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Sunday, December 31, 2006Auld Lang SineIt means "old long since" or "old long ago," but in my opinion none of the three phrases make much sense. Still, it's the thought that counts; the thought that our memories of loved ones and treasured moments should certainly never be forgotten. And so I round up this blessed year with a thankful heart for my own "auld lang sine." Thank you to my children, who bring me joy, humility, and the exuberance of youth on a daily basis. You are, each of you, a precious gift from God. Thank you to my parents, for always nuturing my creativity, for teaching me to value the simple things in life, and for traveling all the way to Tennessee to spend a delightful Christmas with six people who love you more than words can express. Thank you to my sister, for loving me unconditionally, for making me laugh until I think I'm going to pee all over the sofa, and for braving the highways in order to bring your sweet husband and beautiful little ones to our home for a few days. Thank you to each and every one of you who has offered a kind word, a smile, a critical eye (ahem, Cheezweezil), affirmation, laughter, and the myriad gifts countless fingers have typed to me over the past year. And most of all, thank you to my husband -- best friend, soulmate, life partner forever. No one knows me better, no one loves me more, no one keeps me as centered or makes me feel beautiful the way you do. May you and yours enjoy a peaceful, productive, joyful 2007! Sunday, December 24, 2006Merry Christmas!
 From the Boehme Hoehme to your home -- have a blessed, peaceful Christmas, filled with joy beyond your expectations.And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger." Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests." (Luke 2:8-14, NASB) Wednesday, December 20, 2006It's True. I'm Actually...Calm. My parents are arriving at dinnertime. I've been smiling for the past three days. Not bad, considering my frenetic nature. Even when I'm excited to see someone, I often start spinning out of control on the inside -- all the "must do's," you know. Not this time. I'm excited without the inner turmoil. Amazing but true. I think I've evolved. At any rate, I leave you today with my Present Wrapping Advice: To avoid an aching back, do your gift-wrapping on an ironing board. It works. I set my ironing board perpendicular to my bed, which happens to be almost exactly the same height. That's my "wrapping station." I'm sure I look like a Big Christmas Dork -- but hey, my back doesn't hurt. Merry merry! Monday, December 18, 2006Redefining "Grinch"So I warned my daughters before our adventure began: I hate Christmas shopping on Saturdays in December. I avoid it whenever possible. Hence, I am venturing out under duress. It wasn't optional, though. My little darlings needed to find a special, small gift each for their beloved Daddy. So I gritted my teeth and headed toward the Cool Springs Shopping Mecca. Honestly, I only yelled at other drivers a couple of times. I did sigh a lot. Kept apologizing for being so Grinchy. My daughters were unfazed; their Christmas spirit is indomitable. (Well, Maggie did scold me a couple of times for being irritable behind the wheel, but I deserved it.) After the Cool Springs adventure, I thought I was being truly generous-hearted by taking the girls to Downtown Franklin for a quick shopping jaunt. The only available parking space was on the other side of the street, so I swung around in a tight U-turn so that I could face the right way. Then I plunged into a fruitless attempt to parallel park. I knew something was wrong when my back wheel bumped up onto the curb. Undaunted, I pulled forward and tried again. Moments later, both tires on the right side were resting snugly on the sidewalk. Now, these things happen (especially to me). This time it was especially excruciating, though. Because this time there were several people sitting at tables outside the sandwich shop that flanked my chosen parking spot. And they were watching me. Intently. "Everyone's watching you, Mommy," Maggie said. Yeah, thanks. I really needed to be made painfully aware of that. Determination welled up inside me. I rolled off of the curb, pulled forward, and curled my fingers around the steering wheel. This time, I'd get it right. I'd show those gaping ninnies that I was not one of those vacuous woman-drivers that they had surely taken me for. Bump. My back wheel hopped the curb again. "Everyone's laughing at you, Mommy," Maggie said. That did it. I was tired, I was stressed, I was driving my car into the path of unsuspecting pedestrians. I usually laugh at myself -- but not this time. Not when an audience of bemused sandwich-eaters was busy laughing at me. "That's it," I said. "I'm done." I pulled out of the space with unnecessary velocity. "I'm