Some forces are simply too powerful to stop - like earthquakes, runaway trains, adolescent boys near food... Most uncontrollable of all in my book, however, is humor. How am I supposed to know when something is going to strike me funny? I harbor no humor defense system. Never wanted one, quite frankly.
So, this is why, sitting in an auditorium on Sunday afternoon with my daughter, waiting for our high school's production of The Sound of Music to begin, I became concerned. Written boldly in the program in the helpful section referred to as "Theater Etiquette" was this warning: Laugh only at appropriate times.
"How am I supposed to know if it is an appropriate time?!" I nervously asked my daughter. "What if I think it is appropriate, and no one else does?"
I'm pretty serious about rules. I hold the opinion that good manners dictate respect for authority. But this one was tough. Even if I wanted to, I wasn't sure that I COULD comply! Historical reports reveal a poor appropriate laughter record.
There was the inappropriate bug earring hysteria during a church service back in '86, as well as the "Unto You, O Lord, Do We Lift Up Dale Whampam" hilarity judged unfit by our youth minister who glared at us in the rear view mirror of the church van.
Then there was the uproarious display at the movie theater during Stranger Than Fiction. Apparently, there were no other writers (or wannabes) in the house that afternoon.
Why, just yesterday I was simply walking into Weis Markets when I saw a sign which read "Passover Display Inside" right next to a "fresh pork" ad. No one else nearby seemed to find that to be appropriate humor, either.
I thought the crowd at the high school musical on Sunday was a little dead. Maybe they were struggling to ward off a Sunday afternoon nap. Perhaps the swell of the live pit band obscured some of the more humorous lines. Maybe, sitting in a play recounting the terrors of the Nazi regime, they were simply afraid of breaking the rules.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Catherine Debuts
I am about to make a very bold move. To demonstrate the progress I am making on my Spring Break List, I am posting part of my highly publicized book. Since the only readers of this blog are also the only readers of my manuscript, I don't need to go to great lengths to introduce the characters or anything. Suffice it to say, in the following scene, Catherine arrives at college after a difficult decision. Happy reading - and please let me know what you think!
“According to the map, Swartz is just to the east of the Quad. Why don’t you two walk and I’ll go get the van.” Dad loved a mission, and for the time being, navigation and logistics were his specialty.
Since the abrupt end to our family night, Mom’s mood was noticeably different. She was quiet, reflective and calm. I had expected the trip to Pennsylvania to be replete with Mom’s bubbly, false enthusiasm, but it was actually an enjoyable drive. We talked on and off about the scenery and the weather. Then Mom and Dad got going on their own trips to college, which of course put both of them into a “remember when” extravaganza. I was tortured with bad fashion nostalgia, an oldies sing along, and tall tales of risky adventures. I pretended to be more annoyed with it all then I really was. It was comforting to see them laughing and joking together, and to sense that it was all very sincere.
So my walk with Mom toward my dorm continued in this relaxed atmosphere. She walked with one hand loosely gripping the purse on her shoulder, and the other arm swinging slightly at her side. Her dark, straight hair blew pleasantly in the breeze. There were fine lines around her eyes, which were each like little historical markers, memorializing the joys and worries she had experienced. I was looking at her as if she was a stranger. Maybe she was.
We reached the dorm and found my room. The cinder block walls were painted in “Bucknell white”, which looks an awful lot more like tan. I didn’t know what should concern me more: that an institution would feel the need to patent their very own color, or the apparent color-blindness of whoever named it. At any rate, I was very pleased that I had not gone with the blue and real white motif. It would clashed terribly. The warm red and gold that I had chosen was a perfect compliment to the Bucknell white, and the tones echoed the color of the rampant campus brick. I was off to a well-coordinated start. Perfect!
I have found that moments of self-satisfaction are short-lived. This particular moment was no exception. The door to the dorm room burst open. I turned, prepared to help Dad with the first load of boxes from the van. It wasn’t Dad. That realization came as quickly as the flash of bright pink through the room. Dad didn’t wear pink, and he certainly didn’t have an ear-piercing squeal.
“Catherine?” More squealing. “Hi, ROOMIE!!! I can’t believe we’re actually here, you know what I mean? It’s, like, WOW! We’re really college students! I can’t wait to get the room set up, can you? I brought all my favorite things from home. I hope you like pink, ‘cause that is my favorite color. I do everything pink. I know, I know, I’m a real girlie – girl. Do you really want that bed? ‘Cause I need a lot of natural light. I prefer to wake up to natural light instead of an alarm, don’t you? I hope you don’t like to sleep with the blinds drawn, ‘cause I like to go to sleep looking at the stars and wake up to the sun. So is it ok if we switch?”
