tollipop

penpals

Last Christmas I hatched this amazing plan with my little brother to be penpals for a year. Like, we would exchange letters once a month: real, honest-to-goodness letters filled with anecdotes, musings, observations, and profound insights on the subtler nuances of life.

So far, Jonny is the only one holding up his end of the bargain.

He pardoned me due to the fact I'm trying to write a novel, for crying out loud. Which, let me assure you, does not go down the way you see it in the movies. It's not all, attacks of inspiration followed by furious scribblings while the heroine maintains this dreamy expression and fabulous hair, even when she's too busy being brilliant to make the slightest effort regarding her appearance. With an English countryside thrown in for good measure.

I wish.

No, it's more like some wild woman in the middle of the desert with hair that makes you wonder "is she being serious?" (the answer is not really), texting herself some burst of inspiration she conceives in the middle of the night, only to consult her phone the next day and wonder what on earth she meant with that garble, who sits down to write while trying to ignore the fact she has no plans for dinner nor any idea what the house looks like five feet beyond where she's sitting, all the while dealing with the nerve of characters who make themselves completely contrary to her overall vision of a masterpiece.

...wait, what was I talking about??

Oh yeah, Jonny. 

At any rate, I'm off the hook letter-wise due to that little fiasco and provided I make the occasional appearance here at Tollipop.  

Otherwise he mean texts me.  

But his letters.  They arrive monthly and nothing in Jane Austen's wildest imaginings could have conjured up such brilliantly eclectic ramblings.

What does he talk about?  Oh, just stuff. Wild animals he sees on his walks to and from the metro.  Books he's reading.  Food he's cooking.  Who knew brussel sprouts weren't disgusting?

In this last one he was mentioning a metro ride into work wherein he amused himself by imagining a SNL-type skit based on the movie Rebecca, a lampoon of the scene where that creepy Mrs. Danvers gives the new mistress a tour of Manderley (if none of this makes sense, I highly recommend this film for your next movie night...or read my brother's review).  In Jonny's version it's called Becky, and Mrs. Danvers makes a point of telling the new bride how nothing has changed in Becky's bedroom since she died, so the girl looks around and it's all covered in Cheeto dust and half-eaten Twinkies.

That made me giggle, both the scene itself and the thought of my brother laughing about it while surrounded by strangers on his way to work.

Then I emailed Jonny back and said how funny would it be if the house was still pristine and Mrs. Danvers took the second Mrs. de Winters through the house, making a big deal about the original state of Rebecca's bedroom, but every time she turned around she kept catching the timid new bride using Rebecca's hairbrush, poofing clouds of her face powder into the air, lounging on Rebecca's bed and eating cookies which crumble all over the place.

You really have to know Mrs. Danvers for any of this to resonate.  Shiver.  She haunted me half my childhood.  

Anyway, so last night I was at the bookstore with Caroline, a sort of mummy-daughter date, and this was my text conversation with Jonny...

Me: What book were you reading that was so good?  Was it The Scarlet Pimpernel?

Him: Yeah, I loved it.  It's a pretty quick read, as well.

Me:  I'm getting it. Thanks. xo.  Saw a cool snake on my run today.

Him:  I hope you like it and that I haven't overhyped it.

Me:  If you did, you're dead.

Him:  Whatever, if you don't like it then that means it was too classy for a rotter like you.

Me:  Come here and say that.

Him:  You come here and then I'll say it.  

What does any of this prove, dear reader?  That one need never grow old or mature?  That the art of letter writing is called art for a reason?  That siblings, with all their crazy, shared history, are still some of the best friends to be had? 

Yes, yes, and yes.

the great gatsby

It was as if they were from different worlds, the twain destined never to meet.

As if some cruel twist of fate had endowed him with a pair of gills while she had the nerve to breathe fresh air. 

She, from the glittering precipice of high society, from ropes of pearls, summer homes, and Ivy League boors, he from the wrong side of the shore--a stark, penurious existence, limited in trust funds and fast cars, yet endowed with the boundless capacity to dream.  

Ah, to dream!  

At night he would stare at her from across the water, listening to her silvery peals of laughter, her irrepressible joie de vivre, filled with a longing he could neither articulate nor deny...nor recall past his three second attention span.  