sorry." Then I sulked the whole way home. I knew if I opened my mouth to say even a single word, I'd cry. All I can say is, I'm glad Eric wasn't there. I made up for it this morning, though. I took Maggie downtown on my mailing-Christmas-packages trip, and we enjoyed popping in and out of shops for a while. I even parked on the first try. (That was probably because I chose a section of curb that had three consecutive spaces open.) I'm never parallel parking again. Friday, December 15, 2006The Friday Before the Friday Before ChristmasAnd mine has consisted of... Washing the baseboards in the guest bathroom. Making sure my fourteen-year-old finished his grammar test. Babysitting my friend's almost-eight-year-old daughter. Stirring up a batch of bar cookies, the batter of which smelled decidedly like urine. Best of all, I'll be meeting my sweetheart at our favorite pub at 5:00. It's been a while since we've indulged in one of our little "get-aways," so I'm looking forward to it. Gotta do something about my hair, though. And the faded sweats have got to go, too. As for the weekend? Wrapping gifts and hopefully digging into the plot of my new novel will highlight my Saturday. Sunday, I'll be touching base with my mom in preparation for their arrival on Wednesday. Is Christmas really just around the corner? Have a joyful weekend, everyone. Thursday, December 14, 2006On Mentally Punching An Optometrist"Ohhhh, wait a minute. We've got to talk about something!" It was the tail end of my just-a-few-months-late, yearly eye exam. I like the guy; really I do. He takes the time to teach, he's super intelligent and up-to-date on research, and -- most importantly -- he gushed about how young I looked when I first visited his office a few years ago. Yep, that's the way to get me to keep coming back each year. Anyway, I couldn't imagine what we had to "talk" about, since we had just discussed, in depth, my deteriorating vision and the need for new contacts. Dr. Eyeball was rifling through my files, though, so it had to be something directly related to what he saw there. "What?" I said (a bit defensively). "You've entered a new box." "What?" I knew I was repeating myself, but his comment had made no sense at all. "You've entered a new box." (Yeah, I got that part.) "You're in the OVER-FORTY club!" Oh THAT box. The "check your age group" box that looks something like "40-49." I felt myself begin to snarl. "Oh, be quiet!" "Well, I'm in the club, too." (And that was supposed to make me feel better?") "And, you know, forty is the magic number when vision can start to change." "You're not telling me that I've got to wear bifocals." "No. Not yet." Not yet?? Who's he kidding? I'm about as willing to succumb to bifocals as I am to allowing my gray hair to grow in. "In fact," he continued, "we only have a few more years before we have to think about what to do with your contacts." I could think of something I wanted to do with my contacts just then. He went on to describe to me the terrifying -- terrifying! -- possibility of suddenly waking up one morning and not being able to read the newspaper. I don't read newspapers, so it wasn't the best example, but still. Had he said "emails" instead, I might've passed out cold. "Sometimes it's gradual," said Dr. Doom, "happening slowly over time. But sometimes -- boom! It happens overnight. And that's normal, so you shouldn't be alarmed." Right. I shouldn't be alarmed if I wake up one rosy morning and find that I have to stand twelve feet away from my monitor in order to read Publisher's Lunch. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to reject the whole concept of aging eyeballs. My dashing father has excellent vision at the age of 73. Since I take after him in many other ways, I'm going to assume that I've got his vision genes as well. Bifocals my patootie! I mean, can you just see me wearing bifocals? My optometrist was lucky he had just done a fabulous job of talking to my daughter about never saying, "I can't." I watched him share a poignant story from his boyhood with Maggie after she told him she couldn't read the bottom line of letters. After listening to his story, she read the line and got four out of six correct -- proving that her vision, with contacts, was 20/15. That is the only reason I didn't punch him when he told me I was going to have to wear bifocals in a few years. No rocking chairs, no old-lady hairdos, no depends, and no bifocals. Not on this chick, not ever. Any questions? Monday, December 11, 2006I Always CryReading aloud to a child is not only the best way to instill a love of literature -- it's an act of pure joy. Well, at least it is for me. I should qualify that statement. The book mustn't be unfettered schlock, or an overly wordy Seuss tome (I hated reading Horton the Elephant with such intensity that I actually got rid of the book). A well-written book