The dryness of my mouth pulled me back to reality. I snapped my gaping mouth shut and swallowed hard. So this was Veronica. Oh, joy. “Umm, hi, Veronica. Nice to meet you. Sure, take that bed, I haven’t really started to unpack anyway. My Dad is getting my stuff from the van.”
On cue, Dad’s muffled voice came from behind a stack of boxes in the doorway. Mom and I ran to him with admittedly undue haste. “Hey, now that’s what I call prompt response!” Dad smiled. “Now that I finally have you trained to jump at my command, it’s time to fly the nest, ‘eh, little Kitten?”
“Aw, Dad. Come on in. My roommate’s arrived. Veronica, I’d like you to meet my father, Joe Larson. Oh, and I guess you really didn’t meet my mom, Genevieve.”
Veronica rushed at both of them with arms wide open, squealing. “OHHH! Mom and Dad Larson! It’s so nice to meet you! My mom’s looking for someone to help with my bags. She’ll be here soon. Look at you guys! What a good-looking family! I can’t wait to get to know you better. I’m sure there will be lots of time for that, you know. Fall break, Christmas break – even the summer! Oh, this is just perfectly wonderful, isn’t it? Say, Catherine – are you an only child? I don’t remember reading that anywhere. Imagine two spoiled little only children in a room together! Ha! What a hoot!”
Veronica tossed her long, straight blond hair and blew her bangs away from her eyes. I guess she finally needed some refueling. She apparently forgot her question as she began rifling through my boxes, tossing clothes and accessories all over the bed she had rejected. Although irritated that she was touching my stuff, I was just as happy that she had been distracted from her inquiry into my family life. That was a topic I was not ready to unpack.
About 30 minutes later, most of my side of the room was arranged and looking collegiate. We were just breaking down the empty boxes when Veronica’s mother arrived, or perhaps more appropriately, I should say she “descended” upon us.
“Veronica, darling, what ghastly service. Do you know they don’t have anyone
assigned to baggage? I had to hunt down these gentlemen.” She waved her arm gallantly in the direction of two freshman guys in the hall with dopey grins and leather suitcases hanging all over them. “Boys!” Ms. Veronica’s Mother commanded, “in here.” The boys dutifully entered and began stripping themselves of their burden as Veronica began smoothing her clothing and hair. I couldn’t be sure if the primping was for her mother’s benefit or for the guys.
“There now, boys, here’s a little something for your trouble.” She pressed bills into their hands and pushed them out the door. “Thank you, young men. I’m sure Veronica will be seeing you around campus. Bye-bye now.” She closed the door and turned toward us, rubbing her hands together. We must be her next victims.
***********************************************
The campus was crawling with students carrying boxes and lugging baggage. Most forged ahead quickly while a parent or two followed behind with stricken faces and red-rimmed eyes. The weather was perfect – sunny, about 80 degrees, with a light breeze rustling the leaves of the cherry trees lining the walkways of the Quad. The electronic bells of Rooke Chapel announced 2:00 pm as we left the Registrar’s office and headed for the van. “According to the map, Swartz is just to the east of the Quad. Why don’t you two walk and I’ll go get the van.” Dad loved a mission, and for the time being, navigation and logistics were his specialty.
Since the abrupt end to our family night, Mom’s mood was noticeably different. She was quiet, reflective and calm. I had expected the trip to Pennsylvania to be replete with Mom’s bubbly, false enthusiasm, but it was actually an enjoyable drive. We talked on and off about the scenery and the weather. Then Mom and Dad got going on their own trips to college, which of course put both of them into a “remember when” extravaganza. I was tortured with bad fashion nostalgia, an oldies sing along, and tall tales of risky adventures. I pretended to be more annoyed with it all then I really was. It was comforting to see them laughing and joking together, and to sense that it was all very sincere.
So my walk with Mom toward my dorm continued in this relaxed atmosphere. She walked with one hand loosely gripping the purse on her shoulder, and the other arm swinging slightly at her side. Her dark, straight hair blew pleasantly in the breeze. There were fine lines around her eyes, which were each like little historical markers, memorializing the joys and worries she had experienced. I was looking at her as if she was a stranger. Maybe she was.
We reached the dorm and found my room. The cinder block walls were painted in “Bucknell white”, which looks an awful lot more like tan. I didn’t know what should concern me more: that an institution would feel the need to patent their very own color, or the apparent color-blindness of whoever named it. At any rate, I was very pleased that I had not gone with the blue and real white motif. It would clashed terribly. The warm red and gold that I had chosen was a perfect compliment to the Bucknell white, and the tones echoed the color of the rampant campus brick. I was off to a well-coordinated start. Perfect!