It was seriously the saddest thing ever.  

But not as sad as this:  Izzy and I went to three different pet stores over the weekend yet failed to find the snake of our dreams!  I finally had to buy her this fish because she got so depressed, she even began to waver on our resolve to hold out for a snake which doesn't require the consumption of baby mice.  

I was all:  Stand firm, Izzy girl!  Do not compromise us on this point.  

And the exotic reptiles guy was all:  Uhhhh, you do realize snakes are carnivores, don't you?

I looked at him sourly and said: I'm not expecting to feed it organic kale, if that's what you mean.  

Then he muttered, beneath his breath: You look like the type who would.

So I was all:  Well, you look like the type who's about to get jacked by a Canadian farmgirl.  

Haha.  Those last three lines didn't really happen, dear reader.  I've been writing too much fiction lately...it's so easy to get carried away!

Anyway.  So Izzy has her Gatsby and every time I ask how he's doing, she says great.

That joke never gets old.  

And in case you're wondering what snake I'm holding out for, it's the ringneck. They are darling, only mildly venomous, and can live on worms. There also happens to be a snake who feeds exclusively on eggs.  So it would appear I know something the exotic reptiles guy doesn't.

Who's more exotic now??

The rest of the weekend went like this: barbecues, birthday parties, and some of the cutest cousins you could ask for, filled with an energy which would solve the earth's crisis if only we could devise a way to harness it.  

We love them all, especially the novelty of crazy little boys.  

The feeling isn't completely mutual, but it's there.  

the joy of carpool

Last night, as I was waiting for the girls to finish with their music lessons, I opened my book of short stories by Ray Bradbury and these fell out.  

I guess Caroline needed a place to flatten her paper dolls.  

They were inspired by The Black Apple's Paper Doll Primer by Emily Martin, whom Caroline adores with fervent delight. 

When she received it as a gift for her birthday, she wanted so badly to cut the dolls out of the book and I wanted so badly for her to not.  

I told her all great artists get their start by copying the works of the masters, and it would seem she took this advice to heart.  

The next morning, as I was driving carpool, Izzy noticed the book of short stories sitting in the console.  So I told her a little about Ray Bradbury, how I love his way of writing which is plain and true and straight from the heart.  

I love that, dear reader.  I love stories which unfold themselves clearly, which do not make me feel like a dolt for failing to grasp all the obscure literary elements at play, for thinking a strawberry is just a strawberry when CLEARLY it symbolizes something much more unfathomable, for being so easily content with the basic plotline when some esoteric inside joke is going on beneath the surface.

Once I'd exhausted myself on that topic, I mentioned I wasn't as crazy about his stories which are set in space, or which deal with some futuristic breakdown in society, but rather the ones which play out in a small town, with everyday people and events.

Izzy asked me for an example of just such a story, which left me with no choice: I had to tell her about The Whole Town's Sleeping.  I had to, dear reader.  Like a moth to the flame, I could not stop myself.  Because that story is always on my mind.  I can't shake it!  It reads like the entire imagination of my childhood, right up until this present day if I don't keep an iron death grip on my brain.  

By the time we reached Morgan's house (I was driving carpool, remember), Izzy's eyes were so wide and we were both so jumpy that even a little old man walking his toy poodle down the sidewalk seemed sinister.  

When Morgan got in the car, Izzy asked: how did the story end?

We quickly brought Morgan up to date, barraging her with the details, then I opened the book and read the last page aloud (wait...was I supposed to be getting the kids to school??).

And my, didn't that cause a stir in the hen house?!  Weren't we all wide awake and in a tizzy at 6:30 in the morning?!

But we still had to pick up April and when she got in the car, Izzy insisted I give her the rundown as well.  So I did, all the time wondering if I'd be getting a phone call from disgruntled parents later that evening.  Rather than telling the whole story, however, I had Izzy reread the last page.  

Poor little April. The look on her face.  I doubt she'll ever be the same.

On the bright side, it led to a fascinating lecture (if I do say so, myself) on managing fears wherein the girls listened with bated breath as I expounded forth on a number of topics, some practical, some useless, but all of it good for a laugh.