with beautiful pictures? That's the best. And The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski is, in my opinion, among the best of the best. So I decided to read it to Spencer this morning. You know, Christmastime and all that -- it's just one of those "gotta reads" at this time of year. So we snuggled onto the chair by the window and began. I knew I'd cry when I got to the part where Mr. Toomey pulls out the charcoal sketch. I always cry. In fact, my voice was already wobbling on the previous page, in anticipation of what was coming. It doesn't matter that I tell myself, "I won't cry this time. I've read the book enough to stay steady." Nope. I cry anyway. Now, crying whilst reading to an older child is easy to explain -- especially to tear-prone females. As we get older, we learn that tears come unbidden for more than a scraped knee or broken crayon. But explaining tears to a small child? Not so easily done. So I was prepared to explain my tears to Spencer. I was certain he would question me, wonder about the quaver in my voice and the wet on my face. He didn't. He just listened. So I read, and I cried. And the next time I read it, I'll cry again. I don't cry easily. For as passionate and frenetic as I am, you may find that hard to believe; but it's true. Maybe it's because I feel safer getting angry, or maybe it's because I've learned, somewhere along the way, to hide my vulnerability. Whatever the reason for my usual plugged-upness, Jonathan Toomey gets right to my heart and draws the tears. Every single time. Have you read the book? Then you know what I'm talking about. Have you missed this one? Grab it. Read it to the nearest child...or to yourself. When the tears come, you will thank me. Wednesday, December 06, 2006The Littlest Elf Needs a Bigger Allowance"Oooo, we have to go Christmas shopping!" Spencer's enthusiasm lights his face like Charlie Brown's tree. His thoughts? What to give Daddy for Christmas. "I know! I can give him a video i-Pod!" How I hate to squelch that enthusiasm. "Ur...those are kind of expensive. Really expensive." "Oh." Pause. "I can give him chocolate." There you have it -- a five-second downgrade from technology to chocolate. Sorry, Eric... Labels: parenting Monday, December 04, 2006A Tale of Two EmmasEric and I are "period movie" junkies. Our favorite of all time is, of course, the A&E production of Pride and Prejudice starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle. That's not to be confused with the insipid travesty by the same title starring Keira Knightley, released last year. But I'm not writing to quibble about that. 'Tis another day's rant. No, today I'm in the mood to chat about the differences between two versions of Jane Austen's Emma -- the first a Miramax film starring Gwyneth Paltrow (1996), and the second an A&E film starring Kate Beckinsale (1997). Both films are well cast, well filmed, and have delightful and effective soundtracks. Both have appropriate costumes, beautiful sets and lush photography. And both have winsome, lovable heroines. But for as much as I adore Gwyneth, I must ultimately choose the A&E version as the superior version. Kate Beckinsale's Emma is truer to Jane Austen's character and has far less "Hollywood dialogue" added ("I love John!" "I hate John!"). The A&E version is, overall, more for the "purist" and less for the let's-see-how-many-ways-we-can-showcase-the-charm-and-talent-and-carefully-crafted-British-accent-of-our-heroine than the Miramax version displays. True, the character of Miss Bates in the Miramax version is by far a funnier rendition (brilliantly played by Sophie Thompson), and there's a much more humorous feel to the movie. But in the end, the A&E version wins my hands-down vote for a better developed, better adapted, and better executed movie. It seems that some members of Jane Austen's family, who happened to be her "beta readers" and personal critique circle, felt that the subplot of Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill was weak. Whether or not the reader agree with that assessment, the A&E version of Emma does a much better job of fleshing out the story of the secretly-engaged lovers, making the ultimate revelation more believable and satisfying. (The Miramax film tends to leave the viewer with a "huh?" feeling -- particularly if said viewer has never read the book [heaven forbid!].) Well, I feel better now. I'm sure your day has been enlightened by my not-so-shy opinions. I'd love to hear from other Austen fans who have seen both movie versions. Which was your favorite and why? Eric and I watch both of them on a regular basis, and in the end, I wouldn't want to do without either one. I'll save my vitriol for the most recent Pride and Prejudice attempt for another day. |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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