I have found that moments of self-satisfaction are short-lived. This particular moment was no exception. The door to the dorm room burst open. I turned, prepared to help Dad with the first load of boxes from the van. It wasn’t Dad. That realization came as quickly as the flash of bright pink through the room. Dad didn’t wear pink, and he certainly didn’t have an ear-piercing squeal.
“Catherine?” More squealing. “Hi, ROOMIE!!! I can’t believe we’re actually here, you know what I mean? It’s, like, WOW! We’re really college students! I can’t wait to get the room set up, can you? I brought all my favorite things from home. I hope you like pink, ‘cause that is my favorite color. I do everything pink. I know, I know, I’m a real girlie – girl. Do you really want that bed? ‘Cause I need a lot of natural light. I prefer to wake up to natural light instead of an alarm, don’t you? I hope you don’t like to sleep with the blinds drawn, ‘cause I like to go to sleep looking at the stars and wake up to the sun. So is it ok if we switch?”
The dryness of my mouth pulled me back to reality. I snapped my gaping mouth shut and swallowed hard. So this was Veronica. Oh, joy. “Umm, hi, Veronica. Nice to meet you. Sure, take that bed, I haven’t really started to unpack anyway. My Dad is getting my stuff from the van.”
On cue, Dad’s muffled voice came from behind a stack of boxes in the doorway. Mom and I ran to him with admittedly undue haste. “Hey, now that’s what I call prompt response!” Dad smiled. “Now that I finally have you trained to jump at my command, it’s time to fly the nest, ‘eh, little Kitten?”
“Aw, Dad. Come on in. My roommate’s arrived. Veronica, I’d like you to meet my father, Joe Larson. Oh, and I guess you really didn’t meet my mom, Genevieve.”
Veronica rushed at both of them with arms wide open, squealing. “OHHH! Mom and Dad Larson! It’s so nice to meet you! My mom’s looking for someone to help with my bags. She’ll be here soon. Look at you guys! What a good-looking family! I can’t wait to get to know you better. I’m sure there will be lots of time for that, you know. Fall break, Christmas break – even the summer! Oh, this is just perfectly wonderful, isn’t it? Say, Catherine – are you an only child? I don’t remember reading that anywhere. Imagine two spoiled little only children in a room together! Ha! What a hoot!”
Veronica tossed her long, straight blond hair and blew her bangs away from her eyes. I guess she finally needed some refueling. She apparently forgot her question as she began rifling through my boxes, tossing clothes and accessories all over the bed she had rejected. Although irritated that she was touching my stuff, I was just as happy that she had been distracted from her inquiry into my family life. That was a topic I was not ready to unpack.
About 30 minutes later, most of my side of the room was arranged and looking collegiate. We were just breaking down the empty boxes when Veronica’s mother arrived, or perhaps more appropriately, I should say she “descended” upon us.
“Veronica, darling, what ghastly service. Do you know they don’t have anyone
assigned to baggage? I had to hunt down these gentlemen.” She waved her arm gallantly in the direction of two freshman guys in the hall with dopey grins and leather suitcases hanging all over them. “Boys!” Ms. Veronica’s Mother commanded, “in here.” The boys dutifully entered and began stripping themselves of their burden as Veronica began smoothing her clothing and hair. I couldn’t be sure if the primping was for her mother’s benefit or for the guys.
“There now, boys, here’s a little something for your trouble.” She pressed bills into their hands and pushed them out the door. “Thank you, young men. I’m sure Veronica will be seeing you around campus. Bye-bye now.” She closed the door and turned toward us, rubbing her hands together. We must be her next victims.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Vacca girls - seen one, you've seen 'em both
Is there a name for an emotion that reflects simultaneous comfort and unease? That nebulous feeling is exactly what hit me upon reading my sister's Spring Break post. It is comforting, no doubt, to have someone in this world who is as near to your "twin" as un-biologically possible, but it is also somewhat eerie to go to someone else blog to find strikingly similar material to what has been knocking around your own brain for the past hour!
I, too, am basking in the radiant glory of SPRING BREAK! At 10:52 on Friday morning I was suddenly and miraculously cured (at least temporarily) of several acute symptoms: hand cramping, shortness of breath, racing heart rate and fear of watches.