On that note, I pulled up to the school and wished them a marvelous day. They got out, spirits riding high, talking and laughing a little louder than usual.  
Izzy turned to me and said: I love it when you drive us to school.

So do I, my dear girl.

 

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eta: I just realized this anecdote might be slightly more meaningful were I to summarize what actually happens in The Whole Town's Sleeping...but I can't, dear reader.  

I simply cannot.  

I've already relaxed the iron death grip on my brain once today and still haven't recovered from the shock.   

I'm beginning to suspect of everyone riding in the car this morning, I'm probably the greatest victim of all...

 

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p.s.  Dear reader...I must take a little break from this blog!  I feel as if I've been talking my head off lately, something I dearly love to do in terms of writing but rather less so in terms of actual talking.  

I'm still trying to write that story, you see.  And it's not flowing from my head like the Muses on Mt. Olympus, I can tell you that much.  No, it's more like dredging words from a brackish flood...a sullen, foul, brackish flood.  

And life...it can be so interfering!  All those trivial concerns--personal hygiene, carpool, people who keep calling me Mum and looking at me as if I'm going to give them something to eat.  

To be fair, there are only three such people, but they look at me like that all the time.

So...just a few days.  Just a wafer thin break. 

Anything longer and I'd miss you too much.  

spring break

Technically, it's not spring break at the moment.  But I know it's coming soon because the girls keep mentioning it.  

Do you find it odd that a person could only be vaguely aware of an impending weeklong holiday?

Not if it's this person.

It would be difficult to try and explain what it's like to live inside my head.  I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live in another head--the head of a person who can keep track of time, who grasps volleyball statistics by the jugular, who nails carpool, who is talkative and gregarious, who understands the nuances of things like real estate, banking, and hedge funds (I've already stopped paying attention to myself as I write this), and who sleeps at night.  

How would that be?

My head thinks about words, it thinks about phrases, it tinkers over and over until something sounds right. Happening upon the perfect word actually makes my brain shiver with pleasure.  

It forgets things like directions almost in real time, right when someone's telling them to me.  But I can remember a child I saw outside a hospital emergency room in the middle of the night, years ago, clinging to her drug addicted mother, and the two of them haunt me to this day.

My eye roves.  It roves over the things of this earth, aching at its beauty, hoping to discover a frog, a snake, or a beetle, or perhaps another glimpse of that magnificent blue bee.

As I've gotten older I've learned, by necessity, to toughen up a little.   But not a lot.  I think that's partly why I don't sleep well at night...thinking about things I see during the day which trouble me.  I have the kind of mind that does not shut down easily, which wouldn't be so bad if I was formulating profound thoughts for what ails this world, but sadly that is not the case.  It is simply a mind that churns over shadows and details, unable to let go.

When it builds up, I go for a run.

Izzy just came in, wanting a hug and to ask me a question about Darfur.  She's studying genocides in her geography class these days.

She picked up a book I've been reading, one which she was browsing earlier this evening on the way home from music lessons, and said, "I like that part where the movie director goes: you know what I say to people when I hear they're writing anti-war books?  I say, Why don't you write an anti-glacier book instead?"

And now I like Izzy even more than I did ten minutes ago, if that's possible.   

As you can see, I'm not streamlining my thoughts very coherently for this post. Because I was really wanting to talk about writing and how I'm having trouble with my story these days.  My mind isn't seeing things clearly at the moment...less so than usual.  It isn't shivering with pleasure.  I'm wondering if perhaps I should take a break from words...from the story, from this blog...just step away for a little while and see if that helps or makes things worse.

What's it like to live inside your head, dear reader?  How do you see this world?

And if you have a brain like mine, how do you go to sleep at night?

you know how when you see an amazing moon, you should never try taking a picture of it with your iPhone camera?

Well, sometimes I forget that little rule. 

What a week.  How are you doing?  I feel so completely spun around right now...forgetting carpools, remembering carpools that weren't mine to drive, just so much driving in general, reading a story to Caroline's class for reading week, and, at this very moment, wanting to cash in my mum card after having spent the past hour in my daughters' rooms, trying to make sense of the madness.

