The other night, my sister and I were discussing the Mayan Apocalypse that wasn't. Those silly Mayans undoubtedly are still laughing their butts off on their spaceship with their leader, Snooki, and commending themselves on the ultimate punk (take that, Ashton Kutcher).
In the interest of full disclosure, I might have been a tad disappointed as the hours ticked away on Dec. 21 with no Marvin the Martian cosmic catastrophe. While I realistically knew the world would not end (because Kirk Cameron had not deemed it so), I had kind of hoped I wouldn't have to fold laundry (a.k.a. put it back in the dryer for another spin) or wrap Christmas gifts (a.k.a. shove them in bags with wadded up tissue paper).
On the bright side, I was gifted another day to lament my chores. And another. And another.
Now here we are, at the cusp of a shiny new year. We have a reset button -- and another opportunity to get things right.
My sister and I think this is maybe what the Mayans intended all along. The close of 2012 was perhaps never intended to be viewed as an ending at all. Perhaps it was the Mayan way of welcoming us to a beginning.
Yes, I'm grossly optimistic. An old friend recently described my happiness level as "astounding." I don't know if that's entirely accurate, but my grandmother taught me to look for bright spots in this dark world, and I paid attention.
While horrible, nearly unspeakable things have happened, even recently, so have amazing things. I have heard of more acts of kindness lately than I ever have before.
Thousands are performing random acts of kindness in honor of those slain in Sandy Hook; others are "paying it forward" for Jayden Lamb, a little boy who lost his battle with cancer; and a friend of mind recently celebrated her birthday by performing 42 acts of gratitude, one for each of her years.
My cousin recently drove two hours with friends and family to an area children's hospital, where they delivered truckloads of toys to ailing kids. A former classmate quietly "adopted" not one, but two, entire families for Christmas. A colleague and her family spent their Christmas baking and buying for others in need.
I have witnessed neighbors, friends -- and even strangers -- lovingly embrace my mother in the wake of an illness.
The list goes on.
Yes, awful things probably will happen in 2013. Bad people will do bad things. Pessimists will complain, as usual. Catastrophes, both man and nature-made, will undoubtedly shake us. It is the nature of the world. It has always been this way.
Yet, I sense a profound change at foot. A cosmic shift. I can't explain it, and I promise I'm not some weird New Age wannabe (though you could reasonably argue the "weird" part); I just feel it. And no, I haven't had any wine, so you can't blame that.
I have always had a fondness for stories that showcase the dichotomy of man: the dark and the light, in each of us. While I understand the dark is there, I always root for the light.
What if this is the era of light? What if we crack the shutters open, illuminating all those dark corners?
What if kindness triumphs, maybe not in one, giant, earth-shattering wave, but in thousands upon thousands of tiny ripples that swell and flow outward, until we all are touched in some way?
Wouldn't it be... wonderful?
Happy New Year. Happy New Beginning.
Join me on the front porch swing, where we'll watch the world go by and take the time to enjoy life's little pleasures, like donuts on the porch. (Speaking of, do you have donuts? Please bring them with you. Crumbs are not a problem here). Oh. And I'll make this up as I go along, okay?
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Monday, December 31, 2012
Resolve: 2013
Yesterday, my husband handed me an Esquire magazine article about James Lee Burke, one of his favorite authors. "I really want you to read this," he said. "You need to read this."
I probably rolled my eyes, but since the husband bakes things like homemade Twinkies, I have to oblige him occasionally. I read the article.
Turns out, Burke had a great many interesting things to say -- but I immediately knew why Mark had insisted I read the piece.
In the "What I've Learned" article (Esquire magazine, January 2013), Burke stated, "My book The Lost Get-Back Boogie was rejected 111 times before it was eventually published by Louisiana State University Press. When you get thoroughly rejected -- and I mean thoroughly rejected -- you realize you do it for the love of the work. And you stay out of the consequences. I developed one rule for myself: Never leave a manuscript at home more than thirty-six hours. Everything stays under submission. Never accept defeat."
