, such will never be.  "We're pregnant" is biologically an incorrect phrase therefore, it is also grammatically incorrect (in the same sense that it is grammatically incorrect to say that a person is "quite pregnant" or "quite dead."  Either s/he is or is not.  It is not correct to state absolutes in qualified ways.)

I also find that the phrase diminishes my (the woman's) role in pregnancy.  I am the one who deserves the credit for carrying the child for 40 weeks, therefore, I get to claim pregnancy status for myself.  I get to be the one who can, unabashedly, look a person in the eye and say, "I am pregnant."  What is so hard about that for a married woman who has obviously procreated on 3 previous occassions?

I agree that in the age of paternal ambiguities, it is nice to acknowledge my husband for his small though crucial role in the conception and his vital and ongoing role as father, so I might add something to the effect of, "and my husband and I are very excited to be expecting our fourth." However, until the day Brett dons pants bearing a tag illuminated with the words " adjustable maternity panel," I reserve the honor of being pregnant for myself.

Love for Less than $30.00: My Favorite Collectible

My first regular job was cashiering at a thrift store. There were many aspects to that job I actually liked. Literally, there was never a dull day. I worked with learning disabled people who I found to be surprisingly normal and in many ways more likable and interesting than their "fully functioning" counterparts. The clientele were a dynamic flow of shoppers ranging from collectors, to conniseurs, to bargain shoppers. In some ways, working in a thrift store is more rewarding than regular retail. It is a more laid back environment free of the commercialism and snootiness of other retail businesses. However,  despite my love for the thrift store workers and clientele, the greatest perk had to be that I got first pick of what came out on the floor.

If you think about the junk that fills a thrift store as carrion, then I was top vulture. Amongst my best finds were an 18 karat gold class ring dated 1949, and an authentic antique cameo. However, thrift store shopping, like any hobby can become addictive and the more one surrounds oneself with thrift store rummage deals, the more kitsch seems like invaluable treasure andthe more glass beads look like pearls. In short, as the months passed and as I carried home my "irresistable finds," the more my room took on the appearance of multi-family garage sale.

Thankfully, the thrift store job only lasted a year and it only took a couple of months of detox for me to realize that my room wasn't bohemian chic like I hoped, it was more like my great-grandmother's spare bedroom.  And so little by little, I pared down my "collectibles."  I decided that I probably wasn't that into Asian souveniers and that the hand sewn pink flowered bed spread was doing nothing to establish my reputation as a modern career woman.  And little by little, I "returned" the treasures from whence they came.  I even got gutsy enough to purge my shelves  of a few of the books I had amassed (Twelve Criticisms on Goethe's Faust- not even on my most erudite days. And Deutsche Gedicht?  Who was I trying to kid?)

I had to admit that perhaps I had a wee bit of a tendency (and if you know my family you know that I come by it honestly.)  And so I decided that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life talking around the (white) elephant in the room, I should probably try to curb my desire to collect.  Though instead of abandoning my tendencies wholesale, I deemed it best to choose a single collectible, my one exception to my mantra that open space was more valuable than clutter. It would have to be good. I wanted something reflective of my personality, something easy to maintain, inexpensive, and easy to store.  I found my ideal collectible in pop-up books.

For those who may not be aware, pop-up books have come a long way since our childhood days. Mainly because of pioneers in paper-engineering, Matthew Reinhart and Robert Sabuda, pop-ups have transformed from child's play to vertical works of mutable sculpture.  In addition to scenes that stand up over a foot off the page, the new pop-ups also feature movable parts (no lever reqired) as well as  flocked and metallic papers.  There is one that has, as its grand finale, light up weapons (Reinhart's Star Wars.) 

In my personal (small though growing) collection, my favorites are Reinhart's The Jungle Book and  Greenburg and Sabuda's The Pop-up Book of Nightmares.  My most unusual piece to date is a pop-up adaptation of Stephen King's The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon (how such a gem made it to the Border's $3.99 clearance shelf is beyond me.)

So, in pop-up books I have found a way to sate my inner pack rat, my inner child, and my inner adult sophisticate simultaneously and all for under $29.99.  Now if Neil Gaiman would release a pop-up Coraline even my inner high school Goth might (for once) be satisfied.

My Inner HS Goth meets Neil Gaiman

I love the website goodreads.com.  If you haven't discovered it, please visit, set up an account, and add yourself to my friends list.

If you know me, you know that my tastes lean a bit toward the well. . .macabre.  It isn't because I have an image to maintain or because I'm depressed.  It's just part of me.  I joke that I have the heart of a HS goth girl.  Admittedly, I did have leanings in that direction during my high school years, but I was never hard core:  no red-blooded Goth would have ever welcomed me into her coven.  I did: wear a lot of black clothing, listen to alternative music, and hang out in the lower, darker levels of dance clubs for under-aged kids.  I occassionally though seldom: wore black cosmetics, powdered my face white, wore a black cloak (though I blush to admit it.)  I never: owned a Marilyn Manson CD, dyed my hair black, dated a guy who more black lipstick than I did, purposely cut myself,  or considered getting a vampire-bite tattoo.

I am joyous to say I grew out of that stage a long time ago.  I re-introduced color to my wardrobe when I left home for college.  I have since traded my Doc Martens for high-heeled boots.  My religion defines my character now much more than my music.  However, there is a part of me that can't totally give up on the macabre,  try as I might.