Was it even a room?  A place meant for humans to exist?  At this point, I couldn't say.  I would more likely check the box denoting: petri dish, or scientific experiment gone terribly wrong, or possibly just cut the conjecture and skip down the list to the skull and crossbones sign.  

I'm sorry this blog is so neglected these days.  I am working away on this crazy story and it's sapping all my writing mojo and I don't even know if it's any good or not, except Caroline tells me it's amazing.  I keep waiting for my little brother to mean text me, but so far he hasn't.  For one thing, he's coming to visit next weekend so maybe he decided to go easy just this once.  

I can't wait to see him!  Meaning, I can't wait to go eat ramen with him!

Yesterday I went for a run in the desert and I swear I saw Richard Gere.  It was either Richard Gere or some other incredibly foxy silver haired gentleman wearing high end running gear, ultra cool shades, and the kind of cologne that is dangerous to lavish on because the coyotes might end up devouring you for smelling so yummy.

Let me tell you, that guy was lucky. Because as it so happened, I was ravenous myself.  When we crossed paths on the trail and I caught the lingering scent of his man perfume, it was all I could do not to turn around, lunge, and snap off his ankles or something.

Dear reader, when I say I used to run with the wolves, don't tell yourself: oh, she must be speaking metaphorically.  Don't seek comfort with such thoughts. Try imagining something way more literal.  Try vowing never to wear man perfume out on the running trail in the event we happen to cross paths and I haven't eaten yet that morning.

Reading to Caroline's class: that was the highlight of this week.  Those kids, paying rapt attention, leaning forward in their seats.  I would do that every day if the teacher would let me.  There is something magical about storytelling.  Some eternal childhood is fostered there where everything is new and wondrous, cozy, safe, limitless, riveting, and happy.  

Do you want to hear one more potentially disturbing thing before I go?  

We have rats in our house.  No, not my children, though their bedrooms might lead you to believe otherwise...real, actual rats.  Not cute mice, like in Cinderella where they sew things for you.  RATS.  Like the creatures who sneak into your room at night and gnaw your face off.

Only, I can't quite bring myself to believe that about these rats.  

Why?

Because I read Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh to Caroline recently, and I can't get it out of my head!  

I can't dismiss the possibility we may have highly intelligent rats living in our walls, not the kind like Templeton in Charlotte's Web (who was endearing in his own way, you have to admit), or the ones you see in the subways of New York City.  For one thing, they don't actually come into our living quarters.  They just run along the roof over my head.  And in the early morning when I wake up and listen to them scurrying around, I keep imagining they've wired the place for electricity, hauled a shag carpet up there, and are poring over the works of the great philosphers, determining how to create an evolved rodent society.  

It's quite cozy, when I think about it.

If, however, they manage to break through the drywall and storm my bedroom and start nesting in my hair...well, then I may be persuaded to think differently.

I'm not terribly worried, though.  All they have to do is take one look at my girls' bedrooms and they'll conclude we are much too primitive for their liking.

Either way, I told my husband I can't be involved in the handling of this situation, and that whatever he decides, he'd better not talk too loudly about it or they will probably hear him and mount an offensive.

p.s.  Two more things: I don't personally think Richard Gere is incredibly foxy, by the way. That's just how I always hear him described.  Unfortunately for me, all you have to do is use the words incredibly foxy to describe a man and I'm pretty sure I won't be interested.

Secondly, when I said: Do you want to hear one more potentially disturbing thing before I go?  

I probably shouldn't have used the word potentially, right?  I probably should have gone with egregiously.

Wishing you a lovely weekend. xo 

perfect pitch

The other day Izzy was using the vacuum cleaner and called out over the noise: this vacuum is a D.

I assumed she meant D as in a school grade and nodded in vigorous agreement. Thrilled by the prospect someone shared my disdain for the feeble capacity of this appliance, I launched a detailed description of my secret vacuum fantasy, one that could inhale a fly off a wall from the next time zone.

Izzy shook her head. No, she said, D as in the musical note.

I froze.  Oh.  The pitch of the vacuum cleaner.  The sound it was making.

Scratch the fantasy.  Scratch me getting my hands on a machine that could suck the ennui out of housekeeping.