You know why the husband was adamant that I read that? Because I never, ever submit anything for publication (you read my nonsense; you know why I give it away for free).
There was one exception.
Several years ago, when I was home with two little kids and had endured all of Barney and the Wiggles I could take (which isn't much; the CIA could learn things here), I wrote a personal essay on the war on dandelions. It wasn't half bad. On a whim, I submitted it to Southern Living magazine, thinking it a good fit. Although I had been a journalist in my pre-kiddo days and had numerous articles printed in newspapers, I was a first-time submitter to that glossy magazine world.
A few weeks later, I ventured to the mailbox and was shocked to find an envelope from Southern Living. What the heck? Could it possibly be? My hands shook as I tore it open. Inside was a personal letter from one of the editors. My heart was pounding as I read....
...a rejection letter.
I was younger then, and probably wearing sweats covered in mashed sweet potatoes from the baby, and the only thing I could see as I stood in my garage with that letter was rejection.
Well, I gave it a shot, I said. It's not going to happen for me, I thought.
I remember telling Mark this story once upon a time, when he asked why I never submitted anything for publication. Instead of accepting the end of my story, he probed further.
"But you actually got a letter back?" he asked. "From one of the magazine's editors?"
"Yes," I said. "A REJECTION letter." (What part of this story was he not getting?)
"So this busy editor actually took the time to write you back about your submission?"
"Um, yeah," I said, "I guess she did."
"And what did it say?" he asked.
I tried to remember the non-rejection part. As I recalled, she was somewhat encouraging. Today, I dug it out (yes, I saved it, like a battle scar). This, friends, is what the letter said:
Thank you very much for sending your essay, "Dandelion Dreams" for consideration in our Southern Journal column.
We enjoyed reading the essay and found it to be very interesting, but we are unable to use it in the column. As you can imagine, we receive a large volume of submissions and only twelve can be selected each year to appear. Every editor reads things differently, and every publication looks for different qualities in its writing. With that in mind, we are returning your essay to you in hopes that you can place it elsewhere.
Did I ever try to place it elsewhere? No. Did I ever submit anything else to Southern Living, knowing I had the editor's attention? No. Did I ever submit anything, anywhere? No.
Tender, fragile ego. How easily I accepted defeat.
Perhaps I should have seen then that the editor at least found my essay worthy of a letter to me. Sure, other writers likely received similar, if not the same, letter, but it was incredibly kind of her to take the time to (a). read my essay (b). consider it (and did "we" mean others considered it, too?) and (c). send me an encouraging letter back.
I see that now.
This is what the husband has been trying to tell me for a while. It is why he has gifted me with subscriptions to writing and literary magazines. It is why he buys me the works of my favorite poets. It is why he shares Burke's statement with me. It is why I love him so.
He believes in me.
Maybe it's time for an older, hopefully wiser, undoubtedly stronger, writer-me to believe in myself and take Burke's words to heart: Never accept defeat. Do it for the love of the work. Stay out of the consequences. It's a new year, ripe with possibilities and opportunities. And yes, laundry, but I never do that, anyway.
Thanks, honey, for the reminder. And for the homemade Twinkies I'll need to sustain me while I write (hint hint).
I probably rolled my eyes, but since the husband bakes things like homemade Twinkies, I have to oblige him occasionally. I read the article.
Turns out, Burke had a great many interesting things to say -- but I immediately knew why Mark had insisted I read the piece.
In the "What I've Learned" article (Esquire magazine, January 2013), Burke stated, "My book The Lost Get-Back Boogie was rejected 111 times before it was eventually published by Louisiana State University Press. When you get thoroughly rejected -- and I mean thoroughly rejected -- you realize you do it for the love of the work. And you stay out of the consequences. I developed one rule for myself: Never leave a manuscript at home more than thirty-six hours. Everything stays under submission. Never accept defeat."
You know why the husband was adamant that I read that? Because I never, ever submit anything for publication (you read my nonsense; you know why I give it away for free).
There was one exception.