In my joyous haze, my energies turned immediately to the home fires. I asked the children what I used to do in our old, tranquil routine that they had been missing in our new, chaotic lifestyle. My dear son predictably listed several meals he'd been craving, homemade mac & cheese first and foremost. My daughter readily agreed, which proves that my familial worth is primarily culinary.
With their input in mind, I made my own list of Spring Break goals, and planned to share them here with the world (which, I found, was not such an original idea):
1. Write page 9 of my book
2. Clean out the Master Bedroom closet.
3. Cook
4. Plan my spring garden, and, weather permitting, clean up the flower beds
5. Start reading the books my husband bought me for Christmas
6. Clean my desk
7. Eliminate old magazines (there ARE some differences between my sister and I)
8. Apply a special wood cleaner to our cherry floor
9. Plan an outing for the children
I hope to make as much progress as my sister seems to be making on her list. We have no British Shops around to my knowledge, but I'm sure our holiday will be just as memorable. Cheerio!
I, too, am basking in the radiant glory of SPRING BREAK! At 10:52 on Friday morning I was suddenly and miraculously cured (at least temporarily) of several acute symptoms: hand cramping, shortness of breath, racing heart rate and fear of watches.
In my joyous haze, my energies turned immediately to the home fires. I asked the children what I used to do in our old, tranquil routine that they had been missing in our new, chaotic lifestyle. My dear son predictably listed several meals he'd been craving, homemade mac & cheese first and foremost. My daughter readily agreed, which proves that my familial worth is primarily culinary.
With their input in mind, I made my own list of Spring Break goals, and planned to share them here with the world (which, I found, was not such an original idea):
1. Write page 9 of my book
2. Clean out the Master Bedroom closet.
3. Cook
4. Plan my spring garden, and, weather permitting, clean up the flower beds
5. Start reading the books my husband bought me for Christmas
6. Clean my desk
7. Eliminate old magazines (there ARE some differences between my sister and I)
8. Apply a special wood cleaner to our cherry floor
9. Plan an outing for the children
I hope to make as much progress as my sister seems to be making on her list. We have no British Shops around to my knowledge, but I'm sure our holiday will be just as memorable. Cheerio!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
DD Philosophy
It was Thursday morning - rush hour at Dunkin' Donuts. I was doing a little last minute cramming for my final CLEP, sipping liquid inspiration. I was finding it difficult to concentrate. I was seated near a window, with a good view of the drive-thru. A never-ending parade of fellow caffeine junkies filed past, and I could hear their orders coming through the speaker to the young man working the window. Most were your typical "coffee and a bagel" or "Dunkachino and a donut" orders, and after a while a little game started in my head. As I heard the voice and the order, I began to visualize the drivers before they drove by. It was amusing enough to be very distracting. I decided to turn my nose back to my book when I heard a loud, confident voice broadcast the following: "Yeah, I'd like a medium coffee with Splenda and skim milk" (a lithe, athletic health-nut began to appear in my mind), pause, "and a glazed chocolate donut with chocolate frosting". I was laughing too hard to look at who drove around to pick up this Jekyll and Hyde order.
Upon reflection, my amusement turned to admiration. She knew how she wanted to allocate her fat and calorie expenditures for the day, and she didn't waste time with the unimportant. How liberating to approach life that way! I marvel at how I spend my resources each day - spilling the sugar of my life liberally in many directions, figuring "hey, I'm already over-committed, what's one more starchy filler of an activity going to matter?"
Meanwhile, DD lady is probably just as trim as I first imagined, and her life probably doesn't look as bloated as mine.
Upon reflection, my amusement turned to admiration. She knew how she wanted to allocate her fat and calorie expenditures for the day, and she didn't waste time with the unimportant. How liberating to approach life that way! I marvel at how I spend my resources each day - spilling the sugar of my life liberally in many directions, figuring "hey, I'm already over-committed, what's one more starchy filler of an activity going to matter?"
Meanwhile, DD lady is probably just as trim as I first imagined, and her life probably doesn't look as bloated as mine.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Trick or Treacher's
If cats have nine lives, then it's safe to assume that Fish 'N Chips are good for a least a dozen. Residents and long-time acquaintances of our fair village can attest that the fate of Arthur Treacher's has hung in the balance on numerous occasions. Just when you are convinced that this time the puppies have really been hushed, doors reopen, and it's business as usual.The faithless will say that 2008 looks dim for Art. There was actually a "For Sale" sign in the window for a time, and this blogger spotted a well-dressed gaggle gazing about the property a month or so ago. Soon after that, construction vehicles frequented the establishment, ripping up the parking lot and landscaping. Those with good vision will spot equipment still hanging about the front door. The shop itself is gutted, the only things resembling a working restaurant are the donuts on the fresh pavement.