I walked over to the piano and struck the D above middle C just as she turned off the vacuum.

One and the same.  And I mean exactly.  

Did I freak out and gush and try to make Izzy wear matching lockets and start doing my hair just like hers?

Sort of.  But that's nothing new.

Several moments later, as I was taking pasta off the stove and splashing it with cold water in preparation for a salad, Izzy approached and draped herself over my shoulders.

Now, she said, let's see what sound the sink makes. 

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Some random thoughts I've been meaning to share:

1) This lovely and visceral description of a Canadian snowfall from Kimberly.  

2) I've almost finished unpacking from our move...six months ago.  Recently I put away this cherished copy of Fantastic Mr. Fox and remembered how awesome it is to read aloud to kids.  

If you were to ask me: what would you rather have?  Crazy amazing hair or your very own personal reader? I'd blanch and whisper: Would his voice sound like Jude Law's when he narrates a movie??  If you replied: No, more like Russell Brand's when he opens his mouth.  Then I'd be forced to go with the amazing hair.  

But I'd probably always second guess the decision.

yes, zoe, it sounds like an amazing book

One of my sisters lives in Chicago...a distance which tugs at my heart, yet has been somewhat softened lately by the newly struck up correspondence between our almost 9-year-old girls.

The letters are fantastic.  They're brilliant.  Here is an excerpt from Zoe's most recent epistle:

I've started writing a book called The Sweet Surprise.  It's about a girl named Laura Fisher who has one million chocolate bars fall on her head and she discovers a new power she has. Does it sound like a good book?  If so, I'll send you a copy when it's finished.

Not to be outdone, Caroline wrote a book of her own.  She plunked down last night for a dramatic reading as I was practicing an accompaniment to her cello concerto.  

Question: What better time to ask your mom's attention than when she's already doing something else on your behalf?

Answer: That's a trick question.  Any kid knows there is no good time to ask your mom's attention--just hijack it or you'll be waiting around forever.

At any rate, the story is called Willow's Park and it's about a girl named Willow who discovers, much to her relief, that she doesn't belong to the mother she lives with but comes from another planet and has a BETTER mother out there who misses her very much.  

She read the whole thing to me with a straight face, I swear.

Following is an excerpt, which Caroline is now busily transcribing to the computer in order to send her cousin a copy: 

Willow’s Park

Hi. My name is Willow.

I live on Cranberry Street. I have been trying to find the secret my mom never told me about. Something interesting I hope. I will tell you all I know about the secret. A trusted neighbor of ours said "do you know about the secret?"

“No,” I said.

“Never mind,” said the neighbor. Her real name is Rachel Page.

I said “Wait, would you give me a clue?

“When you were a baby people thought you were not from this world,” said Rachel. “Why?” I asked.

“You had glowing eyes. Your eyes would change colors by your mood.”

 “Really?” I asked.

 “Yes,” she said. I could not believe it. I really have glowing eyes.

“Will you give me one more clue?”

“No,” Rachel said. “But I will give you one thing; this is the map will lead you to where you used to live.”

“You mean that’s where I lived when I was a baby,” I said.

“Yes,” said Rachel.

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That's all she's typed so far and I can't tell you the rest as the book is lost somewhere in the catacombs of her bedroom.  But it just gets better and better! Especially the part where Willow meets her real, way more awesome mom.  

What do you think, dear Zoe?  Does it sound like a good book?  

Because Caroline is sending it your way as soon as she works out a few kinks in the plot. 

the mystery at lilac inn

Dear reader, would you like to see something spooky?  

No, it's not the Halloween decorations which are still haunting the house well into November.  That's not spooky. That's standard.

I'm talking about a mystery.  A ghost.  Missing jewels.  An old, decrepit inn.

Come closer and take a peek.  

See?  Spooky.  

If I tried to tell you about it, you'd never believe me.  It involves a titian-haired girl with intrepid sleuthing skills offering her services to track down a nefarious gang attempting to foil the renovation of a historic inn.  You'll hear about a spectre, a shark in fresh water, jewel heists, fiancés, threats, espionage, doppelgängers, blackouts, actresses, bomb threats, cold wars, and miniature submarines!