Several years ago, when I was home with two little kids and had endured all of Barney and the Wiggles I could take (which isn't much; the CIA could learn things here), I wrote a personal essay on the war on dandelions. It wasn't half bad. On a whim, I submitted it to Southern Living magazine, thinking it a good fit. Although I had been a journalist in my pre-kiddo days and had numerous articles printed in newspapers, I was a first-time submitter to that glossy magazine world.
A few weeks later, I ventured to the mailbox and was shocked to find an envelope from Southern Living. What the heck? Could it possibly be? My hands shook as I tore it open. Inside was a personal letter from one of the editors. My heart was pounding as I read....
...a rejection letter.
I was younger then, and probably wearing sweats covered in mashed sweet potatoes from the baby, and the only thing I could see as I stood in my garage with that letter was rejection.
Well, I gave it a shot, I said. It's not going to happen for me, I thought.
I remember telling Mark this story once upon a time, when he asked why I never submitted anything for publication. Instead of accepting the end of my story, he probed further.
"But you actually got a letter back?" he asked. "From one of the magazine's editors?"
"Yes," I said. "A REJECTION letter." (What part of this story was he not getting?)
"So this busy editor actually took the time to write you back about your submission?"
"Um, yeah," I said, "I guess she did."
"And what did it say?" he asked.
I tried to remember the non-rejection part. As I recalled, she was somewhat encouraging. Today, I dug it out (yes, I saved it, like a battle scar). This, friends, is what the letter said:
Thank you very much for sending your essay, "Dandelion Dreams" for consideration in our Southern Journal column.
We enjoyed reading the essay and found it to be very interesting, but we are unable to use it in the column. As you can imagine, we receive a large volume of submissions and only twelve can be selected each year to appear. Every editor reads things differently, and every publication looks for different qualities in its writing. With that in mind, we are returning your essay to you in hopes that you can place it elsewhere.
Did I ever try to place it elsewhere? No. Did I ever submit anything else to Southern Living, knowing I had the editor's attention? No. Did I ever submit anything, anywhere? No.
Tender, fragile ego. How easily I accepted defeat.
Perhaps I should have seen then that the editor at least found my essay worthy of a letter to me. Sure, other writers likely received similar, if not the same, letter, but it was incredibly kind of her to take the time to (a). read my essay (b). consider it (and did "we" mean others considered it, too?) and (c). send me an encouraging letter back.
I see that now.
This is what the husband has been trying to tell me for a while. It is why he has gifted me with subscriptions to writing and literary magazines. It is why he buys me the works of my favorite poets. It is why he shares Burke's statement with me. It is why I love him so.
He believes in me.
Maybe it's time for an older, hopefully wiser, undoubtedly stronger, writer-me to believe in myself and take Burke's words to heart: Never accept defeat. Do it for the love of the work. Stay out of the consequences. It's a new year, ripe with possibilities and opportunities. And yes, laundry, but I never do that, anyway.
Thanks, honey, for the reminder. And for the homemade Twinkies I'll need to sustain me while I write (hint hint).
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Why Legos and Eggnog Don't Mix
I am not the only writer in the family.
Turns out, the husband fancies himself a bit of a playwright. As if that isn't impressive enough, Mark also designs his own sets.
Showoff.
After the merry Christmas festivities, Mark took advantage of my 10-year-old's new Star Wars LEGOs to create not one, but two, one-act plays. He's such an overachiever. As his proud wife -- or maybe just because I'm low on material -- I am thrilled to premiere his work here on the Porch. If you've read this blog long enough (God love ya), you know nothing appears here that isn't auspicious, felicitous, and most importantly, ridiculous.
With great, um, honor, I present two plays, which I shall dub LEGO of my Keurig and The Empire Likes Track.
**Porch Note: Please don't judge the husband's work too harshly. One, he married me, and that's not easy on a man. Two, as long as he's assembling LEGOs, I'm not stepping on them or removing them from my vacuum.
May the Farce be with him.
LEGO OF MY KEURIG
a One-Act LEGO Play by Mark
The Set:
The Play:
Not that long ago, in a kitchen not that far away...