I, however, can be counted among the devout believers. Past experience tells me that all of the carnage could simply be part of a well-deserved face lift. Until the sign is removed and I witness customers leaving with burgers or lattes, I will not count Arthur out.
I have learned an important lesson from the fortitude of Arthur Treacher's. Things aren't always as they appear.
Truth be told, I am often guilty of quick judgement. Recently I made an assumption at work that had me up in arms for a full 24 hours. I was sure of my conclusions and layered them into a solid reality, like fresh asphalt compacting under the roller's weight. Problem was, my deductions were built on a faulty foundation, and cracks formed in the pavement when the underlying truth pushed its way to the surface. Things were not as they appeared.
Likewise, one can drive through Danville and see a shell of a building and assume that a run-down old restaurant has met it's demise. I will not give in to that temptation. I have not eaten in Arthur Treacher's in at least 14 years, but I assure you that if it is resurrected again, I will be first in line to honor the long tradition of fried fish, cornmeal, and good, old-fashioned hope.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Capstone
So I've figured out why I've had a pervasive feeling of dread and despair of late. It's my Sociology class.
This class is a "Capstone Experience" - a Senior requirement that is supposed to be like caramel on pumpkin cheesecake, the crowning moment of my illustrious college career. The main objective of this particular capstone is to spend eight hours a week in an internship, and then go to class and talk about your placement.
Well, I have this happy little assignment at a local elementary school. Everyone else is at detention centers, judge's offices, probation offices, Children & Youth and the like. Each week I am barraged with stories of neglect, abuse and perversion - and those are the light topics from my fellow students. My professor (a therapist), apparently concerned that we might find the world too carefree after such hopeful reports, peppers the conversation with stories from his abundant case files. Who knew a little piece of rural America could harbor so much smut!
I leave each week feeling like I need a shower and an episode of Barney to balance out all of the exposure to society's dark underbelly.
Since I've realized the problem, I have developed some joyful counter-measures. I go out of my way to look at the sunrise and sunset. I smile at as many children as possible throughout the day, wherever I am. I spend some extra time each day counting my blessings and thanking God for them. I find a piece of good news and soak in it liberally, like pumpkin cheesecake in a pool of caramel.
This class is a "Capstone Experience" - a Senior requirement that is supposed to be like caramel on pumpkin cheesecake, the crowning moment of my illustrious college career. The main objective of this particular capstone is to spend eight hours a week in an internship, and then go to class and talk about your placement.
Well, I have this happy little assignment at a local elementary school. Everyone else is at detention centers, judge's offices, probation offices, Children & Youth and the like. Each week I am barraged with stories of neglect, abuse and perversion - and those are the light topics from my fellow students. My professor (a therapist), apparently concerned that we might find the world too carefree after such hopeful reports, peppers the conversation with stories from his abundant case files. Who knew a little piece of rural America could harbor so much smut!
I leave each week feeling like I need a shower and an episode of Barney to balance out all of the exposure to society's dark underbelly.
Since I've realized the problem, I have developed some joyful counter-measures. I go out of my way to look at the sunrise and sunset. I smile at as many children as possible throughout the day, wherever I am. I spend some extra time each day counting my blessings and thanking God for them. I find a piece of good news and soak in it liberally, like pumpkin cheesecake in a pool of caramel.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Outside the Box
"Mother, I have smelled autumn, and it's inside this box!" My son's voice rang from the recesses of the mud room closet. With global warming finally losing the battle of the seasons, we had decided it was time to deck the halls with orange, rust, yellow and brown."You're right!" I caught a whiff of fall as I lowered the plastic bin from the shelf. Prying open the lid in the living room was like the redemption of Pandora's box: memories came pouring out in the essence of clove, apple, and some undefinable crispness which spilled from the bin and enveloped the room.
I find that in the height of seasons, like February, July and November, I feel claustrophobic and restless. I come alive at the turn of seasons. Maybe it's the promise in the unknown, like the intrigue of the big red X on a treasure map when the journey is just underway. Maybe it's because the wind blows more violently in April and October, scattering the stagnant and rousing the lethargic.
Autumn is a paradox. Can summer die? Can winter be born?
The warm sun on my face and the cold breeze at my back is like a friend I don't quite trust, but feel drawn to just the same. The sharpness of the air is that same necessary slyness needed to outwit such a companion. The bursts of color on the trees and from stalwart flowers mirror the adrenaline rush of a chase, a battle of wits, a maneuver well played.
My house is alive with the fire of fall.
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