And I'm barely getting started. 

I mean, rather than asking what the story's about, try asking what it isn't about.  

That should stump Caroline.  That should buy you some time.

Then you can change the subject and ask her about something else.  Something that does not involve the summary of a story.  Because as I've already mentioned, the word summary to Caroline means taking something which is long, detailed, and intricate, and making it WAY MORE so.

unless you're on a leaky raft in the middle of the ocean surrounded by sharks and some guy just ate your chocolate...

Dear reader, how do you deal with an ordeal?  How do you face moments of hardship, adversity, and distress?  

I recently read Unbroken and was left to ponder, among other things, the way one's approach to a situation seems to determine so much of how it is experienced and even the outcome itself.  I'm referring to the ill fated rescue attempt by Louie Zamperini's flight crew during WW II, which resulted in their plane crashing into the Pacific and the three survivors spending over a month on a raft enduring horrific conditions.  

Two of the survivors met the challenge with an innate sense of optimism and determination to draw upon every resource in order to see it through, no matter how daunting the odds might appear.  The third survivor seemed to look at the same situation and draw a fatalistic conclusion from the outset.

The differing mindsets had a dramatic effect on the way these men experienced their ordeal.  Without wanting to give away details, it would seem it even affected the actual outcome of their story.

Who are you on the life raft, dear reader?  How do you deal with an ordeal? 

Last week I received a phone call that caused me to drop everything and get on a plane to be with someone who is very dear to me.  It's been a sad and scary, tender and funny time.  

How can terrible things also be funny?  I don't know.  They just can. You kind of have to be determined on that point, I think.  It's probably one of the few choices that's still yours to make in a moment of crisis.  You know?  Undoubtedly the terrible part is coming your way whether you like it or not.  If you see something funny amidst the wreckage, grab it.  Hold onto it.  Have a good laugh if you can.  It will feel like deliverance.  

Sometimes the humor will be perverse.  It may be dark.  It may be borderline inappropriate.  On the day I left, Caroline's hamster died.  Not funny at all.  I hugged my desolate girl and promised her dad would take care of things with a proper burial, then hopped on a plane.  But when I called home three days later only to be informed Tin Tin was still out in the garage, decomposing in plain sight, somehow that was funny.  Maybe you had to be there, maybe you had to have seen much worse, maybe you had to be sleep deprived, but trust me: it was funny.  

Dear reader, if I could wrap my arms around this world and make every little thing better, I'm afraid I would.  I'm afraid I wouldn't have the heart to let people suffer.  But suffering isn't always such a bad thing.  At least, in my moments of greater clarity, I'm compelled to admit some of the most profound and beautiful developments may occur as a result of sorrow and woe.  You become a better person.  You find deeper meaning in life.  You see the great character in others.  You are reminded more clearly of what matters.

Of course, nobody wants to hear about this while they're actually on the raft.  No way.  It's only for those who are looking back in hindsight.  Tons of hindsight.  

For those of you who are still in the thick of it: maybe you break a few emergency swear vials along the way.  So what?  Not every moment under duress needs be your finest.  Not every manner will be fit for tea with the queen.  

After all, you're on a leaky raft in the middle of the ocean surrounded by sharks, franchement.  And some guy just ate your chocolate.  Or maybe your situation is not quite that dire.  Either way, I'm sure you have grounds for losing it.  I'm sure you have grounds for being scared, hurt, angry, withdrawn, for wishing it would all go away.   

But you also have grounds for a laugh.  You do.  Steady now.  Wait for it.  Something funny is going to happen.  And you have grounds for noticing the beauty around you, for savoring every good moment, for not going down without one hell of a fight. 

that's my girl

Yesterday I came into the kitchen and found Izzy at the table reading Planet Earth and eating a snack.  

She looked up and said, "I love this book!  I've been reading it for years now and I'm finally starting to understand what it's all about."

She's a fantastic composite, this girl.  She likes nailpolish, dance moves and pop music, but she is also auditioning to perform with the Las Vegas Philharmonic, wonders about spiritual matters, and has a deep interest in the structure and dynamics of this planet.  

I wish I'd had a friend like her when I was going to school.