Me/Leia: Honey, are you going to buy me a Keurig for Christmas?
Him/Han: Yes, dear.
The End.
[Out of respect for all of the tiny LEGO actors, please hold your applause until after the second play.]
-----------
THE EMPIRE LIKES TRACK
Because he should have stopped with one but didn't...
Another One-Act LEGO Play by Mark
The Set:
The Play:
[The Scene: The Naboo 5K Holiday Hustle]
Chewbacca, Luke Skywalker and Ben Kenobi: Hey! NO FAIR! Darth used the Force!
The End.
----------
Aren't they looking for a new director for Star Wars Episode VII? Look no further, Disney! You have found your man. The way I see it, it couldn't possibly be worse than that whole Jar Jar travesty.
Well, maybe.
Turns out, the husband fancies himself a bit of a playwright. As if that isn't impressive enough, Mark also designs his own sets.
Showoff.
After the merry Christmas festivities, Mark took advantage of my 10-year-old's new Star Wars LEGOs to create not one, but two, one-act plays. He's such an overachiever. As his proud wife -- or maybe just because I'm low on material -- I am thrilled to premiere his work here on the Porch. If you've read this blog long enough (God love ya), you know nothing appears here that isn't auspicious, felicitous, and most importantly, ridiculous.
With great, um, honor, I present two plays, which I shall dub LEGO of my Keurig and The Empire Likes Track.
**Porch Note: Please don't judge the husband's work too harshly. One, he married me, and that's not easy on a man. Two, as long as he's assembling LEGOs, I'm not stepping on them or removing them from my vacuum.
May the Farce be with him.
LEGO OF MY KEURIG
a One-Act LEGO Play by Mark
The Set:
The Play:
Not that long ago, in a kitchen not that far away...
Me/Leia: Honey, are you going to buy me a Keurig for Christmas?
Him/Han: Yes, dear.
The End.
[Out of respect for all of the tiny LEGO actors, please hold your applause until after the second play.]
-----------
THE EMPIRE LIKES TRACK
Because he should have stopped with one but didn't...
Another One-Act LEGO Play by Mark
The Set:
The Play:
[The Scene: The Naboo 5K Holiday Hustle]
Chewbacca, Luke Skywalker and Ben Kenobi: Hey! NO FAIR! Darth used the Force!
The End.
----------
Aren't they looking for a new director for Star Wars Episode VII? Look no further, Disney! You have found your man. The way I see it, it couldn't possibly be worse than that whole Jar Jar travesty.
Well, maybe.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Scenes from a Marriage: Banzai!
[The scene: Driving past a skating rink]
Me: Oh! Oh, Mark! We should go roller skating!
Mark: Uh -- WHY would we ever do that?
Me: Because maybe, just maybe, they'll have a guy's choice, couples-only skate, and you can pick me, making up for decades of deep-rooted insecurity.
Mark: What are you talking about?
Me: When I was a middle school teen, my friends and I spent our Friday nights at Skateway USA. They always had a "guy's choice" skate toward the end of the evening. The girls would gather on one end of the rink; the boys on the other. Suddenly, the lights would dim, and an REO Speedwagon ballad would pump through the speakers, filling my heart with hope. It was magic.
Mark: Annnd?
Me: As "I can't fight this feeling any longer..." reverberated through Skateway, the guys began skating to the opposite end of the rink to choose girls to skate with them. I would maneuver myself into a position near the front -- so hopeful in my best J.C. Penney Hunt Club sweater. My eyes said, "Pick me. Pick me. Pick me."
But no. I was never picked for a couples-only skate. Not once. My friends would get picked over and over again, while I was left standing alone every Friday night. Rejected, I would head over to the concession stand and ask the staff to mix me up a suicide drink, with a double shot of Kick soda. You know, I could skate backwards and everything! I never understood why no guy ever picked me.
Mark: Oh, honey [reaching for my hand]. Sweetie, let me explain this to you. No guys picked you back then because you looked just like Ralph Macchio.