So what of my former HS bad Goth self remains?  I will always love Tim Burton movies.  I will never stop listening to Oingo Boingo or The Beautiful South (though, thankfully, my tastes have matured and  diversified.)  I will always love Edward Gorey books.  I think the Goth girl in me will always be attracted to Edward Cullen and Criss Angel (No, my husband is nothing like them. Yes, I find him attractive, too).  I really enjoy hanging out in old graveyards, the older the better.

This would be my segue for discussion of Neil Gaiman's  The Graveyard Book which I recently reviewed on Goodreads and which has high macabre appeal.  For those of you who are not (yet) my friend on Goodreads, here is my review:

I am so sad that I only recently discovered Neil Gaiman.  There is no doubt that between the release of the movie, "Coraline," and the recent bestowal of the Newberry on the novel The Graveyard Book, Gaiman is at the peak of his popularity.  It is only because of his recent acclaim that I have heard of Gaiman at all.  He is the sort of author I would love to be able to say, "Oh, I've been a huge fan for years.  I started reading his books before anyone else had even heard of him." Unfortuately, I have no right to that claim, but I am glad I found his books even if I had to wait this long.

The Graveyard Book is essentially and unabashedly a retelling of Kipling's A Jungle Book.  Bod, an ambitious infant, happens into a historical graveyard on the night he is orphaned.  Fortunately, he is taken in by the some of the graveyard's disembodied though kindly inhabitants.  There, he is protected, raised, and educated.  Ghosts, witches, and other "fearful" creatures are Bod's family and comrades. Needless to say, Bod grows up with an entirely different perception of dark and fear than most people.

The Graveyard Book is a coming of age story that is organized into seperate though intertwining vingettes; each self contained, but building toward the climax.

Gaiman has an infallible ear for language and dialogue.  He also pays homage to his literary predecessors.  Besides references to Kipling, there are elements of The Odyssey and The Hobbit. Even though this book is clearly in the fantasy genre, anyone with an appreciation for interesting characters, a good story, and good storytelling will enjoy The Graveyard Book.

If, like me, you have only recently heard of Gaiman, I highly recommend the following websites:

http://www.coraline.com/

Where I made this flower:

 

And this picture of myself:

Might I also recommend Gaiman's official website:

http://www.mousecircus.com/

If you are too much of a cheapskate to buy The Graveyard Book while it is still hardcover, you can listen to the ENTIRE novel read by Gaiman himself from the website listed above.  How's that for generous?  My inner high school Goth girl is purring contentedly.

To My Faithful Followers

Thank you! Thank you for still subscribing even though I have flaked out on the blogging world. Between 3 part-time jobs, being a stay-at-home mom, church responsibilities (for those of you who are LDS think primary president), and being 14 weeks pregnant, I'm lagging behind on my blogging duties.  I need the blog.  I love the blog, but in the wake of all else it is getting severly neglected.    I will post sporatically, but no promises as to when or why or what unprecicatable pregnancy mood swing might unhinge me altogether and inspire a mass venting blog holocaust.  

I do have ideas (and who can resist a post with Coraline being released in just a couple short weeks?) I apologize for my flakiness and would refer you, in the meantime, to my favorite blogs.

Peterman's Eye

Cake Wrecks

Antimoicrobial Resistance

Social Explosion

You just can't like them better than you do me.  You already do?  Oh, man!

Musical Evolution

There is a risk in publishing any post of this nature: 1) It shows my age 2) It displays how much my tastes have NOT kept up with the times. But, it was fun to put together and I need to post something, so here it is the much-anticipated, long-overdue, next post:

I have selected seven categories and have chosen songs for each according to the period in my life with which they correspond. I know I am not making sense right now, but read on. You'll get the idea.

Favorite Love Song

Jr. High: "Endless Summer Nights"- Richard Marx

High School: "Nervously"- The Pet Shop Boys

College: "Because the Night"- 10,00 Maniacs

Now : "Not My Slave"- Oingo Boingo

Favorite Break-Up Song

Jr. High: "Blame it on the Rain"- Milli Vanilli (Actually, I'm lying, but I'll put that for lack of anything better)

High School: "Radio Song"- R.E.M.

College: "Fare Thee Well"- Indigo Girls

Now: "Hallelujah"- Rufus Wainwright

Favorite Slow Dance

Jr. High: "Forever Young"- Alphaville

High School: "Somebody"- Depeche Mode

College: "Crash Into Me"- Dave Matthews Band

Now: "You Don't Know Me"- Michael Buble

Favorite Cover Song

Jr. High: "I Think We're Alone Now"- Tiffany

High School: "Always on my Mind"- Pet Shop Boys

College: "Voulez Vous"- Erasure

Now: "A Song for You"- Ewan McGregor when I'm watching "Moulin Rouge"

Favorite Song from the Runt Genre

Jr. High-

High School: "Kiss Off" - The Violent Femmes

College: "Fingertips"- They Might be Giants

Now: "The Seven Days of the Week"- They Might be Giants

Favorite Female Liberation Song

Jr. High: "Girls Just Want to Have Fun"- Cyndi Lauper

High School: "Leather"- Tori Amos

College: "Invisible"- Alison Moyet/ Yaz

Now: "Landslide"- Fleetwood Mac

Favorite Song to Belt in the Car

Jr. High: Who's driving?

High School: "Love Shack"- The B-52's

College: "So Much to Say"- Dave Matthews Band

Now: "Part of Your World"- The Little Mermaid

Hope that brings back memories. Please share some of your own.