Me: Thanks for being super sensitive about this.
(But he maybe has a point.)
Me: Oh! Oh, Mark! We should go roller skating!
Mark: Uh -- WHY would we ever do that?
Me: Because maybe, just maybe, they'll have a guy's choice, couples-only skate, and you can pick me, making up for decades of deep-rooted insecurity.
Mark: What are you talking about?
Me: When I was a middle school teen, my friends and I spent our Friday nights at Skateway USA. They always had a "guy's choice" skate toward the end of the evening. The girls would gather on one end of the rink; the boys on the other. Suddenly, the lights would dim, and an REO Speedwagon ballad would pump through the speakers, filling my heart with hope. It was magic.
Mark: Annnd?
Me: As "I can't fight this feeling any longer..." reverberated through Skateway, the guys began skating to the opposite end of the rink to choose girls to skate with them. I would maneuver myself into a position near the front -- so hopeful in my best J.C. Penney Hunt Club sweater. My eyes said, "Pick me. Pick me. Pick me."
But no. I was never picked for a couples-only skate. Not once. My friends would get picked over and over again, while I was left standing alone every Friday night. Rejected, I would head over to the concession stand and ask the staff to mix me up a suicide drink, with a double shot of Kick soda. You know, I could skate backwards and everything! I never understood why no guy ever picked me.
Mark: Oh, honey [reaching for my hand]. Sweetie, let me explain this to you. No guys picked you back then because you looked just like Ralph Macchio.
Me: Thanks for being super sensitive about this.
(But he maybe has a point.)
![]() |
| I'm in the blue Hunt Club, while my twin brother, Daniel-san, sports plaid. |
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Holy Matrimony, Batman!
WHOA.
I am getting married in five days. Five. I don't even need two hands to count down the days now (at least I don't think I do, but as you know, I was never very good at math).
You must be shocked. I didn't think we would survive the election, either. It wasn't easy to be on opposite sides of the voting ballot, but Mark and I made it because our hearts are full of love (translation: our guts are full of wine).
So now I am stuffing my suitcase for our destination wedding and trying to figure out how to pack a wedding gown for a flight. I have applied for my wedding license and picked out earrings and some sort of uber-sexy, nude, stretchy, thighs-to-boobs undergarment that sucks in all the Halloween candy and hides panty lines. I have confirmed the preacher, the photographer, and most importantly, the hairdresser. I have had no less than 25 panic attacks. In other words, sh#t's gettin' real.
Unless I pull a Julia Roberts/Kiefer Sutherland wedding escape, I will be married before Thanksgiving. Then I can wear stretchy pants for the rest of my life, stop shaving my legs on cold days and stock up on granny panties. Just kidding, honey! (Pssst, ladies. You know I'm not.)
I was walking with my 10-year-old son the other day, and he quipped, "Well, Mom, are you ready for the best day of your life... again?"
Out of the mouths of babes, eh?
Honestly, I am scared. But I would be worried if I wasn't. This is the second time I have climbed aboard the marriage carousel, and I want to ride.. and ride.. and ride. I won't let go when the world whizzes by, and I feel dizzy. I won't let go on those days when I wonder if he holds the reins as tight as I hold mine. I won't let go when the music begins to die. I won't let go.
Why?
Because while neither of us is perfect (he's a Republican) -- and long-term relationships are a heck of a lot of work -- I love him.
He is my music...
My cake companion...
And my dance partner...
He is the Harry to my Sally -- my old college friend, who stole my heart when he bought me a cookie (turns out, I'm easily bought if chocolate chips are involved).
We were friends for a long time. And then we weren't. And then we fell in love.
So while yes, I am scared, I also know Mark is the one. That guy who sat behind me in Constitutional law 20 years ago is the guy I want to spend my next 20 years with... and then 20 more.
I will take a deep breath next week; toss back a mojito; and walk across the sand to meet him by the ocean. I will trust that he we will take care of me. And I will take care of him.
It had to be you.
Here's to happy endings, Harry. Love, Sally.
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